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George knows the feeling of being desired, has bathed in that smoldering heat for what seems like all time. Eyes, hellion gold, caspian blue, tracing him over and over until his soul’s kept in the white foam outline of their gazes, his hips imprinting scarlet and velvet in their center-vision. 


And George is well aware that he’s beautiful. He knows his skin gleams untouched and pristine, full lips that beckon plush embraces and dewdrop kisses, pretty daydream with dark curls. 


He looks halfway innocent, lily of the valley, and despite the immodest curve of his ass, he knows the coy smiles and his soft melodious accent only help him seem even more so. 


He knows men like him like that, all soft and giggly and easy


Working where he does, looking how he does, it’s probably inevitable he’d run with their crowd. High risers and trust fund royalty, debutantes with skinny legs and tiny dresses, riotous accounts of artifice and insecurity. 


Something about him attracts that kind of obsession.


Something in the air that breathes him out, untempered delusion, pulls in men with fast cars and money, with addictive personalities and hands too quick to their defense, who own penthouses with glass ceilings to high heaven. 


He languishes in the beds of disloyal men, with wives up in Carnegie Hill, beautiful fools without a notion of what their husbands do late there at night.  He wraps curaçao stained hands around the biceps of the cavaliers of high society and kisses their roman noses, dusted in fine white powder. 


He has the eyes for it, he supposed. The kind that men like, the vulnerability they seek to exploit. All big and dark, framed with innocence and long lashes, with something breakable in them that screams ‘ come fuck me up’. 


George serves them all nightly, hands around glass bottles and wrapped up in dirty towels, knuckles blushed on skin of cream and bruised desire. Fingers count tips and freckles, dance across pelvises, and rubbed across weeping heads. 


In a separate life, maybe he’d be one of them. Maybe he’d be Harvard educated, maybe he’d wear nice watches and tailored shirts, flash cocky smiles to pretty bartenders. 


He’s smart enough to fit in, close enough to their breed of success that they want between his legs, talks in dedicated ways, and pointed conversions that paint him as a madonna and them as God himself. George says nothing but ‘I understand you, handsome’, and watches distantly as they melt under his vibrato and come under his tongue


Because that’s all they really want, isn’t it?


A warm body to fuck and a mouth that won’t spill their secrets, and won’t ask them about anything but the things they want to share. He’s an ego-stroker, a hot bath after a binge--the binge itself, a bender of indulgence and fucking and bourbon. 


So many nights he’s spent cleaning up their mess, wiping down sticky counters, and washing out sugar-spun glasses, head thick with smoke and molasses in the way only a 12-hour shift makes him. 


Used to be that whoever stuck around for the last call could have him, if George liked them enough. He’d smile and play with their fingers, ignoring the tan line that gleamed around the absence of a wedding band. He’d get in their cars, sloppily panting down the sides of their throats, palming at them until they fucked him in the backseats of their sensible Porsches and pressed him against sky-high windows at the top of the city, looking down on people like ants while he impaled himself on their cocks. 


Used to be that George could spend nights in hotel rooms and grind against anyone he wanted, could stuff his throat with gold and fill his nose with coke and no one was there to watch it happen but him. It’s not like the men really noticed him anyway, too busy with the curve of his ass to think about the fact that there was another soul in the body they carved their names into. 


So he took his own pleasure, took his ounce of flesh and the money they slipped into the pockets of his jackets, and made himself a porcelain doll. He forgot about love, forgot about physical affection that didn’t prelude his ass in the air, forgot about desire that burned deeper than surface-level attraction.


He became the perfect whore, pretty mouth and a tiny waist, who never wanted for more than what they were willing to give. 


Come in a man, shining dress shoes and a loose tie, messy hair with eyes of privilege. Smile at him with shining teeth and a promise of money money money.  Come tech giants who miss the mark of morality, sideways lawyers, and fox-faced businessmen deep enough pockets that everyone will ignore it. 


Ply him with compliments and free shots and he just might go home with you. Fuck well enough and you’ll forget about your wife, who you never see. Forget about your son’s recital, about his little league games you always miss, black out your daughter who doesn’t even recognize your face. 


Leave him alone when you’re done. Don’t kiss, don’t hold, just press the contents of your Cartier wallet into the palm of his little hand and be grateful that’s all he’s asking for. 


George got by like that. It worked well enough, satisfied him well enough. 


Well enough, until he met Dream.




He’d never intended to fall in love. Especially not with the CFO of some goddamn tech company so far out of his stratosphere, he can't begin to comprehend the things that slip out of his soft lips. 


Because Dream has soft lips. And he knows how to use them. 


They met the same way he met every other man, with Dream looking at him with hungry eyes and George pouring him shots of Patrón. Hungry man, rich man, dark green eyes and silver watch around his admittedly strong wrist. 


They fucked, obviously, Dream taking him back to his top-floor hotel room and making George come around him until he could barely move. Starshine burst behind his eyelids, gold chains around his hips, shaking him unsteady and pandemonium until Dream ripped scream after scream from his sparrow’s throat. 


That had been different then, but it was familiar now. 


Dream was insistent in all things. He lingered, unlike the other men, sliding his hands up and down the silver archway of his spine, rubbing soft and devotional into his most delicate muscles. He’d spoken to George in a soft voice, one he used for sweet and pretty things, things that bruised like Georgia peaches and gleamed argent in brackish moonlight.


Dream had held him after they were done, that night they met, so caring and so terribly human. And George had let him. He let soft kisses be pressed to the back of his neck until he fell asleep, wrapped up in golden arms, and strapped down to a silk bed. 


He dreamt of nothing, and it was good. 


He woke there, something he’d not done in years, usually far and away by the time the sun ripped into the blackwing sky. Dream, in his innocent humility, had kissed him awake.


Kissed him awake, like they were old sweethearts, with decades between them and moonlit iron around them.


Made him a hardly edible breakfast that pushed a smile onto George’s lips, and helped his sore body up from the bed with strong arms and gentle hands. 


Something broke in George’s chest that morning, broke with the soft dawnlight smile on a strong jaw, with duckling-down soft hair under his fingertips and it turned to dust when Dream asked him if he wanted to stay the night again with twilight teeth and new-moon eyes. 


So he stayed, again. And again, and again and again and again. 


George felt wanted for once, for more than a distraction and sick pleasure, wanted in the way that Dream asked him on dates and took him to nice places that George and his wallet shied away from before. 


