hypnotic- wilbur soot

𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎

I'm not even in this fandom is there still demand for wilbur fics?? 😭😭What if I told u I'm updating this story after 2 years of it being abandoned what if I told u.... -honk

my head throbs when i wake up the next morning, my thoughts pounding in my skull when i think. each new word bringing another sharp pain that strikes the back of my head and pushes forward like waves against the cold sand of brighton beach.

I'm surprised at how little I hear around me, considering when I had managed to fall asleep, somewhere around six that morning, the living room was chock-full of my loud, drunken friends, who didn't seem to have any problem keeping a party going, despite the hour. But now it was damn near silent, gentle snores and heavy breathing the only thing interrupting the quiet atmosphere of the morning. I lift my head up, scanning the bodies around me. I watch the gentle rise-and-fall of coopers chest for a moment as he rests on the beanbag beside me. I roll off the massive grey thing as softly as I can, so not to wake him, and begin the walk of shame toward my bathroom. At some point in the night I'd lost my club dress, now adorning some basketball shorts and Wilbur's bright yellow sweatshirt. I cringe at myself in the mirror, raising my hands to untie the small messy bun that lay at the nape of my neck.

I grunt, leaning against the sink and allowing my head to fall, my chin resting against my chest. I recollect what I can from the night, I remember getting to the bar, I remember being in the bar, i remember wilbur in the bar. I remember Wilbur. Where had he gone after he'd left me on the porch, in freezing weather at a dangerous time of night. Had he returned to the bar? Walked home? Had he made it home safely? I shake away the thoughts physically, my hair falling back in front of my eyes when I finish. I half consciously turn on the shower, peeling the alcohol-smelling clothes from my equally alcohol-smelling skin and let them fall to the floor, watching the yellow cotton of Wilbur's shirt hit the linoleum. I shouldn't think about if he'd made it home safe or not. I really shouldn't be thinking about him at all.

I step into the hot water, the liquid relief running down my back and through my hair. I pull my bangs away from my face and slick them back against my head, letting the water run over my face. I scrub at my eyes, looking at my stained black fingers when I pull them away, and watching the smudged mascara and eyeliner disappear with the water. I push every thought that begins with him away, scrubbing his touch from my skin away along with them. What kind of guy leaves a drunk girl alone on her own porch at 2 in the morning? What kind of guy leaves a drunk girl alone? What kind of guy leaves a drunk me alone? If he was like any other guy I'd met, he wouldn't have even second guessed coming inside. But that was exactly it, Wilbur wasn't like any guy I'd ever met before, which made it all the more infuriating that he hadn't come inside.

I'm not sure what he'd have even done once he got inside. Would he have looked around at the decorations on the walls? Noticed the throws on the couch? Or would he have noticed the carpet when I would've thrown my dress onto it? The painting on my bedroom door when I locked it? Would we have made it as far as my bedroom?

The thoughts that pinged around my skull made my head ache, the steaming shower only doing so much for the combination of an intense overthinking sesh and a debilitating hangover that were fighting for the spotlight in my brain. When I finally turned the shower off, and managed to get myself redressed, and somewhat presentable, (I mean, I can only do so much, I was up until 6 am filled with more drinks than I can count on both hands), I return to the living room. Several of my friends woke up while I had gone to take a shower, Em and Niki had overtaken the kitchen and seemed to be making what smelled like breakfast, while others were scattered around, trios and duos resided on the couch, beanbag, and floor of the living room, either still sleeping, sitting in dead silence while leaning on one another, or talking quietly to one another.

I hobble my way over to the kitchen, my hands finding the walls and countertops for some structural support when I need it, and find myself leaning against the polished white of our fridge. I dare not interrupt Niki or Em as they zoom around the kitchen, both of their heads of hair tied neatly into a little ponytail, and both sets of their hands finicking with something to be cooked or eaten. When they finally notice me, Em lights up, doing a little dance in my direction.

"Goodmorning!" They beam, "how was your night, birthday girl?"

"It's not my birthday anymore." I comment, shaking my head and smiling at them. "And I don't really remember," I lie through my teeth, eyes flicking from the both of them and searching for any sign of them seeing the dishonesty in my words. But none comes. "I guess that's for the better though." I chuckle, and niki giggles, head falling back to the bowl in front of her. Em raises an eyebrow at me.

"Hm." They comment. Smirking gently. I raise an eyebrow back in question, crossing my arms defensively over my chest. "That bruise on your neck says otherwise."

"Huh?" I retort, "there's no bruise on my neck-" I argue, trying to think back to the brief moment I'd been looking in the mirror.

"Oh contraire-" Niki teases, "there's definitely a bruise on your neck. It's a good one too." She laughs, and I can see her shake her head at the batter she's mixing.

I blow a raspberry at them both, retreating back into the bathroom, slowly but surely, to take a better look at the blossoming purple mark, that was in fact on my neck. He couldn't have picked a less noticeable spot? I think, as I press the pads of my fingers lightly against the hickey directly above my pulse point. I feel my own heart race beneath my touch, the skin moving quickly along with my quickening pulse. I remember his hands on me so vividly, his teeth clashing with mine. His teeth latching onto my skin.

I groan again, placing my head in my hands above the sink. What is this man doing to me?