Faceless Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/29428380 Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings Category: M/M Fandom: Minecraft (Video Game) , Video Blogging RPF Relationship: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF) Character: Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF) , GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF) , Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF) , Minx | JustAMinx (Video Blogging RPF) , Niki | Nihachu , Alexis | Quackity , Luke | Punz , Sam | Awesamdude (Video Blogging RPF) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Prostitution , Anonymous Sex , Rough Sex , Dirty Talk , Pet Names , Spanking , Overstimulation , Blow Jobs , Hand Jobs , Sexting , Biting , Choking , Phone Sex , Porn With Plot , Masturbation Stats: Published: 2021-02-14 Words: 23616 Faceless by zonegoose Summary George is a worker at a high-end, secretive bordello named 'Faceless:' coined for the policy that every visitor and employee has to wear fully covering, customized masks at all times to conceal identities. As a coveted member, George has gotten used to handling arrogant men with 'big money' and even bigger attitudes, but his newest client begins to undo everything he thought he knew about himself. A man, who goes by the name: 'Dream.' - “No taking off your mask, or mine. No contact of mouth to skin. No use of harmful items that can puncture or wound. No advancement without proper preparation. Any attempts to contact me outside of this room will be interfered with by our protective services. No names,” he recites. “No questions. No faces." Notes Hi hi! super long work for me, but I hope you enjoy. Few things about this au for clarity: - All masks are customized, so George's looks something like this sketch my friend designed, definitely helps with visualizing it :) - Dream's mask looks along the lines of this - The rules inside 'Faceless' are no face revealing, mouths/kissing, sharing of personal info, breaking any contracts or doing things that aren't apart of the pre-registration for appointments TW: there is some briefly mentioned, past non-con material around the 14k word mark. Nothing heavy or graphic at all but figured I should preface it anyway. See the end of the work for more notes Dark swaths of red curtains sway idly as George traces a lazy finger over the fabric folds. If he extended the forearm his cheek is resting on, he could tug the drapes from the wall, and wrap himself to sleep in minutes. The clientele has been slow moving and entirely unexciting today. After working at the high-end bordello for the past year and a half, he’s begun to be requested for midweek hours. Not that he minds the sweet visitors who seem to want conversations more than a handjob, but he tends to miss the flashy, rigorous energy of weekend nightlife. He’s hardly been ‘wow-ed’ in over two months. His coworkers call them dry-spells, but there’s been nothing dry about it. He sighs against the warm skin of his arm. Five minutes have ticked by despite there being no clocks—he’s gotten pretty good at counting in his head to pass the time—and still no sign of his next appointment. They’d requested he pose on the flat, cushioned surface that he has gotten to know very well; face down, back arched, hips raised. Lace sinks light patterns into his knees as he shifts his weight, again. The position is a nice stretch, but the warm air and low red light swirling around his head is tempting his eyes to slide shut. He’s fallen asleep before, several times. It’s become a ‘thing’ passed around the gossip of their institution—who can keep Room 404 awake? Who can tell beneath those goggles if his eyes are ever open? George does love the anonymity. It’s what drew his younger self to apply for the transfer in the first place—never seeing who is touching him, knowing they can’t trace him down, that everything stays in the masked rooms and hidden buildings. Although; cleaning the light sweat that collects in his full-face cover, and having to occasionally de-smudge the heavily tinted lenses he can barely see through, does edge on his nerves sometimes. But the sex is good, and the money is great . He’s given benefits and endless amounts of financial freedom, since the only members who can schedule appointments at the institution have to be at the top of the food chain. When rich men have everything, they’re always left wanting more. George blinks blearily behind his dark goggles. The shapes of the room—the half-bed, the low couch, the minibar—are nearly indistinguishable. Blind as a bat. He clicks his tongue absently. He hears the door open, and perks up quickly to re-grasp his slipping professionalism. A light breeze from the black hallway brushes over the back of his thighs, and as always, he resists the urge to shiver. “Well,” a low voice says from behind him, and it mingles with the soothing darkness, “hello there.” George tilts his head towards the door. He can make out a