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dr3amofagame · 3 years

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I can’t tell if I’m the only one but have you ever thought about c!wilbur and c!dream being brothers because that hc lives rent free in my mind and I have constant brainrot over it

ooh anon, ive seen a few things w/ this concept but not nearly enough. youre right,, it’s a VERY fun hc, and plays a lot into the way these two negatively affect each other and the way their arcs mirror each other in the smp ,, many thoughts.

here’s a quick fic, ft. resident dadza suffering w/ two (2) complete disaster children that need. so much therapy.

tw: implied prison abuse, toxic relationship, self-destructiveness, mental illness, trauma

“What are you doing?”

If Phil were more enamoured with narratives, with irony and parallels and metaphors the way his eldest has always been, he’s sure he would feel some sort of amusement at the words. This image is hauntingly similar, even to his jaded eyes, the walls painted with the same sort of iron and ash desperation, the same sorrow clinging to the walls like an oily film, dark and thick and cloying.

He sighs, adjusts his cloak; he’s been around for far too long to find any meaning in suffering, any beauty in pain. There aren’t any narratives, any stories, just the same bubbling well of hurt that only seems to know how to grow. Pain is just pain - vicious, ugly, awful - and he knows it all too well.

“Phil!” Wil speaks first, as he always does. Dream follows him, as he always does. “You’ve come!”

Perhaps he should’ve known, as the Angel of Death, that nothing but destruction could follow his sandaled footsteps, that his children would bear the same burden, that the gunpowder that had long settled into his own skin would not be able to leave theirs. Phil sighs, adjusts his wings, looks up at his sons.

They look terrible, honestly; Wilbur’s eyes are wide and white, hands twitching at his side, hair fluffed up like he’s not had the time to brush it into submission. His jacket is tattered at the edges, still smudged with soot from the first time they had this song and dance, and there’s a manic edge to his smile that sends a wave of prickling unease down Phil’s spine.

Somehow, Dream looks worse; his eyes, which had always been bright and green and brimming with life, look grey and dull, shadowed by the helmet fixed firmly around his head. The shadows under his eyes look like bruises from a distance, only further highlighted by the unnatural paleness of his skin, and his armor seems to dwarf the body inside it. One of his hands holds tightly onto Wil’s sleeve, knuckles white from the strain, like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. In all honesty, it might be.

“Wil,” he says, that same bone-deep grief and fatigue settling onto his shoulders as he looks up to meet his eldest’s eyes, then lets his gaze slide over to the face of his youngest- “Dream.”

“We were expecting you,” Wilbur continues, Dream’s face still eerily blank, eerily silent. He’s always been the one to ramble, to spill his feelings and thoughts often against his (and his brother’s) wishes - Phil can’t remember seeing him silent, until now. Wilbur laughs, grating.

“Right- Phil, you haven’t seen him since the prison, have you?” Dream flinches, Wilbur smiles wider, and Phil feels the feathers on his back stand on end - danger, danger, danger. “What was it? Pandora’s Vault? Interesting place, don’t you think?”

Dream looks up at him, eyes dull, and for a moment the grief knocks Phils ribcage in, leaves a hollow hole in his chest that leaves him struggling for breath; a ghost of a father that he can no longer be beats at the inside of his skull, screams what did they do to you, what did they do to my children - and he swallows around it, closing his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“I think you already know, Dad,” Wilbur’s voice goes low, poisonous, lips pulling tight at the corners, making him look far older than he actually is. “Or do we have to explain this, again?”

No, Phil thinks, watching the way Wil’s shoulders rise to his ears, the near-feral glint to his eyes, the familiar determined set to Dream’s jaw on a face too gaunt to belong to him. The swirling, acrid storm of self-destruction is all-too-familiar, is the chaos that Dream had always loved combined with the legacy Wil had always craved thrown together and dialed up to eleven - even now, they are his sons through and through, his sons with new scars and new shadows and choking on the smoke of the fires they burnt using their own love as fuel. You do not.

