George is ftm trans and he's excellent at keeping the secret from the others, but when George, Dream, sapnap, karl and Bad all move in together, it becomes a harder secret to keep.
There is dnf Cus why not, possibly skephalo, maybe a sprinkle of kar...
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... 🧍excuse me-
Wut?
HELLO???
Y'all I think the system is broken.
Triggers: -big SH warning -descriptive injury/sh I advise u don't read this chapter if you are at all triggered by these topics.
I will write a recapp at the start of the next chapter, so just skip if u want :)
Third person pov: George held Dreams hand and led him out of his room and over to Sapnaps. George said it was fine if he wasn't ready yet but he insisted that he did it now, he had waited long enough and he needed to apologise.
Sapnap opened the door, surprised to see the other. Dream asked if he could come inside and Sapnap allowed him to enter.
George decided to leave the two of them to talk, he thought it was best to leave them alone for a while. So George walked back to his room and opened the door to be immediately bombarded with his previous thoughts whilst in the room earlier, he closed the door of nightmares and went downstairs.
"Wow." He inspected the kitchen, mouth gaped in bewilderment as he slowly wandered around scanning every surface, "I can't believe it."
It was spotless, it was like the other two had never been in there to begin with, he could practically see himself in every sparkling surface, it looked like something out of a commercial.
"Guess they didn't need me after all." He shrugged nervously, he really needed to find something to distract himself. Sapnap and Dream were his previous distractions, Karl and Quackity weren't home, Bad was at Skeppy's and... well that's everyone. He didn't have anyone to distract him so he was going to have to find something else to do.
The fact he was so set on finding a distraction made all the stressful feelings of dysphoria and urge to 'release' started to bubble up inside again. He was alone. What was stopping him? He could do it. And nobody would have to know right?
All of a sudden, his mind couldn't think of any negatives. He kept telling himself no, but what was he even denying? His mind was denying there ever being any negatives, all these years he had stopped himself. But really, what did he even get out of it? What did he even get out of waiting? What did he even get out of being clean?
After all the years he had done it, the negatives and positives had blended together, everything he used to hate about it became a reason he loved it. He couldn't stop thinking about the couple seconds of relief he craved, something he had avoided for 6 years. But why? Just because his school councillor told him too? Just because it made people sad? Just because it made people worry?
They just shouldn't know about it then. Then everyone will be happy.
His thoughts were convincing, he wanted to battle, to protest, it's what he had been doing for 6 years now. But this feeling wasn't overwhelming. It was familiar and somewhat comforting. His nostalgic thoughts were right. He had been blocking them out. But for what?
In this moment he saw nothing wrong with it, he longed for the feeling.
Nobody could stop him.
He ran up the stairs as if his pressuring thoughts had taken over, getting to his room before he could change his mind. He locked the door and stood by his dresser, he flung the small pile of clothes off to reveal the packet. Inside lay a shaver, a small one. Just your ordinary shaver used for legs and pits. But it was the blades inside he was interested in.
He grabbed it and a roll of toilet paper he kept in his room for spillages, because let's face it, it's cheaper than tissues. He took these items and headed over to his bed, he sat down and stared at the blades.
His dark hazelnut eyes followed the sharp end that trailed down the sides of the blades, the light reflecting off the slightly angled slices of metal, this was usually the time that his brain would tell him he should stop and remind him of the dangers and negatives. But it didn't. He couldn't think of any.
Completely forgetting about his horrible past experiences, he dropped the items beside him and took off his hoodie, throwing it aside. He looked at his arms, seeing the now faint, pale lines that were scattered across his skin, none were pink, all of them being either darker or lighter than his skin tone, all of them each having a different story. It really had been a long time. They had time to heal.
He picked up the razor and placed the cold metal against his skin, angling it just right before quickly jolting it across his skin. He flinched at the inevitable sting of pain that came with the sweet feeling of release. He felt like he had been sucked into another world, nothing around him seemed to exist anymore, he felt free and alone, but in a peaceful way. The feeling was addicting.
But all good things come to an end, like that compelling sense he received from such a small piece of metal. He watched carefully at every detail of his fresh wound.
This was his second favourite part.
Watching as the new revealing cut slowly filled with crimson liquids, desperately trying to continue flowing round the body, it overflowed and the warm liquid tickled his skin as it slowly rolled down his arm, only to get caught by a piece of tissue before it could taint his pale white sheets. He watched as the tissue soaked the blood, he watched as it stained and spread further along, almost clawing its way along aggressively, creating snowflake-like shaped effects in its path.
It didn't stop there. The brunette continued, one by one, constantly slicing, some deeper than others, but none enough to be considered serious. Not by him at least.
He dabbed each cut one by one, collecting the loose blood that tried to escape. It had been almost an hour now, maybe longer. He had lost track of time. Each time he soaked up the stray blood, the amount leaking would lessen, calming down, he felt satisfied.
His arms now covered in dry blood and littered in fresh cuts, he felt an odd sense of nostalgia. Remembering every other time he had stood in front of a mirror and seen the work he had done to his body.
Now that there was no longer the refreshing pleasures that came with the swift movement of ripping his skin, all he felt was the far too familiar sense of irritating, painful stinging all up his arms.
6 years down the drain.
12 seconds clean.
Ouch that last time hurt like a buttcheek on a stick man.
