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The numbers 6:02 AM blare from the poolside clock in all too bright red lighting. George finds himself sluggishly walking into the change rooms with his racing suit in hand, half-conscious as he squirms to stretch the tight material over his hips.
As he’s changing, he hears unfamiliar boisterous voices just outside.
“I’m gonna kick your ass in the 100 free today, Dream,” someone says, ducking into the changing room stall next to him.
He hears a smug voice call from his other side, “We’ll see about that, Sapnap.”
They’re clearly much more excited than he is, because as he creaks open the door to step outside, he finds himself sandwiched between two shirtless guys, freshly ready to warm up.
“Oh sorry,” George mumbles, moving to the sink to wash his hands—a nervous habit he’s developed ever since he’s started swimming.
He tries to keep his eyes off the mirror, but like an irresistible pull, he finds himself looking up, and meeting forest green curiosity.
“Are you part of the hosting team?” the dirty blonde asks.
God, his voice.
“Yeah.”
His brain unhelpfully freezes at how attractive this guy was. Not only does he have a voice that melts the tension from his bones like the hot spray of a showerhead, but he’s blessed with a tall lanky build, and even sharper defined lines that cut through the surface with unfair desirability.
It’s six in the morning, and George curses the world for bringing him such a beautiful man at the crack of dawn, where he feels gross, barefaced and sleepy.
“I’m Dream, and that’s Sapnap.” the man continues, gesturing to the raven haired male on his left. For all his earlier brazen taunts, his friend looks quite a lot more reserved now.
“George.” he supplies sheepishly, wiping his hands on the blue towel thrown over his shoulder.
“What events do you have today, George?”
George narrowly misses the urge to keen at the sound of his own name flowing from Dream’s tongue like spun honey sugar.
“50 breast, 100 IM, 200 free and 100 breast.”
“Damn. I’ve got 100 free, 100 IM, 50 back and 50 free.”
“Guess we’ll see each other at the 100 IM then.” George finally feels his confidence seep back into his brain, tinting his words with a delicious bite of competitiveness.
“Guess so.”
The huskiness of Dream’s voice is followed by a step forward, and he towers over George with impressive height. Sapnap—he’s only now noticed—has started to wander back out to the pool deck.
Although the space between them has been reduced, it still feels impossibly large. Every inch of distance is hazardously sparked with something lethal, something volatile: succulent, sinister sexual tension.
George knows he’s spent a solid 5 minutes pulling on his race suit, but right now, he wants nothing more than for Dream to tear them right off. Dream, looking him up and down with a voracious gaze, must be thinking the same thing.
George parts his blush pink lips ever so slightly just as Dream runs his tongue over his own, however they’re harshly awoken by a group of young teenage boys laughing to themselves as they get ready.
With their spell broken, George stumbles back towards the sink, fumbling his bag’s zippers.
“Good luck today.” Dream winks, offering a glimpse of pearly whites, before ducking out to join his teammates.
First, George would beat Dream in the 100m individual medley. Then, he would get Dream to fuck the brains out of him.
***
His breaststroke race goes swimmingly. He manages to shave off a second from his personal best and finish second overall—one spot above his friend Karl Jacobs.
“Just get good, Karl.” he teases the brunette, who in return slaps him with his latex swim cap.
“Shut up,” Karl giggles, “I hate you so much.”
The two of them continue making friendly banter, before they arrive to stand by the coach’s tables.
To the left, is a massive digital scoreboard outlining the event, heat number, and the swimmers in each lane.
Dream and Sapnap are lanes 4 and 5, with the two fastest seed times of the event.
“He’s handsome,” Karl blinks, squinting his eyes to get a better look.
“He is.” George grumbles begrudgingly. He was so taken by Dream’s stupid cocky smirk, that he didn’t even notice Karl was looking at Sapnap instead.
Across the liters of azure pool water, Dream was standing behind the blocks, securely pressing his reflective goggles to his face. George notices he has quite a peculiar swim cap: it was a yellowish green, and had some sort of white blob figure on either side.
