#orange writes

It is no secret that you have a bit of a dirty mind. Not to yourself. Not to your friends. And especially not to your boyfriend, who's been on the receiving end far too often to remain oblivious.

Steven knows you well enough to expect some comment about the shirt he's wearing. The way you're salivating over his pecs. The way you want to bite into his arms after he's just come out of the shower. Or when you tell him all about those dreams you have at night.

Dreams where he isn't the shy boy he is in real life. Dreams where he slides those big hands up under your shirt and cups your breasts. He'd press a grin into your mouth, all cocky and handsome.

There isn't a day that goes by where you don't think of it. You might be a bit of a pervert, but it's only Steven that brings those thoughts to the forefront of your brain.

You press your thighs together thinking about it, all the things he could do to you. Steven is sitting across from you, frowning down at his notebook like it's personally offended him. His glasses are sliding off his nose. He keeps having to push them back up.

It's adorable.

You want him.

"You're staring, sweetheart." It's only been a few months since the two of you started dating. Years of friendship and longing in silence before then. The names he uses for you still make you melt.

You swallow, sitting up in your chair. Your own schoolwork has long been forgotten. It seemed exceptionally boring with Steven sitting right there. He's much prettier to look at. "You're so hot."

He rolls his eyes, even as his cheeks turn a pretty pink. A color you've started to love more than anything. Especially with how easy it is to achieve. The right words and he's putty beneath your hands.

"Do you really have to study right now? We could be doing so many other things…" You reach out to hook a finger over his notebook, pulling it away from his line of sight. His eyes snap to yours immediately.

He's gotten more bold since he started dating you, you'll give him that. Where he'd previously disappear into his bedroom or turn into a stuttering mess he now pushes back. Not quite indulging you, but at least he's not running away.

"Oh, really? We're nearing finals week and you suggest sitting here and teasing me instead?" There's a faint smile on his face, telling you that despite his words he can't get enough of it. As it should be. He never fails to make you feel special.

You shrug, leaning over the table, close enough for your noses to bump. "You're just so fun to tease," you whisper, reveling in the way Steven shivers.

He leans forward, pressing a short kiss to your lips. "Not as fun as getting full scores on our finals."

Slumping back into your chair, you sigh. "If you were this dedicated to fucking me right, we would both be a lot less pent up, you know?" It's a low blow. Some vulgarity to bring back that flush to Steven's cheeks. Rile him up a little.

"Y/N!" Steven is looking at you with wide eyes, hands clenched around his notebook. His knuckles turn white with how tightly he's holding it. A stark contrast to the red of his cheeks, the tops of his ears. It pairs nicely with his freckles.

"Come on," you say, hooking a socked foot around his calf. "You know you want to."

He sighs, throwing his glasses on the table and burying his face in his hands. The flush runs down the skin of his neck, where it disappears into his shirt. Something casual today. A plain white tee that stretches tight across his chest.

With a new opportunity presenting itself, you trail your foot farther up his leg. "Don't tell me you don't want me, baby. You deserve a treat after studying all day."

He looks up from his hands, must decide that you're worth looking at because he puts his glasses back on. The thought makes your heart clench, even as he mutters, "I think you're all talk."

"Oh really?" You laugh. It's true. Kind of. Sort of. He doesn't need to know that. Besides, how difficult can any of it really be? "Why don't we give that a try?"

His chair screeches backwards and Steven stands, your foot falling away. It's all too predictable, he's never indulged you before. You don't think he's going to start now.

What this /does/ grant you is a perfect view of his butt in his gray sweats. You bite your lip, letting your eyes linger.

Steven paces the small space of your shared apartment. After a while, he sits back down, heaving a sigh. His cheeks are still a faint pink, but nothing as bad as before. "You're a menace."

"You're hard." It's a fact. You'd seen it as he tried walking it off. He's a lot of things, your Steven, but embarrassed is not one of them. /It's a natural human function, after all./ He'd tell you something along those lines.

"You can't prove that," he huffs, avoiding your gaze.

And you know a challenge when you see one, that's why you don't hesitate to raise your foot again, planting it right between his legs, the ball of your foot pressed firmly over his dick.

Steven gasps, eyes wide as he looks at you once more. You don't ever want him to look away again.

You laugh. It's the absurdity of the situation that gets you. The thrill of it. "All talk, huh?"

