Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hunting for cryptids and other mythical shit isn’t exactly a job. Really, in all definitions, it should be classified as “child labor” and “highly illegal,” but so are Tommy’s forged legal documents stating that he’s 18, so he doesn’t really have the right to argue.

Sometimes he wonders how he got here, other times he tries to ignore that question and keep trudging through some dark forest, tracking down a creature that might not even exist. Shit, he’s the one working, and he doesn’t believe in monsters. Kind of ironic, but hey, he needs the money, and this is the easy way to get it.

Besides, it gives him an excuse to get out of his old apartment more, a reason to escape the deafening silence and avoid the opossums that have decided to call his room a home. Seriously, those things aren’t even fucking native (italics) to L’Manburg. However the fuck they got in his apartment, Tommy doesn’t know, but no matter how many times he tries to bring it up to his landlord, they just shrug and tell him that it’s “not their problem.”

It most definitely is, and the landlord is just being a bitch. An itty bitty little bitch boy. An asshole, if you will. A buffoon, if you so prefer.

Maybe Tommy should toss an opossum into their window and see whose problem it is then.

Tommy’s thoughts are getting off track, so he forces them back to focusing on whatever he’s tracking now. Apparently, there’s rumors of some mysterious beings out in these woods, and the reasonable thing to do is to send the youngest (and probably only) member on the team out on his own to go find them. Granted, Tommy hates working with the other members of the “team,” but it’d still be nice if he wasn’t alone.

Every hoot of an owl makes him jump, and the more crows he sees, the more he regrets taking this job. Maybe he could’ve just applied at a café, or he could’ve even signed up to be an assistant to one of those hero fuckers who are on the news all the time. Honestly, Tommy’s not sure why “stray enhanced individual” isn’t the main conclusion to these cryptid hunting excursions.

Whatever, at least he’ll be able to pay rent. Maybe he’ll even be able to buy some actual food this month, but he shouldn’t get his hopes up too high.

There’s a branch snap in the darkness, and Tommy jolts, whirling towards it and aiming his flashlight at it as though the light will scare any monsters off. That’ll never work, but luckily, there isn’t a monster, and instead a stray black feather drifting towards the ground. It’s quite large for a crow, but Tommy really can’t think of any other ideas, so he just shrugs and keeps walking.

The crunch of leaves against his shoes is ominously loud, echoing throughout the trees as his feet dig into mud and forest litter. Oh, mud. How he loves mud. 

What he loves less are the man-made objects scattered around the woods, an obvious, glaring example of litter and the fact that while heroes take on villains and fight all the fucking time, they don’t do shit in terms of the environment. At this point, there won’t be a world to defend, which would really piss Tommy off, because he fucking lives here and he’d like to make it to at least… well, he hasn’t really though that far ahead. The point is, he doesn’t want to die yet. He’s still got shit to do.

Unfortunately, his luck hates him, so as he kicks a broken beer bottle away into the bushes (he’ll pick it up on his way back), his flashlight flickers. He can do nothing but stare at it in horror as it clicks repeatedly, light fading each time it manages to summon up the last of its energy, until it dies completely.

Great. Now Tommy’s stuck in a supposedly haunted forest in the middle of the night, without any kind of light to guide his way.

Well, guess he’ll die.

Thanks for coming everyone! Leave a like and subscribe, well actually probably don’t subscribe, because chances are he’ll be fucking dead. Like Chunky Kong, who is also dead. Dead as fuck.

It’s times like this that Tommy wonders why he got the job, along with how he got it. He forgets shit constantly, and it’s a literal miracle that he’s not dead yet. He actually has no fucking clue how he’s even alive, but he accepts that, because apparently he’s been gifted with life and now he’s going to make that everyone’s problem.

And if any fucking cryptids come out at him in the night, he’ll make it their problem too.

He crouches down on the leaf litter, thinking. He could try to get back to his campsite, but chances are that he’ll get lost and it’ll waste time and energy. He could also try his phone, which would be a great idea if he had his on him. Earlier, he had made the big brain decision to leave it back at the campsite, and now he pays for it in full.