Wanted in the way sweethearts do, in the way Dream curled into his chest at night when the crisis of work grew too much and he wanted to be warm and held in the arms of something much smaller than he. 


So, inevitably, George fell. Hard. And so did Dream. 


Dream, with his constant smile, with his broad shoulders and deep eyes, with the muscles that George loved to tap over, the veins he liked to taste under his tongue, all perfect man and good breeding. 


And now that they’re together, one household, one bed, life changes easily . 


George likes that, certainly, he likes reliability, he likes sleeping in one bed with one man, with one cock to worship, to know the taste of the inside of Dream’s cheek until he could do nothing but salivate over him. It’s something new and old all the same, something he’d forgotten he wanted. 


Dream is a good man. He loves George, loves him enough to put up with his terrible habits and his bitchiness, enough to wrap him in money and clothes and pretty things. Loves him enough to ask George to move in after only a few months of dating, to press kisses to his forehead before work, to drive him home every night when he comes to pick him up. 


George loves him right back, with all the intensity of a first, with supernova passion and stolen heart tenderness. 


And Dream was a good man, a sweet man.


But damn , if he isn’t possessive.


It manifests itself in different ways, and the progression of his desire to claim George has flickered into an inferno over the course of their relationship. Starting in all the mildest romantic ways, in how his livewire eyes gleam as George speaks to his friends, dragon fire with missed calls. 


George wears a necklace with Dream’s first initial on it. A golden D on a thin chain, right around his throat, resting just above his collarbone. It was slipped over his head, always on him because Dream asks, because he gave it to him for their 1-month anniversary, because Dream can afford it and he’s possessive and so fucking fixated on the way the 24k gold gleams against delicate skin. 


It was heavy, but not in the way shame is, not in the way grief weighs on the soul. It was a message, a swinging claim, a promise of stability and protection. Heavy as Dream is, his body on George’s, lying on top of him on sleepy mornings while George traces dragonflies and gardenias onto the bare skin of his back. 


George likes the necklace, the way it presses into the gleaming skin of his clavicle, likes the way luxury looks on his skin in forms other than pearl spend. He likes how Dream plays with it, holds him close, and fidgets around with the little charm, running it up and down the chain until George pushes his fingers away and kisses him. 


So he wears it, second skin, pretty boy with pretty things and soft hair. Pretty boy with wealth around his neck and buried deep inside of him, thrusting wildly for mutual pleasure. 


The charm bounces with George, stuffed full of Dream’s cock, moaning loudly as he rides at 2 in the morning. Dream grips hard at his hips, grinding back up until George comes alone, thighs shaking and spilling weak and tired onto a tanned chest. 


It trickles with gilded rainfall in the shower, submerged in deep waters , where Dream watches him with poignant admiration. 


It goes with him everywhere, goes where Dream can’t, holds him soft when he’s away on business trips when gold and phone calls are the only things to soothe him to sleep. 


It goes everywhere except the one place where Dream would want it most. 


To put it frankly, George knows how to get money. He knows men like it when pretty faces smile and flirt with them, knows compliments loosen lips and in turn open bleeding hearts. Their credit cards fall on the sticky wood and George takes their scarlet money without remorse. 


He knows those very same men don’t appreciate when dangly gold chains hang in their faces and when a shining charm dips into their field of vision, a pretty little “ D” that tells them that the pretty boy they’re flirting with has someone to go home to.  Men want to own him, even for a few hours, and they don’t want to think about him lying underneath someone else. 


Obviously, George doesn’t have sex with them. Not anymore, at least.


 Dream’s got enough money for George to spend without him slipping his sly little hands into nicotine-stained pockets for extra cash, enough stamina to keep him happy in bed and enough love in his heart to make George want to stay forever.  However, he will play into their fantasies. Because it’s fun and because he can


And also because he feels a little bad for using Dream’s credit card everywhere he goes, no matter how many times he’s told “‘it’s okay, baby.”


Still, he still flaunts that very card everywhere he goes, platinum sliding between magnolia-flushed fingertips slamming down on driftwood boutique counters and into the hungry hands of jewelry store clerks. Just about everything on his pretty body is bought with Dream’s sky-high salary. 


George, with his independent streak, denies himself the luxury of being blazé about it, because he likes pretty things, and he likes the attention of a new man every night who so clearly wants to take him home and fuck the hollow of his throat. 


But that gold chain, the one that hardly leaves that very same fuckable throat, just doesn’t cut it at work. 


He tried wearing it for about a week, but when the tips began to flow like magma and customers spoke to him in only the most platonic ways, he’d known something was wrong. 


Pretty gold lettering makes men stumble and avert their eyes because George can’t belong to them, not even for a night, and they don’t like it when things aren’t theirs. 


Sure, there are the cuckolders out there, the men who ask him about the chain, that tell him he’ll be better pleased with them, he’ll be better fucked and taken care of, but they’re far and few between. 


Their consensus seems to be this-- if it’s not yours, don’t touch.


If they can’t keep the pretty bartender for themselves, if they can’t cloister the treasure away and tuck him underground where only they can look at him, they don’t even try. 


It’s not yours , their heads murmur, eyes blackened with coke and desire. You can’t have it--someone else got it first 


But George doesn’t want them to touch anyway, their hands are far too dirty for that.


He wants them to look.


He wants them to see how fucking pretty he is. He wants them to pour their gossamer souls into his lap and watch as their eyes glaze over with lust, just to be rejected. He wants to see the raw want in a man’s eye before it’s melted away by cold words and flippant rose petals. 


But they don’t.  And they won’t look him in the fucking eyes when he wears it because all they can think about is a mystery man, hands around George’s waist and lips pressed together, and that means no fucking tips and no stupid love confessions. 


And George hates that more than anything else. 


He wants men to look in his eyes and think about how tight he’d be around them. He wants them to look at the tiny curve of his waist and imagine how he’d feel in their hands, bird-like and delicate under their fingertips, crushed skin, and torn lilies.


George wants to see the lust in the dark, blown-out pupils of their eyes, but have it tainted with the bitter knowledge that he’ll never want them back as much as they want him. 


He needs them to know he’s more than Dream’s, more than a boyfriend , more than the fucking men who want to own him. 


He’s fleeting, a daydream, a nightmare to remember and suckle on the imprint he’s left. George wants that back. He wants the anonymity, the lust, the teasing once again. 


