George can feel the stale air of the metro leave his lungs as he sets foot above the ground.
It’s not like the city air is much cleaner than what he’s been breathing for the past hour and a half, but this is what he’s been waiting for, what he’s been absolutely craving. The bright lights and the flashing cars and the awful polluted air filtering through his body. It all surrounds George’s senses, and in this moment, he knows that this is what he was born for, not some washed up small town.
The pavement beneath his feet is a little bit damp from yesterday’s rain, headlamps dotted along the streets casting light that glows and reflects back into George’s chocolate eyes from the wet concrete. Everything around him smells like new cement, and the heat of electricity, and maybe a hint of the rodents that come out at night. But in George’s opinion, it’s a much better sensation than being surrounded by the smell of earth that all encompasses you, slowly suffocating you until you become nothing more than a pocket in the earth just like everyone else.
He cranes his neck to try and see the top of the towers (skyscrapers, they’d call them back in his new town), tries to look into the windows of buildings filled with a million other young people that are living behind them. God, this is where I belong, he thinks.
He never thought that he’d be this excited to be standing in a parking lot, but it sure as hell beats the identical strips of grass and predictable roads that line what he refuses to call his new home.
“George!” He hears someone yell from a car window, over blaring music.
George whips his head around, meeting eyes with the person in the car and smiling maniacally when he realizes who it is.
“Quackity!” he yells.
“Gog-meister!” he yells back.
George takes a second to look around the city again, up at the towering buildings and light polluted sky that he’s missed so much, happily overwhelmed by the crowded skyline.
“Are you gonna get in or not?” Quackity nearly screams at him over the obscenely loud music he’s playing, as if they’re in a hurry. George knows that they have all night, and then some if they count the early hours of the morning, but he takes off his bag and throws it into the back seat of Quackity’s car before swinging into the passenger seat. Quackity flashes him a smile, reaching over to give George a half hug that he bashfully hits away, but pulls back beaming right back at Quackity.
“Took you long enough.”
George rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
Quackity opens his mouth to say something, probably ask how he’s been or what he’s been up to, considering they haven’t seen each other in person for months. But George has other plans, interest peaking when he hears what’s playing in the car, leaning forward and cranking the nob on the radio system, turning up the music until the rest of the world is tuned out and George can feel a light throbbing in his ears after every base drop. George grins as the music settles throughout his body, and Quackity looks over at him and scowl.
“What, first time I see you in forever and you don’t even wanna talk?” Quackity bites.
“I said shut the fuck up, I’m trying to enjoy something here.”
Quackity just shakes his head and starts to drive turning the key to turn on the obnoxiously loud engine, then pressing his foot to the gas all too quickly, making their necks slam against the headrest. He jerks out of the parking lot and back onto the busy road, forgetting to check whether or not there are cars coming towards them. George laughs a little bit, already remembering what it’s like to be with Quackity. His friend will boast all the time about how good he is at driving, but he can’t even start the car without nearly giving George whiplash.
“Are you trying to kill me on my only day back?” he asks incredulously. "Who let you get your fucking license, Jesus."
“Real rich coming from you. Hey, on a completely unrelated note, how’s your bike holding up for you in the suburbs?”
George punches him lightly in the arm, causing the car to swerve.
“I said shut up, or I’ll turn the music louder.”
You’re trying to make me go deaf, Quackity mutters, but George can’t hear it.
George can’t stop giggling as they drive down the road, gawking out of Quackity’s tinted windows like he’s an awestruck tourist. But honestly, he feels like one, with how long it’s been since he’s been out to the city. It’s really only been a few months, but to George, it feels like years since his blood has pumped this fast.
When the song finally ends, Quackity reaches over and turns the music volume more than halfway down, just so that his eardrums don’t burst by the end of the night. George pouts at him, but Quackity just glares right back.
“You gonna let me talk now?” he asks.
“Hm…” George pretends to think. “No.”
Quackity feels the urge to swerve the car into a pole on the side of the road. George just has that affect on people. “Jesus, I hate you so much, why did I even ask you to come and visit?” he says, but he can’t stop the smile from creeping up his face, and George sure as hell sees it.
“Because you love me, don’t even try to deny it,” George says tauntingly, sick smile and glinting eyes reflecting in the rear-view mirror.
“Wish I didn’t,” he says but doesn’t mean it, and they both know it. “But seriously man, how the fuck have you been? Living it up in suburbia?”
George sighs, exasperated. “You're acting like we never talk. You know how I am.”
Quackity looks at him pointedly. “Just answer the fucking question, you know it’s different.”
George groans. “Don’t make me talk about it, I came here to escape, not think about it more.”
Quackity takes his hand off of the wheel to shove George’s shoulder a bit, jostling him in the passenger seat. “Come on, stop being so fucking melodramatic. I know it’s not that bad.”
George groans again, sinking down into his seat so that his chin catches on his seatbelt. “You don’t get it, there’s nothing to do there. It’s just so-” George struggles for a word. “Static.”
Quackity hums wisely. “Static, huh.”
“But really? Nothing’s happened? I know you wouldn’t let it be that boring,” Quackity asks again, and George has to think.
“I mean, I don’t know, I’ve been to a couple parties and I have some friends and whatever, but it’s just not the same,” he whines. “Everyone at that school is so awful, you don’t get it. They’re all the same exact person.”
“Okay, well tell me about your friends, they’ve gotta be at least tolerable for you to grace them with your holy presence,” Quackity taunts, but George ignores it.
“Who are you, my mom?” George asks, and Quackity sends him a dead stare. George continues. “I don’t know, they’re fine. There’s my friend Niki, she’s actually so goddamn pretty, and she’s so fucking nice too, which is almost unbelievable that she can do both. There’s Wilbur, and Jesus Christ, you would not believe how fucking tall he is. And then there’s Tommy and Tubbo, these two annoying ass sophomores that Wilbur likes to trail along, and they literally don’t know how to shut the fuck up.” He glances at Quackity. “Kind of like someone I know.” Quackity scoffs but urges him to continue.
“I mean, who else is there…” he thinks some more. “I mean, I know a bunch of people, not really sure if I’d call them my friends or not though. We just kind of, I don’t know. Coexist. And they’re fine. I mean-” he clears his throat. “They’re all fine, they’re just not as…” he fishes for a word again.
“Feral?” Quackity suggests.
George laughs a bit, rolling his eyes. “Sure. Feral.”
George is lost in thought for a moment. There’s always more with him. “And then there’s…” George trails off again, voice dying.
“Who?” Quackity prompts, genuinely curious who’s left a mark on George’s memory so prominent that George doesn’t want to talk about it.
“He- it doesn’t matter. It’s complicated.”
“Damn, what happened?” Quackity asks. It’s obvious there’s more but George isn’t sure he should say anything.
“I mean, we’re best friends, I guess.” Quackity gives him a look. “Other than you guys, obviously.” Quackity looks satisfied, but George just keeps going, seemingly unable to stop.
“I mean, he’s great. He’s so fucking cool, I honestly think you guys would like him. I know he’d do great here. He doesn’t belong there either, and I think he knows it too.” But Quackity doesn’t say anything back, so George keeps talking, spilling what he doesn’t mean to. “But I don’t know, there’s something weird between us. I don’t really want to think about it.”
Quackity raises an eyebrow. “Oh, come on, you can’t just say that and then drop it. You know you gotta give me more than that.”
“I don’t know, he-” George cuts himself off. “I guess we like, hooked up, but I don’t know, it’s not a big deal. At least to me.”
Quackity whistles lowly. “There it is.”
“Shut the fuck up man, it’s nothing. We did it once, and it didn’t mean anything.”
“Oh yeah? Once?” George doesn’t answer. “That’s what I thought. So why the fuck isn’t he up here with you, huh? When do I get to meet him?”
George sighs. “I told you man; I don’t want to talk about it. He said he didn’t want to come, said he needed to stay home or whatever the fuck. Some excuse. Things aren’t really great between us right now.” He’s obviously more frustrated with this mystery man than he lets on. “It’s fine though, I’ll just see him when I get back, obviously. It is what it is.”
Quackity hums again in acknowledgement. So that’s why he got all pissy. “Do I at least get a name?”
George contemplates. “No,” he says in the same petulant tone. Some people just don’t change, Quackity thinks sagely.
“Fine. Well, how-” Quackity is cut off as George cranks the music again, grin spreading across his face as the music wafts throughout the air and out of the windows that they’ve still got rolled down.
“Fuck, I love this song!” George raises his voice to match the music, and Quackity can feel his own vocal cords start to hurt a little from just how loud his friend is being. But as he side eyes his friend from the driver’s seat, he doesn’t make a move to turn down the volume or yank George’s hand from out of the window. To be honest, he looks like he needs this.
George laughs almost deliriously, and if this is him sober, Quackity almost doesn’t want to see him intoxicated. It’s been too long since they’ve seen each other, but he can never forget how George gets when he’s on something. But maybe that’s why they’re friends, because George loves to get fucked up and Quackity never stops him.
George hastily unclicks his seat belt and unlocks the sunroof, much to Quackity’s chagrin, and rises his body out of the seat and into the rushing air outside. Maybe it’s their imagination, but George’s laughs seem to echo throughout the city, bouncing off of buildings and across streets, and it feels like everyone can hear the way he downright cackles.
He can feel the wind whip through his hair, and hit his face, and catch in his mouth, as though it’s cleansing him with its dirty breeze, corroding him and whittling him down, back to his original state, before he was smothered in the grime and filth that is the suburbs. Maybe he is a little bit melodramatic, but he has to be if he doesn’t want to be sucked into monotony like everyone else that he knows in his new town. (Although really, none of George’s friends think that George could ever become anything less than what he is now. George does not settle.)
But Jesus, he hasn’t felt this alive in what feels like forever, with the way everything moves past him at a mind-numbing speed, the way the music is deafening and the lights around him are blinding. He wants for time to freeze in this moment, him standing in the passenger seat of his best friend’s car as the world flashes around him. And it does, for just a second.
George opens his mouth and fights down his giggles, trying to sing along to the song. Quackity cringes a little bit, because George has never been too good at singing on tune, but George doesn’t care, belting out lyrics that he barely knows to a melody that he’s hanging onto by a thread.
Feel the morning on my face
Ain’t a pill that I didn’t take
So that’s what type of night it’s going to be, huh?
But really, with all of them reunited again, Quackity can’t expect anything less. It’s George, and he’ll make sure he has a good fucking time, or he’ll die trying. Whichever comes first.
They drive through a tunnel, and Quackity intentionally revs the engine, speeding up as they go through. And to George, with his head and shoulders out of the sunroof, it feels like he’s being transported to a whole other world. The harder Quackity presses on the gas, the faster George can feel his heart beat in his chest.
They speed down the street, between the towering buildings spilling bright colors and loud music that even they can hear over their own car radio, and George feels at home.
When they finally arrive at Quackity’s apartment, George immediately slams the passenger door and runs up the stairs. Quackity silently curses him and grabs his friend’s bag from the back seat of his car and follows him up the steps, at a significantly slower pace than George, who’s barreling up the flights of stairs frantically, like his life depends on it. Maybe he feels like it does.
George barges into the apartment that he knows is Quackity’s, letting himself breath as he enters the apartment. He doesn’t get that much time though, because as he looks up around the room, his eyes immediately fall to his friends’, and then he’s clambering to see them.
“Gogy!” Sapnap yells from Quackity’s bed that he’s sitting on, and usually George would be annoyed at him for using that stupid nickname, but he can’t find it in himself to mind. It’s been too long since someone last called him that.
He sees Karl curled up next to Sapnap on the bed and gives the two of them a little wave.
“Oh my god, get over here already,” Karl says, and George obliges, running over to them and jumping on top of them. He hits the two of them with a thunk, sinking into Quackity’s pile of blankets and his friends’ legs.
“Jesus, that’s not what I meant, you freak,” Karl says, but he giggles and pulls George up into a hug that he easily reciprocates.
“Good to see you man,” Karl whispers into his ear, and George smiles.
