Archive of Our Own ^beta

Really, Dream thinks as the cop shoves his hand against the back of his neck, he doesn’t know how else his night was supposed to go. He and Sapnap outlined the plan quite clearly: they’d make it into the club, take what they needed to get from the backrooms, and be out in five seconds flat—just enough time to catch their getaway car.

 It’d been smart. It’d been practically flawless, which is the main reason why he’s now in the back of a police cruiser. “Fucking pigs !” He yells at the cop still trying to shove his head against the roof, but of course he’s too tall so he’s putting up enough of a fight. “Fucking pigs , I swear to God, I wasn’t even doing anything, you—”

And then he freezes. There’s someone next to him in the cop car, and it’s not Sapnap.

He’d tell if it was Sapnap. If it was Sapnap, he’d probably be putting up enough of a fight to get them into overnight holding cells for another three days, but for once he decided to be smart and flee the scene before leaving Dream’s ass in the dust. So he cooperates—he settles into the backseat, his handcuffs riding into his skin as he tries to study the guy next to him. He doesn’t recognize him.

He’s small. It’s the first thing Dream notices, and for good reason—he’s slumping forwards, the front of his face smeared in blood as he faces away from Dream dejectedly. His eyes are dark and shadowed and his skin is pallid, covered in bruises—like freckles. Like tattoos. Dream tilts his head.

“Yo,” he says. The boy doesn’t look up at him. “Yo, Snow White. I’m talking to you.”

The boy’s eyes shift over to him, but he doesn’t lift his head. He startles, a little, pushing himself closer against the window. His identical handcuffs glint against the moonlight still painting his skin in light colors.

“What’re you in here for?” Dream asks him, still studying him closely. He’s trying to figure it out: the only thing he’d guess is that one of the cops misunderstood what he was doing and shoved him in the backseat to teach him a lesson or something. He doesn’t look—for lack of a better word—dangerous. His lips are red against his pale skin. “Nasty bruises. Someone get you good? Shouldn’t be in here if you didn’t do anything.”

“I killed someone,” the boy says. 

Dream blinks. He can’t tell if it’s true or not—he’s been pretty good with reading people in the past. He’s pretty good with reading boys . “Really?” 

“No,” the boy snaps, his voice still thick and small from where he hangs his head. Accented, too. Like the slight lilt of it wasn’t enough. “No, Jesus, of course not. Bar fight. It’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Dream says, still slightly frazzled. “It is stupid.” The boy doesn’t say anything after that. “What was it about?”

“What was what about?” The boy asks.

“The fight,” Dream says. 

He scoffs, a little, his feet knocking into each other on the floor of the police car. Dream looks out of his side of the tinted windows, trying to make out what’s happening outside against his own reflection; they’re all asking questions, probably looking for Sapnap. It’s a good thing they’re absolutely not going to find him. “I don’t want to talk about that to you.”

“To me ?” Dream says, and throws his head against the headrest of the seat in surprise. That also means that his handcuffs dig into his wrists again, so he flinches from the pain. “What’s wrong with talking about it to me? I’m plenty approachable, if that’s what you need.”

“I know who you are,” the boy says firmly, and finally raises his head. “Fuck off.” 

Dream can’t help it: he laughs. It’s a welcome change from the usual fearful cowering he gets from the dudes who try to stand up to him for half a second. He shifts so that his knee leans against the middle of the backseat. “Woah there. Kitty’s revving his claws, huh?” 

“I know who you are,” the boy repeats, almost to himself. “You’re Dream. I shouldn’t be talking to you. Leave me alone.”

Dream pushes air from between his pursed lips, turning his head back away from the boy as if listening to his wishes. He still tries to look at him from the corner of his eye. He can’t exactly stay away for long. He’s bored. “Come on, drama queen. I’ve got no problems with you. Nothing to be scared of. What’s your name?”

The boy still doesn’t say anything.

“Though I might have a fucking problem if I don’t get a name,” Dream says, harsh, and it’s a cheap trick, but it works. 

The boy fidgets again, exhaling lightly as he glances up at the ceiling. “George.”

“George,” Dream repeats, and widens his legs. “Do me a favor, George. Bend down and get your hands into my pockets.”

“What?” George says. “I’m—”

“Fast,” Dream hisses, leaning his head against the window to see if anyone can spot them. He doesn’t think they can, but he’s been wrong before. “Before they notice. Get your hands into my pockets and find my keyring.”

“I’m handcuffed,” George says, but Dream cuts him off with an abrupt, “I know, just fucking do it, fast,” and George seems to make a lot of split-second decisions that finally end in him shimmying his side onto the backseat, sticking both hands into Dream’s pocket. 

“Okay,” Dream says, once he’s found the keys. “Pry the metal apart. It should go easily, I’ve done it before. Use both hands.”

“Jesus fucking— Christ ,” George hisses, and Dream feels his arms nudge against his thigh as he struggles to pry apart the keyring. His fingers click against the metal, and Dream tries his hardest to keep a lookout for the police officers, but they’ve abandoned their mission and gone inside the club now. The only figures he can see are confused partygoers. “Okay—I think I—I think I got it.” 

“Good,” Dream says curtly. “Bend the tip into an angle. Then—I’m gonna move closer, and you’re gonna shove it into the keyhole of my handcuffs. Then you’ll get me out, and I’ll get you out of yours.” He doesn’t particularly plan to let George out of his, but he doesn’t have to know that. “Deal?”

“I don’t want to be in any deeper shit,” George says.

“Oh, don’t be a pussy,” Dream says, and George flinches. “You in or not?”

“Fine,” he says, after a beat—and it’s an intense, arduous beat, one where Dream contemplates getting the piece of bent metal and doing it himself. He’s never quite managed to get out of handcuffs unless he’s with someone else, but there’s a first time for everything. “Turn around.”

“Okay,” Dream says, and shifts on his side as he continues looking through his window. The worst part is that he knows the doors aren’t locked—if he just didn’t have the stupid handcuffs on, he’d be out scot-free by now. “Fast.” 

He hears the slight noise of metal against metal, and it mixes with the fast thump of blood to his ears. He needs to get out of here. He needs to find Sapnap and regroup and make sure they’re not in any deep shit with Bad because he’s pretty sure this might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. “What’s taking so long?”

“Wait,” George says. “Just—” and then a few more seconds of grunting later, he hears the congratulatory click of opened handcuffs. But he’s still stiff and held together by his own pair. 

“What the fuck?” Dream says, and turns around. George is dangling his handcuffs from one hand and studying his bleeding fingers on his other, stretching out his knuckles and fixing the crick in his neck. “What the fuck are you—”

“Have fun in here,” George says. And then he opens the door and is off into the night, leaving Dream to pound his legs against the seat in front of him in subdued irritation.

God damn it, he’s good.

——

Suffice it to say that seeing George once hadn’t been enough. He takes over Dream’s mind for a while, and he’s self-aware enough to know that it’s not just twisted fucking frustration—there’s something else, too, a very small edge of admiration. 

But then again—that doesn’t mean that Dream’s going to go out of his way to find him a second time. He usually waits for the things he wants to come to him. So it’s not much of a surprise when he catches sight of George when he and Sapnap are cruising to pick up their monthly safety deposit. 

“Wait!” He says loudly, making Sapnap shove his foot against the brakes in shock. “Wait, wait—slow down here. That’s the massage parlor, right?” 

“Yeah,” Sapnap says, and squints at him through the mirror. “Don’t get any ideas. We’re in Techno’s territory right now.” 

“I know that,” Dream says scornfully, and peeks his head closer out of the window. George is standing outside of the massage parlor, and it’s unmistakably him—he’s smoking a cigarette, the cherry illuminating the red welts of raised skin on his wrists. He’s wearing a thick coat, yet shorts, and his legs are covered in shimmering tan thigh-high tights.

 Dream knows a lot of things at once, after that.

“Let me out,” he says, and Sapnap says, “What the fuck? No ,” and Dream says, “Let me out right now and let me do what I need to fucking do, Sapnap,” and Sapnap says, “I—oh, Jesus Christ,” before pulling into the parking lot of the massage parlor and letting Dream hop out. 

He makes it in front of George quickly, and he looks up at him with complete disinterest, the smoke from his lips streaming against Dream’s face. Dream fans it away from himself, even when he breathes in the harsh bite of it. He wonders if George’s mouth tastes as bitter. He wonders if George’s mouth tastes at all , or if he’s raw and clean and unkissed and—“Can I help you?” 

“Um,” Dream says, and then scrolls his eyes down the rest of his body to give himself time to think. It only does more to distract him. He hadn’t seen much of George in the darkness of the police car, but they’re lit by the barebones streetlights, here. He can see the fine curve of George’s legs under the tights, the pink slopes under his eyes. “You work here ?” 

“We’re not open,” George says dryly, and flicks his cigarette to the ground. He crushes it dry with a boot, nuzzling deeper into his coat. “Come back tomorrow at eight.” 

