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Dream was an emperor unlike any other. He’d chosen his own name; genderless and free from societal constraints just like Gods were. He was a God amongst their people, and George withered beneath his presence.
George wasn’t an emperor, or even a male concubine. George sold cotton, a fabric not often found in the heart of Rome, where people adjusted to warm weather preferred linens and silk. He’d sold cotton along the coast of England, below white cliffs and ahead of a rushing ocean. His people were nomads, and when Dream had settled his ships across their waters, their lives changed.
The emperor had built roads and houses, erecting bricked buildings and permanent shops. Some liked it and others loathed it, but they didn’t have the tools to stop him. So, they became servants to the Romans, serving them pastries in the afternoons and cleaning their fingertips between meals. George had stopped weaving warm fabrics and had started cutting up honey-glazed ham for the Romans by the British seaside.
George had been stood in the kitchen for far too long, grasping at the platter in his hands and bracing himself for the path to come. He was sent to feed the emperor’s concubines, holding a silver plate, cleaner than any mirror he’d ever looked at. The metal in his shaking hands had been topped with dates stuffed with nuts, rolled in salt, and baked in honey. It was their final course. The ebauches opened two tall doors open for him, guiding the clothed man into a room he was sure he didn’t belong in.
He felt out of place entirely, and it was only going to get worse. He glanced around the room, unsure of where to look. They were all so beautiful. They lay across long sofas, chatting across to one another with smooth, hanging stomachs. The soft skin of their abdomen was clear white, olive and brown that shook with light laughter and polite conversation. The only marks across them had clearly been made by the emperor’s hungry teeth. Long thighs lay flat against purple fabric, spreading smooth flesh against the velvet that they lay across, legs crossed at the ankles.
A woman with dark skin walked over to him, thick calves strong and dark chestnut hair as soft as silk as it had trailed down her muscular back between sharp shoulder blades. She wore a long silk robe in violet and sapphire. It was embroidered with golden stars and waves of amber threads. She pulled it in around her middle, letting loose fabric hang around her thighs.
“Are you lost, servi?” Her voice was smooth like the baked honey in front of his face, and he swears if she had spoken louder, he could have tasted it.
“I’m so sorry,” He bowed his head, unsure of what he was supposed to be doing, just knowing that the lady in front of him was an angel. An apology felt fitting. “I’m supposed to be feeding you, I was simply unsure of where to start, my lady.”
Her laughter was soft like the silk of her robe and it attempted to comfort his nerves.
“No need to be so nervous, boy.” She reached out for a date, the sticky syrup being held between her thumb and index finger. “Just walk around, they’ll take what they want from you.”
And they did. They laughed with him whilst letting him clean their hands in warm lemon water after they had eaten. They shared stories with him, exciting tales of their time in Dream’s old palace in Rome and their enthralling journey to his country. Their space was beautiful. Even when the platter had been cleared, they stayed entranced in conversation.
They were beautiful, hair pulled up in golden threads like sunlight rising on a summer’s morning. Similar chains wrapped around their waists and thighs, clinging to warm skin, letting flesh hang out of either side. Some had smooth fabric lay across their chests, thinly spun linens for slight modesty in their chambers. But it had to come to an end.
The doors opened, slow gentle pushes from the guards let out low creaks as a heavy presence entered. Dream. He was tired looking with a strong smell of sweat and musk from his time training on the grounds. A thick leather chest plate fought to hold him in, with loose cream fabric covering his thighs. His hair was messy, straying every which way from tussles and falls. Red blistered the tops of his cheeks, heat flaring and staining the tanned skin of his face.
His eyes cross the room, the concubines around George sitting up straight for their emperor. His gaze rests upon George, making the servant rise to his feet instinctively. He bows low, unsure of what to do in front of an emperor.
“Sire,” he stands straight again, not meeting eyes with the man ahead of him.
“Who is this that is entertaining my loves?” Fear shot through George like a bullet, his back straighter than it had even been and frozen stiff.