So he doesn’t wear the necklace.  He slips it off his neck and puts it in his pocket when Dream drops him off at the bar because if Dream ever caught him with it off, George is afraid his golden heart might break. 


And he knows it’s wrong to take it off and he’s probably breaking some unwritten relationship rule. He knows he verges on crossing some invisible line. 


In all honesty, George has never exactly been the best at following the rules.


And still, he can’t give up the stares, not for all his vain glory. 


Poor George, who loves his boy so much, enough to come home to him every night and pass on every swipe at him from the hands of a handsome foreigner. 


Pretty George, who loves his baby enough to sleep in his arms and curl his hands through his soft hair.


Loyal George, who stays by the phone when his sweetheart is away and waits for his 2 AM calls. 


Terrible George, who loves Dream enough to commit to monogamy, loves him enough to stand beside him, to hold his hand and dry his tears, to kiss the nape of his neck, church steeple, but in his vanity, he isn’t selfless enough to scream his devotion from the rooftops. 


But Dream was bound to find out eventually. He had to. It's only right that he does.




Dream insists on picking George up from work when he picks up a shift. George has, in the past, told him not to worry about it, but Dream always tells him it’s no bother, and usually, he’s just getting done with work at the time George gets off anyway. Something about not wanting him to get on the subway late at night. 


So, every Tuesday through Friday night, when he’s done wiping off a sticky bar and restocking the mini-fridge at his feet, Dream sends him a text. Dutifully, at 1 AM sharp, Dream swoops him up the red Aston Martin that he’s so proud of and greets him with a warm smile and a soft kiss. 


George makes sure he puts the necklace back on before he slips into the passenger seat lest Dream sees its hollow absence and blow a gasket. 


Their arrangement works without a snag for a good while, and every night after riling up some random lawyer or drunken businessman (once, even a competitor of Dream’s) he’d go home to his nice loft with his nice boyfriend and get into their warm bed, curl up close to the human embodiment of the sun, loved. 


It works. 


George gets to fuel his vanity, and Dream, in his possessive glory, gets to see George sleep in his arms, in his bed, and wear his claim around his pretty neck. Win-win. 


He’s probably been playing with fire at this point. Of all men to date, of all rules to skirt, Dream was probably the worst possible choice. Not because he was a bad boyfriend or anything like that, but Dream’s love is like burning alive in the best way possible. 


George lies in bed with Helios, with hands tight around his wrists in a blistering grip and mouths pressed together while blood lingers on Dream’s tongue. 


Dream loves him like death loves life. Like God loves his angels. Like the sun loves the moon. 


Like he’d be nothing without him, and there’s nothing that could keep them apart. 


George knows Dream would kill for him, and though he knows he should find that a little intense, especially for the newborn covenant of their relationship, it does nothing to ward him away. Dream looks at him with lust in his eyes, but even then—George can see the way he still hungers for more, more, more.


So yes, maybe a little fucked up. And definitely, the wrong man to fuck around with. 


It’s a lot, and George thinks he might be too young to have loved this much, and all the wrong kind of it, thistle and blood pacts they make in the dead of night. 


Dream holds him tight, blackened fingers and raw heart and makes love to him in the most beautiful and devoted ways. 


He doesn’t even wanna think about what it means for him to love it so much, to love how it feels to be so fatally desired. It appeals to that same, vain, hungry part of him that loves the lustful attention he gets at the bar. 


Because Dream wants him in the worst fucking ways.    




He’s at the bar, and the last hour of his shift is on the horizon.


Dream stepped in early, sat at the far end of the bar, watching, waiting. 


George doesn’t know he’s here, rarely does he come in before George is done with work, and even then he tries his best not to distract him. 


But tonight, it’s not consideration that keeps him from revealing himself. 


From the moment he stopped in he noticed George’s infatuation with the man sitting at the center of the honey-lit bar-table. 


George eyes him. He flirts, giggling and biting at his thumb. He takes a dark curl of hair around a finger, tugging on it as the suit in front of him makes a joke. 


George takes the glass in his hand, pouring the liquor out carefully. 


Dream monitors with veiled hostility in his eyes, tracing the exposed curve of his swan neck. 


The bare curve of his neck. 


Dream bristles, watching as George laughs his false laugh, high pitched and raw sugar. His hand, pale, blushed, wraps around the neck of the beer bottle, the tiniest invitation as they struggle to close around the thickest part.


It’s lewd


The man grins, eyeing those same pale fingers, with the delicate rings bought with Dream’s money, the well-shaped nails from the fine manicure paid for by him—the hand held and shaped and formed by Dream’s own.


George squeezes his bicep. Reaches forward and squeezes the muscle through the man’s dress shirt, and Jesus fucking Christ, Dream knows this game. It’s the same one they played the first time they got together, the same one that’s danced around before every copulation, coy smiles and dark laughter. 


George, his George, is seducing another man, right in front of his eyes. But of course, there’s no pretty diamond on George’s left hand, no hint of a relationship to ward off prospective suitors, no fucking necklace hanging around his treacherous throat.


George still hasn’t noticed him, eyes shining only for the man seated in front of him. Shitty service, if you ask Dream. 


Dream takes his time examining the man, eyeing over the state of his clothes, the tousled maturity of his hair. Dream’s not sure if that makes him more or less relieved that he looks nothing like him, hair dark where his was blonde, curved nose to Dream’s flat. 


But he’s handsome. And he’s clearly rich, what with the Rolex around his wrist, though he's no more so than Dream, he assures himself.


The dark-haired man smiles and presses his hand up against George’s, laughing at how tiny he is in comparison. 


Dream seethes, deep rage in his heart. He hates it, has always hated seeing George with other men, filling him with some primal anger to see someone who he loved with anyone else. 


He stands. 


The walk to the bar from where he sat in the corner is not a long one, but when George sees him, meeting his eye with panic, time seems to slow down. 


Dream looks furious, jet black emotion coloring his face. George reaches up as clutches at the absence of gold round his throat, and nearly whimpers when he sees Dream grin at him, sharp teeth and malicious eyes. 


“Hi, babydoll.” Dream greets, false pleasantries. “I think it's time we head home.” 


George gasps softly. “My-my shift isn’t—“


“I don’t care.” Dream smiles, cocking his head to the side. “Clock out.”


“D-“ George starts, but he knows it’s hopeless. He can only pray he doesn’t get fired for this. 


Dream leans forward and grabs George’s wrist, python grip. 


“Go get in the fucking car,” he orders, smile on his lips, “and wait for me like a good boy, hm?” 