“I don’t need a massage,” Dream says, though he knows that’s not all they offer. Which is why the fact that George is standing here worries him—everyone knows the rumors about the massage parlor, but he’s never checked. “Is it true what you guys do here, anyway?” 

George sets his jaw, and then leans against the brick wall so that Dream has to move closer to him against the bite of the cold. “Fuck you,” he says, quite clearly. “Shouldn’t even be here, anyway. Better leave before my boss sees you and calls Techno.” 

“Your boss is here this late?” Dream asks him, and George rolls his eyes. It’s almost too much for Dream to handle all at once—a boy built like a fucking forest nymph, his nose pink with cold and his stomach bare and tan under his coat, and he won’t even give him the time of day. Dream slams a hand against the wall, palm flat near his head. “Don’t you roll your fucking eyes at me.” 

“Or what , huh?” George snaps at him, and straightens his back against the wall so that he’s looking at Dream head-on. “I’ll do whatever I like to you, Dream , ‘cause you and I both know you’re not supposed to be here and you could get your ass kicked just for talking to me.”

“But I won’t,” Dream says.

“Like you know,” George bites back. Dream wants to touch his lips and feel them move under his fingers. He wants to shove something down his throat so he can see what he looks like when he’s gagging. “You’re in Techno’s territory. I suggest you leave before somebody notices.” 

He knows. Of course he knows—Dream had known he knew since they were in the cop car, but he didn’t think it was to the point where he could pick out alliances so easily. The way he can. “What the fuck do you know about Techno’s territory?” 

“Don’t play stupid,” George says. “I know you work for Bad and you know I work for Techno. I’m doing you a favor. My ride’s almost here.” 

“Who’s your ride?” Dream says. “Let me drive you home.” 

“You can’t,” George says. 

“Why not?” Dream asks. “Got a midnight shift?” George’s eyes change, and Dream has to move closer to make sure he doesn’t flee from under his arm. “Jeez, come on. I’m fucking with you. I don’t care what you get up to for a little extra money.”

“Reading me all wrong,” George says, but his voice has gone a lot lower—it’s a slow drawl of honey into Dream’s ears. “‘M not a rent-boy.” 

“I don’t care what you are,” Dream whispers back, and George tilts his head, pops his bottom lip under his teeth. “Just let me give you a ride.” 

“You can’t.” 

“If this is about fucking Techno ,” Dream says, punctuating the word with a slant into George’s direction, “I’m sure he won’t mind me hitting on one of his random-ass masseuses.” 

“Maybe he won’t mind,” George says. “Maybe he won’t mind at all. Or maybe he’ll think you’re encroaching on his territory and trying to turn someone who’s already loyal.” He pushes up a hand and tilts Dream’s chin up with his fingers so that he can’t keep looking down at the rest of his body. “Eyes are up here.” 

“Already loyal,” Dream repeats, still a little dumbfounded. “You pledged?” 

“Minute I got hired,” George says, mouth open with a coy smirk. “I work for Techno, Dream. You know that means no touching.”  

It makes sense: he’s gorgeous, his skin feels like every addictive substance Dream has ever done at once, and he works for Techno. He’s completely off-limits. Dream knows to stay away from the girls on this side of town, but he’d figured it didn’t count if they weren’t involved at all in the conflict. He doesn’t know why he expected that level of compliance from George. He’s smarter than that, apparently.

 “I’ll get you out,” he says, and does the unspeakable—he runs his hand down the side of George’s neck, runs a thumb and forefinger under his jaw. He pushes; George’s eyelids flutter. He raises a hand to grip around his wrist to keep him in place.

“Careful,” he breathes. “Your rings are cold.”

Dream’s smile glints in the light. “You like them?” 

“They look expensive,” George murmurs, and tugs his hand in front of his face so he can study them more closely. “Real silver, too. Guess Bad pays you well, doesn’t he?” 

“Could pay you well too,” Dream says. He’s smarter than Techno’s group of allies; they run the eastern side of town, and they’re all one single conglomerate brain that’s just out to cause trouble. Bad’s guys, at least they think for themselves. At least he’s allowed to be here without asking for permission from his boss. 

“Maybe I like it here,” George says. “I’ve got insurance. Can make some side money. Not a bad gig, overall.” 

“You’ll like it more with me,” Dream says.

“I don’t like anything that has to do with Bad’s cronies chatting me up,” George says. “Stupid and cocky, the lot of you. You’d be surprised at how much it happens.” 

Dream scoffs. “You wound me, sweetheart.” 

“Can’t even get out of handcuffs by yourself,” George says. His eyes scroll down Dream’s face. “Though I suppose you like being in them?” 

It’s about then that his ride pulls up. Dream can tell it’s meant for George because of the tinted windows and the vague head of shaggy hair he sees in the window. He frowns, watching George’s face transform into a smile. Before he can skip away, Dream grabs his forearm.

“Hey,” he says. “When can I see you again?” 

George peers up at him, eyelashes dark and long against the pink crescents of his eyelids; he’s made of muted colors, only soft when Dream runs his hand along the right side of him like velvet. “Is this a trick?” 

Dream would make a joke, usually, but he doesn’t. “It’s not a trick.” 

George stares at him again. And then for a second longer. “I work a night shift at Niki’s on Saturdays.” 

It’s a bar on Techno’s side of town, but that’s never stopped Dream before. It sounds easy enough.

——

Except when Dream does make it to Niki’s the next Saturday he’s available, all he sees is George strewn across a stranger’s lap, giggling in his ear and guzzling Maker’s Mark fast enough it’s raining down on them both. He shifts, and the man says something, mouth tucked underneath George’s earlobe. He laughs again and fidgets so that he hides his face down in the man’s neck.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” Sapnap says from next to Dream. “What the hell is he doing?” 

“Beats me,” Dream says. He hasn’t been drinking. He brought Sapnap and Wilbur along to make sure he wouldn’t be too drunk for work tomorrow, and he hasn’t touched a drop. “I’m never going in the VIP room again.” 

“I like it in here,” Wilbur mumbles, daintily rolling up the joint that he’s just managed to lick closed. Dream frowns and plucks it out of his fingers before he can finish it up for himself. “Nice scenery.” 

If he ogles the rest of the boys walking through the dusty backrooms, Dream doesn’t notice. His attention’s too zeroed. Someone’s turned off the dubstep, finally, so the music is a bit more subdued. The smoke is hanging low with the neon bulbs strung across the walls— red light district , he thinks with contempt—and George is still kissing up on a guy Dream doesn’t know. It’s so blatant it would be embarrassing, if everyone’s eyes weren’t on him already.  

“I’m this fucking close to going over there and telling him off,” Dream says, after Christening the joint with the first hit. “Telling them off.”

Sapnap side-eyes him and picks it out of his fingers next. “What’s the big deal?” He asks, before hitting him with the inevitable: “He works for Techno. You said you just wanted to scope this place out. Make sure it’s still neutral.” 

“That’s what I’m doing,” Dream says, determined. George is wearing dark jeans and a heavy hoodie that doesn’t look like it belongs to him. His hair’s in disarray, lips open and pink like tulips. “Don’t give a shit about some random worker bee of Techno’s.” 

“I’m pretty sure if that were true you wouldn’t be looking at him like that,” Wilbur says. Sapnap nudges him in the ribs, but it’s too late. Dream’s already heard what he’s said.

He shakes his head, lowering his chin down on his knees. “I’m not even looking at him. It’s just weird.” George flips over from where the man has been nuzzling his throat and opens his eyes at the ceiling, biting his lip into his mouth. “So fucking obvious about it.” 

“Whatever, man,” Sapnap says, as uncomfortable as ever with the conversational topic as he’s always been. At least he takes it with grace. “As long as you’re not going to try anything.” 

Dream scoffs and leans forward on their low bar table, accidentally knocking down a few tinfoil-covered pill containers so he can reach for his beer. At that moment, George decides to look forward. 

He freezes in place, the man’s mouth moving against nothingness quite suddenly. Wilbur and Sapnap start giggling to themselves like schoolboys, and Sapnap does his best to wave a hand like a safari tour guide greeting a predator. George stumbles up, says something to the man, and heads towards them.

“Oh shit, oh shit oh shit oh shit ,” Sapnap says, and then immediately, “Hi there! George, right?” 

“Found your land-legs, mate?” Wilbur asks, sending Sapnap into another round of hysterical laughter as he pushes himself into the back of the couch. George crosses his arms at them. He pushes more wrappers and empty chip cans off the coffee table so he can sit.

“You’re still here,” he says. He says it to Dream, staring straight into his eyes. Dream shrugs. 

“What, you thought we left ?” Sapnap says, leaning back to throw his arms up before Dream can say anything else—something like what the hell are you doing with that guy ? Like he wants to. But Wilbur and Sapnap are not allowed to know anything quite yet. Or probably ever. “ I heard, round these parts, that Nora’s throws a good party—“ 

“ Niki’s , you dumbfuck,” Wilbur says, flicking him onto the forehead with his pointer finger. 