Steven's breath stutters. You can /see/ the blush rising on his cheeks. "A-alright, sweetheart. You proved your point."

"Have I?" You tilt your head, grinding your foot into his crotch. He lets his head fall forward with a stuttered breath, one of his hands coming up to grip the side of the table.

You see his furrowed brows, lip pulled between his teeth. If he looked good before, he looks absolutely gorgeous now. "Steven," you hum, "you'd tell me to stop if you wanted me to, right?"

He nods. Tight, jerky motions that make his hair fall over his forehead.

"Then say you don't, baby." You continue to circle your foot, watching him closely. His breath hitches in his throat as his chest rises and falls. His hips twitch forward, pressing himself more firmly against you.

"Sweetheart," he sighs. "Please." When he looks up at you there's a wetness to his eyes. It's so jarring, you almost stop entirely. "You're so—"

"Come here, baby," you tell him, taking your foot away. You want him close, need him close. "I want to see your handsome face. Want you in my lap."

Steven stumbles out of his chair, rounding the table and falling to the floor in front of you, his knees banging against the wood. It sounds like it hurts, but he doesn't even flinch.

His whole body is flushed, you can tell. The realization he's a full-body blusher makes you bite your lip. He looks up at you, eyes wide and pleading. He looks up at you like you're /everything./

"Fuck," you sigh, cupping his cheek. He leans into the touch near instantly. "That works too."

Steven swallows, hesitating for one moment before he says, "Want to taste you, sweetheart. Have wanted to since the first time I saw you. I want you to squeeze my head between your thighs, I want you to take my breath from me." His words shudder out of him, like having your touch is enough to make him shiver.

The image flashes through your mind. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't imagined it before. Steven between your thighs. Having him right there in front of you, so close after all that time, it's enough to make you throb. "Then why didn't you say so, honey?"

He shakes his head, eyes falling away from yours as he adjusts his glasses. "Please?"

Who are you to deny him that, the thing he wants most? You take the glasses from his face, placing them gently on the table next to you before spreading your legs and leaning back in the chair.

Steven's mouth parts. It must look obscene from his perspective, but all he does is slide his hands up your thighs, under your skirt. He pulls off your panties smoothly, dropping them to the floor before looking up, as though he needs more permission.

"I love you," he says, voice strung tight. There's a distant look in his eyes, like he's both here and somewhere else. You can't help but cup his face again, stroking a thumb over his cheek.

"Love you too, Steven."

He nods once before leaning forward, disappearing half underneath your skirt as he licks that first hot stripe through your folds. You gasp, head falling back as your hand finds its way into the back of Steven's hair. "Fuck!"

Humming, Steven goes to work. His hands are clenched tight on top of your thighs. His tongue explores your pussy, lips closing around your clit and sucking. It makes your breath come quicker, all your dreams coming true in the form of a tongue working it's way inside you.

"Steven, fuck. I'm—" It's embarrassing, how quickly you're approaching your climax, especially after talking big game. But you can't be blamed either, you've been dreaming about this for months. You're only human, after all. "Close, baby."

He flicks his tongue over your clit before going back to it. Slightly clumsy, but impossibly addicting motions that make you see stars. It isn't long before your thighs are trembling, squeezing closed around Steven's head as he licks you through your orgasm.

It feels like it lasts forever, though it must only be a few moments. You pull him from between your thighs the moment his touch starts feeling like too much.

He looks absolutely gone. His hair messy where you had been pulling at it, cheeks flushed and a sheen of slick all over his chin. So pretty.

You smile at him, dragging your thumb through the mess and pushing it between his lips. He takes it easily, cleaning it off. His eyes close as he sucks at it.

"Come on," you mumble, after a short while. You don't have to pull hard to get him in your lap. Settled on your thighs and looking down at you, like he's waiting for something.

You're not sure what that something is, but you kiss him regardless. He sighs into it, licking into your mouth. It's slick and a bit disgusting, but Steven's hands are in your hair, so you don't mind much.

Race was crying. That was the first thing that registered in Spot’s mind. Well, second thing. To be exact the first thing was ‘What the hell is Race doing at the Brooklyn lodging house at this hour?’ and the second was ‘Oh shit he’s crying’. Race was just standing there silently, tears running down his face and for once looking like the scrawny impoverished orphan boy he was, and Spot… he had no clue what he was supposed to do. Was there some kind of protocol for when your kinda sorta boyfriend shows up at your door in tears?

