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George didn’t need to check his bank account to know he was broke. He knew it in the way his stomach gnawed at itself, in the way his shoes had been talking for weeks, sole peeling away with every step. He knew it in the way his landlord’s emails had gone from passive-aggressive to outright threatening.
Student debt was a bitch, and minimum wage was a joke. He was juggling two jobs, neither of which gave him enough hours to scrape together rent, and his savings account had been an empty shell of broken dreams since sophomore year. At this point, he wasn’t just drowning—he was six feet under with a tombstone that read RIP George Davidson, Forever in Debt.
So, yeah. When Sapnap shoved his phone in George’s face and said, “You should seriously consider this, dude. It’s not even that weird.” he was willing to listen.
The website was sleek, black and gold with a logo that looked way too classy for what it actually was: a place for desperate people to meet rich people with too much money and too little self-awareness.
“It’s just companionship,” Sapnap had said, scrolling through profiles like he was picking out snacks at the grocery store. “ Like, you go on dates, entertain them, and in return, they pay your bills or whatever. And if you wanna—” he’d waggled his eyebrows “—you can get even more out of it.”
George had sneered at him at the time, slapping the phone out of his hands. He wasn’t that desperate.
Except, two weeks later, when his phone bill auto-deducted and his account went into overdraft, he remembered the site. And then, after swallowing down what was left of his dignity, he made a profile.
It was barely an hour before the messages started flooding in.
Most were… disturbing. Balding men with too much money and not enough shame. A few were polite, but even those had an undercurrent of expectation that made George want to throw his phone into the sun.
Then, there was him.
Dream.
No last name. Just ‘Dream.’
His profile picture was vague—a perfectly tailored suit, a gold watch, a glimpse of a sharp jawline—but his bio was the real kicker:
“Discerning. Selective. Generous. Tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you if you deserve it.”
George had snorted at that, rolling his eyes. But against his better judgment, he clicked on the message waiting for him.
Dream: I assume you’re here for financial reasons.
George had hesitated before typing back. And you’re here to throw your money at random people?
Dream: Not random people. Just the ones I like.
It had been smooth sailing from there. Dream was blunt but not creepy, rich but not flaunting it obnoxiously. And unlike the others, he hadn’t immediately asked for anything explicit. He wanted to meet. Just a conversation. No expectations.
George had agreed, half expecting Dream to be a catfish or some sweaty old man in disguise. But when he walked into the restaurant and saw him —very tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding wealth like he breathed it—he realized he might’ve gotten himself into something far more dangerous than debt.
Because Dream was handsome. Dream was charming. Dream, despite his expensive watch and knowing smirk, looked at George like he was something worth spending money on.
And then George, perhaps emboldened by the way Dream had been treating him like something to be admired, sent the photo.
It was a joke. Mostly .
He was sprawled out on his bed, all soft sheets and sharp angles, his shirt riding up just enough to tease the taut lines of his stomach. It wasn’t outright explicit—just suggestive enough to cross a line, to make Dream’s breath hitch. The dip of his hip bones, the lazy way his sweatpants clung low on his waist, the hint of a v-line drawing the eye down. And then there was his hand, resting just above the waistband, fingers splayed like an afterthought—like an invitation.
The fabric of his loose boxers wasn’t doing much to hide anything, either. Just enough give, just enough stretch to outline exactly what lay beneath, to suggest the weight of it without giving everything away. Temptation in a single frame. Deliberate in its carelessness.
George: I assume this is worth at least a month’s rent?
His heart pounded as he hit send, nerves making his fingers tremble. It took a full minute before Dream replied.
And Dream? Well, he was staring.
Dream: Cute. But reckless.
George barely had time to process that before another message appeared.
Dream: Don’t start something you aren’t ready to finish, sweetheart.
And that? That was dangerous.
The first week, George told himself it was just dinner.
The second week, he told himself it was just company.
By the third week, he had no more excuses.
Dream didn’t just cover his rent—he overpaid. He didn’t just buy George dinner—he took him to places where the bill was a number so obscene that George nearly fainted. And then there were the gifts. Shoes, a new phone, a watch that George was afraid to wear because it probably cost more than his entire tuition.
Dream took his time reeling him in. There were casual meetings in high-end restaurants, wine glasses glistening under soft lighting. Then there were the nights spent in Dream’s penthouse, the two of them on the couch, a movie playing that neither of them paid attention to.
George knew what was happening. He knew he was being spoiled, softened, broken in. And yet, he let it happen.
Because every time Dream touched him—light, teasing, a brush of fingers against his wrist or the back of his neck—he felt himself unraveling.
It was a slow seduction, a dangerous game.
And the moment George let himself stop pretending it wasn’t, Dream had him exactly where he wanted.
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” George had protested when Dream handed him an envelope stuffed with cash over dinner.
Dream had only tilted his head, fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass. “I don’t remember setting any rules, do you?”
That was the thing—Dream never asked for anything in return. No favors. No sex. No expectations.
But the way he looked at George sometimes, like he was something delicate, something precious —it was making him nervous.
Because this was supposed to be transactional. Clean. Easy.
And George was starting to suspect that Dream didn’t believe in refunds.
Which was why it wasn’t surprising when, one evening, George found himself in Dream’s penthouse bathroom, steam curling around him as he stepped out of the shower, towel slung loosely around his hips.
The door wasn’t locked. It should have been.
He realized his mistake a second too late, just as the door creaked open and Dream’s broad figure filled the space. George froze, droplets of water tracing slow paths down his bare chest, his damp hair clinging to his forehead.
Dream’s gaze dragged over him, unhurried, appraising. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said smoothly, but the heat in his voice suggested otherwise.
George swallowed, tightening his grip on the towel. “You could’ve knocked.”
Dream’s lips quirked, stepping closer, fingers trailing along the marble counter. “You could’ve locked the door.”
Silence hung between them, thick with something unnamed. George’s pulse pounded as Dream reached out, catching a stray droplet from his collarbone, tracing its descent with the pad of his thumb. “You let your guard down so easily,” Dream murmured. “Reckless.”
George shuddered, the touch burning through him, melting what little resistance he had left. And when Dream leaned in, voice a breath away from his ear, he knew—
He wasn’t getting out of this untouched.
And just how he let this thought linger in his mind for too long, Dream was the one to make the first move.
Startled by the sudden movement, George stepped back, forgetting there was a counter behind him. He hit it so sharply that it confirmed his suspicion of a cyanotic mark beginning to form on his lower back.
Dream rested his hands on the edge of the counter, trapping the shorter brunet between his arms. He couldn’t help but let a low chuckle escape his chest upon seeing George grow even more flustered. A wicked smirk remained on his face as he analyzed George’s behavior—the way he avoided Dream’s gaze, the water droplets trailing down his pale skin, and the way his hand clung desperately to the towel slipping from his hips, knuckles white.