“Potato potato ,” Sapnap says, pronouncing the words the exact same way. “No. Potato pah—“ 

“Who’s that?” Dream asks quite suddenly, motioning his chin in the direction of the man in the armchair. He’s either dozed off or overdosed, and Dream honestly doesn’t feel like staring at him for long enough to find out. He’s the big beefy type. Not what he would expect George to go for. 

“My friend,” George says shortly. 

Dream raises his eyebrows. “Friends suck on each others’ necks now?” 

“Some do, yeah,” George says. “What’s he to you, man?” 

“Looks like a freak,” Dream says, and they both turn around to look at him, even as the rest of their friends bicker. “You should tell him to slow down with the molly.”  

“Tell him yourself,” George says. “I’m having fun.”

You’ll take anything over me at this point , Dream wants to say. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

And then George bursts out laughing, rocking backwards from where he’s sitting on the low table with his hands clenched around his knee. “ I shouldn’t be here?” He asks, and then narrows his eyes. “It’s my job.”

“How much do you make in an hour?”

George frowns at him. “Eighty including tips, if I’m lucky.” 

It’s so easy to get George to take the bait; he only has to dangle it in front of his face for half a second. “I’ll pay you a hundred.” 

And then, of course, he bites. “If you’re going to sit there and mock me, you can find your way right the fuck back outside,” George says, and stands up to walk away. Sapnap and Wilbur both make noises of surprise, but Dream is up fast enough to follow him into the pulsating crowd.

“George, wait ,” he says, but George ignores him—unsurprisingly. But he can’t ignore him when Dream grabs his arm, forcing them to make eye contact before Dream shoves them both into the only free club bathroom. It’s a single—empty and covered in graffiti. 

“ What ?” He hisses, but it has very little venom. His pretty eyes are tracing the flick of Dream’s tongue. 

“How old is that guy, anyway?” Dream asks, just to fuck with him. “Fifty-something?”

“Thirty-eight,” George says. 

“What’s he doing at a club for college students?” Dream asks. He doesn’t know what it is about the statement that has George gritting his teeth and stepping upwards to move away, but it’s somehow the final straw. 

 “Maybe I wanted somebody who knows what they’re doing,” George says. It’s very matter-of-fact. Almost surgical. And it does exactly what’s intended, which is to make Dream see red.

“Fuck you,” he says, because—well—why wouldn’t he? It’s the only proper way he knows how to end conversations with him. And it’s the only proper way they’ve ended conversations with each other since the stupid fucking police car backseat. 

“Won’t do it yourself, huh, Dream?” George snaps back, and then moves to stride away before Dream grabs his arm again and says, “Lock the door.”

George freezes. “What?” 

“Lock the door and get on your knees,” Dream says. George keeps staring at him.

“ Now ,” he snaps, and watches George flit over to shove the deadbolt through the door. His hand is stuck on the knob as if he’s not sure what to do next, so Dream drapes a hand under the clean fabric of his hoodie, feeling the expanse of skin. And then he turns George around—he’s small enough that he goes easily—and slams him against the door by the throat, meeting their lips together.

George kisses back without any fight, draping his wrists behind Dream’s head so he can shove his fingers into his hair. He makes a noise into Dream’s mouth, his tongue hot and thick against the bottom of Dream’s mouth, obsessively searching for—something. 

Something Dream can give him. Really fucking easily, actually. He pulls away, a sheen of spit separating their mouths in a thin line. George pants up at him with his eyes wide, his fingers still scratching redness against the back of his neck. “Not Techno,” he says, and his voice is a little croaky. Either with smoke or the kiss. Or both.

“I thought I told you to get on your fucking knees,” Dream says, and cranes a hand into the back of his hair to force him to collapse into a puddle. George nods, leaning closer with his hands already working against Dream’s belt before he stops him. “Wait.” 

“Jesus,” George says. “ What ?” 

Dream doesn’t like that. Not one bit. Or—if the stiffening of his cock is enough of an indication—he likes hearing George’s snappy back-talk slightly too much, which means he has to do something about it for his own self-control. 

He grabs him by the jaw, prying a thumb between his lips. “I don’t want any of your fucking attitude,” he says. “And if you want this that badly—” he pushes a toe against George’s hard cock easily, “—Which I can tell you fucking do, you’re going to have to beg me real nicely.”

He pops his finger back out of George’s mouth, watching his wide eyes still stare up at him. “Please,” he says, all in one breath, and Dream drags his wet hand down to his throat, pulling him closer. His fingers fit neatly against the soft spots under his jaw.

“Louder,” Dream says. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Oh, fuck, please ,” George says. “Please, let me—let me suck you off. Can I suck you off?” 

“If you’re good,” Dream says.

“I am,” George says. “God, I swear. I promise. Dream—” his fingers pry at his belt again, and the drool collecting at the corners of his lips is so addictively smeared across his bottom lip that Dream can’t help the heavy thump of his cock.

“Shit,” he says. “Not like anybody could say no to you, huh, angel?” And George nods, smiling—having a fucking field day with that allowance, as if Dream’s permission was all he’d been waiting for. Maybe it had been. He raises on his knees a little to undo his belt. 

“Down,” Dream scolds, and grabs the collar of George’s shirt with another hand as he bends down, hovering his mouth heartbreakingly close to George’s. 

He’d almost forgotten about the whole situation with his cock until George undoes his belt. And then he’s stuck, his tongue running across the bottom of his upper lip as he works a hand against Dream’s shaft, eyes dreamy and dazed over with something like a drug high. He looks up at Dream again. 

“So fucking big,” he says, the fried drawl pushing itself even deeper into Dream’s hearty obsession with him. “‘And the piercing makes it bigger. I don’t think it’ll fit.”

“Oh, it’ll fit,” Dream says, and tugs at his bottom lip with a thumb. It’s a Prince Albert; they’re made to fit. They’re made for his partner’s pleasure, George’s pleasure, the thick silver barbell that peeks out of both the bottom and the top of the head. Of course they’re made to fit. “We’ll make it fit.” And this time when George widens his mouth at him, he spits inside it, watching him clench his bottom lip into his mouth as he swallows it down. “Suck, slut. God knows that’s all you can do.”

And then George starts to take him—and God , does he start to take him, his mouth wet against the heat of his dick, thumping with so much blood it’s almost painful for him to not force his cock down George’s throat. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. George leans hands against his hips and starts to work the piercing against the back of his mouth, tears collecting in his eyes almost immediately.  

“Good boy,” Dream says, working his cock against his throat. He threads his fingers into his hair, the threads of it smooth and clean between his fingers—too clean for the dirty bathroom, the burn of Dream’s cock against George’s magic tongue. 

Dream digs his fingers against the back of George’s scalp, and George groans—it’s an amazing sound already, but he muffles it, like he doesn’t want Dream to hear. Tough luck. “Good,” Dream says shortly, and then, “You’re gonna take it, aren’t you?” And works himself deeper into George’s mouth, which isn’t fucking easy. 

George nods against him, and grabs the base of his cock, pumping against it slightly until his lips are slamming into his fist, and he’s gagging against Dream’s cock. Dream feels it bump the back of his throat and work itself even deeper. There’s something new in his desperate eyes, something Dream hasn’t seen on him before—like he’s trying to prove to Dream that he deserves more.

He moves his hand down to touch his own rapidly thickening dick, and Dream laughs at him, tugs the back of his hair so his mouth loosens around his cock. “What do you think you’re doing?” He asks. 

George just shakes his head and goes back to sucking Dream’s dick down his mouth. It gets easier with every second that passes, and the intensity rises in heartbreaking level, like George is trying to prove every fucking point in his playbook to him now , for some reason. 

“ Fuck , George,” he says, when he finally realizes his voice still works. “You have no idea how nice your mouth feels.” George blinks tears down his cheeks. Dream knows his tenderness is unfamiliar, but he can’t help the hand that reaches down to brush them away from George’s cheeks. “You gonna make me cum, sweetheart?”

George nods, slightly, and pulls off of his cock, moving away to pump lightly at the head so that he can lick his lips as he watches Dream close his eyes against his orgasm.

Cocky. They’re both too cocky for each other’s own good. I really shouldn’t be here , Dream thinks, and then grabs ahold of his dick and looks at George, says, “Close your eyes,” in a strained voice, and cums into his mouth.

George swallows, because of course he does—he can’t even be real. He’s probably lifted from one of Dream’s wet dreams. He’s perfect, except for the fact that he belongs to fucking Techno’s side of town.  It’s definitely penance for one of his many crimes, Dream thinks dully—this is what he gets, for everything he’s done.

George leans back on his heels, catching his breath as he wipes at his face with the sweater-paw on one of his arms. “You can leave, if you want,” and his voice is still a little hoarse. Dream frowns, and then sinks his back onto the front of the door.

“I’m not going to leave,” he says. 

Someone bangs on the door. He turns around. “ Busy !” he yells, and then looks over at George again, watches him cross his legs so that he can rest his chin on top of his knees. “Come on, I’m not going to leave you in here after you just gave me the best head of my life.”

