A/N
a oneshot?? by me??? after disappearing to work on my multichapter for so long???
surprise bitches
hope you enjoy! this one isn't dark sbi because I've been having some writers block and needed fluff to cope. so this au appeared. (AND IGNORED HOW SCUFFED THIS IS IM LAZY)
TWS: Implied/referenced child abuse, scars from said child abuse
hope you enjoy <33
Synopsis: Grim Reaper Tommy is sent on a mission to collect Wilbur's soul, but when he arrives, discovers that he's the equivalent of a baby grim reaper. cue the crimebois
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The room screamed of wealth.
That was the very first thing Tommy noticed.
Chandeliers dotted the ceiling, the candles atop glittering like diamonds, their warm light casting the room with a deep, cozy feeling. A large bookshelf protruded from the wall, directly adjacent to two leather couches, with its shelves lined with row upon row of ancient texts. Beneath him, the floor was lined with fluffy, thick carpet that felt like a pillow on his bare feet. Its white color was unmarred by any stains or speckles of dirt, twin to the pristine shade of walls and windows so clear they were practically mirrors.
It was nothing like the other places he'd visited. Here, he felt like he'd walked into not a gravesite, but a lively, lovely mansion. Home to thieves and cons, but thieves and cons that had an enjoyable life.
It was nothing like the pits of the Underworld that he'd grown up in. No, here he was out of place; his dark wings were void of color, his red horns earthy and chipped as they sprouted between golden curls. The mark of the Dead glowed gold upon his wrist, practically a light in itself with its perfect brightness.
Tommy was an outlier here. Even if the house did appear to be empty, with nobody to occupy the wealth that others would kill for, it was quickly apparent that he did not belong.
After all, he was a Reaper in a home of Life.
And he must collect the dying soul within.
Tommy's footsteps were practically silent as he stepped through a threshold, red eyes gleaming as he continued his trek forward. Behind him, his cloak–lined with dragon scales and silk so fine it flowed like water–dragged across carpet, making him appear to be some weightless, godless being; nothing but a shadow intruding on a flawless life. A scythe hung from his side, acting as a silent warning to anyone he met. Although he was invisible to all that he didn't intend to kill, marking their souls for the Underworld to claim, the scythe was a symbol that didn't warrant much explaining.
It made informing the humans of their darkened fate much, much simpler. At least, as easy as it could be.
In between their pleas and screams.
Stairs creaked as Tommy began to pursue the upper floors.
Paintings lined the inclined wall, all picturing white teeth and perfect faces contorted into expressions of faux love. They wrapped up the wall like a snake, as though placed to remind any who passed of their excellence. It was a sight Tommy had seen plenty of times while serving as a Grim Reaper, yet one that never failed to disconcert him. It was difficult to comprehend humanity, at times. Especially in comparison to his own family.
But, alas, his job was one that needed to be done.
As Tommy reached the top step, he paused, peering down the seemingly-endless walls of doors upon doors, each carved with unique designs and lined with marble frames. Matching chandeliers descended down the corridor, creating identical shadows amidst decorative tables and fake potted plants.
It was all entirely too perfect. Too pristine.
It looked as though nobody lived here. Even though Tommy knew they certainly did .
He sighed as he glanced through either way, ears tilting in an attempt to pick up any sound–water running from a sink, the muffled sounds of socked footsteps, the creak of bed springs as someone slept. All he received in turn was the hum of electricity overhead, even the sound of the breeze outside.
Nobody.
And the person he was searching for–they couldn't possibly be dead already. He would know the second their soul was contaminated by death; he would feel it in equal agony, if he were to fail his mission.
So where the fuck were they?
Tommy's grip on the handle of his scythe tightened. The floorboards were silent as he stepped forward–unmarred despite their age–through the endless web of doors and empty decor. His hand skimmed along the wall all the while, in search of the vibrations of any life–however fleeting it was–to appear.
And-
He froze, tilting his head in an attempt to hear better. His hand tightened along the scythe, digging into wraps of leather.
He was met with the faint sound of crying. Sniffing and weeping, occasionally interrupted by a muffled breath.
There .
Tommy's approach immediately gained haste, descending through the halls with a newfound vigor. His ears, now having locked onto the foreign sound, easily led him past countless doors–past the paintings that reeked of pretentiousness and carpet that was far too clean to ever have been properly lived in–while they tracked the crying. It steadily grew louder and louder as he gained closer, guiding him past a corner and into a dead end, complete by only one, slightly ajar door.
His eyes latched onto the handle, his footsteps stalling.
Here, the sound of grief was much more prominent.
Tommy, in the blink of an eye, crossed the room. The door opened easily, the metal of the knob cold, as in morbid warning for what scene lay inside.
He was greeted with the sight of a child's bedroom.
Posters lined the grey-blue walls, hastily tacked through the expensive paint and lopsided despite attempts to be evenly hung. In the center of the room, a rug was pushed aside to make room for a twin-sized bed, a guitar resting aside the frame. The only window in the room was shut out by blackout curtains, the fabric just as exquisite as the rest of the house, yet this bedroom felt so out of place that the richness felt wrong .
And yet, just beside the bed, sat a child.
He seemed impossibly small, with his knees tucked into his chest and his head pressed down, arms curling around himself in mock protection. A mess of curly brown hair hid his face, the only sign of life coming from his shuddering inhales, making his entire body shake from their force.
At the sound of Tommy's entrance–the door lightly hitting the wall with an unintentional force–he only grew more tense. From here, the Reaper could make out the sign of broken nails and bruises adorning his arms, appearing in rough patches like splotches of spilled paint. His fear only grew as Tommy stepped forward, his steps light and timid–afraid of spooking a wild creature.