“I’m s-sorry I-”
“I didn’t ask if you were sorry, boy.” Those around him maintain eye contact with the ground, not daring to get George into any more trouble than he seemed to already be in. “Who are you?”
“A mere servant, sire. I was told to bring them their final course.” He tries to hide the way his voice shakes when he hears footsteps move towards him. His chin is pulled up, but he maintains his gaze on the ground despite the strain behind his eyes.
“Look at me.” So, he does. “Good boy. Now, I was looking for a lover to spend the night with me, do you think you’ll do?”
“I-I uh, don’t know sire. I mean, yes but I’m j-just a servant you c-can’t-” his words are cut off by sharpened knives of words.
“I can’t what? Is it not my palace that you reside in? Do you think I couldn’t have you if I wanted to?”
“I- Your majesty I never meant to insinuate-”
“Hush, pretty boy, and listen very closely,” he speaks with a voice that’s dipped in everything dark and dangerous, it’s sharp and poisonous and George is enamoured with it. “I’m going to the baths and when I get back to my chambers, I want my lovers to have left you there, dripped in gold and myrrh and ready for a night with me.”
The words make George ache, he battles with a whine that desperately tries to leave his throat. The room is silent except for his breathing, heavy now in the dying amber day and descending night.
“Can your little brain understand that, pet?” He nods, it’s a desperate nod. A needing nod that screams a loud yes to Dream, but Dream needs more.
“Yes, sire.” The grip on his chin is let go, allowing him to bow before his king once again. He already felt as though he was floating as he took steps back away from the man.
“Good.” He looks over to the others in the room, who George could have sworn disappeared when Dream had spoken to him. “My loves, make pretty boy understand the rules whilst I head to the baths.” They nod, some waving and saying their goodbyes as he shows them a glowing smile and turns to leave.
The platter is taken from his hands as the doors slam shut, it’s placed on a side table with a gentle clatter. The woman he had spoken to first, Antonia, spoke up first.
“I thought he might take a liking to you,” her words drip from rose petal lips and teeter on the edge of something wonderful. “I’ll get you an outfit that you are sure to like.”
And he did. In fact, he loved it. The top was thin, gold-laced material that wrapped tightly around the flesh of his chest. It flirted with translucency, held up by thin straps over his softly curved collarbones. Thin fabric covers his shoulders, silk as smooth as water drips over him delicately and settles midway down his thighs.
Beneath the robe loose metal bands swirl around his arms and wrists, the same expensive gold that paints the rest of his skin. Chains drip around his waist; cool amber hugging the pallid skin. The thin sheet of linen that wraps around his hips barely hides anything at all, just covering his ass loosely.
He loves every part of it. He loves feeling this way; pretty and on show. He loves feeling like he’s worth the time they’re spending on him, patting pink powder into his cheeks, and combing through his hair with light brushes and careful fingertips. He feels like royalty.
He loves it and yet it shakes an unnerving excitement within him that turns his stomach sick. When they explain the rules to him, he’s sitting on the edge of a sofa, having his skin dabbed with various scents as the lack of clothing pricks hairs up along his skin.
“If you want to stop shout red, he’ll check with you at points if he’s worried though. And if you’re you know,” a coy laugh slips from her lips. “Busy, just smack him three times. He wants you to enjoy it too, I mean, isn’t that the fun part?”
All he can do is nod shyly, swallowing down on the thick air around him, unsure of the question at hand as his brain fizzes like TV static. She tells him of colour codes and things the emperor likes as she walks him down to the room. Inside he sits on the edge of the bed letting her plant a kiss to his cheek for luck.
And then she was gone.
He was sure that they’d over done it. George had allowed them to dress him in fine silks and gold jewellery and he felt embarrassed. He wasn’t used to this, to being pampered and dressed up. He didn’t fit in here, so his embarrassment felt rightful, it felt just. But he was loving every inch of his new life, even if it was all temporary.