“I don’t know if it was the best head,” George mutters, but at least he’s smiling a little as he wipes leftover tears from the corner of his eye. It’s yet another series of intrusive thoughts of Dream’s when he leans forward and wipes them from his cheeks for him. “I’ve never seen a piercing like yours before.”

“Prince Albert,” Dream says, and then leans forward again. “Feels even better when it’s inside you.” 

Someone knocks on the door again. “Jesus Christ, I’m fucking busy in here!” Dream yells for the second time—if only to watch George smile back at him again. He stands up and rips the door open, making sure George is still planted behind him.

He expects Sapnap, maybe, or even a confused partygoer who really needs a piss, but what he doesn’t expect is the disgruntled security guards they’d managed to sneak through at the front of the club. “Not you again,” the rough man snarls at him, and Dream sucks in air between his teeth.

“Listen, fellas,” he says, even as the second one reveals himself behind him, crowding him into the bathroom. “I think there may have been a bit of a—”

“You know you’re on Techno’s side of the city, asshole,” one of them tells him. “And you know what that means—we get to do whatever the fuck we want to you.”

“If you can catch me first,” Dream says.. The guard pushes at his chest, and Dream hits back before he can stop himself, slamming his shoulder into his chest so that the top of his head catches the guard in the jaw.

He cries out, but the thump of bruising doesn’t seem to stop him from catching Dream in the exact same way, turning around to shove a fist against his face. Dream yelps out, feeling the blood spurt down onto his clothes. Before the guard’s arm can swing down at his head again, he pushes himself through the gap under his arm, threading himself through the crowd.

It’s only when he’s being followed by two security guards that people start to notice who he is; he meets the glares with as much of a smirk as he can muster, looking around himself in paranoia for somewhere he can catch his breath. 

He definitely can’t take the front exit, but he’s familiar enough with the clubs on this half of Miami that he figures this one can’t be that different from the rest of the ones he’s snuck into on Bad’s behalf. Which means that if he goes through the employee’s break rooms, chances are he’ll find the second exit out into the dumpsters of the club. 

Once he pushes through the unlocked break rooms, he ends up right—and when he does finally bounce through the back alleys and to the convenience store where they’d parked in front of, he finds both Wilbur and Sapnap smoking cigarettes and waiting for him.

“Oh, come on,” he says, coming to a halt as they both take in his state of bleeding: he knows he’s not in much better condition on the rest of his face, either, but his nose is the most immediate problem at hand. “You couldn’t have helped me out back there?”

“We got out the minute you decided to take your boytoy to the bathrooms,” Sapnap says dryly. “Was it worth it, Dream?” 

“Hell yeah, it was worth it,” Dream says.

“Glad to hear that,” George says from behind him, and he flips around to the sight of him. He’s still smiling, a little worn with bruises and his kissed mouth, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He walks closer, tilting Dream’s head up with his fingers. “Keep your head up—we need to stop the bleeding. It was really stupid of you to come here, Dream.” 

“Well, you know me,” Dream says, hyper-aware of the grip of George’s small fingers against his skin, already scraped raw with punches. The gentleness of him almost feels wrong after he’d just gotten the shit beaten out of him. “Stupid.” 

“You should get out of here before they find you,” George says, but before Dream can start to move away, he cuts him off. “No, not you. Your friends.” 

“Us?” Wilbur asks. Dream doesn’t turn around to look at him. “Shit, thanks, mate.” 

“You’re not half bad,” Dream says. “For being one of Techno’s little associates and all.”

“Gee, thanks,” George says wryly, but he’s still grinning. “Neither are you.” 

——

The lines start getting harder to distinguish when they start fucking. Dream doesn’t really know when it happens or why it happens or what kind of an idiot he is to let it happen, because it’s all George’s hands and the curve of his thigh and his mouth making Dream hitch into an embarrassing orgasm on his couch. 

The worst part is that they don’t talk about it. Dream takes him apart every night after George finishes his late shifts and Dream finishes his drug rounds, George falls asleep in his bed, and then they wake up and go back to working or not seeing each other during the daylight.

It’s nice. It’s a routine. And George hasn’t been able to tell, but it’s not like Dream is experienced at this. The part where they have to have—like—conversations. And make decisions about the nature of their relationship or whatever. 

He’s good at the other parts, though. 

They’re on his bed and George’s legs are wrapped around his waist when he starts to whine. “Dream,” he says, when Dream is inching down his torso to push the tip of his cock into his mouth. A week, and he’s already managed to memorize how George likes it—and he knows that’s the problem, the reason George is bucking up into him. This isn’t how George likes it. He nudges his hips up as if to push his cock into Dream’s mouth. “ Dream .” 

“What?” He says, when he pulls away. George clenches his legs together, and his skin takes on a full-body flush—like it’s embarrassing to ask for what he wants. Good , Dream thinks with satisfaction, meeting his fingers against George’s prominent hip-bones. They fit right where they’ve already left bruises. 

 “Nothing,” George says, finally. Dream just hums, nodding, knowing that once he tightens his hand around George’s cock he’s virtually useless, so he does just that. He slows his pace an imperceptible amount, clicking his tongue as he searches for changes on George’s face.

“Are you sure?” He teases. “You’re not holding anything back?” 

“No, I’m ok- aa y,” George says, voice hiccuping when Dream gives a slow, firm twist of his hand. “Not—not being fucking fair. Not at all.” 

“Hmm,” Dream says. “How’s that exactly, sweetheart?” 

“You’re just—” George says, and clenches his legs. “You know what I like.” 

“You have to ask for the things you want,” Dream says, and then feels the goosebumps from the full-body shiver of his skin as he hitches his legs together. One of Dream’s hands snatches between his thighs and plants one of his legs against the bed. “Keep your legs open.”  

It’s not scolding, but it’s close enough for George’s dick to twitch against his stomach. “Sorry,” he says, in a small voice, and Dream just hums, leaning back down to his dick. Before he can mouth at him again, he looks up at George, forcing uncomfortable eye contact.

“Are you going to ask me for what you want?” Dream asks.

George nods without really absorbing the words. Dream raises his eyebrows at him— get on with it, then —and George swallows, his leg twitching under Dream’s palm. “I just want you to fuck me,” he says. “I really want you to—” 

Dream clicks his tongue. He’s still twisting his hand around the head of George’s cock just to watch his thighs twitch, fascinated with the pale swathe of them. “ Politely ,” he says.

And it doesn’t take George hearing it once. Even when he complains, Dream knows he  doesn’t really need to be told things twice—he just likes to watch the different ways Dream will say it. “Please,” he says. “Please fuck me. Please, I need it so bad.”  

“Better,” George says, and he leans back down to press his fingers into George’s slick hole, but before the teasing can overload his senses George says, “Can you—can you do it harder,” and then, “Please?” 

“You remembered,” Dream praises, and then lifts George’s hips off of the bed. “Good boy.” He pulls away, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lifting himself up over George’s torso. “You taste so fucking good.”

He presses their mouths together, making George reach up at him needily, gripping his hair so he can inch his tongue further into Dream’s mouth. Dream can taste his skin on George’s tongue, and there’s an unspoken kind of declaration in it— I like how you taste; I like what you are . Even though they can’t do this. Even though they shouldn’t be doing this. 

“I really...“ George says, trailing off, and Dream says, “C’mon, tell me,” close to his ear, kissing the underside of his jaw, and George says, “I really want you to fuck me,” still holding his hands tight against Dream’s neck, and Dream goes, “Do you, baby?” And George says, “Yes, holy shit, oh my God, please. Please open me up.” 

“Fuck,” Dream says, and then, “Hold on.” He reaches into his bedside table, rattling around amidst old controllers and batteries and bottle caps until he finds his lube. He ducks between George’s legs again.

“I keep forgetting about the piercing,” George says, a little breathless. Dream snickers at that, drizzling lube on his fingers and then pushing the bottle somewhere to his feet. 

“It’s still there,” he says. He runs a finger along George’s rim, and he hisses, his knees twitching with the urge to close his legs. 

“And the tattoos,” George says, and leans forward to run his thumb along the length of Dream’s arm. He furrows his eyebrows, looking down at his skin—he hadn’t realized they’re something George would notice that intensely, but he supposed there had to have been a reason his eyes always zero in on his forearms. “So fucking many. They didn’t hurt?” 

“Not at all,” Dream says. “You know what I want next?” 

“Hmm?” George breathes, still slightly distracted. Dream looks up with him with furrowed eyebrows, the blunt of his pointer finger pressed against him.

“Your name,” he says, and leans up to kiss him. He speaks against his mouth. “I’ll get it on my shoulder. Or over my heart.” 

“What am I, your—girlfriend or something,” George struggles to get out, and then Dream plunges a finger inside—a finger he already knows is longer than George’s, so he relishes the way he struggles against the thickness of it. 

“You’re not my girlfriend,” Dream says. 