Sapnap, like the gentleman he is, decides to shove George off of them, and ruin their moment. George gives him a disgruntled look as he nearly rolls off the bed, teetering on the edge of Quackity’s twin mattress, causing Karl and Sapnap to giggle quietly.
“Yeah, good to see you too,” George says accusatorily at Sapnap, causing him to laugh even harder.
They’re all giggling on the bed when Quackity finally walks through the door. “Jesus George, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you run that fast, what the fuck has gotten into you?”
George thinks that he’d rather be winded because of his lack of exercise, than have all of the air punched out of his weak lungs as the world caves in on him in his claustrophobic town. He doesn’t say that.
“Yeah, what are they feeding you down in the countryside to make you all big and strong?” Sapnap teases, grabbing at George’s arm and wrapping his entire hand around his wrist.
“Oh, shut the fuck up Texas toast, at least I’m still taller than you,” George retorts.
“That’s not even true!” Sapnap yells, exasperated. “You were literally five-foot-eight last time we measured. And last I checked; you were done growing. Unless little gogy wogy hit a growth spirt?” he says condescendingly. George tries to send him a death glare, but it evidently does not have it’s intended effect, as Karl and Sapnap start snickering again.
“I fucking hate you guys.”
Karl hums, nodding. “Sure you do. That’s why you took an hour and a half bus ride to come and visit us.”
“Yeah, dolled yourself up just to see us too, huh?” Sapnap goads. George looks down at his grey sweats and stained white tee shirt and windswept hair, rolling his eyes.
“Didn’t think I’d need to. Was I wrong?”
Quackity scoffs. “You never read the fucking group chat, you dick. Unless you wanna show up to the fucking club looking like you just rolled out of bed, then yes, you were wrong.”
George quirks an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yeah, fucking oh, you’re lucky we’re the same height, you can borrow my clothes or something.”
George laughs. “And what, put on one of your four button-up shirts that you wear on repeat? I think that’s honestly worse. I don’t want to go out looking like I just lost a custody battle, Jesus.”
“Coming from you? All you wear are oversized hoodies and sweatpants, at least I don’t dress like a toddler.”
“Oh yeah, because you look so much more sophisticated than me. I think it’s really cool how you toe the line between divorced dad and iPad kid, it’s almost impressive,” George retorts.
“Hey! Shut the fuck up, it’s a look,” Quackity yells indignantly.
George gets up and grabs his bag from the floor where Quackity dropped it, rifling through it to find something appropriate. “Mhm, it’s definitely a look.” He grabs something from his bag, holding it up to his chest to see if it’ll look good. “Not a good one though.”
They all settle into the apartment, into their old dynamic before George left, telling jokes and anecdotes, and mercilessly making fun of George, and laughing nonstop, and this is home.
At some point, George gets up and shuffles into Quackity’s tiny bathroom, holding his bag full of clothes. Because even though he didn’t read the group chat and he wasn’t really sure what the plans were for tonight, he would be damned if he didn’t come prepared. He doesn’t really know how he manages to fit all of these fucking clothes in his tiny ass bag, but he guesses that it’s just one of his special talents, to bring an absurd amount of clothing with him in his tiny tote bag.
He starts trying shit on, rotating between miscellaneous tops and pants and skirts, trying to find something that’ll work for wherever the hell they’re going later tonight. George can hear his friends getting loud from outside of the bathroom and decides that what he’s wearing now is probably good enough. They might make fun of him for it a little bit, the small black skirt and fish nets and hoodie that nearly covers it all. It’s not like they’ve never seen him in shit like this before though. When he lived in the city he wore stuff like this nearly every day. He doesn’t really care about his friends’ opinions on how he dresses, because fuck it if he’s the only one not wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt or a hoodie with a sports logo. He couldn’t care less.
He finally steps out of the bathroom, bag of overflowing clothes tight in his hand. “How’s this?” he asks as he shuts the bathroom door.
He’s expecting one of his friends to say something about it, preferably something nice, but what he doesn’t anticipate is for an unknown voice to speak up.
“It looks good.”
George searches the room in confusion, looking for the source of the voice that he doesn’t recognize. He sees a blond boy lounging on Quackity’s bed with Karl and Sapnap, and he must’ve gotten here while George was trying on half of his wardrobe, because he’s a thousand percent sure he’s never seen this man in his life before.
He tries to meet his eyes, but the blond is too preoccupied looking up and down George. His eyes seem to catch on the way that his short skirt ends at the top of his thighs, stockings rising up his legs, held up by elastic that pools skin where the tights end.
But eventually his eyes snap up to Georges face, and George can feel heat rush to his cheeks as they hold each other’s gazes.
Quackity breaks the charged silence. “This is Dream. Sorry we didn’t tell you he was coming.”
George arches an eyebrow, still holding eye contact with the blond. “Wow, so you’ve already replaced me, huh?”
“Yup,” Karl says, popping the p.
The boy, Dream, rolls his eyes and leans forward on the bed. “That’s not true. I’m Dream,” he says, sticking out his hand for George to shake. George laughs a little bit, taking his hand. Dream’s got a firm grip, he notes.
“I’m George,” he says back.
“I know,” Dream says, and so it begins.
George is sitting on the bed, four of them all crammed onto the same mattress while Quackity just sits across the room and watches. George has his legs pulled up against his chest, knees occasionally bumping against Dream’s arm. They’ve been playing this game for an hour, with light touches and intentional brushes of limbs against each other, but neither of them says anything.
George and Dream warm up to each other fairly quickly, though no one is really surprised. Maybe the fact that they’re all high helps, but easy conversation drifts through the room over low music that Quackity’s playing on his shitty Bluetooth speaker.
George takes a slow drag from the blunt that’s being passed around by the four of them, smoke hanging low and hazy in the room as he exhales. He can feel as his limbs slowly loosen and the ever-present buzzing in his head fades out.
His friends are sitting around him, talking about God knows what, but George just lets himself sink into the overabundance of pillows stacked on Quackity’s bed, taking a moment to just absorb everything around him. Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can memorize everything around him, take a photo in his memory and commit how everything sounds, smells, tastes, to his mind, and then replicate it when he has to leave and go back home.
“So, where’s your usual crazy eyeliner or whatever, Dream? I was really expecting you to pull out all the stops,” Karl says casually. It catches George’s attention.
“I brought it, just wasn’t sure if this was the occasion for it. Don’t wanna look like the odd one out,” He replies good naturedly.
Quackity brings his own blunt to his lips, inhaling lowly before laughing a little bit, smoke seeping out of his mouth. “Oh, don’t worry about that, that’s why we have George.”
George sputters, wisps of smoke escaping from his lips as he responds. “Hey, not my fault you all dress like the most basic straight boys.” Karl makes an indignant noise from the other side of the mattress. George leans forwards to meet his eyes. “Yes, you too, all you wear are jeans and old sweaters.”
“That’s so not true!” Karl squawks, earning a laugh from everyone around the room. “I wear other things.”
“Karl, can you even think of an outfit that you wore in the past month that wasn’t just your skinny jeans and a thrifted sweater?” Karl glares at George. George laughs.
George takes another drag, holding it in his lungs for as long as possible before exhaling, and passing the blunt to Dream. Dream’s fingers brush over George’s as he takes it from his hand. “It’s actually kind of cute, you guys dress like one big family. Quackity, obviously you’re the dad, and Karl, you’re like the grandpa, and Sapnap-”
“Watch it,” Sapnap says, but George continues.
“Sapnap, you dress like the middle school son.”
Karl starts snickering, and Sapnap shoves him with his shoulder. “He’s not wrong,” Karl says through a mouth full of giggles.
“Well George, you dress like the slutty older sister,” Quackity says through smoke.
Quackity raises his hands like he’s innocent, cutting him off. “Don’t hate me for speaking the truth. And it’s not a bad thing.”
George rolls his eyes, used to his friends’ antics. “What was this eyeliner we were talking about then, Dream?” he asks, turning towards the blond sitting next to him.
Dream blows a cloud in George’s face and George glares up at him through squinted eyes and curled eyelashes. “What about it?” he says back, cocking his eyebrow.
George nudges Dream’s arm, swaying his knees to hit Dream’s side. “You said you brought it. Let’s see it then.” Dream is still looking at him with that same attitude that he’s held all night, a hint of amusement behind his bright eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to look like the only crazy one tonight,” George reasons, trying to convince Dream to bring out the makeup.
It appears to work though. Dream smirks and gets up from the bed, stretching his legs and moving towards a black bag in the corner of the room that George didn’t notice before. It’s the first time that George has seen the blond stand up, and he doesn’t know how he didn’t realize that he was so tall. Of course, he had seen Dream’s long limbs splayed across the bed, but even this is more than he expected. Dream easily towers over him, looks like a giant when George is sitting on the bed and Dream is looming over him.
Dream comes back to stand in front of George, holding a couple small products from the bag and showing them to George.
“Let me see,” George says, making grabby hands at the plastic tubes. Dream hands them over, and George looks at the products thoughtfully, while Dream stands there and watches him. “Wear this,” George states. He hands the blond a liquid eyeliner pen, in what the package says is black onyx. By now, the rest of their friends are in their own world, not entirely interested in whatever Dream and George are talking about.
“You think?” Dream asks, and George surveys Dream’s outfit. It’s nothing outrageous, certainly not as out there as what George’s wearing, but there’s no doubt that he looks good. He’s got these black cargo pants that are ridiculously long just to accommodate for how ridiculously tall he is, a loose belt wrapped around his middle, and a simple white tee shirt. Dream catches him staring, meeting his eyes with mirth.
“Yeah,” George breathes out.
Dream exhales smoke a final time, passing the blunt to Karl and tucking the rest of his makeup into his bag. He starts to move towards the bathroom, towards the only mirror in Quackity’s place, before glancing back at George.
“You wanna watch or what?” he asks, and George has to bite back a snarky response about how there’s not much to see, because he does.
George silently rises from the bed and follows Dream into the tiny bathroom, ignoring the look that Sapnap sends him. He insistently doesn’t shut the door behind them, trying to prove an unsaid point to his friends that he can barely stand by. Dream stands in front of the sink, watching it all in amusement.
“Come on, it doesn’t take me that long to do, watch.” The blond leans over the sink and uncaps the pen, bringing the brush to the corner of his eye, and expertly sweeping it across skin in one fowl swoop. George tries not to watch the way his hands grip the pen, steadily making marks around his eyes, tries not to watch the way he can faintly see Dream’s veins pop when he flexes his hand to create a wing. George watches as the boy creates harsh lines that grace his face with such beauty, and before he knows it, Dream is seemingly done.
Dream turns away from the mirror, turns to George, and sends him a dazzling smile that leaves him weak in the knees.
“Looks good so far?”
George swallows down the lust in his throat. “Definitely.”
Dream fishes for something else in his bag, taking out another eyeliner, this time a black pencil.
“Hey, I didn’t tell you to use that.” George says with no real bite.
“I can’t just use the liquid liner; it’ll smudge like crazy underneath my eyes. Especially if my eyes tear up.” George stares at him, hunger in his eyes. If his eyes tear up? If he cries?
“You’re pretty good at this, huh?”
Dream gives him a humored smile. “I guess so.”
Dream brings both his hands to his face, pulling down the skin under his eyes, carefully rimming his under eyes with charcoal. George is seemingly mesmerized with the way that Dream’s hands move so smoothly, effortlessly drawing dark lines against tan skin. George doesn’t see how Quackity watches the air between them from his chair, doesn’t catch his questioning look.
Dream turns to him again, and the wind is almost knocked out of George’s lungs, because since when was Dream this hot? Dream watches as the blood climbs to George’s cheeks, and George can almost feel Dream’s breath on his face because of the forced proximity from the tiny bathroom. Dream’s smile grows, and his eyes crinkle, and he looks almost demonic in the way that the lines cut across his eyelids, creating barbs and spikes, and George almost thinks that if he reached out to touch them, they might draw blood. The way his bright green eyes are rimmed in something so dark and practically sinful drive George wild, and Dream knows it. He thinks that the blond will be the death of him.
