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Dream is only looking. His eyes scan the web page before him, absorbed in the flurry of images, black, red, pink, leather and rope and all of them wrong.
Since the idea of a collar entered his mind he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it. Too nervous to bring it up with George, worried he'll be met with that careless laugh he sometimes emits that makes Dream feel hot all over with a frisson of shame. But he can't stop looking. Just looking.
The door creaks open behind him and Dream switches windows to his calendar with practiced ease. He discovered internet porn early, and got very good at hitting ALT+TAB at the mere sound of anyone near him. He's not jacking off, but if he had been he has ways of stopping that, too.
George approaches quietly, socked feet shuffling across the carpet, and Dream breathes slowly until George is close behind him, an arm resting on the back of his chair.
"Hey," he says.
"Mm, hey," Dream says.
There must be something in the tone of his voice because George curls fingers into the hair at the back of his head and gives a little tug. "What are you looking at?"
"Nothing," Dream says, shrugging, trying not to push his head back into the touch.
George pauses, scratches his nails against Dream's scalp, makes a noise that means he wants Dream's attention.
Dream, feeling obedient, turns in his chair to look. His hair is messy, probably from sleeping, he looks great,
"If you want something," George says, hand still fixed in Dream's hair, "Ask. I might be nice and give it to you."
He doesn't know how George can tell, how he knows that Dream is thinking of asking him for something. Years in the making, this kind of knowing each other, even before their dynamic was this.
"Uh," Dream stumbles, not quite ready to ask for this yet. It isn't just play, is it, there's a weird symbolism. "Yeah."
The thing is, it's not that he thinks George would say no. It's just that, maybe, even though George knows him as well as he does, he wouldn't understand what's driving this particular want. Not fully.
"Come to bed, puppy" George says, in that tone of voice that sends a shiver down Dream's spine.
Dream spares one last glance over his shoulder at his desktop, thinks about the collars and how none of them were what he was looking for anyway, and then gets up to do just as George says.
-
George is fucking him, slow. He's got Dream on his knees, cock buried inside of him, laying flat against his back with his mouth fixed to his shoulder. He shifts his hips, driving himself deeper, and Dream moans.
"You like that, pup?" George says, voice dripping with arousal. He likes it too, Dream can tell by the way he keeps grabbing at him, pushing them closer, chasing that feeling that only comes when they're moving together like this.
"I—" Dream tries, but like so many times before, he's rendered dumb. A stupid dog, made only for George's pleasure and nothing more.
"Yeah," George replies, as if Dream had spoken a full sentence.
His hand slides up over Dream's side then his shoulder blade, coming round to grip at Dream's throat. He pushes his mouth to Dream's ear and Dream feels dizzy with how hard he is, how good George's fingers pushing at his pulse points are.
"Do you think everyone knows?" George says, low and possessive. "Do they know I make you like this, that you're just a filthy mutt for me to do with what I want?"
There's glee in his voice, the same tone he gets when he's bested someone at a video game, but it's darker too, the kind of keen, sharp focus that he gets only for Dream.
George's thrusts speed up, and Dream's own hard cock rocks against the bed where he's pressed against it. His mouth falls slack, drool gathering, his mind spiralling away from him down to that warm fuzzy place he loves so much.
Only George can get him there, only the way he treats Dream like he is something worthless that makes him feel endlessly precious.
"Do they know you're going to come for me?" George continues.
Until that moment, it's like Dream hadn't noticed. He hadn't been aware of his breath gasping, the tightening coil of pleasure low in his stomach. But George knows, moves him closer by tightening his fingers and continuing to fuck him deep, speeding up a little as if he too is approaching his end.
"Ah," Dream pants, swallowing and feeling his adams apple move against George's palm. It feels so close to what he wants, reminiscent of how the collar would.
"Do they know you're mine?" George says.
And Dream tumbles over into the abyss, spilling over the blanket below them, throat straining against George's hand as the blood rushes in his ears. He's taken out of himself, barely registers the way George's hip snap, how even when Dream has stopped coming but is still floating somewhere high above himself, George comes too, emptying himself into Dream with a soft grunt, the pulse of his cock echoing the hard beat of Dream's heart.
When he comes back to himself, George is there beside him. The hand is gone from Dream's throat but he's petting at Dream's hair, cuddled in close, skin to skin.
"There he is," George says, smiling as Dream blinks back into awareness. "You doing good, pup?"
