Archive of Our Own ^beta

George likes a word, like, really likes it. He likes the way he rolls off of pink and gets circled by white. He likes the way it makes its way past lips with a singular freckle. How it's accompanied by a smirk and nervous hands. Even a chuckle while eyes search for his own, meeting them before finding blush on his cheeks.

Hell, he even likes how he thinks about it while pushing silicone into himself, finding the right angle, feeling the right things, thinking about just that one word, uttered by one person.

He likes it.

Maybe even loves it.

He loves how it reduces him into a puddle, but still pushes him to control himself. Even if all he wants to do is get down on his knees right then and there, open his mouth, and obey enough to be good, but still have enough power to make the person above him fall apart.

He has to keep control of it, he can’t let the world know. So, he keeps himself in check. He stops himself.

It’s for his imagination and his imagination only.

Except, he thinks that he needs more of it. Not just one offhand comment. Not just one Christmas card . He needs it to be said directly, put out into the air, for his ears and maybe for the ears of everyone who isn't toeing the blurry line. He wants it to be repeated. For it to be said too many times to count, but not enough to stop catching him off guard.

He wants it to be followed by ‘good boy’ or even ‘look how desperate you are.’ He thinks he needs it, like it's something he just has to hear in order to move on in life — in order to function.

So, he sets out to get it. He makes a plan, something to do in order to be what Dream wants. Plus, it’s not like he hasn't wanted to do this on his own anyway, he just needed a little push. If that push happens to be his horny thoughts, then that is his business.

He’s been wanting to take more responsibility in the Dream Team house. Sure, there are three grown men who own the house and live in it, inviting over occasional visitors, but overall, George can admit that Dream does most of the house work, and that Dream’s mum supplies them with most necessities.

It’s not like he is dirty, he is actually quite clean. Everything has a spot for him and he might seem like the type to not know how to cook, or do the laundry, or even wash the shower, but he does those things more than anyone else in the house. Plus, if he didn’t, he would never hear the end of it from their friend group.

But he knows he can improve, get on top of cleaning, doing the dishes, cooking for everyone else in the house and not just himself. Hell, maybe even cleaning the litter boxes should be added to the list.

So he will. He decides that he will. 

He will do the housework. He will become the perfect house wife and maybe Dream will tell him so.

He starts by gathering the clothes around the house, not the ones in the bedrooms, not yet at least, but the clothes that are sprawled across the living room and in the basketball court. He even grabs the hoodie that the kittens have decided to claim as their own. Normally he wouldn't touch it, but it's full of fur, and they are in Sapnap’s room – if he places it back quick enough once he is done they won't notice. Only the smell will alert them to the change, which they will convert back in no time.

He sighs, looking around as he pushes the clothes deeper into the basket that he had found. There isn't much just thrown everywhere, but yesterday they did go in the pool. Not by their own volition or plan, but because, of course, in a house full of adult men, everything has to end in a bet or dare. That did not change yesterday, in fact, some of the clothes are still damp from having been thrown into the pool with the body they were still attached to.

He heaves the basket up, carrying it across the house and into the laundry room, struggling with the door that seems to despise him and only him. He huffs at it, already annoyed with his new project.

He separates the colours, making sure the whites, blacks. He even makes sure that the towels are out of the mix. He doesn’t want to risk fucking up on his first day of doing the full housework. Once he is done with hauling the laundry around, making piles and making sure the socks are all washed in pairs, he moves on, leaving the room without breaking a sweat.

That is a lie, he knows it as he thinks about how easy it was because, realistically, he might have almost died to the laundry monster in there, the one who makes his neck feel gross and his forehead shine too much to be normal.

He sighs, wiping his face with his arm. He moves on from all of that, avoiding even looking in the direction of it as he goes to the kitchen, looking for a glass of water before staring at the mess of opened boxes and random pantry items filling the island countertop.

He crosses one arm over himself as he holds a cold bottle of water, sucking up the liquid through the straw. He looks over everything, imagining exactly where it needs to be placed, but then his mind wanders to clean counters and how his mouth seems to be sucking the straw quite seductively. He cocks his head, swirling his tongue around the opening of it.

He thinks about what it’d be like to be fucked in the kitchen, against the countertops. What’d it be like to have things whispered in his ear while he moans, face pressed against the cold counter, chest flushed with blush.

Maybe he’d even be told to be quiet, not because anyone would be home, but because he would echo, and George would moan louder until his mouth would get covered, making him roll his eyes back as his hips hit the edge of the counter.

He would bruise, he knows he would, he does easily. It’s known, but that’s what makes it better. A reminder of what he did, where he did it, and in addition to the already amazing memories, it would equate to some sort of aftercare. Soft rubbing of purpling flesh and sweet kisses, apologies falling from lips. The same lips he wishes would just repeat what the damn card says.

He drops the straw from his mouth; he doesn't have time to waste fantasizing. He needs to make it a reality.

He starts gathering things before he knows it, placing them where they should go. Only having to stop and think about a few things instead of being on autopilot. That makes him smile. How he knows this house inside and out, as if he didn’t go explore it his second night home, but that isn't the point. The point is that he has been here long enough— he has had a home long enough to know where the crackers go, and how Dream likes the tree nuts to be organized. He knows where Sapnap likes the communal chip collection to be, even if George still calls them crisps. He even knows where the pre-workout is.

He knows it all, all the little details and it makes him shine.

Once the boxes and bags are all put away he moves over to the dishes, knowing he should get them out of the way. He shudders as water runs down his arm, but he pushes through. The dishes haven't been sitting for long, maybe since last night. Since the boys jumped into the pool, ran to the bathrooms, showered, and then decided to just keep to themselves. That was until they got bored and called over Discord anyway.

Some things never change. Even when five thousand miles turns into ten feet.

He cleans off the glasses and cups first, placing them neatly on the rack before moving to do the bowls and plates. Then the pots and pans, and finally the silverware. It's a routine he got used to in London. 

When he first got his own place it was a big step. He was finally on his own even if he was already taking care of himself in his parent’s home. He’d do the dishes the same every time, clean the counters next, the floors, and then put the dishes away.

He moves onto his next step the second he places the last fork in the drying rack. He knows where the cleaners are, even if it looks like a jumbled mess with the bottles on the countertop, but, to be fair, their counters go deep, something George appreciates immensely. 

He has to reach for things when grabbing stuff, something he didn't have in London and somehow the more muscle stretching the more it makes him feel at home.

The counters aren't dirty, not even from the cats sitting on the island when the boys aren’t looking. George catches them a lot, but he promises not to tell anyone as long as they don’t make a mess. 

They always make a mess, but George takes the blame. What else is he supposed to do? He can’t let them get in trouble, they are too perfect.

He cleans quickly, mind getting lost once more – This time he isn’t thinking about sucking dick, or getting fucked against he countertops, instead he is thinking about what to do next. He should check the laundry, change it over and fold it, maybe he should even vacuum and wash the floors. 

He nods. Yeah, that's what he will do. He will put away the dishes, change over the laundry, vacuum, wash floors, and then fold laundry.

He could get folded—

He almost breaks a glass while putting it away, but how is he supposed to not? The counter is the perfect height and he can't exactly drop the imagery of being bent over it out of his mind, it's physically impossible now.

It takes him a few minutes to do it all– well, up until the vacuuming, that is. That’s his favourite part, not because of the loud noise or because of how it sucks up dirt, but because Dream bought the vacuum with the light on the front, the one that shows him all of the cat hair in the corners that no one roams in. It’s the fancy type, the one that makes it fun and George abuses that fun.

He zooms around the main floor, sucking up all the grime and making sure not to miss a single spot. He even vacuums the couch and the cat beds, making sure that they are clean and ready to be rested in for twelve hours a day.

Washing the floors is okay, boring and a little annoying, but he gets the job done and then it's time for another laundry switch and some folding. He gets that done quickly too. Making sure to fold it all perfectly, as if he is going to be judged by the Gordon Ramsey of laundry. He isn't sure who that is, maybe his mother, but it's enough motivation to push him through it.

It's like he is a super human, even if he has only touched the first floor, or more specifically, just the kitchen and living room, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he is moving fast, getting it done and when he looks over his shoulder, squinting and reading the microwave, he thinks that he might be on time, he might get it all done before Dream returns home.

He powers through the last of it, quickly putting the clothing away, knowing their places, even if he doesn't own them. Except for Sapnap’s clothes– a lot of that stuff he has no idea where it goes, so he just leaves it on his roommate’s bed. Nice piles sitting there, waiting for them to put them away the next chance they get.

The last thing he does is put the towels away, restocking the linen closet by the pool door, where they had taken the towels from originally. 

He stands in his perfectly clean area, fluffing the pillows, making sure that it looks good but also comfy. He places the cat toys back where they should be, and then he stands in the kitchen. He looks around, noticing a few things out of place, like how he didn’t put the cleaner back, and how the paper towel is off of its holder. He also realizes that he didn't wipe the sinks clean.

He barely finishes making the faucet spotless before he hears the telltale sound of the garage opening. Dream is home, finally home and all George can do is rush and stand in the middle of the kitchen, facing the garage door as he fiddles with his hands behind his back, rocking on his feet.

Maybe he shouldn't have done this, maybe he should have just left it alone, looking for porn or something with the word, but he knows that that wouldn't satiate him. He’s tried it before. And he’s already been through all of the guilt, all of the pain, and the wondering, and the ‘holy shit, maybe it means more to me.’ He's been there, more than once, and he’s done feeling like that. Now it's time to make moves.

He doesn't get the chance to calm himself down, turn his worry into pride, because the door opens and in walks Dream, toeing his shoes off before looking up. He immediately spots George, smiling and as he walks into the rooms that George has spent the last few hours cleaning, he pauses. 

George chews on his lip, fingers messing with each other behind his back. He’s nervous and he feels like Dream feels it too, almost like he can smell it on him, like some sort of animal. George wishes he would ravage him.

Dream smirks, but not in the seductive way, more like he is trying not to smile so he will settle for something less, maybe just enough to toe the line. Like always. “You cleaned, didn't you?”

George nods shyly, body still making him out to be small– maybe that will make Dream say it, maybe that will help. George drops his shoulders, shrinking down a little bit.

“Oh, Georgie…” he moves closer, George counts the steps, he even counts his breaths. Making sure to keep the number in his ‘the amount of things I know about my best friend ’ folder that is stored in the depths of his mind. “You did so good, thank you,” he says, smiling and reaching out, touching George’s arm before placing his hand on his waist. 

George might as well just combust right here, fall to dust and spread out on the freshly cleaned floor.

Dream squeezes once before looking down, licking his lips and George swallows. Maybe George is the one who needed cleansing, not the house, because the only thing stopping him from dropping and melting into the marble from a hand on his waist is the clean floor. He can't ruin it before Dream has even looked.