“So?” Dream asks, almost taunts, as if he knows that George’s breath is caught in his chest and his words are stuck in his throat, because of him.
George decides to indulge him, figures that if Dream can see the way that he reacts to everything that the blond does, he may as well give it all to him, make him really see what George thinks.
George gives Dream a once over, dragging his eyes down the blond’s body, then back up again, landing on Dream’s face. He stares into Dream’s eyes, trying to communicate something. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s trying to tell Dream, but he figures that he’ll get the gist. “You look really, really…” George searches for a word. “Good,” he settles. He knows he looks better than good, but neither of them mentions it.
“Want me to do yours?” Dream asks after a pause, and George couldn’t want anything more. He’s about to open his mouth, let himself fall to Dream’s mercy and succumb to the growing feeling deep in his stomach, when he hears something from outside the bathroom.
“Oh my God George, let him do it, he annoys me all the fucking time about it,” Sapnap says, and George cranes his neck to look out at his friends in the main room that he’d almost forgotten about. Had they been listening, watching, the entire time?
But just like that, the two of them are snapped out of whatever trance they were stuck in between the sink and the doorway. George looks around the room, playing with his hands on the sink.
“I mean, sure. I don’t see why not.”
Dream’s cheshire smile grows even wider, something flashing in his eyes, like George is his prey. And in that moment, George feels like he is.
“Great,” he says, and George is expecting for Dream to move him in front of the mirror and start drawing on his face with the pen. But Dream looks at him expectantly, before rolling his eyes and pushing him a bit towards the doorway, back into the main room.
“Come on, I’m not doing it in here. I don’t need the mirror, dumbass, we don’t have to do it in the bathroom.”
George sputters a bit before walking out of the bathroom, standing in the middle of the room and facing Dream again. “Where do you want me?”
“Well, there’s a lot of places that I want you, but for now, the bed is good,” he says, and George tries and fails to fight a blush.
“Oh, you want me on the bed? You know, you could’ve just asked,” George says back.
Dream just hums through a thin smile, before looking over George’s shoulder at Karl and Sapnap, who are still sprawled on Quackity’s bed.
“What?” Sapnap says, meeting Dream’s gaze.
“What? That’s-” Sapnap starts.
“I said, move.” Dream repeats sternly, and George shivers a bit.
Sapnap puts up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, Jesus.”
George sits on the bed where Karl and Sapnap used to be (they’ve begrudgingly migrated to the floor near the door), looking up at Dream through the hazy room, waiting for the blond’s next move. Dream just smirks and pushes on George’s chest, causing him to lean backwards until his head hits the pillows behind him. George instinctively looks away, searching the room for something, someone to look at besides the tall blond looming over him, but no one comes to his rescue.
“Come on, look up at me princess,” Dream taunts lowly, and George can feel color bloom in his cheeks at the name.
“Real eager to get me horizontal, huh?” George says back, trying to regain some sense of control. He wants to act annoyed at the position he’s been put in, pressed flat against the mattress, but he doesn’t protest one bit at the way Dream’s large hand is still weighing on his chest.
Quackity scoffs, obviously fed up with whatever the hell is going on between his two friends. “Keep it in your pants Dream, it’s my fucking bed.”
Dream just rolls his eyes, as though just remembering that they aren’t alone. “Don’t worry, Christ’s sake, I’m just doing his makeup,” he says casually, before swinging his leg over George’s thighs and practically straddling him.
George can hear Quackity mutter something that sounds like yeah right, just makeup my ass, and Karl’s giggles from the floor bounce throughout the room, but George can’t even try to focus on any of it, a little too preoccupied with the boy who’s staring down at him through his wavy blond hair. The boy who leans his head down to him, hovering a bit too close to George’s lips, so that his blond hair can fall around his face and halo him, as if he were angelic.
George scoffs at the thought. As if Dream could be anything remotely holy. George gulps, and Dream watches his throat as he swallows.
“Well? Are you going to get on with it or not?” George asks, trying to move them along, trying not to let his mind linger on the image of Dream’s body hovering over his. His words work though; Dream leans back into his upright position on top of George’s thighs and digs through his bag for what he’s looking for, placing a multitude of plastic tubes and small pallets of color on George’s chest. He then produces another blunt and a neon green lighter, haphazardly putting the blunt in the corner of his mouth and lighting it. George watches in awe as the boy above him inhales deeply, before letting out a cloud of smoke above him, eyes glazing slightly as the smoke surrounds them.
“You want?” Dream asks. George reaches his arm up and takes it out of the blond’s hand, fingers brushing each other briefly, before he pulls the blunt away and takes a hit himself, letting the calm wash over him and the dizziness invade his brain as he holds his breath. Dream just leers, eyeing the boy between his legs, before he takes the blunt back and starts working on the activity at hand.
George doesn’t pay attention too hard to what Dream’s doing with his face, more concerned with Dream’s slight furrowed brow of concentration as he paints lines across his lids. He doesn’t really know a lot about makeup, only very occasionally putting it on himself, but it seems that Dream does, so he doesn’t question him. He’s got the blunt in one hand, occasionally taking long drags, and a makeup brush in the other, dotting George’s face with products that George knows nothing about.
George feels as though the two of them are in their own world, with this boy mere inches away from his face, wrapped up in smoke on the bed. And to some degree, they are, because Quackity is sitting there high out of his mind, and Karl and Sapnap are in the corner on the floor doing whatever the hell they usually do. George lets himself be dragged down by this boy on top of him, out of reality into this limbo state.
As Dream does his makeup, they make small talk while blowing smoke into the air. George asks him questions, like how he met all of their friends, and how he got into makeup, and how tall he is. Dream answers them all easily (he was already friends with Sap and met the rest through him. His younger sister wanted help with her eyeliner, so he learned. Six-foot three last time he measured, though he could be taller. He was very smug about it.), and in return asks questions of his own.
Dream asks him what his favorite color is, and George says blue. Dream asks him if he ever wears makeup, and George says that his own sister will occasionally make him sit through makeovers, but he doesn’t really know how to do it himself. Dream asks him if he’s single, and George says yes. Quackity gives him a look for that one.
And after what’s probably only twenty minutes, but has felt like hours, of dream drawing on his face and passing a blunt between their lips, George finally speaks up.
“This feels like it’s taking a lot longer than it did with you.”
Dream smirks down at him, pausing with whatever he was doing on George’s face. “I’m doing a lot more than what I did on me.”
“Oh. I thought you were just going to do eyeliner.”
“With a face like yours? No way.” Dreams eyes rake over his features. “No, for you, I’m going all out.”
George starts to say something back, but Dream cuts him off. “Now close your eyes.” George can feel something brush lightly across his lids and under his lower lashes, before air is blown onto his face, and he instinctively opens his eyes to the sensation. Dream is hovered only inches above his face, watching him like a hawk. When they meet eyes, Dream smiles in satisfaction, retracting the liquid eyeliner brush that he was using from George’s face. George can feel the liquid drying around his eyes, can feel the way that the cool breeze of the AC hits the dark marks.
“Why’d you use the liquid under my eyes? I thought you said it streaked easily.”
Dream grins. “Maybe I want to see it run.”
George scoffs but Dream speaks again. “You’re nearly done. Can I put lip gloss on you?” Dream asks.
“I feel like this is more for you than for me,” George counters.
“Oh, it definitely is,” Dream replies with a drawl, and George laughs a little bit.
“Okay, I see how it is. Why don’t you have any on, then?”
“I don’t like the feeling. You will though.”
George hears Quackity snicker from across the room and feels his face color. “How do you know?”
Dream gives him another once over. “Just a feeling.” George is sure his face is bright red by now.
George rolls his eyes, but nods. “fine. Be quick.”
Dream looks at him gleefully, before pulling out two new tubes, one of color, and the other a clear gel. He uncaps the colored lipstick, meeting George’s eyes one more time in conformation, before lowering the makeup to George’s lips, and carefully swiping it across George’s bottom lip. George can feel as it presses against his lower lip, causing it to jut out a little bit, feels the way a thin layer of color is applied.
Dream tuts. “You need to put Chapstick on more often, Georgie.”
George looks up at him, lets a smirk play across his lips. “That’s not what I’m usually told.”
Dream hums noncommittally. “Air must’ve been dry today.”
George can feel himself nodding back.
Dream rubs some of the bright lipstick onto his fingers, before dotting his fingers against George’s face, giving color to his already pink cheeks. He speaks up again once he’s patted the color into his cheeks and nose, and it’s sufficiently blended into his pale skin.
“Come on, rub your lips together,” Dream instructs him. “Like this,” he says, pressing his own lips together as if he had put color on them too. Dream watches as George does as he’s told, muttering out a little good, when he’s done.
“You barely even needed that; your lips are already so pink.” George doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just smiles. Dream takes out the gloss, again looking into George’s eyes as warning, before spreading the wet sticky gel across George’s pink lips. George has to resist the urge to repeatedly smack his lips together. He guesses that he doesn’t mind the feeling, but he doesn’t want to tell Dream that, doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“Done?” George asks.
Dream takes out the lipstick again, uncapping it and twisting it so the color comes out. “Almost,” he replies, taking the pink lipstick and smearing it all over his own lips. George looks up at him in confusion.
“I thought you said you didn’t like the feeling?”
Dream smiles. “I don’t. Can I?” he asks, gesturing at George’s leg beneath him.
George is even more confused now, but slowly nods up at the blond. “Sure,” he says, not really certain what the blond means.
Dream grabs his thigh, quickly shifting so that he can pull it up and press it against George’s chest, almost bending it over his shoulder. George can feel the blood from his face rush somewhere else. And George panics a little bit, because his friends are all still in the room, even though they don’t appear to be noticing anything, but shit, he’s wearing a skirt, and what the hell is Dream doing?
“Wait-” George starts, but he’s cut off as Dream’s lips plant against his inner thigh, right between where his skirt falls, and his fishnets start. The feeling of Dream’s lips against his leg dissipate just as quickly as they appeared, and when George looks down, he can see a pink mark in the shape of a pair of lips stamped into his right thigh.
It’s bright, and it’s clear, and it’s very very visible, and George can feel something inside of him pulse as Dream rakes possessive eyes over him, catching at the new mark on his thigh that he put there. It screams I belong to someone, and George wants to insist that he doesn’t, that he never will, but maybe for tonight he doesn’t mind it.
George watches as Dream wipes the remainder lipstick on the back of his hand, quirking his lips up and glinting his eyes down at George again, before bringing the remainder of a blunt to his lips and taking a final hit. He lets the smoke out of his lungs, blowing it into the room, before stubbing out the end of the blunt on Quackity’s bedframe. Dream looks utterly blissed out, eyes hooded, leering smile permanently imprinted onto his face, hand clutched on George’s thigh. And how couldn’t he be, with such a pretty boy beneath him.
“Final touches,” Dream says, not able to contain his smirk.
George struggles for something to say, desperate to regain some sort of control over this boy who seems to command it. “You do this to all of the people that you put makeup on?”
Dream is unfazed, easily responding, “Only for you, baby.” He flashes another dazzling smile, and George thinks that the buzzing in his head might not be because of the weed. Dream’s grip on his thigh over his fishnets tightens. George tilts his chin up, towards Dream.
“Jesus fuck, Dream, save it for later,” Karl calls from his little corner. Karl and Sapnap seem to come back to reality, looking up at Dream and George with scrutiny and amusement. George doesn’t know whether to be upset that their moment was ruined, or thankful that Karl is saving him from very possible future embarrassment.
“Maybe I will,” Dream says with a smile, but he doesn’t make a move to release George’s thigh. George hears the maybe, but he doesn’t want it to be one.
They just kind of… stay like that, lying on the bed. But George can feel his friends’ eyes on him, and it’s in this moment that he remembers he’s wearing a skirt. He feels blood rush to his face for the millionth time tonight, sputtering below Dream. He attempts to move his leg so that he’s not entirely bent in half under Dream anymore, but even Dream’s casual grip is weirdly strong, and he can barely move.