“Come home,” he breathes, his words lost to the shadows almost as quickly as they leave his lips. Dream blinks at him, cheeks hollow, eyes hollow, and Wilbur laughs like it’s the funniest joke in the world.

“Goodnight, Phil,” Wilbur salutes, mockingly, as Dream presses the button. “It was never meant to be.”

#tw abuse #tw toxic relationship #tw self destruction #tw mental illness #tw trauma #queue <3 #this hc is fun #might have to write more of it in the future :P #my writing :D #my asks !!

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capt-spooki3 · 3 years

Text

The Final Movement

Warnings: Blood, death, vomit, injuries, angst

Characters: c!Wilbur and c!Philza

Have you wondered how Wilbur really felt during his last few minutes of life? How he felt before he died?

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Wilbur pushed himself out of Phil’s arms after being grabbed away and shielded from the harsh blast of the TNT once he had pushed the button. He stumbled back, breaths coming up short as he looked out of the hole blown into the room he and Phil stood in with nothing short of amazement as the rest of the TNT was blowing up.

“OOH, MY GODS-” Hardly even hearing the words as his ears were still ringing, he could see out of the corner of his eye as Philza brought his hands up to hold his head, frantically looking at the now blown up country.

Wilbur smiled wide as he took deep breaths that were getting shakier as the adrenaline in his system was taking a physical toll on him and he brought his arms up to hold himself steady.

“WILL!” Phil turned to his son, a flabbergasted look plastered on his soot-stained face, “IT’S ALL GONE!” He laughed in disbelief, his awe-stricken look taking over the brief smile he had while laughing, and gestured out to the exploded land.

Wilbur dropped his arms as he approached the stone that was actively still crumbling, desperately trying to find a place to rest permanently among the upturned earth and rubble. He took a deep breath and swallowed to wet his throat, dry from the smoke that filled the air. With a deep, excited breath he opened his arms wide to take in the sight of his country, blown to bits. It took a lot for him not to break into a laughing fit, it was just all so surreal.

“MY L’MANBURG PHIL, MY UNFINISHED SYMPHONY! FOREVER UNFINISHED!” He screamed into the smokey air, every word filled with an undying passion even as his breath ran short. “IF I CAN’T HAVE THIS, NO ONE CAN, PHIL!” Wilbur looked to his father when he said his name but turned away, stumbling back from the ledge. He was watching Tommy in the distance, the boy he thought of as a little brother. Even with the tearful gaze of the child, Wilbur neglected to feel any remorse.

“Oh my god-” Phil shook his head and looked down toward the ground, holding his arm. Wilbur finally turned to the older man and got the full image of him. He was covered in soot and bleeding from a plethora of injuries he sustained from shielding his son. Not even his precious wings were spared from the blast, they hung limp, bloodied, and completely tattered. One looked like it could recover from the trauma but the other was definitely never going to be the same.

Wilbur knew within himself that there was only one way to end this. Once and for all. And he was more than ready. He hurried over to the untouched side of the room where a sword lay on the ground, it had been knocked over from the force of the TNT. He grabbed it and walked over to his father, looking him in the eyes with a bitter and serious expression.

“Kill me, Phil. Phil kill me. Phil. Kill me.” He said impatiently and threw the sword at Phil’s feet, the metal clattered and took up all of his attention. Wilbur couldn’t give him the time to think it through because he could decline.

“Phil stab me with the sword, murder me now.” Phil finally picked the sword up, looking at Wilbur with fear and concern in his eyes, but Wilbur? Oh, he was ecstatic. “Kil- kill me. Killza, Killza! Do it. Kill me, Phil, murder me.”

He mercilessly taunted him, moving closer and desperately gesturing out to the crowd of people watching, “Look they all want you to.”

“Do it Phil kill me, Phil kill me!”

“Ohmygo- Y... YOU'RE MY SON!” Philza screamed back at his only and dear child, catching Wilbur off guard to make him step away but right away taking the high ground to yell back.

“PHIL KILL ME!