“Perfect,” Dream whispers and then his eyes drop, looking at George’s lips, following George’s tongue that swipes against them. It’s subconscious, a nervous habit, one George knows not to break now that it catches the attention of his best friend. But then he pulls away and George has to stop himself from whining, reaching out, and slouching in disappointment. “It smells amazing in here!” Dream says cheerfully. Pulling fully away to look around.

He doesn't even look flustered, he looks completely put together while he spins in his spot, whereas George has to physically try to keep his knees working. It’s not fair, he needs Dream to become a mess, he wants it. He wants it all, the words, the praise, the degradation, the touch. He wants every bit of what Dream will give him and he knows that he can get it out of him somehow.

The line is blurry, or maybe even non-existent, therefore it's all free game. And if there is anything to know about George, it's that he loves games and anything free.

George nods, biting his lip and standing still. He is determined, even more so that he got a small taste of what Dream’s breath is like, a small taste of his praise for doing what will lead up to the word being spilled.

He will just have to do better. He will need to do more. He’s gonna plan tonight, make sure to write down a To Do list and have it all organized, making sure he has time everyday to do something else. Maybe he will even do a bit extra– he isn't sure what ‘extra’ means quite yet, but he will figure it out.

He’ll do better. He’ll catch Dream’s eyes, and get what he wants.

—

George wakes up early. His body screams at him, not because he didn't sleep, but because it always wants more sleep, it’s greedy.

George deals with it, he lets himself be greedy every once in a while, especially when it comes to what he wants. He barely gets done brushing his teeth before he feels like he should get to his cleaning and organizing. It’s early, much too early to do the main part of the house, and he doesn't want the noise to travel and wake anyone up, the cats included. So, he settles for one of the communal areas, but one that is far enough away that no one will wake up if he drops something.

The home theatre isn't a giant mess. There isn't any popcorn, or any empty wrappers on the floor… but the garbage can is pretty full and there are bottles laying around, hoodies draped across the chairs as well as sweats and some other articles of clothing, and George is pretty sure he has never seen the floor get vacuumed, so he takes a deep breath and dives in.

He starts by gathering all of the clothes by the door, making sure that they are in a pile before moving on to grabbing the garbage bag and taking it out of the room. He puts it in the bin outside, making sure to wave at the lizard on the ground and say hello. They are usually there, just basking in the shade while they wait for the sun to go down enough to escape into the trees and grass.

The birds chirp and he can't help but take a moment, looking out into the sky. Maybe he should work outside later today, if it doesn't get too hot. He needs to get some sun anyway.

He knows he goes outside quite a bit, sitting under the few trees that stray out from the forest surrounding them, but it's not nearly enough. Plus, what if the friendly neighbourhood squirrels miss his sunflower seeds, or the slugs miss the way he will leave out a bottle cap full of water for them to come up to and soak in or drink. He's not really sure how it works, he just knows that they like it.

He’ll think about it. For now, he needs to get back to cleaning.

He walks into the kitchen, grabbing his cleaners and paper towels and even touching the cursed and gross feeling microfibre towels for the faux leather seats. He juggles it all as he walks in, setting it on the floor, not without dropping a bottle of wood cleaner before, but it doesn't spill. It’s fine.

He gathers the pile of clothes in his hands, hobbling out of the room and into the haunted space that he kind of hates. The laundry room isn't too bad, but the floor is messed up, meant to be replaced awhile ago but just wasn’t. The walls are an odd colour, not quite white but not egg shell, and there isn't a lot of room, meaning George has to scavenge for laundry baskets when he moves around the clothes. He sighs, deciding to place the dry and clean ones on top of the dryer instead of being a rat and looking into each room for an empty basket. He will deal with it later.

Or tomorrow… Whichever works best for him.

The laundry is easy, as it was yesterday. He just puts the soap in, the clothes, uses vinegar as fabric softener, and then moves to start it, starting the dryer at the same time.

He leaves the room without breaking a sweat this time, he thinks it’s because the demon air in there has decided to go easy on him, but he is pretty sure that it's because there is less laundry than yesterday's loads.

He leaves that thought behind, not entertaining it. He’s just so buff and big that nothing makes him break a sweat, mhm, that’s it.

He goes back to the theatre room after that, practically dropping to his knees to grab the paper towel and cleaners before he starts crawling. He cleans the side tables first, and then he cleans the screen and the little shelves that are spread across the room.

It's when he is spinning in a circle after cleaning everything but the chairs when he realizes that he didn't grab the leather cleaner, knowing he doesn't want to risk just spraying the chairs with whatever else he has. He huffs, flinging the microfibre towel out of his hand and making it land on a table before he wipes away the excess feeling on his hands.

He makes his way out of the room once again, walking into the kitchen and being jump scared by the tallest of his roommates.

“Jesus Christ!” he says loudly, holding his chest with his hand. He swallows as Dream turns around, doing the same.

“You scared me,” he says, as if he is the one who wasn't standing in the kitchen, wearing… oh.

Wearing low waisted sweats, not grey, but that doesn’t matter, not when George's eyes train on his legs and everything else anyway. He’s sure grey wouldn't help with any sort of staring.

He swallows softly, hoping his Adam’s Apple doesn't bob too much, but when he trails his eyes up he can tell it didn't work. Not when Dream takes a deep breath, his chest filling with air as George looks at his scars, running his eyes along them and then back up his chest, finally settling on where his heart sits. But Dream needs to do more, of course, just to distract George further. He folds his arms over each other, and George follows the arms quickly before looking away. He can't get caught up right now. He needs to get back to cleaning, not get tempted.

“ I scared you ?” George asks, meeting Dream’s gaze for a second before averting his eyes again. “You are the one who’s– Who’s—” He starts walking past him, deciding that he should probably grab the cleaner instead of getting distracted. It also gives him a pass to not look at Dream.

“Who’s?” Dream asks, his voice doing that dumb, gorgeous , thing it does when he is taunting someone— taunting George.

“Who’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo,'' George adds, cringing when he realizes how dumb he sounds. He moves on anyway, bending down before crouching, looking into the cupboard underneath the sink.

“A weirdo ?” Dream asks as George reaches into the space, trying to find the damn leather cleaner. Problem is, he hasn't used it, he doesn't know what it looks like. “George,” Dream laughs, his giggle sounding more like a chuckle, but George knows the difference, he knows Dream. “I was getting food for, you know, lunch.”

George huffs, he doesn't know where it is. Maybe they don't even have any, maybe he is crazy and it doesn't actually exist and he will just have to use Lysol wipes.

“George…” Dream taunts again, this time like he does in Manhunt videos, like he did in that one, where George couldn't even stop himself from sounding flustered when he said ‘ stop, stop it’

He stands up, moving to another cabinet that has cleaners in it. They have a lot of things. Things that need separate cleaners and with that being said; they need a lot of cleaners for those things. He barely opens the cabinet door before Dream’s standing behind him, left pec practically resting against George’s right shoulder blade. George takes a sharp breath, trying to cover it with a stuttering deep breath.

“What are you looking for?” Dream asks. He is innocent in this, but George is not. His body wants to rest against him, to just lean back and close his eyes, and let Dream hold him.

“The, um,” he clears his throat quietly, and then he looks at the labels of the cleaners for the first time. The second bottle he lays his eyes on is the leather cleaner. He reaches out and somehow that makes his shoulder blade push against Dream. Maybe he moved closer. “The leather cleaner,” he says, holding it before shutting the door and standing still.

He takes one more breath and then he moves to the side, making eye contact with Dream’s neck. He wants to bite it– maybe it's an aggression thing, like when he feels like he should lightly punch his friends. Or maybe it's just because it’s right there and he is impulsive.

Or it’s because he just wants to mark him. Place his mouth there, lick, suck and bite, nibble on the skin until his mark is left there and then he would move to the right, doing the same thing and maybe adding something else, like his hands on him, feeling him all over and just touching, making sure he is real.

His eyes snap to Dream’s as Dream opens his mouth. “What leather are you cleaning?” he asks and then he moves back, watching George finally move from where he was metaphorically trapped. “The movie room?”

George bites his lip. “It's supposed to be a surprise…” he whines, smiling as Dream’s face opens.

“Oh, sorry,” he apologizes. He lifts his arms, covering his face with his hands, “I'll forget and then you can surprise me,” he says, making George break out in a smile. He is so cute.

George can't help but picture peek-a-boo, a game with a child, their child. Something that would make George’s heart melt and race and would make him want to devour Dream just because of how good he is.

He takes a moment to think about it, running his eyes along his body shamelessly, just because he knows he can get away with it now. Dream’s eyes are covered, and he is shaking with a small amount of laughter. He is waiting for George to call him an idiot, but he can't. He can't stop thinking about the things that are covered by Dream’s clothes. His very little clothes.

He is thinking about the hair he can't see, about the trail that goes sparse by his belly button. Where is the rest of it? What does it look like? He thinks about his arms, his freckles, his marks, all beauty, nothing less. 

He thinks of his eyes, his forehead, the way his jawline is sharp, perfectly. He thinks about his hair on his head, how good it looked with sweat in it at his concerts, how it would look with more sweat in it, just from different activities. How he would move it out of his way, possibly shake it, and then once it's done he would breathe heavily, running his hand through it and then smiling sleepily at his partner. 

George can picture the smile. He can picture it all, how he thinks it would go. He knows Dream. He knows him well enough that he knows Dream would be perfect at everything. He would change George’s world–he already has, except he thinks a different aspect of his life has been missing something for a long time and he is pretty sure it's been kept open for Dream and Dream only.

Dream’s hands drop just as George is thinking about children, about wishing he could have them, just for Dream, just to love them and see them thrive and see Dream love them all the same.

“It’s okay,” George replies, watching Dream subtly flex, not on purpose, he thinks. Just out of normalcy, he does it sometimes. George loves it. “Just go back to making food, I’ll be done in a bit.” George moves out of his way completely, walking back to the room. 

Dream stops him with his voice, making George turn a bit to look back at him. “Wanna watch a movie after?”

“In the theatre?”

Dream smiles. “No,” he says, shaking his head, his hair bouncing. “In my room?” he continues, wondering if George will accept.

George cheeks darken, the theatre would be ready, clean and the perfect space. But Dream doesn’t want that, he wants to share his space with George. It’s not like it hasn't happened before, they hang out in there, they did after he got given the Christmas card, pushing them to be closer than ever, almost completely forgetting about the line that barely exists with them.

