this also hits on "mess," which someone else asked for. last one for sending in a word here!

George feels like he’s frozen in place, diminutive in Dream’s shadow and wilting from the attention. His heart rate ticks up by more than it should from their proximity: close enough to see the dusting of faint freckles on his shoulders, faded by months of being hidden away from the punishing winter. Dream lays a hand on his own and slightly turns him toward the mirror and he watches in real time as he appears in duplicate, slightly blurred by the soft rolling steam collecting on its glass. But, even with that waterborne haze, it doesn’t take him long to make out the ghost of ravenous teeth and possessive hands.

Marks positively litter his skin: they begin halfway up his neck, then trace down over crooks of bone and webbed sinew, down the planes of his chest and the hollows of his ribs until they worsen dramatically around his hips. He can practically see Dream’s handprints there, his grip so unrelenting and unmerciful last night that he had surely held him by bone. As if sensing his thoughts, the man responsible traces playfully down his sides until he can line up his hands with the damage they had left once more, softly settling in the slim dip there. It is so breathtakingly gentle this time, yet the strain of possession still lingers heavy.

“See? Such a mess.”