The sound of the heavy mahogany doors unlocking and swinging open had George standing up from his king’s bed quickly. His stomach turns a verdant shade of nauseous as the God in front of him locks the door, keeping prying eyes away from the pair.
Heavy water drips down his back from threads of dark blonde hair, he rubs at it with the small towel hanging over his palm. A matching cream towel drapes itself around his tight waist, leaving his cold chest exposed to the air; tensing from the cold water dappled across it. Across it lies layers of scars and deeply ingrained tattoos; glaring testaments to every battle he had won and fought for his country, for his people.
Dream turns to look at George. The man instinctively bows. His head dips so his pupils make eye contact with the marble ground. The white swirls with grey like seafoam on the ocean – he thinks the sea breeze might be enough to calm his beating heart. His breathing picks up as he awaits for the emperor’s next words, heavy steps being the only sound he hears.
A hand feels its way into George’s hair, the thumb of which circling slightly on his scalp. It’s soothing until it’s not, the pat melting into a sharp grasp as his head is pulled backwards until he’s standing straight.
“Are you afraid to look at me, pet?” Dream’s head tilted to the side; eyebrows furrowed in fake pity as he strains George’s neck backwards. His eyes strain to meet Dream’s gaze, he doesn’t want to but it’s an addictive stare. “Because that might make this a bit difficult.”
The hand lets go and Dream steps back slightly, rubbing at his damp hair again whilst George lets his brain recover. The towel is thrown across the back of an armchair in the corner, wet fabric resting against red velvet in a painful contrast. Before George gets used to his brief absence, Dream grabs the gold chains around his torso to pull him close. George gasps at the sudden movement and his eyelashes flutter when he realises their closeness.
“Are you afraid of me?” His voice is dark and sweet like thick molasses across George’s tongue.
“N-no,” it’s not a complete lie from the servant.
“Then why do you act like it, baby?” George doesn’t know what to say, gold chains digging into the fat across his back, pulling his stomach flat against Dream. He feels the roughness of Dream’s towel against the bare flesh above the cloth skirt around his hips and he begs his mind not to picture what’s beneath.
“I just want to worship you, sire.” He stares up at Dream. His face is carved out of the softest of moonstone, kissed by amber skies and hit by silver blades. He has a deep scar that splits his eyebrow and cheek, it pales white, whiter than the rest of the skin there. It feels like instinct when George reaches for it. “I want to worship you; I want to do it right .”
The stroke across the scar is welcomed, it reassures Dream, it allows him to free a cocky smile across his lips.
“Oh, you wish to learn how to bring your king to his knees, pet?” Flickering torchlight paints his features in crystal topaz and George can’t stop his mind from racing. His emperor was here, flat against his abdomen with nothing but lust buried behind his iris’. George was leant back to admire the man in front of him, held from falling by the delicate chains gifted to him.
“Yes sire, anything for you. I promise, anything.” He’d seen the emperor around the palace, painted in expensive fabric with lieges pinned to his side like he was their lifeline. George would be lying if he said he hadn’t been caught in this daydream each time he would pass the servant by.
Dream’s other hand rests on the top of George’s back, pulling the man closer until they’re breathing the same air. Dream tilts his head to the side, George reflecting his movements as their lips touch. George lets his king decide their pace and he regrets it. The speed is agonising. They don’t kiss, Dream just teases touch starved lips with his own and George feels the electricity down his throat.
The emperor lets go of George, letting eyes open wide as he walks straight past the servant. Their shoulders bump as Dream goes to sit on the edge of the bed. Eyes follow him to where he sits, to where he rests his forearms against the tops of his thighs and leans forward to stare at George.
George doesn’t know what to say.
“You have to show me you want it first, pretty boy.” He gestures around the gradually thickening air with veined hands. “You can’t expect everything to be served on a silver platter for you.” George almost laughs at the irony and almost chokes on the nickname.