“Come on, let me go,” George huffs, and Dream laughs, but loosens his grip on George’s thigh, gives it one last squeeze, and shifts his weight slightly to let George’s leg flatten against the bed. Just as George thinks he’s free, thinks that Dream is going to get off of him and finally let George sit up, he leans down again. Dream’s head hovers inches above George’s face, and his breath faintly tickles his ear.
“Don’t think I didn’t see what you’re wearing under that skirt,” he says in a low rumble that makes George’s breath catch.
And just like that, Dream is gone, already off of George, sitting on the end of the bed, not even giving him a chance to respond.
Karl snaps him out of his daze. “C’mon Gogy, show us the makeover!” he calls from across the room. George desperately tries to sober up, forget what Dream just said to him, forget the way his body loomed over his own, pressed into his thigh. George mindlessly sits up, getting off of the bed, and ignoring how his shoulder brushes with Dream’s when he sits up. He makes his way towards Karl and Sapnap, who are huddled in the corner with red eyes and expectant smiles.
George stalks in front of them, puts out his hands as if to say well? and lets his friends take in his new appearance. George watches the way his friends’ eyes explore his face, watching to see if either of them notice the bright pink kiss on his leg right where his thighs pool from the fish nets. George figures that they’re both too high to notice anything, but Dream sees the way that Sapnap’s eyes widen when he looks down from George’s face, and Dream definitely sees the knowing smirk that Sapnap sends him from across the room.
After they all coo at George’s new makeup and endlessly compliment Dream on his skills, they finally shuffle out of Quackity’s now incredibly stuffy one-bedroom apartment. It’s not like they’re really in a hurry, but George would prefer it if they left for the club before one AM. He does have to leave tomorrow and catch a bus.
Karl worries for a bit, because none of them are even remotely sober, and they really shouldn’t drive anywhere when they’re all extremely intoxicated, but Dream and Quackity happily inform them that they’re walking.
“You’re fucking kidding, you’re making me walk in this?” George complains, gesturing down at his too short skirt. “It’s on you if I get kidnapped.”
“Don’t worry babe,” Dream says, curling an arm around George’s waist. “I’ll protect you.”
George rolls his eyes and shrugs Dream’s arm off. “Yeah right, I bet I could defend myself better than you ever could.” Of course, he’s lying, because realistically, Dream’s got minimum six inches on him, and probably a whole lot more muscle mass, but George is nothing if not difficult.
“Oh yeah? You think?” Dream says, because he doesn’t know how to back down.
“Yeah, I do,” George replies, tilting up his chin to meet Dream’s eyes. It kind of takes away from his point, but he tries to ignore the grin that spreads on Dream’s face.
“Sure. Try and take me down. Right now.”
Before George can learn what the hell Dream means by that, Quackity cuts them off. “Jesus Christ you guys, can you wait five goddamn minutes? We’re leaving.” George smiles sheepishly at his friends, not sure how in a matter of hours Dream already has him like this, right under his finger.
“You’ve got your IDs?” Karl asks the group, and everyone nods back. He claps his hands in excitement. “Great, let’s go!”
George can hear the music from the club from a block away. But even if he couldn’t, he’d know that they had found it. Too many people in glowing outfits and way more makeup than what George is wearing mill around the streets, stumbling on sidewalks and into cabs with half closed eyes and loose lips. And George fits right in, with his small black skirt and ruffled hair and vacant smile.
George absolutely loves the way the city lights up at night, much more attracted to the bright neon lights that spill from window sides and crowded bars and clubs, than to the unrelenting sun that shines its rays as far as the eye can see. Here, he is just another soul looking for the light, just like everyone else out past midnight. It’s much easier to not think about something when all of your senses are being overwhelmed by strobe lights and strong liquor than alone on an empty street with nothing but a bike and the sun silently beating down on your back.
Somewhere along the walk, one of his friends has lit yet another blunt, and it’s currently resting on Dream’s lips. George stares up at the smoke slowly seeping from his mouth, and if he looks close enough, he can still see hints of pink at the corners of his lips. Dream catches his gaze and smiles down at him.
“What’s up?” he says through another slow exhale of smoke.
“It’s just,” George starts, considering his words, “how much are you drinking tonight? You’re gonna be so fucking out of it later,” George says in almost wonder.
“Aw, you concerned for my health Georgie?” he goads, and George rolls his eyes, something he can’t seem to stop doing around the blond.
Sapnap cuts in on the conversation. “My man’s a beast, he’s got a godly tolerance,” he says, clapping Dream on the shoulder a little too hard, causing him to stumble a bit on the pavement.
Dream chuckles a bit. “Not really, jus’ don’t like the taste of alcohol that much. Rather be high than drunk.”
Karl scoffs. “Yeah, who actually likes the taste though?” he says, then reconsiders. They all look at George at the same time.
“Jesus guys, is this what you think of me?” George asks a bit incredulously.
“Yes,” Quackity, Karl, and Sapnap say in unison. Dream laughs.
“It’s not that I really like it, I just don’t dislike it either. I’m more used to it,” George reasons.
“Boy do we know it.” It comes from Quackity under his breath, earning a shove from Karl who looks up at George to see if he heard it. But it seems that he didn’t, too distracted with the streetlamps around him.
When they find the club they’re looking for, the blunt that’s been resting between Dream’s lips and fingers is nearly gone. He tells his friends not to wait for him, that he’ll stay outside for a bit to finish it, and George feels a pull to stay outside with the blond. He says something about wanting to stay out on the street a little longer, wanting to watch the cars go by and the lights flash onto the damp pavement, but he’s lying. Of course, neither George nor the rest of his friends mention it, letting George hold onto his already shrinking pride.
He lingers next to Dream in an ally next to the club, watching as Dream slowly blows out smoke that catches the light from the cars going by and the LEDs from the windows, glowing yellow and blue and pink. George is entirely enamored in the way that the smoke curls out of Dream’s lips, and he thinks haphazardly that he wants to taste it.
After a minute of standing together in silence, Dream finally looks down at George and smiles. He takes another hit, holding it in his lungs while holding eye contact, then blowing it right in George’s face. George scrunches his nose and glares through his mascara clumped eyelashes up at the blond.
“Come on, give me some. Don’t just make me stand here waiting for you,” George says impatiently, reaching up to grab the blunt. Dream, to George’s annoyance, raises the blunt above his head so that George can’t reach it. “Asshole,” George spits without venom.
“Didn’t ask you to wait here with me,” Dream says through a smirk, as if catching George in a lie.
“Whatever, just give it to me,” he says again, reaching up on his toes to try and take the blunt from Dream’s hands. The blond only laughs more when he fails to reach it, even with George holding onto Dream’s shoulder and practically jumping up to try and grab it.
“Come on now, we wouldn’t want to ruin your lip gloss, would we?” Dream says tauntingly. George rolls his eyes. He doesn’t give a shit about the stupid sheen on his lips, cares a lot less than Dream seems to. Dream sees the annoyance in George’s face and chuckles a bit.
“Wow, all of my hard work down the drain. Does it even mean anything to you?” he says dramatically, marring his perfect face with a frown, and George hates the taste of his own medicine. “Here, I’ll make a deal with you. Open your mouth.”
George raises an eyebrow. Seriously? He himself is usually pretty forward, but this is ridiculous. He voices as much. “What? You’re kidding-” Dream’s eyes narrow as he looks down at him.
“I said, open your mouth.”
He uses the same commanding tone that he’d used earlier that night, and George can’t find it in himself to refuse. Slowly, he parts his lips, until they’re open enough for Dream to smile maniacally in response. Dream stares into George’s soul as he takes a long drag, grabbing George’s chin and tilting it up until he’s only inches away from Dream’s face. George knows what’s coming, but he still can’t stop himself from closing his eyes as Dream inches closer, until their lips are a hairsbreadth away.
And then, Dream exhales, pushing all of the smoke from his lungs into George’s mouth. George tries to keep in as much smoke as he can, taking in the secondhand smoke like its oxygen and he’s drowning. George almost loses it when he can feel Dream’s chapped lips brush against his own but continues to hold in the burn in his lungs.
When he feels himself start to get lightheaded, he finally lets the smoke out of his lips, blows it onto Dream’s own damp lips that are still only inches away. George opens his eyes when he can no longer feel Dream’s warm breath on his lips, and when he does, he’s met with two green eyes that look absolutely carnal. George is sure that he doesn’t look much different, eyes blown out and lips still pink and parted.
George watches as Dream’s eyes drift down to his lips, but before either of them can make a move, Dream takes a step back, dropping the blunt to the ground and stepping on it to put it out. Then, George watches as another grin creeps up Dream’s face, reaching his bright eyes. George is obsessed with the way it almost looks predatory.
“Guess we messed up your lip gloss anyways. Oh well,” Dream says, before turning and walking towards the club entrance. He’s only a couple steps away from the short lineup when he realizes that George isn’t following him. He turns to look over his shoulder at George, waiting for him to follow. George’s stomach feels like jelly and he’s a bit weak in the knees, but he follows behind Dream, until they’re walking through the line and being let inside the club. They don’t talk about it, don’t mention it to their friends who’re waiting on the other side of the doors.
Their friends make their usual remarks about how on earth George could’ve possibly been let in, since he looks so young, but George doesn’t bother responding, beelining to the bar. Fuck a shot for confidence, he needs three. Minimum.
And after he’s downed a few more drinks than his friends would usually let him, he starts to feel it. Starts to watch the way the rest of the world melts away, until it’s just him and the loud music and flashing lights and the other people around him. He feels like he’s suffocating, pressed up against a million faceless people, but he feels so damn alive when he can’t breathe. George feels like just another person stuck under the waves, jumping when everyone else jumps, throwing his hands up in delight when he can feel himself start to sink in a sea of bodies all much taller than him.
He feels like the loud music is carrying him to another dimension, even though it’s the fact that he’s crossed as hell is what’s really sending him. He loves the way the heavy base vibrates throughout his entire body, rattling his bones and sinking into his skin. He loves the way he can feel the sweat bead down his neck and forehead, and he’s sure that he looks like a mess with streaks of black and blue and pink streaking down his cheeks, but he doesn’t care.
George looks for the people he came with, and he’s sometimes successful, dancing with his best friends for a couple minutes, laughing and joking and moving to the music together. But as the night progresses, George and the others drift away, carried by the music, and more often than not, he’s pressed up against a stranger, or strangers. If there’s anything that George loves, it’s the way that other people will treat him like fucking royalty on the floor, with his tiny skirt and fishnets, the way that everyone seems to be attracted to him like a magnet. Because if there’s one thing that George knows how to do, it’s get attention.
But as he dances through the sea of people, feels hands grip his waist and arms, hears voices whispering in his ear asking for something that George won’t give them, refusing drinks and other things from strangers, he notices the lack of attention from one person in particular. He strains his eyes over the crowd, looking for a head of blond hair that peaks out above the rest, but he can’t find him.
He knows he’s there though, because throughout the time that he’s been in the club, he can feel eyes on him. Not that he doesn’t always feel eyes on him, but he just knows that somewhere in the room, a certain pair of green piercing eyes rimmed in coal are staring down at him, watching his every move.
And sometimes, while he’s cutting through the throng of people to grab another drink or find another one of his friends, he’ll catch glimpses of the blond, but just as quickly as he sees him, he disappears. George doesn’t understand how someone so ridiculously tall could hide themselves so easily, doesn’t understand how someone so stunning could so easily blend into the crowd, but he blames his alcohol addled brain and reduced senses for his inability to find Dream.
George has lost count of how many drinks he’s had by the time that he finally gets a solid look at the blond. He’s across the club, hands around a random person’s waist, head hung low grazing the person’s neck. And George doesn’t really give a fuck about who the person is, all he knows is that it isn’t him.
As if Dream has a sixth sense, he looks up and catches George’s gaze, smiling darkly and whispering something into the person’s ear. George glares back, downing the rest of his drink in one go, and getting up to find someone to dance.
It’s not that much of a feat, there’s a hundred and one men in the club that would probably give anything to dance with George for just a minute, but George is deliberate with who he chooses out of the crowd. He drifts through the mob, bumping shoulders with a multitude of people before he finally finds someone.
