Dark SBI & Fluffy Oneshots

The Facade I Hide Behind

A/N

Just another dark sbi fic i got random brainrot for. this may be my last one for a while because im leaving on vacation this week for a while, but ill try to get chapter seven of WHLT out before then (if i have the time)

I kinda rushed it near the end so sorry if it feels weird, i lost motivation lmao but the grind never stops.

Hope you enjoy! <3

Synopsis: when 3/4 sbi is kidnapped by a rogue hero, Tommy takes it upon himself to rescue them. In doing so, he unlocks a vengeful side of himself.

TWs: blood and violence, torture, minor breakdown, just your typical me-level graphic violence, kidnapping (let me know if I forget anything, but then again you are reading dark sbi so....)

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Wilbur fell to the floor with a crash, nearly splitting his head open on the rooftop edge.

Pain coursed through his body in an insurmountable wave, filling his veins and circulating through his heart and mind until it was all he could think of. It was an agonizing mix of his broken bones, hand snapped in half like a piece of plywood, and the numerous cuts and scraps that made his skin drip with endless streams of blood. The taste of iron lingered in his mouth as he spat out a disgusting wad of crimson onto the concrete, teeth red and tongue bitten.

It hurt. It hurt so fucking much. The type of pain he'd only felt during the first days of training with his now-brother, beaten to a pulp until he learned to withstand the slices in his side and the bruises littering his form.

But clearly, the pain endurance he'd spent so long earning wasn't helping. This was far past the agony he'd been forced to withstand while sparring with Techno; that line had been crossed long ago. No, this self-proclaimed hero had no mercy, even after tossing him around like a ragdoll for the past hour. Wilbur had no choice but to weakly dodge every swish of a knife, always a split-second too late.

It was a hopeless fight.

But he would be damned if he went down without leaving his own marks.

As though they sensed his rising energy, the hero paused in their malicious antics, fist uncurling from where it gripped the back of his shirt. The unmistakable shadow of them lingered behind him, their horns almost making them resemble some sort of evangelical devil. Like the Gods had sent someone to punish him, rather than doing the dirty work themselves.

The shadow tilted its head, twin knives spinning in their hands. As though calculating where would hurt the villain the most, where would make him plead for mercy. It eerily reminded Wilbur of himself, like the hero and villain had swapped their positions.

The thought almost made him smile. Maybe they were finally breaking through to the Agency, making them realize the error in their ways. That they couldn't lead with a lazy hand of peace, using only minor punishments to keep the gangs and their wars in line with a manipulatable law. That violence was the only answer to truly make people bend to your will.

The violence that the Syndicate could promise, if the Agency finally surrendered.

That they could achieve-

There was a sharp breeze of air, wind whipping Wilbur's blood-spattered hair into his face, his trench coat flapping. He shivered from fear the cold.

The hero– the wonderful, evil hero, doing what the others were too afraid to do– must have interpreted his shaking as a weak sign of terror. Gloved hands yanked his free arm back, the one ungraced by slices of sharp metal, and gripped it until the limb fell straight. Only moments later did the heavy weight of a knife press to the skin, lightly tracing without actually breaking. The silent threat of more pain, more than he could ever withstand without collapsing into a broken mess, lingered in the air. Despite himself, Wilbur was forced to muffle a sob, instinctual despite his best attempts to remain strong.