The man leans back, flesh bunching up just above the tight wrap of his towel. The towel pulls back, the fabric slipping between his thighs on one end, the other end dropping to the side of his left thigh. It exposes the skin there, darted with blonde hairs and muscular enough to make George’s blood run south. The sound of Dream slapping his thigh reverberates around the room.
“Sit. You’re so good at looking pretty.”
George might have short-circuited, pausing a moment before stepping towards Dream. He’s not sure what his king wants from him but he’s so ready to try. He pulls the fabric up his thigh slightly so he can bend it towards himself and rest it beside Dream’s. Both shins lie flat on either side of Dream’s legs but it’s wrong; Dream tsks at him, rolling his eyes.
“No no, oh baby , are you really just a pretty face?” George doesn’t know what to say, his head feels light, and he thinks he might really just be a pretty face. He wants to display intuition, but the chance is torn from his grasp when thick fingers pull at his left thigh. Half of his body is lifted to bury his leg between muscular thighs, and he thinks he’s beginning to understand.
A huffed ‘oh’ escapes his lips as he feels blood drift lower, an ocean of thick syrup waving through his veins as he straddles Dream’s left thigh. He swears his vision narrows as Dream’s smirk laces with addictive liquor and bleeds red.
“D-do you want me to move, sire?” Dream nods, more than answering his question by forcing George down against his leg with a hard grip on his ass. It forces a groan from his lips.
“Yes, pet.” So, George does as he’s told, shifting himself against his emperor’s thigh. The friction begins to harden his dick against the fabric around his hips. His hands reach out for Dream’s shoulders, holding on as he moves, knowing his movements will only grow shakier. “Perfect baby, does my little pup like that?”
George grinds harder, needing the friction with each word dripping from Dream’s lips. He can’t help but stare as he does, wanting so badly to bite and pull at pink taunting lips as a tight grip squeezes his ass. He bucks his hips down into the warm skin of Dream’s thigh, each movement pushes the fabric up until finally his dick is free of it.
“Fuck,” it comes out whispered and harsh. “Can I kiss you, my king?”
One hand stays with a hard grasp on his ass, whilst the other travels up towards his face. It passes under his robe to taunt the pale skin, forcing a shudder from his hips, eventually reaching the side of his face. Dream’s thumb wipes across the fat flesh of his cheek, pressing hard as it moves from his cheek towards his throat.
There’s a grip around his windpipe now; not tight enough to cut off his oxygen. The press of his fingers forces each thrum of his pulse to echo against his throat. He’s pulled towards the god in front of him, their noses resting aside one another.
“Since you asked so nicely.” It’s gentle at first, eyes closed with lids painfully heavy. It contrasts each deep grind he pushes into Dream’s thigh, contrasts the nails digging into the flesh of his ass, contrasts the throbbing pulse in his neck.
His body starts to go limp as his head turns to a crackling blur; Dream feels the weight and shifts his hand around to the back of his neck allowing blood to return. It’s a short break, teeth pulling at George’s bottom lip. Dream bites until it’s sore, sucking on the red skin and licking across it. And when their tongues pass over one another, God help George if he moans, sharp fire speeding up his spine.
They stay like this, clinging on to heated static until a blaze gradually builds in George’s abdomen. It makes itself apparent to Dream, whose cock is held back by the rough material of his towel, when George’s thighs begin to quake. His grinding becomes ever so slightly more erratic, the pattern of which falls out of line. It’s enough to tell Dream to stop.
His hands reach up to George’s hips, turning his pants into a whine, a complaining whine. It’s pathetic and Dream loves it, he loves to watch people crumble. And there’s just something so special about George.
“Oh baby, I can’t let my little pup finish so soon now, can I?” He juts his lower lip out in a mock pity, a jab at George’s diminishing resolve. But George isn’t taking it.
