part 1 was written by isntitcrazy :)

Dream's favorite part was the adrenaline.

It spread through his body in a red-hot wildfire, caught his veins all the way down to the tips of his fingers where they shook around the steering wheel. It made his breath ragged and audible above the rev of his engine, felt akin to the high he got on something else illegal—but if he had to choose which one was better, it'd be this. He'd probably pick racing over anything.

For Dream, it was the perfect way to settle disputes. A clear winner, a surefire end, something fair so long as their cars were both good enough. And Dream's cherry red supercar was always good enough to race—with how much time he spent taking care of it, it was bound to be. It only ever came down to his opponent's ride. And theirs was usually good, too.

Dream was rarely someone struck by road rage, rarely the idiot who caused an accident because he couldn't manage his temper and had to prove something to a stranger on the road. He preferred the races that were planned, the ones that gathered a crowd on the sides of the road all cheering for one or the other. The ones that were, as Dream liked, to settle disputes. When he'd get a little too pissed at his friend and they'd bet to race on it, to spend some extra time doting on their cars only to line up and do something dangerous.

Maybe it was safer when it was planned. Still illegal, but safer. Even if it was only just a little.

And Dream got in a lot of petty fights with his best friend Sapnap. A hot-headed raven with a fast car to call his own and hands that were itching to get on the wheel. He rivaled Dream in impulsiveness, rivaled Dream in that soul-binding feeling of getting in the driver's seat of a needlessly fast car and staring down that yellow line. They both lived for the thrill of it—and for the past two-odd years since they'd spent drowned in this illegal mess, it'd become the only way they'd manage to settle arguments.

Like when the TV in their apartment fell off the wall in the dead of night and they raced to see who'd pay for the replacement. Or when Sapnap accused Dream of stealing the money he kept under his mattress and Dream insisted that he didn't, and a stupid race felt like the only way to end their mutual silent treatment.

Or most notably, when Sapnap stole Dream's girlfriend and they raced each other for her. She'd been half as crazy as they were, crazy enough to stand on the yellow line and wave the checkered flag. Crazy enough to even let two idiots speed their too-expensive cars down the road to see who'd win her lips around their cock, crazy enough to spin around and watch them go.

Sapnap won that race. Dream couldn't be mad about it.

But sometimes, they were just bored. Bored enough to be idiots. It happened more often than either of them would care to admit, but slogs of nothing often got them both in the driver's seat of their supercars. Maybe those races were the most fun, because the burning hot adrenaline wasn't warring with reckless fury, and Dream could let it fill his body with unbridled want all on its own.

Those were the races planned the most in advance—because there wasn't a rage-sensitive time limit—the ones that drew the biggest crowds of friends and randoms looking for something illegal and fast. The ones with the loudest engines and the most screaming, the ones where picking sides was a matter of favoritism and not whose part of the argument made the most objective sense.

Sapnap talked a lot about the flag girls for those races. Dream had never paid them much mind, so he let Sapnap pick who got to stand in the road and start their race. And he would—wearing a self-assured grin and holding those checkered flags in the air, he'd call on any pretty girl brave enough to take them from his hands.

He was easily distracted by their presence. The girls in their tight clothes and the way they'd twist their bodies to wave those flags like a starting gun, the way they'd risk something in themselves to stand in between two cars planning to speed just for a fair start to it. Or just because they liked the attention; which if you asked Sapnap, was the more likely story. He was more than happy to give them attention.

Dream wasn't nearly as distracted as his friend was. He always managed to keep his eyes facing front, only looking just enough to watch the wave of black-and-white checkers in the air. He'd let Sapnap talk his ear off about how hot the flag girl had looked after every race, but he never found himself eager to be much of an active participant in those conversations.

Not until it wasn't a girl.

Before Sapnap had even gotten in the road with the flags, a pretty brunet in short shorts had taken them from his hands. And with a British accent doused in saccharine, he'd whispered right in Sapnap's ear about how he "had this one." It wasn't a question. He was waving the flags that time, and Sapnap didn't have it in him to make it an argument—he just watched him take his stance.

Dream was all adrenaline when he got behind his wheel. And the sun was too high for them to be doing something illegal, and the crowd around them was too big for it to go unnoticed. The whole thing was built on nothing but impulse, a cocky smirk from Sapnap before the sun rose when there was melon-flavored smoke hung in clouds between them. And Dream was never someone to turn down a race, so here he was. Foot hovering over the gas, teeth gritted in reckless wait.

