✓ WITH YOU. ( mcyt )

✓（ 𝟬𝟵 ）AFTER, w. soot

( 09 ) AFTER WILBURSOOT ✓
WILBUR SOOT x THEY / THEM READER
( requested by @KingOfCrimes )

( angst, descriptions of war, mentions of blood, ghostly apparitions )

I'M SORRY, LOVE.

THE SOFT WHISTLE OF THE SPRING BREEZE and the quiet chatter of faraway animals were things Y/N cherished. With the many wars that had plagued Dream-and now technically Tubbo's-lands, it was hard to catch even a glimpse of the does and stags that had, once upon a time, before all of the bloodshed and arson and death had occurred, grazed upon the luscious green grass, now of which was reduced to patches of dirt and weeds and dying plants.

And, just like the grass, there had once been a time when everything seemed so fresh and perfect-when everyone had gotten along. When children hadn't been tucked into beds early and then woken up to the sound of metal clashing against metal, and had eaten breakfast inside to the sound of bombs exploding in the distance and the debris hitting the roof of their homes; when couples had gotten married on their own time, and didn't rush wedding preparations or engagements in fear they'd be dead within a days time, maybe from a stray arrow or a misplaced and misused pile of dynamite; when people didn't shy away from the streets, when they didn't avert their gazes and shut their eyes quick when their rulers passed through; when animals and mystical creatures didn't stray from their homelands, didn't rush away from all of the disturbances and the disruptions, when they didn't flee from spruce biomes and oak forests that had been burned because of an insatiable hunger for destruction and death.

When everything was perfect, and Y/N didn't have to heal and stitch up the deep gashes and bloody wounds of their friends and sixteen year old boys that were too young for this, that were supposed to be playing ball in fields, that weren't supposed to be setting up fires and dodging arrows in the woods. When they didn't have to deal with people who had also, before everything had happened and they had turned bad, an irreversible wicked that couldn't be considered right in any way, been considered one of their loved ones.

When everything was perfect and Wilbur Soot wasn't dead.

Bitterly, they bit down their lip, drawing blood from the soft flesh, and kicked a small pebble forwards, both actions performed with visible anger.

Or perhaps it was despair; perhaps it was the knowledge that they could have done something to prevent his death, and perhaps it was the knowledge that they could have led Wilbur back on the path to good, or perhaps it was the knowledge that maybe he had already been to far gone and they just hadn't noticed the signs. There were so many what ifs that by the time Wilbur's funeral had been planned, which was only a few days, they'd lost count.