Notes

Dream has collected strange obsessions since he was young. Different niches, cluttered hyper fixations, vehemently defending his interests until he gained the awareness to keep them to himself.

He thinks too much. One subtle hint can tip him into month-long spirals of compulsive behavior and overwhelming fascinations. As he grew older, he became more conscious of controlling his obsessions and peacefully handling his rampant brain. Every once in a while, however, something unexpected and strong enough could bring him to his knees.

He didn’t think it would happen when George was streaming, though.

A bizarre donated message blinked across the stream while he was on call, midst their messing around on the SMP. A hoard of members took it upon themselves to grill George on mildly sex-related content to make him uncomfortable, and one subscriber joined in.

It read: hey gogy is it true that the head of a dude’s d*ck is the same color as his lips?

The chat erupted with disapproval and a series of 'weirdchamps.'

For some reason, Dream felt himself stall when George rolled his eyes, and smiled.

His gaze slipped to George’s mouth—his soft, pink lips stark against his pale skin and white teeth. Flushed, warm, and inviting.

Fuck.

Dream can only imagine that shade of pretty pink between George’s thighs.

“Is it true, George?” He asks accidentally, a bit breathless. The call erupts with laughter, bringing him back to reality.

“Shut up,” George says, but his teeth sink into his lower lip for a brief moment of hesitation.

Dream feels the infatuation begin before he can guide his attention away—the elation that rises in his chest, eyes widening, red-fired thoughts pinging around in his brain with an excitement he hasn’t felt in months.

And yet, it’s George.

He tears his eyes away from the screen.

In all their years of friendship, he’s clawed and prayed and begged for it to be anything but George. Skirting around words in conversations that could trigger his fall, leaving calls when the fake-flirting becomes too much, not letting his mind wander late at night. Not letting his hand sink beneath cotton covers, or slide up the warm skin of his inner thigh.

He always stops himself before he reaches anywhere, anything that could mean it’s real.

His gaze dances back over George’s mouth again. He wants, more than anything, for it to be real.

“—home for the holiday,” George is saying when Dream finally regains the half-mind to listen, “but I’ll be back in Florida sometime soon. I don’t know.”

They’d lived together for half a year, now, yet Dream would hardly call it that. George flies back to see his parents and dog and bakery two-blocks from his house more times than Dream has visited his own mother. He’s never sure why, but George has always been like this—guarded, flighty, strange. There have been days where Dream felt they’d grown closer than ever; sharing blankets and meals and snuggling on couches for movie marathons. But then George leaves again, and Dream is left to wonder.

He always, always wonders.

“Gogy,” an obnoxious, British voice says, “what is ‘humping?’”

Laughter erupts. Dream feels a headache looming.

“I’m gonna go,” he mumbles quickly, exiting the game. “Bye.”

He stalls when closing George’s stream, watching his brows tense and lips purse in confusion before responding, “Uh, okay. Bye, Dream.”

He disconnects, closes tabs, and heaves himself from his chair.

His lips.

Scratching his back idly, Dream meanders out of his office and to the bathroom.

His mouth.

He rubs at his eyes, murmuring, “Not again.”

Down the slope of his thin, lightly-toned stomach, between dark trails of hair and milky-white thighs, his—

Dream shuts the door loudly behind him.

He slings himself over the sink, palms cooled by the granite vanity. His eyes bore into his own reflection in the recently-cleaned mirror, over his sturdy jaw and light spatter of freckles.

He raises a hand, and runs his fingers softly over his own lips.

When his wrist lowers, it’s nearly trembling.

The images and memories of George’s mouth—chewing his lip, opening wide in a shout, glistening absently with a pink swipe of his tongue—fold in on themselves as Dream feels the realization wrack through him.

It is the same color.

-

The obsession is light, at first. Innocent. Made of scattered thoughts; wandering urges.

When George Facetimes him to ask a few quick questions about editing a channel video, Dream finds himself tossing more jokes and teasing than usual, just to see George smile.

He begins to notice how often George licks his lips while streaming, a symptom of nervousness that he’d never quite picked up on before. His eyes snap to George’s mouth at every flicker of movement, watching him gently draw the pink in, and swipe over it with light saliva.

He stares whenever he sees him, through his monitors, through his phone. He makes comments about lip balm, lipstick, lip gloss without meaning to. Sapnap makes a low prod that Dream should send them care packages of the cosmetic items he won’t shut up about. George says he wants some.

Dream gazes at the assorted items on Amazon for a long, long time, his heart racing and head swimming. Tinted, pretty lip balm, held between George’s fingers as he traces it over the gentle curve of his mouth.