This made George expect anything to happen in that moment, and frankly, he wouldn’t even be mad. Well, that’s how a sugar baby and sugar daddy relationship works, right? He had known it would happen sooner or later, but Dream could at least warn him—give him time to prepare, both physically and mentally.
Yet, despite that, his body was already heating up, a certain feeling pooling in his abdomen just from the way Dream’s gaze lingered on him.
But just as the brunet was about to lean in for a kiss, Dream straightened up, his hand moving to George’s soaking wet locks, gently brushing them from his forehead. The simple motion left confusion on George’s face, and it only deepened when, with a snarky half-smile, the taller man turned on his heel and sauntered toward the closed bathroom door.
But before he could pull the door handle, something tugged at the hem of his shirt.
"Why are you acting like this?" George mumbled, flustered, still doing his best to avoid the other man’s dangerous gaze. He held onto Dream’s shirt just as desperately as he clung to the towel threatening to slip from his hips.
"Like what?" Dream asked, turning back to face him fully. He knew exactly what George meant, but he hadn’t expected him to react like this—it caught him off guard.
George hesitated before letting go of Dream’s shirt, realizing the taller man wasn’t planning to leave. But now that he had his attention, he had no idea what to say. He had acted on impulse, not thinking ahead. He knew what he was feeling, but how was he supposed to put it into words?
Dream tilted his head, watching George’s internal struggle with an amused smirk. His eyes flickered down for just a second—to where George’s fingers were still clutching the edge of the towel—and then back up to his face.
"Careful, darling," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. " Wouldn’t want you losing that, now would we?"
George’s breath hitched. He hated how easily Dream could get under his skin, how just a few words in that stupid, low drawl could send heat crawling up his neck.
"You’re such a dick," he muttered, looking away, but his grip on the towel only tightened. Realizing what he said his eyes flickered to meet with Dream’s, but before he could apologize for his words Dream cut him off with his comment.
"And yet," Dream hummed, taking a slow step forward, "you don’t seem to mind."
George opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Dream was already moving, brushing past him just slightly—just enough for George to feel the heat radiating off him.
"Relax, sweetheart," Dream whispered near his ear, "you’ll have to say what you want eventually."
And with that, he finally pulled open the door, leaving George standing there, heart pounding, towel barely staying in place.
But as Dream stepped out, George found himself gripping the counter, frustration boiling under his skin. He clenched his jaw, watching Dream’s retreating figure disappear down the hall. The heat, the teasing, the way Dream always seemed to toy with him—it was unbearable. He hated the way his body reacted, the way his mind screamed for more even as his pride told him to walk away.
By the time he had dried off and thrown on one of Dream’s oversized t-shirts—because of course Dream had left him clothes that drowned him in expensive fabric—an idea had already begun to form in his mind. A reckless, dangerous, stupid idea.
He found himself standing outside Dream’s bedroom door before he could talk himself out of it.
The air felt thick, charged with something unspoken, something inevitable. His fingers hovered over the door handle. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears. And then, before he could hesitate any longer, he pushed it open.
Dream was laying on his queen-size bed, scrolling through his phone, completely unbothered. He still hadn’t changed from his business suit, but it didn't seem like he minded.
George stepped inside, the soft click of the door shutting behind him louder than it should’ve been. Dream didn’t look up immediately, but George could see the corner of his mouth twitch, like he already knew.
“You’re bold tonight,” Dream mused, setting his phone down, finally meeting George’s gaze. His eyes flickered to the oversized t-shirt swallowing George’s frame, the way it barely skimmed his thighs.
George shifted on his feet, feigning nonchalance. “You left the door unlocked.”
Dream chuckled, low and indulgent. “Maybe I wanted you to come in.”
There it was again—that undercurrent, that unspoken invitation. George swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his throat. He could turn around. He could leave. But instead, he stepped closer.
Dream didn’t move, only watching him with that unreadable expression, fingers tapping idly against his thigh. “And what exactly do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?”
George hesitated, his hands curling into the hem of the t-shirt. He hated how easily Dream could get under his skin, how just standing there in front of him felt like stepping into something irreversible.
“I think,” he murmured, voice softer than he meant, “I’m asking for something.”
Dream exhaled, slow and measured, his gaze darkening. He reached forward then, fingers curling around George’s wrist, tugging him just close enough for their knees to brush. “And what is it that you want?”
George licked his lips, pulse thrumming. “I think you already know.”
Dream’s grip tightened, just slightly. “Say it.”
Heat curled in George’s stomach, anticipation thickening in his throat. He could still back out. He could pretend this was another game, another tease.
But instead, he let the words slip past his lips.
“My part of the arrangement.”
“Ah, your part of the arrangement,” Dream hummed sarcastically, shifting himself to sit in front of the smaller man, resting his hands on his spread out legs.
The teasing look in his eyes just fueled all the feelings George was having at the moment, heat crawling up his neck. But that didn’t stop him from making his next move. He crouched down between Dream’s legs, his fingers twitched at his sides before he reached forward, slow and deliberate, brushing against the buckle of Dream’s belt.
Dream’s eyes flickered down, amusement curling at the edge of his lips, but he didn’t move to stop him.
George tilted his head, feigning innocence, fingers playing with the cool metal. "Since you're so generous," he murmured, voice sweet but laced with something more, "I figured I'd show my appreciation."
The breath Dream let out was sharp, his posture shifting just slightly, but his smirk never wavered. "Careful, sweetheart," he warned, voice rich and low. "You’re playing a dangerous game."
George’s fingers slipped under the leather strap, teasing it open with a calculated slowness. "And I think you like that."
Upon unbuckling his pants the heavy, custom made belt hit the ground with a loud thud and a tinkle of the metal.
Dream let out a quiet chuckle, the sound dark and syrupy as it melted into the charged air between them. His hands remained still on his legs, but his fingers flexed slightly, a silent display of restraint.
George, emboldened by the lack of resistance, allowed himself a moment to revel in the power shift—the way Dream, for all his cocky remarks and endless teasing, was sitting back and letting him take control. His fingers trailed over the waistband of Dream’s pants, barely pressing against the fabric, teasing, testing.
"You’re taking your time," Dream noted, voice lazy but laced with something sharper, something wanting.
George only hummed in response, nails lightly dragging along Dream’s hip bones, just barely peeking from beneath his shirt. "I like watching you squirm."
Dream exhaled, tilting his head back slightly, golden curls falling over his forehead. "Squirm?" he repeated, feigning amusement, but the slight tension in his pants betrayed him. "You’re cute, sweetheart, but you forget who you're dealing with."
George scoffed, pressing his palms flat against Dream’s thighs. "I haven’t forgotten a thing," he whispered, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "But you—" he glanced downward, fingers curling around the hem of Dream’s voice dipping, "—look like you're enjoying this a little too much."
Dream’s eyes darkened, his smirk widening. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
George bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the heat threatening to rise to his own face. He wasn't about to give Dream the satisfaction of seeing him flustered—not when he had him right where he wanted him.
Not when Dream’s resolve was already beginning to waver.