They had cuddled up, asking each other questions in soft voices, only having the moon shine through the window. It was sweet, and safe, and George had fallen asleep next to his best friend, and woke up with the immense need to have something more, but he shoved it down. That is until he saw a video with the damn word in it, not said by Dream, but the man who was the top in it sure sounded like him, and the bottom enjoyed it as much as George’s dick and hand did.

Then he and Dream talked about marriage and that added another layer to it, and finally George had enough. He had burst and decided to go for what he wanted. Which is Dream, Dream and that word and Dream and his body, his brain, his heart, everything.

“Your room?” he asks and Dream nods.

“Mhm,” he says, eyes lighting up again, “yeah, my room.”

“Okay,” George agrees, he will survive it, he will survive Dream’s bedroom. “I’m gonna go finish, okay?”

“I can think of another type of finishing,” Dream jokes and George immediately blushes, scoffing.

Realistically, he isn’t mad, or grossed out, he is turned on. He is willing to give Dream everything. 

“Oh yeah?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, “I thought we were just watching a movie, but we can do that too.” Back and forth, back and forth, it's Dream’s turn to blush. His turn to look sheepish and smile like an idiot.

George usually loses this game, he usually gives up and gives in. Dream wins every time, but for once, George thinks he might have this one in the bag.

“I’ll make sure to keep my shirt off, just for you,” Dream tacks on, trying to get the one up, but George's mouth moves before he can stop it. 

He can't catch the words, they are already out into the world when he realizes what he has said.

“You better.”

—

George can admit he is nervous, not out loud, but to himself.

He has been delaying the inevitable, cleaning everything twice and even doing two extra main rooms: the poolside and the front entrance. They were a chore, simple to clean and easy as well, but he needed time to prepare.

Time to create space between promises. “ I’ll keep my shirt off.” “You better.” It's just a lot–a lot that made him blush like an apple and he could not go and find Dream with that blush high on his cheeks.

He got down on his knees, scrubbing the floor and only stopping once to look up and imagine Dream standing above him. It’s a record if he says so himself. He can't help it. He can't help picturing the scars and the freckles, the hair, the legs, the everything , because Dream is just so damn…

Dream is so much , and somehow, George, being the greedy beast that he is, wants more of him. He wants it all, trying to make moves for it, and he can tell Dream is flirting back, he can tell he enjoys it as well, but George can't tell if it’s in a friendly fashion or in a I want to rip your clothes off, take care of you, and call you mine.

God, he hopes it's the second.

He hopes Dream thinks about him like this too and he hopes he even goes far enough to picture George when he is jerking off, using his fleshlight, or even watching porn, imagining it’s George in the place of whoever is receiving.

His thoughts are filthy, enough to be made into a video that he’d have to hide. Enough to be popular within a certain community, but he keeps them to himself, hiding them from the world until the moment becomes right and he breathes them out between shared breaths.

Gasping air, he wants it. He wants to shake,  writhe, and be on the receiving end. He wants to hear all the beautiful noises, sounds and names. He wants it all.

He takes a deep breath before he starts his way up the stairs, heading to Dream’s bedroom, preparing to meet him there. Their movie night plans didn't change, not to his knowledge at least, so he continues, trudging through the bare walls and floors. He wishes he could fill them, print pictures off and place them around. He isn't the best with interior decorating, but their friend group is pretty good and Dream’s sister comes over a lot, complains about the bareness and shit decoration choices from the men, and then settles in.

It’s a pattern and George loves it. She may hate it, but something keeps bringing her back and George knows it's not just her brother. She likes the company and the cats and the fast Wi-Fi, even if her family has the same, and she loves the drive.

He makes it to the door and pushes it open, not letting himself second guess. When he enters he can see Dream lying on his bed, watching his phone like a hawk as he reads something. There is no smile, meaning it’s either a work email, or something dumb. George doesn't take the time to guess. Instead, he takes the second that he has to think before Dream notices, to run and jump on the bed, starfishing out and laughing as Dream drops his phone, hearing it hit his chest with a soft sound as Dream lets out a weird one of his own and breathes heavily.

George looks up, smiling, eyeing the way Dream lies there, eyes closed, chest moving up and down while his face stays neutral. He’s calming himself down from the scare, George knows it, and he loves to watch it. The way he can practically see his heart slow down, like he is the machine that shows the heart beating, he isn't sure what it’s called. It doesn't matter, he’d be anything to see Dream.

“Why?” Dream asks, fluttering his pretty eyes open in order to shift and look at George. George smiles cheekily, biting his lip and giggling.

“You weren't paying attention,” he answers, shrugging like he didn't just scare the living hell out of Dream.

He starts scooting out of the way, rolling around and trying to get comfy while Dream watches, a small smile forming on his face as well.

“Pay attention and maybe you wouldn't get scared, idiot,” George adds on, just to be a menace. He likes it. He likes the way Dream smiles, shaking his head and moving his body himself. He sits up, bare back coming right in George’s view. He sucks in a breath.

Realistically, he knew Dream would keep his shirt off, he sleeps without one, and George told him to, even if it was just an impulsive decision.

The question is, will Dream let George reach out? Will he let him touch his skin? Will he let him see if he’s only wearing his boxers too?

He lets Dream do whatever, getting comfy or something, barely holding back from reaching his fingers out to glide them against Dream’s upper back.

Dream lies down quickly after that, getting comfy enough to sigh and reach beside him, the blanket pulling away even more and George has to snap his hand away before it touches him. 

Dream comes back with the remote, turning on the TV and not even glancing at George, that is until he picks a movie, something George was watching, but completely forgot the name of as Dream started to eye him up.

He feels exposed, but in a good way, like he wants more, and more, and even more.

He wants to be watched and praised and touched. He wants it all, but he will wait, seeing if he can tempt Dream more in order for him to say what George wants. It’ll work, he is quite sure of it.

“What were you looking at before I came in?” George asks, moving down the bed to get into a better position for a long time resting.

Dream’s small smile moves a little down, but George doesn't point it out. “It was an email, some sort of sponsor.”

He’s lying. George can tell, of course, it's his job to know that, but he doesn't point that out either. Instead, he just nods, humming, as if it's a thing that takes a great deal of thinking on. “Anything interesting?” 

“Nope,” Dream says and George knows that's at least the truth, that Dream didn't actually find it appealing, whatever it was, and that he only was that focused on it because he felt the need to be, not the want.

“Oh, well that's boring,” George says, looking right back at Dream.

“Oh, my bad, let me just pull something out of my ass to make it less boring,” Dream jokes, shifting a bit but not breaking eye contact.

“Yeah, you should do that,” George answers, bantering back.

“Oh, Georgie, are you always thinking about my ass? So interested in it?”

George sputters, but covers it up with a scoff. “You wish,” he says quickly. “You're the one who always talks about how thick I am.” He turns to his side, lying on it to face Dream. Dream nods, moving his shoulders as if he is weighing two answers: ' yes’ the truth or ‘no’ the lie.

“I mean,” Dream hums, shifting. He lifts a hand, reaching across the space as he places his head on the pillow, movie still playing, much too low for George to make out any words. He stares at Dream, watching his hair settle and fan out, but still lie against his forehead. He loves it like this, fluffy and cuddly, like Dream himself.

Dream’s hand moves as George studies the bridge of his nose, wanting to count the freckles there, but his mind stops before even getting started. Since Dream decides to place his hand on the dip of George’s waist, bringing his shirt tight to his hip because of the weight.

It’s welcomed, always.

Dream moves again, stretching his neck and preening over George’s body, looking behind him and George already knows what is coming. 

“You are thick, I tell no lies,” Dream says, fingers moving against George’s side nervously before they dip to sit more comfortably. George pushes into it, moving into the touch as if it's all he needs.

“You are an idiot,'' George says, shifting his weight again, this time moving closer before Dream drops on his back and moves his other arm to pull George closer.

“Cuddle with the homies?” Dream asks and George’s stomach connects with Dream’s side, melting together. 

Yeah, homies , sure.

“Mhm,” George sighs, shifting so his head is tucked into Dream’s shoulder and neck, face smashed against his skin. He runs a finger along Dream’s chest, tickling it as he leaves his own mark, invisible, but nonetheless there.

Dream shifts his own hand, slowly dropping from George’s hip as George feels around, pushing into plush skin with his fingertips, but also just mapping it out. He makes his way to Dream’s scars. They are covered by the blanket, but it doesn't matter, he maps them as best he can and then feels around the hair near Dream’s belly button.

That's the moment when Dream’s hand drops, scooping George’s ass and making him make the smallest of noises. It’s okay, they both know it is, teasing each other until breaking is their specialties. It's just surprising everytime it happens.

Dream’s fingers dig into him and George wants more, he wants to push back into it but Dream lets up the grip, rubbing up and down the covered skin of George’s lower back and ass. It's comforting in a way, the same way George’s fingers on Dream’s stomach are to him.

It's serene and it might not go anywhere new, or go any further, but this type of touching is so good.

“Thick,” Dream whispers as he squeezes the soft flesh between his fingers, quickly moving to rub back up and down George’s back. He gets annoyed with the fabric in the way as George pinches his chest in retaliation, giggling at Dream’s dumbass comment.

“You're dumb,” George says, closing his eyes as Dream’s hand slips under his shirt, finally touching the skin there and slightly tickling him, enough to make him feel like he might fall asleep. Dream nods from above him.

“Maybe,” he shrugs, moving George’s head slightly, but not enough to make him whine. His body reacts to every touch– he feels the goosebumps, he knows he is simultaneously pushing into Dream’s hand while Dream pushes his chest into his side, trying to get as close as possible.

George thinks there is a much better idea and way for that but he lets it go, taking in this moment before he loses it.

“Sleepy?” Dream asks and George nods. 

Dream smiles, George can tell, just from the way his neck moves against the top of George’s head, how his fingers dance more carefully, how his breathing shifts. He knows.

“Go to sleep, angel,” he whispers and George’s body has half the mind to blush at least a little bit, fully going into deep reds and fire as Dream leans over, kissing his head and shifting them so they are chest to chest. Both of his arms wrap around George and he doesn't think he has ever felt more secure. 

Tomorrow, tomorrow he will do more cleaning. Today? Today he will bask in Dream and all of his glory while his hands shamelessly move up and down his body, feeling him up, all the way to his neck under his shirt and even his stomach until they both fall into lazy feelings, falling asleep to some movie that George still can't name.

—

The days eat away, his cleaning becomes more of a habit and not just out of the wish of hearing Dream whisper in his ear.

He starts to completely like it, and he’s added cooking into the mix. Making supper and sometimes making lunch and even breakfast. His sleep schedule has changed, coming out to be the perfect mix of sleep and awake. And he feels free. Well, as free as he can be while he sticks to a precise regimen.