“Fucking know that much, Dream,” George says, face flaming. Dream pauses for a moment, wavering slightly, but then he gives a slight shake of his head as if to clear it.

“Or I guess what would be more correct is—never mind, actually,” Dream says, equally losing his focus. Of course Dream had to make it weird. He said he wouldn’t be that guy, and now he’s turned around and become exactly that guy. “We’ll talk about it when I’m not fucking you.” 

“What, with your fingers?” George says, with a lot more snarkiness than Dream prefers out of him. He likes him quiet; he likes him quiet with something stuffed into his mouth, unless he’s begging so nicely.  

“What, you don’t like it?” Dream snaps back, in the same tone, but he’s smirking when he slides another finger in to watch George squirm. 

“I do,” George breathes. “More, please.”

“You can take it?”

“Wouldn’t be asking for it if I couldn’t take it, would I?” 

Dream scoffs at that but slides in a third finger anyway, accentuating the slight wince George must feel by jutting his fingers deeper inside him. “I think you would be,” he says, and props himself on an elbow to watch George’s face distort. “I think you want a lot more than you can actually take.” 

“Maybe a little bit,” George sighs, and sits up to angle his hips in a way that has Dream aiming for his prostate with every hit. His next moan is high-pitched, soft, and when he raises a hand to cover his mouth with a hand, Dream uses a free hand to pull it away from his face.

“Don’t you dare ,” he says, aiming for joking but ending up somewhere along desperate. Everything about George’s voice is a welcome reminder that George seems to want him almost as much as Dream wants him . “C’mon, baby, I want you to—moan for me, okay? C’mon. Pretty little thing. I want to fucking wreck you.”

“Oh my God, please ,” he says. The hit of adrenaline from Dream’s rough hand motions subsides into the heavy strum of his fingers, solid and edging George further over the edge. The bites Dream leaves all over his neck aren’t helping much to ground him in space, either. “ Pleasepleaseplease . Dream. I’ve been good, please, can you just fuck me, I—I want it.” 

“Your voice was made for this, you know,” Dream says, ignoring him completely. He leans up, still with his fingers thick inside George, and kisses him, letting George wrap his hands around his neck so he can yank himself up against the headboard and rut against him. When he pushes away, he moves to bite George’s earlobe. “Begging. Saying my name.” 

“ Fucking fuck,” George hiccups when Dream thrusts against him, as if to prove him wrong. Dream giggles, lightly, and pulls his fingers out. He likes watching George lose himself—the more Dream stops and starts, the more George’s eyes gel over in darkness, the more he starts forgetting the concept of time . It could be four in the morning and he’d be none the fucking wiser. “Oh, fuck you, don’t go.”

“‘S just the lube, angel,” Dream tells him, and then screws it open again to dribble it over his cock. His rings click against the metal of his piercing, and George’s eyelids flutter at the noise. “So impatient. I thought you were being good.”

“I am being good,” George says, and Dream grabs his hips, pushing him up against the headboard so his entrance is level with George’s cock. “Just, please, I—I wanna be good, but I want—really bad—”

“I know,” Dream says consolingly, and leans forward to kiss all over his face, “I know, baby—” and he adjusts himself by gripping the base of his cock and pushes into George, finally, finally, finally , and also painfully, because George gives a shaky breath and Dream has to kiss him through it, feeling the wince against his face. 

The tip of his dick is the easy part, because then Dream has to push the rest of himself into him, and he’s not exactly small—he’s pierced , for God’s sake, and George hasn’t felt him yet. What he didn’t know is that George is also really, really good at helping him ride through it.

It takes a second, but then George is saying, “Okay, I’m—I’m good, holy shit,” and Dream smiles, bottoms out inside him. He moves his head over George’s as he fucks into him, and George whimpers, scrambles his fingers over Dream’s shoulders.

“Oh my God, fuck,” he says, and Dream ducks his hand into George’s neck. He sucks, hard, against a patch of skin on his throat that Dream knows for a fact is already purple. He’s going to make it home looking like he fell down a cliff. 

“Feel good?” He murmurs, and George breaks, “So good, so fucking good, Dream, fuck, I—“ and he shivers when Dream wraps his fingers around his cock, almost tearing up. “It’s really—“ 

“I know it’s a lot, baby, you’re doing so well,” Dream says, leaning forward to kiss him again. “Look how well you’re taking me, you feel that?” He punctuates it by stabbing his hips forward, the pressure rising to his ears, making George’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “That’s my good boy. You feel so fucking good, I—fuck.” 

“Harder,” George manages, and Dream huffs out a laugh and picks up the pace, grinding his hips against George, and George pulls him down to mouth at his neck, leaning a hand down to grip around his cock. “Dream, I really—I’m close.” 

“Hold on, sweetheart,” Dream says. “I know you can do it, c’mon, been so good. You don’t even know how fucking gorgeous you are.” He kisses George again. He could kiss him forever. He could be here forever, watch him split in half with the weight of the metal inside him. “Fuck, George, I want to do this every fucking second of my life, you’re—perfect, my perfect whore, aren’t you?”

“Yes, fuck , yes,” George gasps, his back lifting off of the bed. “Can I—Dream, please, I have to—“ 

“Wait,” Dream breathes. “You can wait, yeah, George? You can be patient?” 

There’s a beat, and then George flops his forearm over his eyes. “I’ll be patient,” he sobs, the tears dripping daintily into the line of his neck. “I’ll be—Dream, hurts.” 

“Shhh,” he says. “I know. Come here—let me—“ and he grabs George’s cock in his hand, and whispers, “I want you to come for me, George,” and George gasps, arches his back.

“Yesyesyes,” he says, voice catching tightly, and then, “ Yes ,” as he cums all over Dream’s hand, his stomach, and it’s only then when Dream allows himself to cum. He feels himself dribble into George, marking him with warmth that he matches with a sloppy kiss to his neck. 

They stay like that for a minute, and then Dream leans in and kisses him. He knows the sweetness is—rare, if anything, but he knows George needs it. When he pulls out, the piercing glistens with wetness. 

“Good?” He asks lightly.

“Holy shit, yeah ,” George says, sighing in relief as he sits up, rubbing his eyes with his closed fists. “Feel empty.” 

“It’ll feel like that for a while,” Dream says. 

“I’m not very patient,” George says.

Dream looks up from where George is still sitting curled up near his pillow. “I know that, baby. We should leave. I have to get you home then do my rounds.”

“So late?” George asks, but doesn’t force him to elaborate—which is a blessing in disguise, really. Dream doesn’t have it in him to tell him what he does with his time, which is to say he has to make sure everyone on the fringes of Bad’s territory hasn’t been turned by quick sleight-of-hand cash or anything. “Didn’t know Bad worked you guys to the bone like that.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a hard-ass,” Dream says. “That’s the price we pay for protection.” He doesn’t miss the way George scoffs, pulling on his shoes from where he’s sitting opposite Dream on the bed. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” George says. “It’s just—protection? Really? Is that what he tells you?”

Dream doesn’t know why it scalds. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Fine,” George says, like he always does. And usually the conversation would end there, but he seems to find an in the minute he’s in Dream’s shotgun seat and has his feet up on the dashboard, chewing at the black nail polish on his nails. “ Protection , really?” 

Dream sends him a look through his mirror. “Jesus, you’re still on this? Give it a break. This conversation has never ended well.” His phone starts ringing from the backseat. “Shit. Hand me my phone.” 

George rolls his eyes, and bends over to the backseat to hand it to him. Dream checks the ringing number—Quackity. He answers it.

“Yo, asshole,” Quackity says. “You gotta bail out Sapnap tonight. He’s in holding at Ashenhurst.”

Dream closes his eyes. “Shit. Okay, I’ll do that.”

“And call Bad,” Quackity reminds him. “You’ve been slacking.” He hangs up after that, and Dream huffs, draping his wrists over the steering wheel. He looks over at George again, and he picks up their conversation again very quickly, because he’s fucking George and he likes starting shit more than anything else. 

“Because you always avoid the question,” George tells him. “That’s why I’m still on it. You always give me some bullshit about how Bad’s a good boss, really, but all I ever see is him overworking you and paying you like shit. Just enough for those pretty rings, huh?” 

“You don’t usually run your mouth after I’ve already given you what you want,” Dream says. 

“Oh, yeah?” George says, provoking him. “What do I want , Dream?” 

“It sounds like you want me to pull over and fuck you again,” Dream says. 

George rolls his eyes. “I told you I wasn’t fucking patient.” 

“I didn’t think you were,” Dream says. “At all. Can’t think about anything else but some cock inside you, huh? Get in the back.” 

George goes quickly, slithering through the middle of the seats. Dream has to get out of the driver’s seat and pull George onto his lap once he’s sitting down in the backseat, and George’s fingers find his belt with expert ease, his heavy breath panting against Dream’s neck. His lips are cold and his tongue is hot against his collarbone. 