Plan C, then. He’s going to wait for the sunrise and try to live until then.

Great idea. Absolutely phenomenal. This is going to work.

Tommy pushes himself back up to his feet, groaning as his bones crack and his joints go back in place (seriously, he’s fucking 16, how does his body creak this much?), and takes note of his surroundings. The first, and only thing that he was ever really taught for this company, was how to make use of nature. This included making a shelter out of whatever materials you could find, and so Tommy decides to do just that.

Hey, he’s got nothing else to do. Besides, this forest is most definitely not haunted, so he’ll be completely safe as he reaches out for some sticks and tries to feel his way around the dark so he can find a proper place to build. 

A branch cracks behind him.

Yup, perfectly safe, nothing to see here, ahaha.

They say the first stage of grief is denial, and Tommy sighs as he realizes he’s about to go through every single other fucking stage when he turns and sees the hulking figure standing above him, crimson eyes flashing in the night and the moon reflecting off of its tusks.

“Hey, don’t suppose you’re here to help me, are you?” Tommy asks, and he’s perfectly aware of how tired he sounds. Fuck, if he dies tonight, at least he’ll finally be able to get some fucking rest. He’s tired as shit, and if he’s lucky, maybe this boar-cryptid-guy won’t kill him and will just give him a short coma instead.

“Nah, not really.” The cryptid’s voice is gruff as his red eyes focus on him. “To be honest, I came here to kill you.”

“Fair enough.” Tommy mutters. “I’d appreciate if you don’t, though. I’ve got shit to do.”

Boar guy tilts his head, a curious, yet very confused expression on his face as the corners of his mouth tilt. “Oh? Like what?”

“Running.” Tommy says simply, and just like that, he’s off, bolting through the forest and trying his absolute fucking hardest not to get thwacked by a stray tree branch as he runs. He’s not sure if he’s just a dumbass, or if he’s running purely on adrenaline as he can just barely think back to the two-second long encounter.

He’s never believed in monsters. He’s never believed in cryptids, ghosts, the undead, anything of the sort. 

Yet here he is, running from a literal boar-hybrid-man-guy who had quite literally towered over him, eyes crimson and tusks flashing, what seemed to be gold reflecting onto them.

And his first reaction was to be sarcastic.

This is what Tommy likes to call a “Tubbo Moment.”

He can hear crashing behind him, and he sucks in his breath, his heart drumming against his chest as though it’s trying to rip itself out, his lungs battered and his feet moving too fast for him to even think about where he’s going. 

He leaps over another barely-lit log, using the faint moonlight as his guide as he navigates through the darkness of the forest, hoping and praying to any gods out there that he won’t die tonight. He really wants to tell Tubbo what happened to all of the Fruit Loops, which may be a really shitty goodbye, but Tubbo will kill him regardless so at least it’d speed up the process.

More crashing ensues from the bushes behind him, and Tommy begins thinking of options. He’s been full of big brain ideas tonight, so obviously, he’s going to use his massive cranium to do something smart.

And by fuck does he do something smart.

He barely even realizes what he’s doing before he’s clambering up a tree, hooking his arms around branches and using his feet to push himself up, gritting his teeth and ignoring how the wood digs into his skin. His camera is dangling from his neck (oh shit, he’d forgotten about that), but he barely pays attention to it as he claws his way up the bark.

One good thing about growing up on the streets of L’Manburg, the city ruled by heroes, villains, and other shitheads, was that he learned how to make quick getaways. He also knows how to kick someone in the balls and not regret it.

A villain who jumpscared him in a parking lot learned that the hard way.

Again, a fucking miracle that he’s still alive, and this will be another one for the records as Tommy heaves himself over yet another branch, jaw tight while he struggles to maintain his balance. He can hear what sounds like gruff shouting from below, and, to be honest, Tommy doesn’t feel like having an argument with the boar guy right now, so instead he just climbs higher.

In terms of big brain ideas, this one probably isn’t his best, Tommy realizes.

Because now, Tommy’s high up in a fucking tree, with no clue on how to get down, and no clue on where the fuck he even is.