Dream nods. "Good," he says, hardly above a whisper because words are still hard.
"Up, then," George says.
George guides him into the shower, cleans him off, teases him when Dream is finally out of the cloud enough to respond. They strip the bed of the sheets but don't put new ones on, just shift upstairs to George's room to sleep instead, both of them tired and satiated, grinning loopily.
As they snuggle to sleep, George draped over Dream, limbs spread precisely where he wants them, taking up far more of the bed than is warranted by how much smaller he is, he presses his forehead to Dream's chest and says, "I meant it you know."
"What?" Dream asks, his mouth on the crown of George's head, hair still damp under his lips.
"That you're mine," George says. "You belong to me."
Dream can't answer, hearing the words spoken aloud steals his breath.
"Don't you?" George prompts.
"Yes," Dream says, hushed like a confession, though there's no need, both of them know it's true right down to their bones. "I'm yours."
He feels George's smile against his collarbone and tightens his arms around him. And then, there's nothing left to say.
-
A few days later, there's a box on the kitchen island. George is sat beside it, drinking a smoothie, swinging his feet.
"What's that?" Dream asks.
It's got weird dimensions, kind of flat and wide. George lays a hand on the top of it and Dream notices it's already been opened, the loose flap of it lifting.
"Come and see," George says.
He places his smoothie down, picks up the box, flat on his palms near his chest so that Dream has to stand in front of him to see. He's got that glint in his eye, mischievous. Dream's heart picks up in his chest and something in his stomach turns over.
He knows, really, before the maroon velvet box is lifted from the cardboard, before George unsnaps both clasps and waits for Dream to do the rest.
He can barely breathe as he does, lifting the heavy lid, tongue between his teeth.
Where he's expecting leather, there isn't any. Nestled in a ring moulded into felt the same colour as the box, sits a gold chain. The links are heavy, but not so thick that it's gaudy. It's delicate, in a way, but sturdy enough to show what it is.
The clasp is odd, not the usual lobster clip and ring, something smaller, not yet joined together.
"Is it—" Dream starts, his fingers hovering over the expectant gold links.
"Yours," George says. "I know you were looking at leather ones, but I wanted something you could wear all the time."
Dream closes his eyes for a second and sucks in a breath. God. The idea of that. Of the metal sitting warm around his throat, a constant reminder.
George takes the box out from under Dream's hands and lifts the chain from it. It drapes over his thin fingers, dazzling.
It feels brazen to be doing this right in the kitchen, at the heart of their home, where anyone might see. But maybe that's the point.
Do they know that you're mine?
Oh. Dream's eyes flick up to meet George's, the realisation suddenly dawning on him.
"You want them to know," he says.
"I want them to think they do," George says. "I want them to know but never be able to confirm it."
It's dark, his delight in it, in a secret that isn't really one. Like he's shouting about it but also making sure no one can ever know unless he wants them to.
This necklace, this collar, will be all the proof they'll ever need and yet they still won't be able to prove a thing.
"It doesn't come undone," George says. "Once it's on."
He runs his fingers over both ends of the clasp and Dream can see the notches where it locks in. If he puts this on, the only way he's getting it off is to break it.
Whatever thoughts he had about George not understanding why he wanted this, why he got dizzy at the thought of something around his neck put there by George, of being owned, are gone in an instant.
George more that understands. Dream had been thinking of a collar he could wear in scenes, that they'd bring out and put away whenever they played, but here George is with something permanent.
It's almost like— He daren't let him think of what it's comparable to.
"Put it on," Dream says, sounding breathless to his own ears.
George grins, clearly happy at how eager Dream is, and spreads his legs for Dream to walk between. His thighs wrap about Dream's hips, ankles twining behind him, caging Dream in.
He takes Dream's chin between his fingers, collar held in the other hand, and draws him close. He smashes their lips together, filthy and wet, all tongue and George's teeth gnawing at Dream's bottom lip. It's rough and it takes the air right out of Dream, helpless but to capitulate to the way that George takes his mouth and does with it as he pleases.
When he pulls away, thoroughly kissed, mouth bruised, his head starts to swim.
"There you are," George says. "Good boy."
Dream whimpers, and George raises the collar to him.
"Sit."
Dream blinks, the command not registering. It earns him George gripping his chin harder, fingers digging into bone.
"Didn't you hear me, mutt? I said sit."