“Fucking finally ,” George says, once he has Dream’s jeans down his thighs. “God, let me—”

“I’m not hearing any begging,” Dream says, and watches the flush on George’s neck work its way down the rest of his torso. He’s covered in bites, bites marking the spots where Dream’s mouth has already mapped. “How else am I supposed to believe you if you don’t beg for me, sweetheart?” 

“Please,” George blurts out, against his own pride. “I’ll do anything, just—just please fuck me, please , it hurts, I’m so—“ and he looks down at his cock as if that’s enough of an indication, feeling his thighs tremble with the pressure of not forcing himself into a ruined orgasm. It’s almost pathetic. It would be pathetic, if it wasn’t earth-shatteringly delicious. “Please, really. Please.”  

George grabs ahold of Dream’s shoulders and he grabs George’s hips, helping him melt onto his cock easily. “So fucking cold ,” he hisses, when the piercing works itself into his hole, the tip of it finding his prostate as fast as it usually does. “Ah— fuck —”

“Said you wanted it,” Dream snaps at him—but he’s not annoyed. He couldn’t be. Not with George like this , mouth open against their conjoined hot air and tasting like sweat and money and sin. And anyway, no matter how much he wriggles against the overstimulation, Dream always takes it as a personal challenge to maneuver George into whatever positions he likes, and that includes the nights when he’s decided to be nice. 

But he doesn’t want to be nice. “Already so fucking wet,” Dream murmurs, and digs his fingernails into his hips so that George’s ass meets his crotch quicker. George cries out, and he can feel the press of his exhausted tears against his neck.

“Oh, fuck ,” he says. “So fucking—it’s a lot. So much… can I—”

He moves to grind his hips against Dream’s lap, but Dream cuts him off with a steely, “No.” 

“No?” George repeats, like he’s being unfair. And Dream knows he’s being unfair—the clenched tightness around him is certainly unfair, the piercing barely scratching an itch George needs fucking stabbed . 

“I told you I had work,” Dream says. “I’m supposed to drop everything because you need something inside of you? You should be grateful for what you’re getting.” 

“Dream,” George whines. “But I was—I was being good .” 

“You were,” Dream says. “But only after you weren’t. Have to cancel it out, don’t you think? So be a good boy and stay still in my lap while I answer some calls.” 

George squirms as Dream reaches over him so he can grab his phone, looking through his missed calls. Three from Bad, one from Fundy, two from Wilbur. 

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, leaving George to tuck his face over his shoulder and try his hardest not to bite. “Bad? What’s up, man?” 

Bad starts rattling off more shit Dream needs to do—drop off shipments in the north, make sure the line of convenience stores on Lincoln have paid off their overdue protection debts, see if he and Wilbur are making the drops to Tampa this weekend—but he’s barely paying attention because whenever he shifts his hips George starts trembling. 

“I’ll have to ask him,” Dream tells Bad, furrowing his eyebrows. “We might be busy this weekend. We’ve got duties at the warehouse.” He looks down and grabs George’s cock in his hand. He can see it aching with pink at the base, and George gasps—like every inch of his skin is a match dipped in gasoline, writhing with sensitivity. 

“What duties?” Bad says. “Tell Quackity I told you to reschedule. I need you in Tampa. They trust you in Tampa.” 

“True,” Dream says thoughtfully, and rolls his hips again to watch George’s face. He wonders if George can tell he’s doing it on purpose. He hiccups, and his cock starts to stiffen again from where it’d been steadily softening. “I think it’s the British thing.”

“Whatever it is,” Bad says, “I need you both in Tampa. What’s that noise behind you?”

“What noise?” Dream asks innocently, and dips his phone between his ear and shoulder so he can stick his fingers in George’s mouth. He gags, pushing his mouth forward and grabbing ahold of Dream’s wrist with two small hands. “Just watching something, sorry. Okay, we’ll reschedule, but I don’t know if there’s anyone else who can—”

“There’s gotta be a crony who’s not too busy,” Bad says. “Tell him to shift some people around or something. What goes down at the warehouse isn’t my problem.” 

 “Hurts,” George breathes. Dream grabs his face with one wet hand, covering his mouth tightly as his thumb digs into his throat.

“I’m about to make it to Lincoln, so don’t worry about that,” he says. “You know Sapnap’s in holding at Ashenhurst?”

“Come on ,” Bad says. “Again? That guy can’t be careful even if his life depends on it. God—If Puffy’s working the night shift, tell her to take care of it.” 

Another person to call. Another distraction from George. “I’m on it,” Dream says dully. 

“Matter of fact, I’ll tell her myself,” Bad says. “Hold for a sec.” The phone call pauses, and George notices immediately—he gulps down extra air and starts to steady himself with his fingers in Dream’s hair.  

“Dream,” George says. “My—can’t you just—touch me?“ 

“Touch you?” Dream asks. “I can touch you.” He runs his hand down into George’s crotch from his clothed stomach and takes his cock into his hand, and George all but yelps, his cock stiffening in Dream’s hand as his thighs start to shake, something unseen rising across his throat, until—

Nothing. 

“Wha—“ George says, and leans up. Dream grins at him and puts his hands on his hips again, keeps him solid in place while he sits up so he deepens into him. 

“What?” Dream asks, entirely indifferent—trying to keep his voice low. He knows Bad’s on hold, but he doesn’t want his boss hearing him fuck one of his enemy’s associates. That could never end well. “I touched you, didn’t I?”

“But more,” George says. “For—for longer, please, please .”

Dream laughs at him a little and wraps his warm hand around his cock again, lets George fuck up into his fist. “Too much?” Dream asks him, and George gasps, nodding without saying anything, his mouth forming invisible words. 

And then—

“You still here?” Bad asks. 

“Yeah, man, I’m here,” Dream says. 

“No, no, no,” George sobs, and drops his head against Dream’s neck again, and Dream laughs, kissing his sweaty forehead.

“Turn off your show, man,” Bad says. “We’ve got business to attend to. As I was saying. Puffy will handle Sapnap, which leaves you more time to…” 

It’s hard to pay attention with his lips on George’s forehead. The tiny display of tenderness is almost enough to make George cum on a good day, but Dream won’t have any of that—if he decides to be a brat, he’s going to get what’s coming to him. “Yeah, man, I totally get it,” Dream says aimlessly, pumping his hand against George’s cock. “We’ve definitely gotta get all this shit sorted before Tampa.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Bad says. “And the shipments for the north? Eret’s getting antsy.”

“In my trunk, don’t worry about that,” Dream says easily. It’s about then that George seems to realize he’s going to have to play this dirty. He runs his mouth along Dream’s neck, playing it like an accident, but then he finds the spot over his collarbone that Dream likes, and he bites at him, licks over the bruise he forms with his teeth. 

Dream can’t help the sensitive thrum of pleasure he feels on his skin at the sensation, but he doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t do anything else, either. “ Dream ,” George whines under his ear. Dream wishes he’d stop—he’s getting impatient, too. He’s running out of ideas. 

“Once you drop them off, call Quackity,” Bad says. “Reschedule your shifts. I’m counting on you for this one, dude. We needed the stuff in Tampa yesterday .” 

“Got it, boss,” Dream says, and hangs up. George doesn’t seem to have enough energy to take advantage of the silence; he sniffles, draping his face over Dream’s shoulder in defeat. 

“Oh, baby, look at you,” Dream says, and takes George’s jaw in his palm. He nuzzles into it with his eyes tamped shut like Dream is going to take it away immediately. “Does it hurt, George?”

“So bad,” George agrees, before he can even finish his question. “So, so bad. Dream, I—I need to, I really need to.”

“I know,” Dream says consolingly, and cups his cheek in one hand to wipe the tears away with his thumb. “Mean of me, isn’t it, sweetheart? Bring you so close, so many times—” he brushes a kiss underneath George’s ear, so light it’s almost not there. “And then never let you finish. Poor baby. Poor George.” His eyes study his face for just a moment, fall with an inordinate amount of calmness. “Can I hear your color?”

“Green,” George breathes. It’s painful enough for a yellow, but he’s never safeworded because something hurts. Only if something hasn’t hurt enough . He may have his own slew of mental problems, but then again—Dream does too. 

Dream runs his hand along George’s throat and squeezes, hard enough that George has to breathe in through his nose when Dream talks to him. “I’d almost feel bad if you didn’t deserve it,” he says, and wraps his hand along George’s cock again. This time getting him close barely takes a few seconds, and then George is flinging his head back, lips chapped and mouth dry and spit running down the corners of his mouth, eyes filled with tears, body aching with bruises and the weight of keeping himself firm on Dream’s lap. It’s too much for Dream, too. He has his own limits. It feels like he’s distanced from his body. 

“George,” Dream says, still with his hand around his neck, and kisses him. “What do you think? Are you ever going to distract me when I’m busy again?”

“No,” George whimpers. “No, I’ll never do it again, I promise, sir, I—I promise. Please. I’m so sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“I know you are, sugar,” Dream says, gently combing George’s sweaty hair off of his face. “Look at you. I’ve never seen you this desperate. You going to remember this the next time you try to fuck with my work?”

“ Yes ,” George sobs. 