silhouette; tall and broad. The door slides shut with a gentle click, his posted security guard locking the outside routinely. “Welcome,” George says. Once he hears the last bolt slide into place, he speaks again, “You took your time coming to see me.” Something is hung on the coat rack. Shoes slowly step across the muffled floor. “Ah, yes. Had to sign a few more waivers.” The soft timbre of the stranger’s voice seeps into the air, as his presence draws closer. “I did hate the thought of keeping you waiting.” George hums lightly, lost as to why chills begin to raise across his skin. “Is this your first time visiting ‘Faceless?’” “It is.” “Lucky me,” George says. The stranger chuckles; a deep, warm sound. “Though I am legally required to bore you with a refresher of our rules here, before we begin.” “Keep talking,” the man replies, patiently. “These should be the same as what your documents stated,” he begins. “No taking off your mask, or mine. No contact of mouth to skin unless oral is specifically requested in your pre-logs. No use of harmful items that can puncture the skin, unless specifically requested in your pre-logs. No advancement without proper preparation. Any attempts to contact me outside of this room will be interfered with by our protective services.” “Noted.” George stretches slightly, flexing his ankles where they’re pressed into the end of the platform. “No names,” he recites. “No questions. No faces.” The tackiest thing ever, scrawled in green ink on all of our advertisements. “Hm.” A warm hand surprisingly settles on George’s calf. “What should I call you, then?” “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” George says. The stranger’s touch slowly rises up his stockings, hooking at the bend of his knee. “Is there a name you’d like me to call you?” Fingertips ghost up the back of George’s thigh. Nails catch slightly on the soft fabric, and his breath hitches. “Dream,” the client murmurs. His palm slowly spreads over the lace covering George’s ass. “Call me Dream.” “Dream,” George voices to test the word, but it comes out as an unexpected sigh. Dream’s other hand settles at the base of George’s spine. “That’s it,” he coos gently, warm fingers sliding up his bare back. “Just like that.” George feels his cheeks warm at the tilt to his words, progressively wondering why, on a Wednesday , at two in the afternoon , he’s falling into what could be mistaken for excitement. Dream’s touch pauses between George’s narrow shoulder blades, then glides over to the crook of his shoulder. “Four-oh-four?” George’s teeth find his bottom lip beneath his mask to hold back a wince. He normally covers up the numbered tattoo for new clients, since the bordello’s regulars know to not spread identifying information past the secretive walls. Moments like these make him regret ever letting the pink- haired floor dancer anywhere near him with her tattoo gun. “Yes,” he says, and Dream reads him. He feels Dream lean over his body, voice suddenly much closer and warmer than before. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I won’t tell.” The rumble to his words caresses George’s ears, slipping through the darkness like a whispered secret. George leans his hips back in hopes of touching the stranger’s thighs. “You’ve got quite the silver tongue, don’t you?” Dream’s fingers skim down George’s sides, running his palms over the cool skin. George can feel him learning. “Would you rather I not be so nice?” Dream’s hand slides around George’s waist, and brushes across his lower stomach. George’s half-bulge concealed in dark underwear twitches, slightly. “You’re putting me to sleep.” “Oh,” Dream says, tugging George’s hips against his own sharply, “you have an attitude .” A breath escapes George’s lips. The live wire in him begins to sing. “Isn’t that why you picked me?” Dream hums. He pushes his hips flush against the lace of George’s asscheeks. “I heard you liked talk.” His fingers curl into skin and bones. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.” “You’re boring,” George says, because it’s the least bored he’s beginning to feel in months. Dream laughs lightly. He moves his large hand to palm George’s hard-on through the thin material. “Oh, am I?” George’s eyes flutter under the touch, grinding slowly against the sturdy bulge nudging the curve of his ass. “M-mhm.” “Look at you,” Dream breathes. He pulls his hand away to rub circles on George’s pale skin. “Getting all desperate.” His face burns, fingers curling into the cushions by his head as Dream strokes the length of his inner thigh. The path is tantalizing, and slow. “You’re one to talk,” George forces his mouth to work, once again pushing back on the erection pinned against him. “Trying so hard to fuck me already.” Dream hips jerk, the tent in his pants brushing briefly between George’s asscheeks, and a short breath escapes them both. Fuck “I think you want me to have you,” his voice scrapes low, fingers hooking into the top of George’s stockings and