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findinghomes · 2 years ago

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Fem!dnf week day two: clothes swap (2k words - fluff, very slight hurt/comfort)

Georgie practically lived out of the first shirt Dream had bought her when she moved to Florida. It was a stupid shirt, from one of the millions of souvenir shops lining the Orlando tourist strip. Dream had rolled her eyes when Georgie said she wanted to go to one of them but had taken her anyways, chin resting on her shoulder as they sorted through the shirts lining the racks.

It only took a moment before Georgie pulled out the ugliest shirt she’d ever seen—an oversized blue tie-dye shirt with a huge shark—and Dream had scoffed, her breath ghosting Georgie’s ear.

“This is kind of epic,” Georgie said, turning her head to grin at her girlfriend.

“That’s…a word for it,” Dream said.

Georgie turned and held the shirt up to herself. “Admit it. It’s epic.”

It was the ugliest thing both of them had ever seen, but it seemed like they were both waiting for the other to back down. Georgie just held the shirt higher, her smile wider.

“Gie—“ Dream began. “Are you sure you don’t want, like, I don’t know, anything el—“

“Nope,” Georgie said. “This is the shirt.”

Dream had sighed, paying for it with a small shake of her head and a hidden smile that only grew when Georgie grabbed the bag from her hand, swinging it between them.

“This is epic,” Georgie said, watching Dream carefully.

Dream only looked ahead and unlocked the car, glancing over briefly but long enough for Georgie to catch her fond smile.

“I love the shirt,” Georgie said, sliding into the passenger seat.

Dream snorted. “You’re never going to wear it.”

“I'm going to live out of it,” Georgie said. “It’ll be the only thing I wear.”

Dream smiled at her, glancing briefly around before leaning across the center console to kiss Georgie’s nose.

“Okay, love,” she said, and Georgie’s cheeks burned. “Seatbelt.”

Georgie did live out of it. It quickly became her favorite shirt, in all of its oversized and obnoxious glory. If it were any other shirt, she probably would’ve quickly lost interest, eventually losing in the pile she was slowly accumulating of the ugliest shirts she could find. But this shirt—

This shirt was the closest thing she had to being Dream’s, long before she ever had access to her closet. And every time she wore it, it felt like laughing in the face of every person who told them they’d fail.

Look, the stupidly large shark said. We made it.

Look, the slowly fading tie dye said. I’m loved.

Besides, the shirt never failed to infuriate Dream every time she saw her wearing it. Every time, she’d scoff and her mouth would make a thin line and Georgie’s chest would expand, her laughter bright as she pulled her partner close.

“What’s wrong?” she’d say every time. “Why are you frowning, Dreamie?”

And Dream would headbutt her with a small pout.

She did live out of it, which was why she was panicking when she couldn’t find it, nearly tearing apart both hers and Dream’s rooms, searching all of the clothes on the ground, hanging, even in the laundry bins.

Nothing.

Her hair had long escaped her messy ponytail, hanging in her face no matter how much she pushed it back, and she was about ready to threaten another haircut to the air when Dream waltzed in, pausing in the doorway with wide eyes.

“What happened?” she asked.

Georgie sighed, fingers pushing back her hair and applying pressure to her scalp. She felt like screaming or crying or even just running into Dream’s arms because how could she fucking lose her favorite thing in the world. It was embarrassing, almost.

“I, um, lost the—“ She broke off, finally turning her full attention to her girlfriend.

Her girlfriend, who was wearing the fucking shirt, tucked in on one corner into a pair of shorts Georgie had never seen before. It fit her much better than it ever did Georgie, but it was still a little big, the seams of the sleeves resting just below her shoulders.

This all made her mind stop, stutter, restart.

“You—“

Her hair was pulled back, small curls framing her face that moved as she tilted her head. She was hiding a smile, Georgie knew. A smile meant to mock her, but she couldn’t seem to connect those dots.

“That’s my shirt.”

“Oh,” Dream said, glancing down. As she did this, the small golden chain matching Georgie’s peeked out from the neckline of the shirt, and it was all Georgie could see. “I didn’t realize this was yours. I just found it in our bathroom, and I put it on.”

Georgie laughed, her arms falling from her hair to her sides. She wasn’t going to get hung up on her wording (and despite this self-reassurance, our bathroom still echoed around her head like a game of pong). “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

Dream’s smile was mischievous. “It’s not a lie.”

Georgie stepped forward, moving into Dream’s space. “It’s a lie.”

“No, it’s not.” Dream shook her head. (Her curls bounced with the movement, Georgie noticed. She tried not to notice. She really did, but god—god.)

Georgie crossed her arms. “How is it not a lie? It’s my shirt.”

“Well, to be fair, it’s our shirt.”

And if Georgie thought our bathroom was life shattering, this was fucking apocalyptical. Her ears were ringing and the chain was even more visible from here and Dream was giving her that one smile.

Georgie couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe and it was all because of a fucking stupidly large shark.

“Our shirt?” she heard herself say. It was maybe supposed to be more judgemental or argumentative, but instead, it felt hollow. Shocked.

Our shirt.

Fuck.

Dream grinned down at her. Checkmate, it said.

And it really seemed like it.

Well, okay, it seemed like it until Georgie developed a plan of her own.

Dream never returned the shirt, and for a week she lived out of it, and although Georgie made sure to complain, she never meant the words she said. And Dream seemed to understand this, keeping that same mischievous smile.

Georgie had never loved her more.

It was terrible.