Tinted, pretty tip the same shade, wrapped in George’s palm as he whines into his fist.

Dream hastily exits the tab without a second thought.

The pull, once slow and polite, starts to change. Soon, he’s thinking less about George’s mouth and more about kissing it. How soft it would feel pressed against his own, how sweet it would taste to sink his teeth in deep and hear George’s breath stutter. He wonders how red and swollen George’s lips would become if he kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

He wonders about what lays between George’s thighs, how many hours of sucking it’d take to turn soft pink into cherry-red. How many hours George could handle, until he’d beg with his hips, and claw at Dream’s scalp, pleading for mercy and sweet release—

His mind refuses to set him free.

He rakes over the pale skin of George’s face, cheekbones, jaw. He studies it. So gentle, so white. The smallest blemish stands out like blossoms in snow.

And to think his face gets the most sun—Dream can only imagine the stark beauty of George’s chest, his stomach, the top of his thighs and the curving slope of his cock.

When he strokes his own, all he can notice is the contrast between the pink, dewed tip and long shaft. All he can think about is George, how pretty the two colors must lay next to each other.

He absolutely despises the viewer who sent the dono in the first place. Apparently, all of their streams have been under duress for similar reasons.

“I can’t believe the mods let some of that stuff through,” Sapnap says one late night after he ended an unsuccessful speed-running stream. “We should probably send them a message, or something.”

Dream mindlessly scrolls through his Twitter timeline, letting them talk absently. He’d been burnt out from a day of distractions already, and hadn’t caught the strange donations Sapnap keeps complaining about.

“Yeah, maybe,” George muses. “Some pretty weird stuff got through on my stream a little while ago, too.”

Dream’s eyes leap from his phone to his monitor, as if George could see him. As if George could tell his pulse quickened without warning.

“Like what?” Sapnap asks.

Is it true, George?

“Nothing too bad,” George explains, “just introducing some of the viewers to stuff they probably shouldn’t be thinking about.”

What does it look like, George?

Dream swallows thickly. “What shouldn’t they be thinking about?”

George huffs. “I don’t know. I meant like, generally. Topics they shouldn’t Google.”

He wants to push. He wants to know if George remembers it, like he does.

His cravings rise, and rise, and rise. “Give me a specific. Let me Google it, and see if you’re in the clear.”

“You’re so weird,” George dismisses. “No.”

“Show us your search history,” Sapnap suggests.

George sighs with irritability, repeating, “No.”

The small moments that slip by them live in Dream ruthlessly. After logging off hours later, his mind is still swarmed with remembering, and possibilities.

His hands slip over the keyboard, in search of websites he shouldn’t visit. Photos he shouldn’t see. He stumbles across a blog of pink mouths, parted lips, soft tongues.

His hand stills on his mouse.

“God fucking dammit,” he breathes, before dragging the first photo that shares a striking resemblance to George onto his desktop.

He’s been here before, countless times. Making private albums that only he can find on his hard drive. Collecting pictures, drooling over them for hours, letting it build. After the first photo he saves, everything else tips downhill fast.

After collecting countless images until well after dark, Dream pulls them up before him as he rolls back in his chair. His head leans against the soft cushion. His hand settles in his lap.

He begins to palm, slowly, at the strained hard-on in his sweats. He’s been as patient as his body would allow.

This is so fucked up.

Shame wraps with pleasure as his eyes flicker over the photos, and his hand slides under his waistband. A hushed breath escapes his mouth.

But no one has to know.

Eyes fixed on the screens before him, he wraps a steady hand around himself.

No one will know, no one will know.

He thinks of George’s pretty, pretty lips as he strokes himself in long, careful motions. He squeezes his tip and drags the precum down with the curl of his fingers; his jaw slackens. Sensations of pleasure and humiliation rush him.

He wonders if George has ever had cum pumped down his throat before.

Did he like the taste of it?

His hands quicken alongside his shallowing breath.

What does he taste like?

Hard and pulsing in his palm, his cock shudders at the images that spell out his desire on the screens before him. Mouths, leaking, pink. The unknown way George would moan with Dream’s tongue against him. The beauty of George’s face with Dream’s spit on his mouth.

His hands ignore the dryness of his skin, and his eyes bore into the abyss of photos. Soft moans escape his mouth when the muscles in his abdomen begin to tense.

It’s embarrassing how quickly Dream brings himself over the edge, jerking through his climax, eyes fluttering as warmth spills in his hands.

He gets off twice that night before the guilt fully weakens him into closing the folder, and cleaning up for good. His body refuses to cease yearning.