Still, it didn’t take away from the hunger that pierces George’s stomach as Dream begins to stretch his arms and slap his quadriceps. Even over the background roar of the crowd’s cheering and the coaches’ whistles, he can just imagine the inviting sting of Dream’s hands, and the delicious resounding noise that would echo. The throbbing pain would settle into a lustful buzz, and how he’d beg Dream to do it again, harder.
“Looks like they’re up to race now.”
Karl’s bright, ebullient voice put an ice cold stop to his blazing sinful desires. He tears himself from the unfolding fantasy, and watches as Dream and Sapnap step up to the blocks and resume position.
“Swimmers take your marks.”
As they lean forwards, their muscles strain under the pent up energy, showcasing slopes of their legs. They are compressed like springs: getting ready to explode off the blocks and into the water.
A computer’s beep rings out, and within half a second the two are gliding through the water, pulsing their bodies with a series of harsh dolphin kicks to the surface.
Sapnap, quite a bit shorter than Dream, breaks out first, cutting his arms through the rippling movement of the waves. Dream comes up to join him soon after, around the 15m requirement, and mimics Sapnap’s efficient strokes.
By the first 50m, they’ve already put some distance between themselves and the other competitors. However, on the third length of the lap, Dream threatens to pull away from Sapnap—who narrowly manages to hold on.
With only 25m to go, the two of them are viciously moving their arms and furiously kicking, daring to edge out the other.
George doesn’t even realize he’s yelling until he recognizes Karl’s voice joining in.
They slam their hands on the wall’s neon yellow touch pads.
Dream wins, by .28 of a second.
His victorious face is beautiful, George thinks. It is pure sunshine peeking through the clouds of water and chlorine. It’s glistening pride, mixed with some arrogance, all buffed with an attractive sheen.
George can only imagine what his orgasm face looks like.
Still best friends, the two bro hug and then move to dry off with their towels. After collecting their clothes, they saunter back towards the coaches table—conveniently only a few feet away from where George and Karl are residing.
Dream catches George’s lingering stare, and his smirk deepens.
I won. Did you see? His eyes seemed to say.
George opens his mouth to say something—anything really, to wipe that smug look off his handsome features.
But then, he winks right at George. The sass dies in his mouth.
George has to keep from both fuming and getting horribly aroused.
***
Flash forward to the 100IM race. George had gone through the race plan in his head several times, and done adequate activation to loosen his joints and ready his muscles.
“Good luck, Georgie.” Dream calls from next to him, adjusting the wedge on the diving block.
George—refusing to glance over, refusing to be taunted—simply nods and pushes the goggles further into his face.
“Swimmers take your marks.” Beep!
His dive feels good. He jumps out as far as he can manage, and feels the soothing coldness of the pool water shock him with adrenaline. But Dream is better at butterfly; out of his periphery, he can see Dream’s torso begin to pull away.
He’s able to make up some lost ground in the backstroke, but Dream still turns ahead of him. However, the good news is that George is an excellent breastroker.
With every slicing stroke, he pulls himself closer and closer to Dream, until he can no longer see him in the corner of his foggy goggles.
The freestyle is a blind dash. He doesn’t know where Dream is or if he’s ahead of him, all he knows is that he kicks with every last ounce of energy he can possibly summon, and drives his hand into the touchpad.
Frustratingly, Dream wins.
The raw, stinging bite of loss boils in his blood, next to something darker, something more sinister, until George feels like he’s about to explode—either into a fit of anger or something else entirely.
Dream, the son of a bitch, looks as positively radiant as ever coming off of his victory.
“Good race. I really thought you were going to catch me at the end there.” Dream says good-naturedly, standing next to George as he dries off. George can’t help but notice the water droplets falling from his hair, sliding down his toned chest, disappearing into V-line—
“I’m glad to cut your massive ego down just a little.” he bites back, trying to defuse the tumultuous emotions rolling off of him. To emphasize his point, George playfully flickers his eyes downwards, before meeting Dream’s stare with a sweet, innocent smile.