It isn't cruel. George just knows this is the best way to get Dream all the way there, to bring him down and settle him right out at his feet.
He obeys, dropping to his knees and sitting back on his heels. They've never done this out in the open, and he looks over to the door, the stairs, just to check.
"Eyes on me," George says, hopping down from the counter to stand over him. "No one is coming. We're alone."
Dream looks up at him through his hair. It's long, he needs a haircut, but George loves to take a fistful and tug and so Dream has been putting it off.
It feels good to be here, folded at George's feet. It's his place, where he feels safe and happy, knowing that he is George's to do with as he pleases, knowing that he doesn't have to be anything other than good.
And he so wants to be good. To be owned.
"This means I own you," George says, bringing the collar down and looping it around Dream's neck.
The metal is cool from the box, but he can already feel it warming against him and George moves behind to reach the claps. It feels alien, the weight of it, but something pleasant radiates through him, starting at the points where the collar touches his skin but fizzes all the way through his veins, fingertip to fingertip, toe to toe.
He feels the flush on his face, a heat in his cheeks. George's fingers dance along his neck, tracing the outline of it as though revelling in the sight.
"I'm going to lock it now," he says. There's no edge to his voice this time, just naked want, something deeper, a little softer. He knows what this means, he feels the gravity of it just as Dream does.
Dream nods, and the click of metal on metal sounds in the silence. Dream shivers.
"Hmm," George hums when he's done, his fingers tracing the links, slipping underneath the chain, the backs of his fingers against Dream's nape, chain under his knuckles. He tugs, and it's unexpected enough to throw Dream off balance.
"Oh," Dream says.
"Yeah," George agrees.
The collar is sturdy enough that George can tug on it firmly, and he does it once more just to prove it.
"Interesting," George says, in a way that means his devious brain is working on something.
Dream sits still, does his best to be good even though the way George is pulling on the collar is making him tremble. He can already feel his cock thickening in his shorts, growing more urgent as George moves back in front of him.
"Poor puppy," George says, pushing his socked foot against Dream's hardening cock.
Dream hisses, a moan ripped from his throat. He loves George like this, loves him any way really but when he gets a little mean, commanding, putting Dream in his place, that's when Dream likes him best.
George's fingers reach once again for the collar and tugs.
Dream's mouth falls open, tongue lolling and George smirks.
"That's it," he says. "You know what I want, don't you?"
His hand skates up Dream's neck, over the collar, to scratch behind his ear. Dream presses into the touch. This is what he gets when he's good. He gets pet, gets George praising him, and he craves it like he does air.
He raises his own hand to bat at George's shorts, fingers tucked like he isn't that dexterous. This is part of it, the game they play, the roles they take up. Dream will paw at him and ask for things without words and George will sneer and call him a dumb dog and then pull his shorts down to reveal his stiff, reddened cock.
When he does, Dream's mouth waters saliva pooling on his outstretched tongue.
"Come on then, puppy, take your treat," George says, holding himself at the base with one hand and using the other to tug on Dream's collar until his mouth slides down around his cock.
The action makes Dream moan, being moved around by this new permanent future around his neck, being made to take George in his mouth, the salt-warm tang of it exploding on his palette. He swirls his tongue, sucking him down until George has to move his fingers out of his way, until the blunt head of George's cock is hitting the back of his throat.
"Good boy," George says, voice catching, and Dream preens.
It's easy to ignore his own arousal as he works George over, loving the minute thrusts of George's hips that he can't seem to control, the way his fingers have stayed curled around the collar, not pulling, not guiding, simply resting there like he enjoys the feels of it., but when George presses his foot forward again, pushing down on his aching length, Dream lets out a gurgled moan in the back of his throat and his hips buck automatically, trying to push toward the touch.
"Down," George says, pressing again until Dream's hips still. "Not yet. You'll get your turn."
With that promise instilled, Dream begins sucking in earnest, hollowing his cheeks, moving his tongue haphazardly along the thick vein on the underside. George lets him for a while, encouraging noises emanating from him, but after a few minutes he appears to have enough of letting Dream do what he wants. He likes to control it. He grips harder on the collar, tugging once and thrusting at the same time.
Dream splutters, only a little, and then quickly realises that what George wants is for him to let his jaw go slack, become a willing hole for him to fuck. As so he does, pillowing his tongue over his bottom teeth, suckling lightly as George's cock slips along the slick surface.
With the first real thrust into Dream's obedient, waiting mouth, George groans.