“Yes, you can.” That would have been enough, but George had gotten too comfortable with the emperor. He’s starting to see him as human, and not the god he should be respected as. “I’m doing all the work anyway.”
Fire lights behind Dream’s eyes, a blaze that rages white and gold. George is pushed back, stumbling to a stand as his legs remain shaking. Dream pulls George to his side by his thigh and pushes his back down. It’s a strange position but George thinks he understands.
“Bend over your king’s knee, pet.” George’s knees buckle, resting against the soft sheet of the mattress. His arms hold himself up straight as his back is bent over Dream’s thighs. A hand meets the hair at the back of his head and pulls him up off his hands. “Do you think that you, my little servant, should be speaking to your king like that?”
George can’t muster up the words, his straining head forces out a light shake. His head is pushed down into the mattress, cheek pressed down so he can turn to face his king.
“I’m going to have to teach you not to do it again then, aren’t I?” The silk robe covering him is pushed up, the loose fabric pooling around his waist. The wrapping around his hip is pulled off; slowly untied and thrown across the room. George doesn’t know if he’s scared or excited. Whatever feelings wash over him settle as fervour in his abdomen and pump blood through his veins. “Colour?”
He fumbles through his mind trying to remember what the word meant. Dream waits. He watches the emperor above him as his chest rises and falls, slower than George’s but not nearly normal. There’s dissolving anger across his face. It clicks.
“Olive.” He lets out a loud yelp at the first smack. It’s light for Dream and hard for George, forcing the man’s eyes shut.
“Count them, baby.” His words start with a snap but end like a calming lap of the ocean. It settles the lump in his throat and the pain across his ass. Smack.
“One.” He’s sure his skin is blushing, and Dream loves to admire the outlines that he’s leaving. George is small enough that one smack leaves a half print on both cheeks and Dream it. Smack.
“T-two.” It comes with a gasp, the violent heat blending into brutal satisfaction. Water builds up behind his closed lids; he doesn’t dare open his eyes. Smack, smack, smack, smack.
“Three, fo-five, six- ah ,” It’s barely English, moans misconstrued as words. It forces his eyes open and pulls tears to blend into the sheets below him as they cross the bridge of his nose. He’s shushed as a warm hand soothes the pain across his ass.
“I’m sorry baby, but you’ve got four more.” He whimpers, looking up at Dream’s attempt at pity. It’s fake and teasing. “Well, I’m not really. You look too pretty when you cry.” Smack.
“Seven,” the number comes out as a quiet whisper, barely audible beneath bubbling cries. His dick begins to poke into the side of Dream’s thigh, fully hard again now as he recovers from the hits, gracing the rough material that wraps around Dream. The tip sits aggressively red with precum leaking out. Smack.
“Eight.” The drips from Dream’s hair finally pierce through the fabric of George’s robe and he couldn’t give a shit less. He’s almost there and part of him isn’t sure if he wants it to stop. Smack, smack.
“Ni-ten!” He screams out the last number, his head straining back as he feels the pleasure and a deep aching pain fill his abdomen and spread up across his spine. His tear-stained cheeks receive the slightest of kisses, healing the burning red tracks that lace his pale skin.
“Are you going to be a good boy now?” Dream’s hand runs through his hair and rough fingertips rake through the soft curls. George looks up at the man above through his blurred vision and he swears he sees an angel; someone he has no choice but to worship. Flickering torchlight dances across high cheekbones and flash at sharp teeth that form a sinister smile.
“Yes, sire.” His eyes close again, tired and spent.
Dream leans over the back of George’s body and all he hears is rustling and the distant thumping of his own heart. There’s a light popping and as he strains his head to watch and if he wasn’t already hard, this would have made him so. Dream pours thick oil onto his index finger, dripping out from a glass vial, pale yellow and scented like citrus.
The tip is circled around his rim. He sighs against the feeling, it’s so much softer than every other touch that Dream has given him and God is it wonderful. The emperor kisses along his back as he pushes his finger inside.
