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It was unreal, how beautiful Dream looked on film.
George had always thought so, even from the first moment he’d seen him on his phone screen—long hair down to his shoulders and a smile still hidden from the rest of the world. George had reveled in those few weeks where he was one of the only people who knew Dream’s face, remembered asking Dream to FaceTime a lot, never knowing warmth like that before. It was something they did a lot now, something the two didn’t even really think about anymore, George forgetting with every clock’s tick forwards that there was ever a time where he hadn’t know what Dream looked like.
It was Dream’s idea to use an old digital camera.
They’d been shopping at Walmart for circuit boards and extra apple juice when, in the electronics aisle, something in a familiar yellow caught George’s eye. It was a talent, really, how easily George was able to seek out any and all things Minions. He’d taken it in his hands, brought it to Dream who was looking at wire cables at the other end of the aisle, held it up to him in a silent question.
You want that? Dream had asked him, turning his head towards George once he was at his side.
George had nodded.
Dream shifted his weight from one foot to the other. For what?
George had no idea. He’d looked down, a digital camera with a Minion wrap on it staring back at him. He’d recognized a few of the Minion’s names: Bob, Dave, and Kevin, his favorites. I’m gonna connect it to my IRL setup. And record my fishing streams with it.
What? A small smile sat on Dream’s lips. With that? No, you’re not.
Yes, George had claimed . I am, Dream.
Dream had scoffed and rolled his eyes, sending a look George’s way that George had read as, Yeah, right. Still, even though he didn’t believe him, Dream walked over to where the other digital cameras were, examined the ones that were sturdier, higher quality. I can get you a better one, George. That one’s, like, cheap.
George felt his shoulders fall. But I want this one.
Shaking his head, Dream sighed, and extended his arm out to hold the basket out in front of George for George to put the camera in. Okay, fine. If that’s the one you want.
First, it was used to take pictures of the cats—Patches, in particular, who George would always catch in strange and embarrassing poses. He thought it was amusing when Patches would clean her lower stomach, back legs extended outwards like fishing rods. Most of his pictures of her were like this, and he would show them all to Dream, laughing fondly as he went through each of them.
Dream was the subject of the second round of pictures taken by the camera. It started when George had walked into Dream’s room one night to see Patches sleepy and snuggled into Dream’s chest. Dream had been laying on his back, looking at something on his phone, and George felt the familiar urge to snap a picture.
Only, he didn’t use his phone like he maybe would’ve usually done. Instead, he ran up to his room to grab the Minion camera, and used that to take a picture of Dream and Patches.
In reality, the pictures that ended up on that camera were not too dissimilar from the pictures that already existed on his phone. But with the digital camera it was different because there was something about taking pictures with it that felt private. Even and especially when Dream was faceless, Dream was always talking to him about the probability of iCloud leaks, saying it was the reason he didn’t have any pictures of himself on his phone. It’s why George used SnapChat for most of the more private pictures he took, and even then, they tended to be fewer and farther between.
But now, he had the camera. Now, he didn’t have to hesitate or think twice about the pictures he took.
They started tame—Dream sleeping all curled in on himself; Dream making food with bed head and pajamas pants; Dream coding in his office during the dead of night, the only illumination coming from his computer screen and the flash of George’s camera.
George loved the way the camera made every moment look like a memory, how looking through the pictures felt like looking at captured fragments from his mind.
They eventually turned risky—Dream straight out of the shower; Dream mid-changing his clothes; Dream and the flush on his cheeks after George had just finished sucking his dick.
That last picture was a new one, and quickly had become one of George’s favorites.
You like that camera, huh? Dream asked him as George tucked him back into his shorts.
George smiled, took the camera again and looked back down at the picture. Yeah.
Not too long after that, they were downright filthy—Dream on his hands and knees, bent over, ready; Dream with George’s come splattered on his chest; Dream on top, smiling, chain glistening where it hung from his neck.
I’ve never had pictures of me being taken like that before, Dream had admitted one night, tracing circles on his hip bone under the blanket.
