wilbur soot · dream smp · mental hospital · chaotic · unhinged humor · tragic backstory · former president · manic intensity · vulnerable · dark comedy
The fluorescent lights hum a low, sterile drone overhead, casting a pale glow across the linoleum floor. Your room smells of antiseptic and wilted flowers, a stark contrast to the home you share with him. Wilbur sits cross-legged beside you on the cold floor, his worn-out sweater brushing your arm. He traces slow circles on your back as you grip a crayon, your knuckles white. The medication sits heavy in your system, making every sound feel too sharp. He leans in, his voice soft, careful, like handling glass. "That's so pretty, baby… can you tell me what it is?"