underwear. “Sounds like you’re used to not being treated the way you fucking should.” He feels his breath shallowing against the fabric table, rebounding into his nose. He fights the urge to spread his knees. “I’ve had plenty of clients who’ve done a whole lot better than you, by now.” His clothes are torn down to his knees instantly, and he can’t stop the breathy noise that rushes from his throat. Ass bare, face hot; he can feel the length of his hard cock hanging between his exposed stomach and thighs. Dream wraps a hand around him. George bites back another sound. “We’ll see how you feel when I’m done with you,” he says, the strain in his voice tipping into a sultry hiss. “You’re going to think about me. You’re not going to stop thinking about me.” He slowly slides his hand up and down George’s flushed cock. “Y-you—you’re—” George’s breath shudders when Dream’s other hand brushes a finger over his exposed hole. “I’m what?” Dream echoes, and George catches wind of the amusement in his voice. “You’re an—” His body tips helplessly into Dream’s hands as his warm fingers rub around his rim. “An asshole .” George hears the indistinguishable sound of a metal zipper gliding apart. “Filthy,” Dream mutters, “mouth.” He pushes an unexpected, spit-ridden finger past George’s ring of muscle. George feels himself melt around the sturdy knuckles, face sinking against the cushioned surface as Dream slowly works him open. His mind is somehow present enough to make a comment when the spit dries, and he directs Dream to the nearby table an arms length away. He waits for Dream to select something from the wide array of lube and toys and lotion. He hears a disapproving sound. “What, don’t have your favorite?” George mocks, panting slightly. Dream pushes on his upper back with a strong, flat palm. His chest sinks further against the table. “Yes,” Dream admits. The plastic cap of his lube of choice pops open in the dim-lit room. “Sorry to disappoint,” George says, but it dissolves into breathlessness when slick fingers push into him again. “Keep apologizing,” Dream teases, pulsing his touch in deep, “I like that.” “N-no,” George manages to force out before his voice disappears in a high moan, his neglected cock tensing as Dream finds the bundle of nerves that makes him see white. “‘No?’” Dream’s fingers brush again over the sensitive spot that makes George’s thighs jerk beneath him. “I don’t like being told, ‘no.’” The muscles in George’s back burn with how much he’s arching for Dream, stomach low, falling back into his hands. Between heavy breaths, he repeats, “ no. ” Dream retracts his fingers from George, suddenly leaving him empty. A soft whine tears itself from his throat. His hidden cheeks burn red as it rings out into the room. Betrayal Dream shushes him, gently. The sound skitters condescendingly across George’s skin. “You want to use your words, pretty boy?” George’s nails dig into the velvet blanket beneath him. The stupid, fucking name shouldn’t nestle under his skin like this. “I—I...” Fumbling, he squeezes his eyes shut. It’s just a fucking Wednesday, George. What is going on? He hears the ripping of a plastic wrapper from behind him. His body sags physically at the sound. “I need you,” he whispers, the words falling from him like an open, rushing river. “I need you to fuck me. Please fuck me. Please. Please. Plea—” Dream groans, low, at the neediness wrapped in the chords of George’s voice. A heavy hand clasps onto George’s ass. “Keep begging, baby. You have no idea how good that sounds.” George feels his weakening thighs trembling with anticipation, aroused and cock leaking more than he has in months. For once, he’s alive “Please, Dream,” he breathes, palms pushing into the table to lean back farther into Dream’s touch. “I’ll do anything, I—I want it.” The realization wracks through him, overwhelming, tightening his throat. “I want it.” It’s been so long since he’s wanted anything He feels Dream’s wrapped cock lower, and plop down against his tailbone between his spread asscheeks. The wind leaves his lungs. It’s heavy “Dream.” It’s big. “Say it,” Dream’s gravely voice nears a guttural growl, “one more time.” “Fuck me,” George begs, breathless. Weightless. “ Please .” Dream’s dick slides back, before he pushes his slick tip against George’s lubed entrance. A deep breath escapes his broad frame as he slowly spreads him open, sinking inside. He pushes till he bottoms out. George can feel the warmth of his hips and thighs pressed against his own skin. There’s a moment where Dream lightly taps on his lower back, a small question; you ready? George rocks his hips against him in response. The moan that leaves Dream’s chest is sinful. His fingers dig into George’s waist, and he begins to thrust slowly. “So gentle,” George spills between sharp breaths. “S-so— ah —weak.” Dream’s nails rake into George’s skin, hips snapping into him sharply. “Shut up.” “When I told you—to fuck me—” George digs his heels in the back of Dream’s thighs, moaning