Scotch or Skids

Ownership

George's expression hardened to a scowl, "Says who?"

"George," Dream tried, already seeing the challenge presenting itself between the two.

Punz leaned forward an inch from his face, "Me and every other racer."

The scoff came out deadly enough for Dream to release George's waist. Like a dog off his leash George eyed up Punz with a step closer and grinned like a maniac.

"I'm not scared of anything," Punz shrugged at George's fibbed words. "Fine, since you clearly like to be right. Let me prove you wrong." The shove was personal, Punz stuttered back on straight legs a few feet away. "Fine. Get me the flags, Karl."

Karl clapped like an excited child and dashed off into a congregation of people dressed to the hills for an outdoor race. Staring Punz down long enough for him to retreat he didn't drop his guard. George whipped around to laughter, Dream grinning at him. Eyebrows up in that stupid pinched way to show just how delighted he was. George wanted to see the smile but damn the mask for its existence. The other racers looked shocked at his harsh actions, as if they were surprised he had a voice at all, he shooed them off immediately, "Don't you have a race to prepare for?"

They all blinked then started moving towards their designated cars while George seethed. If he were a cartoon, the steam would be simmering from above his hair. Dream clapped slowly, "You are so hot."

"Fuck off," George bristled, "and give me your jacket."

Although he seemed confused, Dream slipped off the leather and handed it over, "You already have a jacket?"

George handed his own back to Dream and examined the sleeve of his boyfriend's. It was soft despite the type of fabric. Even the chains and buttons had nothing on the fit of it. The back of it was why George wanted it. In green embroidery and painted neon smiles it said Dream in large bubbly lettering.

"It's called ownership," George said, accent a bit clipped. "If I have something of yours, it will notify the congregation of our relations. Not to mention the way-"

"That I own you?" Dream's brows were to the sky with distaste. "I don't-"

He scoffed, "No, that I metaphorically own you."

"Really," was Dream's dry questioning.

George paused when he realized Dream wasn't taking it the way it was meant to be taken. Stood with his hands in his pockets and looking like a lost puppy with those soft eyes, Dream frowned at him. It was easy to decipher even with the mask.

"That is not at all what I meant." George sighed and slipped on the jacket two sizes too big for him. "The flag starters are, statistically speaking, sluts. They all show up specifically for the racers to sleep their way into that of importance. This displays I am only willing to be a slut for one person. Singular. You."

"Baby, you sound like you're entertaining the English Street Gala, not a canyon race."

George looked up at him and frowned. That endearment was a new development, one he was debating on smacking out of Dream's vocabulary, Daredevil was already bad enough.

"I've requested you not to call me that." Dream rolled his eyes diligently. "Look, I apologize, I just believe-"

"Shh. Zip." Dream brought an ungloved knuckle beneath George's chin. With met eyes they gazed directly at each other, a challenge simmering beneath lashes. Dream took a deep breath. "Alright, I just don't like when you call yourself a slut out here." His tone came off soft enough to be taken away by the wind. George felt warmed beneath the jacket and the caring gaze. The grin set the gentle on fire, "Only call yourself that when we're alone, okay?"