He has time outside of it all. He takes it, thinks about ways to get what he wants out of Dream. He won’t force him, of course, but he knows Dream will say it. He knows he will please him.

Yesterday, Dream had come home, walking into the kitchen as George was cooking, bending over to check on the salmon he was cooking. He barely heard Dream, barely heard the way he had walked up behind him. Standing directly in line with his ass before pressing forward, holding George’s hips while doing it, making sure George didn’t go flying into the hot appliance.

George startled, obviously, sucking in a breath before recognizing the cool feeling of rings and fingers sliding a bit under his shirt.

Dream’s groin met his ass, pressing perfectly and George thought, maybe for a moment, that that was going to be the moment.

“You look good like this,” Dream’s hands caressed him as he pressed once more before pulling back, tempting George while hot air still fanned his face. “Bent over,” he clarified, making sure George knew.

It was not the moment, but it was definitely a moment and George will never forget the way Dream pulled away, leaving him high and, well… he wasn’t dry, not with the hard on pressed against the inside of his pants, not with what he was feeling. 

He blamed the redness resting inside his cheeks, peeking out like the last lifeline, on the heat from the oven. He knows the truth. He knows.

He has spare time. He takes that time , but he also thinks about everything he can possibly do to make Dream shiver, turn to him, and touch.

Today he did just that.

Dream was in the kitchen, doing what he does. Loitering, acting like he is actually paying attention to what his hands are doing instead of staring at George. He’s supposed to be feeding Patches, but he just can't seem to want to turn around and do just that. He keeps himself facing George, that is until Patches yells at him, meowing loudly and making George snort with a smile.

He had just gotten home, he was with family again. A lot of free time will do that to a family guy and George loves that about him. He also loves that every time he goes he asks if George wants to join him. George usually doesn't deny him, but recently he's been taking the time to not go and see Dream’s family. He misses them, they are the only family he has here, but he also knows that a part of them comes home to him everyday— comes home everyday, so he thinks it's worth it.

He watched Dream turn around, softly scolding Patches, with what George assumed to be his eyes. She's distracting her guy from his guy, kind of rude. But it's okay, George kept his eyes trained on Dream. Watched his head bob, his voice filtering through the air. “Yeah, sweetheart, I'm getting it.” He wanted to let him know how lovely he is, but he also wanted him to know how wanted he is, how much George wanted him. Whichever way he could get.

So George took the leap. He jumped off of the countertop, moving toward Dream’s back as Dream talked back to his cat— their cat, Patches.

She was happily moving around him, making soft and sweet sounds as he dished out her wet food, mixing it with her vitamins. George couldn’t help himself. He looked so domestic, so dad-like that he just couldn’t stop himself from reaching out.

The first thing he did was snake a hand around Dream's side, squeezing as Dream sighed, not even jumping, as if he expected it. Then he moved so his arm was wrapped around him. Listen, if Dream can grab his ass, talk about how big it is, and cuddle him to sleep, then George can tell him how good he is while hugging him from behind.

It’s an even deal really.

“Look at you,” he whispered, shoving his face in between Dream's shoulder blades.

“Hmm?” Dream responded, questioning George’s words delicately. As if, if he hums too loud it will disturb George— scare him off. 

George buried into Dream’s body once more before he pulled back and stood up on his tippy toes, just to peek over Dream’s shoulder, basically whispering in his ear. “You're such a good husband ,” he whispered, making sure to give a moment in time to look down and watch Dream fumble with his hands, fork almost dropping before he caught it. George had given a small chuckle, quickly tacking on more to what he was saying, just to make sure the silence did not run on too long. “Being so good to our girl.”

He then shuffled away, thinking about how that had to be enough for Dream to get the hint. It had to be enough for Dream to think about married life, what he could call George if he wanted to. How our girl could be talking about a tiny human and not just their cat.

“What…” he heard Dream whisper under his breath, head snapping to where George was walking away. “What did you just call me?” he had asked and George only spun halfway. If Dream wanted to play the game of who could make the other’s face more red, who could get hard faster, who could break the string, step over the line and commit to their little game, then he could too.

“You heard me,” he said quickly leaving the room as Dream stared at him. His face was red, cheeks glowing as he stood still, processing it all. George only laughed, immediately racing to the staircase in a speed walking fashion. 

“What the fuck…” was all he heard as he left.

He avoided him the rest of the night. Well… that's a lie. He actually, in fact, saw him again. He even watched movies with him, cuddled with him, fell asleep with him and woke up to his arms still wrapped around him. He didn't move. He lied there, waiting for Dream to wake up.

He also didn't want to disturb him, or the hand that was gently resting against his stomach. After a while, the only hints he got that Dream was waking were the change in his breath, the feeling of him tightening his grip, and his fingers moving George’s shirt out of the way so he could splay his hand underneath it.

Skin to skin, touch to touch, warmth to warmth.

George melted. Falling.

—

George takes another step, one that might just be more bold than calling Dream his husband. 

He doesn’t want to hesitate with it, not like he is currently doing, but he can’t help it. Maybe this is too much. Maybe he is doing too much right now. Like he is putting out too many hints.

He holds the cardstock in his hands, feeling the edges as he stares at the words. He reads them again and again, processing it— imagining Dream saying them to him. 

He sighs, looking up at the magnet. He should just do it, get it over with. So he does.

He closes the card and places the magnet on top. It’s not the only thing on the fridge, but it’s definitely the main attraction of it. He steps back, eyeing the words once more before moving completely away.

He wants to bake today, it’s not for any particular reason other than he thinks he could be good at it. He knows the Dream Team Christmas streams did not do him justice, but he is pretty sure he can do better, he can be perfect at it. Plus, he has big plans for game day, he needs to be able to prepare food of all sorts.

He reaches into the cabinet with all the cookbooks, figuring that if any type of literacy will have the best recipes for desserts it would be old cookbooks and not the internet.

He searches through them, leaning his hip against the counter as he reads. It’s not as easy as he thinks it will be. He hasn’t even started and he is already a little stressed. He can do this, he knows he can, it just might not be as easy as he thought it would be.

He looks up after looking through the third cookbook’s dessert section and takes a deep breath. Maybe he should call Dream’s mum, ask her for a recipe from Dream’s grandmother. He thinks that would put a smile on his face, maybe it would even get more out of him.

The card isn’t even in his direct eyesight and yet he can’t help but think about it and stare at it. It’s flush against the fridge, only moving a few times when the draft comes through the open windows. 

He watches it sit there, and he wonders if it’s too noticeable. He knows that’s the point of him putting it there, but maybe he is being too pretentious with it. Is it too bold? Is it too much? Is it too little? Maybe he should do more, but then it would definitely be too much.

He sighs, not even noticing the sound of feet shuffling across the floor. He looks back down at his book, not wanting to be too obvious with his staring at the card. He knows who is entering the kitchen anyway, it’s impossible for him not to know the sound of stomping feet.

It’s not like Dream means to be loud, he’s just big. He’s big and strong and has heavy feet, which Sapnap complains about, but George doesn’t mind the sound.

He likes Dream, all of him, that much is obvious.

The stomping stops. And George sees Dream pause in his peripheral, going to open the fridge while George just stands there. He reaches out to grab something before his entire body goes rigid. George looks up, just to watch Dream stare at the card, but as soon as Dream sucks in a breath, George looks back down, minding his own business.

“George,” Dream clears his throat. “Why is this here?” he asks.

George shrugs, playing cool, meanwhile his chest is going insane, his heart is practically fumbling around inside of his body, dropping to his stomach in anticipation.

“The fridge was too bare,” he answers, “thought the house could use more personalization.”

Dream shifts, looking at George while the fridge is still being held open. George wants to scold him for it, but as he looks up to meet Dream’s eyes he sees that there is no point.

Dream just blinks at him. Questioning him, George knows it, but all he does is close his cookbook, going for the hail Mary.

“You were such a good husband that day, I thought I would put it on the fridge like a report card.”

Dreams face goes red and George can’t help but add more on, add something else, just to boost his confidence more. 

“You want a gold star too?” he asks and Dream shakes his head, not in a ‘no’ manner, more in a ‘I need to clear my head’ manner.

“I can give you one,” George says, crossing his arms and leaning less on the countertop. Like he is challenging Dream.

Dream narrows his eyes, looking back at the card, then grabbing whatever it was that he wanted out of the fridge. Just yogurt, it turns out. 

Dream hums, nodding a bit while looking at George. He opens the yogurt before reaching for the drawer of silverware. It’s close to George’s body, but Dream doesn't stay close. Instead, he pulls back, grabbing a spoonful of the white substance and placing it on his tongue. He even turns the spoon so it cups his tongue as he pulls it out of his mouth.

George might just go insane.

“Hmm,” Dream hums, cocking his head and staring at George before licking the spoon completely clean. George swallows.

“Well, what I said in the card still applies,” he says, winking and walking away, as if he didn’t just do the hottest thing in front of George. 

George takes a shaky breath, watching Dream walk away smirking.

He involuntarily licks his lips, kind of wishing that he could taste the yogurt. He doesn't even like yogurt, but he does like Dream and Dream’s body and the way his tongue looks, and he is sure he would like how it feels, so he thinks that’s close enough.

The only thing he can think about is Dream and that damn card. The card that is staring at him. The card that has Dreams handwriting in it. 

He sighs, standing up fully and rushing over to the card. He takes it off of the fridge and opens it.

P.S. you really would make a beautiful wife.

His breathing doesn’t go back to normal.

—-

George has a dilemma.

It’s not a super big one.

Well… it is.

It’s one that makes him think he might push it too far.

But then again, Dream cuddled him, grabbed his ass, told him he looked good bent over, and practically said he would be a beautiful wife.

He thinks he can get away with this. He sighs, slipping on his sweats anyway, and making sure his hoodie fully covers the material underneath.

It’s game day, which means that he is cooking a big meal. He told Dream he would take it over and plus, Dream wants him to make the same cookies that he made days ago for all of their friends and family.

George won’t deny the way his heart skipped when Dream said our family and our friends . He won’t deny how much he wanted to blush and squeal over it.

But he will hide it from any onlooker and make sure he doesn’t look like a freak who enjoys Dream saying our and mine and all of the nicknames that George wishes he could hear on a regular basis.

He skips stairs as he makes his way down them. He feels a bit weird, but he knows that Sapnap is going to pick up friends to bring here that will probably all stay the night, and that Dream is already in the living room, setting up the blankets and pillows and whatever else he thinks they will need.

It’s going to be a busy day, one George needs to get in the mood for, so he doesn't even say anything to Dream as he walks by. Instead, he is thinking about how to get him out of the house in order to execute his plan.

He pulls out all of his ingredients. Yes, they are mainly going to be eating snack foods, but a main course is probably best as well, especially one that can be named a snack food.