“Fuck.” Finally. It’s an ounce of relief, it’s not nearly enough but it will do for now. George has learnt not to talk back. He lets himself relax into it, into a feeling he’s only ever been given in the dark of night, shrouded in whispers and hot liquor. “Thank you, sire.”
The finger inside of him thrusts gently, reaching out for something deeper and just missing. It keeps George on edge, it keeps him desperate. George lets himself moan and whine, panting out for more, because he can tell by the way that Dream speeds up and grunts to himself that he loves it.
“I think pretty boy wants more.” He mutters to himself. His voice is dark, gravelly enough to make George push back against his hand. Dream knows it needs punishing, but he doesn’t have it in him to stop George’s moans, so he pushes his middle finger in.
He massages it in slowly, not wanting to give in fully to George’s wants. The wince is clear on George’s face when he realises - he didn’t lube up the second finger. He sucks at his cheeks to pool spit on his tongue. His tongue hangs flat out of his mouth, saliva dripping slowly out and onto George’s stretched rim. The heat makes George moan out, swearing under his breath.
“S-so good, sire.” Dream fucks him fast on his fingers then, suddenly thrusting hard and flicking his wrist up. George flexes his back, straining against the hits to his prostate. Dream's fingers are thick, stretching George out more than he had been on anyone else's fingers before. And when the third one pushes in, he feels like he's ready, that this could be enough.
"Sit up baby." George leans back on his heels, Dream's fingers staying in his hole with his palm lying flat against his servant's ass.
George sits up straight, begging to keep his eyes open. Stale tears have torn their way into his skin, scarlet tracks down his pallid flesh spark clear. His lashes are still damp, and his eyes are glassy. Dream thinks he looks like a perfect painting, and he would be the man's perfect frame.
"Do you think you can ride me baby?" George knows he can't, but he would damn well try.
"Yes sire. Anything for you, my King." His fingers slide out from George, unwrapping the towel from his waist and letting the side fall down beside him. He stays sat on the edge of the bed, knowing it will give him more stability to help George. He leans back on his elbows as he watches George swing his shaking legs over him.
He's not lubed up but George doesn't seem to care. He reaches over to where he'd thrown the bottle by the pillow, dripping oil onto his now exposed cock. The feeling of finally receiving friction at last is heavenly, and he thinks he might ascend when George wraps his hand around him and puts the head against his rim.
"F-fuck, pet." George tries to lower himself slowly, but he can't. He stabilises himself with his hands on the tattoos of Dream's chest but it's not enough. He's full before he knows it, screaming out at the suddenness. It's good and it burns, it's a fucking perfect stretch that has him biting down on his lower lip and digging nails into Dream's abdomen.
He doesn't allow himself to adjust, crying out and barely moving inches. Dream lets him struggle, watching George squirm and tears pool in his eyes. Tears of untamed desperation.
"I-I can't. I’m so sorry, sire." His words blend together, syllables blurring harmoniously in the air around them. It's a perfect disaster.
"Oh, poor baby! Shall I teach you how, pet?" George nods, stopping his movements completely and folding forwards into Dream. He litters kisses into the crook of Dream's neck, panting into his neck. "You need me to do it? Need me to fuck you how you deserve, don't you?"
Arms wrap around George's back, pulling him in. He plants his feet against the ground and moves his hands down to George's ass. He lifts the man up and fucks into him. It's quick and hard, and it's a burning heaven for George. It’s heaven as Dream bucks up, slapping up against red, sore skin.
" Ahh- shit, so good sire." Dream can't hold back the hard grunts in his throat. He reaches one hand up, pulling George back by his hair so he can look at the boy above him.
"Such a pretty boy." Blue eyes are clearer now, tears chased away by harsh thrusts against his prostate and kisses to his burning cheeks. The torchlight continues to flicker, lighting George in more gold, and he deserves every drop of it.