George drags his gaze down the man’s light blond hair, large hands and bright eyes, and he knows that he’s perfect. He starts moving towards him, swaying his hips a little bit, and the man seems to get the idea pretty quickly. George lets out a small laugh as the man hungrily latches onto him, holding his small waist with a vice grip, grinding into him through the thin fabric of his skirt. George doesn’t mind, tipping back his head in delight as the man’s strong hands tug up his skirt a little bit, revealing the strip of milky skin hidden under the skirt on top of his fishnets. And George happily reciprocates, pulling the man even closer and fluttering his eyes shut as he fades in and out of reality, all encompassed by the chemicals he’s put in his blood and the ones flowing from his brain, leaving him with loose limbs and a lackadaisical smile.
When he can feel the man’s damp breath on his neck, he opens his eyes again, immediately blinded by the blue being projected throughout the sweaty room. He can see the man’s lips moving, and he knows that he’s probably trying to say something, but George just smiles sweetly and sweeps the room, looking for a certain someone. George’s attention latches on a tall head of bright hair above the crowd, and bingo.
Dream’s glowering right at him, staring daggers into the man on George’s hip. George decides that Dream deserves to be mad, decides that it’s about time that he called the shots, sending him a salacious grin and tugging the man still gripping his waist into his neck, letting the man attach his lips to the stretch of skin above his hoodie. It’s only now that George notices how the person Dream is dancing with is a small girl wearing a short skirt and thigh highs, and what a coincidence.
But Dream stays rooted to the ground where he stands, keeps his long arms around the girl he’s pressed up against. He looks like he’s struggling with what to do, but it’s obviously not enough to make him come over, and George always wants more.
“Grab my thigh,” George whispers sultrily to the man wrapped around him, and the man easily obliges. George can feel the large hand explore his smooth skin, squeezing where his skin is cinched by elastic, traveling higher until the hand is hidden under his skirt and brushing the strip of lace, and George can almost feel the way that the energy in the room changes when his hands graze over the imprint of lipstick.
Suddenly, the air is charged, and when George looks up again, Dream isn’t just glaring daggers anymore. He’s got his eyes narrowed as if focusing in on a kill, and he’s got his fists balled, no longer wandering up and down the random girl’s body. George just tilts his head up, challenging Dream to do something.
It only takes seconds of the man’s greedy hands roaming up and down George’s expanse of skin, before Dream is angrily stalking over at him, parting the crowd like the red fucking sea. George giggles as Dream comes into focus, jaw set and eyes blazing. George knows that he’s in trouble, and he likes it.
He’s snapped out of his trance when another hand grips his arm, larger and stronger than the one between his thighs. He can hear the man he’s just used yell out something in indignation, but he doesn’t really care about him, discarding him like a toy. He lets himself be tugged like a ragdoll out of the other blond’s arms, sending the man a slightly apologetic grimace, before being tugged to what’s practically the other side of the club.
It’s only when Dream stops moving them, when his death grip on his arm slightly loosens, that George speaks.
“Hey, I was having fun.”
Dream scowls down at him, turning George so that his back is forced against Dream’s chest, draping his arms over his shoulders.
“Sure you were baby,” he says into his ear, and George shivers. Dream’s breath smells like cheap alcohol, of cinnamon and heat, and George wants to drown in the taste. George lets himself sway with Dream, sway with the rest of the crowd, under the bright lights and pounding music.
“Why didn’t you find me earlier if you wanted me this bad, huh?” George implores, not quite done teasing Dream. He likes seeing him like this, likes seeing the anger boil in his chest and the fire spit from his mouth. He likes wrapping the blond around his finger, likes to have control.
“Wanted to see just how much of a slut you really are,” he breaths into George’s neck, before lowering his mouth and sucking lightly on George’s damp skin. He bites lightly, and George whimpers, before Dream is pulling off of his neck and breathing into his ear again. George instinctively pushes his hips backwards, grinding into Dream through his rucked skirt.
“Turns out, you can’t keep your legs shut for more than fifteen minutes.” A tremor wracks through George’s body at the admission.
“And? What are you going to, ah-” George groans as Dream pushes his own hips against George’s ass, “-do about it?” he gets out through bated breath.
“Hmm,” Dream hums into his ear, and George can almost feel the vibrations on the side of his face. “I’d punish you, but I think you’d like that a little too much,” he says, gripping George’s waist even tighter than before, until it almost hurts. George lets out a little squeak as Dream’s hands press into his soft skin.
George just rolls his hips back, earning a groan from the blond. George wants to be difficult, wants to make Dream wait a little longer, but he can’t help but succumb to his own desires. He wants Dream just as bad as Dream wants him.
“Well,” George says, rolling his hips again, letting his skirt ride up against the fabric of Dream’s pants, “if you’re not going to do anything about it, I should probably find someone else.”
“Oh, honey,” Dream says, voice dripping saccharine with want, “I didn’t say I was going to do nothing.” George gulps as one of Dream’s hands reaches down to his thighs, snapping the elastic of his fishnets. George whimpers again, nearly begs for more contact, more touch, more anything from the blond. But Dream retracts his hand, places it loosely on his hips again, and laughs lightly into his ear. “No, by the time I’m done with you, you’re never gonna want to go to anyone else ever again.”
George wants to roll his eyes into his skull, wants to tell him that too many men before him have said something similar to that, and none of them have been telling the truth, but a part of him believes it.
Dream grips his middle, spinning him around until he’s facing Dream again. George half mindedly tilts his chin up, wets his lips in anticipation. But Dream just grins, doesn’t lean down to meet him in the middle like George expects. George frowns, huffs in irritation, because doesn’t he want this?
But Dream pushes him forwards, backing him into a wall. George makes a noise of surprise when his back hits the hard surface of the wall, and Dream’s hands press into his chest. George is about to say something, about to ask why the hell Dream’s taking so long, when Dream looms down to George’s ear.
George gasps as Dream starts nipping at his ear, biting and licking and sucking until he reaches the skin where his ear and neck meets. He gives George’s ear one last tug with his teeth before moving to his neck, sucking spots down his carotid.
George lets out a particularly breathy moan as Dream reaches the spot he’d sucked only minutes earlier, lapping his tongue on the faint indent from his own teeth, before biting down again, harder. George can feel a grin against his skin as he whimpers, and Dream moves down to his collar bones, barely showing over the collar of his hoodie. He laves against George’s skin, occasionally blowing on spots where his mouth has been, letting the cool air brush against George’s boiling skin.
George thinks that he’s done, that he’s ran out of skin to suck on, but as per usual with Dream, he’s proved wrong. Dream drops to his knees, grabbing the skin behind George’s knees, and now he understands why they’re pushed against the corner of the club.
“Ah, Dream, hold on,” George gets out between harsh breaths.
Dream looks up from between George’s legs, and George doesn’t think he’s ever looked as hot as he does right now, on the ground staring through his wavy blond hair. “Something wrong sweetheart?” he says, clasping the skin encased by the dark fishnets.
“No, it’s just, fuck, where’d the other’s go?”
This slows Dream’s roll, making him looking up at George in annoyance. “Does it matter?”
George flits his gaze around the club and can’t find any familiar faces. “I guess not.”
“Good,” Dream says, before attaching his lips to George’s legs, leaving soft kisses against the skin just above his knees. But before long, it becomes harder, and Dream starts sucking on the skin, leaving his lips against George’s thighs for longer, until George is moaning at every touch, tilting his head back in delight. George reaches one of hands to grasp onto Dream’s hair, gripping especially tight when Dream bites his skin almost too hard. He trails his lips up higher and higher, biting and lathing his tongue against George’s pale soft skin, and George can feel himself ascending. Can feel something else ascending too.
Dream pulls off for a second, smirking up at George through saucer eyes and spit slick lips. “You make so much noise, Georgie.”
“I-” George barely starts, before Dream latches back onto his thigh, sucking the skin like his life depends on it, while holding eye contact with George. George lets out another string of moans and curses, impulsively bringing his other hand to cover his mouth, to try and mask the noises he can’t keep to himself.
Dream pulls off again. “Oh, come on baby, that’s not what I meant. Don’t cover your mouth. I like it,” he says, reaching up to George’s elbow and tugging his hand until it’s no longer pressed over his pink lips. “Much better,” he says, before lifting George’s skirt and biting just a little too close to where George really wants Dream to put his mouth. George lets out the loudest moan yet, sensitive skin quickly turning red where Dream’s lips have been.
“I’m gonna have to leave you with more permanent marks, so you don’t get any ideas,” Dream says, referring to the now smudged mark of lipstick smacked on George’s inner thigh.
“This way,” Dream says, kissing up George’s leg, “you don’t forget,” another kiss, “who you belong to.” And George really can’t deny it now, with the way he’s nearly collapsed in on himself from just Dream’s mouth.
“I won’t, I promise,” George lets out through a strangled breath, eyes rolling into the back of his skull as Dream comes inches away from the lace underneath his skirt, head fully cloaked under his skirt, and sucks another mark.
After too long of Dream’s teasing mouth and George’s tantalizing moans, Dream can tell that George is getting impatient, and so is he, slightly strained against his own pants. He gets off of his knees, pulling up to his full height, to both George’s delight and chagrin. This time, when George tilts his head up, Dream closes in, clashing their lips together in a quick messy kiss, before Dream pulls away all too soon.
“My place is kind of far, we can get an uber,” Dream says through pants, licking his lips involuntarily when George meets his eyes.
“No, it’s fine, we can just go to Quackity’s. It’s closer,” he says back, before reaching up and connecting their lips again. George can taste the liquor in his breath, tries to slip his tongue in to taste it more, but Dream pulls back again.
“He won’t mind?”
George laughs. “Oh, he’ll mind, but I don’t care.”
Dream laughs too, lowering his head until he’s less than an inch away from George’s lips, and George thinks he’s about to capture them again, when he mutters something.
“You’re really that desperate, huh?” he asks deep and raspy, and something in George goes absolutely wild.
George resists the urge to all but fall to his knees, smirking up at the blond. “Don’t act like you aren’t too.”
Dream gives him a small chuckle in agreeance, quickly swooping in and pecking George’s lips, before pulling back and grabbing George’s waist.
“Let’s go then,” he says, dragging George towards the exit of the club, back onto the street. George can’t find any of his friends as they swim through the mob, but he figures that they’ll know where he went, or they can at least guess. They’ll definitely find him tomorrow anyways.
George drunkenly giggles as he stumbles down the street, clutching onto Dream’s arm for balance. After a few too many close calls of George accidentally swaying into the street, a street with fast moving cars, Dream once again wraps his arm around his waist protectively, and this time he doesn’t shrug the arm off. George would try and absorb the city, because this is his favorite time in his favorite place, but he’s too engrossed with the strong arm securing him.
When they finally get to the apartment building they’re looking for, slowly climbing the stairs with too much whining from the brunet, George fishes around the pockets of his hoodie, looking for something in particular that he prays didn’t fall out while he was dancing. After a little too long, due to George’s intoxicated state, George finally pulls out a single key on a ring with a small plastic duck charm and pushes it into the keyhole in the door. Dream sends him a questioning look.
“Quackity gave it to me last year, when I used to crash here all the time. I think he forgot I have it, to be honest,” he explains, turning the key and opening the door.
George gets a second to lock the door behind them, to put his key and his phone on a shelf near the door, before Dream is pushing on his chest and shoving him backwards until the backs of his legs hit Quackity’s bed. George looks up into Dream’s eyes and all he sees is hunger and his own reflection. George lets Dream bend him backwards, until his head hits the pillows, just like before.
“I’m desperate, huh?” George teases.
Dream glares down at him, swinging his leg over George’s abdomen and effectively caging him in.
“You’re lucky that I’ve been waiting all night for this, or I’d make you wait until you were begging for me to even touch you,” he says, and watches as George’s pupils widen until practically his entire iris is a dark inky shade. George lets out a breath in expectation.
“Shut the fuck up,” George says, before pulling Dream down by the chain that hangs around his neck and connecting their lips.
