#brainworms man

But the reason fundy is so tragic to me is just, imagine having a father who truly loves you and keeps you right by your side during your childhood. Working and growing alongside him and a country filled with so much warmth and light that your fathers smile towards you makes you happier than anything in the entire world. But things start to change, he starts to look at you less and less and doesn't seem to care as much about you anymore, not like you remember. The painful thing is that you remember what your father's love felt like so you do absolutely everything to get it back, including going undercover in an extremely dangerous country to be his own spy.

But you're so starved for love and your father still won't look at and eventually! Your father figure is dead at your knees from a heart attack, your abandonment issues are being used against you, you watch as the last fragments of the country grew up in us destroyed beyond thought and you can only laugh at the wreckage. And at the end of everything, you're still alone and only your visions of a far kinder past and a terrifying future follows you. None of your friends, not your father, and no matter how hard you try to reach out you only get hurt, so- you isolate yourself.

THERE'S SOOOOOOO MUCH MORE BUT GOD LIKE. C!FUNDY DESERVES SO MUCH MORE AND SO MUCH APPRECIATION!!!! The fact that Wilbur didn't realize until the very end when fundy was already hurt and traumatized beyond belief and was willing to jump into the l'manburg hole... almost like he was sacrificing the part of himself that was born there and was once loved by his father :(((((

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HE DESERVED SO MUCH LOVE. HE DESERVED THE WORLD. and like !! He was promised the world!!! Over and over again by his dad who said that all the fighting and the death and the fear would be worth it for the nation he would build for fundy!! That one day that nation would be his!!! And then suddenly his dad stops caring about him as much? Buts that's okay cause like you said he'd do anything for that love. He'd go undercover for that nation (and oops maybe the abusive alcoholic turned out to be more of a dad to him than his dad... but betraying him will be worth it right?). And when they get back the nation he had been promised was his since birth? Who does wilbur give that to? Not him. But tommy. The kid he cared about more than his own son. And then it goes to tubbo. And suddenly he's looking up at a podium as his grandad- who he'd never met before- kills his dad infront of him. And... all his anger... is it still now justified? Still worth it when he sees his dads blood drip down the podium they both once stood upon together.

there is brimstone echoing through tranquility, bright swaths of stained glass painting a disconcerting picture throughout the stone    &    wood trappings    —    much the same as any other worn boots had traversed in his years    (    children tucked away under the pastors watch, creeping into the crypts below, holy ground as safe as it became dangerous    ).    snippets of the darkness twisting in the corners, reaching for something. salvation    ?    depravity    ?    a source of familiarity. there is grief here    (    is there not always    ?    lost souls seeking redemption at the hands of ignorant idols, claiming lives with little care    ),    faded into the walls in a tapestry of lost crusades. how foolish to believe such a place would hold any answers; foolhardy belief in the divine caring for the mortal.    (    again, there is blood on his hands, under his nails up his arms painted down the aisles its own harrowing beauty before reality snaps back into focus    ).

they should not have saved him. the echo hurts. 

it was always funny how such choices came back to prove haunting; how looking in a mirror    &    finding old eyes brought about more anxieties then climbing out of his own, desecrated grave    (    staring into it with the single minded focus of one who should not be. what's dead should stay dead a mantra long lost    ).    previous trips backwards    —    forwards    —    round    &    round the fractured structure of here    &    now    &    then. visions of the past matched visions of the future as punishment demanding his head as a solution    (    it was always the winchesters stirring up trouble, how many more horrors did they cause then they ended    ?    ).    mental laughter    !    was it ever really about the unique “purity” of his soul or was that a lie, too. there was nothing righteous left here, complimenting a structure that reeked of “divine intervention." now the question was just who. it's not like this is a first. 

but was the hunters own time a better option    ?    the banging crescendo of bloodlust pounding in his skull a battle march hard to ignore    (    but here there was no blade in hand to provide sirens song, a solid hold in brittle bone to grab onto    ).    ghost of a touch along the holy to match disillusions bitter eyeroll. he should never have come here. 

turning to head right back out that door    (    to find answers, surely, from someone. there was no place without even the semblance of a formal head    ).    heaven, hell, all that in between    —    if it hadn’t mattered then why would it matter now    ?    dean had told them to leave him alone    (    bloody blade but inches away but a warning. a promise    ?    he didn't know anymore. bodies scattered a picture perfect image of cruelty     ).    perhaps this was a better option, to stay    &    serve out whatever time bored immortality crafted for another chapter. somewhere to live out the last years of clear cut sanity before the curse wore out what little of him was left. 

a flash of green catching on a sight teasing at memory, frown long hardened on his face; shock of black atop a splash of tan.    (    I'm the one that will have to watch you murder the world    ).    the burning anger surging in the hunters gut as much a warning as any    —    fingers curled into a fist as his side    (    bloody memory of a loose hand on his wrist, fury in bruised knuckles    &    blood stained faces; fight back    )    to match the low thrum of action the mark sang. teetering on the edge of compulsion. you should have killed me when you had the chance. 

it was a few steps forward, one step back. 

bone weary at the sight of the angel perched in a pew within a house of god    —    a sight not seen in years    (    no, not since before the leviathan, before purgatory    &    abaddon    &    death's quiet warning. always before    ).    is this where she had driven him    ?    that bird on his shoulder, tempting the angel back to the host. the voices of the chaotic fallen hovering in life's peripherals    ?    back to following the ill understood commands of an absent father    (    the discordant clash of a symphony in pieces    );    dean couldn't even find himself surprised. it has been but days ago green was painted in black, mortality a fickle notion to a knight    (    the smooth grip of a handle grasped with a low buzzing thrill in the hunt    ).    humans felt to much    —    demons felt to little.

at war with himself, in the end. 

demands bubbling up past the anger    &    the hurt, betrayal    (    in a way, just let him go    ).    partial understanding in the limitations of stolen grace doing nothing to pause the echo of his steps    —    send me back home    (    was it stolen grace or but another squabble amongst bitter siblings in a race to regain their wings    ?    ),    send us back home    (    what did it matter    ).    whisper in the quiet sway of fabric    &    the low burn of candles    —    why did you even bring me here    ?    —    voice in his head snorting at the sheer thought of that angel even having the will to get back up; tattered feathers on shredded wings    (    someone always to blame. was it not his own fault such a creature now stood chained    &    discarded from its home    ).    dull noise climbing the walls coming to a standstill, arms crossed with heavy gaze resting on the other    (    don't follow me, next time I won't miss    ).