Not that loving Dream was terrible. No—just the opposite. Dream was everything Georgie loved about the world. She loved her optimism, her kindness, and the way she didn’t care what the world thought, so long as she had her best friends by her side. It was brave and admirable, and Georgie loved to pull her close, kissing her until she laughed just as brightly as Georgie felt around her.

No—it was terrible that all of this was inspired by that ugly shirt. It made her angry and annoyed. (And once, she had asked Sapnap if she could drive them back to the store, just so she could give them a piece of her mind. Sapnap had just looked her up and down and told her good luck.)

So if Dream stole her shirt, she’d steal her clothes, too. And she’d like to say that this plan came to her in a moment of brilliance—that she always knew which of Dream’s buttons to push, but that wasn’t always true.

Instead, it happened by accident.

The accident:

Georgie spilled something on her shirt, went upstairs to Dream’s room (where she’d been spending most nights), and grabbed the first shirt she could find. It was one of Dream’s crop tops, and it had initially felt weird to feel air on her stomach, but it was still large enough to cover most of her skin. When she had put it on, she’d been struck first by the perfume still remaining on the fabric, one that Dream had found while they went shopping one day, asking for Georgie’s opinion. And second by the way it hung loosely across her shoulders. The neckline had always been large, but on Georgie, it was almost enough to slip off her shoulder, exposing not only the chain but also her collarbones.

Dream had choked as soon as Georgie made it down the stairs, and Georgie had raised an eyebrow, fighting off a smile.

“Do you need anything, Dreamie?” Georgie asked, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen. And if the way she leaned exposed more of her stomach, neither of them said anything.

It was like a standoff: Dream in that god-awful shirt that was so big it nearly swallowed her athletic shorts, her hair pulled up in a lazy half-bun, half-ponytail; and Georgie in an oversized plain crop top, chain on full display.

They stared at each other with tired eyes and messy hair.

“No,” Dream said eventually, saying it slowly like she was testing out the word. “There’s nothing.”

Georgie settled on the other side of the counter, leaning her elbows on the cool granite.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

And Dream nodded, a little slow, a little unsure. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Georgie grinned at her, and maybe the grin matched Dream’s a little from the past week—too mischievous and knowing.

Dream reached across the space between them and pulled on Georgie’s wrist until she joined her on the other side of the counter, standing between Dream’s knees as her fingers ran across her exposed hip bones.

Georgie tucked a piece of escaped hair behind Dream’s ear, laughing as Dream leaned into the touch, her eyes closing as Georgie’s hand remained on her cheek. She wore a small smile, and it was one of Georgie’s favorites because it was the kind of smile that suggested she didn’t even know she was doing it. It was just there, out of happiness and infatuation.

And loving Dream had never been easier, as she brought a second hand to her cheek, pushing back her hair until her eyes opened, meeting Georgie’s.

I love you, they said.

And Georgie answered by stumbling closer, pulling Dream into a kiss as soft and slow as her favorite smile of Dream’s. Dream melted into it, smiling slightly into the kiss.

I love you, it said.

And they laughed as they pulled away, Dream kissing Georgie’s face until she was pushing her away. But Dream just grabbed her by her hips, her fingers digging into bare skin, and Georgie would stop fighting.

“Admit it,” Dream whispered, her face too close for Georgie to focus.

“Admit what?” Georgie breathed.

“This shirt is awful.”

Georgie glanced down, staring at the wide, beady eyes of a shark that looked like it belonged on a copy of a dumb action movie, and she smiled.

“I like it,” Georgie answered.

Dream’s nose crinkled, and Georgie couldn’t stop herself from kissing it quickly and lightly.

“It’s not even comfortable.”

“No.” Georgie laughed. “It’s really not.”

Dream shook her head. “Then why—if you agree, why would you? It feels like sandpaper.”

Georgie smiled at her. “Sand.”

This received an eye roll, Dream pushing her back and pulling her back into place just as quickly.

“You’re so dumb.”

“We’re not even close to a beach,” Georgie said, and she continued when Dream gave her a weird look. “Like, I bought the only beach shirt in a non-beach city. That’s kind of epic, if you think about it.”

Dream sighed, resting her forehead on Georgie’s.

“God,” she said, and when enough time had passed that Georgie thought that was all she was going to say, she added, “what am I going to do with you?”

Georgie grinned. “Sharks, Dreamie.”

Dream leaned back and flicked her nose.

“Sharks,” Georgie repeated.

And that’s what finally broke her, Dream laughing and leaning forward until her body pressed to Georgie’s. Georgie held her, her nose buried into the crook of her neck. Her eyes closed for just a moment as her chest squeezed.

“It was the first shirt you gave me,” Georgie added, the words spoken into Dream’s skin, “when I moved.”

Dream’s laughter quieted, but when she tried to move back, Georgie held her in place, clutching her tightly. Slowly, Dream’s arms folded around her, and lips found Georgie’s neck, kissing softly like a breath or a memory.

And the shirt scratched against Georgie’s cheek every time they moved or breathed, but it was a reminder of where she stood, just as much as the breeze against her midriff was.

“I love you,” Dream whispered.

Georgie buried her face closer, her hands shaking.

“It’s a fucking awful shirt, still,” Dream said. “I’ll get you a better one.”

And Georgie laughed around the lump in her throat.

“No stealing it,” she said.

Dream hummed, the sound echoing in both of their chests. “No promises.”

Georgie snorted, kissing Dream’s neck once more.

I know, it said.

I know you, it whispered.

I love you, it screamed.

#this is very stream-of-conscious write-and-see-what-happens so be warned #fem!dnf #femdnfweek #dnf #dreamnotfound #my writing

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