Much to George’s chagrin, Dream doesn’t seem at all fazed by his advances. If anything, he takes George’s unwavering confidence, and he stares at him with pupils darkened with hungry desire. He wanted to ferociously devour George right then and there, tear into his paper skin and deliver the most exquisite type of submission. And George? Well, he was keening at the mere thought of Dream’s wet skin against his—the moisture-laden friction between their bodies.
The two blink at each other once more, before the thin string of sexual tension snaps.
As the rest of the pool begins to break for lunch, Dream snatches onto George’s wrist.
“Come with me,” he growls, low and daunting.
“What—”
As George is helplessly pulled along through the throngs of people, he can’t keep his eyes from lowering to Dream’s ass. The racing suit accentuated it well, hugging tight to his sun-kissed skin.
Abruptly, he is pulled into an empty bathroom stall tucked away in the corner of the changing rooms.
“Dream?”
The man in question, defined arms crossed over his chest, simply stares at George, piercing him with an intense mossy green gaze for several long moments. It trails over his pastel peach nipples, his slender ivory waist and his milky white thighs.
“I will say, you’ve got a very erotic body.”
Heat rises immediately to the tips of his ears. “Shut up.”
“What? You’re not going to return the compliment?” He leans in close, droplets of water falling from his blonde mop, “I saw you staring at my ass, you know.”
Suddenly everything feels humid—like the condensed water on his skin is evaporating around him, hazing his mind with pit-less arousal. George can’t tell if he’s breathing too hard or not at all.
Dream stands before him, 6’2 of wet lean muscle, and a wolfish grin plastered on his face.
He whispers right into his ear, “You know, if you get hard right now, it’ll show really nicely in your race suit.”
George hates how he can feel the blood rushing down, making his cock twitch as if in command. The lack of control makes him feel meek and powerless, and he finds himself instinctually pushing back against the relentless teasing.
“Did you bring me in here just to chit chat, Dream?” George provokes with a raised brow.
Olive eyes meet mocha defiance in a clash of wills.
And then, finally, Dream surges forwards and presses his lips aggressively to his own. He tastes faintly of chlorine; George blames the chemical for how unholy gasps and mewls of pleasure immediately bubble out of his throat.
It’s just as furious as their race: a competitive slurry of tongues and lips in a fitful battle for dominance.
Pretty soon George is slammed against the back of the wall, covered by a bigger body wrapped around his own. George snakes his hands up to his damp locks of gold and curls his fingers into the fringe, tugging harshly.
Dream groans into his mouth and grinds his quickly hardening cock against George’s fleshed out erection. George smirks at the reaction.
“God, you’re sexy,” Dream pants, as he works his lips down the alabaster skin of his throat, kissing and licking hard enough to drive George insane, yet not hard enough to leave any marks.
They still had to swim two events each after all.
The thought dawns on George as Dream nips his way back up his neck, causing him to have an abrupt epiphany in the midst of a stream of sultry kisses.
“Dream,” he tries for the first time, pulling away as Dream tries to capture his lips.
Dream, however, does not stop and instead plants a searing, playful kiss on his own.
“Dream—” he tries once more, seeing a small string of saliva connecting them, “Mmph!”
George finds the protests die in his mouth, as he’s swept along by Dream’s eager lips pressing harshly, desperately, ravenously against his own. Minutes fly by as he feels his tongue swipe across the bottom of his lip, seeking permission once more, and George gladly grants it.
Soft moans radiate out of the tight little space, and Dream smirks against his swollen lips with an air of sexy arrogance.
“Dream,” he pants in between kisses.
God, Dream’s name was all he could mumble apparently.
“Lunch is probably almost over—”
He can hardly get the words out, especially with Dream’s teeth digging into his bottom lip.
“Well when lunch ends, how are we going to deal with these?” He gestures down towards the very visible erections poking through their racing suits.
There’s a momentary lapse of silence as the pair ponder their options, and then Dream smiles with the terrifying air of a man with an idea.
“You wanna let me use your throat, baby?”
The pet name positively melts the last of George’s rationale, and he finds himself keening for praise as frees his weeping cock from the constraints of his tight racing suit, before lowering to his knees.
He reaches forwards to do the same to Dream, and evidently, he is in no better situation than George: it’s an angry shade of red, in addition to the leaking precum building at the head.