quietly as the pace begins to quicken. “I meant fuck me. C-come on, Dream.” “Not enough?” Dream’s words bite harshly. “God.” His thrusts grow forceful. “What a little slut .” George doesn’t hide the noise of pleasure that wracks through his body under the blunt name. Dream listens. His strong hands grip tight as he pushes his cock into George, over and over again. His hips slap against George’s ass, the sound filling the air, tangled with their moans and George’s whimpers and urgent pleas. It feels like the loudest wake-up call George has received in months. For once, when he’s getting the life fucked out of him in the dark, stuffy room, George makes sure his eyes are wide open. - A light hum of muffled voices and faint music floats from the television screen. George’s head tips back to thump against the gray cushions of his couch. His eyes trace the beams criss crossing on the high ceiling. Dark wood stretches above him. Hard wood stirs under his palm. An irritated groan leaves his lips, eyes falling back down to his T.V where some half-assed sitcom laughs at him through the speakers. He’d been watching the semi-interesting plot of the episode unfold, but his attention floated away the moment their dialogue slowed. Again. It’s been four days since he’s been at work. His shifts lightened, almost to mock him, right when he’d wanted to be working the most. Four days since Dream touched him. Grabbed him. Fucked him. He thinks about how the low-voiced stranger left him there, without any trace of a goodbye, ruined and wordless on the half-bedded table. He continuously replays the image in his head; Dream’s dark silhouette disappearing through the open door without a moment's hesitation, watching light leave again as it swung closed behind him. George can hardly find the words to understand how he felt. Overstimulated. Empty. Withering. Craving He hates it. He’s never felt it from work, before, though he’s had clients who he’s preferred and appointments he’d get excited for. Very rarely does it follow him home, keep him up late at night, drag his attention away from his television shows because he’s hard again thinking of Dream’s hands and voice. His slender fingers brush tiredly over the hard-on in his sweats. It’s not the first time he’s thought of touching himself to the days-old memories. Trapped in his lofty apartment, lounging in cozy clothes while longing for lace and silk, he can’t escape his own head. You’re going to think about me He palms himself slowly, embarrassed at the excited warmth that blooms in his stomach. You’re not going to stop thinking about me Dream was right. Absolutely, terrifyingly right. George has been at the mercy of his heightened sex drive for long nights, and long showers. It’s unlike anything he’s felt before. After just one taste of those hands, that dick, his voice —George is hooked. At least , he thinks, hand slipping under his waistband, I have work in a few days. His next shift comes by impossibly slow. A small, automated voice reviews the itinerary that he can’t read when wearing his goggles. He leans against the dark oak door, and sighs, the back of his head thumping on the frame. Punz gives him a nod. The top half of his face is covered by a skeletal design, while the bottom disappears into a steam-punk gold, made of bolts and curving metal. He shifts through the keys looped on his metal ring. “Nothing good?” George steps out of the way to give him access to the locks, storing the tablet in a sleeve hanging on the wall. “Just regulars. Not feeling it today.” The door swings open. “Sorry for doing this, again. I need to stop letting Nihachu distract me.” He’d paused to chat in her dressing room as he usually does after checking the schedule logs, and left his keys on her vanity when adjusting her lipliner. Since his first day of working there, they’d sought each other out, even through the difference of their jobs. Nihachu lives with elegance, beauty, pink outfits and expensive dancing. George’s stage is his leather couch, on the lap of a well-paying man, whispering whatever filthy things he needed to get by. Even their masks of choice illustrate the difference. A rosé, Venetian-style covering curves cat- eyed over the bridge of Nihachu’s nose, dazzled with bows and beads. The lower half of her face is hidden beneath a glittering curtain, sheer enough to see the soft curve of her lips, jeweled enough to keep the rest of her a secret. George’s goggles rest dark and cloudy beneath his brow, clunky and Lovecraftian. From his nose down to where a zipper begins below his chin, is a mesh, black fabric. The zip extends from the base of his neck to his jaw, securing the fabric for even the roughest of days. The friendly hearts of the dancers help George breathe, sometimes. Nihachu has returned his blue 404 keys on more days than George likes to remember, either with her own hands, or more often through his tired security team. Punz laughs. “That floor has a way of doing that. And don’t worry about it, man. Let me know if you have any trouble.” George parts from him with quick words of gratitude, and retreats to the room he amusedly calls his ‘office.’ He traces over the cushioned bed he’s laid on hundreds of times, and rolls his eyes when he thinks of Dream, standing behind him, thighs pressed to the edge as his groans tore through the room. When his regulars filter in over the course of the day, he finds himself hoping, the tiniest amount, that a certain stranger with strong hands and a soothing voice would walk in instead. Days pass with similar blandness. He falls asleep, and is slapped awake once. Work floats by him as usual, new positions, same hands, more money and sweet compliments. He’s told he’s pretty; he’s made to feel good. After enough hours of adjusting his goggled mask, sneaking breaks to visit the dancer’s floor, conversing idly with security stationed in the hall—he gives up on the idea of his favorite stranger ever coming back. Nearly a week after their first meeting, George moseys in his room during another particularly slow day. His client from hours before had drained nearly all of the whiskey bottles in his mini- fridge. He crouches by the cool opening, and tuts in disdain. He unzips his mask to tip the last, amber- colored shooter down his throat, and tosses it in the trash. Should probably text Quackity for a restock , he notes to himself. The loose-lipped bartender three floors down loves to give George the worst brands he can find, only when George doesn’t comply with being his test-bunny for experimental cocktails. More bottles for his room means committing to a night of suspiciously rum-ridden drinks. He sidles back onto the bed, propping himself up on his knees. He readjusts his mask before sinking his face against the red cushions. He waits, mind wandering dazedly. The door opens. He doesn’t turn to look. It slides shut, followed by several exterior locks falling into place. “Hi, sweetheart,” comes the warm greeting of the client. “Did you miss me?” George’s body reacts immediately at the sound of Dream’s voice. The pulse in his chest and throat flares, blood rushing to blossom on his cheeks. Sudden elation rises in him so quickly that he nearly forgets to speak. “I should’ve known it was you,” George says, arching his back to further put his lingeried ass on display. His heart pounds. “Only you ask to see me like this.” Come closer, he wants to whisper. Come touch. The coat rack complains. He hears the sound of fabric being pushed up forearms. “Mm.” Dream’s tone drops playfully, “I ask, because you’re made for it.” George’s eyes flutter. “Am I?” His fingers itch to curl into the blanketed foundation beneath him. His head swims with the recollection of the week before, the size of Dream’s body and the way he filled every inch of him. He sinks his teeth into his lip to hide the changing patterns of his breath. Dream hums. A warm hand settles on the side of George’s waist. His body tenses in surprise, seemingly unaware of when Dream had moved towards him. “You make it look so comfortable,” Dream teases lightly. “All bent over, for me.” “It’s hardly for you.” Dream’s hand squeezes his side; a warning. A breath escapes George’s lips. “Still razor-sharp, I see.” Dream settles both hands on George’s ass. “If only you could see yourself like this. So small, so patient.” He explores the thinly-veiled flesh with sprawled fingers, nails biting in. “So pretty .” Before he can stop himself, George leans back heavy into Dream’s touch. His knees spread. His body aches. “Oh,” Dream breathes. “Someone’s excited.” George wants to recoil with a bitter response, but he is desperate for every millisecond of contact between Dream’s hands and his skin. He hangs his head down, forehead resting on the table. “Yes,” he murmurs, unsure why it comes out so hollow. So obvious. Dream slowly pulls George’s thighs back, pressing his hips up against him. “Did you miss me?” he repeats, but there’s no trace of amusement anymore. It’s a dark question, made for their dark room, and George’s even darker secrets. He screws his eyes shut, and whispers, “Yes, sir.” Dream lets out a low huff. “How often did you think of me?” A quiet sound passes through George’s lips, unwinding at the hands traveling up his back. “I couldn’t stop,” he confesses. “I’d close my eyes, and you were there. I kept touching myself just to get that feeling back, and—and when I let them fuck me, I wished it was you. I couldn’t stop wishing it was you.” “Jesus.” Dream’s hand slides down his front, to cup the throbbing erection in George’s underwear. “ Jesus . You’re already a mess, baby.” “Tell me you wanted me,” George finds himself saying, cheek pressing into the soft mesh of his mask as he feels his restraint slipping. Dream’s fingers rub over the precum soaking through his fabric. “Tell me you thought about me, too.” “Oh, I did, ” Dream assures. His large body drapes over George’s frame, head hanging closer to George’s ear than it ever