TW: BAD self harm issues, depression, panic attacks, angst, praising, anal sex, swearing
top dream
bottom george
reuploaded + i gave up on editing
George shut his eyes, burying his fingers nails deep into his thighs.
Don't move, if you don't move, Dream won't notice.
All he could hear was the faint voices of the people in the movie, and Dreams soft breathes, his head laid softly on George's shoulder.
Was he asleep?
George had no idea, and was too scared to turn his head and look down. Not scared— terrified. He was absolutely terrified. He had been living with Dream for a week. . . maybe two, the days all mushed up in George's muddled brain.
Anyways, he had spent every living second here doing his best to not embarrass himself, or talk too much, or talk too little. The perfect amount. "George," Dream cleared his throat. "Have you seen this movie before? I'm a bit confused."
George opened his mouth, shut it, and began talking. "It's about that girl— the one right there, who has to run away from this gang of guys; she stole some important documents from them. Anyways, as she runs from them she meets that boy there— they become like best friends. Then, they get captured by the gang, and they're stuck in a basement for days on end until finally the gang leader comes to talk to them about the documents. She finally agrees to return those documents but before they can leave she breaks her restraints by hitting them on her knee— oh it's so cool what she did! She hit them at like. . . the perfect angle and they just crumpled beneath her and anyways she—"
Dream chuckled.
"What?" George looked down at Dream; his eyebrows were upturned.
"You sure do talk a lot, Georgie." Dream smiled, bringing his attention to George and back to the movie.
George's eyes widened.
Fuck, he talked to much, which was exactly what he didn't want to do! He was such a damn blabbermouth!
George's stomach churned, and a stinging sensation found itself to the newly found wounds on his thighs from his nails burying themself into them. He could feel the warm blood leak out of the cuts, dying the tips of his fingers a maroon shade. "I-I need to go to sleep. Goodnight Dream." George stood up, his voice shaky and frail; Dream's head dropped for a second before snapping up and facing George.
"Okay, night." Dream looked past him and. continued watching the movie behind him.
George shuddered as he walked up the stairs; the T.V shut off almost immediately, indicating Dream was most likely heading to bed as well.
He shut his door rather swiftly.
Oh God— he had fucked up one too many times today. First he choked on his water and embarrassed himself, accidentally tripped Dream, and now talked too much. Why did he have to suck this much?
The same sensation came back except it was. . . an urge. Not a pain. A need, and George flickered his eyes back to the door and imagined himself walking down to the kitchen, finding the knives and pressing the cold blade against his veins.
He had to.
It had been awhile, maybe a few months, but ever since moving to the United States, the usually weak urge grew more powerful until it began tormenting him every night as he tried to fall asleep.
His hand found its way to his door handle; the cold metal stung his skin, and he peeled open the door. Dream was nowhere in sight. Good, he was in the clear. As he tiptoed down the stairs, the breaths he took were light and soft, making sure not to alert Dream even in the slightest way.