-

It only builds from there. He finds more photos when the ones he’s poured over become boring, follows the rabbit hole to porn websites, bookmarking browsers of boys with pale skin and pink tips. Wanting to shut off his monitors and never look back, he adds the prettiest cock pictures he can find to the album. Pictures that capture what he fantasizes George would look like, dripping with precum and flushed and wanting.

He can’t stop. He wakes up hard, goes through endless piles of tissues, takes cold showers and loses himself. His hands keep touching, jerking, grabbing. He hates how he’s been reverted to this state, obsessive and chasing any taste of adrenaline he can.

He screenshots selfies George sends him, for 'no reason.' They’re added to the folder in minutes.

When George sends a video where he mindlessly sips from a straw while responding to something Dream had asked, he keeps it open on loop until he’s cumming in his shorts and forced to clean the slick mess from his hands.

He hates himself, but can’t stop.

After time slips him by, he’s in a call with George, tired and sore from jacking off three times already that day. Feeling particularly clingy and whiny, he asks, “When are you coming back home?”

“Soon, dude,” George says dismissively, “just chill. My parents wanted me here for a few weeks, that’s all.”

“It’s been a few weeks.”

George huffs. “I don’t know why you’re being so bitchy about this.”

Dream frowns with deep, misdirected irritation. “I just miss you. Can’t I miss you?”

“Dunno, Dream,” George says, “you don’t really do stuff half-assed. It’s always, like, everything at once, then I don’t know why you’re mad at me, and then you get all—”

“You’re angry with me now?” he interrupts incredulously.

George makes a half-groan. “Ugh.”

“No, seriously,” Dream says. “That’s unfair.”

“You’re just being annoying today, learn to take criticism—”

Dream scoffs, spitting, “Shut your mouth.”

“Shut your mouth, shut your mouth,” George mocks. “Shut it for me, Dream. Dickhead.”

The insinuation nearly rips a growl from his chest, head flooding with images of his own hands curling over George’s jaw, digging into flesh and forcing his lips shut.

Heat floods to his cheeks. “I’m hanging up.”

“Whatever,” George says with disinterest, oblivious to the storm he’s leaving behind.

Sharp conversations that rise between them aren’t unpleasant, and occur naturally after knowing each other for so many years. Their friendship always tugs and pulls on the strange line that Dream can never decipher.

After they’ve hung up, he craves George’s voice immediately. He wants him to come home. He wants so much that it hurts.

Hours of silence are broken in the late night when George sends him a text. It says:

Tuesday at 4. Get me from the airport.

Excitement courses through his blood, unchecked and malicious until nervousness steps in. Dread. Fear.

His eyes glance at the closed folder he’d transferred to his laptop, after one night when he’d grown tired of sitting in his office, and wanted to view its contents from his bed.

He types back: aight.

George doesn’t respond. Dream considers deleting the collection before he gets home, but decides not to.

I can handle it, he thinks.

-

He can’t handle it.

Getting George from the airport and taking him back to the house happens in a flurry—bickering as usual, tossing bags in the trunk, catching up with casualty and no flicker of what Dream had been feeling for weeks. Months. Years.

It’s normal.

Until Dream wants to trace over George’s lips when he talks, like his eyes have gotten used to through digital connection for hours. He keeps George talking, just to watch the way his mouth forms over words, spellbound.

When he unlocks the front door for them, his body wants to press up against him. He wants to reach. He wants to touch him.

“You look like you haven’t slept in years,” George says while tugging his luggage through the door. “It’s gross.”

Dream’s gaze wanders to George’s thighs, his denim zipper, and sharply snaps back up to his face.

He wants to taste it.

The thought is enough to make him grow pale. He feels like it’s on the tip of his tongue; the donation, the album, his internal thoughts that are tearing clothes off George as he speaks.

So he doesn’t let any of it out.

He retreats back to the photos and videos he has, obsessed beyond anything. Avoiding George, beyond anything.

He wanted him home to be able to see him, hold him, touch him—but now he’s realized what an idiotic mistake that was.

George makes small efforts to reach out, dropping hints of wanting to visit certain restaurants, or asking for help with editing. Dream knows he’s being an asshole every time he says no, that he’s busy, that he’s not feeling up for it.

It’s better for George to be pissed at him for that, than know the real reasons he’s scared to be alone in a room with him.

Even Sapnap, who is often swimming deep in the giggly warm pool that is Karl Jacobs, comments on Dream’s absence. He ignores him, but the guilt slowly begins to stack.

One night when he’s lounging in bed, after the orange sun has barely dipped past his window blinds, George knocks on his door.

Dream clears his throat, and utters a small, “Come in.”