has before. The cool surface of his mask bumps George’s shoulder. “I couldn’t get you off my fucking mind.” George arches underneath him to desperately press their bodies together. A sturdy forearm snakes around his waist; he’s pulled in tight. “I tried to stay away,” Dream says. His taut arm is trembling against George’s stomach. “I tried so badly to forget about you. You and your noises—” His fingers dig into George’s ribs, tearing out a soft cry. “Your thighs. Your hips. The—the way you shook when I fucked you.” George moves his hips against him helplessly. He wants to share the taste of whiskey on his tongue. “But I couldn’t just have you once,” he growls. His fingers suddenly tangle in George’s hair. “I needed more. You needed more.” He yanks sharply, and George’s mouth falls open in a broken moan. They quickly descend down a crazed, filthy path. George wants to burn every grab and stroke into his present mind, but the way that Dream touches him makes memory fall away. Their movements are frenzied and furious; George knows he is moaning and exposed, knows Dream is shoving fingers inside of him, but he feels reduced to a place of truly knowing nothing at all. He does know that he’s embarrassed after Dream lets him adjust to his covered cock, because the sound that leaves his throat on the first thrust is loud Dream thrusts again. George stifles it. His head tips back in the tight grip Dream has on his brown locks. “Don’t,” Dream grits, “be quiet. You’re going to let me hear you. Okay?” He slowly draws himself out, the tip of the condom resting just inside George’s rim, before he drives in again. “Dream,” George whines, hand rising to clasp at the wrist pinned to his hair. His hips snap. “Louder.” George’s body trembles as he opens his mouth, but no noise comes out. He rocks back into Dream’s thrusts, crazed, trying to make him reach the deep place that his own fingers haven’t been able to graze in their time apart. A heavy, flat hand smacks into George’s ass. He moans and his muscles clench around Dream in shock. His skin begins to sting where the harsh fingers rapped against him. Dream spanks him again. “ Louder .” George cries out Dream’s name with so much force that it scrapes in his throat. He can’t stop the flurry of noises that spill from his lips, sensitive to every jerk of Dream’s body and slap of his hand. His scalp aches. His ass hurts. Dream’s cock finds and abuses George’s prostate with deep, unrelenting thrusts, making his jaw slack and eyes loll beneath the murky goggles. “Again,” George pleads. Dream’s hand claps down against him. He whines. “ Again .” “Slut,” Dream hisses. He lets go of George’s hair, causing his face to drop into the bed. “Can never get enough.” His thumb slips past George’s rim, shoving inside and stretching him even more as he slams in and out. “Little whore .” “I’m—I’m—” George’s words muffle; his moans take control. Dream grunts, and bends over the table he’s already slung one knee upon. The noise sounds clearer than before, as if freed from a blocking layer. The undone buttons of his shirt shift against George’s back. “Oh yeah, baby?” His hips tweak their angle. He continues between pants, “You gonna cum without my hands on you?” “Please, let me,” is all George can force out, muscles tensing as he feels himself pushed closer and closer. With every thrust, Dream’s chest falls against George’s small back. He feels Dream’s breath blow on his skin, hot and heavy. A startled gasp escapes him. “Your—your—” “It’s on,” Dream assures. His words brush across George’s neck. “Still on. Just needed to— fuck — breathe.” George reaches up to check, fingers brushing the ceramic, finding the clasp still intact on the back of Dream’s hair. Still on, just partially. George feels blind, on the verge of euphoria, and chases something wrong. He tugs Dream’s head down, sinking his forbidden lips against the skin of his own shoulder. Dream moans, and the vibrations skitter across George’s masked neck. George locks his shaking fingers in Dream’s soft hair, begging for more. The fire in him burns impossibly bright. He can’t recall the last time he had someone's lips on him. Sharp teeth dig into the flesh of George’s shoulder. Dream bites exactly where the tattooed numbers brand his pale skin. George cums immediately, letting out a choked moan. “ Oh .” Dream’s thrusts slow down as tremors wrack through George’s white-hot body. “You’re a dirty little thing.” All George’s head can do is bob helplessly as his body grows limp, cum covering his cock and the sheets he’s brushing on below. His tip pulses through the violent, messy release. Dream continues to pound into his sensitive nerves as if his stall never occurred. His hands soothe George’s sides and ass spanked-red. Not allowed , George’s brain tries to piece together as the overstimulation tears high whines from his throat. His lips. His teeth. Not allowed. “Dream,” he croaks brokenly. His body shifts with every overpowering yank onto Dream’s