George delicately opens his mouth to kitten lick at the underside, peering up momentarily at Dream under his lashes. He can only imagine how sinful it looks, as he feels Dream’s dick twitch and throb in his hands.
Though his knees dig into the hardness of the tile below, Dream’s dick fills up the entirety of his mouth as he hollows out his cheeks. He moves back and forth to try and take as much of it as he can.
“Fuck George,” Dream moans lowly, hand resting on the back of George’s head. It pushes forward slightly, and George suppresses a gag as Dream hits the back of his throat.
He gradually builds up speed, until he’s standing with fistfuls of George’s damp curls, fucking the back of his throat like a man sprinting to the finish line of ecstasy.
George decides it’s what he deserves for losing—to be shamefully hard without any attention to his own erection, to be taking the winner down his throat, to have pretty tears stroke down the sides of his supple porcelain cheeks.
It’s humiliating in the best ways. In his mind, he’s the one relenting, forfeiting, bowing down to the winner. And now he swims in the debauchery of their competition; he reaches down to furiously stroke his own dick as soon as Dream groans that he’s close, and the two of them finish in tandem—a sick metaphor to their 100 IM race from before.
Distantly, they can make out the announcer call for the timers to take their seats by the pool. George peers at Dream, cocoa doe eyes admiring the flushed Adonis before him, and swallows.
Dream curses.
The two of them yearn to continue, however they’re tragically torn apart by the lively chatter of competitors on the pool deck.
The first friendly face he sees is Karl Jacobs, adorning his swim cap and getting ready for his next event.
“Hey George, I didn’t see you at lunch. Did you eat?”
“I ate… something yeah.”
Dream, passing by to the bleachers next to them, snorts as he hears George’s ambiguous response. George fixes him the dirtiest glare he could manage.
“Let's warm up.”
***
Dream is everywhere for the latter half of the competition. He watches George win both the 200 free and the 100 breast and listens in on Karl’s congratulatory remarks, all while blatantly eye-fucking him every free second he gets. He’s tantalizingly close—just close enough for George to feel the stirring weight of an unshifting verdant gaze.
So as soon as the competition is over—the very moment the last dive takes place—Dream and George are gravitating towards one another.
They collide by the medal podium, waiting for their names to be called for gold and silver in the men’s eighteen and over category.
They’re seated more at the back, away from the throngs of energetic kids and fatigued parents, tucked out of the public's eye. Dream’s fingers brush over his knuckles, before their fingers are seamlessly interlaced.
Suddenly, George is tugged into Dream’s clothed chest, brushing over the firm muscle underneath his white t-shirt. Dream’s fingers curiously trail down to his thighs, and breach up underneath his basketball shorts. Under the lingering warmth his touch leaves in its wake, George fidgets as his swimsuit reaches an uncomfortable itchiness in between wet and dry.
Lust oozes out of every pore in their body, creating a mini cocoon of bursting sexual tension.
“Fuck this. If I have to wait another minute for this damn medal, I’m going to take you right here, right now.”
Although Dream’s words have no real malice, George flushes anyways at the explicit tone of his voice. Fortunately (or rather unfortunately), they get called up to pick up their medals thirty seconds after Dream’s empty threat.
Turns out, Sapnap had won bronze. The three of them exchange teasing remarks as they shake hands with the presenter, and stand on the podium for the pictures.
“You guys are going to the dinner at Olive Garden right?” Sapnap asks as they step off their platforms.
Dream and George, who have only met today, instinctually catch each other’s gaze before confirming with Sapnap.
“Nice. I’ll see you guys there.”
Clearly, Sapnap had already showered and changed into a nice, comfortable hoodie, so George was hit with another wave of antsy.
“Yeah, see you.” Dream smiles, clapping his friend on the back.
As soon as Sapnap turns around, he and Dream run off to the showers like two giggling teenagers, their medals clinking against their chests.
Thankfully, the showers have pretty much cleared out. They both squeeze into the largest possible shower stall, fit with a somewhat sturdy door and a creaky fold out shelf at the back.