After clumsily unbuttoning Dream’s pants, George reached up to pull his throbbing cock from his boxers. The mere thought of taking him into his mouth made his tongue dart out, wetting his lips instinctively.
Dream’s eyes flickered with satisfaction, curiosity, and a hint of amusement as he observed the man between his legs. George wrapped his fingers around the blond’s cock, stroking with an annoyingly slow pace while tracing his tongue along the entire length, leaving a slick trail in its wake. All while looking up through thick lashes, eyes half-shut, a playful glint flashing in them.
“I knew you looked pretty, but fuck ,” Dream cursed, moving one of his hands to tug on George’s hair. As if to coax him to go further.
And he did.
George, teasingly at first, swirled his tongue around Dream’s head, letting his saliva drip onto his cock. George looked obscene, to say the least. His face burgundy amaranth, tongue darting out, his lustful gaze following every reaction and sound he managed to get from Dream. His own body was betraying him and begging him to go further and faster, taking all of his willpower just to hold back for just a moment. Just to hold back so he could savor more of that irritated look Dream was giving him. Just to show him who is in power now.
And Dream wasn’t having any of that.
He let out a sharp exhale, his fingers tightening in George’s hair, a silent but firm reminder of who was really in control. "You’re playing dirty," he murmured, voice low and edged with something dangerously close to desperation.
George only smirked, letting his lips part as he took Dream in deeper, torturously slow, savoring the way Dream's breath hitched. He hollowed his cheeks, tongue pressing against the underside of his pulsing cock, teasing every sensitive spot he could find.
Dream’s head tilted back for a split second, a curse tumbling past his lips, but he quickly snapped his gaze back down. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking as he pulled George’s head down with just a little more force, making the brunet shudder as his cock moved dangerously close to the back of his throat.
"Enough with the games," he growled, his patience thinning. "You wanna prove something? Then fucking do it."
George hummed around him, the vibrations sending a shiver through Dream’s entire body. But he wasn’t done playing yet.
The last remnants of Dream’s restraint snapped like a fraying thread.
With a sharp tug on George’s hair, he forced him down, his cock sliding deeper past those swollen lips, until George choked, fingers digging into Dream’s thighs through the material. Dream didn’t let up. His grip was firm, keeping him there, making sure George felt just how little control he had left.
"That’s it," Dream muttered, voice wrecked, his free hand threading through George’s hair before gripping the back of his head. He pulled him back just an inch, letting him gasp, only to shove him back down, a shudder rolling through him at the way George whimpered around him.
Tears welled up in George’s eyes, but fuck —he looked beautiful like this, mouth stretched wide, cheeks stained red, hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to push away or pull Dream closer. His body betrayed him, hips rolling forward, as if his own pleasure didn’t matter anymore—only Dream’s, only the way he was using him, controlling him, making him take every inch without question.
"Messy little slut," Dream mused, his tone sharp, but the way his voice caught on a groan gave him away. His fingers flexed in George’s hair, pulling just enough to make him look up, their eyes locking. "You like this, don’t you?"
George’s answer was a muffled whimper, his tongue curling, tightening around him, trying—despite it all—to keep some of his earlier confidence.
Dream’s noises grew less restrained when George took him whole again, this time letting his hand work alongside his mouth, picking up the pace. His too-long eyelashes fluttered up at Dream in a feigned innocence, a teasing glint hidden beneath them. He tried to smirk upon seeing the blond’s face twist in pleasure, but—considering his current position—he could only hum around his cock in amusement.
Dream was all stuttering breaths, parted lips, and breathless moans spilling past them, unable to hold back. His fingers tangled gently in the brunet’s hair, a contrast to the growing urgency in his movements. He was close— so close —to painting George’s lips white.
No. His face white.
And George, as if plucking the thought straight from Dream’s mind, slowly— obscenely —pulled off his cock with a wet, lewd pop . His tongue lolled out, flicking teasingly over the sensitive head, while his hand worked faster, firmer, coaxing Dream to let go. To ruin him.
"Go on," George rasped, voice hoarse, lips swollen and slick. His gaze stayed locked on Dream’s, with something dangerously close to worship. "Make a mess of me, please ."
Dream’s breath hitched, his grip tightening in George’s hair. And then, with a deep, shuddering moan and his head thrown back, he did exactly that—painting George’s face in white, burning-hot streaks.
As he wanted, so he had.
And George looked indescribable —dark curls plastered to his forehead, eyelashes clumped with tears, lips swollen and flushed a deep scarlet. His whole body ran hot, blood boiling beneath his skin. He blamed it on the thick, expensive fabric clinging to him, trapping the heat, suffocating.
Or maybe, just maybe , he could blame it on Dream.
Dream dragged his fingers over George’s lips, smearing the mess across them, watching— waiting —to see just how far George would take this. But before he could pull away, George’s hand shot up, fingers curling around his wrist in a firm grip.
Slowly, deliberately, he parted his lips and took Dream’s fingers into his mouth, his tongue swirling around them as he sucked them clean. The wet heat of it, the obscene slowness —it made Dream’s stomach coil tight, a new spark of hunger igniting deep in his gut.
George didn’t break eye contact, didn’t waver under Dream’s gaze. If anything, he leaned into it, his lashes heavy, darkened with something downright sinful, maintaining this ridiculously suggestive eye contact with the blond. His lips dragged along Dream’s fingertips before he finally let them go with a quiet, satisfied hum.
Dream’s breath stilled in his throat.
George only smirked, running his tongue over his lower lip, as if savoring the taste of Dream. Savoring the taste of what he’d just done to him.
"Messy," he murmured, voice dripping with playful amusement.
Then, quite unexpectedly, he straightened, forcing Dream’s gaze to flick upward, a split-second of surprise flashing across his face. It was a rare sight—something George didn’t see often. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t even the most surprising thing that evening.
Because just as Dream opened his mouth—perhaps to regain some semblance of control—George had the audacity to wink at him. A flirtatious, shameless little thing. As if he hadn’t just been on his knees, as if he hadn’t just been wrecked moments ago. And then, to make matters even worse, he had the nerve to tilt his head, a lazy smirk curling on his lips, and blurt out a sentence, as if it was the most fitting thing to say in such moment:
"I suppose that counts as my part of the arrangement."
George turned to leave, that unstoppable, cocky smirk still plastered on his face— far too confident for what Dream had in mind. But before he could take another prideful step forward, Dream's hands shot out, snatching him by the waist and slamming him down onto the mattress.
The force of it knocked the breath right out of him, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. He barely had time to recover, chest rising and falling in uneven pants, before Dream was on him, looming over him, predatory.
George swallowed hard, the sound embarrassingly loud in the silence. From the way his throat bobbed, it was like he was choking down the last shreds of his long-dead dignity.
Dream leaned in, lips barely brushing George’s skin, his breath hot as it ghosted over the sensitive column of his throat. George shuddered .