George had frozen up slightly, panic taking hold for a split second. It’s okay, right? That I’m taking them?
Dream pressed a kiss to George’s shoulder. Yeah. It’s you taking them. Of course it’s okay.
George was on his back, looking at the pics he’d just taken of the night. Dream was on his stomach, an arm draped over George’s waist, legs tangled together like pieces of ribbon. George could feel Dream’s exhales against his shoulder, and tiny mindless kisses he would give him every so often.
You like having these pictures? Dream asked.
George had his eyes on a particular picture, one taken at the end of everything where Dream was cleaning George up with a towel, eyes squeezed shut and smile wide, laughing at something George had just said. And when George nodded in response to Dream’s question, George knew Dream was looking at him, studying him, could see it out of the corner of his eye.
It had all really started then, when Dream had asked a follow-up question: That camera can record, right?
The next night in Dream’s room was when it all went down.
George watched Dream through a pixelated lens, the date and time at the bottom of the screen and a red recording dot blinking at the top right. George zoomed in with the buttons at the side, to Dream’s mouth and chest and the lines of his collarbones. Dream was right in front of him, stood at the side of the bed, stripping for George, where he sat just on the side of it.
Once Dream’s shirt was off, Dream smiled down at him. It was a small smile, cheeks tinting slightly and eyes drifting a little to the side every so often.
George could tell he felt a little awkward, maybe a little embarrassed. “I like how you look through the camera.”
Dream huffed out a laugh. “Yeah? Is it better than real life?”
“No, idiot,” George told him. “It’s just different.”
“Different how?”
George took a breath in. “You look—” golden, like sun rays through the tattered screens of a back porch. Like a rocking chair and the wind chime that trilled with every gentle gust of wind. Like chips in the paint. Like cracks in the wood. Like sandals scattered along the lawn. The colors of summer, and how nostalgia blanketed them, made them look like a place you used to know and love. “—like Dream.”
In response, Dream smiled—a real one—and threw his shirt in George’s direction.
“Dream,” George had complained, the words trapped in a giggle. He’d meant to sound annoyed, but even George himself could tell it didn’t come out that way.
“It’s just my shirt, idiot.”
“I don’t want it on me.” George kept the shirt on him, regardless. “It reeks.”
“It’s a clean shirt. It doesn’t reek.”
“No, I mean—yeah, it does. You made it reek. With your musk.”
Dream scoffed. “I don’t have a musk.”
“Really, Dream. I’m really supposed to believe that?”
“I don’t.”
“Prove it. Lemme smell you.”
Dream half-laughed, the sound cut-off by his smile. “No.”
“Yes.”
Dream sighed, taking the camera from George setting it on the bedside table. He took his time positioning it, making sure it was pointed in their direction. And when he had it all situated, he came back, taking George’s face in both of his hands and kissing him.
“Lay down,” Dream told him between kisses, lightly pushing him backwards.
But George, purposefully, didn’t budge.
It ended in Dream manhandling him down and a content moan leaving George’s lips. He closed his eyes at Dream’s show of strength, felt his breaths deepen as Dream pulled him by his legs until they both ran parallel to the bed’s length. Lying down like that, Dream was able to kiss him deeper.
George hummed out another moan at the first feel of Dream’s tongue against the insides of his mouth. He had his hand on Dream’s shoulder before winding it to the back of Dream’s head, pulling him in closer. George loved the feel of Dream’s lips moving against his, loved feeling devoured alive.
Ten minutes or so were spent doing just that, until Dream seemed to remember that there was a camera pointed at them. He broke the kiss, George’s breathing ragged and eyelids heavy as Dream mouthed a path down the side of his cheek, towards his neck. George could feel each damp spot Dream’s lips left behind on his skin, spit turning cold with the ghost of Dream’s kisses.
Dream was working a spot just above his collarbone when George started to feel Dream’s fingers hooking on the waistband of his shorts. Dream left his neck, looked at him with pupils big and dark and George took it as a cue to lift his hips and help Dream slide his pants off. George felt his dick fall to the side, half-hard against his leg, felt it twitch a little when Dream leaned over him to grab lube from the bedside drawer and the scent of him was all George could smell.
