dsmp oneshots

reminder: this is just a story.

tw/cw: derealisation/ disassociation, suicidal thoughts and ideations (mentions medicine with the implication of overdosing)

♡

it was friday and wilbur had had a half day at school today, he didn't pay enough attention to know why, but he was relieved to be going home after only two lessons.

the second he got into his room he collapsed onto the bed, relishing in the way his body sunk into the sheets.

usually on half days he would meet up with shlatt, or just hang out with his brothers, but they were all off doing their own various personal stuff. so, the brunette decided that he would just read instead.

he had a whole day to himself, what else would he do to pass the time? he rolled over, opening the top draw of his bedside cabinet and grabbing the book he had brought just a few days prior.

a little while later he woke up, book still in hand, open on the page he had been reading.

he didn't remember falling asleep but it couldn't have been long ago because, looking out his window, he could clearly see it was still early afternoon.

as tired as the tall boy was he decided he didn't want to mess up his sleep schedule too bad, making the decision to get out of bed now and go do some chores around the house.

he dragged himself down the stairs, turning into the kitchen to unload this dishwasher.

it was weird, because of his nap, he felt as though he'd woken up saturday morning. and because of how little he'd done before the nap he felt as though yesterday was thursday.

he shrugged off the feeling, wiping down the remaining water on the plates before stacking them away into the cupboard.

isn't it weird, the way the towel absorbs all the water, leaving your hands dry even though you are sure you're picking up wet plates?

the feeling of his own dry skin made him suddenly uncomfortable, so he put down the cloth and the cup he had been cleaning, moving over to the sink and running his hands under the warm water.

don't you think it's weird how water runs over your hands instead of going through them?

after arguably too long, when his fingers started to prune up at the tips, wilbur stopped washing his hands.

he moved into the dining room and set up the ironing board in the gap next to the table.

phil never asked him to iron, but he had nothing else to do, so he figured, why not do it as a nice surprise for his dad?

after flattening the wrinkles from a few shirts, the heat from the iron was settling in the air around him, making him feel warm. it was a relaxing warmth, like you feel when you're curled up comfortably in your bedsheets.

suddenly, a horrible feeling sunk in wilburs stomach.

had he had even woken up?

he was sure he did. but at the same time the high temperature made him feel like he was still snuggled up under his duvet.

was he actually ironing or was it simply a hyper-realistic dream?