And his body ran hot the moment he caught sight of the flag girl. Flag boy.

He held those checkered flags like he owned the whole street, clad in tight red shorts that matched Dream's car just a little too well. Dream had never seen fishnets look so good on someone's legs before, but that boy's legs went on for days. And all that was before he even considered the cropped black jacket or the tiny little shirt to go beneath it.

Dream had never been so tense in the driver's seat. And he'd never made full eye contact with a flag girl before, never caught the gleam of mirth in anyone's gaze through his freshly cleaned windshield. He'd never had them return his looks or cast him a playful wink with the over-exaggerated mouthing of "good luck" through pretty pink lips.

Maybe if Dream won, he'd get that guy's attention.

He let himself catch on the way the brunet arched his back. On the way he rolled his shoulders, on the way the stretch of it made his already tiny shirt ride higher on his chest and expose even more of that pretty pale skin.

Dream took a stuttered breath and brought his eyes back to the road. The flags fell, and his foot pushed down on the gas. He was gone.

And for the first time, Dream shifted his gaze to his side mirror after speeding off. And he looked for that boy in the reflection, caught the way he jumped up excitedly and waved those flags around with his mouth dropped open in a cheer. Caught him break out into a run after the two speeding cars, followed closely by all the other bystanders that Dream couldn't bring himself to care about.

He took a side glance at Sapnap's car beside him. It looked like nothing but a flash of orange wrap, but even still, Dream knew he was ahead. At some point, he'd taken a commanding lead.

And his lead managed to last. He hit their decided finish line first, hit the brakes on his car and came to a screeching halt, stumbled out onto the road in wind-blown victory. Sapnap was only a little bitter, but Dream was far too caught up in a pretty flag boy to pay his friend any mind. A pretty flag boy who seemed to be approaching him, still twirling the flags that gave him the name in his hands.

Dream was still riding his own high when the brunet leaned against the side of his car, smiling with teeth through his pretty pink lips and rolling his eyes not-so-subtly over the whole of Dream's body. Dream ran fingers through his hair with a type of lax casual that made it seem like he wasn't paying the boy any mind, but that was the furthest thing from the truth. He was going insane, just silently.

"You did good." Oh god his accent. "I don't think I've seen you race that well before."

Dream looked over to him, raising an eyebrow amidst his prideful grin. "You've come to my races before?"

The boy only shrugged, dragged a lone finger along a vein on Dream's arm until he hit the sleeve of his t-shirt. Dream hoped he didn't look too flustered, hoped the heat of his skin could be blamed on the burning sun and the adrenaline running flames through his body. He let himself watch the movement of the brunet's hand, paying threateningly close attention to the slimness of his wrist and the bright red lacquer that covered his nails.

His gaze fell to the red shorts that clung to the boy's legs, matching fishnets running up under the fabric. It was then that Dream noticed just how closely those shorts matched his car, the reds blending into each other in one smother of vicious cherry.

Dream touched one of his fingers to the red on the brunet's thigh, letting his prideful gaze twist into something just a tad closer to scarlet arrogance.

"Your shorts match my car."

The boy grinned. "I know."

"Oh," Dream smirked back, "so it's intentional?"

The boy shrugged, let Dream's hand slide up to cover his waist. And he took a daring step closer, planted his hand against the front of Dream's chest when they spun to face each other properly.

"You know," he flicked his nails against Dream's chest, "your windshield's very clean."

"It is," Dream tugged him closer, "I care a lot about my car."

The brunet spread his palm flat against Dream's front, holding both the checkered flags down at his side in the other. And his pretty brown eyes fell to Dream's lips for a moment, staring through those too-long eyelashes when they slid up to meet his gaze again.

There was something coy and playful in that stare. Dream let his grip tighten around the boy's waist, digging into the exposed skin of his middle as a pinky finger slid beneath the waistband of those damn red shorts.

"I can see you through it."

"Oh," Dream laughed, soft and caught beneath his breath, "can you?"

"Yeah," he tapped the flags against Dream's leg, "you're very hot when you're focused," he slid his finger up to catch under Dream's jaw, "and I can totally see you staring at me."

"Yeah?" Dream spoke with playful tease. "You gonna do something about it?"

The brunet only shrugged. "Maybe."