At his return, a final kiss was pressed to George’s lips before Dream moved down.
The lube felt cold where Dream’s fingers were entering him, one by one, urging him open. They curled at straightened just shy of where George wanted them, but it was okay, because Dream slowly working his dick with his other hand kept him at bay.
“I wanna fuck you.”
Dream’s hand felt big around him, the friction making it hot. George tried to tilt his hips down, wanting Dream’s fingers to reach deeper. “Do it then.”
“I will.”
“Now.”
“Just wait, George.”
“No.”
“Let me add another finger.”
“No,” George repeated. “I like the stretch.”
“You like—being an idiot.”
“You’re being the idiot right now.”
At George’s words, Dream scoffed and steadily pushed in a third finger. George felt himself furrowing his brows, felt his breath catch, not letting it go until Dream’s hand left his dick to trace along his inner thigh with a breathe, George spoken into the silence.
Dream’s fingers were long, firm. George wanted Dream to tear him open and gently put him back together again.
“Dream.”
“Not yet.”
George groaned in displeasement. “You take sooo long. This is literally longer than you last.”
Dream scoffed again, this time in surprise. “I last a long time.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Well, I last longer than you.”
George shook his head. “That is literally not true.”
“It is.” Dream started stroking him again.
George’s eyes fell shut. “It’s not.”
Instead of arguing back, Dream started moving his hand fast, the fingers of his other hand rubbing insistently exactly where George wanted it. Dream knew exactly how to take him apart the best, knew where to press and what to focus on. George felt his release build up quickly, unable to stop it when Dream found a steady and rapid rhythm to work him at.
“Dream.”
It wasn’t any shock that he came fast, the force of it knocking the wind out of him.
Dream laughed, wiping his hand and George’s torso with the t-shirt he’d taken off earlier. “See? I last longer.”
George was still catching his breath. “No—you—that isn’t—”
Dream smirked at his struggle. “Yeah?”
“You didn’t last longer. You just clutched.”
Dream smiled. “I just clutched?”
“Yes. You, like—you know the optimal way to do that to me. If I did the same to you, you would’ve lasted less time, Dream.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
Dream leaned over him. “Stop arguing, idiot.” And if the kiss Dream gave him afterwards was meant to shut him up, it worked. It was a slower kiss, softer than the ones they’d shared earlier. George’s hands were by his head, and he left them there, too boneless to do anything with them, choosing to instead lay back and let Dream kiss him.
Dream was pressing his lips to the skin next to George’s nose when George noted, “We were supposed to have sex.”
“Well,” Dream said, lips between George’s eyebrows, “we did have sex. Technically.”
Dream’s mouth was on his own again, and with every kiss, it felt like Dream was pulling George’s lips into his mouth. At one point, Dream’s right hand moved up to the side of George’s face, thumb moving back and forth against George’s cheek.
Regaining his train of thought, George turned his head, breaking the kiss. “We didn’t. You didn’t get off.”
Dream hummed in consideration. “I kinda wanna make you come again.”
Before Dream could kiss him again, George spoke. “You should fuck me like you said you would.”
“Actually?” Dream pulled back slightly, looking down at George. “Aren’t you, like, sensitive?”
“Just give me a bit.” Like a tug-o-war, George pulled Dream back down. “Keep kissing me.”
Dream was useless but to follow George’s requests, always giving George exactly what he wanted, and more, because in addition to the kissing, Dream took one of George’s thighs from where they were on either side of Dream’s hips and moved up to press them together. George was still on his back, yet his lower half was twisted and layed off to the left, and that new angle gave Dream better access to his ass.
At some point while kissing, Dream had gotten more lube on his fingers, George clenching and then sighing when he felt Dream’s fingers brush over his hole. Once George got himself to relax, Dream carefully pressed in again, and George’s sighs turned into whines. He was still fairly loose from before but his previous orgasm made it feel like all his nerve endings had come alive. He felt the moment Dream’s first knuckle made it past the rim, felt himself clenching again, felt Dream fight against it. Dream went in and out, slowly, until George was whining against Dream’s lips, unable to focus on kissing anymore.