They stood there staring at each other for a minute, Spot frozen in the doorway and Race still just standing there, crying. Finally Spot broke from his confusion and asked, “What are you doing here Race?”

Race started fidgeting, cracked his knuckles, fiddled with his cigar and looked at his feet, but didn't respond. Oh man, Spot really didn’t want to do this, especially with how bad Race looked, but he couldn’t be too soft on him with an audience, too many people knowing about them would put them in danger and that would end poorly for everyone. “Either tell me why you’re here or get off my turf ‘hattan.”

Race glanced up and met Spot’s eyes just long enough to answer before looking back down, “Can- can I come in?”

Good, that was all that Spot needed to hear, “C’mon, we’ll talk in my room.” Spot led the other boy through the lodging house and up the stairs, pausing only to instruct Hotshot that they shouldn’t be disturbed, then carefully shut the door behind them. Race didn’t look up from the ground the entire time.

“Racer,” Spot began softly, “what’s wrong?”

Race sat on the edge of Spot’s bed, staring at the wall. He didn’t respond. Spot, not knowing how to proceed and not quite willing to push him yet, simply sat at his side. He wrapped an arm around the blonde’s shoulders and let the boy tuck his head into the crook of his neck as he tried to gather himself.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was probably closer to half an hour, Race spoke, “Do you think there are people on other planets just like us? Just going about their lives like they’re the only ones out there just like we are?”

“Race, tell me what’s wrong,” Spot tries to be gentle, but comes off a little more harsh than he intended. He knew Race was trying to avoid talking about whatever brought him here. Well Spot wasn’t going to waste his time beating around the bush, he wasn’t that kind of person. Race had only gotten away with it for this long because Spot was soft for him, no one else got this kind of treatment. Except maybe the Brooklyn littles, but that was a different situation.

“No, really, just think abo-”

Spot’s, admittedly limited, patience snapped. “Cut the crap, Higgins.”

“I saw my mom earlier today,” Race said in such a small voice. He curled into himself and Spot felt his throat tighten at the sight. He’d never seen Race look so vulnerable.

Spot knew that Race wasn’t in contact with his mother. But that was about all he knew, Race rarely spoke about his life before becoming a newsie and Spot hadn’t felt the need to press, someone else’s past wasn’t really his business. It was a stance he took with all of his newsies. He was starting to regret that decision at the moment, if only a little bit.

“I- Uhh… she was down at the races with… with my little sister, they was just passin' through.”

Well that was news to Spot. He still wasn’t sure why Racer was so upset, though. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Yeah, neither did I.”

The bitterness in his tone was impossible to hide. And oh. Oh. Spot repositioned himself so he could rub Race’s back. Race took a deep, shuddering breath before continuing, “Looked like she was about five years old.”

“Racer, talk to me. It sounds like there’s more to it than that.”

“It’s just that-” he paused, carefully choosing his words, “when I left home, it was because my ma wanted me gone. She wouldn’ta said it back then but it was true. She wasn’t married and we had no other family so she had to work to support us both. Havin’ a kid basically destroyed her prospects for finding a husband and for the most part I was too young to work. I was nothin’ but a burden to her. I couldn’t stand bein’ there knowin’ she didn’t want me.”

Ouch. Spot understood the feeling, being somewhere you clearly weren’t wanted hurt. A lot.

“So I left, and that eventually led me to becomin’ a newsie. But she has a family now, a husband and enough money to have another kid. So I guess… I guess I thought that she didn’t want me because I stopped her from having that, but now she does and she still doesn’t like me. It just hurt more than I thought it would, knowing that my own mother doesn’t want me, well cause I'm me, I guess.”

Race was crying properly, again. Head buried in Spot’s shirt, the blonde clutched at him as tight as he could, trying to calm his shaking.

“And I’m glad she’s got a family and is happy, she’s my mom. But- but if I'm not part- part of her family, then I just don't got one, do I?” Race’s anguish was palpable and Spot had no idea how to help, so he simply continued to hold and comfort him as best he could. “Guess it doesn’t matter all that much,” Race continued, “she didn’t even recognize me, not really. Or maybe she did and just pretended not to, honestly I’m not sure which one is worse.”

Those were the words that broke Spot’s heart. Seeing the boy he loved hurt so deeply, he would do just about anything to soothe him right now.