Dream turns to the man next to him, who’d been watching with confused interest the whole while. He grins his shark tooth smile and spares George no further glances as he downs the rest of his drink. 


The wait in the car took no longer than 5 minutes after Dream began speaking to the man. George spit something about nausea to the other person on the clock and left without any more explanation.


He waits, truly for only a few moments before the driver side is being opened and the keys haphazardly thrown at him before stepping out of the bar are tugged from his thin fingertips.  


George swallows, eyes ahead of him “Dream,” he starts, “listen—”


“Don’t start.” Dream interrupts, knuckles white around the steering wheel as he pulls onto the feeder. “I know, George.” 


“You know what?” George asks shakily, panic stealing away all calm and air. 


Dream says nothing, but as he merges onto the highway, going 20 over, George can feel the anger radiating off of him, the thinly veiled vengeance bubbling just under his skin. 


He’s a little drunk—too drunk to be driving this fast and too angry to do it well. 


George can’t help but squeeze his thighs together, because, despite the magnanimity of the situation, Dream looks hot.


It's hard to remember, hard to keep track of anything, especially as George keeps glancing over at the hard set of Dream's jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders, sheer rage in his green eyes. It makes him melt, to see Dream like this, to see him this angry.


Always had a thing for danger, George.


The walk to their apartment and to the elevator is one of the same nature, fast and messy, but this time Dream has a vice grip around George's wrist, dragging him along. 


He knows this is his fault, knows he's done wrong but he can't bring himself to think about anything but how tight Dream’s dress shirt is around his shoulders, utterly entranced by the mess of his hair. He aches to thread his fingers through it, but everytime he reaches to touch, he’s fixed with a glare. 


They get in the door at record time, and Dream says nothing until they’re locked in the threatening silence of their dark home. 


He slams the door open and shoves George up against the wall. His head smacks against plaster, mouth hanging open as heat begins pooling in his belly, waves of aching submission growing between his thighs. 


He slumps slightly, begins to slide down the wall, eyes big and dewy, legs shaky with the new intensity he’s faced with. 


Stand up .” Dream snarls, pressing up against the archway of his back. “You wanna lie to me? Wanna whore yourself out?” 


George cries out, swollen lips shining with spit. His legs kick out, newborn deer, all unsteady and shaky as Dream pushes him higher, hands gripping George’s waist.


His fingertips dig into George’s hips, sure to sprout seeds of violet and carnation in the swell of his skin.


George sobs, fog thickening in his head. He loses himself in the darkness, eyes searching for light in Dream’s face and finding none. 


Dream’s brow shades when he steps away from him, sitting down on the leather armchair, leaving George slumped against the door, barely able to stand. 


The room is silent, far enough from the ground that the sounds of traffic and human life are nixed. Only God and his angels can see what’s being done at the highest level of this world. 


Dream breathes deep and slow, his watch glinting gunmetal in the moonlight. The rings on his fingers armor his hands into something medieval, fit to wield swords and slice throats, cutting down his enemies, but the only thing for George’s knight to destroy stands shakily before him, cheek red with his handprint. 


The silence grows, and George considers the idea that Dream may be done for the night, anger burnt out into a smolder, simmering on the couch. He slides to his knees, melting into the icy floor. 


 His eyes drop to the tile, searching for a reprieve from the unknown in the grout. 


The cracking of Dream’s fingers rings out, and George lifts his gaze from the floor, hazy and submissive. He can see only the outline of Dream’s body, so engulfed in black he feels like the noise is emanating from pure shadow. 


He pants, squeezing his thighs together for just the smallest amount of relief from the need growing low in his belly. Dream only watches from his seat, legs spread in his slacks. 


“Strip.” The room heats with anger and lust, dual flames sparking. 


George falters, a chill passing down his spine at the sound of Dream’s voice, low and heavy. Deep pools of obsidian grow at every moment that passes, his body falling slowly into the deep waters. Dream watches him paw uselessly at himself, mewling and tugging at the hem of his shirt. 


“Did you hear me, slut?” He snaps impatiently, teeth flashing in the dark. “Take your fucking clothes off.” 


George takes a moment to understand, thoughts coming like molasses. He blushes heavily as he slowly begins to unbutton his shirt, hot and cold all at once. 


“No.” Dream orders, gritting his teeth. “Stand up.” 


George whines at the command, fingers bracing against the cold ground. 


He unbuttons his shirt, letting it slide down his shoulders. His pants take longer, slowly unzipping them and stepping out. He’s wearing something he’d rather Dream not see right now, but there’s no way to avoid it.


Neat black silk wraps around his hips, little panties tight on the curve of his ass. 


“Wow.” Dream scoffs, eyeing him aggressively as George tries to hide himself, chill seeping deep into his bones. “You have got to be kidding me.” 


“Who the fuck are those for?” He snarls, getting up and stalking to where George stood, small and messy. His dress shoes clack against the tile menacingly, kneeing George’s thighs apart until his shame is bared, hot and sensitive between his thin little legs. 


Dream looms over him, thigh pressed between George’s legs, applying harsh pressure through the black silk until he lets out a broken sob, wrapping thin hands around Dream’s arm and mewling. 


“Oh.” He mocks, fingers coming to curl under George’s sharp chin. “Aren't you just a desperate little thing?”  


George leans his face against Dream’s shoulder, eyes closing in pleasure as the taller man cards his fingers through his dark hair and scratches at his scalp, caressing him ever so gently. Soft cream waves of comfort pull through his chest, breathing out soft noises of relief. 


It doesn’t last long. 


Dream yanks at the hair trapped between his fingertips, and George cries out in pain, pinprick pressure making harsh tears well up in his eyes. He laughs sadistically when George tries to pull away, only tugging him closer. 


“Those little panties are real pretty, baby.” He hums, slowly lifting George’s eyes to his face with his fistful of dark hair. His lips split into a bloody grin. “Who were you trying to impress?”


George chokes as he’s forced to his full height, quickly pinned between Dream and the nearest wall with the knee between his thighs. His jaw is tilted awkwardly toward the ceiling to make up for their height difference, Dream staring down at him with terrifying hunger in his eyes. 


“Wasn’t-wasn’t trying...” He manages, tongue like iron. Dream closes his eyes in frustration, and George resorts to pawing weakly at his broad chest, needing attention. 


“For you.” He tries, fingers curling under Dream's collar. “Wore them for you.”