The door slowly tips open, and George leans awkwardly against the frame. “Hey.”

It sounds timid. His mouth is pressed into a thin line.

“Hi,” Dream says. A beat of silence passes.

“I was thinking we could have dinner tonight,” George offers. “We haven’t done that since I got back, which is weird, because you normally make me something like, five times a week.”

Dream feels a pang in his chest. “I just...haven’t felt like cheffing lately.”

He glances away from the loose basketball shorts hanging from George’s slender hips.

“We have some pre-cooked burgers in the freezer,” George pushes hesitantly. “We could heat those up.”

Dream wants to say no, knowing that sitting at the table across from George and watching his lips wrap around food will surely cause him to unravel. But the tension in George’s stature pulls him in.

He doesn’t look angry. He looks breakable.

Dream gives him the friendliest smile he can muster. “Sure, George. That sounds nice.”

George nods in relief, shoulders dropping immediately. “Okay, great. I’ll go—um—get it started, then.”

He hovers.

Dream glances at the door expectantly. “...Then go get it started?”

“Right,” George mumbles, then leaves.

It’s only after he goes that Dream realizes he’d been sprawled on his bed, laptop over his thighs, wearing nothing but boxers and a tank top.

It’s embarrassing.

His eyes skim over his photo album again, and he closes the hidden folder. He attempts to dress himself decently in sweats, and fusses with his hair.

When he enters the kitchen, George gives him a small smile, and it puts some part of him at ease.

He helps as they prepare the ingredients for dinner. Their awkwardness quickly falls into something light and nice, a casual rhythm resuming like old times as they make their sorry excuse for burgers and set condiments on the table. They pass small squeezes on sides, and patting of hair that is normal, totally normal, and Dream is fine.

There are times when they relax in their house together, and their boundaries blend impossibly close. If they aren’t paying attention, physical intimacy is second nature.

They eat in contented silence, occasionally mumbling remarks about how good the cheap burgers are, and making notes to buy more of the same kind next time they go to the store.

“I think the Chipotle mayo was the perfect touch for mine,” George says with a muffled mouth of food.

Dream smiles. “Yeah, okay. And to think you nearly bite my head off for always buying it.”

“That’s just cause I’d never tried it,” he weakly defends.

“Exactly,” Dream says, then frowns. “Speaking of which—here, you have some on your face.”

He reaches forward with the napkin as George pulls his burger down, waiting patiently as though they’ve done this hundreds of times before.

Dream gently wipes away the sauce from the corner of George’s mouth, and balls the napkin in his palm. He runs a thumb briefly over the slight crevice to check for grease.

His heart begins to pound as he realizes exactly what he’s doing.

His touch lingers. Recklessly, it lingers.

His thumb begins to shift over the soft skin as breath escapes him. Right under his fingertips is all he’s wanted, for weeks and nights. He drags left, rising on the pink slopes that soften incredibly beneath him. He gently touches George’s lips, drawn deep into trance at the warmth radiating from them.

Alive, alive, alive.

George’s mouth shifts against his fingers as he breathes, “Wh-what are you...”

“I’m s-sorry, I just…” Dream begins, but George hasn’t moved.

He hasn’t moved.

Dream stares down.

With his mouth in Dream’s hands, George gazes up at him with big, big eyes. His jaw slackens ever so slightly.

Dream snaps his hand away, sharply. “I’m sorry—that was—god.” He shoves away from the table. “Um, just, leave my—” He tosses his napkin onto his plate, and runs a shaky hand through his hair. “I’ll get it later—don’t worry. Um.”

His words die as he leaves the kitchen in haste, unable to spare a single glance at George frozen to the table.

Once safely in his room, his chest heaves and heaves as his back presses against the door.

What the fuck was that?

He rubs together the fingers that had touched George’s lips. His hand hums with the knowledge of their shape, their softness. He’s never laid his hands on George so intimately before. George has never let him like that, before.

His head tips back to bump his door.

Shamefully, shamefully, his hand dives down his sweats to wrap around his hardening cock.

A soft whimper escapes his throat.

He hates this. He hates it, so much—but it feels so good.

-

They hardly know how to approach each other, once the morning after casts terrifying sunbeams into quiet halls. Dream lets himself fall prey to the void of his room, hardly leaving. George does not try to ask for more dinners.

They’ve had awkward moments before. Cuddling that brought strange feelings and touches they never cared to mention again, which always was followed by George leaving for England in the days after. The avoidance isn’t new, but this shade of it is.

Dream expects George to leave, again. He doesn’t.