It’s not very discreet to be honest, if someone checked the gap underneath the bottom of the door and the floor, they would see two pairs of feet in a compromising position. However, the possibility of getting caught sends thrilling chills down his spine.
Still, just to be sure, Dream immediately turns on the shower head; the flow of hot water enwraps them in a divine haze of condensation, but also provides some essential white noise for what they were about to do.
Hastily, they both strip and pile their clothes half-hazardly on the shelf chair.
It hasn’t been all that long since George had seen Dream’s naked chest, but he takes a minute to appreciate the way he stands under the shower spray, masked with halos of steam, moist droplets of condensation running off his pectorales.
Dream, on the other hand, had had enough looking.
Grabbing his waist with his large hand, he smashes their lips together in a sinfully aggressive lip lock. George is hit with a symphony of contact: the sweetness of an aroused kiss, the possessiveness of his grip, and the delicious rubbing of their lower regions, quickly making them hard.
“Dream, Dream.” George breaths, feeling hands moving up to his nipples as greedy lips bite down the incline of his porcelain throat. Dexterous fingers pinch, and squeeze, and twist with such belligerence it has George mewling from unquenchable pleasure. Dream rolls his hips into George’s as he continues his precise assault.
Desperate, echoing moans spill from pretty pink lips as Dream takes the blush bud in his teeth, teasing it between his teeth and sucking playfully. His nipples throb and swell once they’re released, yet it’s a whole other sensation when Dream suddenly turns George around to face the shower head, and his abused buds meet the burn of hot shower spray. He mewls in a strange sensation of pain and pleasure.
“You’re quite sensitive here,” Dream comments as he brushes over his chest once more.
Groaning, George slaps his hands away and juts his hips out—offering some semblance of bait to take his attention away.
Luckily, Dream takes it and runs his hands over his ass.
“Of course, you’re pretty back here as well.”
Quickly, Dream retrieves something from the pocket of his black basketball shorts: a small bottle of oil-based lube. Craning his neck behind him, George watches as he uncaps the bottle and pours some on his long fingers, slicking them up.
“Where did you even get that?” George asks, incredulous.
“I ran out to get it during relays,” Dream dismisses, “Now turn back around.”
Wordlessly, George obeys.
Even through the rushing water flow, his voice is husky and undeniably arousing—thrilling in the sense of anticipation, same as the adrenaline before a big race. George braces his hands on the wall and instinctually gasps when a teasing index finger circles around his hole.
“Ngh,” he moans, as Dream’s finger enters him. It’s thicker and longer than his own obviously, and the result is the feeling of a foreign object reaching deeper than he’s ever reached. Flinching and fidgeting, Dream places a commanding hand on his sharp hipbone to steady him while he curls and uncurls his finger.
It feels like victory.
After a few moments, George relaxes a bit more and in response, Dream adds another finger. This time it’s a scissoring motion.
Saccharine moans float out of George, giving the illusion that he’s floating on clouds, amidst the vapours of heavenly pleasure. George involuntarily arches his back further, pressing up against the ceramic tiles lining the walls, his pale fingers threatening to slide down the wall of wet stone. He flinches when Dream brushes just past his prostate the first time, however, he cries out when Dream misses it again on purpose.
Moments pass by without much notice, as each second was painfully pleasurable, and Dream was soon absolutely transfixed at the way his fingers disappeared in and out of George, pushing past his softened rim with little to no resistance.
“Your ass is sucking my fingers in, George.” He sounds in awe.
Despite the steam already creating a humid atmosphere around him, George flushes a deep pink at such provocative words. Dream’s fingers then brush over that special spot, and George finds his stomach clenching immediately.
“Dream, Dream stop. I’m going to—” he desperately pleads, not wanting to cum from only Dream’s digits. Still, ever the persistent bastard, Dream carries on, even increasing the speed slightly causing George to cry out in tortuous glee.
He’s been long stretched out by now. Four long fingers enter him underneath the showerhead, drumming against his bundle of nerves with a cruelly fast speed.
No matter how George begged or cried, Dream was unresponsive. He was irrevocably lost in the clouds of condensation and lust, of moaning brunets and steamy showers, of blistering hot dominance and absolute submission.