Dream runs his hand far enough to the back of his head to tug at his hair, presses his mouth along his neck where his fingers have left heavy blue marks. He kisses at them, and then kisses at George. “And you’re not going to just be a brat when you want my attention?” 

“I won’t,” George whines, still with his eyes firmly shut so he doesn’t cry harder. “I promise. I promise I won’t be a brat.”

“There you go,” Dream says. “Wasn’t so hard, was it? Here’s what I want you to do, George.” He places his hands back on his thighs, digs his fingernails deep into his flesh. “You’re going to ride me until you cum untouched on my cock.”

“Yesyesyes,” George says. “Yes. Oh my God, yes, fuck , thank you—thank you, thank you, Dream, thank you—” and he pushes his head back where it belongs underneath Dream’s neck, and he digs his hips against him, and finally, finally, finally , Dream gets to fuck into him again, meeting him with the same amount of force George has been giving him. 

But of course he doesn’t let George touch his cock. He’s not that kind. He pushes George’s hands behind his back and holds both of his wrists in one hand, and then he’s using his other hand to press his thumb and forefinger against the soft spots underneath George’s jaw. 

George shuts his eyes, opens his mouth to gasp against far-away air, and he pushes his head even harder against Dream’s hand, and he says, “Dream, I’m there, please please please ,” and Dream tightens his hand and pushes his mouth against George’s ear, breathes, “You can, baby, you can cum as long as you don’t touch that cock,” and George says, “But—” and Dream says, “ But nothing, because you’re my good boy and you’re going to listen to every little fucking thing I tell you to do, aren’t you? Aren’t you, George? You’re going to cum whenever I tell you to, and you’re going to be my perfect fucking slut until I wring every last drop out of you, so go ahead, angel, show me how good you can be for me.”

“ Fuckyesfuckfuck ,” George says, entirely in one breath, and cums. He unearths himself from Dream’s grip and presses his head against his shoulder, his cock spurting out cum without any intervention from his part, and then Dream is groaning into his ear and releasing into him, stuttering his hips into him with gentle moans.

When he’s finished, Dream kisses his neck again, and lifts George’s face up to study him with his cheeks in both hands. “Don’t cry,” he says, finally, and wipes George’s tears away with his thumbs. “Aw, don’t cry, George. It’s over now, isn’t it? Didn’t hurt too much?” 

“God, no,” George says. “It didn’t hurt enough .” 

And Dream cracks a smile, kisses the corner of his mouth. He’s never been in love, but he’s worried he’s going to be. “That’s my boy.” 

——

It was George’s idea that they only choose one place to meet so that they don’t fuck up relations between the two sides of town. Dream might roll his eyes at the fact that he’s so insistent about staying safe, but he has to admit that being found out could never end well.

Which is why George showing up to his place of work is not the most welcome fucking surprise in the world.

“Oh, shit,” he says, peeking out through the barred windows of the warehouse when he spots George exiting his car. It’s a beat-down shitty little Toyota that Dream has full-on offered to replace more than once, but he’s usually been met with George offering to punch him in the face, so it’s never worked out successfully. He watches him walk up to the door, but before he can do something stupid like knock , Dream runs to the door and lets him inside.

“You fucking asshole !” George says, stomping inside and pushing Dream straight against the chest. “I’ve been calling you, you piece of shit, you think you can just—”

“Woah,” Quackity says, and steps in between them both to push George closer to the door. “Who the fuck are you?” 

Dream shakes his head a little to clear it. “It’s my—”

“George,” George says, and sticks out a hand. Quackity, who’s wearing the most inconspicuous clothes he owns on account of having to spend his evening counting out kilos of drugs, blinks. And then he takes George’s hand. “It’s George.” 

“Okay,” Quackity says warily. And then George turns his anger in the opposite direction.

“ You ,” he snaps, and points a finger in Dream’s face. “I specifically told you—any time you have to leave the state for more than three fucking days, you let me know. You let me know , Dream. You don’t assume the message will just be relayed to the other side of fucking Miami—”

“Keep your voice down,” Dream says coaxingly, putting his hands on George’s shoulders. “I thought we were only going to Tampa, okay? I told you I’d be out, I just didn’t know I’d be—”

“That’s why you find out and fucking tell me ,” George says, and his eyes flash with something unknown. It’s only then that Dream realizes that he looks a little scared. A little flustered. He gulps, straightening his back and blinking his eyes haphazardly.

“Hold on,” Quackity says, evidently just catching on to who George is. “Is he—”

“I’ll explain later,” Dream tells him. “Come on. Follow me.”

He takes George to the backrooms—more specifically, Quackity’s office, because he has the keys and he has a really nice loveseat couch. His ancient PC is sitting unplugged on his desk. George slams the door behind him once they’re inside, making the table rattle.

“I can’t believe you,” he says. “Really. Dream, I was worried .” 

Dream doesn’t know whether to walk closer. George has never been gentle with him: he’s not a cuddler, even though the soft glow in his eyes always says he is, and he’s never been a person who Dream’s been able to hold close unless they’re fucking, even though he spends most of his free time thinking about doing just that. He tries anyway: he moves closer, pushing fingers against George’s arm to tug him into his chest. 

George let him. 

“I was worried,” he says again, and turns his face into Dream’s chest. “I didn’t know where you were , and I couldn’t ask, because—because the last time I asked, Karl and Ant thought you owed me money and they wanted to come and beat the shit out of you.”

“I’d have managed against them,” Dream murmurs. George smells like apples and gingerbread—like something homely that can melt in his mouth. 

“I don’t doubt that,” George says, and pulls away. He wipes at his nose; he’s wearing Dream’s jacket. “Don’t think I’m not fucking pissed off at you. You should’ve told me.”

“I meant to tell you,” Dream tries, and George grits his teeth and puts a hand against his chest to shove him onto the couch again. Dream falls, the back of his head catching against the swirling wooden designs at the top of the couch. “I was just—”

“You were just what ?” George says, steely. He climbs into Dream’s lap, pinning him down with the full weight of his hips. “If you’re going to say you didn’t want to worry me, that’s not going to fucking cut it. I would’ve been less worried if you told me.” 

“I know that,” Dream says. “I’m just not used to—I’m not used to telling people, okay, George? I’m not used to having people to come home to.” He grimaces at the declaration, even as George’s face softens. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” George asks.

“Like I’m a pussy,” Dream says. “You can think it, but don’t fucking say it.”

“I wasn’t going to say it,” George says, voice ending on a faint giggle. His fingers, which had been running gently through the back of Dream’s head, tighten against his hair imperceptibly. “You still haven’t apologized.” 

“For what?” Dream asks. George tugs, this time, making Dream hiss air between his teeth. “ Ow , goddamn. What’s gotten into you?” 

“Question’s more like what hasn’t gotten into me,” George says, and one of his hands reaches up to pin Dream’s wrists above his head. His touch is gentle, careful, and Dream knows he could get away if he wanted to, so he just relaxes and smiles up at him loosely.

“That’s what this is, huh?” Dream says. He rolls his hips up against George’s ass, watching his tongue flick out against his bottom lip. “You missed me that bad?” 

“Yeah, that fucking bad,” George says, and something gives a heavy jingle over the top of Dream’s head. There’s a flash of coldness against his wrists, and he has to crane his neck to look up at the top of the loveseat, because—

“Oh, god damn it,” he says. “Did you just cuff me?” 

George is still smiling at him sweetly, running his fingers against Dream’s hair. I suppose you like being in them , Dream remembers him saying, and his face burns a little because—he wasn’t even wrong. But he’d never have admitted to that then. 

“Are you going to say you’re sorry?” George says. 

“I’m—I had work, I’m not going to apologize for doing my fucking job,” Dream says. George bends down, tugging Dream’s jeans down the length of his legs quickly. He pushes a hand around his cock, pumping absently as he lays his head down on his inner thigh, peppering his skin with bites. 

“You know work’s not everything,” George says.

“ You’re really gonna try and say that shit to me?” Dream says. George rolls his eyes, and his touch disappears—his hands find their way under Dream’s hardening cock to play with his balls. “Oh, fuck you . That’s how you’re going to play this?” 

“Play what?” George asks. He bends down, pressing a kiss against the side of Dream’s cock. He runs his tongue against the piercing. “I’ve missed your cock in my mouth. You’re not going to deny me that, are you, baby?” 

“‘Course not,” Dream grunts, and shifts his thighs again as if to force the tip of his piercing into George’s mouth. “But you’re not even—”

“Maybe I don’t feel like it quite yet,” George says, the evil bastard—but Dream can’t even be mad at him, the way his face tilts into a smile tinged with teasing. The things that go on inside his head are infinitely unknowable, but that doesn’t mean Dream is going to stop trying. “Maybe I want the apology first.”

“You’re not getting shit until my cock’s in your mouth,” Dream says.

“Oh, yeah?” George asks him, slightly threatening. Scratch that: a lot more than slightly . Dream’s never liked it when he gets in the mood for revenge. “You’re the one who’s handcuffed. I’m sure you regret not knowing how to get out of them now, huh?” 