Four mornings after, Dream passes through the open bathroom door to retrieve his toothbrush. He tugs out his earbuds at the sight of steam accumulating on the mirror, only to hear the rushing of a shower he didn’t know was running and something else coming from behind the curtain.

He’d entered quietly enough to not alert George of his presence. George thinks he’s alone.

His eyes widen.

Dream can hear muffled noises and shuffling of hands mixed with the drumming of water. He knows, immediately, what George is doing.

The rapid pace in which he grows hard in his loose shorts is embarrassing, as he grips onto his toothbrush for dear life.

He wants to stall—to touch himself with motions that his hands know so well, while listening to George stifle moans with what Dream can only imagine is harsh silencing of his filthy mouth.

He exits before he can do anything he’d regret.

Later, when he’s in the kitchen cleaning plates and silverware, George brushes past him to place cups in the dishwasher.

Their eyes meet.

Dream’s gaze slips down to his mouth, instinctively—and sees his lips have been bitten raw.

He frowns. “Wh-what…”

George looks away quickly. “Hm?”

“What happened to your mouth?” Dream manages to ask, barely hiding the breathy curiosity in his voice.

George blushes. “Oh I—” He clears throat. “Had chapped lips. Ran out of lip balm.”

Chapped lips, Dream thinks, in Florida. In the warm, warm winter.

He tries not to think about what he knows George was doing in the shower. He tries to ignore the flooding images of George desperately biting his lip to silence his soft, sweet moans when he hits his high.

“You could borrow some of mine,” Dream says, unable to speak above a murmur, “you know.”

George tips his head at that. “What, you carry some on you?”

Dream would be lying if he said he’d stored a tube of chapstick in his pocket for anything but this. “I do.”

He draws it out of his sweats. He sinks it into George’s open palm, heart pounding.

He watches as George uncaps it. His brown eyes are fluttering anywhere but Dream’s face as he slowly pulls the glistening wax across his flush, bottom lip. It coats the small tears his teeth had made. The stick circles George’s mouth, dragging the skin with such sweet seduction that Dream’s pupils blow wide.

He all too quickly realizes what effect this is having on his body, and turns sharply to press his abdomen against the sink.

Flushed and hard, he aggressively returns to scrubbing dishes.

“Do you…want this…” George trails off as Dream waves a hand dismissively.

“No, no, keep it,” he forces out, attempting to sound steady, “I have plenty more. Just keep it.”

Just go before I can’t stop myself.

George mutters a ‘thanks’ that sounds particularly empty, and leaves Dream at the sink.

Later that night, Dream mulls around his room in stewing guilt. It’s become too obvious that he’s avoiding George for them to healthily ignore it, anymore. It takes him forty minutes to muster up the strength to apologize.

He hovers outside of George’s room, and knocks on the open door.

“Hey,” he says, watching the swiftness with which George swivels to face him from his desk. “Are you streaming?”

“Yeah.” George glances quickly at the stream and Minecraft window on his screen.

“Oh, okay. I just wanted to hangout,” Dream says. “Is your face cam on?”

George nods.

They’ve had nights like this before. It carries some semblance of normality.

Dream crosses the carpet to sit on the floor, and scoots close to George’s chair—just out of frame of the camera. He’s assisted many speed-runs from down here, low enough to stay away from view, but still able to see the desk because of his height.

“Sorry, chat, Dream wanted to sit in for a bit,” George explains.

“Hello,” Dream says politely.

George smiles as the chat erupts, and tosses a glance down at him. It feels warm, and safe, and sprinkled with something new.

Throughout the course of the stream, he quips gently at George and they bicker. When George wants him to be quiet, he does so, but not without putting up a fight.

He starts by messing with his socks, pressing on his toes and rolling down the high-length fabric to bunch like donuts at his ankles. When George ignores him, he pouts.

George is used to this side of Dream, though it has been a while.

Dream starts placing hands on calves and knees, poking and prodding like he’s done before, and George shifts—but doesn’t move away, and keeps his focus on the game.

After Dream rolls his eyes, they drift and accidentally settle between George’s thighs. Something in him drops as he stares at his sweats. He forgets why he’s there—to apologize, to be friendly—and rapidly descends into dark desire.

It’s right there, he thinks, mouth watering. It’s right fucking there.

The playful hand on George’s knee slowly slides up his thigh, fingers strong and course discernible.

George scowls immediately, and tosses a harsh glance, but continues to play.

Dream doesn’t care for the warning in his eyes. He places his other hand on George’s neglected knee, and slides up too, slowly squeezing George’s thighs as a breath escapes him above.

George mutes, and softly asks him, “What are you—”

Dream looks up at him. His eyes are pooled with such smitten lust, so much want, and his grip tightens.