“Dream!” George cries, attempting yet again to pull his hips away from Dream despite the nerves in his body screaming for him to get more pleasure—more stimulation.
He manages to sneak a quick glance back at the blonde behind him. Darkened mossy green eyes don a hazy tinge, and a slick tongue runs over parted lips. In short, he was gone.
And so George did the only thing he knew how to do when faced with an immovable challenge: he instigated competition.
“C’mon Dream, you’re a champion, aren’t you?”
Dream finally paused his ministrations long enough to pull his unfocused pupils to scan George’s face. His eyebrows furrowed slightly downwards at hearing his prideful title challenged.
George grabs his asscheeks and pulls them apart, displaying his fluttering pink hole, that had been so thoroughly fingered.
“Then fuck me like one.”
Dream makes a noise deeper than anything he’s ever heard: something almost a growl, almost a battle cry, almost a snarl. Another squeeze of lube, and within seconds, the blunt head of a cock is pressed against his hole.
Even without the lubricant, George is not only dripping wet from the copious amounts of precum from Dream, but also moistened from the shower water. In short, he’s ready. And it’s proven when Dream’s dick slips in easily enough with one harsh thrust.
“Oh God,” George cries out, ducking his head down. Crystalline water droplets run down his pale legs.
“Fuck,” Dream groans at the same time, “You’re still so tight.”
Lovingly, Dream massages his shoulders in order to help ease the shock coursing through every ounce of his muscle. Merciful hands gently rub circles into his back, pressing water into his alabaster skin. Still, it takes a solid minute before the large intrusion doesn’t feel like it’s going to split him apart or pierce through his stomach.
“Ready, baby?”
“Y-yes.”
Experimentally, Dream rolls his hips once, grinding his erection deep against George’s hot walls. A duet of erotic groans fill the tiled stall, accompanying the artificial rainfall.
Dream moves again, this time a little faster and a little harsher, and it feels illegal. Pretty soon Dream is pounding George with reckless abandon, and George feels his consciousness slipping into the wet heat of being fucked against the shower walls.
“You like that George? You like me taking you in the shower?”
“N-ngh! Argh, yes.”
The teasing makes him clench even harder against Dream’s cock.
Everything feels too hot, too sweltering, and it feels like George’s skin is going to melt clean off of his skeleton.
Dream seems to notice his slight discomfort and directs him away from the shower spray, so he’s now facing the creaking stall door that moves with every tyrannical plunge.
Bubble gum sweet moans and mewls escape from George’s parted lips, and it’s ten times as hot when it is echoed back into his ears; he can hear himself—the seductive outcries of pleasure, the shredded dignity of how absolutely slutty he sounds.
Each of Dream’s grunts and groans settle into the weight of his abdomen as well, spilling into the overfilling opportunity for orgasm.
Then George straightens his back so he’s almost pressed against the heat of Dream’s chest, and wraps his arms around his neck. Parading his delicate fingers through the wet hair of his nape, he turns his head slightly against a sharp jawline and whispers the fated words of chaos: “Harder, Dream. Fuck me harder.”
Dream’s arms snake around to the front of his hips with unyielding pressure, and he goes ballistic. He pistons his hips with every balled up ounce of his incessant competitiveness and unabated drive, racing, running, rampaging towards the finish line that is pure ecstasy. Stinging, resounding slaps of skin meeting skin reverberate and intensify around them—almost as if they’re on a stage of their own making a spectacle of imploded animalistic tensions.
And it’s all framed under the shimmering silver lining of shower spray, where divine clouds rain down on them like the personal gift of arousal and passion.
George feels salty tears track down his supple cheeks, falling into his frozen open mouth. He can barely register Dream’s panting right into his ear, and the light nibbles on his ear lobes.
All of the sudden a merry, sunshine voice shatters everything.
“Hey George? Sapnap is giving me a ride to dinner, are you going to be able to get there okay?”
George immediately releases his arms from Dream’s neck and leans forwards against the stall door, straining to make out Karl’s words under the shushing of the showerhead. Beneath the temperate humidity, with Dream’s cock buried deep within him, George scrambles to give a coherent response.