"Who said I was satisfied with that?" Dream murmured, his voice rich with amusement, laced with something dark. Dangerous. A wicked smile curled onto his lips as he drank in the way George trembled beneath him.
George swallowed, forcing himself to meet Dream’s gaze. "What would satisfy you, then?" he muttered, trying to summon back his usual confidence—but his voice betrayed him, a slight shudder threading through his words.
Dream chuckled, low and knowing. "I don't know if you can take it." His fingers trailed up, brushing a sticky strand of George's hair away from his face—sweat, spit, everything clinging to it.
George barely hesitated. "I can take anything," he shot back, the words spilling out with impeccable confidence. And sure, he vaguely suspected what Dream had in mind, but he refused to let himself get too worked up over it. Not yet.
Dream only laughed, slow and menacing, his grip tightening just slightly at George’s jaw. "Famous last words, Georgie."
The moment those words left his lips, George knew he’d fucked up.
Dream’s smile turned razor-sharp, his eyes dark with something that was almost predatory, like he was savoring the shift in the air. The cocky edge George had worn moments before began to fade, swallowed whole by the weight of Dream’s gaze. The air felt heavier now, oppressive, the heat of Dream’s body pressing down on him like it was all he could focus on.
Dream didn’t move immediately. He let the silence stretch, each second dripping with tension. His hand slid to George’s jaw, fingers digging in just enough to force his head back. He didn’t need to say anything. His grip, the way his thumb stroked over the line of George’s jaw, was enough.
Slowly, Dream leaned in, his breath warm against the delicate skin of George’s neck. His voice was low, almost a murmur, but the intent behind it was clear.
“ Anything , huh?”
It wasn’t a question anymore. It was a warning.
In one swift motion, he pulled the oversized, undeniably overpriced t-shirt off George’s head—one that wasn’t even his to begin with—and tossed it carelessly somewhere near the bed. The sudden chill of the marble-soaked room sliced through George's hot breath, sending shivers down his spine. A faint whimper escaped his lips, begging for whatever source of warmth Dream was willing to offer him.
The absence of the shirt left him feeling even more exposed, more vulnerable, than he already was in this situation. His thoughts screamed at him to cover himself, but his body—a traitor—yearned for Dream to keep staring at his bare chest, noticing something dangerous in the blond’s eyes. George wanted to understand that look, wanted to know what thoughts were running through Dream’s head as he took in every inch of his exposed torso—his attention so fucking consuming.
George’s throat worked, swallowing against the thick lump that had formed there. He tried to keep the confidence in his voice, but it faltered, just enough to make Dream’s smirk deepen. It was like a game for him, watching George unravel inch by inch.
Dream’s fingers slipped from his jaw to his chest, brushing lightly over the skin, moving with deliberate slowness. Every touch felt too soft, too careful—but there was an undeniable pressure behind it, like Dream was laying the groundwork for something worse. Something much more intense.
Dream’s smirk never wavered as his hands drifted lower, past the smooth line of George’s chest, where they hovered just above his waistband. George could feel the heat of his fingers through the fabric, the weight of his touch pulling at him like gravity. Dream wasn’t rushing—there was no hurry in the way his hands slid along the fabric, taking in every shift of George’s breath, every tremor in his body.
For a moment, Dream simply paused, letting the anticipation stretch out, almost cruel in its stillness. George couldn’t meet his gaze. His heart hammered too loudly in his chest, and his thoughts were scattered, the heat of his body all accumulating in one place only.
Then Dream’s fingers dipped beneath the waistband of George’s pants, his touch confident, deliberate. He tugged downward slowly, like he was savoring the vulnerability that seeped out with every inch of exposed skin. The fabric dragged against George’s legs, the sensation sending a jolt through him, but it wasn’t enough to make him move—he couldn’t move.
The boxers slid down with one final, effortless tug, and George wasn’t just bare —he was vulnerable. The realization crashed over him in waves, burning from the inside out, leaving him breathless in the worst way. The rush of cold air against his heated skin only made it worse, a stark contrast that had him sucking in a sharp, unsteady breath.
His breath hitched, caught between the need to flinch away and the gut-wrenching compulsion to stay still —to not make it worse, to not make Dream notice just how fucking hard he was. But the cool air licked over his heated skin, and there was no hiding the way he twitched, no stopping the soft, broken noise that slipped out of him.
Dream noticed.
Of course, he fucking noticed.
George barely had a moment to recover before Dream moved in closer, his body radiating heat, suffocating and inescapable. But it was his hands—his hands—that stole every last bit of air from George’s lungs.
The first touch was so light he almost thought he imagined it—just fingertips, tracing the faintest, barely-there line over his stomach. George tensed, breath caught in his throat, unsure if he was flinching away from it or leaning into it. The anticipation was worse than the actual contact—because Dream wasn’t in a rush. He wasn’t grabbing, wasn’t forcing anything. He was taking his goddamn fucking time. He was lingering, hovering, letting George feel every moment of that agonizing approach.
Lower.
Fuck .
His stomach clenched under Dream’s slow, deliberate touch, every nerve burning, his body reacting before his brain could stop it. He knew where this was going—where those fingers were heading—but he was powerless to do anything but sit there and take it.
The space between them felt smaller , claustrophobic, his own body betraying him in ways that made his face burn.
Dream wasn’t touching him yet. Not really . But that didn’t fucking matter.
George shuddered.
“Dream—” George hated the way his voice cracked, hated how small he sounded.
His breath came shallow, uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast , and he knew Dream could feel it, could see it. He could practically hear the smirk curling into Dream’s voice when he spoke.
“Something wrong?”
George made a noise—something soft, something pathetic, something that barely even counted as an answer.
Dream chuckled. Low. Dark. Mean.
His palm flattened against George’s lower stomach, so fucking close, his fingers splayed out possessively, like he was claiming every inch of bare skin he touched. George’s entire body tensed, his breath catching, his mind spinning with the realization of how close— how dangerously close —Dream’s hand had gotten.
His fingers dragged lower.
George flinched. Not away—worse. He arched into it . His body betrayed him, a sharp, desperate jolt of movement that only made Dream’s smirk widen.
“Oh?”
It was just one syllable, but it dripped with amusement, like Dream had expected it—like he had been waiting for that exact reaction.
George’s hands curled tighter into the sheets, mortified at himself, at the way his body gave everything away, how he had no control over it.
And then—
Dream’s fingers curled around him.
George gasped, sharp and sudden, his back arching, his hips twitching involuntarily.
“You’re already so fucking hard for me.”
It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t mocking. It was just a fact, like Dream had known this would happen before George did, like he had been waiting for it, like George being a complete mess for him was just inevitable.
George whimpered , an involuntary, wrecked little sound, one that made his stomach burn with shame the second it left his lips. His thighs shook, tensed and trembling, his entire body strung too tight, too sensitive, too much. He tried to breathe through it, to find something solid, something grounding , but Dream didn’t give him the chance.
The first stroke was slow. Torturously slow.