“No matter what you do... No matter what you’ve done I can-'' Wilbur stepped back to the wall to pound his fist into the stone, his hand getting cut up and blood starting to drip almost immediately. The pain was immense, but he couldn’t let it distract him from his moment.

“Phil!” He cried out, he sounded vulnerable as he begged and this brought all of Phil’s attention to his son. Wilbur swore he could see tears forming in the eyes of a man he always marveled at for being so calm and composed.

He shook his head, shaking off the thought, and once again made a wide gesture to the scene outside of the stone room as he closed the distance between him and Phil.

“This isn’t- it’s do- look, LOOK! How much work went into this and it’s gone.” He grasped Phil’s shoulder, the man flinched and held Wilbur’s fierce gaze.

“Do it.”

Phil just lightly shook his head in denial of what he was going to have to do, a tear slipping down his cheek and washing away a small trail of soot.

“Do it!” He yelled in the man’s face, grabbing his upper arm with the other hand which was covering his sleeve with blood from his scraped-up knuckles.

He lurched forward, feeling as if he had been punched in the chest and he held onto Phil tightly who was leaning forward and resting his head on Wilbur’s shoulder. A few moments passed before it registered that the sword had been driven through his chest, the telling sign was the wet feeling spreading over his chest. It had to be the blood, but he couldn’t will himself to check. Instead, he slowly reached behind to pull Phil closer to him and drove the sword even farther into himself till he was stopped by something which he guessed was the hilt.

With sudden urgency from his body to be noticed, the wound felt as if it were burned. It was hot, it felt so hot. As if his chest had been set on fire from the inside. He gasped at the pain just to choke on the intense feeling of needing to vomit, a cold sweat even washed over him as he tried desperately to hold it back.

Telling signs of death were piling up one after another. He could feel his fingers and toes tingle as the blood rushed out of his body and was leaving him feeling empty and tired. His ears rang harshly and it made much of the world around him hard to hear, even his father who was sobbing on his shoulder.

A lump rose in his throat and he gripped Phil’s coat tight, coughing lightly before he felt a gush of blood and vile leave him, this just making the heavy feeling in his body grow. Despite the immense pain his body was processing and the gentle stream of blood coming up into his throat from his lungs and out of his mouth, he smiled and laughed. It was croaky and hardly audible, but it was enough for Phil to hear at least.

Wilbur felt his limp body being slowly lowered to the ground as Phil kneeled and laid Wilbur back, the sword being forced back through his body again till his back rested against the ground. As the color was fading from his vision for the last time, he watched his dear father’s face that stared down at his own and felt oddly happy. He felt so lucky that his last sight could be of one of the people he loved most in the world. He could feel himself smile even when his world faded to complete blackness and he let his heavy eyes close.

A new, but dull pain took over as his head started to throb and feel rather large. His senses felt as if they were slipping from him, but among the loud ringing of his ears he could still just barely make out the messy words that Phil was managing to spill between his choked sobs.

“ARRGH- GOD!” He yelled in frustration and took a deep shuddery breath before he could continue though softer this time and hardly audible to Wilbur. “You couldn’t just let- you couldn’t just win. You couldn’t just- you had to just throw your toys out the pram.”

Wilbur felt like he should have expressed and felt more remorse and guilt for his final actions, his father having to be the one to end him like this had to be a lot on him. But in all, this was the end he really wanted and truly did ask for.

It’s all over for him, now as his ability to hear slipped from him, all left for him was a peaceful and eternal unconsciousness.

Nearly no time seemed to pass until the darkness he got so accustomed to turned into a bright grey then further turned into a blinding white. He felt his body suddenly get pulled from a weightless state back to the confines of gravity. Opening his eyes right as his back hit the hard surface of concrete he quickly realized the setting of a train platform. And he was alone. Deafening silence pounded all around him, slowly sitting up and feeling the pain of a distant wound in his chest, he groaned and held the area gingerly.

As much as the silence was a blessing, he could already tell this would quickly become an inescapable hell.

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