One of the reasons as to why Tommy took to cryptid hunting was because they aren’t supposed to be fucking real. This was supposed to be a distraction from the chaos in L’Manburg, heroes and villains throwing themselves at each other in a relentless manslaughter, people born with powers and using them no matter how much it inconveniences others.

Now it’s become yet another life or death situation, and to be honest, Tommy’s quite sick of it.

The boar calls out again, a howl against the wind, a mix of human and animal sounds clashing in his voice as he shouts at Tommy.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Tommy hollers back. “I CAN SCREAM TOO, YOU’RE NOT SPECIAL!”

For once, boar guy goes quiet.

Then he goes right back to roaring in Tommy’s general direction, which is really pissing Tommy off, and he’s really wishing that he had his phone on him so he can call Tubbo to beat this guy’s ass with a fucking hibiscus or something. One of the few times that Tommy’s grateful for powers is when he sees Tubbo clart someone with plants.

Come to think of it, just how powerful would Tubbo be in a forest?

Huh. That’s a good question.

Tommy ponders over it while Boar Guy keeps shouting up at him.

Would Tubbo be able to control the trees and shit? Most of the time, Tommy’s just seen him guide smaller plants to follow his will, or even cause some plants to attack others, depending on how Tubbo’s feeling. Once, Tommy saw Tubbo’s power uproot a cactus in a store and throw the thing straight into the manager’s nose after she said she didn’t like bees.

Once again, Tubbo is fairly epic.

Tommy’s still thinking about this as the tree starts to shake, Boar Guy evidently trying to get him to come down so he can kill him.

However, Tommy doesn’t do death, because it’s annoying and Tommy’s the only annoying thing allowed to exist.

So, he just clutches onto the bark and hangs on for dear life with each time the tree tilts, pine needles drifting onto his head and scattering down towards the ground. At one point, Tommy could swear that he could hear Boar Guy sneeze, and he’d make fun of him for it if he wasn’t a literal cryptid in a forest trying to kill a child.

“Holy shit,” Tommy shouts after a few minutes of this, “can you fucking stop?”

To no surprise, Boar Guy doesn’t hear Tommy, and so he keeps fucking shaking the tree.

Is this how apples in Animal Crossing feel? Or berries in Pokémon SWSH?

Because now Tommy’s beginning to feel bad for all the fruit he’s mercilessly destroyed in video games.

“Give me a fucking break.” Tommy mutters when the tree tilts violently again, a branch swinging against him as he just narrowly dodges a pine needle in the eye. “Get a hobby or something.” He’s not sure if he’s talking to himself or Boar Guy at this point. Shit, he might even be talking to the tree. At this point, he doesn’t care.

“A hobby?” A voice echoes above him.

“Yeah, a hob- fuck.” Tommy’s not sure how much sanity he has left as he looks up, peering right into the bright blue eyes of a man with black feathers lining his skin, curling around his eyes as he grins, and stretching from his back in enormous black wings that glimmer with a faint light reminiscent of the stars in the sky. His hands end in dark, pointed talons, one of which is reaching towards Tommy, though it seems more like an unconscious movement. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“What?” The crow guy just laughs at him, his grin growing larger as he peers at Tommy. He’s hanging upside down from a tree, his talon-like feet clinging to a branch while he examines the kid. “Mate, are you okay?”

“I am literally having a fucking crisis, man, so if you don’t mind me, I’ll just be trying not to fucking die.” Tommy snaps. It’s probably a bad idea to argue with a guy who appeared out of fucking nowhere and looks like a literal death omen, but at this point, Tommy doesn’t care. He just wants to go back to sleep, because this is above his pay grade, and he’s definitely quitting once he gets the chance.

“Oh, is Techno giving you a hard time?” Crow man questions, and when he doesn’t get an answer, he keeps talking. “I keep telling him, ‘don’t fucking traumatize people in the woods.’ Then he ignores me and does it anyway. Kids, y’know?” He flashes his teeth at Tommy again, which makes Tommy wonder just how much this guy has smiled in his life. Most likely a lot, going off of the lines around the edges of his mouth.