dick. “A-almost, sweetheart.” Dream groans when George tightens around him, hips beginning to stutter. “Fuck. Almost.” Mind railed into a babbling bliss, George finds himself whispering, “Own me.” His thighs and arms and core tremble as he’s used mercilessly for Dream’s pleasure. “Y-yours. Yours.” Dream’s cum spills into him as his wild thrusts tip, and then slow. The condom catches the warmth, but George can feel the way he throbs, buried deep inside him. He stays, panting. The palms Dream has curled into the table are shaking. “Fucking christ,” he breathes, and George feels him pulling out. “Slower,” he pleads. Dream moves slower. When he’s fully departed and tugging off the condom, George sinks into the bed. Completely spent, he lets his chest rise and fall against the warm, dirtied blankets. His brain is tattered. His heart pounds. “Perfect,” George murmurs, because he doesn’t know what else could capture what they’d just done. He hears the condom drop into the waste bin. This is the part where the clients grow silent; zip up their pants, re-adorn their coats, knock on the door and part without a single word. George is familiar with this moment. He lives in it. He owns it. Because it’s where he’s reminded it’s always just a job, just a check—the humanity of connection slips by him when he recognizes the clients hardly see him as human at all. Dream left, last time. He left, George cleaned, and the next client did the same—just as everyone else. George’s lids flutter shut under the dark goggles. Warm fingers gently settle on the base of George’s back. “You’re perfect,” Dream murmurs, and George’s eyes fly wide open. His touch trails up George’s spine, rising a wave of light goosebumps on the skin that he’d clawed minutes prior. He dips into the dark tangles of George’s hair, tracing with what feels like an apology over the locks that he’d tugged on. His thumb brushes over the clasps at the base of his skull that keep George’s mask on tight. George cannot form words to navigate the foreign feelings stirring in his gut. His mouth, his bite. He feels himself sigh when Dream lingers on the teeth marks. His touch. His kindness. And then he’s gone—crossing the room and tapping knuckles to the door and disappearing before George has the half-mind to lift his head and watch. The door shuts. George stares at the dark frame, and all he can think about is ‘ dirty little thing.’ - “Have you ever served a customer who goes by ‘Dream?’” George asks, guiding the plastic straw in his hands to twirl the ice in his glass. Quackity tosses him a black coaster from behind the bar. “Who’s askin’?” George lifts his drink to reset it against the small square, and sighs. It’d been a few days since Dream last visited—he worked for two, moped at home playing memories on repeat for the rest. He had one appointment today that was cut short, as many first-timers are prone to do. They’re all the same, early twenty-somethings with daddy’s money, invited by a powerful uncle but too scared to go farther the moment George asks for it rough. He could’ve gone home, but found himself accompanying his favorite bartender instead. “Just me,” he replies, taking a sip of the rum-saturated drink. “He’s a newcomer and I’m just curious about him.” Quackity grins, the motion lifting the bird-like mask that covers the top of his features. “What’s he look like?” “Shut up,” George mumbles. He rubs his jaw—he’d unzipped the lower part of his mask once Quackity assured the bar room was locked during his lunch break—and takes another sip. “If I had to describe, I think the mask is ceramic. It feels rounded. He’s tall. And big. Nice voice, nicer hands.” “Man. Why don’t you just suck this guy’s dick instead?” George rolls his eyes. “I would if I could. His papers are only traditional requests, though.” Quackity tugs a rag into his hands to clean a dripping glass. “When did you say he first showed up?” “Around two weeks ago.” Another cherry is dropped into George’s drink. He smiles gratefully under the bunched up fabric on his nose and cheeks. “There was this dude I hadn’t seen before, who hung out here when I was finishing my midday,” Quackity says. “Could fit your description. I talked to him for a bit before I passed him off to Foxface.” “You know Fundy doesn’t like when you call him that,” George reprimands lightly. He can’t hide the curiosity from his tone. “What did the mask look like?” “Kinda creepy, kinda cool. White with the eyes cut out and some cracked, half-smile.” Quackity flips the cup in his hand idly. “He was super friendly, though. Guy knows how to talk a room.” George hums, his interest piqued. “What’d he drink?” Quackity laughs. “Go ask the check-in for his receipts if you wanna know so bad, Fourhead.” George complains at the nickname, downs the rest of his drink, and relaxes with Quackity until his break is over. He tears himself from the bar and decides to finally leave work for the day. Before he exits, though, he stalls at the check-in reception. Green-haired ‘Awesamdude’ has been working behind the counter on days when the other bouncers cover his shifts, and he waves when he sees George approaching. “Hi, 404,” he greets. “What can I do for you?” George’s fingers drum on the counter, sliding his keycard and chain towards him. “Just leaving.” He glances away from the glass barrier. Awesamdude hangs the dangle of room keys on a hook, and nudges his card back. “You’re all set.” George hesitates before grabbing it. “Thanks.” He tilts his head at George. “You sure there isn’t something else I can help you with?” George bites his cheek, then leans closer to the window. “Yes, actually. I’ve been visited by the same client twice, he says he’s new here and operates under the cognomen ‘Dream.’ I was wondering if he’s a regular member?” He watches as Awesamdude turns to flit through a nearby file cabinet. “Just so I can know when to expect him.” “Floor six, Sunday visit...” Awesamdude mumbles, then his fingers snag on a paper that he draws into the air. “Yeah, I know him. He was invited by Punz.” Awesamdude hands him the yellow slip that George immediately recognizes as a request sheet. Requests? His stomach flips nervously. He requested something? “Twice,” Awesamdude answers for him, seemingly noting George’s rising confusion. “One was a couple days after his first visit, the second just after his last.” George folds the paper in his hands. He’ll read it in the safety of his car, when he’s blocks away from these timeless, stuffy halls. “Thanks, Awesam,” he says. He’s met with another wave and what he assumes would be a smile, if he could see under the dark tangles of his gas mask. George rushes through a goodbye. His mind floats as he makes his way down the winding security halls, secret back doors for employees, and doesn’t stop wondering until he’s seated in the cold shell of his car. Heat slowly leaks through the vents as he waits for the windshield to thaw. His cold fingers reach up to click on the orange, overhead light. He slowly unfolds the request form stored in his bag. REQ. from Mmbr: “Dream.” Schedule and hours of Wrkr in Room #404. George’s cheeks are immediately dusted pink. He feels completely and utterly stupid because of it. He wanted to know my shifts, he thinks. Mine. No one else's. His eyes slip down the page. REQ. from Mmbr: “Dream.” Upon next visit to Room #404, bring— George drops the sheet into the passenger chair. His face burns. He cranks the gear shift into drive. On the one hand, Dream is definitely going to book another appointment, soon. He seems to visit the bordello only when George is working. The elation that stirs in his stomach is red, and consuming. On the other, George is trying to figure out why that excitement is so embarrassing. Why he keeps glancing at the yellow paper in shotgun, eyes flitting from the road in deep distraction. Lube. Lube. The idiot had put in a special request for his favorite type of lube. - George drives to a shop the next day. He’d checked the local employee store of Faceless’ company, but had failed to find the exact brand his client asked for. So he swallowed his unease with visiting a sex store that doesn’t allow full masks to wander through the aisles, and kept searching. Technically, he didn’t have to be the one to buy it. He could easily send a request to a higher up, and have them deliver it to his room before he bats an eye. There are systems in place specifically to keep him from doing things like this. His eyes skim over the toys to his left, wandering down the purple-carpeted aisle while a gentle song floats through the shop. He considers buying one, but can’t get sidetracked. He doesn’t know why he wants to be the one to buy it for Dream. He finds the wall of lubricants and other scented items, and slowly scans it. Dream won’t know the difference if he’s the one who purchased it or not—so why does it matter so much? He stalls, and sighs. After long hours of working, he sometimes finds himself dissociated from seeing human features out in the waking world. When nearly everyone he meets in the sex-scented void is masked and made of fantasies, he tends to lose touch. The shop is busy. He feels strange for continuously averting any other customer’s eyes. It’s always easier when you can’t see their faces , he muses lightly. His gaze snags on familiar words plastered on a bottle. Quickly, he checks his phone to verify it’s the brand he’d searched before coming inside. He crouches to pull it off the shelf. The plastic is cool in his palm, and he studies it before rising again. He takes a step backwards, and bumps into the solid warmth of another customer in the aisle. “Oh, shoot,” he mutters quickly, moving away from them. “So sorry.” Humiliation gnaws at his stomach as he skirts out of the aisle. He longs for the comfort of his mask. With red cheeks and the bottle of lube in hand, he impulsively grabs the boxed toy he’d been eyeing before as he passes the shelf, and hurries to the counter. He leaves with the contents