They don’t leave space for the kiss to be sweet or lingering, immediately diving in and becoming heated from the moment George lets out a little gasp. George is immediately overwhelmed with the taste of alcohol and spices on Dream’s tongue, as Dream forces his mouth open. George whines into the kiss, moving his hands up to rest on Dream’s back, one reaching up to grip Dream’s perfect blond hair. George feels as Dream’s tongue invades his mouth, feels how Dream’s arms fall on the sides of George’s head, holding himself up.
George tries to fight back, tries to gain some sort of control back and push his own tongue into Dream’s mouth, and to his surprise, Dream opens his mouth up more, lets George in. George licks into his mouth, trying to commit every taste and feeling to his memory, letting out absurd noises from the back of his throat as Dream does the same. Dream kisses him like he’s a man dying of thirst, and George is his only source of water. And George absolutely loves it.
When Dream nips at his bottom lip, and George can taste the lipstick on Dream’s tongue, he can’t help but moan into the kiss, rising his hips to meet Dream’s. Dream smiles, swallowing the moan in another all-encompassing kiss, moving one of his hands to clamp down on George’s hip.
And then Dream does it again, bites George’s lip and then soothes it with the smooth movements of his tongue, and George goes to surge his hips again into Dream’s, but the hand resting on the waistband of his skirt holds him down, and he whines into the kiss.
They eventually break apart to catch their breaths, and George opens his eyes to see Dream staring down at him, just like before. George smiles and pulls on Dream’s hair on the back of his head, causing him to groan deeply, and to George’s surprise, grind his hips into George. George, always wanting more, does it again, and this time Dream fully moans, pressing his half hard dick into George’s skirt.
Dream immediately dives back in, hungrily connecting their lips, occasionally moving his hips lightly to elicit a noise from George, all of which he swallows down happily through their kisses.
George breaks away for a moment, pulling on Dream’s hair to lift his head up from his own. “Dream, ah, take off my-” he pants, and Dream immediately gets the idea, grabbing at the hem of George’s large hoodie and pulling it up. It’s halfway off when Dream pauses, staring down at George’s chest like a hawk. His eyes narrow in on the scalloping lace under the hoodie, slowly putting together what George is wearing.
“Really baby? And you want to say you’re not a slut?” he says, gliding his fingers over the bralette George had put on earlier, under his boxy hoodie. George colors at the words, whining for another kiss.
“C’mon, take the hoodie off, it’s too hot,” he says through labored breath.
Dream hums, lifting the hoodie slightly, so he can get a better look at the black lace adorning George’s chest. “Hm, should I?” he taunts, watching the way George’s chest rises and falls from his heavy breaths. Dream grips George’s waist, sinks his fingertips into George’s supple skip, before moving his head down again to capture George’s lips in another teasing kiss. Dream glides his tongue across George’s lips, licks into the back of his mouth, before he hears another whimper from the boy under him.
“Please Dream, I-” George starts, and Dream rolls his eyes.
“Fine,” he drawls, “so needy.” George wants to whine and complain again, but then Dream’s hands are moving to pull the hoodie over George’s neck, and he hums in approval. As soon as the article of clothing is off, George can feel the cool air hit his skin, and he can breathe much easier.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he says like a mantra, until Dream shuts him up by connecting their lips again. It doesn’t last long, with Dreams hands digging into George’s waist, and George’s hands clutching onto Dream’s wide shoulders, before George complains again, whining against Dream’s lips to get his attention.
“Can I-” George pants, “take off your,” he tugs at Dream’s thin white shirt. Dream smirks.
“I don’t know, can you baby?”
George scoffs, grabbing the belt loops on Dream’s pants, tugging the boy on top of him down as he grinds his hips up, prompting drawn-out moans from both of them. “Come on, you asshole, I, hah, don’t wanna be the only one topless.” he says, tugging at Dream’s shirt.
Dream hums, staring down at George maliciously. Dream reaches up to brush a hand against the lace on covering the top half of George’s torso. He hooks a finger under one of the straps, playing with the black elastic and frilly edges. “I wouldn’t exactly call you topless,” he mutters, earning another glare and a soft hit to the chest, “but yes, you can.”
He says it almost condescendingly, like he knows how George is completely under his control, how he could say the word and George would drop to his knees. But George guesses that he’s always been a bit transparent with what he wants, how he feels, and it’s not like it doesn’t work, the way things are playing out right now. He’s exactly where he wants to be, pinned under the tall blond, even if he acts like he doesn’t want to be.
George quickly tugs the shirt out of Dream’s pants, eyes immediately latching to the way Dream’s stomach contorts when he leans back to pull the shirt off from around his neck, the way his arms flex and his veins show ever so slightly under his tanned skin. Dream sees him staring, and really, his cocky grin should be permanently engraved onto his face, with how much George has seen it tonight.
“See something you like?” he asks.
“Obviously,” George says through rolled eyes, before tugging Dream down again.
Dream’s tongue slides filthily through George’s lips, tastes every single corner of his mouth, occasionally squeezing George’s sides just to elicit a noise from the brunet. Dream snakes his hands up and down George’s body, pinching his side and running his hands over the lace that fans over his milky skin, and grabbing his face, pulling them irrevocably closer.
And as if Dream knows, when George starts to want more, Dream gives it to him, traveling down his neck and chest, leaving small kisses that leave George a lot more breathless than they should. Dream plants kisses under his jaw, and on his jugular, and right where the bralette dips on George’s flat chest. He laughs a bit when he sees that the marks from earlier in the club have already started to bruise, all turning pretty shades of pink and red and purple.
He keeps going south, dropping kisses between his rib cage and down his stomach, making George arch his back in anticipation. He stops at the waistband of George’s pleated skirt, looking up at George through hooded eyes.
“Please, please, please Dream, I want-” he begins, gasping as Dream lets his hand wander to underneath the skirt, pressing into one of the bruises from earlier.
“You like that?” he taunts, pressing harder when George can’t respond, instead taking sharp intake of air. “Answer me whore,” he says, breath ghosting George’s stomach, and George can only arch his back further, letting out of a string of yes, yes, yes, and please.
Dream gets to work again, sucking new marks into untouched skin around his navel, while pressing the pads of his fingers into George’s thighs. George can’t stop himself from crying out when Dream bites his hip, nearly drawing blood. Dream smiles at the noise, blowing on the fresh marks littered on George’s lower half, before rising up.
“Tell me what you want, baby.”
George thirsts for Dream’s touch again, lifting his body from the mattress to try and create some sort of friction. Dream notices this, chiding him for his actions. “Oh, come on baby, I can’t give you what you want if you don’t tell me,” he says in a drawl that makes George’s stomach flutter.
“Anything, anything, God, I just want you,” George pushes out, straining against his mind’s pleas to completely shut down, let Dream do whatever he wants to him.
Dream hums, coming back up to connect their lips for the millionth time. George lets his addled brain go on autopilot for a bit, lets his hips do most of the work, rolling in time with Dreams thrusts down at him, until they’re both out of breath, and George is painfully hard. George knows that Dream is too, can feel it through his pants when their hips meet, when they grind George into the mattress. The room is filled with soft moans and the sound of friction from the fabric they’re still wearing much to their demise, heat emanating from the bed as they descend into absolute madness. George loses track of time, pressed against the pillows, the only measure of time being the constant roll of his body against Dream’s.
But George comes back to reality when his erection becomes painfully noticeable, visible through his skirt. “Please Dream, ah, please touch me,” he says through bated breath.
Dream smiles down at him. “Should’ve asked earlier, he says, diverging his attention to George’s lower half. George parts his legs slightly, giving Dream more access, and Dream shifts back to focus his care to the matter at hand.
In one quick motion, Dream’s hands reach under his skirt, gripping the lace panties that he’s been wearing all night. The ones that Dream had seen earlier today. Dream smiles sadistically as he moves George’s skirt, folding it up onto his stomach so that he has a better view.
“I’ve been waiting all night to see these again,” Dream says through the lust that consumes him, pulling on one side of the thin lace and snapping it against George’s skin. George lets out a long moan, desperate for any type of touch.
“Dream, please, stop fucking teasing,” George whines.
Dream’s grin grows. “Oh, baby, surely you know me better than that by now,” he says, running his hands up George’s hips under the panties, before removing them, hands no longer under his skirt but hooked on the elastic of George’s tights.
“I thought- I thought you said you weren’t, fuck, doing this tonight,” George stutters out as Dream snaps the elastic, hands continuing to explore George’s wide expanse of pallid skin.
“Hmm, I changed my mind,” he says, grazing his fingertips over the black lace of his lingerie, giving George the least amount of stimulation possible. George gives a high-pitched whine, and Dream smiles against the brunet’s skin, licking a hot stripe down George’s already marked and bruised thighs. George’s inhibition lets his legs fall apart even more, opening them as wide as he can, as if inviting Dream in.
George keeps moaning, keeps asking for more, please, but Dream stubbornly keeps his lips attached to George’s skin, never travelling high enough to make George really feel it, and he keeps his hands at an unbearable distance from his dick, sweeping his fingers up and down his legs, up and down the black lace, but never touching where he wants him to. Sometimes, George will feel the ghost of a touch against his hardness, but it’s always fleeting, gone as quickly as it’s there, and it drives George insane. After the millionth time that Dream teases his cock, coming close but not close enough, George moves his hands from where they were previously anchored, clenching sheets to under his skirt, reaching to take off the thin scrap of fabric that separates him from Dream’s infuriating hands.
Dream sees the movement, snapping out of his daze under George’s skirt and shooting out his hands to capture George’s wrists, moving to pin them against the mattress above George’s head and holding himself up over George’s face.
“Did I say you could touch yourself?” Dream asks, leaving little room between their lips as his voice drips magma and molasses. George trembles under Dream’s grip.
“No,” he says meekly.
“Then why-” Dream starts, rolling his hips down to grind into George, and George lets out a strained moan. “-did you do it?”
“I didn’t, I didn’t I promise,” George babbles, raring for the sensation of Dream’s body pressed against his own, “I wasn’t going to, I’m sorry, I promise,” he nearly sobs out, and Dream looks down at him with a glint in his eyes before grinding his hips down again, giving George the reward that he so desperately wants, but doesn’t deserve.
“What was that baby?” Dream says, locking eyes with George as he starts to move his hips back and forth, grating against George’s rumpled skirt and lace panties. George tilts his head back, parting his lips and letting out a series of breathy moans as he feels Dream’s length against his. “Come on, look up at me. What’d you say?” he coos down at George, who’s struggling to keep his eyes open, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.
“I said, ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to.”
Dream seems to hear what he wants to hear, tightening his grip on George’s wrists, and George is sure that tomorrow there’ll be deep purple marks in the shapes of fingerprints littered around his wrists. But to his disappointment, Dream’s hips stop moving. George cries out, rising his hips to try and continue the motions, to get back the friction he so craves, but Dream just smirks down at him, moving so that their only point of contact is the vice grip on George’s wrists.
“You didn’t mean to, huh?” he says, voice cutting through George’s mind dark and deep like the eyeliner cutting across their eyelids.
“No! No, I didn’t, I-” George starts, but is silenced by the devilish look that grows on Dream’s face.
“Liar,” he says, and George can almost feel the fire on his tongue, licking flames into George’s stomach as the words are spit out.
Dream’s eyes trail up and down George’s body, on his red face sheened in sweat, on his rising and falling lithe chest, on his cock straining against the fabric that barely contains it, on his legs spread wide open beneath him. George squirms, waits for something, anything to happen. The hands clamped on his wrists don’t budge, and still Dream doesn’t do anything, doesn’t say anything, just watches as his gaze picks George apart piece by piece.
But George grows antsy under Dream’s staring, can’t contain himself for much longer, with his cock aching and his heart racing. He can’t stop the words from flowing from his mouth, all rushed as though saying them faster will make Dream just fucking touch him sooner.
“Please, Dream, I’ll do anything, just, please,” he cries out, but Dream doesn’t move. “C’mon, please, touch me, you can do whatever you want to me, just touch me,” he pants out, and feels the hands around his wrist tighten. At least he knows that he’s getting somewhere with his words. “You can punish me, just please,” he says as a last resort, and he can feel Dream shift his weight at this, can feel how he almost dips his hips down so that their bodies meet, and George knows that he’s hit the nail on the head.