George’s face threatens to tip into readable expression, yet his camera is still on. The breathiness of his words gives away his struggle. “Why are you l-looking at me like that?”

Dream’s hands slide up further. He’s lost. He’s untamable.

“Cause you’re so pretty, George,” he murmurs in the low voice that he knows gets a reaction from George without knowing why.

George grabs his hands sharply in seconds. “I’m—I’m streaming.”

Dream revels in the feel of George’s cool fingers on his warm knuckles. “So stop.”

He shakes his head, then pushes Dream touch away for good. “You’re being ridiculous. Stop messing around.”

George unmutes as he turns back to the screen.

Dream says, “Turn it off or I will.”

“Sorry, guys,” George says briskly. “Dream is in a mood today.”

The flare in his stomach ignites at the condescending tilt to George’s words. Sinful determination courses through him as he shifts closer, and leans his head between George’s knees.

He feels George jump as he presses his cheekbone into his lower thigh.

He gazes up, and says too softly for the mic to catch, “Please.”

George’s features morph for a microsecond into surprise, and another emotion that Dream cannot place, but is instantly addicted to.

As his eyes drop, he can nearly see something forming in George’s sweats.

George flicks him hard between his eyebrows, and grits, “Give me five fucking minutes.”

Dream leaves with a dazed grin.

He waits in the hall like a lost puppy, watching as George continuously glances out the door to meet his dark gaze, before returning to end the stream. The five minutes pass impossibly slow.

George comes out to greet him, and immediately shoves an angry finger into his chest.

“What is wrong with you?” He steps close. “Messing with me and all—I get it, very funny—but like that? Huh?”

Dream loves the fire in his eyes. He loves the closeness of his lips.

Entranced, his hands find George’s waist and grip tight.

“What the fuck are you—”

Dream pushes forward.

George stumbles back against the wall, and Dream sinks to his knees. “D-Dream, what—”

Shins pressed into the floor, fingers curling into George’s hips, Dream’s eyes collide with the bulge in George’s sweats.

His lungs cease.

“You.” His large hand begins to cup it slowly, gazing up at George. “You want this.”

George inhales sharply at the stimulation. “I—I just—”

“Admit it.” Dream squeezes, body tingling at the release that courses through him. “Please, let me hear you say it.”

“N-no, you’re just—”

Messing with me, Dream knows he’s going to say, so he doesn’t let him.

He yanks down George’s fabric and underwear, salivating at the sight of his cock springing up to hit his stomach.

Long. Hard. Pale.

His breath shudders.

Pretty. Pink.

Dream’s eyes roll back as he pulls the tip into his warm mouth, and sinks it against his tongue. George’s hips rise into the motion instantly.

Dream moans when his lips are wrapped around it.

Finally, fucking finally.

The taste that blooms in his mouth is exactly what he’s been craving, and he gives into it entirely. He licks slowly, gently circling the head and savoring every drop of precum ebbed on George’s flushed skin.

“Fuck,” George curses, “fuck.”

Dream’s mouth envelopes the tip generously, hardly pulling off to slip his tongue down the long length. His saliva trails over the contrasting skin.

He tips his head forward, letting his jaw fall open, and fills his mouth as he pushes down onto George with worship.

He can feel the way George cowers above him, his trembling hands pushing hard on Dream’s shoulders to keep himself upright. The soft noises that leave his lips are beautiful, and needy—increasing in volume with every passing second.

Dream sinks his lips to the base of George’s cock, moaning softly at the strain in his throat. He loves the way George twitches under the vibrations. His hand gently cups and grabs beneath.

A breathy sound of want escapes George's mouth. "Why...why..." His words disappear as his head tilts back, unable to speak.

Relentless and hungry, Dream compromises his mouth with every ounce of desperation he’s accumulated over the past weeks. His jaw aches as he bobs, tongue wettens as he laps, falling into a dangerously perfect rhythm.

“I—I won’t be able to—” George’s nails dig into Dream’s shoulder, and neck. “To stand, Dream—”

He ignores the pleas that fall from George’s beautiful mouth.

He hollows his cheeks and makes him tremble. He wants to make George buckle under his tongue. He wants him to fall deep, deep, deep.

His hand returns to pin George’s hips to the wall, holding him up. It feels euphoric to have George’s cock deep in his throat, while the boy struggles to form sentences above him.

Dream has never felt so desperate for this before. He’s never loved it so much.

He devours him.

He feels when George’s cock begins to tense, tremors and unsteady breathing that scream he’s ready to pour into Dream’s mouth in broken shudders.