"So good," he says, moving his hips to set a pace he likes best. "Good boy."
And with praise like that all Dream needs to do is breathe through his nose, focus on the surge of arousal he feels at George using him, and try not to touch himself.
Without being aware of it, Dream has curled his hands into fists on his own thighs. 'Sitting pretty' George had once called it, liking it when Dream comes to heel, sits at his feet all compliant. A good dog.
George is quicker today, driven by more than just Dream's mouth, and Dream can tell the moment his climax starts to take him. His thighs stiffen, his cock growing impossibly harder, a flood of salty precome coating Dream's tongue.
George tugs on the collar again, this time to drag Dream off, and Dream is left gasping, open mouthed, a string of thin saliva still connecting him to George's cock.
"Wha-?" he slurs.
George smirks. "I said you'd get your turn. Just as soon as I get mine."
Dream is confused, achingly hard and pleased to hear he's going to get to come, but this isn't usually how it goes.
"Lay down," George says, leaving no doubt that it's another command, slender fingers pointing to the floor at his feet.
Dream leans forward, wondering whether George is going to fuck him, knowing he will have to suffer through the prep it will take to make that happen. He's not sure he's going to make it. The collar around his neck falls to swing forward as he does, making Dream whine out his frustration.
George takes it in his hand, a gentle pull on it as he says, "roll over."
Dream obeys, because what else can he do, but he's confused about where this is going. It isn't until George shuffles out of his shorts the rest of the way and then drops down to straddle him that he starts to understand.
"Here," George says, taking Dream's hands in his and manoeuvring it around to his hole. His already lubed hole, plugged with silicone, waiting.
"Hnn," Dream says, still incapable of real words, his brain too slow and mush, but he can't help the way his fingers prod, gently pushing on the plug just to see George's eyes rolls back.
"Take it out, puppy," George says. "Gonna put your cock in there, yeah?"
Dream scrabbles, tries to get a grip on it with fumbling fingers. When he does, he eases it from George's body with a whine, dropping it only to move his fingers back, to feel the flutter of George's hold around the tips of them.
"Uh uh," George admonishes, reaching for Dream's waistband and pulling out his cock. "This is what I want. Gonna fuck me, pup? Gonna make me come on that fat cock of yours?"
Dream gives an eager nod, too far gone on it, too stupid to make any more sense than that. He whimpers as George lifts himself up to align them and then cries out as he drops himself down, the wet suck of his hole engulfing him.
He's so warm here, so tight, and Dream's animal brain can only think of it like that, can only buck his hips up as George sinks down onto him.
"Patience, puppy," George says, reaching out to take the collar in his hand once more. It's become a touchstone, a tool to guide him, a way for George to direct him where he wants him to go, but also another point of connection that George keeps coming back to. "I gotta get used to you. So big, so good."
Dream is patient like George asks. He waits while George gets himself seated, feeling grateful that George planned this, hungry at the idea that George opened himself up and plugged himself knowing he was going to give Dream this gift. Dream will do whatever he wants, George is so good to him - how could he not?
When George is finally seated he lets out a throaty hum and rocks his hips. "Fuck," he says. "Yes, feels so good."
Dream nods, as if George was asking a question, even though he knows that he wasn't.
"Remember what I said," George says, knowing that Dream likes to know the rules. "You'll get your turn after I get mine. Don't come."
Dream almost panics, unsure if he can follow that command. George feels so good and he's already waited so long. But George doesn't give him any chance for rebuttal, simplys lifts himself up and drops back down, making them both cry out.
It's immediately obvious from the pace George sets once he starts, that he's seeking out his own pleasure, already climbing back to that high. And what delicious torture for Dream, to watch as George rides him, to grip his hands into George's hips as he moves up and down, a soft sheen of sweat clinging to him from the exertion, but know that he himself can't come until he's told.
He feels it start to build, that sensual pressure low in his belly. He tries to keep himself still, to stop as many of the bolts of pleasure coursing through him as he can, but it's useless against the onslaught of George's moving hips.
George is clearly almost there, but not quite. Dream makes a noise as George wraps a hand around his own cock and begins to fuck his own fist even as he continues to piston himself up and down Dream's length.
"Don't," George reminds him, brought on by the way Dream lifts his hips, tightens his grip on George enough that he must be leaving bruises.