It’s not exactly a lie. Before this, he hadn’t exactly had anything in mind for after his shift, but sex was never off the cards for them, especially on a Friday night. 


Dream’s cruel smile slides off his handsome face as he opens his eyes again, replacing itself with a look of pure anger. 


“Me?” He whispers, razor-sharp. “Don't fucking lie .” He grabs George’s face harshly, pressing their noses together, eyes wild. “You didn’t wear those for me.” 


George breaks, chest goring open as starshine spills down his cheeks, weak sobs wracking through him. “Dreamie, please.” He whimpers, gasping when Dream drives his thigh harder between his legs, pleasure shooting up his veins. “ Please , ‘m not lying.” 


Dream tilts his head, leaning in as he breathes hot and slow over George’s carotid. “I don’t believe you.”


He bites down, grinding skin between sharp teeth. 


George wails, clawing at Dream’s shoulders as red-hot pain snaps through his nerves, mixing deliciously when he grinds down on Dream’s thigh. 


Dream gnaws on his collarbones, marking his skin up with his teeth. He seems to care little for the sweet sounds of agony George lets out, only biting and sucking harder when George tries to push away. 


“Dream, Dream-“ George gasps, trying to rip through the fabric of his white dress shirt and get at warm skin, aching to make marks of his own. He’s vulnerable, cold where his skin meets plaster, burning where he’s pressed up against the iron of Dream’s body. 


Dream’s mouth slides lower, over the top of his chest, teeth scraping and cutting mean through him, a promise of salvation and devouring need all at once. 


“You’re mine. ” Dream rages, finger digging so deeply into George’s hips purpled bruises began to form, destroying touch. “ Everything you are belongs to me.” 


George takes a shaking breath, and he throbs, deep sunset pleasure between his thighs. He gasps, clearing his lungs of flame, letting the tides of repentance flow in. 


Dream lifts him, easy as can be, hooking a strong arm under George’s thighs and shifting until he’s slung over a broad shoulder, ass in the air. 


He walks only a few steps before George is slammed onto the leather couch,  bouncing slightly from the impact. His breath is stolen, ripped from his body with each rough action. 


Dream is on him immediately, tugging and pulling at his hair, mean, as he strikes the sides of George's thighs with the flat of his hands. 


“You wanna know what he told me?” Dream growls, forcing George flat on his back with a hand wrapped around his throat. “You wanna know what he said about you?” 


George screams as Dream slips a hand into his panties, touching the weeping head of his cock. He’s fucking wet , the head plum-purple after being so hard for so long. 


“He said you were a good fuck.” Dream whispers and George gasps wetly as the big hand engulfing his cock begins to pump up and down. “He said you were tight .” 


Dream tightens his grip, and George goes fuzzy. 


“And he’s right, isn’t he? You are.” Dream breathes, watching as dark eyes roll back, thumb passing quickly over the head of George’s leaking cock. “But, Y’know I was thinking about it, and—“ 


Dream spits in George’s open mouth, pink lips parted and gasping for air like a koi fish. 


“How the fuck would he know?” He seethes, “How would he know that, George?” 


“D—“ George gasps, but he’s cut off quickly when Dream’s hand squeezes ever tighter. It feels so good , to be dominated like this, to be owned like this. “F-faster—“


“Shut the fuck up.” Dream snaps, spit flying into George’s face. 


George mewls, moaning breathlessly as Dream pumps him faster, pleasure building between his hips, casting his thighs into silver and gold. The hand around his throat is squeezing just shy of complete deprivation, black holes in his vision. 


“What did you do ?” Dream darkens, but it’s getting increasingly hard for George to hear anything over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. “You let him bend you over the fucking bar? Huh? You get down on your knees when I wasn’t looking?” 


George chokes, red and black flashing in succession, Dream loosens his hold, just enough to let him take a breath. He grips weakly at Dream’s shoulders and he knows then that he’s on the verge, hips shaking and chest heaving, and where Dream kneels between his legs, his thighs squeeze weakly. He’s running out of oxygen but he can’t bring himself to protest it, moaning weakly as he twitches in Dream’s fist. 


“Was I not enough?” Dream hisses, leaning in close. George can feel the heat of his breath across his cheek, but only barely, so far gone it’s he can hardly think, eyes rolled back. “You had to go and fuck some other man?” 


George whines, because he wants so terribly to correct him, to reassure him of George’s fidelity, but he can’t speak, throat filled with cotton. 


Dream rubs across the head, digging his fingers into the slit. 


“‘M gonna-gonna come—“ George gasps, voice strained and harsh. “Baby, I-“ 


Do it. Whore.” Dream spits, and George’s back arches high, and without a breath, he comes hard, spilling pearl white into angry hands. Dream doesn’t stop pumping him through it, fucking and pushing him further past pleasure, until George whines in pain. 


The hand around his throat relaxes into a collar, gently necklacing around his collarbone, and George takes in a gasping breath, tears spilling down his cheeks as he fills his lungs with air. 


Dream watches cruelly, filled with dark satisfaction as the shadow of his grip begins to flush and bleed dark red across George’s throat. 


“That was quick, baby.” Dream hums, kissing along the line of George’s jaw. “All pent up?” 


George pants heavily, shaking as Dream slowly draws his slick hand away, bringing it to his lips. He examines it in the moonlight, George’s come dripping between his fingers in the lewdest ways. 


George flushes with embarrassment, watching as Dream licks his spend from his fingertips, staring him dead in the eyes as his pink tongue laps away seafoam and ichor.


“N-no…” George whines, flush growing across his cheeks , still boneless. “Stop it.” 


Dream only sucks his fingers harder in response, cleaning them off until his hand glistens with his spit.  


“Your turn.” Dream hums darkly, pushing George’s lips apart with his slick fingers, pressing down on the flat of his tongue. George mewls around them, trying to compensate and failing, but his fingers are only shoved further down his throat. 


George sucks, and Dream savors.


His heart fills back up with bile, angry. The vision of George’s thin little hand wrapped around the bicep of another man, the absence of the one thing that Dream asks him for wrapped around his throat.


His jaw strains, and his cock fills with vengeful blood. 


“You’re a fucking whore,” Dream snaps, drawing his other hand back and letting it collide with the soft flesh of George’s ass. “Dirty little whore.” 


“N-no.” George mewls around Dream’s fingers, shoved down his little throat until slick saliva spills down his chin. “ ‘M not a whore.” 


