someone to mess with | dreamnotfound smut

ch. 5

Time passed but hardly anything really changed.

George, Dream found first-hand, was a goddamn tease, which, to be fair, he already knew that, just, not to this extent, how it was a constant battle that left Dream frustrated, especially when nothing became of the advances, leaving him only ever wanting more.

Always wanting more.

Though Dream got it in the end, he just had to endure the never-ending pull back, the inescapable game of George changing his mind, starting and stopping on his every whim, the wicked smirk on his face ever present as he taunted Dream.

He could tell the other enjoyed this above all else, as George's gaze caught Dream's own in the act of wistful longing, hovering close but never initiating, waiting for instructions with impatient hands and eyes heavy with implication, yet, too nervous to actually act on any of it.

George was not one to be gentle, but that didn't mean he wouldn't be slow, draw it out step by step, manhandle Dream roughly, overtaking, in control, pressing further and further but never quite there until Dream was sufficiently strung out.

It was as if George was trying to make Dream ask for it, push him until the other had no choice but make the first move. But, Dream never let himself, since the other liked the build up, to make him wait and wait until it was nearing on excruciating.

Through this all, Dream knew what to expect. Harsh nails and hands that gripped and pushed, sharp teeth and a sharper tongue, rough and bruising presses, a take, always a take.

Dream was used to these extremes, of never and always that seemed to be intertwined with their intimacy. That was easy, that was predictable.

Today, oddly, George was currently kissing him, and it was soft, it was sweet, and Dream didn't know what to make of it.

He was taking his time, like a savor, not just to make Dream ache. It was gratifying that the other could be gentle with him, like.. he cared.

Expectedly, this didn't last very long and George disconnected them abruptly, pushing Dream's shoulders back until they hit against the couch. There was a glint in his eye, one in which Dream knew the other was doing this intentionally, something only to throw him off, make Dream chase after him.

His hands only tightened into the fabric of George's shirt, head tilted back into the seat, chin set upwards as he cast his eyes to the one above him, breathing shaky as George grinded down slightly, his gaze flicking swiftly to their laps then landed finally to face the other, Dream pulling his lip between his teeth to be silent, as George often scolded him for being too loud, he had grown accustomed to stifling his noises before they even had a chance to begin.

Dream couldn't go after him.

He would never allow himself.

It didn't matter how soft or sweet or, if the other would ever do something to be described as such, loving in the way George paid him attention, Dream could only give, give himself to the other, everything George would ask or want, Dream would hand over, even if that meant his body to be used, his hands to offer pleasure, his eyes to stay fixed and rapt, lips that demanded a press against lips, his breath and being and every moment Dream could spare, would forever go into George's grasp.

Because, it was always his to begin with. All the other had to do was ask, to be the take to Dream's give, and George would receive.

Just as now, when slender fingers dove down, curling over Dream's palms, pulling easily from where they rested, guiding, as George constantly did, moving the other's touch over himself, driving Dream's hands where he wanted, which was always everywhere at once.