“Please, punish me, punish me, I know you want to. Treat me like the slut I am, just punish me-”
Dream finally lets the words get to his head, giving George what he wants, rolling his hips down and pressing George’s thin body into the mattress. George lets out a moan that’s almost pornographic, all loud and whiny and desperate, how he knows that Dream likes it.
“Yes, so good, again,” George says after taking a deep breath. Dream does it again, giving into the pleasure, connecting their bodies in the most sinful way possible. And just when George feels completely out of breath, feels like he’ll never come down from this incomparable high, he feels shallow breaths on the shell of his ear.
“Beg for me,” Dream says, “tell me what you want baby.”
George internally jeers, because isn’t that what he’s been doing for the past few minutes? But he wants any sort of stimulation more than he wants to complain (and as a result have to wait for Dream’s touch for the rest of the night), so he lets himself sink into the cloud of desire and warmth that’s veiling his mind, gives up whatever shred of dignity he was trying to hold onto.
“Please Dream, I want you so bad, want to feel you everywhere,” he says, moaning when Dream pushes his hips down into George again. “Fuck, I love your hands on my wrists, hurts so good.” Dream’s grips only tightens.
“I want them in other places too though. Want them on my waist, around my, ah, neck,” George pauses to take a breath. “Inside of me.”
This strikes a chord inside of Dream, and suddenly they’re moving at a much faster pace, George raising his own body in tandem to Dream’s thrusts downward.
“Fuck, bet your fingers would feel so good inside of me, much stronger, and bigger, and, ah, longer than mine, bet you could fuck me so good on just your fingers. Want it so bad,” he continues, letting the words flow out of him.
“Want you to fuck me until I see stars, want it to hurt for days afterwards, because you- ah!” George cries out as he feels the imprint of Dream’s dick press into him through layers of fabric, brushing on his own hard length. “Because you fucked me so good. Can you do that Dream? Fuck me like the slut I am, Dream, Please.”
Dream laughs at George’s words, soaking them all in. “Alright that’s enough,” he says with no real malice, before removing one of his hands from George’s wrist, and they can both already see the red mark that his large hand has left behind. George starts to complain, immediately missing the feeling of Dream’s strong fingers pressed into his thin wrists, of being pressed immobile into the mattress, but his mind blanks when he feels Dream’s thumb press down on his bottom lip, parting his lips ever so slightly, and Dream is absolutely entranced in the way that George’s lips still look so pink and glossy.
George automatically opens his mouth more, waiting with a silent plea and doe eyes for Dream to do something about it. George lets his eyes shutter closed as Dream pushes his thumb into his mouth, the rough pad of his finger immediately being lapped by George’s eager tongue. George can feel Dream growing on top of him, can feel how he suddenly presses harder into George’s wet mouth, before pulling out his thumb entirely.
George lets out a long moan, pouting as Dream wipes his thumb against George’s cheek, and George opens his mouth even wider, hoping, praying, that Dream will catch his drift.
“You like my hands baby?” Dream asks, and George lewdly cries back, mouth still wide open. After a long hard exhale, Dream gives in, shoving his hand back into George’s face and sticking two long digits into George’s mouth. George almost moans at the way they brush the back of his throat, reaching in a way that his own can’t. George diligently gets to work, sucking on his fingertips and swirling his tongue around Dream’s knuckles, until Dream lets out a moan at the sight of George’s precious pink lips wrapped around his fingers.
“God, George, I loved your lips from the moment I set my eyes on them,” he groans, grinding his hips down as George sucks on the digits.
George gives one final swirl, before letting the fingers out of his mouth, pulling off with a pop. “Oh yeah?” he asks, grinning up at Dream.
“Fuck baby, who wouldn’t? Love the way they wrap around my fingers, sucking on them like they were meant for it,” he counters, and George’s grin grows.
“I can suck on something else,” George says suggestively through batted eyelashes, and Dream laughs, pretends his dick doesn’t twitch at the thought.
“Another time baby,” he says, and George almost lets out a moan at the thought of doing this again. He’d never cross the line of multiple hookups with the same person, but maybe for Dream, with his long limbs and tantalizing voice, he can make an exception.
Dream stares at George’s pink lips glistening with spit for a moment, before cupping George’s face with one hand and plunging down once more and all but devouring George’s lips. George immediately reciprocates, moving his mouth in sync with Dream’s.
George makes a surprised noise when he feels the hand that’s been pinning his wrist down for quite some time move, unclamping and reaching down under George’s crumpled skirt, pulling the lace panties down George’s legs. George can feel his heart rate pick up in exhilaration, as Dream pulls the black lace down his thighs, and dream watches hungrily as George’s cock springs up, hitting his stomach in eagerness. Dream pauses, takes a moment to ogle the boy beneath him, all hot and bothered in nothing but a short black skirt and thigh highs.
George can feel his grip on his own sanity slip as Dream grazes his still spit slick fingers over his hole, letting out a moan louder than any noise he’s made all night as Dream pushes his fingers onto the rip.
“What’d you say earlier about my fingers?” Dream teases, watching how George absolutely falls apart when he slips one finger halfway into the tight ring of muscle.
“Dream, Dream please, ah, please,” George babbles as Dream’s finger pushes all the way into his ass, barely lubricated from George’s spit from earlier. But it’s only one finger, and there’s not a lot of resistance on George’s end. George barely flinches as the rough finger pushes further into his heat, and Dream notices.
“Not so tight, huh?” Dream taunts, then quickly pulls out his finger just to insert another, making George let out a high moan as two of Dream’s thick fingers stretch his hole. “Slut,” Dream spits out, sinking his fingers into George until his knuckles are swallowed and all he can hear are George’s pants and pleas.
George clenches around the two fingers, letting the faint burn consume him as the flames lick up his body and Dream pushes into him.
“Bet you’d like it if I fucked you right now, no prep, fucking dry.” He looks down at George, who’s closing his eyes in pleasure as Dream’s two fingers move in and out of him shallowly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, whore.”
George flutters his eyes open and nods fervently up at Dream, desperate for anything after what felt like a lifetime of waiting. But Dream keeps moving his fingers, scissoring George open over wanton moans and muffled squeaks, until George is completely used to the two fingers inside of him, no longer feeling the burn.
As soon as Dream realizes that George can no longer feel the pain, he curls his fingers up, searching for the bundle of nerves that will drive George to the brink of madness. He knows that he’s found it when George lets out a loud cry, cursing up and down as Dream rubs against his walls. Dream circles back to his prostate, curling his fingers into it ruthlessly as George lets out a long sob, tears starting to form at the corners of his pretty eyes. And Dream loves seeing him like this, loves the way George’s mouth parts in pleasure, letting obscene sounds escape from the back of his throat, arching his back off of the bed and spreading his legs as wide as he can, all because of him.
But there’s nothing that Dream loves more than watching George fall apart, so he gives George’s prostate one last graze, before completely pulling out his two long fingers. He watches in hunger as George’s hole flutters on nothing, clenching down on air, already missing the obtrusion. George cries out again, wordlessly begging for more.
Dream watches him a little longer, watches his chest rise and fall as George takes ragged breaths, heart trapped in his chest under wraps of lace and silk, watches a single tear roll down his cheek, until George starts crying please, please, please, more Dream, I can take it, please, more, please, and even Dream feels a little bad.
Dream raises his hand from George’s ass and spits into his palm, rubbing his saliva over three of his fingers. When Dream looks up from his hand, he sees that George is staring right through him, mouth wide open expectantly, pathetically. Dream chuckles at the sight, moving his hand back down to rub on George’s rim. He looks into George’s eyes in conformation, and George nods back fervently, moaning a little bit to hurry him up. Dream just smirks, gives him a second before forcing all three fingers inside of George.
The reaction is immediate. George lets out a loud cry, pushing against the fingers to try and make them go deeper, arching his back off of the bed and nearly reaching Dream’s chest. The burn of the stretch of Dream’s fingers nearly takes him out, but he loves the feeling of the pain, crying out in pleasure even as he burns from the inside.
“Hurts so good Dreamie, please, more, love it so much,” he slurs his words out through the overload of pleasure and pain, and Dream laughs. Dream doesn’t listen to George, being more careful than he said he was going to be, letting George get used to the stretch of his three fingers. He watches George lay there, taking in his fingers, letting himself get used to the sensation. George was right; his own fingers never reached nearly this deep, never stretched him this far.
When George thinks that the pain is mostly gone, only slightly lining his mind, he pushes his hips so that the fingers go deeper, letting out a lewd moan as Dream’s fingers jostle inside of him. Dream watches it all with predatory eyes, letting George move himself once to test the waters before taking his other hand and once again clamping it down onto George’s hip.
“Come on baby, you know better than that. You just sit here and look pretty, let me do all the work,” he says almost sweetly, staring into George’s eyes. George can’t even complain, try to fight Dream, his body acting on its own and stopping his movement with Dream’s words. When Dream sees that George has gone completely still except for his loud pants and falling chest, Dream gives him a little smile. “Good boy.” George lets out a whine at the name.
And then Dream is pistoning his fingers in and out of George, setting a brutal pace opposed to the lack of movement from only seconds ago. George immediately cries out as the pleasure invades his brain, legs shaking as Dream shoves his fingers into his ass demandingly.
“Ah, so good, please, ah, Dream please,” George cries as the fingers hit deeper and deeper inside of him.
George nearly screams when Dream hits directly onto his prostate, sobbing as Dream rams against it with his rough fingers, white knuckling the sheets below him and letting his mouth drop open. George can feel his cock fucking ache as Dream keeps pushing his fingers in and out of him, and begs for Dream to touch him, but Dream just keeps pressing into George relentlessly. And even though George hasn’t been touched since when Dream took off his lingerie, he can feel himself getting closer. Dream can tell too, George’s moans getting higher and higher, louder and louder until they ricochet throughout the room and become a constant flow of noise out of George’s mouth.
George feels like his stomach is on fire, tingling his senses as Dream presses his fingers into his prostate, and it’s no longer the alcohol in his blood that’s making his limbs go loose and his mind fuzzy. George is completely overwhelmed in pleasure as Dream’s fingers slam into him, as his other hands grips on his thigh and squeezes it until it bruises. George can feel something inside of him start to coil, feels as tears run down his cheeks, tinted black by the eyeliner intentionally placed under his eyes.
“Ah, Dream, I’m close,” he manages to get out over the onslaught of moans, and Dream just presses harder, groaning with George as he sees George’s face contort, sees the tears leak out of his eyes.
And right as George feels his stomach on the brink of uncoiling, as he reaches his peak, Dream removes his fingers, and George yells at the lack of stimulation. Dream watches as George clenches down on nothing, watches as his face absolutely crumbles, and he loves it.
“No, you asshole!” George cries out, already feeling the arousal in his stomach settle from the loss of Dream’s fingers. George glares up at Dream through wet eyelashes but Dream just laughs as George squirms under him.
“Sorry baby, couldn’t resist.”
“Fuck, I hate you. You’re actually the fucking worst,” George says through tears, reaching up to wipe them away, but he’s stopped as Dream presses his wrist to the mattress yet again.
“What, so you don’t want me to fuck you?” Dream asks maliciously, as though he doesn't know the answer.
“Who said that, what the fuck,” George glowers up at him.
“Well, I don’t know baby, this attitude is telling me otherwise,” he says, grinning down at George while tightening his grip on George’s wrist, the other hand going up to brush George’s tear-stricken face.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, just-” George sobs out, “please. Fuck me Dream. Fuck me.”
Dream smirks down at him, seemingly satisfied, before leaning upwards and removing his hands from George’s body, going to finally unbutton his pants and let his strained cock free. George watches salaciously as Dream pulls his pants down, throwing them across the room with the rest of their clothes when they’re all the way off.
George’s eyes immediately train to Dream’s dick, pressed against his boxers, and Jesus Christ, he can’t even see it yet and he already knows that it’s huge. Because he knew that Dream was tall, knew he towered over him easily, but he still wasn’t expecting this.