“Y-yeah!” he shouts, muffling another moan that threatened to seep out as Dream delivers another harsh thrust, snapping his hip bones into the flesh of George’s ass.
“Are you sure? We can wait to drive you, if you’d like?”
George places a hand on Dream’s hip, to try and still his rutting hips for two freaking seconds, and luckily Dream seems to get the message.
Until George goes to answer.
“No—oooh!” His response is cut off by a beautiful elongated moan, and George can feel his heart racing against his chest.
Dream tilts his hips just slightly and absolutely destroys George’s prostate—while his best friend stands two feet away from the whole ordeal.
“Fuck,” he mumbles lowly, lost in the sea of euphoric attacks on his backside.
“George? Are you okay?”
Karl’s concern shocks George like ice water.
He goes to open his mouth to answer, but it immediately shuts to gate keep the groan as Dream digs his fingers savagely into his hip bones, thrusting deep into his stomach. The intensity of the forceful thrust drives him forwards into the shower door wall, even closer to where Karl stands.
“What was that?”
George stands, palms splayed out on the smooth surface of a shower door wall, getting positively wrecked by the gold medal winner. With his back arched, he focuses all his attention on biting his lip, biting his tongue, anything to keep in his whorish moans.
“George, you have to answer your friend,” Dream whispers into his ear, smiling, “Though I know you’re enjoying this.”
Shamefully, it’s true; George can feel himself tightening around Dream’s cock with every passing movement.
“George?” Karl’s voice sounds really worried now so George hurries out a response.
“S-sorry, I ugh,” his cry bubbles over into his words, “I got some soap in my eye.”
George withstands two more deep thrusts, before continuing, “Y-you guys can just go on ahead without me!”
Karl’s response is immediate. “You’re 100% sure?”
Dream’s left arm comes to hook around George’s stomach, and before he knows it he’s being pulled flush against Dream’s chest again. As he’s standing more upright, Dream’s massive cock reaches deeper, higher into him, and George cries out in ecstasy.
“YES!” The answer is mostly a moan, but thankfully Karl seems to take it as a groan of frustration instead.
“Alright, see you there!” Karl leaves shower stall, and George feels the tenseness leave his body as relief floods over him. It’s mixed with the hints of shame, though drowned out by the euphoric highs emanating from everywhere.
“Are you insane?” He aggressively whispers to Dream behind him, “You could have gotten us caugh—Ahh!”
A pornographic wail leaves his lips as Dream resumes a relentless pace.
“I thought you would have wanted that, you little slut,” Dream growls.
Even the rushing of warm water is barely enough to overwrite the noises emanating from the pair. The repeated pounding of Dream’s hips meeting the flesh of George’s ass would surely leave bruises or marks of some sort.
“I ngh, would not have!”
“Oh yeah?”
Dream pauses, maybe out of mercy or maybe for dramatic effect, and pulls out, leaving George to whine at the emptiness. Yet before George knows it, he’s being turned around to meet the sculpted edges of the blonde’s face. And then he lets out a high-pitched yelp as his legs are scooped up under Dream’s forearms, and he scrambles to lock both his arms and legs around the tall blonde for security.
The two of them are sparkling, glistening under the droplets of perspiration and shower dew. They lock eyes: darkened jade meeting swirling mocha, and binds of self control and pent up sexual tension snap.
Dream supports George’s weight with one hand, and uses the other to guide himself to George’s eager hole. He shoves in with one foul movement, and both of them let out a collective sigh: one from feeling stuffed full to the brim, and the other from being encased by hot walls squeezing around his dick.
Dream, the ultimate winner, dominates George again and again.
From this new position, George finds Dream at an angle that’s perfectly hitting his prostate with rough, yet increasingly accurate precision.
“Right there, Dream, right there!” George cries, snapping his head back. Ever the opportunist, Dream then drags his sharp teeth up the delicate skin around his throat, writing his claim all over his neck.