“P-please,” George breathes, "I'm close—"

Dream pulls his lips off of the bright red tip entirely, robbing George of his bliss with such intense cruelty that his legs give out with a frustrated whine.

Dream catches him as he collapses, holding the whimpering boy in his arms with care. Panting, he studies George's eyelashes as they flutter. He slowly rises, and carries them both into the bedroom across the hall.

George's hands blindly cling to his shoulders. Dream lays him down.

“George,” he murmurs, and George’s body shudders at the mere whisper of his name. Red-hot triumph sears in Dream.

George is aching for it. His pink tip oozes precum onto his stomach, cock messy with Dream’s saliva, as he can hardly open his eyes. His pale fingers grasp at the bedding and curl in desperation.

Dream situates himself at the foot of the large bed, once again kneeling before him. He wraps his warm palms over George’s knees, and brushes his hands up them slowly.

George lets out a broken moan, his legs falling open.

Dream lowers down to kiss and nip at George’s sensitive thighs, dragging his lips on the pale skin, getting close but never reaching where George needs. His warm mouth connects with the flesh of his inner-thigh; the slight dip where his hip turns into a dark tangle of hair.

He teases, painfully, until George finally gives in.

“Want it,” he pleads softly, hips rising, “so bad.”

Dream immediately licks a long, slow stripe up George’s cock, and George’s hands fly to tangle in his hair.

Dream savors it. He presses the flat of his tongue on George’s head, lapping gently. He’s surprised at the flurry of passionate noises that leave George, begging and beautiful, and wraps his mouth around him in unspoken reward. He lets the tip skim the inside of his sucked-in cheeks, and bobs shallow, before opening his throat and sinking all the way down again.

George’s fingers scrape his scalp as they jitter through is hair. His thighs begin to shake as Dream slowly, madly, obsessively builds him back up again.

“So sensitive,” Dream murmurs against the tip as he’s pulled his lips off of it, “so needy.”

George nods feverishly, body writhing until Dream continues sucking again. Wordless and breathless, his mind is completely putty for Dream’s mouth.

Softness is quickly left behind them as Dream picks up the pace. Slender hands grip into his hair, and he lets George yank his head down as he fucks into Dream’s throat.

“S-sorry,” George manages to pant, moving his grasp away at his sudden greed.

Dream grabs his hands and harshly returns them to the back of his head to say, I can take it.

George immediately pulls hard on Dream’s hair, and he moans into it.

Sloppy noises fill the air as he sucks, his face tugged continuously against George’s body and throat fucked shallow. He feels George begin to tremble again as he grows closer.

“D-Dream,” he stammers between moans, “I’m—please let me—please make me—”

He lets him.

Dream tightens the suction of his lips, letting his mind blank as George’s cock tenses deep in his bobbing mouth. Warm cum begins to spill down his throat, and he moves up to the tip to swallow. George’s head pulses on Dream’s lips.

It takes like he’s dreamed it would.

Dream dips down to clean every last trace from George, blind with greed. He devotedly continues to lick his swollen, red tip.

George’s body rises involuntarily into Dream’s mouth. “No more,” he begs.

Dream cannot stop.

George keens beneath him, high noises escaping his throat at the overstimulation. Dream keeps him there. His body thrashes, hands tugging on Dream’s hair, until Dream pins his wrists to the bed.

When the whines that leave George’s throat prove he’s reached his absolute limit, Dream finally relents.

He pulls away, watching George’s cock twitch every few seconds at the release of pressure. He licks his teeth, and swallows again.

Up past the rapid rise and fall of George’s chest, he has placed palms over his eyes. His body rests and recovers with strangled breath. Dream can clearly see his cock matching the pink of his mouth, parted in helpless afterglow.

With burning want, Dream slowly dips forward, and hovers over George’s mouth. After blowing several warm, battered breath across his face, he sees George's jaw tip up slightly.

Dream carefully kisses his lips for the first time. George gasps into it, but quickly melts, as they mold together with years of anticipated touch. His mouth parts for Dream with ease, as though he was waiting to be kissed deeper and deeper. Slick between their tongues is saliva and the taste of George’s cum.

Dream feels water brush his cheeks, and slowly pulls back. He nudges George’s hands from his eyes.

“Are you...crying?” he asks gently, studying the glistening in George’s eyes. He wipes a stray streak away; the tears are light, and thin.

“That just felt really good,” George whispers. “Really fucking good.”

Dream’s chest warms. He kisses the corner of his mouth, and murmurs, “Good.”

“God,” George breathes, then his tone sharpens, “god. What the hell was that, Dream?”