Dream pops him right on the side of the face, his dark eyes tearing up in white-hot pleasure. His mouth hangs open, soft and red-raw. 


“You’re the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen.”  He grits, yanking at soft hair. His hand grips the back of George’s neck hard enough to bruise, his nails harsh on such delicate skin. 


“Dreamie, p’ease ,” George whines in the smallest voice, hips bucking up against him. “‘m not a whore.” 


He’s being sweet, and he knows he looks it, knows he’s irresistible all pretty and pearled up like this. Dream, normal Dream, would buckle under this look, would submit to his meek cries and begging, but not now. Not tonight. 


“You’re pathetic.” Dream snarls, anger writhing low in his belly, vipers and pythons. “Pathetic little slut.” 


He uses his grip on the back of George’s neck, and drags him up, draped weakly over Dream’s arms. 


Dream takes him in his arms, walking them into their bedroom. He’s not gentle as he throws George onto the bed, still messy from the morning before. 


Dream rips his shirt off, his slacks and belt gone in that same way, and he’s on George as quickly as possible, weight flattening his skinny body against the mattress. 


George palms at him, the bulge of his boxers straining at him. 


“Dreamie,” George whines, tears in his eyes. “I want you.” 


“Oh?” Dream snarls, hand tight around George’s little throat. “You want it? Are you sure, baby? Maybe you should go use someone else, since you don’t seem satisfied with me.” 


George cries, tugging at Dream’s broad shoulders. “I want you. I promise.” 


Dream throws him around easily, forcing him on hands and knees with his legs spread apart. 


“You promise?” Dream grits. “You mean like when you promised me to wear the necklace?” Dream grabs the lube, uncapping it and letting it spill over the cleft of his ass. “Like that, baby?”


George sobs brokenly, thighs shaking as cold fluid drips down the hottest part of his body.


Dream’s fingers press at him almost immediately, circling around his rim as lube dribbles between his legs, teasing the sensitive skin. 


“Here’s what you need to understand.” Dream whispers, kissing the back of George’s neck.


George opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off when Dream shoves a finger in, careless and cruel as he crooks it, massaging and rubbing George open. 


He adds another finger, stretching George apart quickly, a rough job of all things done. 


George moans loudly when they press up against his prostate, applying pressure enough to steal away his breath. 


George knows that Dream’s big. He's seen it, taken it enough times to know just how much he can take. He’s thicker than anyone George had ever been with, hot and heavy between strong thighs, the very sight of him enough to make George’s mouth water. 


“You are mine .” Dream snarls. “You have always been mine.” 


Dream’s fingers are gone too quickly, and George shivers, knowing that his poorly done prep was done on purpose, two fingers instead of three, intended to make him hurt. The very thought makes him moan brokenly. 


At least there’ll be plenty of lube. 


“You seem to have forgotten that. So, I’ll fuck you here, in our bed, in my house, and you’re going to take it.” Dream orders, voice ricochet hard. He spits onto the curve of his spine, watches the way it mixes with his sweat, pooled low above his tailbone. “Like my good little whore.” 


Dream’s hot breath ghosts down George’s throat, and a hot tear carves down the curve of his shining cheek as Dream’s hands stroke carefully down his sides, soothing his nerves. 


“Tell me to stop.” He grits, holding back. “Tell me to stop and I won't—I won’t trespass here.” 


George moans as he feels the weeping head of Dream’s thick cock rub against this rim, a promise of pleasure. 


“No.” He shakes his head, certain. He yearns to feel the ache between his hips, the soft deluge of him spilling deep inside. With determined hands, he reaches behind him and grabs a fistful of blond hair. “Fuck me. ” 


Dream grips his waist, small in his hands and tears away, watching as George collapses onto the mattress. 


He thrusts all the way in, slow enough not to tear him apart, watching as George strains and stretches around him. Like this, he’s tighter than he’s ever been, half-prepped and on the verge of screaming his throat bloody and raw. 


Fuck. It hurts. 


“It’s too big, Dream, too big , I can’t—“ George gasps, thighs shaking as the burn of the stretch culls away his pride, wiping him apart. “Please, please—“ 


Dream only laughs and pushes in further. He places his hand on George’s guiding it gently over the swell growing under the muscle of his flat belly. 


“Feel that, babydoll? Feel the way I fill your belly?” Dream hisses, rubbing over the small hand underneath his own. “You can’t hardly take me.” 


George cries weakly, trying to push Dream’s hips away with his free hand, reaching behind and scrabbling at the tan flesh with exhausted efforts. 


Dream responds in kind, slapping George’s wrist away and taking it between his thick fingers, holding it taut behind his quivering back. 


His chest hits the mattress, unable to hold himself up, drooling pathetically over his chin. 


Dream fucks him hard and fast, thrusting in with little care for George’s comfort, mind filled with rage and possession. 


It is not romantic, the way Dream moves. It’s not full of the love they’re used to, no soft kisses and gentle rubbing. 


He is cruel as he fucks directly into George’s prostate, nailing it over and over and over, each thrust punching out the breath from his lungs, gaspy windless noises spilling from his satin mouth. 


George moans and cries like he’s made to take cock, made to writhe and scream around it. 


Dream only fucks him harder when George begs him to slow down. 


He’s close already, heat pooling between his thighs again, cock twitching when it brushes across Dream’s knuckles. Dream knows his body with infinite familiarity, and he knows what makes him tick. 


Dream fucks him like he owns him, hand still clasped over George’s as he holds the bulge of his cock inside the tiny body, pressing himself as deep as he can. 


It’s all pleasure, despite how rough it is, all golden embroidery threaded and knitted around the crooked crucifix of his spine, pushing pressure and lust into his throat until he can’t breathe again. 


Dream grunts low into George’s ears, animal and fury as green flame rips up his inner thighs. He raises his hand to George’s ass and strikes him again and again until his nerves are shot and tired. 


George comes like that, without a touch to his weeping cock, without a word spoken or lips pressed against his own, screaming raw and ragged into the mattress as Dream ruthlessly fucks him through it. 


Dream never slows, only breathing heavily into George’s ears, sucking on the sides of his throat, teeth cutting into the soft parts of him. 


George breaks into tears, sobs wracking through his body as Dream tugs him onto his cock, spearing him roughly. It’s good, too good, painfully good. 


Fingers press against his lips as he falls limply to the mattress, and George allows them in without much fight, suckling on them for comfort when pleasure turns overwhelming. His mind turns to snow, ashfall down the swell of his ass. 