So, he looks for ground beef, lettuce, cheese, and peppers. He’ll make the Americanized version of tacos, the ones that are messy and hard shelled and no doubt going to leave a mess behind.

But if he’s the cook, then he will not clean up the living room, especially because he doesn't even really understand the sport in the first place.

He wasn’t a American football player, he was an actual football player, swimmer, tennis, hell, even badminton he played. He was multipurposed.

He can be multipurpose to Dream too.

The first thing he does is put the meat in the microwave to defrost. He needs a bit of time for that, so he might as well actually get everything together, the other stuff for the sides and the other snacks in case some people don’t want tacos.

It’s when he is searching for the sour cream to make sure they have it is when he realizes that it’s expired. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It’s okay, they don’t need sour cream. They can go without it.

No tomatoes, or apples, or caesar dressing, there isn’t even any cheese left, at least not parmesan. Maybe they can go without all of those too.

He moves on, no taco shells either. Okay, they can’t go without those, unless everyone wants to eat tacos in a bag with Doritos.

He stares, deciding what to do. Maybe he should order the groceries, but that’s a lot of work for the driver. He bites his lip, trying to figure out how he will be the least kind of inconvenience possible.

“George?”

He turns, looking at Dream. That’s how.

“Yeah, what’s up?” 

His hair is frazzled, he looks almost sweaty, like he has been running around after something. George holds back his smile, he can imagine little kids hanging off of Dream’s legs. Holding his hand and pulling it, trying to get his attention as he talks to his George .

“Do we, um,” he clears his throat, looking around. “Do you know where the fuzzy blanket is?”

George wants to laugh at the description, fuzzy blanket isn’t very memorable, but George somehow knows exactly which one he is talking about.

“It’s in the closet, I meant to put it back but I forgot, sorry,” George answers, watching Dream nod and scurry away. 

The fuzzy blanket is the first blanket Dream had gotten in the P.O. Box. It’s practically Dream’s baby, even if he won’t admit it. George knows that he looks for it every time he enters the living room, he knows he wants to take it up to his room but doesn't want to seem weird by taking the living room blankets.

It’s like a childhood blanket—- a baby blanket almost, or at least that’s how much he loves the thing.

George watches Dream trot back into the room, smiling happily as he carries the thing in his hands. He thinks Dream likes to act like he’s sneaking when he snuggles it into his face, smelling and leaving one, single kiss against it, but George sees it every time. 

George readjusts as he smiles at him. The shirt—well, technically, a shirt—that he is wearing is rubbing against his skin in a weird way. He tries to let it go, but then it makes him remember his plan, his very, very risky plan. And then he remembers his groceries and he thinks that he can connect them somehow.

He takes a breath, quietly clearing his throat. “Hey, Dream?” He watches Dream’s head shoot up, eyeing George like he is guilty, of what? Maybe kissing the blanket a kind stranger sent him years ago, but that’s only a guess. “Could you go get me some groceries for dinner?”

“Um,” he stands up straight, not looking away, “yeah. What do you need? Do you want to come with? We can be quick.”

George smiles at his soft rambling. He shakes his head, “No, it’s okay, I have to start preparing anyway.” Dream nods, looking away for the first time. “I can text it to you, or write it down, whichever is easier for you to remember.”

Dream sighs, “Can you write it? Just so I can have it in my hand.”

“Of course,” George says, spinning on his feet to find a piece of paper and a pen. He knows it’s easier for Dream to have the tangible thing in his hand, he’s always been like that, but more so with shopping.

The pen and the paper are easy to find and writing the list, adding a few things, is even easier. He writes neatly, making sure that no matters can be confused and he even leaves a little note next to the type of tomatoes he needs.

He turns, looking at Dream who has now migrated over to the kitchen while waiting. He looks small, nervous, like he is patiently waiting but is nervous about fucking up the exchange. George smiles softly at him.

“Here,” he says, handing the piece of paper to Dream, watching him grab it lightly and hold it to his chest, barely reading it.

He holds it like if he lets go he will lose it, and somehow George finds it endearing and practical, because, knowing Dream, he would lose it.

“Okay,” he breathes, his voice staying steady as he looks at George and then down at the paper. He reads it better now, scanning the words.

“I’ll text you if you need more, and if they don’t have those tomatoes call me, okay?”

Dream nods and then he goes on his way, going to the front door, putting on his shoes and then feeling around his pockets for his keys.

George watches him. His eyebrows crease, hands feeling around as he sticks his tongue against his cheek, making it poke the skin out as he looks around, spinning in a small circle.

“In the key holder,” George says across the room, watching Dream look up and then look at the keyholder and walk to it, opening it only to click his tongue, nod, and say, “Ahh, thank you.”

Then he goes to open the door, making sure he feels his wallet and phone in his pockets as well. “I’ll be back,” he says, saluting like he is going on a mission.

George watches the door close and hears Dream start his car and that’s when he turns around. He should start getting everything ready, also make sure that Sapnap won’t come home anytime soon, because it would be really awkward if he walked in on what George is about to do.

He starts chopping things and getting them ready, making sure to put the meat on the burner while he grabs snacks and starts laying them out. It’s quite simple really, the only thing that will take the most time is the tacos and the dessert.

He also gets the cookie ingredients ready, knowing that it will take longer than the meat. 

It’s a simple recipe, one that is one-hundred percent something that takes him less than ten minutes to mix and make. He puts the sheets of cookies in the oven before mixing his beef again and then he is just playing a waiting game.

Dream should be back soon, but George needs to delay him just for a bit longer, so he asks him to pick up drinks as well, the type that his college friends would like.

Dream just sends a smiley, the equivalent to “okay!” And all George does is pride himself in knowing that Dream would run and get anything he asked for, even if it was countries away. He did it with the UK chocolates, he did it with gifts he sent overseas and he did it with George himself, bringing him home.

That’s the thought that puts him into action. He strips off his hoodie, and then his pants and he thinks about how this is something he never thought he would do, not in the kitchen and definitely not as the last hurrah to get Dream to call him a simple name.

It’s not, like, entirely weird, he knows it’s not. He wouldn’t be doing this if he thought there wasn’t a chance that Dream would fall to his knees and hike George up for him to see right then and there.

Plus, Dream has been touching him all week, grabbing his hips, pushing against him— practically grinding against him, holding him close in bed, putting his arm around him, touching his chest. He isn’t subtle, and yes, there is a background nervous voice, telling him that this is scary, but his gut is fluttering in a good way, and that’s good enough.

He only starts shifting on his feet when he sticks his thumbs into his briefs. He debates it for less than a second and then he just goes for it, dropping it all onto the floor. He steps out of the clothes on the floor and looks around. 

It’s kind of chilly, but it’s not bad and he’s soft and all out and he’s just a bit worried about the windows, but overall he lets it go. Their neighbours can’t see them through the trees. He’s fine.

He looks down, the one piece of clothing reaching down past his ass. It’s a jersey, not just any jersey, but Dream’s specially made jersey. It’s game day, what else was he supposed to wear? The fabric scratches along his skin and he loves it, it’s like a free tickle. Something that he gets very into, moving around purposefully in order to feel it.

He bends down, air rushing up the inside of his one piece of clothing. He makes a small sound, whispering under his breath, “Fuck,” but carries on. He picks up the clothes on the floor, rushing through the hallway as his body blushes in embarrassment. One because he’s practically bare, and two because he is just flapping his business about. He’s sure it will be much better in a different context, but for now, his dick being soft and out is nothing short of embarrassing.

He leaves the laundry room and goes over to the pantry next, grabbing out the first apron he sees, the one that happens to be the most boring one. He thinks about changing the pink one out for the apron that says kiss the cook but then he thinks about how much Dream loves him in pink.

He slips it on, looking down as he ties it. He feels the strips of fabric from the bow shift against the top of his half-covered ass and he can’t help but wiggle back, just to feel them shift with the jersey against him. He turns, craning his neck to look at the reflection in the stove. The bottom half of him mostly, it’s the most interesting part.

Bare, completely bare, other than some hair, but he did trim it, and plus, his leg hair barely goes up his thighs and ass. He is nude and he loves it.

He looks good, his back arched, his thighs and ass shaking as he lifts up on his toes and drops to his heels. He might just be obsessed with himself and he won’t even blame himself for it.

He only stops staring at himself when he smells the meat cooking more and more and that’s when he adds extra seasoning, making sure it’s up to the standard that he wants.

It’s when he is pulling the cookies out of the oven, like last time, when the front door dings, unlocking, and clicking while shoes hit the marble.

He picks up the cookie sheet, oven mitt protecting his hand as he hears Dream sigh, bags moving against each other while bottles rattle.

“Okay, so they didn’t have the tomatoes at the first store I went to, so I went to another and they had them.” His voice trails through the front door as George’s cheeks get red. This is the moment, the moment of no return. He could yell out and say just a second! Just to cover himself fully, but he doesn’t. He takes a breath, trying to calm his reddening skin, his beating heart, and his shaking bones. He shakes his feet out, one by one, looking up as he slowly stands, slowly enough for his legs to scream at him.

He needs to go to the gym more often.

“Also, I got some beer, which you don’t like, I know.” He hears bags moving before something falls, making a sound as Dream whispers, “ shit .” He then, very obviously, bends down, making George smile as he hears Dream curse more. 

He can’t see him, but he can picture it. Dream’s long arms, carrying all of the bags while he bends down trying not to spill anything, reaching for the culprit that is making his life harder. He can picture the strange way he bends down, trying not to hurt his knees, but inevitably making them crack when standing back up.

He can picture the way he holds his breath, thinking that will help with the idea of not dropping anything else. George sighs, placing the first cookie sheet on the stove.  

He then turns to watch the doorway. 

The oven is still open, no longer cooking or warming while he stands there. It’s a hazard, he knows, but he is pretty sure a pretty man standing in a kitchen with nothing on but an apron and a specially named jersey is also a hazard, especially for Dream.

“But I got some of those fruity drinks, the ones that you can’t taste the liquor in.” He starts walking, George can hear him. His loud feet slapping— no, he doesn't like that description, smacking , that’s not any better. He cringes to himself, nose wrinkling as his lip curls. He spins back around, choosing to grab the other sheet of cookies, placing them in a cross pattern on the stove top, beside the meat. 

It’s when he is bending down to close the oven door that Dream walks around the corner. “I know you hate the taste, and if you don’t like these right now, then I can mix you a drink. I promise I’m good at it.”

George takes a deep breath, hearing Dream set the bags down. He’s rambling, probably not even looking up as he starts to situate everything he bought.

“Oh and—“ his voice immediately stops and George knows. He knows and he doesn't do anything about it. Instead, he stands, oven door closing as he moves. He turns down the stove too, making sure to break apart the meat so it all cooks evenly.