“I actually don’t know.” Tommy states matter-of-factly. “In fact, I am only eighteen, and if I see a child, I am heavily tempted to punt it like a football. I’m not even sure if I’m legally allowed to have kids.”

The crow’s eyes narrow. “You’re eighteen?”

“Yes?” Tommy tries his hardest not to snap at the cryptid, instead ending his answer with a questioning lilt, as if to ask him what he means. If this fucking guy calls him a ‘child,’ Tommy will simply lose his mind.

“You don’t exactly… look eighteen.” Crow guy murmurs.

“That’s it, I’m out, you’re fucking stupid, I’m going home so I can eat Fruit Loops.” The words are out before Tommy can stop them, and once it’s too late to take them back, he starts winding his way down the tree, ignoring the way the bark slips out of his fingers as he performs his own personal balancing act.

“Mate, no-” the crow man is following him now, using his talons to navigate the branches as Tommy quickens his pace, dropping from tree branch to tree branch in his effort to get away. This isn’t his problem, and Tommy doesn’t give a shit over just how nice the bird guy seems to be. He’s a cryptid, and Tommy literally took this job in order to get away from mysterious shit.

“Fuck off.” Tommy grits out.

“No, the branch is dead-” black talons reach out towards him, and Tommy flinches, stumbling back onto a long piece of wood extending from the tree. His feet struggle to find a place to hook onto, but his arms are away from the tree, swinging wildly in midair, and, to make the matters worse—

A sickening crack! fills the air, and Tommy’s eyes widen as the branch breaks from under him and he starts to fall.

He’s plummeting through the night, and the last thing he thinks is how pretty the stars are, glimmering at him like tons of bright fireflies lost in the galaxy, fluttering around a much larger crescent of light that illuminates the sky, if only just by a bit.

Then the lights are gone, and something’s diving down towards him, and Tommy really wishes he could tell Tubbo about the Fruit Loops. 

Chapter Text

When Tommy’s eyes flutter open, the first thing he realizes is that it’s fucking bright. 

He’s in his campsite, the golden light of the dawn pouring through the forest canopy, the colors of the sunrise dancing through the forest hues and reflecting on his own bright blue eyes.

The first thing he thinks when his mind isn’t as clouded is that he’s fucking tired, and his limbs feel like he’s run a marathon. Along with that, he could swear that there’s tree bark digging into his palms, and there’s long scratches lining his arms, the faint reminders of a tree lashing him with its branches.

He groans, shifting his weight from the forest floor in an attempt to push himself up from the ground. His brain is still calculating the fact that he’s awake, incoherent thoughts drifting through his mind as he pulls himself to his feet, muttering swears.

He stands there for a moment, waiting for his brain to catch up, and once it does, he freezes.

Holy shit, he was hunted by actual fucking cryptids last night, wasn’t he?

His thoughts speed up, tracing back towards whatever bits and pieces he has collected in his memory— a boar, standing tall above him, gold glinting in his tusks and glittering along his neck and arms. A man with the details of a crow, black feathers extending from him and a curious shine in his eyes as he peered at Tommy, as if calculating and predicting every move that Tommy would make. 

Then there was the fall, and after that, everything blanked. All he can remember is how the stars seemed to disappear as a blanket of black feathers shining with the reflection of the stars wrapped around him like the arms of death, clutching onto him and stopping the plummet.

There is absolutely no fucking way that that was real, even if Tommy can still feel the talons hooking into his shirt and the soft feathers swirling around him, holding him above the ground and carrying him with a soft whispering promise of safety.

Whatever, Tommy’s had weirder dreams, and no matter how fucking vivid it all was, the fact that he’s at his campsite and not dead is pretty fucking strong evidence against the events being real. Besides, this shit’s above his paygrade. As long as he can pay his rent and not get his ass kicked by Tubbo, it’s fine.

He yawns and stretches, blinking the tiredness away from his eyes as he takes in his surroundings. His campsite is the same as it was before, a simple tent with a bearproof box full of food sitting beside it, his phone sitting atop the box and his flashlight resting beside it. Subconsciously, he reaches for his camera slung around his neck, and breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes it’s still there (even though there’s no reason as to why it shouldn’t be. It was a dream last night, remember?). 