“That’s a good boy.” Dream praises, watching as George’s lips stretch around his knuckles, spit streaming down the side of his jaw. “There we go, sweetheart.” 


Gently, softer than anything he’d done that night, he flips George on his back, sliding back inside his spread thighs. George whines as he’s stretched apart, painfully sensitive as Dream rocks quickly into him. 


“Can you give me one more, baby?” Dream groans, feeling the overwhelming tightness around him. “Cum on my cock one more time?”


George sobs and shakes his head. “I can’t, Dreamie. It’s too big—‘s too much.” 


Dream shushes him gently, kissing across the line of his cheekbone. “I think you can do it, babe.” 


Dream begins thrusting again, deep and slow, the drag of the thick head of his cock against his insides, warming his bones.


He can’t stop crying, though it doesn’t hurt. Tears spill down his cheeks as he paws at Dream’s back. They’re so close, so warm pressed together, deep inside of each other, heart full and overflowing. His nails bite into golden skin, and Dream pulls away, brows slightly creased in concern.


“Colour?” Dream asks, hips stilling as he swipes George’s bangs away from his face, watching the silver rainfall of his tears. 


When George doesn’t reply, Dream leans down closer, kissing him gently. “Colour, baby?”


George sobs, reaching up and tugging Dream down closer, his nose pressed against George’s collarbone. “Green! P’ease!” 


Dream fucks him deep and hard, hitting things inside sweet and loving. George gasps, breathless, crying loud as he lies limp under him, thighs shaking as he mewls pathetically, hips bucking up against each thrust. 


“C’mon baby.” Dream whispers, “C’mon.” His big hand moves over George’s belly, pressing down gently until he can feel the pressure of it on his cock. “Just one more time.” 


Dream leans back and hits him gently across his cheek, just enough to make George moan out brokenly. 


“I’m close.” Dream tells him, snapping his hips forward, pushing George’s sweet little body up the bed. George clenches weakly around him, every small effort to get Dream off faster. 


“Kiss me.” George whines, pulling at Dream’s hair. “Please, please—just kiss—“ 


Dream obeys immediately, pressing lips together with a bruising embrace, tongue deep in George’s throat.


His pretty little cock begins to twitch against his belly, spilling precome into a little pool, his skin slick with come and lube. His cheeks are red from impact, covered in spit and tears. He’s such a fucking mess, no pride or dignity when he yields to Dream like this.


George comes again, whimpering loudly into Dream’s mouth, squeezing tightly around him. It's dry, painfully good as he shakes and whines high-pitched. Dream presses down harder on his belly until he’s almost grinding up into his hand through George’s little body. 


He groans softly, one hand gripping his waist tight enough to bruise and with George’s lips on his, soft moans in his ears, he spills into him, fucking him with deep thrusts that threaten to tear him apart. 


He eases George’s legs on his shoulders and George yelps, throat ragged as he gasps in surprise, but the undergrowth of pleasure begins to regrow, sweetening each little movement inside of him. 


Dream rides out his orgasm smoothly, moving in slow, deep thrusts to fuck his come deep inside. George can hardly take it, writhing and crying underneath as Dream holds him in place. 


“S-stop.” George gasps, bucking his hips away. “Dreamie, p’ease, ‘s too much.” 


Dream grins, but he pulls out anyways, watching as his come spills out of George’s shaking body, puffy rim giving up little droplets of his seed. 


It's disgusting, lewd appreciation at how pink he is down there, how nicely he contrasts with pearlescent come.  


Dream fucking loves it, and he bathes in the deeply possessive, almost primal, way it makes him feel. 


 He watches white spill down the insides of pale thighs, half salivating until he realizes how bad he wants to taste soft skin through his own come, how much he needs to see George writhe in painful pleasure one more time. 


“I suppose—” Dream pants, rubbing up and down George’s thighs, spreading them as he slinks down the mattress. “I suppose I have to clean up my mess, right, baby?”


George doesn’t seem to comprehend him, gasping weakly with hazy eyes as he arches his back. He’s tiny in the sheets, completely fucked out and pliable. He looks like Dream’s , covered in marks, stuffed with come. 


Dream raises a finger, stroking the velvet rim softly, warm smile growing as George arches his back toward the ceiling. His soft whines are heard and deeply appreciated, and as Dream softly inserts two of his fingers, slicked with his own cum, the sound of sheer heart-wrenching pleasure he lets out, sends a chill down Dream’s spine.

He curls them once, and George chokes on his spit, thighs shaking strongly. 


Warmth spreads across Dream’s chest, pride growing in him, ego overshadowing.


Dream holds his thighs apart and delves in, tongue pressed against fucked-out muscle, wincing slightly at the taste of himself, but persisting still. 


George wails and bucks his hips as Dream’s tongue slips inside, tasting himself inside of George. He laps at his come, switching between rubbing his tongue along the sensitive rim and curling deep—right against his prostate. 


George’s thighs shake as he mindlessly lets out breathy moans. His snark is gone, almost completely shot as Dream eats him out. 


He sucks at the rim, tongue gently curling and scooping his come out, holding George’s thighs still as they begin to shake violently. 


George whines petulantly with Dream’s tongue deep inside of him, lapping the last vestiges of his spend out. He can’t bear to get hard again, cock twitching weakly with nothing to show for it aside from the way he clenches around Dream’s tongue. 


Dream licks around his rim  while he massages the slides of George’s soft thighs, slowly circling, until somehow, despite his exhaustion he comes, weak and dry. 


It hurts this time, and George sobs when yet another orgasm is coaxed from him, pushing Dream’s face away with the very last ounces of strength he has.


He pants and cries as he quivers in a sweaty heap on a stained mattress, lying next to an equally sweaty man.


It all falls back down again, back to a couple in the midst of a fight, angry at each other. Dream, despite the roughness he’s used to, can’t bring himself to be the same to George when he looks so weak and little. 


He pulls George close to his chest, stroking down his spine as silence fills the room. George sobs weakly into his neck, shaking as he tries to pull away and curl into himself.


 Dream doesn’t let him, only holding him closer and softly kissing the crown of his head. The moment George seems to realize he’s not getting away, he melts into Dream’s chest, wrapping arms around him and squeezing while overstimulated sobs curl through him.


Dream hushes him gently, whispering sweet and soft in his ears, kissing along the line of his jaw.