“George…?” Dream whispers and George turns around. His face is no doubt red, but he doesn’t think Dream is particularly paying attention to that. He’s got his eyes roaming everywhere but George’s, figuring out what he would be able to see if the apron wasn’t in the way.

“So, you got the right tomatoes?” George asks, cocking his head, just to catch Dream’s attention. His eyes immediately launch upwards, making contact with George’s, as he tries to catch his words.

His mouth opens and closes, struggling with any sense of anything. It’s like George has made him go blank. Like he has made him forget everything. All his focus is on George and George loves it.

“ Dream ,” George taunts, his voice going higher as he smiles. He likes this. He likes making Dream go dumb.

“I, uh—“ he clears his throat, trying to think. “What?” he asks, all dumb. All dumb and all because of George.

“You got the right tomatoes?” he asks again. He knows it’s a dumb question since Dream literally told him that he had gotten the right tomatoes, but it’s the first question that popped into his head.

“Y—yeah,” his voice almost cracks, but then he looks down, no doubt eyeing the line where the Jersey ends, only being able to see it through the tightly tied apron, but George guesses that he is using his imagination. 

His eyes quirk and then he looks back up, looking at the way the jersey hangs over his shoulders. How its sleeves look long on George’s body but short on Dream’s. 

He swallows thickly.

“That’s…” he takes a breath and George turns around. He can hear the way Dream takes a giant gasping breath, like he had just gotten the wind knocked out of him and is trying to recover.

George gets to work again, avoiding how his legs are out for Dream full viewing and how his ass is practically in the same realm. He keeps quiet, only making noise when he almost burns himself. He lets out a sharp breath and before he can even pull his finger to his face he feels a deep presence directly behind him.

He tries to keep everything even, his heart, his breath, his mind. He isn’t sure it works too well, but I can fake it ‘til he makes it.

He lets his hands drop, moving to hold onto the spoon that is for mixing the meat. He gets to it. Continuing to cook while Dream stands behind him, practically breathing down his neck.

He feels him move closer, hands finally meeting his waist, like they did the day that he told him he looked good bent over.

George continues what he is doing, trying his best not to give a reaction.

“You look like a wife , George.”

George gives a full body reaction. His heart starts beating erratically, his breathing stops fully, lungs seizing and holding all the air they had in them previously. His legs shake, like he is about to fall—he almost does, but catches his weight with his hand on the edge of the stove top, far enough away to not burn. 

His body lights up, like some sort of street lamp. He tries to keep it to himself, and it works, for the most part. It works until Dream continues on. His fingers rubbing George’s hips until they push up and under the apron, pushing against the front of the fabric to loosen it so he can rest his hands against George’s stomach, only thing separating them being the jersey.

“Such a good little wife too.”

George can't stop himself, he takes a gasping breath, quiet, but not unnoticeable. Dream catches it. He catches the way George’s stomach flutters, the muscles moving with the butterflies. He catches the way George's chest seizes, stopping all movement as Dream’s hand brushes lower on his stomach.

“ Oh, ” Dream grains, squeezing his arms around George tighter. “You like that,” Dream states, making George go crazy over how obvious he is being, but that's the point isn't it? To push Dream to realize. “Is that why you’ve been doing all of this?” His beard tickles against the side of George’s face and he can't help but crane his neck, practically presenting it to Dream.

His mouth sits right next to George’s ear, his even breathing brushing against it every single time his chest moves. He even dares to move his mouth closer to George’s face. He can feel the heat, the warmth, the inviting feeling of Dream encompassing him, all of it. It's taking over George.

“You're being such a good wife, George.” His lips brush George’s ear and it sends shivers down his spine. He vibrates in Dream’s hold, just for a second, but he knows Dream catches it, he catches everything. George can feel the way he grins against him. He even dares to push more into George, his whole body touching George’s as George leans forward. He can only go in that one direction, no escape, no space. It’s not like he minds it anyway, he doesn't want to get out of this. Not since he’s worked so hard to be placed here anyway.

“For your husband,” Dream adds before he leaves the softest, most gentle kiss against his smooth skin. The feeling rests just below George’s ear and he can't help but want more. He presents his neck more to him, hoping and wishing that Dream will take the opportunity to leave marks, or even fill the space with sensations. 

The words he connects— the way he speaks— it does something to George. Husband and wife. Framing them as something combined, not just friends, or best friends, or even business partners. No, he frames them as something more. Something sacred .

“Being so good for me .” Dream’s voice dips, as if he is truly getting his point across. He places a more meaningful kiss against George’s neck, pressing into it to make sure it adheres, like some sort of sticker. George hums, his body going rigid with faint pleasure from Dream’s words and his actions. Dream’s fingers dig into his covered skin as they feel around, moving as his lips do the same— mapping.

George hums, pushing back into Dream's body, trying to get as close as he can. He needs connection, more than just Dream's mouth and he isn’t sure how to ask for it. He wiggles, his ass brushing and pressing right against Dream groin as Dream hums, pulling George closer to him so he is less hunched and more upright.

“ Dream ,” George whines, his body falling into pleasure more and more. He needs more .

“Mhm?” Dream asks through a hum, voice rough as his hands start traveling upward, pushing at George’s chest to have him stand.

“You’re toying with me, stop playing around,” George answers, huffing against Dream's arms. He tries to push back against Dream, but somehow the man keeps him in the same place, under his control and guidance and George likes it.

He leans his head back into him instead, knowing that he can’t stop George from resting his head directly on Dream's shoulder.

“Toying with you? Baby, I haven’t even started.”

If George was hooked up to a heart monitor, the professionals might think he was going into cardiac arrest. His heart beats wildly, excitedly, but wildly nonetheless. He’s getting what he wants, it’s just being delivered in Dream’s own way.

Dream's way of making George crumble and then putting him back together in the same timeframe.

“Do you want more?” he asks, only shifting away a little bit, ignoring George's small noise and roll of his eyes at the loss of direct warmth behind him.

“Yes,” George answers. Not wasting any more time than they already have. He could be bent in half right now, dicked down to the balls, and yet he’s being teased. Teased without even being touched that much.

Dream's hands move away from him, quickly removing themselves from under the apron in order to turn George around. George makes a small noise, quiet enough for only him. He looks at Dream, watching as Dream looks around his face, probably trying to confirm his agreement to do more. 

He reaches around George next, turning off anything that George has been cooking. The food has been long forgotten, ever since Dream came up behind him, whispering that one singular word into his ear.

Dream’s hands don't come back to his waist, instead they untie the apron, the tightness falling away. Dream hums and then lifts his hands, delicately grabbing the material and lifting it above George’s head as he ducks. It’s nice, he’s treating him like he is a delicacy. He lifts his chin, body and mind coming to a full stop as he keeps his head bowed, just until Dream sets the apron on the countertop behind George. He follows it with his eyes before Dream brings a hand up to guide his face back to his own.

He looks at him for a long moment before he leans closer, looking between both of George’s eyes as he slowly commits. George nods lightly against Dream’s fingers, his chin rubbing against the skin softly. He lets himself fall. This is what he's been waiting for and he won’t squander the chance to have it now, not when Dream is also pushing for it.

He lets himself go for it, connecting their lips in a hesitant but smooth kiss. Yes, it’s a little bit uncoordinated in the sense that they both have their own ways of kissing, but then they separate from the peck. They take a moment to let themselves bask in the fact that they just kissed. They've stayed away from it so far, keeping a distance from changing their dynamic forever.

But people have urges so it's not like George hadn't thought of it before all of this.

Dream’s lips just look so…

He doesn't waste another second, lurching forward and connecting them again. Their lips meet in something way more than a peck. There are no literal sparks, instead there are smacking sounds, breathing, and the sound of George moaning softly as he pushes back into the stove.

They get more into it, bodies starting to move against each other in a rhythm. They move easier when Dream is pressing against his front instead. It’s not like George is putting up a good fight for dominance, no, he is giving his all into Dream right now.

His back arches against the stove, feeling the residual heat from the burners. It only adds to his  overwhelming temperatures as Dream’s hands move from the countertop to his body. They feel his waist first, and then they move slowly down. He moves his tongue as George opens his own mouth, playing with Dream’s own appendage.

His hands go lower until they slip under the jersey that George is wearing. The jersey and nothing else.

Dream breaks the kiss as his hands grab handfuls of any skin he can get to.

“You're gonna kill me,” he says, taking a breath and squeezing his fingers together as he closes his eyes. 

“Don’t die yet, you have to fuck me,” George whispers, giggling as Dream’s eyes flash open, eyelashes fluttering against the realization of George’s words.

“George,” he says breathlessly, and then he grazes George’s ass and backs away. He holds out a hand for George to take, which he does not argue with. He lets Dream lead him over to the middle of the kitchen before George stops him. He pulls his hand a little bit and Dream turns, eyeing him up.

George doesn't waste any time. He moves, pulling Dream down for another kiss, one that's more heated. One with innuendos and plans and he knows Dream catches on to all of them because he pushes right back with the same amount of fervency.

George's hands start to move now, knowing that if he wants to, he can touch. Dream will let him. Dream wants him.

“ Baby, ” Dream whines through the kissing, puffing his chest into George’s hands. He wants more and George won't be the one to deny him of it. George hums, lifting himself up to stuff his face into Dream’s neck. He swipes his fingers lightly across Dream’s pecs as he kisses up and down the column of Dream’s neck.

“Mhm?” George questions, moving his lips against skin, breathing in every smell of Dream that he can possibly get. He sucks onto the free area next, leaving small trails in his wake. Dream doesn't answer him– instead he brings his hands up, one to the centre of George's spine, slightly riding up the jersey that George is wearing, and the other one buries itself into George’s hair. He grips and pulls, bringing George’s face away from his jugular.

“Yeah?” Dream asks with no warning and no more substance to the word, and yet, George knows exactly what he is asking.

He nods against the grip of his hair, looking up at Dream.

“God, your eyes,” Dream whispers, his voice soft and caring, like how his eyes look when he looks at George doing mundane tasks. “You’re so beautiful, it’s ruining me.”

George blinks, face going red. He feels the heat and he knows Dream sees it. Dream sees even the slightest change in him all the time. He sees everything, he even studies it and if he doesn't know what it is then he researches it.

George steps away, moving to the island in the middle of the kitchen. “You love my eyes that much?” he asks, backing up into the marble, his hands coming out to support him as the edge digs into his lower back. 

He watches as Dream’s eyes immediately catch George’s own, no sense of remorse for how they were trailing George’s bare thighs just a moment prior. Dream stares, hands by his sides, twitching. He wants to touch, but he wants to touch at George’s pace now, roles switched.