Dream laughs before he can stop himself. “Oh, I...I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Okay, well, can you at least try?” George asks, seemingly piecing his mind back together, “cause I’ve seen you staring at my mouth before, and acting super forward, which I thought was just a joke, but I guess not and now…”

Dream clears his throat with discomfort, meeting George’s gaze halfway. “You know how I, like, get obsessed with things?”

His eyes narrow. “...Yeah.”

“It’s um...it’s happened a few times before, with you,” Dream explains clumsily. “And I didn’t really know what to make of it, because we’re…”

Whatever the fuck this is. Whatever the fuck it's always been.

“But lately it was the strongest one ever.” He chuckles nervously. “Kind of has turned me into a madman.”

“About...what?” George asks. His tone is curious; inviting.

Dream stares deep into his eyes, with unguarded hunger. George’s chin tips up slightly, as if an innate inclination to try and capture Dream’s kiss again.

“About your mouth,” Dream murmurs, fingers raising to brush over George’s soft lips. His touch ghosts down George’s neck, stomach, treading lower, and lower, until brushing over the place that makes George shiver. “And how it matches.”

“You dog,” George says breathlessly. Dream grins. “Is that why you...the other night…”

He thinks of how he had touched George’s mouth, and then touched himself.

In spite of his past self, Dream kisses George hard. George's surprised moan is clipped, as he frenetically parts his lips for Dream. They lose themselves in a rapid pace of biting lips and messy pants, until Dream pulls back. His hand falls to gently trace on George’s cock, as it slowly grows hard again.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “You seemed pretty excited about it, too.” He remembers the way George had looked at him then, and continues to touch him lightly now. “Having my hands on you.”

“Dream,” George warns, but it’s more of an exhale.

He squeezes the half-erection with satisfaction. “Hm?”

“Oh my god.” George glances down. “Already?”

Dream’s face falls into George’s neck as he laughs. “Seems like you really want more.” He kisses George’s neck, lips warm. He travels up from the base of his shoulder to the corner of his jaw, loving the sensitive hums that escape George's throat.

“You have no idea,” George mutters.

Dream stills, mouth pressed to his skin. “So tell me.”

“I can’t,” George complains.

“Come on, George.” Dream gently nips at his jaw. “Use your words.”

“No, shut up—just, can I show you instead?”

Dream pulls back, eyes widening with curiosity. “Show me?”

George nods. “Is my—is my phone in the hallway?”

Dream has a faint memory of it dropping to the carpeted floor when he’d forcefully tugged down his sweats. He smiles sheepishly. “Prolly.”

“Okay,” George says, untangling himself from Dream. “Okay. One sec.”

George leaves, tugging his boxers back on, and Dream watches until the very moment he dips out of sight.

He begins to palm at his erection through his shorts mindlessly, relieving some of the pressure he’s been ignoring, and reveling in the glory of his recklessness. He finally has him, has George—and although he thought his addiction would subside, all he can think about is more. More touching, more kissing, more fucking until he knows George inside and out.

He squeezes at himself with deep excitement.

George re-enters the room, and stops short when he sees what Dream’s hands are doing.

“This is insane,” he says, candidly staring right at Dream’s fingers as they curl around his clothed cock.

It’s nearly second nature to Dream, now, touching himself in front of some version of George. “You wanted to show me something?” he asks.

“Yeah.” George draws closer. “Can you—can you stop that? That’s very distracting.”

“Sorry, Georgie,” he feigns, drawing his hands away.

George clambers back into the bed with him, and nervously gives Dream his phone. “Um, here, this is—yeah.”

Dream takes it with pinched curiosity.

Open on George’s bright screen is a photo album. Just like the one Dream has stored away, the one he’s jacked off to night, after night, after night.

But this one is full of hands, knuckles, palms—fingers diving into mouths, wrapped around cocks, wrists sturdy and veins that look identical to—

Mirror images of—

Just like—

“Dream,” George says softly.

He stares at the photos. Then stares at his hands. Then looks up at George, who blushes madly, but doesn’t look away.

Dream’s mouth swells with the words he could say, the thousands of explanations he could give as to why this is the hottest thing he’s ever seen in the world, and why he wants to do nothing more than fuck George into the next century.

The words, jumbled and nonsensical, aren’t worth speaking—so Dream grabs him.

He pulls George on top, tugs him down, and kisses him until they can’t breathe. Their stiff boxers brush together as they pant and grasp, limbs tangling together hurriedly.

George pulls away to catch a lungful of fresh air, and they separate with saliva trailing between their lips.

“Jesus Christ,” Dream swears, pulling him closer. “We are such, fucking idiots.”

George nods breathlessly, and kisses him again.