“Hey pretty boy, you stupid or what? You got a family.” Spot gently cards his fingers through Race’s hair. “You got Jack n’ Albert and all a’ your Manhattan boys. N’ you also got me. You don’t need a ma to have a family and if she doesn’t see how great you are then it’s her loss. She’s gonna be the one who never gets to laugh at your stupid jokes or watch you become everything I know you can be.”

The corner of Race’s lips twitch up in the ghost of a smile, the happiest he’s been since Spot’s laid eyes on him today. And it’s right about that moment that Spot decides that he’s always going to be there for Race.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, Race calming under his ministrations, until Spot broke the quiet atmosphere. He usually wasn’t one to indulge Race like this, that was Albert’s job, but he could make an exception. “What if they’re purple?”

“Huh?”

“The people living on the other planet, what if they’re exactly like us, but purple? Or what if they have two heads?”

Race giggled. And that’s what Spot was looking for. He grinned and tightened his grip around Race just the slightest bit.

“Well why would they be purple, that’s ridiculous Spot! But you may be onto something with the two heads bit.”

“Oh yeah?”

The light pouring from the crack in John's door is enough to indicate something isn't quite right. Usually the door would be firmly shut by now, John fast asleep. George would know, out of the two of them it's usually /he/ that stays up late.

His knuckles rap against the hard wooden door. It's old, just as the whole school is. But the shiny nameplate indicating it as Keating's is relatively new. Must be a year, or so, since John returned to Welton.

"Come in!" The words come muffled and George doesn't hesitate to push the door open, stepping into the room and the soft, warm light.

John is curled on his bed, holding a pillow against his stomach. Half of his face is buried in his blankets, eyebrows furrowed and wearing a tight smile. "George," he breathes, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

George has been aware of John's monthly problems for a while now. After all, they have been best friends for a long time. Since they were students, instead of teachers.

The fact that John felt comfortable enough to confide in him, even then, has always made his heart warm. How he told him, tucked away in a corner wearing flushed cheeks and fumbling his words, something rare for a man —a boy, then— like John.

Nothing had changed between the two of them. John remained the same person he'd always been.

And still, being so blatantly confronted with him now, it makes him pause.

He's an awkward man, he always has been. It's not… Not specifically the origin of the problem that makes him loose his footing. It's something he can't quite place his finger on, tectonic plates shifting as their dynamic changes once more.

Seeing him like this is different than knowing, in theory, this is what John deals with. He never thought about it, not really. Of course, he'd known from mentions in the conversations they have and pleading requests to stop by the store for pads and snacks.

But John is relatively secretive. Or maybe he just doesn't like to talk about it. Something George understands in concept, not in actuality.

The pain he's in doesn't seem fair. Especially if he has to deal with it on his own. George never /realized/ he'd been in this much pain. And /that,/ of all things, makes him feel even worse.

It doesn't seem fair. John didn't choose this. He shouldn't be suffering in silence, just because of societal norms that never made sense, not really.

George clears his throat. "Your door was open." It answers nothing. George never bullies himself into John's life, not like this. Not late at night, in private moments. Not anymore, at least.

The click of the door being pushed closed is loud, too loud. It feels like the clicking in his throat, the ringing in his ears. The light is soft and warm, but he feels too hot. Sweaty and uncertain.

He wants to sit down. Wants to smile and joke, but he doesn't feel like this is the place or time. The whole atmosphere is off, the way John looks at him with parted lips and furrowed brows like he's trying to read his mind.

Like he's trying to see if George finds him repulsive for this. Whether that's about menstruating, the blood, or being seen in undeniable pain.

He doesn't. For the record. None of those things. Menstruation is a real and natural part of life for most people that have a uterus. There is nothing disgusting about it. Besides, everyone has blood and everyone's in pain sometimes.

It might be that part he hates most of all. The pain.

John is a strong man, a proud man. Someone that would rather stay silent about his many struggles than admit to them or, God forbid, ask for help.

Pain is a inevitability. Unless there's an underlying medical condition that would make a person unable to experience pain, of course. The nature of the pain, though… That might be what's messing John up.

George doesn't know. He has never felt that before. He can't gauge exactly how much he hurts, but he still wants to /know./ Wants to be there for John.