“Oh, come on ,” Dream says, feeling his face flame. “Sapnap’s just gotta teach me, all right? I’ll learn eventually. I’m just putting it off.”

“What you always say,” George says, and then takes the tip of his cock into his mouth. He takes the rest of Dream down easily, even when he gags prematurely at the cool glow of the piercing against his throat. He looks up, eyes fluttering against pushed-back tears. This is how Dream likes him best.

He flings his head back, hissing in air between his teeth so he can take the most advantage of the friction and the roof of George’s mouth before he pulls it away, because he pulls it away—and he pulls it away slowly, lets the sensations leave gradually until Dream’s panting for more. “Fuck,” he says, his voice a lot lower than anticipated. “So fucking good with your mouth.”

“I know,” George says indifferently, and runs his hand along the length of Dream’s cock again. “I’ve been told.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dream says. He knows it’s just a ploy to nudge at his jealousy, but goddamn it if it doesn’t work. “By who?” 

“Just you,” George tells him, “Course it’s just you—” and then he takes him down again—the sloppiness causing spit to spread down the rest of Dream’s cock. He moves his jaw forward until the rest of Dream’s cock is nudged down his throat, the piercing scraping against the back of his throat. He blinks up at him, taking Dream deeper, deeper, until it hurts too much to keep going.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna fucking cum,” Dream says, and then George pulls away. Dream grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to scream. He ignores the clammer of George onto his body. “You’re ruining my fucking life right now, princess.” 

“Bummer,” George says, sounding slightly too cheerful for the circumstance. “Maybe now you know how it feels when you left me in the fucking dust for Alabama, huh?” 

“Not the same,” Dream says. When he opens his eyes again, he can almost feel the saliva fill his mouth at the sight of George without his jeans on—his waist narrows down into his ass, already prepped against Dream’s aching cock. His dick flops against his stomach in its perfect pinkness, and Dream wants to touch it so badly—touch him so badly—but he can’t. Of course he fucking can’t. “You gonna ride me?” 

“If you ask,” George says.

“You’re not about to make me fucking ask,” Dream says.

“And you’re not about to leave without telling me where the fuck you’re going again,” George says, voice lighting-quick against Dream’s drugged drawl. One of his hands snatches out and takes Dream jaw in his hand. “Are you?”

Dream waits a beat. He’s stubborn, yes, but—he’s also human. He’s won enough times, he figures. “Yes,” he says meekly, and watches George’s hand grab the front of his shirt so he can start to lower himself back over his cock. “Yes, God, I swear. I’ll fucking—I’ll let you put a fucking tracking collar around my throat if you want, George, just—just let me fuck you.” 

“Don’t tempt me,” George breathes, and finally— finally —lowers himself onto Dream’s cock. Dream winces at the immediate sensation, already nudging him into an orgasm before he’s ready to meet it head-on. The combination of George’s body, the heavy roll of his thighs, the scratch of the handcuffs against him—it’s all adding up to be too fucking much. “Don’t—you really shouldn’t—fuck. You shouldn’t tempt me.”

“Fuck,” Dream says. “You look—you look so fucking good like this, God. Fucking angel from heaven.”

“Angel from heaven, huh?” George repeats, sweat dotting his forehead, and then he stops. There’s no red marks on hips, no faded bruises on his chest and throat, and Dream doesn’t know what the fuck to do when he can’t touch him. He is an angel from heaven, because Dream doesn’t get to fucking touch angels from heaven. “So you’ll do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Dream says. Anything to let me cum . “I’ll put on a fucking tutu and sing you God Save the Queen , if that’s what it takes. Just let me fuck you.” 

“Don’t need a song,” George says dryly, and drapes his wrists across the back of Dream’s neck. “What I do need is a fucking apology.”

Dream squeezes his eyes shut. He knows he’s sorry: he doesn’t want George to be sad about anything, ever, especially when it has to do with him. If anyone ever hurt him, he’d probably rip off their fucking arms, and now George is sitting here asking him for an apology when—when Dream could give him so many things better than that. If he could just touch him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, finally. George smiles at him, combing his sweaty locks out of his eyes so he can tilt his chin up and they can look at each other again. And Dream loves looking at him—watching the brown in his eyes turn to golden light—but he doesn’t like forcing himself into sincerity, even when he means it. “I’m really sorry, baby. I mean it.” 

“That’s all I needed,” George murmurs, and runs his hand down Dream’s neck. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

“Not at all,” Dream says. “So let me cum inside you.” 

“Say please , why don’t you?” George says. He leans forward and nuzzles a kiss into the intersection of Dream’s jaw and neck. “Taught me my manners, it’s only fair I teach you yours.”

“Shit,” Dream says. He can’t keep living like this. If he keeps living like this, he’s going to move George to some secluded farm in the country and spend the rest of his life kissing him and making him unravel. “Okay. Okay, fine. Please —please let me fuck you properly. Please.” 

“I like that a lot better,” George hums, and finally, finally moves his hips again—and God, it feels like everything at once, every headrush and smoke session that Dream’s ever experienced smashed together into the weight of his body. 

He runs his nails across the front of Dream’s throat, the back of his neck, and brings his mouth to the side of his head, biting teeth against his earlobe. His mouth finds its way to Dream’s neck, and for what feels like the first fucking time, Dream feels a pitiful whine feel his throat. “So fucking good ,” he says, throaty, and George bites him again, running a tongue across the bruise before brushing himself to the front of his throat.

“Want you to cum for me,” he murmurs, speeding up the pace as Dream nods along with his words. “Want you to cum for me and I’ll—I’ll cum at the same time.”

“Fuck,” Dream says, and watches him take his cock in his hand as he grips it into a heavy-handed pump, one hand still loosely relaxed across Dream’s shoulder as they both—wait, wait, and then hitch into the same daze-filled orgasm, Dream’s voice matching the heavy pant from the back of George’s throat. 

George pauses to a halt, pressing another gentle kiss to Dream’s mouth. “Wasn’t so hard, was it?” He murmurs, and Dream can’t muster anything but an exhausted laugh in response because he’s so fucking spent. His cock still twitches inside George, and he has to pull himself off gently to make sure Dream doesn’t disappear all at once.

“You’re not leaving me like this, are you?” Dream asks him, and flexes his hands. George laughs, reaching down to his bundle of clothes to find the key for the handcuffs. He bites his lip, undoing them easily. They clammer to the floor, and then Dream takes him in another kiss.

“I really like,” George says, and pulls away from his mouth, “When your hands—” he meets him in another kiss, “—Are in my hair.” He punctuates his words with another kiss on Dream’s neck, and then frowns at the crinkle of plastic he hears under Dream’s shirt. “What’s that?”

Dream grimaces. He’d been hoping for more time, at least—when it was fully healed, maybe, and when he’d be able to explain himself without his brains being completely stirred by the best sex of his life. “I was going to tell you,” he says, but George ignores him, pulling his shirt up over his chest. “Um, so since we were out of the state for a lot longer than I anticipated, I figured—”

“Holy shit,” George says, and brushes his fingers over the tattoo. “Is that my name?”

Dream doesn’t know what else it could be. He’d walked into the parlor and spent way too long deciding what font to use for his name, what placement, but the minute he looked in the mirror to choose a part of his body, he’d known where it would go—directly over his heart. Right where he’s always belonged. “Um, yeah. It is.” George still doesn’t say anything, and Dream peers at his face with something akin to fear. “Is that okay? I mean, do you like it?” 

“Yes, I fucking like it,” George says, out of nowhere, and leans down and kisses it. The plastic still itches against his reddening skin, but Dream ignores the pain because George doesn’t stop peppering kisses over his chest, up his neck, finally meeting him with a kiss on his mouth as he grabs his face in his hands. “Obviously I fucking like it, are you mental ?” He asks, and kisses him again—harder, this time. “I love it, Dream. I love you.” 

“I love you,” Dream blurts back, because it had been on his tongue all along—how the fuck isn’t he patient ? He’s been waiting to tell him that since he met him. “God, I love you. I love you so much.” 

“Oh, thank fuck ,” George says, still smiling against his mouth. “I was hoping you meant it so badly. This isn’t—I never thought I’d end up with someone like you, you know? This can’t be safe.”

“I don’t give a shit about being safe,” Dream says. “I mean, of course we’ll have to be careful, but I’m not throwing you away for—for Techno and Bad. For the weird shit this town’s got going on. You know? You’re worth more than that.” 

George’s smile blooms under his hand. Finally , Dream thinks. Fucking finally . He’s missed it more than fucking anything. “You mean that?” 

“Yeah, I mean that, sweetheart,” Dream says. And it feels true: he’s tried smoking and snorting and crushing up whatever he could find, and he’s tried making more money than he knows what to do with and fucking up people who don’t deserve it, but nothing’s ever compared. Nothing’s ever compared to him . “You’re worth more than a clean fucking million. Of course I mean it.”