Dream scoffed near-silently, glancing sideways over the roof of his car for a moment before he shoved their lips together. His advances were accepted without question, the sound of checkered flags hitting the road painfully obvious as the boy rose up on his toes. He took Dream's shoulders and tried to tug him down, his side hitting against the door of the hot car when Dream tilted his head to take it.

Large hands pulled on a tiny waist. They slid downward to more unsavory places, slipped fingers beneath tight fabric and gripped with something best described as claim. Pink lips fell open on a gasp and Dream took it as an invitation, licked into the boy's mouth with the rush of something crimson shaded. His lips were soft, so soft, and he tasted of false sugar and roaring fantasies. He tasted just the way he looked. He tasted red and eye-catching.

Dream was poorly rendered melon flavor and the bite of nicotine. He was the chilled stain of menthol left behind on reckless lips, a mouth full of bad decisions and ivory teeth that dug with a desired firmness. And the brunet took every drop of trouble that oozed past Dream's pressing lips, split his own mouth open to welcome its taste.

It was a pathetically rude interruption when a fist slammed against the roof of Dream's car, the sound of it loud enough to jolt the pair away from each other and draw their open-mouth stares to its source. It was Sapnap, already retreating backward to his own car as he shouted across the road.

"Stop making out with the flag boy and go!"

And he was climbing into the driver's seat before Dream could get a word in. It was then that the sharp blare of sirens found Dream's ears, and he was shoving at the brunet before he could even think about it.

"Get in my car," he spoke with breathless intent, "we've gotta run."

The boy gathered the abandoned checkered flags up off the road—and god did he look good bending over—and ran around the back of Dream's car to fall into the passenger seat. Dream was running on borrowed time, twisting his keys in the ignition while he closed his door and pressing his foot on the gas while the brunet shut his.

It was more than stupid to hang around a racing site after a race, but if Dream wasn't stupid then he wouldn't have even raced to begin with. And that was neglecting the fact that he liked this part of the deal—another illegal excuse to drive too fast, the wash of blue and red lights and the unbearably loud ring, the familiar rush beneath his skin that left him clawing for more.

And his mouth was still painted with invisible red, a strange tingle left behind against his lips that felt akin to a body-killing substance. Like something he could grow addicted to—pins and needles pricking sensitive skin, washing his entire face hot with something undefinable, something made better by seatbelt-less speeding down an unfamiliar road.

"How fast does this thing go?"

Dream cast his glance to the boy whom that voice belonged to, found his long fingers caught around the handle on the roof and his foot pushed on the dashboard for stability. His face would cover in blue before Dream found the sense to look back at the road, flick his eyes down to the speedometer in a moment of weakness.

Even still, he didn't give a proper answer.

"Fast enough."

A laugh emitted from beside him, bright and lilted as if there was anything casual about this situation. Anything casual about high-speed chasing and feeling above the law, about reckless driving and a dangerous lack of safety precautions.

"Is there a number?"

Dream laughed in return. "Numbers don't matter much, babe."

There was something unspoken beneath the rose color to his tone, an implication of what could come if they ever outran the law. Dream flicked his eyes over to the brunet for another fleeting moment, finding the same shade of pink beneath his playful grin. He was alight with mirth, colored dangerous by shades of red and blue, still a vicious glow of something in all his too-tight clothes.

"Is your car compensating for something?"

Dream laughed, drew his eyes back to the speedometer to watch the little red pointer slip ever-closer to the max. He took a sharp turn and watched Sapnap's car swerve in the opposite direction, splitting the cops behind them apart in a hopeless chase.

Dream's heart was pounding in his ears. Every breath he took through grinning lips was shaking, every tick of laughter stuttered. He tightened his grip on the wheel to keep it steady, pretended he didn't notice the intent gaze the brunet had set on his fingers.

He answered finally. "No."

The boy beside him laughed quietly in response, though it was half-lost to the loud sirens from behind them. And when Dream glanced over at him again, he saw his free hand holding the armrest with a white-knuckled grip, every inch of him tight in an attempt to stay in place.

Dream looked at the road. "I never caught your name."

The brunet laughed in hiding again. "George."

"Well, George." Dream shifted the placement of his hands. "You wanna see how fast this baby can go?"

"If you'll show me."

So Dream floored it—as if he wasn't flooring it already—and sped even faster down the street. George yelped at the sudden increase in speed, both their heads colliding with the backs of their seats despite already resting there.

