George is the son to parents that own a multi-million dollar eco friendly car company. Cars have never been George's favorite subject. He knows which are the most expensive on the market because of his father but he's never understood the hype.
Aft...
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"Yeah I know I'm not faking. But it kinda feels that way." Crashing ILLENIUM ft Bahari
⚠️ contains discussion of past sexual trauma. Nothing graphic just discussion⚠️ Be safe happy reading <3
Mistakes are made every mundane day. Could be wearing the wrong shirt, writing the wrong sentence, or even turning down the wrong road. George had a tendency to speed down the path of his mistakes. The tyre would spin him into situations he'd rather not have been secluded to.
"Dream." The breathy sound of his own voice was foreign to him. Maybe it was the alcohol or the near astral projection in his veins. He'd never smoked before, and that mistake was slowly closing in on his conscious, much like a collapsing house of cards. His hand was dealt and far from a winning pair.
George didn't know how he ended up laid on the couch. Gasping. Spinning. All he could understand was the uncomfortable need, the buzz that ached in every part of his body. In his stomach, in his groin, in his soul. The brief wonder on the effects only came in small increments. Normal tiresome anxiety didn't exist here, he floated instead. Riding the wave of a high, he sifted through Dream's hair where he resided, between George's thighs. Lips firm against skin.
How they'd gotten there, George was just as confused as anyone else... but god he didn't want to stop. Cars revved down below on the street while Dream had asked his consent. George should've said no. Should've stopped him because they were high. They weren't themselves. They had just fought like badgers and now were as desperate as cats in heat. He keened his inebriated reply. Moaned his definite consent because green eyes bore into his and he could barely breathe with all the attention. Because despite his head god he wanted him. He'd never admit it sober but something about who Dream was caused George to spike in desire.
George let Dream unzip his jeans, pull them down above his knees, he let Dream touch him. Every caress was heightened and almost overstimulated but he didn't ask him to stop. In a dinky office with no other lights than the moon and hesitant purple street lamps, he didn't ask Dream to stop. His heart hammered in his chest full of approval, but his head was induced by a foreign substance. Normally he would have said no. God, he should've said no. He should've said no instead of-
"Dream, please."
"Are you just high or do you want this?" So careful, George felt safe with him like this. Safe underneath a man that was so thorough. He wondered if it was embarrassing to be present like this before Dream. To be needy and vulnerable and high.
"Does it matter," he whined, clearly not himself.
"Yes," Dream looked far more sober than George but not by much. Emerald gazed back at him steadily despite his blown wide pupils. "It matters."
He knew lying would come back to bite him in the ass, it always did, but George made a lot of mistakes.
"Yes," he fibbed because he didn't want to admit it. He didn't want to admit that this was from the weed. Or maybe it wasn't and this was all him. That revelation terrified him more than the former. It settled a deep ick placed there by parents. "Please."