Dream’s hand moved, dragging over the length of him, deliberate and unhurried, testing. Feeling. Learning exactly what made George jerk, exactly what made him gasp, what made his stomach tense and his breath stutter in that beautiful, helpless way.
His thumb swept over the leaking tip, smearing it, and George broke.
He twitched hard, a choked, humiliating little noise ripped out of him before he could stop it. His legs shook, his thighs instinctively trying to clamp shut, to protect himself from the unbearable pleasure—but Dream’s hand was already there, spreading them wider, keeping him open, keeping him helpless.
Dream hummed, his grip tightening at George’s hip, fingers digging in, holding him still.
“So fucking sensitive,” he mused, voice deep, mocking, but pleased.
George didn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed anymore. His head tipped back, his jaw slack, gasps and little whimpers spilling out uncontrollably. His body betrayed him completely, and Dream—Dream was fucking thrilled about it.
And then—
Then Dream slowed down.
His strokes turned cruel, calculated, the pressure not enough, the rhythm just off enough to drive George insane.
A deliberate, merciless game of keeping George right there, right on the edge, pushing him just far enough but never letting him tip over.
George sobbed, his body wracked with the effort of trying to chase it, his hips twitching helplessly against the firm, unrelenting grip keeping him down.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dream crooned, the mock sympathy in his tone making George’s stomach tighten .
His fingers pressed into George’s throat, tilting his face up, forcing him to look, to see the amusement dancing in those sharp green eyes.
George’s lashes were already damp, his chest heaving, his face burning with the effort it took not to fall apart completely.
“You’re not crying already, are you?”
And the worst part? George was.
A gasping, wrecked sob ripped out before he could stop it, his body trembling, helpless, ruined.
And Dream—
Dream just smiled.
Like he was going to enjoy every fucking second of this.
George barely had time to breathe before the touch vanished.
He let out a choked, broken whine before he could stop himself, the loss of warmth—of contact —sending a sharp, desperate ache through him. His thighs tensed, his hips jerked forward, a pitiful, involuntary attempt to chase after Dream’s touch. But Dream had already pulled back, his presence still there, still so close, but just out of reach.
"Oh, sweetheart," Dream drawled, his voice dripping with amusement as he leaned over, reaching for the bedside drawer. "Miss me already?"
George wanted to say no , wanted to deny it, wanted to hold onto some sliver of dignity, but the words caught in his throat. He could feel Dream rummaging through the drawer, hear the quiet scrape of items shifting inside, but none of it mattered—not when he was still aching, still needing, still feeling the unbearable emptiness where Dream’s touch had just been.
His breath hitched as he watched Dream pull out a bottle of lube, the realization of what was coming next sending a fresh wave of heat crawling up his spine. Dream turned back to him, gaze dark, and the slow smirk spreading across his face told George everything—
Dream had noticed everything . The shaking. The whining. The sheer desperation written across George’s face.
And, judging by the most obvious outline in his pants, he was loving it .
The cap popped open, sharp and quiet, and George swore he felt it in his bones. His breath hitched. His fingers twitched against the sheets. The scent of lube—something clean, something slick—filled the air, and his stomach curled tight, anticipation crawling up his spine like an ache he couldn’t shake.
His body was taut, thrumming, pulled so tight he thought he might snap. He wasn’t embarrassed by it—wasn’t even thinking about that, really—because the hunger drowned out everything else. It sat low and heavy in his stomach, in his chest, in the heat beneath his skin. His thighs clenched together for nothing, his hips twitching, chasing something that wasn’t there yet. Wasn’t there yet.
God. He needed Dream to hurry the fuck up .
The mattress dipped beside him, warmth radiating from Dream’s body, so close yet still maddeningly out of reach. He could hear the lube, the slick sound of it coating Dream’s fingers, slow and deliberate. It sent something shivery through him, something weak and wanting. His head tipped back, breath coming faster now, his body reacting before Dream had even touched him.
Then—contact.
Fingers pressing against his skin, warm and slick and there . George sucked in a breath, sharp and broken, his body lurching toward the touch instinctively. His thighs parted without thought, without hesitation, muscles trembling, back arching just enough to press into the feeling, to take more. His fingers curled into the sheets, useless, restless.
More. More. More .
His mind was blank, his body was on fire, and Dream—Dream hadn’t even done anything yet.
“Please,” George pleaded under a shuddered breath, mind hazy, not even sure what he was begging for—only that it wasn’t enough.
“Use your words, baby.” Dream’s voice was sweet, syrupy, but George could hear the smugness beneath it, could feel it in the way Dream’s finger curled just right inside him, teasing, coaxing, making his body tense and shiver and need .
George swallowed, a frustrated little noise catching in his throat, his hips jerking up as if that could make Dream move faster, give him more . But Dream stayed maddeningly still, watching him, waiting . The pressure burned in the best way, sent warmth licking up George’s spine, made him dizzy with want.
He sucked in a breath, voice shaking as he gasped out, “More.”
Dream hummed, pleased. “More what?”
George made a sound—helpless, needy, so far gone he didn’t care how pathetic he must’ve looked. He blinked up at Dream, his vision blurred, his lips parted and trembling around half-formed words.
“More—” he tried again, whining when Dream only barely shifted his finger, teasing, not nearly enough.
Dream waited. Smirking. Silent.
He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to need to. But Dream wasn’t going to give him what he wanted until he did.
His whole body felt like it was shaking, his hands gripping the sheets, his thighs spread open in full, shameless surrender. His voice cracked when he finally choked it out.
“More fingers, p—please. ”
Dream hummed, amusement dripping from every syllable. “Should’ve known my greedy little doll would want more.”
Without another thought, he tipped the bottle, letting the lube drip messily over his fingers, slow and indulgent. George shivered at the sound alone, his breath hitching, pupils blown wide as he watched —as if the visual of Dream slicking up his fingers was enough to unravel him further.
Then Dream gave him what he wanted.
A second finger, stretching him open, pushing in slow, deep, unrelenting. George’s thighs twitched, his back arching off the bed, a sharp little gasp punched out of him at the sheer pressure of it. He felt too full already, the burn setting his nerves alight, sending another rush of heat to his already ruined, aching cock.
“Oh, fuck ,” George exhaled, voice breaking, eyes fluttering shut—only for Dream’s free hand to slide up his jaw, fingers pressing in just enough to make George’s lips part on instinct.
“Eyes on me, baby,” Dream murmured, low and lazy. “I want you watching while I break you in.”
George’s lashes fluttered, his gaze snapping back to Dream’s, and god—Dream looked like something out of a fantasy. All dark amusement and wicked intent, the smirk on his lips dripping with satisfaction, like he was savoring every little tremble, every stuttered breath, every desperate noise spilling from George’s lips.
And then—still working him open, still stretching him deeper, still keeping him pinned with nothing but presence —Dream brought his free hand down to the front of his shirt, tugging at the knot of his tie with slow, practiced ease.
George swore his brain short-circuited .