Dream was all laughs and spiked adrenaline. George felt unfamiliar with this kind of high. The kind of high that was rushing, the kind that was tidal waves of fierce heat—nearly unmanageable in its vicious presence, enough to make George feel as though he might break. Edged, edged, edged by death until there was nothing left but loud noise and faster cars.

The whole point was to win the chase, and to win the chase they had to lose the cops on their tail. It became a too-fast game of tricky maneuvers, of spinning the steering wheel and endangering everyone within a mile's radius until Dream could get his speeding car out of range from those pretty red-blue lights. Turning, turning, turning again—speeding into a dead empty alley and slamming the brakes before his car hit a wall.

The sirens went rolling past them. They'd won.

Dream looked over at George, who'd caught his roll forward with two hands on the dashboard. He returned Dream's watchful gaze with a wide-eyed stare of his own, chest heaving with exertion despite their lack of physical activity. Dream let his eyes roll over George's slim frame again, let his adrenaline-fueled body surge hotter with something needy, let his gaze linger on the exposed skin between locks of mesh tights for a moment too long.

"We should probably wait here for a bit." Dream spoke with a pathetic breathlessness that he wished to blame on nothing but high speeds, but he'd never learned how to lie to himself. "To make sure we lost them for real."

George swallowed thickly. "Yeah."

"My car," Dream took a breath, dropped his gaze onto George's parted lips, "it's pretty hard to miss."

"We should wait—" Dream spit out a quiet "yeah" in the midst of George's pause, "—just to be safe."

"Safety," Dream nodded, "is important."

George hummed in agreement, leaning forward over the armrest to catch Dream's fatal lips with his again. And he'd lost some of his cut melon to the feel of whatever it was that tasted like Dream—the mild, unidentifiable flavor that couldn't be bottled or hardened into candy. There was still that edge of danger behind his ivory teeth, still the tang of nicotine when George caught his tongue against his own.

Dream moved his lips with a scarlet intent, threaded fingers through dark hair and tugged George closer in his uncomfortable position. They both leaned against the armrests attached to their seats, letting the firm obstructions cut into their abdomens as they chased each other with high-speed intent. Dream managed to grab at exposed skin again, trail his fingers down George's side until he felt his body shiver, felt him push their locked lips firmer and throw away the key.

Hands couldn't grab well enough, George couldn't get Dream any closer with tugs on his shirt, and no matter how much he sat up on his leg he couldn't press their bodies together. Their lips fell apart in a much-needed gasp, two mouths falling open to take in as much air as they could in a single second before they collapsed into each other again.

George was so red so fucking red, brighter than Dream's car and starker than spilled blood. He was rose-colored whimpers into Dream's open mouth, chest falling forward in a way that forced his head to tilt upward and give Dream a better angle to spit danger past his lips. Their mouths slid together in something alight with need, something flaming at the meeting point and hotter than liquid metal.

"There's," George stole another kiss before Dream could finish, "there's no backseat to my car."

George pulled him downward again, shoved their lips back together in something rough and sliding, felt the snag of Dream's teeth against his sensitive skin. Dream caught a hand around his jaw and pulled him forward, pressed his exposed stomach tighter against the armrest until it became more pain than discomfort, dug teeth into his bottom lip until George tugged away with a huff.

"Fuck you," he bit Dream's lip in retaliation, "fuck you and your stupid car."

Dream laughed, flicking his tongue over George's parted lips. He dropped the hand from George's head to gesture vaguely at the seat he was sitting in, raising an eyebrow as if that would give George all the answers. It didn't. All it got Dream was an incredulous look through lust-darkened eyes.

"Sit on my lap."

George grabbed Dream by the shoulders and pulled, another laugh spilling past the blond's lips. And they maneuvered themselves around—with a lot of difficulty and climbing—so Dream was sitting in the passenger seat with George straddling his hips. Dream threaded his fingers through the red of the fishnets, used his new angle to drag his lips up the column of George's throat. Sank his teeth into the pale skin just as he had done to pink lips, sucked it into his mouth in a hunger-driven chase for violet.

Something about George called for Dream to mark him his. Something about his pretty face and the not enough clothing, something about the two checkered flags he'd dropped on the floor of the car, something about his painfully silver tongue and the sharpest taste of red he'd ever found. His pale, empty skin was the most tempting canvas when the brush was ruthless lips, when the paint was pink and purple and only semi-permanent.

