#(really I just had smash brainrot last week and thought about this and lost my mind but who knows maybe I'll do more) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

crystalirises · 3 years

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Um hi when your request are open I really enjoyed the fundy npc au could you do a bit of a continuation, like maybe alivebur is just dragging fundy into his mess at attempting to break dream out of prison. I'm perfectly fine if your not interested in it

Now. As I've said, I usually might not do requests or continuations when it comes to stuff I put in the "Brainrot Central" thing cause it's just full of fanfic stuff that entered my brain and I had to write down so it would leave.

However, the NPC Fundy AU has a special place in my heart. Mostly cause Fundy vibing on his own and not actually getting involved with the whole dsmp thing is nice. And yes, I am very much aware that taking out Fundy within the storyline would cause some stuff to be different. But essentially, all the major stuff that happened, still happened. It's only minor things that have changed. But otherwise, the same stuff still happened.

Anyway, enough of my rambling. I'm adding the link of the ao3 here, but the story is also after the Keep Reading.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31985884/chapters/81078352

The cottage had rotted beyond repair by the time he got home.

Wilbur had rushed to the front door, forgetting the bags of missed gifts that he’d brought with him. He flung the door open, the hinges so loose that the piece of wood slammed onto the wall before collapsing to the ground. He coughed at the cloud of the dust that flew right into his face.

“Fundy?! Fundy! I’m home!” Wilbur stepped into the house, “Fundy, papa’s home!”

There was no shout of joy, no hurried footsteps, no little boy that clung to his leg and demanded to know where Wilbur had been. He took a deep breath through clenched teeth, quelling the panic that had begun to bubble in his chest. His son was asleep, surely. He walked deeper into the house, frowning once he realized how utterly devoid the house was of furniture. Portraits had been torn off the walls, wooden chairs had been smashed against the floor, and there were random patches of black on the stone floor - almost like someone had set a fire on them. Wilbur quietly headed towards his son’s bedroom, finding the door open and the bed completely empty.

Wilbur staggered back. His son had to be somewhere nearby. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep himself from falling into hysterics. Fundy had to be nearby. He had to be.

At some point, Wilbur found himself wandering over to the living room.

He found the letter on the table, his hands shaking while he reached to pick it up.

Wilbur could only read the first and second lines before his knees buckled underneath him, his breath picking up. A god. A god. A god had taken his son. His hand clenched around the paper, his heart breaking once he realized that the paper itself looked a year old. Wilbur was only glad that it hadn’t been a day old. He laughed at the thought of that misery. Imagine finally coming home, only to realize that you were late for one day. That he could have stopped his son from leaving if he’d just been a day earlier. Then again, what did it matter? One day. One week. One month. One year. One hour. One minute. One second. He was late. Wilbur had been late to come home. He broke his promise. He should have been there for his son. He’d been gone for six years. Six long years. His baby wouldn’t even be a baby anymore. He’d be… He’d be fourteen.

His sadness melted into anger. The gods have been a menace to his life, and now one has taken his son. It wasn’t enough that they’d trapped him in their barbaric world. They took his son too. He’d promised himself to live for his son. That no matter what the gods threw at him, he would not kneel to their whims. Schlatt had called him insane, that he was better off resigning himself to a pitiful life within the gods’ realm, a puppet whose purpose was to entertain them. Schlatt had nothing to live for anyway, except his alcohol. He didn’t know what it was like to be a father.

Six years. Six years of torture, of trials, of fucking betrayals. And all so he could return home to a ruined house and a missing son. The paper crumpled in his hold, forcing him to snap back to reality. It had been a short letter, written in the messy and hurried handwriting of a child. Wilbur traced what his son had scribbled out, ‘I’ll always I love Love you.’ His poor little baby.

Did Fundy think papa had abandoned him? He pressed the letter against his chest, remembering the day he’d left his son alone. It had been the first time he’d left his son alone in the house. It was supposed to be a quick trip to the village. Wilbur hadn’t known that the gods would whisk him away to a world where he would continually fight for his life, his son’s memory the only reason that he kept fighting for his survival. Now, his son was gone, whisked away by a god.

Wilbur didn’t know which god had taken his son. But he knew one person who would know.