Dream whines again, tosses his head back and forth. He wants to tell George that he can't, that he doesn't think he's going to be able to obey this time, but George reaches out the side of his palm meeting the skin of Dream's jaw, gripping tight.
"Don't come," George repeats. "Not until I say so."
Dream tries to nod, but it just comes out as further thrashing and so George moves his hand to the side of the collar and tugs, hard. The lack of breath from one side is enough to make Dream gasp, to fight for air, to slow down the rising pulse climbing his cock.
George is almost there, hips stuttering, grinding down on Dream in order to reach that spot inside of him that leaves his jaw slack, his eyes half-lidded.
Dream needs to come so badly it hurts. Every time George comes down on him he threatens to spill, sinking his fingernails further into George's flesh, surely leaving tiny crescents in their wake.
"Wait," George gasps, his eyes screwed shut, not needing to look to know that Dream will obey.
And he will. However hard it is, even as his heart races and his cock aches, he will wait until he's told. Until he's allowed.
And then George comes, spurting over his fist in hot, delicious pulses, catching Dream on the chest, the neck, probably the collar itself. He's marked, in every way he can be. As George's.
"Please," he whines, the first and only word he's able to manage and George grins, milking the last of his orgasm from the end of his cock with practised fingers.
He doesn't move away, still sat on Dream's cock circling his hips in torturous slow movements.
His hand is still clamped around the collar, still clinging on to the thing he owns. HE blinks down, eyes dark, cheeks red and his lips bitten.
"Okay puppy," he says, rumbling. "You can come now."
He's barely at the end of his sentence when Dream lets go, one short sharp movement of George's hips and he's coming, throbbing inside the tight, wet heat of George's body.
George rides him through it, though he must be tipping over into overstimulation by now. His face tugs into an expression that isn't discomfort, not really, edged with the sharp line of pleasure.
But Dream barely comprehends it. He feels far away, ascended out of his body as he rises high and topples over the edge. He's falling, tumbling, in a free fall with only George's hand on his collar to ground him.
"Hey," George is saying, far away, his hand on Dream's face now. Dream doesn't know how much time has passed.
"Mm?" he murmurs, reaching up to cover George's hand with his. He's cold, goosebumps rippling over his skin, naked from the waist down, shirt rucked up, laying on the kitchen floor.
"Are you with me?" George says, a hand pushing the hair back on Dream's forehead. He's still sitting atop Dream, leaning down into his space, but Dream can feel that he is no longer inside of him.
"Um," Dream tries. "Y'h?"
George laughs at him fondly, lips falling on his cheek, nose nose, the crest of his eyebrow. "Good, huh?"
Dream blinks, bringing George into focus. "So good."
George's smile is blinding, kissing back down his face, over his jaw, until his lips meet the chain around Dream's neck. He breathes hot, the metal warming. Dream's hands had fallen to the wayside but he picks them back up, places them on George's sweat damp skin.
"Sticky," he says.
"Yeah," George agrees. "Bath?"
George doesn't usually offer a bath. He'll shower with Dream, lovingly washing him down, but he rarely likes to sit around and bask in warm water the way Dream does.
"That would be nice," Dream says. He turns, nuzzling into George's temple.
"Not fully back?" George says.
Dream feels back in his body, but he also wants to languish in this feeling a little longer. Close, warm, kept. Cared for.
"Maybe not," Dream admits.
"That's okay," George says. "Come on puppy, bath time."
They get up from the floor, joints stiff and limbs cold, and make their way to Dream's en suite. It has the biggest bath, and his favourite products, and George even dribbles a bit of sweet smelling oil in as he runs the hot water.
He takes car of everything, stripping Dream down, a hand on his elbow and Dream steps over the rim of the bath and into the hot water. The collar stays on, because it always will now.
George slips in behind him, legs parted, pulling Dream back against his chest. His fingers immediately start to play with the chain, sliding along, curling underneath.
"I really wanted it," Dreams says.
George tugs once on the collar as a question and Dream nods.
"I know," George says, smugly. "I saw your search history."
Dream wants to pout, to say that it's unfair for George to cheat like that, but he also kind of likes it.
"I did too," George says, after a second. "Kind of a lot, actually."
Dream picks up George's hand from where it's resting against the collar and presses a kiss to the centre of his palm. He settles back into George's arms and sighs. George kisses the side of his head, puts his hand back on the collar where it will drift often over the next few months, years, the rest of their lives.
It cannot come off without being broken, it is linked, forever. Just like them.