George bounced, bounced on Dream's lap when he trailed blossoms of amethyst down the side of his neck. And any stimulation was welcome stimulation, but fucking bouncing was certainly a step above that. Dream tried not to sound too pathetic when he groaned against George's skin, but even he had enough common sense with his lust-heavy brain to know he'd failed terribly.

The hands caught on George's thighs dared to skate higher, trailing over his hips and up the exposed parts of his body. Dream paused the motion of his hands at the hem of George's shirt, caught only middle fingers beneath the fabric until a pale hand caught around his wrist and pulled him higher. Dream laughed light into George's neck, grinned ever-so-slightly against the violet-turning skin as pale fingers slid down his arm and to his shoulder.

Dream pushed his hands up to drag thumbs over George's nipples. The chill of it was unmistakable, the responding mewl that rang out at such a light touch only a bonus.

"Oh," Dream pulled his lips away, "is that what I think it is?"

George was practically pouting at him, drawing his fingers tighter in the fabric covering Dream's shoulders until it gathered beneath his palms. He took it upon himself to bounce again, to lean into the touch Dream had on his nipples and fall against his face with a sloppy excuse for a kiss.

Dream pushed him back up to sit straight, rucked his shirt up to his collarbones to expose the metal in question. The cloth was tight enough to stay there even after Dream pulled his hands away, fabric catching on the top of his chest and leaving the glossy metal exposed. Two pretty barbells, silver and gleaming.

"Of course you have nipple piercings," Dream huffed, flicking one of them for emphasis.

George whined, but he still managed to roll a smirk over his kiss-swollen lips. He put his hand on top of Dream's, urged him to press his palm harder against the piercing.

"Do you like them?"

It came out shakier than he wanted it to, but every word was still edged with a playful carmine. Like he already knew the answer—because he did know the answer. The groan Dream gave in answer was unnecessary evidence to something already known, fuel to something red and burning beneath their feet.

The car was still running. It emitted a low hum to back the heaving breaths between the both of them, a shadow of a reminder that they were still sitting in an alley, on top of each other in the passenger seat of a probably-wanted vehicle.

None of that mattered. "Yeah, I fucking like them." That's what mattered.

George found it in him to nod in response, to twist his fingers tighter in the fabric on Dream's shoulders. He gripped the back of Dream's hand with a cutting hold, dug those red-coated nails into the skin beneath them until Dream was hissing through grit teeth. Hissing and leaning forward, laving his tongue over the nipple his hand wasn't covering.

His skin tasted red, too. Tasted scarlet and sweat-salted against the flat of his tongue, gliding, gliding over the newly exposed skin and catching on the silver metal when he swirled his tongue. That was bitter metallic, sharp and biting enough to cut through the drip of red.

When Dream caught his teeth against the barbell, George mewled. Every tug on the shining metal was enough to pull a sound from the brunet, enough to make him writhe in Dream's lap and dig those pretty red nails harder into his skin. Dream managed to shift his nearly-bleeding hand enough to pinch George's nipple between two fingers, flicking his tongue over the spheres on the other barbell.

He slid his hand past the waistband of absurdly tight shorts just as George caught his fingers through blond hair, pulling his nails out of Dream's skin and leaving those pretty crescent-shaped marks. Dream used his newfound freedom to drag his thumb roughly over the piercing, shifting the metal beneath pale skin enough to make George whine. And he fell into Dream's advances, shoved one of his hands down between their bodies to palm hopelessly at his cock through his jeans.

"Dream—" George stuttered when teeth caught on the skin around his piercing, "—I want—" gasped when Dream gripped onto his ass, "—want to suck," Dream tugged on both piercings, "suck you off."

Dream only laughed, the sound isolated in his throat as he caught his tongue around a silver barbell. He pulled off with a sickening pop in delicious suction, grinned up at George with spit-slick lips and tried not to groan when the brunet grabbed his cock roughly. He twisted the piercing in his hand to sit vertical, watched George's face twist and mouth drop open on a stuttered breath.

"Your nipples are sensitive."

It was low and whispering, pressed in cooling breath right against George's wet piercing. It was barely enough stimulation to roll a shiver up his spine, to make his breath stutter and the hand in Dream's hair pull tighter. He leaned forward and gave a desirable amount of pressure to Dream's aching cock, a groan falling past his lips before he had the chance to stifle it.

"I know," George answered. "Now let me suck your cock."

"God," Dream tugged on the piercing, "you really want that, huh?"