It was then that he suddenly felt empty; he needed something more, something thicker.
A hand at Dream’s chest was all it took for Dream to fall back against the mattress. George smiled as he straddled him, removing his own shirt, showing off, similar to the way Dream had done earlier.
“I’m gonna ride you,” George told him.
And the enthusiastic nod Dream gave him in response made George almost think that his head would fly away.
It felt like bliss when George finally sunk down, turning around first to give Dream a view from behind. He made a satisfied noise when he started to move, playing it up for the camera as a cringy You’re so big, Dream left his lips.
Dream giggled. “You’re so dumb.”
George felt Dream move briefly then, and he realized that Dream had reached over towards where the camera was to grab it.
“You look good like this,” George heard Dream say, presumably pointing the camera at his backside. “Wow.”
George scoffed. “Wow?”
“Yeah,” Dream said, not caring how silly or unerotic he sounded. “Wow.”
George was going now, feeling the length of Dream leave him and enter him with every up and down. He was leaning forwards, both hands against Dream’s knees. His own knees were against the bed, legs bent to support himself.
“The positions we always do are OP,” George heard Dream say.
It was like Dream was casually vlogging them having sex, and it made George laugh.
It was also a lie; they mostly stuck to plain missionary.
“They are,” George said, regardless. “We’re pro. I’m the goat.”
“You are,” Dream agreed. “So am I.”
“No. You suck.”
Dream chuckled. “Yeah, I do suck.”
The grip Dream had on his hip tightened, and George took it as a sign that Dream wanted him to go faster. But at this point, he’d been using his arms to hold himself up, letting gravity pull him back down, and his legs were starting to shake, the effects of his earlier orgasm still lingering.
“Are you okay?” Dream asked, his hold on George turning into something softer, more delicate. His fingers started to lightly caress at George’s hip, moving to trace figure eights into his lower back. With a gentle press of his hand, he willed George to a stop.
He’d noticed George’s fatigue immediately. Of course he had.
“I’m tired, Dream.”
“I could tell.” Dream’s hand traveled further up George’s back, thumb catching in each divot of his spine. “Do you want me to just do it?”
“Yes.”
Dream placed both hands on his waist to help him off. Once George was able to turn back around, Dream picked up the camera where it seemed like he’d previously set it to the side, and pointed it at him.
George could feel his lip twitch up as an idea instantly entered his mind. Making his voice nasally, he said, “Hey, guys. My name is, Dream. Otherwise known as, Clay.”
Dream smiled from the other side of the camera lens, and George swore he could see him roll his eyes, but otherwise, there was no inclination that Dream was going to stop recording him.
“Put it back where it goes, Dream,” George prompted, mimicking a frown with his expression.
“Why? I wanna film you.” Dream’s smile was unwavering. “You look handsome.”
George took in a breath and tipped his head back, covered his cheeks with the palms of his hands by instinct. He motioned with them as he said Dream’s name.
“What?”
“I want us both in it.”
“Too bad. I’m the director.”
A mix between an exhale and a short laugh left George’s mouth. “Dream—”
“I’m the director!” Dream repeated, half-yelling. “I’m the director!”
What followed next was a three minute back-and-forth that involved George trying to grab the camera and Dream moving it out of the way at the last second. Every time Dream pulled the camera back, it was like it was funnier to him than the previous time he did it, his laughter getting louder and louder.
“Dream,” George stated, firmly, when he’d had enough.
And Dream laughed so hard, a squeaked escaped out of the end of it.
George decided to change his approach. “Dream,” he said, weaker, head falling and mouth forming a pout.
It was then that Dream finally gave the camera back, leaning forward to kiss George’s temple in the process. “Here. Idiot.”
“It’s ruined. You ruined it.”
“I didn’t ruin anything.”
“You did,” George argued. “This video was goated. It was like, an eleven out of ten.”