"Are you alright?" George asks. The words leave him before he realizes how idiotic he sounds. Of course he isn't alright. He realized the moment he walked through the door. Maybe even before then. When he saw the light.

"A little pain. I'll get over it, I always do." John pairs it with another tight smile. George thinks that if he were to see that one more time he might just leave.

Still, he nods. "Is there anything I can do?"

He sees John hesitate for a short moment, before shaking his head. He adjusts the pillow, holding it tighter. "No, it's alright. Just head to bed. You've got another early morning tomorrow."

"So do you," George sighs. He steps forward, just an inch. "I can't sleep knowing you're in pain, John." He sounds wrong, too desperate. John goes through this every month, he has for all his life. George doesn't know why he's making this into a bigger deal than it is. "What can I do?"

Now that he knows, it's not like he can pretend it's not there. He can't leave and get into bed and attempt to fall asleep when he knows John is in a couple rooms over, staying up all night, unwillingly. The pain too much to bear.

John sighs, sitting up. He places the pillow to the side. It reveals his midriff from where his t-shirt has been cut off, a patch of hair trailing into his low hanging sweats. George feels himself flush, like a man that's never seen skin before.

"Fine," he grumbles. "Get on over here, then. I don't bite."

It's like everything that was previously holding him back falls away. George takes another step forward, letting John manipulate him until he's laying behind him. His arm is curled tight around John's waist, hand pressed to the soft skin of his lower stomach.

His skin is too hot. He can /feel/ the rough patch of hair leading down John's navel now. Smells the cologne he uses where his nose is nearly pressed to his neck, the subtle scent of sweat through it.

John lets out a soft sigh. He relaxes and shuffles back far enough so there's not an inch between their bodies. His ass pressed against George's crotch. He tries not to think about that.

"Is that good?" George stutters. "Better, I mean. Is that better?"

"A bit," John replies. His hand comes up to clutch George's, sliding it lower. His fingers slip under the waistband of John's sweats.

"A bit?" His voice doesn't sound like his own anymore, in the soft lights splaying across the walls. In the heat radiating from his palm into John, and from John's back into his chest. In the scent of John's shampoo.

John nods, his hair scratching against the mattress. "The warmth helps. And the pressure. It feels nice."

"Has it always been this bad?" George asks. The need to talk is overwhelming. Should he not, he would think about the fact John feels so warm against him. The way his body fits so perfectly. The way his fingers are beneath the waistband of his sweats, like that is normal.

The urge to /touch…/ It's nearly too much. In measures he's never felt it before.

He feels awful for it. Knowing he's thinking thoughts like that while John's in pain. It's like a betrayal.

John hums, his fingers trailing over George's knuckles. "It got worse, I guess. After my first go at Welton. College would've been absolute Hell if not for—" He cuts himself off, a short laugh. "Never mind that. I learned how to deal with it."

"If not for what?" George asks. He wants to lean over and look at him, but doesn't want to disrupt the position, if John has finally found some relief.

For a long, agonizing moment, John is quiet. "George?" he asks, like he hasn't had monopoly on his attention from the moment he walked into his room.

"What is it?" He finds the confidence to gently stroke his thumb over John's stomach. It makes him shiver.

When John talks next, his voice comes out rough. Almost desperate. "Stop me if… If it's too much. Okay?"

Before George can question him, his hand is being moved again. Slid lower, into the tight confines of John's underwear.

His heart stops. Because his hand isn't on John's stomach at all anymore. This can't be called that. "Is this…" John trails off. They don't move. They don't breathe.

"Yes," George sighs. The edge of the pad John's wearing is scratchy against the back of his hand, but he doesn't mind it much. Less, actually, than he assumed he might. Not that he'd ever thought about this before.

It's all a background thought. The only thing that's truly on his mind is the fact that he can feel him. Feel the hair on his pussy, the warmth of it. The thought alone makes him chub up in his underwear.

John huffs a nervous laugh, grasping George's hand more firmly. They move clumsily together, both still trying to figure out /what/ it is they're doing exactly.

A hitch of breath when John guides two of George's fingers to slide between his folds. Hot and slightly sticky. He takes a deep breath as John circles his clit with George's fingers, taking his hand away and letting George continue on his own.

"It helps the pain," he explains, voice breathy as George rubs him. It feels like an out of body experience. It feels like walking empty halls late at night. It feels like being at Welton during the summer, all alone.