George whined. "Yes."

Dream flicked the barbell between his fingers hard enough for his nails to click, dragged his tongue up the side of George's neck in a wet stripe. He placed a gentle kiss on top of a too-dark hickey, the hand in his hair growing impatient with frantic tugging.

George tried to bounce again, shifted his hand up to Dream's abdomen so he could roll his hips down against his cock. Dream pulled his hand out of George's shorts, slapping his ass harshly in retaliation. George mewled at the contact, tugged on Dream's hair hard enough for his head to knock against the headrest.

"Fuck," Dream stuttered over his next breath, "get on your knees."

There was no hesitation in George's swift movement, barely even a pause between Dream's commanding sentence and his collapse onto the floor. He slid himself off of Dream's lap and onto the floor between his legs, caught halfway under the dashboard and batting his eyelashes up at Dream like that position was comfortable.

Maybe it was. Dream wouldn't put it past George and his skin-tight shorts, nor would he put it past those pretty pierced nipples. Pierced nipples that he could still see, on full display beneath the shirt still caught beneath his collarbones.

George was already letting his hands wander, tugging at Dream's belt and waistband in the midst of pushing at the hem of his shirt. Dream finally relented and stripped his torso bare, cast the fabric to the side so it landed somewhere in the driver's seat. And George had moved his fingers well enough to unbuckle Dream's belt, well enough to unfasten his jeans properly and shove impatient hands into his boxers.

Dream resisted the urge to make a comment about it, instead lifting his hips up off the seat enough for George to get his cock out. He looked way too pretty on his knees between Dream's thighs, fluttering his too-long lashes over those darkened eyes and licking his pink lips wet. His gaze was lidded, a stare in a matching shade of red to the lacquer on his nails. Nails that looked so devilishly pretty when pale hands slid against Dream's cock with deliberate slowness, letting Dream feel the curve of his palm against him and the softness of long fingers.

And there were still two checkered flags spread across the floor by George's legs, a black-and-white reminder of exactly what had brought them into this position to begin with. A reminder seldom needed when the car they were stuck in was so hidden from street view, the only light being that of the sun and the faint echo of dingy street lights.

Dream was moments away from a demand to get on with it when George slid his tongue across the head of his cock. Lapped up any precum that had slid out, rolled his tongue over his upper lip before repeating the motion—the same exact thing, only slower on the second time. Dream let his breath shake on the exhale, met George's eyes in something shaded cardinal, felt the brightly hued threads where they hung heavy in the air.

George swirled his tongue, dipped his head just low enough to catch Dream past his lips. His pretty, pink lips—fuck, did he have the lips for this—still half-swollen on biting kisses and looking all too pretty to not be messed up more. And he kept them tight when he slid down around Dream's cock, sucked more of him into that slick mouth and dragged his hand up to meet on the downstroke.

"God." Dream caught his hands in George's dark hair, urging him to drag his lips lower until he hit the back of his throat. "You're so fucking pretty like this."

George keened in response. He fluttered his eyes shut with contentment, slid his hand down to rest against Dream's thigh to take the rest of him. His eyes slid open in a thin line of dark against white, his lips dragging upward with a tongue pressed firm against the underside of his cock. Dragging up along a pulsing vein, leaving Dream nothing short of shuddering but still in a pathetic need for more.

He was going so slow. So pathetically slow, unfortunately deliberate in a way that Dream could barely fathom. Like he wanted this to be the slowest blowjob imaginable, like he wanted to sit on his spread knees on the floor of Dream's too-expensive car for as long as possible. He even went as far as to pull off completely, placing one of his hands back on Dream's cock to roll a thumb over the slit.

He blinked up at Dream with startling innocence, an innocence that felt unearned when he was teasing Dream's cock like that. Unearned when his lips were already dripping, when his eyes were hazy behind the act and screaming out to be seen in scarlet.

"You wanted this so bad," Dream gripped onto George's cheek, pressed a thumb against his lower lip to pry his mouth open, "fucking take it, yeah?"

He spit into George's open mouth, feeling the way the hand on his cock tightened absentmindedly when George whined high and in his throat. He closed his mouth and swallowed like he meant it, parted his lips on a sputtering breath that sounded slick with all the rest of it. He nodded carefully, almost miniscule enough for Dream to miss the motion entirely.

