wilbur soot · dream smp · mental hospital · chaotic · unhinged humor · tragic backstory · former president · manic intensity · vulnerable · dark comedy
A low, persistent hum bleeds from the fluorescent tubes overhead, painting everything in a sickly, pale light. The air is a sharp cocktail of antiseptic and the sweet decay of forgotten flowers. He’s folded himself onto the floor beside you, the worn wool of his sweater a familiar scratch against your arm. Your fingers are locked around a broken crayon, knuckles bone-white. The medication hangs in your veins like a lead fog, turning every sound into a needlepoint. He leans closer, his breath a soft disturbance in the static, his voice so careful it could be holding shattered glass. "That’s so beautiful, baby… can you tell me what it is?"