He placed the letter inside the pocket of his pants, hesitating for a moment before letting go. Wilbur wouldn’t need to keep holding onto a piece of paper forever. He’ll find his son. He headed out of the cabin, pausing at the doorway while a memory flashed in his mind. The day he left, he crouched down so that he could be level with his son. Fundy had pouted at him, scared that his papa wouldn’t come back. Wilbur had chuckled, patting his son’s head before ruffling his hair. He had promised to be back, promised that he’d make Fundy’s favorite pancakes for dinner. Fundy had been so excited, tail wagging behind him while he told Wilbur to come home quickly. His hands shook, but Wilbur forced himself to move out of the rotting house. He had to leave.

He picked up the bags, glancing down at the toys that he’d brought with him. He had missed so many birthdays and so many Christmases. Wilbur picked a fox plushie among the pile of toys, pressing it close to his chest. Fundy would have been so happy to get so many toys. Tears began to fall down his cheeks. Fundy would get the toys, he’d make sure of it. He’ll get his son back. He’ll get his little champion back. Wilbur didn’t glance back at the house, it didn’t matter to him.

Wilbur could only hope that Phil would be able to help him.

---

General Wilbur Soot was content to stay like this forever…

A soft smile graced his lips, a hand reaching up to ruffle Fundy’s hair.

It didn’t matter to him that Fundy was pretending to not know him. All that mattered was that he’d found his little champion again. This was his second visit of the week, and though his son was jittery about his presence, Fundy had quickly warmed up at the promise of pancakes. Now here they were, in the kitchen that Fundy’s den had. Wilbur would have preferred that Fundy stay near him, that his son be safe and happy within L’Manburg. If Wilbur had to be honest, he had been hurt when his son immediately declined his offer. Then he realized why Fundy had done so.

His little champion had always been so smart. Wilbur leaned back against his seat, glancing over at the bag of toys that he’d left on the couch. Fundy had been confused by the gifts, but he hadn’t complained when Wilbur insisted that they were for him. His poor son. He hadn’t gotten a proper gift in so many years. Well, it didn’t matter now. His papa was finally back, and Wilbur would always make sure that Fundy was content and happy. He’d have to bring Fundy more food soon.

…but first, he had a war to win.

---

President Wilbur Soot knew he couldn’t let his emotions take control of him…

He watched his son run off, the fox hybrid scampering away before Wilbur could ask - demand - why Fundy didn’t want to stay in L’Manburg. Dread and betrayal stung his chest, but he quickly pushed them away. He supported and understood why Fundy didn’t want to stay with his papa.

His little champion thought his papa had abandoned him.

Wilbur sighed, turning his attention towards the blackstone walls that were built for his son.

…for he had a nation to run. But that didn’t mean that his emotions weren’t ripping at the seams.

---

The exiled ex-president Wilbur Soot had no more dreams for the future…

He laid in his father’s arms, the piercing pain in his chest turning numb while blood ran down his mouth. He could feel his father’s hand on him, pushing against the bleeding while he muttered a repeated prayer of ‘no’s.’ He shouldn’t laugh. He knew that. But he couldn’t help the weak giggling that slipped past his lips. He knew what it felt like to lose a son, why was he giving his own father the pain he felt? He shook his head, because he was a selfish bastard, that’s why.

Phil was muttering his name, begging him not to close his eyes. Wilbur closed his eyes. In his last moments, he wanted the world to melt away. He wanted it all to fade away. Wilbur basked in the darkness of near death. There was no L’Manburg. There was no Manburg. There was no Dream. There was no Schlatt. He floated in a black abyss, alone and silent. He felt his hold on the waking world begin to slip, and in the darkness, he could hear his father beg him to open his eyes. Wilbur chose death. It was time for him to leave this cruel mortal realm, for good this time.

His little cha— Fundy would be happier once Wilbur was dead.

… he’d already lost everything in the past anyway.

---

Ghostbur draped a warm blanket around his sleeping son.

They’d had a tiresome day. His little champion needed all the rest that he could get.

Ghostbur… well, he didn’t need any sleep!

He was more content to sit by his son’s side.

He’d make sure Fundy was safe and happy. Ghostbur will chase away all the nightmares.