"What else?" George asks, finds his voice just as breathy as John's had been. He presses his lips against his neck, where it's flushed red. His cock is hard and straining in his pants. John must feel it, but he doesn't say a word. As long as he doesn't, George won't either.

"Lower," John stutters out. "Inside. If— You don't—"

Before he can say more, George slides his fingers lower, finding his core and working two fingers inside the slick hole. It's warm and wet and slightly alien, but his cheeks are hot and he can't help his hips from twitching forward, dick grinding softly against John's ass.

"Fuck," John gasps as George presses his palm to his clit while spreading his fingers inside. "That's good, that's— Fuck."

George can't help but chuckle at that. "Now don't tell me I've finally found a way to make you speechless, John."

"Shut up, shut up." John grinds forward into his palm. His breathing is coming quicker, one of his hands trying to join George's inside his underwear. When he finds it's a too tight fit he grumbles before pushing his sweatpants and boxers over his ass.

The fact that George is incapable of /looking/ is making him lose his mind. He's never wanted something more. "John," he mumbles.

Another hand bumps against his own, an irregular pattern where John is chasing after his orgasm. George pushes a third finger inside his hole, pressing his teeth into the skin of his shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, not hard enough to even leave an imprint but John is throwing his head back with a moan that's just slightly too loud as he comes on George's fingers.

"Shit," he gasps, his hand slowing down. "Fuck— Fuck." He clutches George's wrist with sticky fingers.

George swallows. He doesn't— There is no way he's going to forget that. There is no way they can just go back to being friends after that. "Was… Did that help?"

There's a loud, squelching sound as John pulls George's fingers from his pussy. He feels the blood drip down his fingers, over his wrist. It must fall to the bed, but he doesn't have time to think about that with the way John captures his lips in a hungry kiss.

It's messy and uncoordinated and George slips his tongue inside and grips John's hip to pull him closer despite all the blood.

"Fuck me." John presses the words against his lips. "Fuck me, please." His hand reaches down to cup George's erection, sending a shiver through his body. The touch makes him gasp, as little as it is.

"Alright, alright." George pushes against his shoulder, blinking the stars from his vision. If he lets John touch him for a moment longer he might come in his trousers like some teenager. "Are you sure?"

John licks his lips. His eyes are all pupil, cheeks flushed as he looks down at George. "Yes. Please."

Gorgeous. That's how John looks right now. Like teenage rebellion and sex and coffee straight from a hot pot. "Okay," George sighs. There's no way to deny him, there never has been. It's only now that he realizes the heft of the situation.

John shoots him a smile. Not tight lipped but almost giddy. He slides off the bed and shoves his pants all the way down his legs, not bothering to take his shirt off before he's back and swinging a leg over George's thighs.

Blood smears over his pants. The only thing he can think about is the fact that means John's hole is right there. So close to where he wants it to be. So… out in the open. Bared, for him.

And he can look now. Down between their bodies at the dark hair, streaked with red. He can barely tear his eyes away. Watches the blood on his thighs.

He's long done caring about getting messy. Honestly, he wants to. He wants to leave looking bloody and satisfied. If John wasn't so sure about wanting to get fucked, he might have eaten him out instead.

It's been a long time since he felt this way for someone. So undeniably messed up. So aroused. John could tell him to do about anything and he'd just go along with it, no questions asked.

"What?" He laughs, grinding down against George's bulge and pressing a wet kiss into his neck. He throws his head back, gasping as he grips John's hips. "Am I boring you?"

"No. Never." His eyes roll when John starts sucking a mark into his neck, swirling his hips. He'd never known a bit of over the clothes grinding could feel so hot. He knows that there will be a stain on the front of his pants after this. Red where John pressed his pussy against him. "We should…" he gasps. "Condom?"

That John manages to reduce him to this. A mess that can't even form a sentence.

John only laughs again, his breath hot against George's neck. He digs through his nightstand for a moment, never stopping his torturous motions, before he emerges with a condom.

It feels like a dream. All of it does. From the moment he entered the room. It has that same quality, the low, warm light. The way John smiles at him, in a way he never would before. Not anywhere /but/ his dreams.

It's not a dream, though. He knows that for certain, because John is working open the button on his pants and not wasting any time before taking his dick out.

That feels foreign too. The way John's rough hand grips him, working him from the base up, dragging his thumb over the head and collecting pre-cum. Only to pop his finger into his mouth and suck at it, eyes lidded.

