Dont read this, this is just for stories i want read

fire for you

George has never had a problem with their arrangement.

A text, buzzing in his pocket. One that reads, come over now. He would leave whatever poor date he was on, or get up from whatever dismal supper he’d been eating in front of the TV. He would show up at his door, and be whisked into a flurry of fire-red kisses, wrapped in burning touches that trailed everywhere, on him, in him.

Tonight is no different.

come over, Dream’s text reads, short and simple. George can’t deny the fluttering that bursts through his abdomen, as he glances down at his phone and reads it. He’s not gonna lie- he’d been waiting for the text since he’d gotten home from the last misadventure.

It isn’t like he had anything better to do; he was lying in front of his TV, flicking lazily through channels, nursing a stemless glass of red wine in his hand. But he doesn’t want to be easy .

what for?

you fucking know what for.

It’s tasteless, it’s tacky. It’s a simple arrangement , between acquaintances who so happened to be incredibly sexually attracted to one another without so much as a hint of any real feelings.

and what if i don’t want to?

i’m not asking again, george.

i hate you.

you know that’s not true.

It isn’t. He’s up and out the door in five minutes, shrugging a coat over his thin white t-shirt and black sweatpants. The drive there is tense with gilded expectation. George flexes his long fingers on the steering wheel, air haughty.

As much as he loved the softness of lovemaking, the tender touches, the soft whispers, he found so much more fun in the way he could make Dream lose control, grip George’s disobedient arms with enough strength to bruise, absolute filth dripping like honey from his lips, leaving George whining, keening, malleable in Dream’s palm.

He takes the stairs two at a time up Dream’s apartment building, and pushes his weight onto Dream’s door handle. “I’ll leave them unlocked for you,” Dream muttered one time, after George complained about having to wait as Dream took his sweet fucking time to open the goddamn door.

“George,” He hears, and he turns to see Dream lounging on his sofa, the absolute picture of perfection. He’s unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, leaving the tan triangle of skin exposed, a silver necklace lay peacefully in its centre. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d just ignored me.”

George shrugs off his coat, crossing past the familiar kitchen and into the living room where Dream sat. “And why would I do that?” He asks, climbing after the sofa arm to perch himself proudly on top of Dream’s lap, placing his small hands on Dream’s chest.

“Because,” Dream starts, his voice low and warning. It chips away at George’s resolve, melting into submission that pools in the pit of his abdomen. “I wouldn’t put it past a brat like you.”

He blinks. His breathing threatens to shallow, heart racing, blood coursing in his ears. He wills himself to feign disinterest, to play the part, to rile Dream up. To get what he wants.

“Well,” he leans closer to Dream’s face until their mouths are inches apart, never breaking his gaze, heightened and sensitive and blown wide. His hot breath fans on Dream’s lips, and he can see Dream repress a shudder. “If you really think that lowly of me,” his gaze dips down to Dream’s parted lips, reddened and spit-slick. “I’ll be taking my leave.”

He motions to move, climbing gracefully out of Dream’s lap when he hears a low growl, and Dream’s hands snake around his slim body, trapping him. “Don’t you dare move, George.”