It seems like everything’s intact, and even though he’s got little to no evidence of cryptids around the area, he can still report the emptiness of the forest to his employers and at least get some money. Often times, proving that there aren’t any cryptids is just as good as proving that there are some lurking throughout the woods. It’s still “advancing the research,” and though Tommy could care less about the “research,” he gets paid, and that’s what matters.

He yawns as he stalks towards his tent, kicking the pegs holding it down so he can loosen it up from the ground. It crumples, and he rolls it up into a bundle, slinging the yellow fabric over his shoulder as he heaves the box of supplies up in his arms, playing a balancing act with the flashlight and phone while he prepares for his trek home.

He follows the dirt path winding through the trees, weaving his way around any obstacles blocking the way as he quickens his pace, ignoring the subtle ache in his bones while his shoes dig into the forest litter lining the floor of the woods. 

Sure enough, his rented car and perfectly legal driver’s license are sitting at the end of the trail, resting next to the end of the path. Shadows of trees and their canopies drift over it, the reflection of the rising sun almost blinding as Tommy averts his eyes from it.

It’s a perfectly normal morning, and even though the only recollections Tommy has of the night before are bits and pieces of a strange dream, he looks forward to getting paid and seeing his roommates again. No matter how much he denies caring about them, he does, and he misses them whenever he goes on one of these trips.

He’ll die before he admits that.

He reaches the clearing where his car rests, pine needles and leaves scattered across the forest floor, along with pine cones and acorns littered around, some broken and others still intact. He kicks one to the side and pushes a tree branch out of the way as he swings open his car door, decidedly ignoring the creak as the vehicle heaves with the effort of being used. Seriously, you’d think that a rented car would be a lot less shitty than this. Actually, no you wouldn’t. It’s shitty as fuck.

He wrestles the items in his arms in an effort to shove them onto the car seat, buckling them in place so that he won’t have to deal with cheese puffs being thrown at him at Mach 10 when he fucks up a right turn again. He plucks his phone off the lid and tucks it into his pocket, leaving the flashlight to roll around relentlessly.

When he pushes the passenger door closed, something drifts out of his other pocket, so quiet and lightweight that he’d barely recognize it if his eyes weren’t already focused in it’s general direction.

It’s a large, pitch-black feather, glimmering with faint hues as it slowly falls to the ground, the wind toying with it before Tommy catches it out of the air, turning it slowly in his fingers as he stares down at it, eyes wide.

Maybe this is a bigger problem than Tommy thought it would be.

——

“You were supposed to come back last night, asshole!” Tubbo cries as Tommy practically throws himself onto the couch, sighing as he sinks into the cushions. “You didn’t answer your phone, you didn’t even contact your employers, what the fuck?!”

“Sorry, Tubs.” Tommy shrugs, mind still drawn to the long dark feather that’s tucked in his pocket.

“I- fuck- ‘sorry?!’” Tubbo exclaims. “That’s it? You could’ve been killed or some shit, you know that?” He shakes his head, exasperated, then turns to his roommate who stands imposingly next to him, dark hair curving around his face and dropping into a long ponytail behind his head as he glances at Tubbo. Long horns extend from his head, and a thin tail lashes behind him as multicolored eyes flicker between his two roommates.

“What? It’s not my problem.” Ranboo states.

“Alright, prince boy, you’re not going to fucking say that when Tommy fucking dies.” Tubbo growls.

“I’m not dying, dying is cringe so I’ve made the decision not to die.” Tommy protests.

“You are also cringe.” Ranboo says matter-of-factly.

“And you’re a bitch, what else is new?” Tommy argues, a grin making its way onto his face as Ranboo’s expression changes from one of smugness to one of pure offense. “C’mon, Ranboob. I thought you cared about me.”

“I don’t care about peasants! And I’m not a- a-” The so-called ender prince sputters, stumbling over his words as he tries to use a fill-in for the simple word “bitch.” “Whatever you just called me!”