“Yeah?” Dream chuckled, a soft, muffled thing that sounded a lot like heh heh. “What is it at now?”
“Like, a four.”
“What?” Dream’s hand crossed the short distance between them, settling on George’s lower back. They were sitting somewhere between in front of each other and side-to-side, and Dream shifted closer so that their knees were overlapping. “That’s lower than what we gave the fucking Minecraft movie.”
“Yes,” George said. “The Minecraft movie was better.”
“Well,” Dream got close again, lips against dark ones, “it’s not. You know why?”
“Why?”
“‘Cause I’m in this one.” Dream took the camera from George’s hands, placing it again on the bedside table. And when Dream tilted his head at him, George knew what was coming next.
Dream always looked so pretty when entering him. It was mouth falling open and eyes falling shut, almost like he was trying to memorize the feeling. It was a needy sound, followed by a moan, followed by a string of whispered curses. Dream always watched him so intensely when they did it like this, studying the way George’s facial features moved, the way George reacted with every added inch.
“Is it good?” Dream asked him when he started moving. It was slow and deep, sensual in a way that George loved.
“Yes.” Sometimes, the staring got overwhelming, and George would want to cover Dream’s eyes or hide himself. There were too many things to focus on—Dream’s stare, Dream’s words, Dream’s smell, how good Dream made him feel.
Today, however, he let Dream look, let him capture him like a photo.
“You’re beautiful,” was murmured against George’s lips. “I love you. So much, George.”
George took Dream’s face in his hands, keeping him steady under his fingertips.
They were barely moving at that point, just rocking together. And when Dream came, George internally called himself a genius for deciding to buy that Minions camera, thanked his past self for the fact that he could now watch Dream falling apart whenever he wanted.
Later, when they were all cleaned up and sleepy, Dream skimmed through the video, replaying the parts where the camera was focused on George.
“Dr’m,” George complained after a while from his place on Dream’s chest. His eyes were closed, a consequence of Dream’s unoccupied hand running up and down his back, but he could still hear everything that was happening in the recording, everything they’d just done.
“Yeah?”
“Stop.”
“No. I’m trying to figure out how I’m gonna edit it.”
George opened his eyes at that. He couldn’t help but grin. “You’re gonna edit it?”
“Yeah.” Dream sighed, dramatically. “Take out all the parts where you’re being mean to me.”
The words took George aback, and he made an incredulous noise.
Dream, having enjoyed George’s reaction, turned his head to kiss George on the forehead. “I’m just kidding,” he said, and per George’s wishes, he turned the camera off and set it down next to him.
“We should film more so that we get, like, all these different angles,” Dream continued when it was obvious that there were ideas running around his head, nowhere to go but out. His hands were fidgeting with George’s hair now, twisting the strands around his fingers. “It’ll be, like, the most epic sex tape of all time.”
George smiled and snuggled closer, enjoying the warmth of Dream’s body while he still had it, knowing Dream was probably going to want to get up to get his phone to start redditing sex tape filming tips in a bit.
It was Dream’s next words that George didn’t quite expect: “I’m gonna watch it when I miss you.”
George didn’t know what he would’ve said to that if he attempted it. He had his reaction to Dream’s sentence close to his heart but not the words to describe it. He wasn’t like Dream, where describing his feelings was as easy as breathing; it felt like choking on air for George.
Love poured out of Dream, like an overfilled cup, but George preferred making holes at the bottom for it all to privately drain away.
The truth was, there were a lot of things George could’ve said in that moment, but they didn’t feel enough. They couldn’t, when love for George was all-consuming, all-encompassing, when putting it into words would only take away from its intensity.
It was hard, having the inability to truly articulate everything he felt. It was hard, having to acknowledge that words were somewhere deeper, not at the tip of his tongue. It was hard, having others not understand that sometimes, love transcended spoken word, that it was found in a gentle look shared from across a crowded room.
Maybe in a world where he loved Dream any less would he be able to begin to describe it.
So, instead, he took the blanket that laid over them and pulled it up so that it covered more of Dream’s skin. And left it at that.
Dream knew what it meant.