There's a nervous energy about him. Or not… Not nervous exactly. It's more like excitement. And George knows he doesn't have anything to be ashamed of, but he still feels a boost of confidence knowing John wants him. Even now.

He gives him another small smile before he slides the condom over his cock with enough expertise to make George both afraid and thrilled. "Are you ready?"

His throat is dry as he nods, looking up at John as he lowers himself on his cock. His heat slowly closes around him. So hot and slightly slippery with blood. John lets out a long sigh, his hands gripping George's shoulders as he lets the last few inches slip inside.

"Shit, that's good." He drops his forehead against his shoulder. George's dick is settled fully inside his pussy. It's… It's a strange sensation. Not because it feels all that much different, but because he /knows/ it is. He might be a little too into the whole blood thing, but if he is, he doesn't care.

It's addictive.

He holds John's hips tightly. Just to have something to ground himself with. He doesn't push or force, just letting John sit on his dick and breathe through it. "Is it…" George starts. He's never been one for dirty talk, but he just— he just wants to know.

"It's so good," John mumbles, his lips brushing over his neck. "So good. Feels so full. It's so—" He huffs a breath, coming out from his hiding place and looking at George. He pulls one of his hands away to place it over his own stomach, pressing down in that same spot George had earlier. "Makes me feel better. It's— I don't know how to explain it."

"Speechless?" George jokes.

"Shut up." John rolls his eyes before grinding down onto his cock. "It's your turn."

George keeps a hold of John's hips as he pushes himself up. His cock is red where it reveals inch after inch. He barely has time to look before John drops himself back down with a moan that might wake the entire dorm.

It's instinct, the way George slaps a bloody hand over his mouth. All he gets is another muffled moan as John speeds up, spearing himself down onto his cock. He lets his eyes slide closed, brows furrowing. George can't stop looking at him.

"Fuck," John groans, barely audible.

"You're making a mess." George swallows, looking down at the red spreading over his cock, the edges of his trousers. The sheets. Everywhere he exists is red. George wants to taste him. "Fuck, baby."

John moans louder. His movements are frantic now, short bounces and grinds like he's trying to chase his pleasure but can't quite get there on his own. It's hot. George's heart clenches at the sight. He can help.

Thrusting his hips up, George takes over. He uses the grip he has on John's hip to pull him down against him, grinding up /hard./ His eyes flit from John's face to where his dick disappears inside him to the hand, still covered in blood, clasped over his mouth.

John pulls at his wrist, and despite wanting him to stay quiet, George lets him speak. "Kiss me," John mumbles, already leaning forward. He grinds down when George thrusts up, licking into his mouth.

The blood smears between their lips. Iron and desire. George sucks at his tongue, lapping up all that he can get. He can feel himself approaching his climax rapidly. Much more rapidly than he ever manages on his own.

Their kiss turns clumsy. Clashing teeth and mouths wet with saliva as they slide together. Their breath mingling.

"John." His voice is gruff, coated with desire. "Come with me." The words are muffled when John bites at his bottom lip, but he's nodding, grinding harder.

"Yes," he says, voice strained. His hands slide up, into George's hair and pulling like he needs something to hold on to. "Feels so good, fuck—" John gasps and then he's clenching around him, walls fluttering as he moans against George's lips.

It's too loud again. George doesn't care, all he cares about is that his boy is feeling good and no longer in pain.

Only a few more thrusts and George is spilling into the condom, holding John close as they sway together. They're both riding out their orgasms until John falls against his chest, breathing heavy.

They stay like that for a while. It's slightly uncomfortable with the way George has gone soft, but John is silent and his breathing quiets after a while. It's all worth it.

"We should shower, change the sheets." George is running a hand up and down John's back. A natural progression of things.

He doesn't know what the etiquette is, for something like this. Whether he's just supposed to go back to his own room and pretend like nothing happened. Pretend like he'll be able to think about anything else, ever. He would, if John told him to. He certainly doesn't want to overstay his welcome.

"Fuck that," John mumbles. He pulls himself off George's cock, taking care of the slippery red condom with shaky hands and throwing it towards the trash can. "Stay the night. Carpe diem?"

And George nods. He lets John pull him close again, arm tight around his waist. They sleep beneath ruined sheets. Wake up a bloody mess. George has never felt lighter.