“We’re straying from the fucking point! Tommy, you need to be more careful on these trips. I know you don’t believe in cryptids and shit, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t other dangerous things out there that can kill you!” Tubbo cries. “Seriously man, it’s a wonder you’re even still alive!”

“That’s what my therapist says, bee boy!” Tommy snaps back. “What are you, my fucking therapist?”

Ranboo’s brow furrows. “Tommy, you don’t have a therapist.”

“Well, I FUCKING NEED ONE, ASSHAT!” Tommy exclaims.

“WE ALL DO!” Tubbo shouts back. “TOMMY, YOU FUCK, JUST STOP FUCKING DYING!”

“I’M NOT FUCKING DYING!” Tommy yells.

“YOU FUCKING WILL BE WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU!” Tubbo hollers.

“Whoever dies, can I get everything in the will?” Ranboo questions.

“SHUT IT, BOOB BOY!” Tommy and Tubbo yell in unison.

“You could’ve just said ‘no.’” Ranboo shrugs. “Anyway, I’m getting some popcorn. Have fun guys, I’m going back to definitely not robbing people. And reading my book.”

“Holy shit Ranboo, why do you even still have that fuckin’ thing?” Tommy groans. “People are going to ask questions when they see you holding a book that’s literally fuckin’ labeled ‘Polite words for poor people!’”

“Well I HAVE to know how to talk to poor people, don’t I?” Ranboo retorts.

“YOU’RE ALSO POOR, DUMBASS!” Tubbo shouts.

“I BEG TO DIFFER!” Ranboo argues.

“THEN BEG.” Tubbo’s voice rings threateningly throughout the room, an ominous echo to it as Tommy and Ranboo go completely silent.

“My wife begged me to not get divorced.” Tommy suggests through the quiet.

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR WIVES!” Tubbo screams, making no effort to hide the frustration in his voice.

“IT’S NOT MY FAULT THAT I HAVE OH SO MANY!” Tommy cries back.

“YOU’RE SIXTEEN, YOU CAN’T EVEN GET FUCKING MARRIED!” Tubbo shouts, his bee-like wings fluttering behind him in rage as his antenna flick towards Tommy.

“THAT’S RICH, COMING FROM ‘MEE MOO MEE MOO, I’M GOING TO MARRY BOOB BOY FOR TAX PURPOSES!’” Tommy’s voice tilts in a high-pitched, rather shitty impression of Tubbo’s.

“I DON’T EVEN FUCKING SOUND LIKE THAT!” Tubbo sounds close to sobbing.

“Oh, the ramen’s done. Anyone up for some ramen?” Ranboo suggests.

“Yeah, sure.” Tommy nods.

“Of course, bossman.” Tubbo agrees.

With that, Tommy slings his legs over towards the floor and pushes himself to stand, following the bee hybrid and the Enderman (probably hybrid, to be honest, nobody fucking knows) into what they call their “kitchen.” There’s a single microwave, a fridge that looks like it’s seen better days, and a traumatized opossum crouching in the corner, staring wildly at the three teens as Tommy glowers down at it.

It hisses, and Tommy hisses right back.

The opossum whimpers and scurries away.

“Still trying to figure out how the fuck those things got here.” Tubbo mutters.

“Doesn’t matter, we have noodles. Eat up!” Ranboo pulls open the microwave door and practically tosses two cups of microwaveable ramen at Tubbo and Tommy, who catch theirs easily before plopping down in front of an old coffee table. Ranboo takes his noodles in a more exaggerated, “elegant” fashion, clearly in denial of the fact that he’s eating fucking microwaveable ramen noodles and not an actual fucking feast.

The three of them lapse into silence as they consume the noodles.

“I miss my spaghetti tacos.” Ranboo muses.

“I don’t.” Tubbo states.

“I’m pretty sure that was illegal.” Tommy agrees.

“You’re illegal.” Ranboo mutters, sulking as he digs into his cup.

“We’re all illegal, Ranboo.” Tubbo sighs.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Tommy grins.

The apartment goes quiet again.

“Massive T.” Tubbo begins, cutting through the silence.

“Yes, Big T?” Tommy questions, mouth still half-full as he downs the last of his ramen noodles.

