Flash Photography Whore

Flash

George would be stupid to say no.

He always watched Dream's liveshows, anyway. And he'd made it rather apparent to himself that it didn't even matter once he knew the identity behind a pseudonym, it didn't matter even when the once unknown identity had turned out to be that of his best friend.

But even still, George wondered why Dream had made such a point to ask. With a quizzical look buried deep in his tawny eyes, with intent and curiosity that George couldn't help but find peculiar. Maybe, in Dream's head, proper sex on falsely messed-up beds was enough to swear George off his livestreams. (Clearly, it wasn't—otherwise he wouldn't have asked).

After George had said "yes" in answer to Dream's question, they went on with their day. For a moment, George wondered how Dream could be so lax and casual about everything; but he supposed that he was used to it at this point. He woke up every morning post-livestream (he'd woken up that very morning post-livestream) so there wasn't much room to be in a panic.

Perhaps there had been a time when relaxation didn't come so easy, when he was worried and wondering how the hell he'd even gotten where he was.

That's where George was now. Wondering how the hell he'd even gotten here, laying in the unmade bed in Dream's guest room where the messy sheets had finally become earned. A heavy arm lay across his waist with a strange seep of fondness, lips soft and warm where they brushed along the back of his neck.

George wasn't worried, or regretful, or sad, or anything like that. He was content, content because he finally had everything he'd wanted—and that included the paradoxical domesticity of cuddling in a bed that wasn't his. Even greater, it included the stain of amethyst-sapphire where it was smeared across his pretty neck.

But there were still so many questions. So many questions. They all waited at the tip of his tongue—his filthy tongue—with enough heat to burn him raw. He played with his fingers in front of his face, reveled in the deep breaths by his ear that somehow managed to run a shiver down his spine.

It was because it was Dream. It was always going to be because it was Dream.

And now was a better time than ever to wonder aloud, with his back turned to the man in question and a perfectly good reason to keep it that way. So he opened his mouth with eyes stuck on the closed door, hoping his muscles hadn't gone too tense in a way that Dream would notice.

"How did you know?"

The question feathered out in a strained whisper. His voice was still rough around the edges, but even he knew that wasn't the end of the story—thick hesitation locked the words halfway in his throat, stuck where he could feel it bulging out against his skin in unorthodox familiarity.

"How did I know what?"

Dream's voice—as always—was just as pathetically attractive as the man it belonged to. The way his tone had been scorched deeper with lazy half-asleep only made it better, and George would've done anything to keep that low rumble against his ears.

"That..." he hesitated, could still feel where words pressed against his throat, "with me." He tried to swallow it, but it all got too stuck. "And the... the stuff."

A low laugh spilled out against his exposed skin, both warm and chilling at the exact same time. The hand that hung loosely at his front shifted to hold him tighter, tugging his back deeper into the press against Dream's chest.

"George," Dream huffed accusingly. "You practically begged me to fuck you, I think you can say you watched me cam."

George could feel when his body flushed with embarrassment, hot and pink and pathetically familiar. He whined through his teeth, hid his face in the pillow as if he wasn't still turned away from Dream, the laughter against his neck making him burn a pitiful rose.