-'♡'- WILBUR SOOT X BPD/EUPD FEMALE READER. Written by someone with BPD!!
❝ As far as you knew, Wilbur was gone. Exiled. And yet, you were still receiving a rose on your doorstep each morning, with his signature scribbled at the bottom o...
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A youth spent with Wilbur was spent on rooftops late at night as he struggled against the mild winds to get a cigarette lit. "Yes!" Wilbur shouted as he raised the filthy thing to his lip and took a drag of it, then leaned forward to gently exhale into my face. I clenched my eyes shut and held my breath. "Dude... You're gonna get me secondhand high off that shit."
He sat back and laughed. "It's all apart of the fun." I rolled my eyes at his lack of an excuse.
"How do you even like that stuff..." I look away from him, down at the village. "Ahh, that," He laughed to himself. "It isn't that great, to be honest. I'm just hooked on it." He explained before taking another huff closer to death. "It's gross."
"And it stinks, too. It's all I can smell on you." I went on. He only laughed some more. "Don't knock it before you try it."
"No way! Haven't you seen what my dad's like? There is no way that I would let myself turn out like him..." Wilbur took one more huff, then leaned in close to my face. I didn't have much time to react before he kissed his smoke down my throat. I pulled away, coughing. "It's only one try. You won't get addicted."
He put his hand on my thigh. "I won't let you." He smiled. That same corny smile that made me fall for him. "Fuck you..."
"Oh, is that what you want?" He teased. I shoved him playfully. "Shut up..." We laughed together.
I ended up smoking with him that night, he lured me into his comforting arms and guided me through the whole thing. I'm not too upset about it, and he held up to his promise as well. He never made me try again, he only wanted to help me understand. I think, at least.
Even thinking back to this smoky memory now, I have no clue really what his intentions were. Was it that he wanted me to know what the smoker's experience is like? Or that he wanted to share something he enjoyed with me? Or something else? I never asked back then, but now I'm constantly going over that more than anything. Why?
I remember that the scent of that smoke on his clothing became less filthy in my mind, after that. I remember that I became more addicted to the scent of him, but surprisingly never the source.
Honestly, I couldn't help but be intoxicated by him.
Back then, he was clearly a pyromaniac. And a bit of a scientist, too. He'd bring makeshift bombs on our dates, and throw them on people's doorstep after knocking quick and running, he especially likes to do this to elderly people. Honestly, he was probably a bit sociopathic. Or maybe, it was only the hormones. No matter how crazy... I still loved him.
He was conventionally attractive, absurdly tall with a deep voice and poetically seductive words to sing me in a whisper.
He was some sort of siren to me, and only now do I see how bad he truly was. My dad never liked him, and I couldn't for the life of me understand just why that was.
It wasn't that he was using me, nor that he was abusing me. I suppose the old man probably saw something in him that I didn't? Perhaps one of the times I dared to leave Wilbur and him alone for few moments, he gathered the suspicions on him during some interrogation sort of shit.
Whatever it was, I was clueless. I was too busy fixating on how my period was getting later with every day to notice anything odd from him.
What it was, was that he just. Didn't. Care.
He would be obsessive with certain things, but if it didn't peak his interest to an extreme, he didn't care.
I hope that it was only him being a teenager, I hope that he's grown out of that behaviour and not gone to doom some other girl with that familiar withdrawal.
After a few months of dragging me along for the pranks on our neighbourhood, he vanished. Only leaving me with a rose and a note on my doorstep. 'It was never meant to be' it read. This was something that made my stomach swirl as I ran right back inside and upstairs to my bedroom to cry to myself.
Cry, and cry, and cry with my breath held in my throat to muffle my cries into the pillows, the pillows which I left with damp patches of misery on.
Despite how careless his letter was, I still missed him.
Despite everything, he was still my first love. My teenage romance. Something so pure, yet so reckless that took over my heart, only to break it later.
No matter what, I would have always chose to repeat those eight months with him. Whether I knew this heartbreak would come, or not.
I just wish he told me why he left. I wish.
The worst part, is that he left me with his parasite of a baby growing inside of me. We were never meant to be, that's why I got rid of the thing.
It would have been a sick reminder of how he abandoned me, but it never felt better. I lost my first boyfriend, and I got rid of my first potential baby. It hurt so much. All I want is to understand. Why?
Why did he have to come in and earn my heart, all to ruin that image of himself in my mind? Why did he have to be so perfect for me not to see how distant he really was? Why did he bother with me if he knew it wasn't meant to be?
My father learnt to hate him even more that day, when I had to tell him through sobs that Wilbur broke up with me through a piece of paper with his 'Soot' as a signature.