---

The newly revived Wilbur Soot was very happy to be with his little champion again.

Sure, he wasn’t all too pleased to leave Fundy on his lonesome by the time they reached the prison, but it had been a quick prison break. Never underestimate a father who was in a hurry.

The warden never stood a chance.

Wilbur hummed along while Dream followed after him, his reluctant ally flinching the moment sunlight touched his pale and scarred skin. He didn’t quite wait for Dream, itching to get back to his son. Fundy could be so… He could be so… adventurous. By the time he and Dream returned to where Fundy was, his son was sitting underneath an oak tree, knees pressed to his chest while he stared off into the distance. Wilbur chuckled, the noise snapping Fundy awake from whatever reverie he had been in. He reached down a hand to pull his son to a stand, the fox hybrid pausing before reluctantly reaching out. His son stood up, then shrieked when he finally saw Dream.

“Now, Fundy, it’s rude to scream at others. Be nice, little champion.” Honestly, Wilbur was in limbo for only thirteen years (one year, apparently, in the mortal realm) and already his son had lost any form of manners. Then again, Ghostbur wasn’t much of a father. He had to control himself from thinking about the ghost of his old self, the same man who chose to leave his eight-year-old son alone. The same man who had taken so long to escape from the god’s grasps. He had been a weak man back then, but now he was strong enough to care for his son. He was just… eight years late. He glanced over at his son, the fox hybrid having hidden behind Wilbur’s back. Oh, well, his little champion had always been a bit too shy. Wilbur grinned, gesturing between Dream and Fundy. “Dream, this is my son Fundy. Fundy, this is Dream. He’s a friend.”

“I know who he is!” Fundy snapped. Wilbur frowned, his son was never this… snappy.

“Dream, if you excuse us for one moment. I have to speak with my son, you would understa— No, wait you wouldn’t. Sorry, forgot you were terrible with children.” The masked (well, he wasn’t wearing a mask now, and Wilbur refrained from laughing at the poor man’s plight) man didn’t say anything. He never even looked at Fundy. Good. Wilbur didn’t want Dream near his son anyway, even if they were allies. He led Fundy further away, a hand resting on his back. Fundy’s eyes were skittish, looking here and there almost like he was preparing to run. Wilbur held onto his son’s arm, pausing once they were far enough away from Dream, “Little champion, what’s wrong? Are you upset? I know it’s a lot, but I assure you, Fundy, Dream is a good ally—”

“Friends?” Fundy shook his head, disbelief in his eyes. “S-since when?”

“Dream brought me back to life, little champion.” Wilbur ruffled his son’s hair, the fox hybrid flinching before backing off. He tried not to take offense to that. “He’s the reason I’m here now.”

“... Where’s Ghostbur?”

“Does it matter? I’m here. Who cares about the ghost of a man long since dead?” He grasped his son’s shoulders, ignoring the frightened look in his eyes. Ghostbur had been a pitiful replacement of who he had been, but he had to thank the ghost. Ghostbur had spent a lot of time with Fundy, and had realized that Fundy… didn’t even know who Wilbur actually was. “I’m here now, son.”

“Stop calling me that.” Fundy muttered underneath his breath, eyes cast low to the ground. The sadness in his son’s look pulled at Wilbur’s heartstrings. “I’m not your son. You’re confused—”

“It’s alright, Fundy. We’ll get your memories back, papa promises you that.”

He pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead. Fundy winced, but didn’t make a move to run away. If anything, a bright shine seemed to appear in his eyes at the promise. Wilbur grinned, of course Fundy would want to remember. His little champion would want to remember… But then… Wilbur frowned. Did he really want Fundy to remember the pain of his lonely childhood?

He held his son’s hand in his - still so small. They’d cross that bridge when they got to it.

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Wilbur @ Dream: No, wait you wouldn’t. Sorry, forgot you were terrible with children.

Fundy, who is literally 21-years-old: 🧍

Also:

Me: you can't make Fundy's hands smol, he's a pianist >:( are you making his life miserable? Also me: Not in this world :p Me: aight seems legit

#fundy #wilbur soot #philza #dreamwastaken dsmp #dream smp fanfiction #dsmp

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