His grip on the scythe loosened entirely, in sync as he crouched beside the child. From here, he could barely discern the sight of fresh tears running down their face, eyes squeezed shut and the pinched scars that ran along his cheek–mimicking the distance of fingernails, as though someone had racked their claws over a fit of rage. He tentatively reached out, settling his hand on the kid's head.
They only shook harder, a muffled cry slipping from their makeshift cocoon.
Gods, the kid was so scared .
Tommy took in a deep breath, gently running his hand over the child's curls. He spoke as gently as he possibly could, twisting his usually stern words into something light–something friendly.
As a Reaper, it was his duty to make unnatural passing as easy as possible. And a child's passing–especially one so young, so undeserving of death–always left him feeling hollow afterward.
"Hello, there," Tommy cautiously murmured. He paused, taking a moment to gauge their reaction. When he was only met with a muffled gasp for breath, he continued, continuing to gently stroke their head. "I know you're probably very confused right now, but I mean no harm. I promise ."
The child tilted their head, peaking up at him with watery eyes. He could still see the tear tracks on his face, more streaks of water joining them as the kid shook, his arms wrapping tighter around himself.
With delayed realization, Tommy realized that they were red eyes.
Red eyes that matched his own.
His hands paused their course, retreating to trace over the two, minuscule bumps on his head that he'd dismissed as particularly-stubborn tangles.
The origin of horns, twin to the ones on his own head.
Oh .
Suddenly, Tommy realized why his superiors claimed this mission was so important .
He felt his heart twist as he took in the bruises on his arms, the scar left on his cheek, and the haunted look within his gaze with a newfound vision. Instinctively, his hand tightened its grip on his curls, claws detracting from within his skin.
A marked Reaper was a very, very rare thing. They were only marked by Death every few centuries, and only showed their true purpose when the Gods deemed the time was right. When his very own father deemed the time was right.
And here a new Reaper was, already bearing injuries at such a young age. The child couldn't be more than twelve, but the way he hunched over himself made him look even younger, like a kitten attempting to protect itself.
"Oh," Tommy repeated out loud, swallowing as his thoughts continued their spiraling swarm within his skull. Already, the instincts of having such a young creature next to him, especially while they were hurt , were making a strong appearance. " Oh. "
The child barely resisted as he moved to pull them away from the wall, Tommy gently coaxing his head up to properly see all of his injuries. He was greeted with the sight of a matching bruise alongside his neck, a sliver of dried blood left behind–as though there had been attempts to scrub it away, but had given up.
He peered into the matching red eyes as they met his own. Within him, their emotions were indiscernible from one another–forming a mix of fear, grief, and anger that Tommy was all too familiar with. In turn, the child scrutinized him with equal regard, tracing over his wings, his threatening horns, the mark on his wrists and the jagged, blackened points of his nails.
"You're like me," the child uttered, as though afraid of the fact.
"I am." Tommy, in turn, smiled. It was as warm as he could manage with the swirls of shock still registering in his mind, all the while his instincts reared their head.
"My mum said you would be coming to 'collect me' soon. She said I belonged with monsters."
Tommy's heart sank even further. Gently, he reached out further, gently wrapping his hand around the child's arm and dragging them closer to him until they were settled against his leg. The younger didn't protest, still peering at him with a tentative look. The tears were gone just as quickly as Tommy had heard him, but he didn't dare dismiss it for anything other than shock. Or, if he was lucky, their instincts would be hitting them just as hard right now, likely confusing the absolute shit out of their newly-forming mind.
He took in a deep breath, gently pressing his thumb to the scar on their cheek. The young Reaper flinched at the pressure, but didn't stop him. "And where are they now?"
"Gone," the child murmured. "They've been gone for weeks."
Tommy sighed, biting the inside of his cheek. A part of him was glad that the child's parents had left, but another side wished they were here for him to tear them to pieces. After all, it didn't take a genius to connect the dots; that many bruises–especially ones that lasted for that long–were far from self-inflicted.
Maybe his father would let him come back in a few decades, if only to kill the abusers himself.
But he didn't dare let his rage show, merely pulling the child a little closer until they were tucked into his side. The kid immediately relaxed, though their face twisted into a look of confusion as they did so.
It was amusing–an endearing thing that made Tommy's instincts grow even further. Navigating your instincts, especially for the first time as the kid was experiencing, was a strange endeavor.
"You won't be seeing them again," he finally said, squeezing the kid on the shoulder. "That I can assure you. If you come with me, I can promise that you'll never be by anyone like them again."
Red eyes glowed as they examined his face. "Where would you take me?"
"Where you belong. With my family," he gave the younger a small smile. "Away from people that don't understand what you are."
There was a long pause as the kid fully tilted into his hold, small horns poking his chest as the kid relaxed. "That sounds nice."
Tommy smiled.
In the Underworld, Death knew the mission was completed.
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A/N
why can't I write well aoehfpaewiohfpaoweihfpaowief
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Tommy, trying to do a normal mission and go home: another long day at work, killing the innocent, being incredibly bored-
8 year old wilbur: oh shit a brother figure
Tommy: fuck guess I'm the middle child now
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hope you guys enjoyed! sorry that this is on the short end, but I wrote a 3k oneshot yesterday. and hated it. so it joined the other 11 half-finished oneshots in my google docs storage. this is not an exaggeration. i still have fics from whumptober where I'm too lazy to write the ending so they are just. sitting there.
as always, comments, votes, and bookmarks are greatly appreciated! have a great day/night <3
and if you enjoy my writing, I highly recommend checking out my story "Far Beyond Fixing", a twinsduo-centric rehabilitated villain fic. its very angsty and very dark. available on both here and wattpad :D its why my uploads have been so late, since that fic is 50k words so far and I'm nowhere near done
cya later <3