“You know,” George says, looking at his left hand as he taps his fingers against the counter, “they look better glossy.” He looks back up at Dream through his lashes, moving his right hand to caress his thigh, thumb lightly raising the jersey more and more.

He’s still hard, not fully, but hard enough that Dream can no doubt see the outline of him, especially now that the apron has been gone and since he started rubbing up against him at the stove.

George takes a breath when he looks down, catching the way that he is standing. It's not provocative, but with the addition of his hands, his voice, the way he carries himself and the way he looks at Dream, it is so much more than provocative. It's a challenge. It’s a game and George has the plays.

“George,” Dream says, making George look up. He starts walking toward him, eyes not leaving George’s. “Are you asking me to make you cry?”

George stands his ground. “No,” he breathes, waiting until Dream is close enough for him to look him up and down, building tension once more. “I’m saying that…” he reaches his hands up, grabbing a hold of the fabric covering Dream’s chest. “Since you love them so much, why don't you get them to their fullest form?” He looks into his eyes, fluttering his lashes. “Fuck me ‘til there are tears running down my face?” he requests, watching Dream take a deep breath.

It doesn't take long for George to continue having the upper hand here. He lets go of Dream’s clothing and turns around. He takes a small moment to think about how to do what he is about to, but instead of overthinking it, he just goes for it. He bends forward, chest and jersey meeting the cold surface, stretching his arms out as he rests his chin against the marble and then he connects them in a grip, one that would be easy for Dream to hold.

He can feel the air running up his inner thighs, making him smirk as he then turns his head, resting his cheek against the surface. He tries to look over his shoulder when he feels no movement, hoping Dream is still with him, but as soon as he tries to lift off of the counter, a hand comes down on the middle of his shoulder blades, pushing him back against the island.

“Nuh-uh,” Dream tsks, “if you're gonna tease, I’m gonna treat you like a tease.” His other hand comes down on the bare skin of George's ass, not hard, not even a spank, but it is enough for George to wiggle beneath him. “You still good?” Dream asks, and George nods, swallowing.

“Please?” His voice breaks in the middle of it, like he is nervous. He’s not, not in a debilitating way. He is excited– antsy, but excited.

“I need to grab some stuff—”

George tries to argue, “Dream—”

“No, George, I’m not going to fuck you raw with no lube in the kitchen. I’m not a barbarian.” George huffs, giving up. He lets himself just lay there while Dream, he figures, nods his head. “Good,” he says, letting up on his pressure against George’s back and then slowly removing his hand from his bare ass, only pinching it slightly once as he wakes away.

Dream is an idiot, a loud-footed idiot. One that thinks he is smooth as he walks out of the kitchen, but as soon as he turns the corner to go to his office George can hear him start running. He’s goofy, and excited and George is no-doubt going to to tease him for having lube and he assumes a condom at the ready in his office.

He knows when Dream comes back, one, because he is impatient and he stands back up, leaning on his elbows and looking over his shoulder at the archway. He watches Dream jog through the doorway– he looks the same, maybe a bit more frazzled, and he has lube and a condom in his hand. His hair is also a bit out of place, but in Dream’s defense, it just flops wherever it wants to.

His pants are tighter, as if just thinking about how he is about to be inside of George was enough to get him to some sort of potential boner. George eyes him, even if it strains his neck. He looks up and down, calves, thighs, dick, stomach, chest, chin, blushed face, soft eyes, eager look, fluffed hair, repeat.

“Still ready?” Dream asks and George immediately smirks, arching his back as he lies back down, facing forward.

“Yep,” he breathes, sighing. The jersey rubs into him in a weird way, but as soon as Dream gets back behind him that's all he can focus on. He sees the lube and condom get set down to his right. And then there are hands against his skin again, first on his thighs, and then lightly on his ass, and then one moves to his back, gripping the jersey and pulling it up a little bit, but keeping George pressed to the surface.

Dream’s fingers move, first to the left cheek, then they slowly curve inward, running down between George’s cheeks. George pushes into it, as much as he can, spreading his legs a little bit and lifting on his toes.

“Impatient,” Dream tuts.

“Dream,” George whines, “you've been teasing me this whole time, please.”

George can hear Dream scoff. He also feels his hand leave his ass and reach for the lube to George’s right.

“I’ve been teasing you?” Dream asks. The lid pops open and George immediately knows what is coming, or at least, he thought he’d know. He expects Dream to pour the lube on his fingers, warm it up, and then rub his hole, but all he feels is immediate cold. 

It's like ice hitting his skin and he can't help but wince, sucking in a breath and trying to move away. It's not like he doesn't like it, it’s just surprising. Dream adds more pressure to his back, holding him in place as he squirms against the surface.

“ I’ve been teasing you ?” he asks again, emphasising his words. “Georgie.” He stops the pouring of the lube, closing the bottle against George’s ass. Then he trails his finger through it, spreading it around. It’s less cold now, more room temperature than body temperature. “You’ve been prancing around in nothing but this ,” Dream yanks on the jersey as he speaks, proving his point. “Begging for me to fuck you ‘til you cry , and yet I’m teasing you? That doesn't seem right, now does it?”

His finger slips between George’s cheeks again, spreading the lube and deciding that now , he will caress George’s hole, slowly making him desperate.

“Does it?” Dream asks again, adding slight pressure.

“No,” George says, swallowing as Dream starts to push his finger in. The lube helps guide it smoothly as George huffs. It takes about a millisecond before Dream removes his hand from his back, still pushing his other finger in. The hand from his back tangles into George’s hair, pulling and lifting him up, back arching, making him sink fully onto the finger. He makes a small noise, one in the back of his throat.

“I didn't hear you, what did you say?” Dream asks, just to be patronizing. George lives for it.

“Dream,” George says, wanting more. Dream pulls his finger back, then he pushes back in, waiting for George to relax his muscles, which takes no time at all. Then Dream lines up another finger, and he speaks again.

“What did you say?” Dream asks for a second time, coming up right beside George’s face, practically breathing down his neck.

“No,” George breathes as Dream starts to insert the second finger. “No, it's not right. I’ve been—” The finger pushes through his rim and he goes quiet, adjusting to the stretch. The second finger is always the worst for him, even when on his own. It's a big difference between one and two and he needs a moment.

“Are you still okay?” Dream asks, cutting off his act and letting up on the pressure against George’s scalp.

The angle is a little bit awkward, since George has never fingered himself standing up, but it’s good, really good. He’s sure in a few minutes, when he tells Dream that he can move, Dream will find his prostate and George will forget everything he's ever worried about.

“Mhm,” he answers, “stretch.”

Dream nods from beside him, taking his time to slowly push the fingers in a little more. He connects his lips to George’s neck, sucking and softly biting to try to distract George from the slight uncomfortableness coming from what George would describe as two giant fingers entering him.

“Tell me if it gets to be too much again,” Dream says, kissing George’s earlobe. He brings his hand back into George's hair, this time to grip lightly and somehow massage his scalp at the same time. The sensations are almost overwhelming. The way he is pushing his fingers in and out of George, scissoring them slightly as he massages and kisses, moving to new skin every single time.

It’s a lot, but it's all George has wished for in the last few months. It's all he wants.

Dream slowly lays him back down to the countertop again, letting George rest instead of being on his feet the whole time. The angle is also less awkward so it's easier on Dream’s hand and George’s muscles, making it more conductive for pleasure.

George moans into the marble when Dream hits his prostate, not giving a break to George once he finds it.

“Yeah?” Dream teases.

George can't even reply, he just breathes into the counter, his own breath coming back at him to fan warmth across his face. He can feel himself flushing and his fingers trying to grip something on the counter as Dream caresses inside of him. He finds nothing to grip onto. He opens his eyes, watching his fingers turn white from how hard they press into the surface.

His mouth stays permanently open until Dream lets up on him and lets him take a gasping breath. He chokes on it, taking in as much as he can until he has to give it up again for pleasure.

Dream presses into him once more, his fingers massaging until two turns into three and three turns into torturous fun for Dream. Getting to hear George moan and gasp seems to be his favourite activity at this moment.

George doesn't blame him. He would be all over the sounds Dream would be making if he was abusing his prostate in the way that Dream is doing to him.

He doesn't mind. Sure, he’d like to get some air, maybe a bit of a break while Dream finally decides to put his dick in him, but right now he's feeling never ending pleasure. Pleasure that is enough to have him thinking he’ll see stars. 

He gasps one more time. “Close, close!” he says, panicked.

“Come, George. Come,” Dream coaxes his fingers to keep moving at the same pace, keeping up with the perfect tempo for George, and that’s all it takes.

All it takes is the heat from Dream’s breath in his ear. The feeling of Dream’s fingers inside of him. Dream’s voice telling him to come, to release. Dream .

Dream is all it takes.

He comes moaning out Dream’s name as he coats the island, no doubt making a mess that he will likely be mad about later when he has to clean. But for now he is completely fine with the idea and reality of him coming because of Dream, in Dream’s jersey.

As he relaxes, Dream pushes one more finger past George's rim, stretching him even more as he recovers from his orgasm.

“Good,” Dream says and then he pulls his fingers out slowly, trying not to overstimulate George. Giving him a minute.

George doesn't want a minute.

“No,” he says, voice rough and throat dry.

“George—“

“No, Dream, please.”

“You just—“

“And I want to again, from your dick, so please.” He pushes back into him with all that he has left, which isn't a lot. He feels sluggish, soft, pliable. 

“Are you sure? We don’t have to. Don’t make yourself do something you don’t want.”

“Dream,” George sighs, rolling his eyes, cheek resting on the warm part of the counter. He can’t be bothered to move it. He pushes back into Dream, their hips making contact, clothing forcing them from skin to skin.

“I can literally feel you, please,” George pleads again. 

Dream doesn’t wait long. He takes about a second before he blows air through his nose. “Fuck.” George hears him shuffling, pants falling along with his underwear.

Then the crinkle of the foil comes and George smiles to himself. He is getting what he wants from who he wants and he is not going to give out even a peep of complaints.

He hears Dream suck a breath in as he most likely strokes himself, making sure he’s at his full potential, even if he and George both know he is. He has been for the last hour.

George feels the tip sit at his entrance and that’s when he squeezes his eyes shut and tenses his muscles before letting it all go. He lets Dream in with zero complaints as he lies there, body inviting and so incredibly hot.

He moves a little bit, face hitting a cold patch and it feels like heaven. The mix of Dream entering him and the coldness is bliss for him. He thinks that maybe he could understand the appeal of temperature play. Ice wetting his skin as Dream burns him.

Dream sinks in more and more, breathing deeply as George tries not to move. It will overwhelm Dream, and he can’t do that. Not intentionally, and not right now at least.