It came much quicker, then. The slide of swelling lips around Dream's cock, a hand sliding downward to catch around Dream's thigh again. And he kept his mouth insatiably tight, kept his eyes shut as he moved his head in a quicker but still deliberate motion.

The obscenity of it was impenetrably crimson. The slick noises that filled the space of Dream's car, the thumb still pushed against the stretched corner of his lips. Spit gathered against Dream's finger as he kept it there, sliding against his thumb as more of it collected. Red nails dug into the fabric of Dream's jeans, attempted to claw their way into them despite the unhidden cock already lodged down George's throat.

It was like he wanted more. Selfishly, George wanted more. And he'd hoped that the flutter of his eyelashes over scarlet-tinted eyes could say that for him, but Dream was still sitting there with no movement other than running hands. Other than fingers threaded through dark hair, other than the slide of a slick thumb against his cheek. George mewled, tugging off despite the hold Dream had on him, clearing his throat and letting the spit slide down his chin in thick ropes.

"You can—" George sputtered, wiping spit off his lips with the back of his hand, "—you can use me."

Dream huffed out a laugh through smirking lips, shifted his hands so they both rested in the tangle of George's hair. And he tipped his head back carefully, watched his pretty purpled neck crane upward at the stretch, pink lips falling open with a heaving breath. Dream sat up better so he could lean over George's head, stare down into his dark eyes with a gaze strung taut with mirth.

"Yeah?" His lips curled with daunting vex. "I can use you?"

George tried his best to nod, but the motion was pathetically invisible through his arched neck. He settled on a hopeless-sounding "please," caught both by the angle of his head and the submission in his voice.

Dream let himself laugh again, spit into the part of George's lips again and watched it fall against his mouth in a half-miss. But George was quick to flick his tongue out and lick it up, catching every last drop of it like he wanted it more than anything. And Dream leaned back against the carseat again, pulled George's head down with him so those open lips caught around the head of his cock again.

"I won't go easy on you."

George's responding whine was in agreement, and Dream could tell through the noise. He pulled George's head down with a harsh force, dragged him with enough speed to make him gag and mewl, enough to make his eyes screw shut and his nails dig into Dream's clothed thighs again. Dream grit his teeth when he pushed George up, found it better to hold his head still and in the air while he moved his hips up off the seat to push further into his open mouth.

George slid his hands up slightly to dig into the exposed skin above Dream's waistband, to claw crescent-shaped marks to replace the ones that had faded from his hands. The sting of it made Dream groan, made him tighten his hold on George's head and slam his head down to take his cock to the hilt.

He gagged again. It sent his nails digging harder into Dream's skin, carmine nails carving marks into tan skin. George let his head fall sideways despite Dream's hold, shifting his tongue to lay over the side of Dream's cock when his head was tugged upward. He tipped his head to keep his top teeth to himself, slid his eyes open just enough to catch Dream's red face above him, parted lips panting over a groan.

He brought George's head down with greater harshness, pressed his thumbs against the corners of his lips and tried to pull them wider. George mewled at the stretch, eyes shuddering up into the back of his head when Dream only pulled him harder, tried to edge the tip of his thumb into George's wide-open mouth just to see how much he could take.

A lot, as it turns out. George could take a lot.

And Dream let him tug off with a sinful pop so he could catch a breath, let his own hands fall against his thighs as George's slid away. He watched the boy with intent, watched him shift on his knees as if seeking comfort, watched him wipe at the spit gathering on his chin and gasp over his breaths. He looked up at Dream with his red-threaded gaze, pupils blown out into pools that swallowed umber near-completely.

"Dream," his voice was obscenely spent, "please."

Dream drew one of his hands out and off his thigh, caught fingers beneath George's jaw and tugged him closer with the touch. It tipped his head back, pulled purple-stained skin taut at the edges and tempting enough for Dream to slide his fingers over it. One of George's hands fell away from his face, pale fingers catching around the metal of a piercing in a desperate search for stimulation.

"Please what?" Dream teased, inching one of his feet over to sit between George's legs. "What do you want, pretty?"

George mewled, watching with unmistakable interest as Dream's free hand caught around the base of his cock. His eyes practically went cross trying to look at everything in front of him, so Dream tugged his head closer—close enough for his lips to hit against the head of his cock, close enough for his mouth to drop open absentmindedly, close enough for Dream to tap his cock against George's lolled out tongue twice with a lewd slap.

"What is it?" Dream prodded, sliding his thumb up George's chin to pull his bottom lip downward. "I need you to use your words."