Dream chuckled, deep and indulgent, like George’s desperation was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
“Look at you,” he mused, dragging his thumb over George’s bottom lip, pressing just enough to feel the wet heat of his tongue. “So fucking needy. Just lying there, spread open, waiting for me to ruin you.”
George made a wrecked, breathless sound, his thighs trembling, his hips giving a pathetic little twitch—like he was fighting the urge to grind down, to beg . But Dream could see it, written all over him. That raw, helpless hunger. The way his body betrayed him, burning up with shame and want, waiting for Dream to take.
Dream’s smirk widened. “Tell me, baby. What’s your price?”
George barely processed the words, his brain thick with heat, thoughts sluggish and sticky, like honey dripping slow and syrupy in his skull.
“Wh—what?” His voice cracked, high and needy, and fuck , that was cute.
Dream laughed , fingers curling deeper inside him, slow, unrelenting, watching George shatter apart with nothing but the smallest shift of his wrist.
“Oh, come on. You know how this works,” Dream purred, his free hand drifting lower, ghosting over the inside of George’s thigh, teasing. “Everything has a price.” He let his fingers press —not a thrust, not quite, just firm enough to make George gasp, body arching into the touch. “That pretty little hole of yours—” another press, another helpless, choked-off whimper “—how much do you think it’s worth?”
George made a sound that was barely human, something between a whimper and a sob, his entire body burning with it, with the sheer humiliation curling tight in his stomach.
“I—” His fingers twisted in the sheets, his breath coming in sharp, stuttering gasps, and Dream could see the war inside him. The way shame and arousal tangled together, twisting him up, making his pulse hammer against his throat.
Dream leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of George’s ear, his voice a cruel whisper.
“Should I pay you to take my cock, baby?” He dragged his teeth over soft skin, feeling the full-body shudder that tore through George, the way his legs tried to spread wider without even thinking. “Is that what you want?”
George gasped, broken and desperate, his whole body tensing , something inside him snapping like a frayed thread pulled too tight.
Dream grinned , smug and satisfied, his hand sliding up, catching George’s jaw, tilting his head back just enough to make him look .
“God, you really are my greedy little whore.”
George whimpered , face burning, lashes wet, lips trembling—and fuck , that was the prettiest thing Dream had ever seen.
“So easy,” Dream murmured, almost fond. “I bet if I pulled out my wallet right now, you’d open those legs even wider for me.”
George’s breath hitched, mortified, wrecked , his cock leaking against his stomach, his thighs trembling with sheer, unbearable need .
Dream smirked, running his thumb along George’s bottom lip, pressing until George’s mouth parted on instinct.
“That’s what I thought.”
George barely had a moment to breathe before Dream was on him.
The heat of his body, the weight of him pressing George down , the sheer dominance in the way he moved—it knocked the air from George’s lungs, sent a shudder rippling through him like a live wire.
Dream caught his mouth in a kiss that wasn’t sweet, wasn’t soft—it was rough , messy, teeth dragging over his lips, biting down just to hear George whimper . George tried to kiss back, but Dream didn’t let him, didn’t give him room to think, to do anything but take it.
“Open.”
George barely registered the command before Dream’s tongue was in his mouth, deep, possessive , claiming him with every hot, filthy slide. The kiss was all-consuming, taking everything George had to give and then some, until his head was spinning, until he was nothing but need .
And then Dream bit down— hard .
George gasped , his entire body jerking at the sharp flash of pain, pleasure curling hot and fast in his stomach, sending a fresh pulse of arousal straight to his cock.
Dream pulled back just enough to admire his work, his thumb swiping over George’s swollen, spit-slick lips, pressing down until George whimpered.
“There’s my perfect little whore,” Dream murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction, like George was something to be proud of .
George whined, head tilting back as Dream’s mouth moved lower, trailing down the column of his throat.
And then he bit .
Sharp, unrelenting, sinking his teeth into soft, sensitive skin—not enough to break it, but enough . Enough to make George cry out , enough to send a shudder rolling through his body, enough to have him writhing under Dream’s touch.
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” Dream chuckled against his skin, his breath hot, teasing. He licked over the fresh bruise, sucking hard, pulling another wrecked little moan from George’s throat. “Such a slut for it. I bet you want everyone to see, don’t you? Want them to know exactly who you belong to?”
George shivered, his breath coming in desperate, uneven gasps, his fingers clawing at Dream’s biceps, at the smooth fabric of his still buttoned-up shirt.
“Please,” he slurred, not even sure what he was asking for, only knowing that he needed more .
Dream laughed , slow and syrupy, before finally— finally —pulling back just enough to strip off his shirt, unbuttoning it with deliberate, agonizing slowness.
And fuck .
The moment George caught sight of him, the broad expanse of his chest, the muscle, the pure strength carved into every inch of him—his brain short-circuited.
Dream smirked, watching George’s reaction like he knew . Like he knew exactly what was going through his head.
“Like what you see, baby?”
George didn’t even have it in him to deny it. His lips were swollen, his body aching, his mind wrecked beyond repair—and Dream was just so much . So big, so strong, so in control .
Dream leaned in close again, lips brushing over George’s ear.
“Be a good boy,” he murmured, dragging his nails down George’s ribs, making him shudder, “and I’ll make sure you feel it tomorrow.”
Dream’s smirk widened, watching George tremble beneath him, wrecked and desperate and already falling apart —and he hadn’t even fucked him yet.
Pathetic.
And so, so perfect.
“You know,” Dream mused, dragging his fingers over the fresh hickey blooming dark and vicious across George’s throat, “I could make you beg for anything right now.” His thumb pressed down, feeling George’s pulse race beneath his skin. “Could make you say the dirtiest things, could make you tell me exactly how badly you need it—how badly you want me to use you.”
George let out a whimper, high-pitched and broken, his hips twitching, so far gone he probably would say anything Dream wanted.
Dream chuckled. God , he loved this. Loved having George like this —helpless and aching and so, so beautifully desperate for him. Such a stark difference from how the brunet usually behaved before.
He leaned in, voice dark and syrupy as he whispered, “But we both know you’d give it up for free, wouldn’t you?” His hand wrapped around George’s throat—not squeezing, just holding —just reminding him exactly who he belonged to. “You’d spread those pretty legs for me without a single cent, because deep down, you’re just a greedy little slut who lives to be fucked.”
George whined , breath hitching, his thighs trembling as his body betrayed him—because fuck , he didn’t need the money, not really, not when Dream made him feel like this . Not when every sharp, filthy word sent another rush of arousal crashing through him, leaving him raw and open and ready to be taken apart .
Dream felt it, the way George clenched around his fingers, the way his breath stuttered, and laughed .
“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” His grip tightened, his free hand slipping lower, nails dragging over George’s stomach, his thighs, teasing just enough to make him squirm . “Like being treated like a cheap little fucktoy. Like knowing that no matter how much money I throw at you, you’d still take my cock for free .”