He’s angry, but he’s kind, despite it all, and he knows how deeply wrong it would be to be cruel to the brit when he’s vulnerable like this. 


He reaches towards the nightstand, where George’s pants lie, the smaller man still suctioned to his body, and slips his hand into the pocket. He pulls out the glittering necklace, watching the way it glistens in the early morning light. 


He considers it for a moment, his name in gold. He thinks about why . Why he likes it so much, why he makes George promise him to wear it.


He thinks about why George takes it off. 


Gently, with all the care in the world, he claps it around George’s thin little neck. It looks good there, but he can’t bring himself to stare too long, not while George burrows himself in the broad strength of his chest. 


“You’re mine.” He whispers, but it’s not a claim of ownership. It’s just comfort, just adoration. George hiccups and coos softly to himself as he recovers. 


George sobs into his throat, lifting his head for teary brown to meet regretful green. “Dream, please I didn’t cheat—“


“I know, baby.” Dream soothes, kissing him softly. “It’s okay, I know.”


George shakes and Dream kisses his tears away. “You’re okay, sweetheart.” He says, rubbing George’s sides. “I got you.” 


He settles, soft under the sheets, head over Dream’s heart. It’s slow as he comes back to himself, slow as he steps from fog and stardust. 


“It was before.” He whispers when he can speak without whimpering, though his throat is ragged. “I slept with him before we got together.” 


Dream says nothing but hums in response, playing with the ends of his dark hair. He’s not sure what to say, but shame burns high on his cheekbones.


“You know I wouldn’t-“ He chokes up, “I wouldn’t do that to you.” 


The relationship they have isn’t healthy. Dream knows it, George knows it. It’s not good for either of them. 


Still, guilt riles low in his belly, twists and turns about in his guts. It’s wrong, and he feels hollow now, after all they’ve done.


“Why—why were you talking to him like that?” Dream asks, because despite his anger, his heart breaks. Insecure about what he is, what he has, his inevitability shines through. “I don’t—what can I do? What do you want?”


“Dream.” George whispers, carding manicured nails through his thick blond hair. “Baby, you didn’t—“


“I just want you to love me.” He whimpers, shifting his face into George’s skinny chest. “Please.” 


“I do love you.” George soothes, holding him close with willowy arms. “I just—“


He stops, focusing on the moon out the window.


“I like the attention.” He finishes, voice steady but quiet. “I don’t know, they just...they make me feel pretty.”


Dream makes a sound of agony,  curling arms around bruised ribs. “Don’t I make you feel pretty?” 


“Dream.” George frowns. “Of course you do.”


George tries to shift up the bed, but a sharp strike of pain shoots up his spine as his torso twists. 


Dream’s face twists up in sympathetic pain, self-loathing for the little whimper George lets out.


“I’m sorry.” Dream manages, tucking his face into the sweaty curve of George’s throat. “I’m so—”


It’s not enough. Not much cuts it when they get like this with each other. 


“I know you are.” George sighs. He laces his fingers with Dream’s, much bigger than his own. “And you know I love you.” 


Dream lets out a thick sob, nuzzling even closer. 


George lifts his face with small hands, touching the tips of their noses together. 


George shifts his head to the side, slotting their lips together. Dream whimpers as he feels George curl up closer to him, arms wrapped around his shoulders, taking shelter in the cradle of his chest. 


They pull away, and George settles on his shoulder, breathing slowly over his chest. Dream slides his hands lazily up and down his back. 


“I love you.” Dream whispers, a sweet promise. “I love you so fucking much.” 


George reaches up and tucks messy golden curls behind his ears, letting his fingers trace the stubbly chin that pokes at him. 


“Why won’t you wear it?” Dream whispers, covenant and holly berries. “You promised.” 


“I know,” George murmurs quietly, settling Dream down as he holds his lower back in big hands. “I will, baby.”


Dream sighs softly, scratching lightly at George’s skin. He’s not sure he believes him, but he’ll let it rest for now. 


Maybe days from now, George will wear it, will let Dream coil it around his neck and promise him never to let it go. 


And then maybe, after a few weeks he’ll miss the attention again, and like an addict going back to his vices, he’ll let it fall into pockets and bags, hidden until Dream walks in.


Perhaps it’s a forewarning for the future, in less words that they speak.


A death knell for the diamond ring that sits in Dream’s suit jacket, a burn notice for the receipt. 


Maybe he’ll wear that ring one day too. Maybe they’ll plan that wedding, make those vows and swear on each other's souls they’ll never stray. 


And for a while it will be good. 


For a while they will uphold those vows. 


And maybe it’ll be slipped on and off until the inside shines brighter than the outside, polished metal in infidelity once more. Maybe George will come home late at night, smelling of another man’s cologne, limping softly.


And then maybe he won’t let Dream touch him for a week, because they both know he needs time to heal. 


Maybe it won’t matter, because inevitably, Dream knows he’d always forgive him. And George would too—would forgive each possessive action against him, even welcome the aggressive claim put upon him. 


But for tonight, he ignores it. 


They’re just two people, holding aching bodies and kissing bruised lips. They’re just two souls who want to heal and feel alright again. 


It’s just love, for right now. It’s just amnesia of every moment that draws blood and breaks hearts.


It’s all that can be done.


He lets his head fall, and kisses George softly, lips pressing together in the sweetest of ways. In his mind, he swears never to let him go. 


Silence falls, thought it lacks the arid tenseness of the one from the car, now filled with warm love and soft kisses. Dream lets George take control, allowing himself to move with him, to suck and nibble soft enough not to hurt, quiet enough not to overstimulate anymore than he already has. 


“Dream?” George whispers into the crook of his neck. 


“Hm?” Dream says sleepily, eyes closed as he presses lazy kisses to the curve of his delicate throat, arms wrapped around to hold him closer, heartbeats intertwined. “What is it, babydoll?” 


George coughs, hands sliding into soft blond hair and petting gently. 


“I’m expecting breakfast in bed tomorrow morning.” He hums, pulling at the hair, every bit the princess Dream’s made him into. His face is tearstained but satisfied, fatigue under his eyes but love in them too. 


Dream huffs, the atmosphere cutting thickly apart, his loving face melting to George’s requests. He’s demanding, even after being fucked within an inch of his life. It’s as things should be. 


“Anything you want, sweetheart.” Dream whispers, running a thumb under his dark eyes, long lashes brushing against the tip of his finger. “I’ll give you the moon.”