"Just want—" George gasped when Dream's foot pressed against his cock, "—your cock."

"You have my cock," Dream taunted, pressing it between George's lips. "Just keep sucking, baby, I'll get you off after."

That seemed to spur George on, compelled him to shove all of Dream's cock down his throat in one go. Dream groaned in response, dug the tips of his fingers into the skin of George's jaw hard enough to leave a blossoming mark. And he let George have at him again, let him pick the speed—he chose fast—and how much he wanted to take—and he chose all of it. It was nearly the same as it had been before, only this time, George was in control.

Dream let his large hands frame George's pretty face, let the tan of his fingers sit stark in comparison to those blushing cheeks. A shade of pink that let his freckles show more clearly, let his arousal be visible even without Dream's foot pressed against his throbbing cock. And there was still a hand toying with the metal on his nipple, pulling on the barbell hard enough for George to mewl around Dream's cock.

He was getting close, close enough for his head to fall back against the seat and leave him looking down at George with a sliver of a gaze. The look he gave surged hot and carmine through George's veins, erred him to suck harder and faster as if he could pull the orgasm out of Dream.

Perhaps he could. Could moan around Dream's cock loud enough, could lift his hips up into the barely-there pressure from his foot, could tug on his own piercing hard enough to look pretty and garnet in his spot on his knees, pretty enough for Dream to pull his hair a little too hard and spill down his throat with a drawn-out moan.

George slid his mouth up to catch as much of Dream in his mouth as he could, let him spill over his lips and tongue and all of it. When George pulled his mouth away with finality, he rolled his tongue over stained lips with a coy look in his eyes. Let his entire face beam with sick red, his thumb rolling over his chin while the other hand still tugged at his piercing.

Dream groaned, pulled on George's hair as if beckoning him upward, pleased to find that George got the hint and began to climb into Dream's lap with his shaking knees. Dream caught him by the shoulders the moment he could, pulled him down and against his body the moment he could. Both of George's hands fell away from himself and caught on Dream's bare shoulders, red nails already dragging over the freckle-scattered skin with intent.

"You're good at that," Dream said quietly, one of his hands already moving to get George's cock out of his shorts.

"Yeah?" His voice was so beautifully spent. "Then we should do it again sometime."

Dream laughed, rolling his thumb over the head of George's cock. "We can talk about next time," he spit in the palm of his hand, "after I get you off."

George hummed in response, dropping his head against Dream's shoulder and pressing swollen lips against his neck. Dream focused all his attention on George's desperate cock, already dripping precum against his finger and looking painfully hard in his hand. He let his free hand catch on the piercing George had been toying with earlier, the metal already warm beneath his touch before he even laid a finger on it.

George mewled at the touch, arched his back and pressed his cock further into Dream's hand. Dream slid his hand down and back up again, kept the motion of his wrist quick and repeated and let his thumb pass over the head on the upstroke. He twisted the piercing between his fingers, savored the whines that fell right into his ear and the slickness of lips against the skin of his neck.

He'd already been right on the edge, so it didn't take much stimulation from either of Dream's hands for George to be spilling all over his palm. Coating the skin of his fingers sticky white, leaving Dream to tug his hand away but keeping the metal of George's piercing pressed tight between his fingers.

He lifted his hand up between them, George feeling compelled to lift his head up and find Dream's panting lips. Dream held his hand up to George's mouth, gave him a look that could only be described as dangerous, the entire situation telling George to do nothing but loll his tongue out and like Dream's hand clean.

Before he could swallow, Dream caught his lips in a kiss—laved his tongue across his lips and into his mouth to taste every last bit of George that had been left there. And he kept his fingers toying with that piercing, the feeling of it just enough to make George whimper pathetically into his mouth.

They pulled away with a slick string of spit caught between their lips, breaking within moments to fall against George's chin. He took a gasping breath and looked at Dream with an edge of scarlet, his eyes begging to know when there'd be more. Dream let his gaze fall to the checkered flags laid on the floor of his car for a moment, his eyes finding George again before he could be away for long.

"You coming to my next race?"

George nodded slowly, his eyes everywhere on Dream that he could see. He tried his best to smirk with slick lips, tried to look composed over his clearly fucked-out features and perhaps failing miserably.

"Only if you let me start again."

Dream looked toward the driver's side window. His still-running car and the setting sun left him with a clamoring thought: he was so fucking screwed.