George made a wrecked, humiliatingly desperate sound, his head falling back, giving Dream more of his throat, more of his everything , and Dream groaned at the sight—because fuck , he was so fucking pretty when he was falling apart.
“God, look at you,” Dream muttered, slipping his fingers out just to watch George whine at the loss. “So fucked out, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”
And then Dream’s hands were back on him, rough and intentional , gripping George’s hips, dragging him up until he was flush against Dream’s chest.
“Think you can take it, baby?” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, dragging his teeth over George’s ear. “Think you can handle what I’m about to do to you?”
George could barely form words, could barely think , but he nodded, breathless, ruined, so far gone in the pleasure it was pathetic .
Dream grinned, sharp and predatory, his hands tightening— claiming .
“Then let’s see just how much you can take.”
Dream let out a slow, pleased hum, dragging his hands over George’s body like he was something to be owned, something bought and paid for.
“I should make you beg for it,” he mused, tracing circles over the inside of George’s trembling thigh, fingers barely ghosting over the slick mess between his legs. “Make you tell me exactly how bad you want it.”
George’s breath hitched, his entire body burning with humiliation, with need. His fingers twisted in the sheets, his hips jerking helplessly. “I—I need it,” he gasped out, voice wrecked, barely above a whisper.
Dream laughed, dark and satisfied. “That’s it? That’s your price?” He leaned down, breath hot against George’s ear. “You can do better than that, baby.”
George let out a choked little noise, so thoroughly trapped in Dream’s grasp, so far gone in the heat curling in his stomach that there was no room for shame anymore. “Please,” he whimpered. “I—I need you, need your cock—need you to f-fuck me—”
Dream groaned, his patience snapping, his own arousal thrumming thick in his veins. “God, you really are perfect.”
Without another word, he reached for the bottle of lube again, popping the cap with one hand, pouring a generous amount over his fingers before sliding them back between George’s legs, rubbing slow, lazy circles around his already stretched hole.
George twitched, thighs trembling, body wound so tight he thought he might break apart just from this.
Dream took his time. Of course he did.
With one hand still gripping George’s thigh, keeping him spread open and pliant beneath him, the other unbuttoning his slacks, drawing out the moment like he had all the time in the world. The fabric rustled as he unzipped them, the sound deafening in the thick, humid air between them. Then—finally—he reached inside, palming himself, stroking once before pulling his cock free.
George’s breath caught in his throat.
Fuck.
It was— big . Thick, flushed, the head glistening, heavy in Dream’s hand. It caught him off-guard when he figured it looked even bigger this way compared to when he sucked him off before. Maybe it was an illusion created by his current perspective—this, or that he actually grew in size. Nevertheless, the sheer weight of it had George’s stomach flipping, his thighs twitching, a fresh wave of heat flooding through him.
Dream smirked, catching the way George’s gaze locked onto it, how his lashes fluttered, lips parting on nothing but shallow little breaths.
“Aw, baby,” Dream cooed, dragging the head of his cock teasingly along George’s inner thigh, leaving a slick trail in its wake. “You look a little overwhelmed.”
George whimpered, his fingers twitching, his body fully on display—desperate and aching and so fucking weak for the man above him.
Dream laughed, shaking his head as he dragged his cock up, running it over George’s hole, teasing, not pushing in yet.
“Bet you’re wondering how the fuck you’re supposed to take it, huh?” His voice was pure, mocking amusement. “Bet you’re already thinking about how deep I’m gonna get, how full you’re gonna feel—how wrecked you’re gonna be when I’m done with you.”
George swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming under his skin, his body responding before his mind could catch up.
It was all true. He was indeed thinking that.
Dream smirked, pressing a slick fingertip against him, teasing, just barely pushing in—only to pull back before George could get what he wanted.
“Come on, baby,” Dream crooned, voice dripping condescension. “What do we say when we’re given nice things?”
George’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing, his face burning hot—because he knew exactly what Dream wanted, knew what he had to say to finally, finally get it.
He swallowed hard, humiliation curling tight in his chest, his voice small, wrecked.
“Thank you, Dream,” he choked out, barely above a whisper.
Dream let out a low, satisfied hum, dragging his tip lazily over George’s trembling hole, not giving him what he needed just yet.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His smirk widened, cruel and indulgent. “My polite little fucktoy.”
Dream’s fingers curled into George’s thighs, pushing them further apart, keeping him spread wide and open, vulnerable beneath him. The sight alone had something dark and hungry curling in Dream’s chest, had his cock twitching in his grip.
He dragged the thick head of it down the length of George’s slick entrance, teasing, pressing—just enough to make George feel it—before pulling away, never quite giving him what he needed.
George gasped, his breath breaking on a pathetic little whine, his hips jerking in a desperate attempt to chase the contact.
Dream’s grip tightened immediately, stopping him, owning him.
“Uh-uh,” Dream tutted, voice thick with amusement. “Look at you. Already so fucking desperate, and I haven’t even given you anything yet.”
George swallowed hard, his face burning hot, his stomach knotting up with the kind of embarrassment that only made him ache more. He squeezed his eyes shut, breath shuddering.
Dream clicked his tongue, unimpressed. “Eyes on me, baby.”
George forced them open, meeting Dream’s gaze—and fuck , he shouldn’t have, because Dream was staring down at him like he was something fragile, something ruinable , something that belonged to him completely.
And then Dream was pressing in.
Slow at first, letting George feel every inch, every stretch, forcing him open around the sheer thickness of it. The resistance was immediate—tight and hot and so fucking much —and George’s entire body went rigid, breath catching in his throat.
“Jesus—fuck,” Dream ground out, voice rough as he pushed in another inch, then another, working George open with steady, deliberate pressure. “You’re so fucking tight.”
George’s hands scrambled for purchase, fingers twisting in the sheets, his back arching, legs trembling as he tried to take it, tried to force himself to relax around the burn, the pressure , the way Dream was splitting him open.
Dream groaned, watching the way George’s body swallowed him up, tight and hot and perfect. “Oh, fuck. That’s it, baby—take it, let me in.”
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t pause.
Didn’t give George a second to adjust before rolling his hips forward, pressing deeper , his cock stretching him impossibly wide, pushing up against something devastating inside him.
George sobbed . A broken, wrecked little sound, his fingers twitching uselessly, his thighs trying to snap shut around Dream’s waist—but Dream just held him there , spreading him open, making him take it.
Dream groaned, dragging a hand up George’s side, his thumb pressing down against the dip of his lower stomach. “Fuck—you feel that, baby?” he murmured, voice thick and smug. “Feel how deep I am?”
George let out a weak little whimper, nodding frantically, his entire body trembling.
Dream grinned, his grip tightening. “You can take more.”
And then he pulled out, just enough to make George feel the emptiness—before slamming back in.
The sound that tore from George’s throat was raw, wrecked , but the second the sharp edge of pain melted into something deeper—something hotter, something so much worse —his fingers clenched in the sheets, his head falling back against the pillows with a choked gasp.