George eagerly reaches out to palm his cock through his boxers, smiling when Dream groans a little bit, pushing into George’s hand. Dream drops down, lustily connecting their lips for the thousandth time tonight, moaning into the kiss as George lets his fingers graze up and down Dream’s cock, occasionally tugging and squeezing through the fabric.
It isn’t long before George is reaching up, pulling his hands up to Dream’s waistband and hooking his fingers under the elastic band. He breaks their heated kiss, looking into Dream’s eyes in conformation.
“Can I?” George asks, not wanting to make a wrong move and be reprimanded for the next hour. To his surprise, Dream lets out a quick nod, moaning lowly as George pulls down the boxers and lets the cool air of the AC hit his cock. And George can’t help his mouth from watering a bit when he sees Dream’s length out in the open, curling his hand around the thick base and letting his fingers run up and down a prominent vein. Dream moans as George pumps his cock, smashing their lips together and rutting his hips into George’s fist. George lets his hand move up and down his cock, catching precum beaded on the tip and rubbing it all over his length to use as lube for his already soft hand.
“Ah, Dream, lube,” George says in between kisses, impatient for Dream’s cock.
“Do you know where it is?” Dream asks, severing the connection between their lips to look George in the eyes.
George stops pumping Dream’s cock to point at the corner of the room “In my bag.”
Dream looks at him confusedly before letting a light chuckle out, exhaling sharply through his nose. “You brought that?”
George feels his cheeks color even more than it already is. “Always prepared,” George reasons shamefacedly.
Dream laughs but gets up off of George and walks towards the bag. He fishes around for a bit, looking for a certain tube, before walking back and straddling George again.
“Couldn’t find a condom. Do you have one?” he asks, massaging George’s spent thighs, letting his fingers poke under the latticing of the tights. George averts his eyes, feels his face heat up like an oven. “What?” Dream asks.
“I mean…” George thinks, “we don’t really need one. I’m clean, and I’m guessing you are too?” he says almost hopefully. Dream doesn’t respond, seemingly stunned by his words. “But, uh, no. I don’t have one,” George tacks on. He guesses they could search Quackity’s room to see if he has any lying around, but George would really rather not.
Dream doesn’t say anything, frozen in thought, before he suddenly swoops down and captures George’s lips in a desperate kiss.
“Fuck baby, you drive me crazy, you know that?” he says between the slide of their lips. “Want me to fuck you raw? Want my cum inside you? You fucking slut,” he says, slipping his tongue into George’s mouth, making him moan, and Dream happily swallows the noise.
Dream pauses, lets his tongue lap over George’s, before speaking again. “How could I say no to that,” he says between breaths, before latching his mouth to George’s, who makes a sound of glee.
George lets him stick his tongue down his throat, lets Dream absolutely devour him. But George quickly draws impatient, picking up the lube from where Dream discarded it on the bedspread, uncapping it and quickly squeezing it onto his fingers. It’s cold, but he doesn’t think Dream will mind.
George whines into the kiss before taking his hand down south and curling it around Dream’s shaft, slicking up his cock as their tongues slide together sloppily.
“Ah, C’mon Dream, fuck me, please Dream,” George amorously pleas, running his fingers along a protruding vein, and Dream moans into George’s ear. And then Dream snaps, grabs George’s hand wrapped around his cock and pushes it up until it’s lying flat on the bed, pinned by Dream. Dream takes one of George’s thighs, the one that used to have the smear of lipstick, and presses it to George’s chest, bending him in half and putting him on display. In one hand, Dream holds George’s bruised thigh, and in the other he holds down George’s wrist. Dream presses another kiss on his sternum, directly above the small silk bow on George’s bralette.
George almost cries when he feels the head of Dream’s cock against his ass, as Dream starts to line himself up. But again, Dream stills, looks down at the boy with his legs wide open, skirt folded up to expose everything, hickeys and bite marks littered across his skin, and in this moment, he feels infinite.
George, apparently, does not have that same feeling. “Dream, please, ah, just fuck me already,” he cries, and Dream does just that.
Dream watches in rapture as he slowly pushes the head of his cock into the ring of muscle, watches as his length is slowly swallowed by George’s tight hole. Dream has to bite back a moan when George instinctively clenches down on him, and he can feel George’s walls close in around him.
George instantly closes his eyes, lets his mouth fall open as Dream stretches him open. He’d thought that three fingers would definitely be enough, but Dream is always finding new ways to surprise him. He sucks in breath after breath as Dream slowly enters him, and George eagerly swallows inch by inch, until Dream is nearly all the way in. George’s thighs tremble under Dream’s weight, and he slowly moves the thigh that’s not hooked on Dream’s shoulder until it’s latched on Dream’s back, giving Dream better entry.
“Fuck, how big are you?” George asks incredulously, not used to someone going so deep inside of him.
Dream just chuckles, not answering the question. George guesses that he doesn’t really care about the specifics when he’s got it inside him, pressing into him so good.
“I’m gonna keep going baby, you good?” Dream asks, and George’s eyes shoot open, latching on the obscene sight of Dream being swallowed by him. What he didn’t realize, as Dream slowly pushed into him, was how much more there was.
“You’re not fucking done?” George asks, and Dream laughs again, but continues pushing forward. George grips the sheets as the burn spreads throughout his body, sweet smelling flames of burning sugar and cinnamon consuming him.
Finally, Dream bottoms out with a long sigh. He doesn’t move, just lets George get used to the stretch, marinating in the feeling of George wrapped so tightly around his cock.
After a couple of minutes of nothing but heavy breaths and shaking thighs, George gives him the go ahead to start moving. Dream starts slowly, shallowly thrusting into George, and even with the minimal motion, George can feel absolutely everything, can feel the way Dream’s head drags across his walls, and his veins press into his sides. George wantonly moans as Dream’s cock bobs in him, stretching him in all of the right places. And when the burn subsides and the pleasure wins out, George can feel something inside of him click.
“Harder, please,” George begs, and Dream obliges.
As if a flip is switched, Dream moves his hands to George’s waist. He pulls all the way out, watches as the head of his cock catches on George’s rim, waits for George to become desperate for him to fill him up again, and then slams his cock into George.
“Ah! Yes, just like that,” George almost screams, as Dream pistons in and out of him, slapping his hips against George’s ass as he goes in and out for a second time. George feels like he’s being impaled, as Dream’s cock reaches deeply over and over again.
George scrambles to move his hands onto Dream’s back, digs his fingernails into Dream’s shoulder blades as Dream slams into him. He feels Dream’s muscles contort as Dream moves back and forth, all while gripping onto George’s waist with that same iron force. George lets his head tip back in pure bliss as Dream rocks into him, sending waves of pleasure down George’s spine at every thrust that make George sob at the top of his lungs, make George feel like liquid under Dream’s motion. George is drowning in Dream, Dream, Dream, and he fucking loves it.
Dream stills for a moment to catch his breath, snaking his hands along the sides of George’s abdomen, pausing at the scalloping lace that lies against George’s upper half and pulling the bralette down to expose even more of George’s fair skin, tinted pink by the blush that covers George’s cheeks and nose and collar bones. He takes another second, before readjusting, taking the leg that’s wrapped around his waist and pulling it in front of him, so that George is completely folded in half. George whines as he’s manhandled into the new position, cock still buried inside of him, jostling inside of him as Dream maneuvers his malleable limbs.
George can feel his thighs ache from what seems like hours of torture, first in the club then here as Dream sucked hickeys into his flesh and then pressed down onto the bruises, when Dream spread his legs to finger him, and now, with his knees locked on top of Dream’s broad shoulders. But George loves the pain, craves the burn, and urges Dream to keep going with a string of yes’s and pleases and high whines. And after hearing George plead for a while, letting the words of praise and need go straight to his ego, and perhaps somewhere else, he gives in, thrusting into George with all of his force.
And fuck, the new angle does wonders, and George nearly keels over when Dream hits his prostate dead on, making him nearly lose feeling in his thighs as they shake to hold in the waves of pleasure. By now, there’s a steady flow of tears running down George’s face, falling into his open mouth, and he can taste the salt on his tongue.
And Dream is relentless, fucking into George with no end, hitting his prostate again and again, and George can feel his neglected cock cry for attention as he gets closer to his finish. George can almost taste the sweat and sugar hanging in the room, as he draws closer to his peak.
“Ah, Dream, please-” he interrupts himself with a loud moan as Dream reads his mind, reaching one of his hands down to pump George’s cock that’s about to burst at the seams from neglect. Dream starts sloppily dragging his hands up his length, but quickly finds a rhythm, pumping his cock and thrusting into George in tandem, and it’s all entirely too much for George. George’s throat is sore from all of the obscenities he’s let out, but he can’t stop himself from crying out as Dream hits deeper than he ever has, and Dream’s large hand wraps all the way around his cock, squeezing. With every motion, George’s fingernails dig deeper into Dream’s back, drawing blood in the shape of crescent moons as Dream destroys him.
“I’m close,” he chokes out as Dream keeps pushing into him, banging the headboard of the bed into the wall with the force of his thrusts.
“Me too baby,” Dream says low and husky, and it only takes a few more thrusts before George is spilling all over Dream’s hand and their stomachs. George comes with Dream’s name on his tongue, crying out thank yous like a prayer. But Dream doesn’t pause, keeps pounding into George as he falls apart beneath him, face permanently contorted in ecstasy.
Dream keeps going, pushing himself deeper and deeper into George, still rubbing against his prostate, and George cries out as Dream fucks into his sensitive muscle.
And right as they border on overstimulation, Dream’s thrusts become erratic, no longer hitting George dead on, instead chasing his own orgasm. Dream lets out one final groan as he pushes into George, letting himself lose control deep inside of George. George can feel as Dream’s cum shoots inside of him, filling him up even more than before. They both moan as Dream stills, finally finished.
Dream subdues himself for a minute, lets George’s legs fall from his shoulders and heavily hit the bed. He nearly collapses on top of George, but holds himself up, staring at George as though he’s just seen God. He may as well have, the way George looked so perfect and his beneath him.
But eventually, Dream pulls out of George, eliciting a final moan as he brushes against George’s sensitive walls, and watching with intensity as cum drips out of George’s hole. George tries to clamp his legs shut, but Dream gets in the way, obsessing over the way that the liquid drips out of George, staking a claim over George’s spent body.
“Come on baby, you’re embarrassed now?”
George whines back, and Dream finally gets up off of George, letting George completely lose all conscious control of his limbs and sink into the comforter, entirely exhausted.
When Dream returns with a wet towel, he lets Dream wipe him up and down, clean up the cum splattered on his stomach, wipe the excess cum that leaks out of inside of him. George can barely move, can barely say anything except for yes and no and thank you, but Dream doesn’t mind, cleaning them up and falling into the twin bed next to him.
George doesn’t know what to do here, he usually leaves after all of his one night stands. He's not used to falling asleep together, or really staying for more than ten minutes after he’s came. But when the mattress dips as Dream lays next to him, he can’t for the life of him find it in himself to get up. Maybe the next day he’ll blame it on his high, or the alcohol, or anything, so that he doesn’t have to think about what he’s done. But that’s tomorrow. Right now, he’s fucking sore and tired and gross, and he doesn’t really have the capacity to think about much more than the feeling of Dream’s strong arms wrapped around him.
“Sleep, baby,” Dream says.
George succumbs to the darkness, lets the world fade away until it’s just him and the boy wrapped around him. He sleeps.
(And in the morning, even when George wakes up alone in a bed that isn’t his to the sound of Quackity yelling, he doesn’t feel regret. He does feel a little embarrassed though, that Quackity found him lying in his bed in nothing but a crumpled skirt, ripped tights, and a bra (and a string of numbers scrawled on his thigh in lipstick that somehow stayed even in George’s deep slumber), especially when Quackity yells at him to get up and George quickly realizes that he can’t, can barely move from last night. He takes a later bus home, limping the entire way home. It’s safe to say isn't riding his bike for a while.)