Dream fits to the hilt and finally, finally they can both breath, move, adjust. They can be one. They are one.

“George,” Dream says as he leans down, forehead resting on the back of George’s neck. “George,” he says again when George moves. His hands immediately go to George’s hips, stopping him from even inching. “George,” he says once more, this time kissing the back of George’s sweaty neck. It should be gross, but thinking about everything they’ve done, kissing sweaty skin is not nearly as gross as… well, coming on the kitchen island.

George blushes. “Dream,” he says softly, and Dream takes that as enough. Enough to move, push in, pull out.

He sets up a rhythm, George’s moans coming out freely as Dream picks up pace. Rocking and thrusting, saying George’s name over and over again. Like he is saying his three wishes, hoping the genie in the bottle grants them. 

One word.

One person.

George .

George doesn’t need a damn genie to grant that wish. He pushes back, moaning Dream's name as their bodies match pace. Creating a perfect scene. He’s sure it looks good, both of them a mess while they enjoy each other.

God, he wishes he could see it from an outside perspective. Maybe one day.

“Dream, oh god,” he moans, “right there, please, baby please.” The pet name slips out, but it’s not like he minds and he is sure as hell that Dream doesn’t mind, especially from the way he grips his hips harder, getting a better hold as he moans out, falling forward to moan into George’s neck before pulling back.

George finally moves, lifting his body enough to sit up on his forearms. 

“George, I’m—“ he takes a breath, not stopping his thrusting. “I’m so close.” His voice is almost weak, like this is the last give he has.

“Yeah?” George says, breathlessly. “Come on Dream,” he goes for the long shot, taking it. “You’re such a good husband, come on, put a baby in me.”

He hits right on the bullseye.

He knows he can’t get pregnant, but the idea of it. The idea of carrying a piece of Dream and himself around and having it for the rest of their lives, is enough. It’s enough for Dream to slam in one more time, slightly rotating his hips as he fills the condom.

His dick brushes against George’s prostate as he moves slightly and George is a goner after that. He comes again, getting it everywhere once more. 

They take a minute, bodies catching up with what they just did. They need air, they need coolness, their skin overheating. Yet, they stay in the same spot.

Their skin stays touching, sacrificing themselves to overheating as they decide to stay for comfort and softness.

He takes his breaths as Dream takes his own, bodies breathing in sync before Dream pulls away, the heat moving with him. George misses it the second it’s gone, and he knows he shouldn’t. But he can’t help it. He misses Dream and he’s still inside of him.

Dream carefully pulls out, thinking of the both of them as he does it. Trying not to overwhelm himself and George after what they’ve done.

“God, George,” Dream says as he removes the condom and pulls George’s jersey back over his ass. “You are perfect.”

George only hums, too spent to really do anything but lift himself up more, unhang his head, and pull himself off of the island. He looks at the countertop, cringing. Dear god did he make a mess, a mess that he doesn’t particularly want to clean but knows he has to. He turns to Dream and Dream looks at him, eyes wide, but soft.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dream says. His pants are back on, and he is looking so soft. So soft and perfect and George wants to kiss him.

He obviously subconsciously pouts his lips cause somehow Dream reads his mind, but not without laughing under his breath. 

He walks forward, immediately placing his hands on George’s cheeks to bring him closer. They are wet, not super, but more slimy. The lube from the bottle and the condom lube mixed in his hands to create something that should be gross, but George couldn't care less.

He kisses Dream back, softly since he can’t seem to work up enough energy to do anything more. He doesn't even add tongue, and neither does Dream. It’s just a soft sweet kiss, shared in the kitchen that will be filled with their friends in an…

Oh shit.

George pulls back, looking at the clock on the microwave. He has less than an hour—less than an hour and he hasn’t even finished making his tacos, or setting up the living room, or, or, or—-

“Go shower,” Dream whispers, looking at the way George is panicking. “I’ll finish everything up, you go shower.”

“I was supposed to do this for you. This was supposed to be for you—“

“Georgie… you gave me more than enough. Go take care of yourself while I do this, please.”

George sighs, looking at Dream carefully. He knows he is being sincere, but he also feels like it’s his duty to clean and finish all of the food. Especially since he promised he would take care of it. It’s Dream’s boy's night, and George is willing to take care of him through it all.

“Dream…”

“George.” Dream’s face goes to stone, not in an aggressive way or an annoyed way, but in the just listen to me type of way.

George stares, then he blinks, then he looks down, and then he nods. “Okay,” he gives in. Not that it's hard to give into Dream…

Dream walks over to him, kissing his forehead and then he backs off, making sure to give one last gesture with his head to the stairs. George takes his time, standing there for a moment to collect himself before he makes his way to the stairs.

He gets to the top, but he can’t deny the fact that he turns around to stare at Dream’s bare back. Watching him move around the kitchen, grabbing cleaning products, the best of the best, and then he watches him go back over to the stove and start cooking the leftover food.

Before he knows it, he’s been standing there for two minutes on shaky legs, staring at Dream in nothing but the soiled jersey.

He turns, practically sprinting down the hallway and almost falling into the walls in the process. His balance is still a bit off. 

His shower doesn't take long. He completely washes everything, making sure to take his time to let his muscles relax.

When he finally leaves the shower, the bathroom is full of steam, and he knows he’ll get scolded if he doesn't turn on the fan, but if he’s gonna be in there for a bit is it really that important? The whole point of the hot shower is to warm up, not just be freezing once he steps out.

He sighs, sinking to the floor in his towel. He sits there for a few moments, almost falling asleep. He’s tired, but he can’t be, he’s got a party to go to. One that happens to be in his house and one that he isn’t sure when it starts, only because he doesn't know how long he’s been in the bathroom. 

He hears voices downstairs when he finally decides that he looks put together enough to join his friends.

He has some black jeans on this time, and he stole another one of Dream’s jerseys to go with it, layering it nicely. He’s sure he could do better, maybe add some jewelry, more than just his chain obviously, but he's just staying in, and no one will be watching him. They are here for the game.

As he makes his way to the stairway, he hears Dream laughing with Sapnap, and some other voices, maybe even Henry, a friend of Dream’s who has been there since the beginning. Well… Been there all of the years that George wasn't. The ones that were too early for George to be a part of.

He won't admit his slight jealousy. Instead, he smiles at him and shakes his hand. He talks to him, discussing plans and what has been going on, all while Sapnap gets the pregame talks up on the TV. Henry tells George about his girlfriend, and how they are expecting.

George can't help but wish he was also expecting, carrying Dream’s baby. Maybe they will have to try again later. Not that he can get pregnant, but maybe if they hope for it enough, their dreams will come true. At least George’s dreams.

He swallows, blush flowing up to his cheeks. Maybe one day he’ll be filled by Dream, with Dream. Maybe one day he’ll be able to wake up in the morning and still feel him everywhere, and not just through soreness.

He clears his mind, getting back into the conversation.

George congratulates him and tells him to take his best wishes to Clara. 

Then more people show up, and George decides to take his hosting duties very seriously.

He doesn't even see Dream until they somehow both end up in the kitchen at the same time, once again. George is grabbing drinks for people, and Dream… Well, Dream is leaning against the island, staring at George.

He’s wearing sweats and a different jersey, since his usual one is now in the wash.

George looks at him, then looks at the island, and suddenly blush fills his face. He doesn't feel ashamed because of it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he had sex in the kitchen with his best friend and is now getting stared down like his partner is ready for a second round.

George smiles. “If you keep looking at me like that,” he turns around, going to the fridge to grab the drinks. “I might pop a boner.”

“Mmm, perfect. I think I'll keep staring.”

“Dream…” George sighs, drinks filling his hands. “We have guests,” he adds, rolling his eyes.

“But they are in the living room, and we,” Dream moves closer, finally walking away from the island, “are right here.” George looks up at him. “Alone.”

“Keep your dick in your pants, Jesus,” George says, but smiles anyway. Dream is cute when he’s desperate. George starts walking away, leaving Dream there. “Maybe later,” he adds, just to be a dick.

But then he pauses, and smiles to himself, turning around and prancing over to Dream. He gets on his tippy-toes, smiling up at Dream and then leaving a kiss against his lips.

“Only me, right?” he asks, just because he can't help his jealousy. He needs to make sure that he is Dream’s and Dream is his.

Dream smirks, but it turns into a smile quickly. “Only you,” he says, kissing George back, this time in a much more refreshing way. Not chaste, or passion filled. But love instead.

“Only you too,” George says, kissing him again. And then they hear some yelling going on, and that's when they pull away. Knowing that they are each other's, and that they have a football game to go watch.

“Woo, Georgie!” Sapnap yells when he re-enters the room with the drinks. He sets them all down on the coffee table, watching their friends fight over them like they are dehydrated.

“Dream, let’s go, the game is about to start!” Henry yells and George takes that as his cue to go grab his own snacks and drinks.

He watches Dream walk over to the chair in the living room, sitting down and waiting while they watch the last bit of the pre-game announcements. He looks good, really good, like he is glowing.

George doesn't take his time grabbing his own stuff. He wants to be close to Dream and he wants to sit down. Walking after being ravaged apart like he was isn't ideal.

He grabs extra snacks and drinks for Dream as well, knowing he’s kind of back on a healthy kick. Then he rushes back to the room, hoping no one can tell. He gets there and the game is basically going, the only thing left is the anthem before it starts. George sighs, thankfully, he's not interrupting.

He piles all the stuff on the coffee table haphazardly and then looks around for a space. He catches Dream’s eyes, the ones that are inviting him over, then he looks at his spread legs and his lap and who is George to deny?

He plops himself right down in the centre of Dream’s lap, legs strewn across him, and all Dream does in response is wrap his arms around him and hug him close.

It’s easy to settle in.

“Thanks for all the drinks and food, guys.”

It's one of Dream’s friends who says it, but George isn't paying enough attention to remember who it is. He's not a stranger, but definitely not a friend of George’s.

“Oh, yeah, of course! George actually did it all,” Dream responds, and George looks up with the sound of his name being said.

“Oh, well, thank you, George,” the friend says again. Adam, his name is Adam.

“You're welcome,” George says quietly, then he reaches over to the coffee table to grab his own drink. When has it in his hold and is settling in, that's when Dream decides to speak up, but it's quiet. Only for George to hear.

“See, even they know how much of a good wife you are.”

George might be in love with Dream, but he also can recognize how much of a teasing dick he can be.

George clears his throat, opens his can of alcohol, and takes a long sip, right as he grinds his ass down on Dream’s groin. Two can play that game, especially when Dream sucks in a large breath, one that almost sounds like a gasp as he buries his face in George’s shoulder and breathes deeply.

It’s gonna be a long night…