Dream groaned, watching the way George’s body spasmed around him, sucking him in tight, hot, perfect .
“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, dragging his nails over George’s thighs, feeling the way they trembled, how his muscles tensed and relaxed in quick, desperate succession. “I know it’s a lot, but you’re taking it , aren’t you?”
George whimpered, barely able to process it, to think, to breathe .
His body was a mess of sensations—blazing heat licking up his spine, pleasure curling tight in his stomach, pain bleeding into pleasure until he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. It was too much, not enough , everything at once, and he loved it.
Dream felt that realization, saw the way George’s body twitched, his lashes fluttering, his wrecked little moans turning breathy, hungry, filthy .
“Oh,” Dream crooned, a slow, pleased smirk spreading over his lips. “You seem to like this even more than I do, don’t you?”
George’s cheeks burned, his breath shuddering, his thighs twitching beneath Dream’s grip. He should have been embarrassed—should have denied it, should have fought —but the way Dream was stretching him open, holding him down, filling him so fucking deep —
George whimpered , his back arching off the bed, his head tipping back, surrendering completely.
Dream laughed , breathless and dark, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts, savoring every sound, every broken little gasp spilling from George’s lips.
“God, you’re such a slut for this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Taking my cock so well , letting me ruin you just like this.”
George could barely form a thought beyond more, more, more , beyond the way Dream felt , beyond the heat curling tighter and tighter inside him.
And then Dream snapped his hips forward , thrusting in deep and staying there , grinding against something devastating inside George, and the sound that ripped from George’s throat was pure, helpless bliss .
Dream kept him there—pressed down into the mattress, held open, filled to the brim —and the only thing George could do was take it . His body was on fire, nerves blazing, every sharp jolt of pleasure making him tremble, making his fingers twitch uselessly against Dream’s biceps.
Dream grinned, dragging a hand up George’s body, over his stomach, up to his chest, his fingers grazing over a nipple, pinching just enough to make George jerk beneath him, a wrecked little moan punching out of his throat.
“Sensitive,” Dream murmured, smug and entertained, rolling his hips slow and deep, letting George feel every inch, every stretch, every desperate inch of friction. “God, you’re so fucking easy, baby.”
George whimpered, barely able to breathe, barely able to think , and then Dream’s hand was sliding up again, catching under his chin, tilting his head back—
And then Dream’s mouth was on him .
Hot, open-mouthed kisses dragged over his throat, his jaw, his pulse hammering under Dream’s lips. Teeth followed next, scraping just enough to make George gasp, to make his body jolt like it didn’t know whether to run or melt right into it.
Dream laughed against his skin, licking over the fresh mark before sucking another crimson bruise into his throat, darker, deeper, possessive . “You like when I mark you up, don’t you?”
George whimpered, barely managing a nod.
“That’s my good boy.”
And then Dream bit down .
Sharp, intentional, just enough to make George cry out, his body locking up, his cock twitching against his stomach, aching and leaking and so fucking desperate .
Dream groaned at the reaction, his own body shuddering as he licked over the bite, soothing the sting before moving lower, his teeth grazing over George’s collarbone, his tongue trailing fire down his chest.
His hips rolled deeper with every bite, every mark, his pace still slow, still cruel , fucking into him like he had all the time in the world .
George was losing his mind .
His head was spinning, his vision blurring , heat coiling so tight in his stomach it hurt. Dream was everywhere , hands gripping, mouth devouring, cock ruining him with every deep, devastating thrust.
“Gonna cum for me, baby?” Dream murmured, biting at George’s jaw, his lips trailing back to his mouth.
George sobbed, nodding frantically, too far gone to do anything else.
Dream grinned, swallowing the sound with a filthy, open-mouthed kiss, licking into George’s mouth, tasting his whimpers, his desperation.
And then he snapped his hips forward , hitting that spot inside George with precision, with intent , and—
George broke .
A strangled, wrecked little moan melted into Dream’s mouth as his body seized up, the pleasure finally snapping , his orgasm ripping through him so hard his vision whited out .
Dream groaned, drinking down every sound, owning every tremble, every twitch of pleasure wracking George’s body—
And then Dream gripped his hips, his own thrusts turning erratic, desperate, chasing his own release, and—
Fuck.
George barely registered the moment Dream finally slowed, finally stilled , his hands still gripping tight, still keeping him close , even as his breathing evened out.
He barely processed the way Dream pressed one last, slow kiss to his shoulder before finally pulling out, leaving him empty and wrecked in the best way possible.
What he did notice—what he felt —was the way Dream touched him after .
Soft. Gentle. Reverent.
A warm hand smoothing down his side, tracing circles into his skin, coaxing him back from the haze of pleasure.
“You okay, baby?” Dream’s voice was low, soft, threaded with something real .
George hummed, his body feeling too heavy to move, boneless and sated and so safe .
Dream chuckled , pressing a kiss into his hair before shifting off the bed, the mattress dipping as he moved.
George barely managed to open his eyes, just in time to see Dream tugging his pants back on—still shirtless, still messy, his hair sticking to his forehead, a light sheen of sweat clinging to his skin.
God, he looked good .
George let his head tip to the side, watching as Dream disappeared into the bathroom. A second later, he heard the sound of water running, followed by Dream rummaging through cabinets, probably looking for something George was too spent to care about.
By the time Dream returned, he had a damp washcloth in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
George blinked up at him, exhausted, dazed.
Dream only smirked , shaking his head fondly.
“You look fucked out, baby,” he murmured, setting the water bottle on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed, gently pressing the warm washcloth between George’s thighs.
George winced , a shiver running through him at the overstimulation, but Dream was careful—moving slow, whispering quiet reassurances, cleaning him up with so much care it made something soft unfurl in George’s chest.
When he was done, Dream tossed the cloth aside and reached for the water, uncapping it before pressing it to George’s lips.
George let him hold it, too tired to do anything but drink.
Dream watched him, eyes warm, soft, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.
Then, after a moment, he grinned . That same lazy, knowing smirk. That same wicked amusement from earlier, when he had George pinned beneath him, helpless and desperate.
“ I don’t know if you can take it, ” he murmured, voice mocking, but light-hearted.
George barely had the energy to move, but he still huffed a tired little laugh, pressing his face into the crook of Dream’s neck, letting himself be pulled close. His body ached , but it was the best kind of ache—the kind that settled deep, warm, good .
He hummed against Dream’s skin, lips curling just slightly.
“Took all of it,” he muttered sleepily. Then, with a smirk of his own, voice softer, teasing, but still so certain . “No receipts, no refunds.”
Dream let out a low , pleased hum, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles into George’s back.
“That’s right, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss into George’s hair. His voice was softer now, but still possessive , like a promise wrapped in warmth.
“No take-backs.”
Then he pulled George closer—held him like he belonged there, tucked into his arms, safe, spoiled, owned .
And for the first time in a long time, George let himself believe it.