Dream's hands pull back to George's waist and grip the soft flesh, dripping in silk and wrapped in topaz chains. He flips them, pushing George into the soft mattress. George's robe falls down beside him, flattening out against the sheets and spreading below his arms like the wings Dream’s angel needs.
Dream’s palms press against the fat of the back of George's thighs, laying his weight against the servant's legs. His knees dig into the mattress and steady him as he thrusts hard, the sounds of skin slapping and high whines bouncing against the cold walls. The glow of George’s skin and the spark of his pleasured smile reminds Dream of how ethereal the man below him is. He kisses his angel.
George runs his hand up Dream's face, feeling across the scar as their lips smack and teeth clash because it's never perfect the first time. But it feels perfect.
"Close, c-can you touch me, plea-" he barely has to speak before Dream is leaning back and pushing a pillow under his ass to maintain George's position. His cock is desperately hard and achingly red as Dream wraps his hand around it. The warmth in his belly is fierce, it spreads like flames across gasoline, forcing his legs to clamp around Dream.
"God baby, you r-really needed that." Dream gasps out, trying his best to match his thrusts with the movements of his hand. He tries his best but hot adrenaline makes his movements shaky and rushed. Desperation coats each movement and laces each hooded look with pulsing black rings.
Dream’s other hand reaches up, pinching at one of George's nipples and eventually reaching up for his sharp jaw. He strokes his thumb against the servant's cheek, hard thrusts making it hard to do so but Dream is nothing if not determined. George's head turns, pushing the pad of his thumb against soft rose lips, petals part and cheeks hollow out to suck on Dream's thumb and he thinks he might lose his mind.
His pulls his hand away, planting it beside George's head. He leans down to connect their lips and uses all of the energy he can find to thrust. His hips snap forwards and George can't kiss him back anymore. His mouth opens into a silent scream, letting Dream tug on his lower lip.
"Cum, pretty boy." His back arches and his cock leaks with cum, spirting up and hitting his chest. Dream still grasps as his dick, pumping him through his orgasm. "Such a g-good boy."
Dream doesn't let go, desperately chasing after his own high. It makes George cry out, way too fucking sensitive for the harsh pace Dream is keeping up. But he's the emperor, so George wants to stay still, he wants to be good for his king. He can't stay motionless though, as the stimulation to the head of his cock feels like crackling static in his head and fizzles across his abdomen.
It drives Dream over the edge as the servant below him pants and squirms, his palms pushing at the sheets and scratching at the king’s chest. He cums hard, slowing his thrusts to George's partial relief. Partial because part of him likes the pained pleasure, but that's for another time. Because Dream pulls out then, leaving a kiss against George's forehead as he does so.
Cum drips out of George. His emperor picks up the towel from the floor and cleans him up, not wanting to as the sight makes his stomach stir, but he does anyway.
"Did I do okay, sire?" Dream nods, pulling the pillow from George and back to the head of the bed. George rolls over, standing at the end of the bed and wrapping the silk around him. Dream lies down against the sheets and looks up at him, puzzled.
The light is dim, torchlight fizzling out into the navy night. The barely there amber touch of the flame strokes Dream's tanned skin, creating shadows where thick scars lie and hitting each soft curve of his flesh. It shines Dream in gold, sweat reflecting the light off of his skin. George can't help but stare at the crawl of thick hair from the man's cock all the way up to his belly button. He wants to run his hand up the dark trail.
"Amazing, baby. You were amazing." The emperor pats the space next to him. "Come here, my love."
"I-I have jobs, sire." He weakly points towards the door.
"Not tonight, pretty boy. Sleep beside me." George unties his robe, letting the silk slip down his shoulders, barely making a sound as it pools on the ground. He crawls up the bed, burying his head into Dream's chest. He's not sure if he should allow himself to completely relax.
Dream's hand lies across his back, soothing rubs comfort him, and soft kisses are settled into brunette locks.
"And anyway, baby, you haven't brought me to my knees just yet."