His aching cock rubs up against the bumps of Dream’s abdominal muscles, feeding crumbs of tantalizing friction to his front side. Meanwhile, Dream’s hands have gravitated towards his ass cheeks, pulling apart George at the seams as his balls slap against George’s bottom.
Silver had never felt so sinfully delightful.
Dream was enraptured by the way he could manipulate George’s facial expression, twisting pleasure and bliss all over the alabaster stretches of skin. He felt drunk with power—a feeling somehow more elated than the satisfaction of triumph. That being said, Dream never passed on a chance to boast and tease.
“George.” Dream commanded.
“Ahh, what? Dream—AHH!” As sharp nails drag down Dream’s shoulder blades, George felt the telltale signs of an orgasm approaching.
Dream smirked.
“Who won today, hmm? Who?”
“Y-you.” George was almost sobbing as he felt knots in his lower stomach twist and tighten.
“Pardon?” Dream thrusts again.
“YOU!”
Dream is livid with syrupy praise and flushed affirmation, and George briefly catches the muscles in his arms and neck tensing.
“That’s right, baby. I won today,” he grins, voice deep and husky with confidence. Had George not been pierced by his giant cock, he would have punched him. But right now, to cross the finish line, he indulges Dream.
“You won. Y-you beat me.”
“I,” Dream grunts as he messily pounds into George, “I won today. Don’t forget that.”
“A champion!” George brokenly pipes in.
“A champion.” Dream agrees. George had thought he had already reached his max speed, but he doubles it and sends George to the heavens above.
“Dream, Dream, I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum!”
“Together, George.” Dream’s thrusts get messier and messier, and soon it all unfolds. With a gorgeously loud outcry from a brunet and a blonde’s equally as loud moan, they collide in an explosion of ecstasy. George arches his back as white paints the front of Dream’s stomach and chest, and Dream spills into him, coating his insides in his seed.
The pair take a couple of huffing breaths in that interconnected position, before Dream delicately tries to pull out and set George back on the ground. Overstimulated whines leave his lips, but Dream is quick to sooth him with loving kisses and comforting rubs.
Still, as soon as his feet touch the hardness of the tiled floor beneath him, his legs give out. Of course, he’s caught by Dream, and adequately propped up as the shower water runs pasty white with their fluids.
At the end of it all, George thinks the fatigue weighs on him more than any training he’s ever done for swimming, and some perverted part of him thinks that maybe this could be a regular regime for him to work on his stamina and flexibility.
“My back friggin hurts, you oaf.” George grumbles as he attempts to stretch his arms over his head.
“Hey, think of it like training for your backstroke starts.” Dream’s smirking, and George goes right back to wanting to slap his smug, victorious smile clean off his face.
All of George’s rants and grumbles are drowned out as Dream gently runs soap over his spent body, cleaning and massaging the sore muscles of his shoulders and back. He also reaches two fingers into his ass (which earns him a sensitive slap from George) to clean out the rest of his cum.
It’s nice to be cared for, George decides. The shower is finally being used for its intended use, and George feels the tensions melt from his muscles as he’s pampered and cleaned under warm running water. Still, George now knows just how much of an absolute beast Dream is—both in the pool and in other activities.
With shampoo suds in his hair and soap nearing his eyes, George turns to face Dream and plants a quick, sugar sweet kiss on his lips. The two of them take their time washing one another, with feathery light giggles floating above and out of the stall, singing notes of contentment and citrus scented closeness.
Bonus:
Dream and George show up at Olive Garden together, hand in hand. They quickly find Sapnap waving them over to a big table and take their seats. Waters are ordered and passed around.
While Dream and Sapnap are conversing, Karl turns to George with an absolute shit eating grin.
“You sly dog George, you sly dog.”
George, who is mid-sip, chokes on his ice water.
Amidst his uncontrollably coughing and Dream’s affectionate rubs on his back, he fixes Karl the absolute dirtiest glare he can manage.
Karl giggles manically, but the message is clear: he knew exactly what went down between Dream and George in the showers, and he was never going to let him live it down.
George finds he doesn’t much care as he sits later that evening with a belly full of delicious pasta and head resting on the sturdy shoulder of the blonde athlete.
Life was pretty fucking good.