“Don’t die. I’d miss you if you did.” Tubbo mutters.

“I won’t, bossman.” Tommy’s voice is slightly awkward as he tries to play a balancing act between being touchy and being the true big man that he is. 

“Good.” Tubbo smiles.

“Also, I ate all of your Fruit Loops.” Tommy admits.

“YOU FUCKING BITCH.”

Chapter Text

“So, let me get this straight.” The phantom crosses his legs, four long wings delicately extending from his back, black, purple and green fabric draping around him in a ghost-like outfit as he glowers at the other two staring at him. “There was a literal fucking child in the woods last night, with a camera, and you let him go?”

“Not a child, Wil. He said he was eighteen.” A man with crow-like wings and feathers lining his exposed skin, wrapping around his eyes and reaching down towards his dark talons that extend towards his son, sighs as his impossibly blue eyes narrow. 

“That just make things worse, Phil!” The phantom, Wil, exclaims, throwing his hands up. “There’s a fucking cryptid hunter in the woods or some shit, and you not only let him see you, but you let him go!” He echoes his own words again, voice gaining a higher pitch as he snarls, an inhuman lilt to his tone. “How the fuck did this even happen?”

“Techno, why don’t you explain?” Phil suggests, a kind of annoyed venom dripping from his words.

“I was just curious as to who he was.” Techno, a hulking boar hybrid with eyes as crimson as the sunset, simply just shrugs. “Then I saw his camera, and I decided it was a good idea to kill him. Too bad he’s so fast.”

“Why didn’t you just let Techno kill him?” Wil turns accusatory eyes back onto his father, the multicolored dark hues storming as he speaks. “It would’ve been easier.”

“First of all, that would’ve drawn attention to us.” Phil sighs, tucking his face in his hands in an exasperated motion. “An eighteen year old, clearly looking for some kind of cryptid, dies in a mysterious forest? If that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.”

“We could’ve just hidden the body.” Techno suggests.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, we’re not killing him!” Phil protests. “Which leads me to my second point. He said (italics) he was eighteen, but he didn’t… look like it. He looked like a child.”

“A child? Really?” Wil wrinkles his nose. “Maybe he’s just baby-faced or something. Even cryptid hunters know not to send children out to find us.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t put it past them.” Techno shrugs. “They don’t exactly have standards, y’know?”

“Nobody has standards anymore.” Phil mutters, then pauses.

“I hope he wasn’t a child.” His voice is quieter now, leaning towards a more concerned tone as he falls into thought.

They lapse into silence, the only sound being the fluttering of Phil’s feathers as the wind drifts lazily past, brushing against his wings and whispering past his face.

“Whatever age he is, if he comes back or tells anyone about us, he’s a fucking problem.” Wilbur’s words cut through the quiet, his phantom tail lashing. “We can’t risk it.” Then he turns to Phil, iridescent eyes flashing as his pupils narrow into slits. 

“You should’ve just let him fall.”

Phil tenses at this, then sighs and lets his shoulders relax. “I don’t need or want to take any more lives, mate. It’s a delicate thing, the gift of living, and taking that away just seems unfair, to both the one who loses their breath and the one cursed with the ability of taking it away. I let him live, and I stand by that choice.”

It’s a quiet standoff between father and son, the wind whistling past as the faint calls of birds echo throughout the trees. Neither seems willing to back down, Wilbur staring up at his father as though challenging him, while Phil locks his gaze, unmoving and unwavering in his stance.

They all know the costs of humankind finding things they shouldn’t. Mistakes have been made for eons, and the mess of “heroes” and “villains” in the cities just proves that. People gifted with abilities they should’ve never had, hybrids being taken in and used without even knowing of people’s intentions, ignorance thrown in the direction of those strange and mythical beasts thought to have been made up by the minds of hopeful poets and wanderers.

But they’ve lived past harder than this, a single mishap which led to a kid who looked barely sixteen escaping to go back home, his campsite abandoned and his car long gone.

It’s better than having more blood washed from their hands.

Having been hunted for years, a constant struggle between “monster” and man, though it’s lessened up in more recent times due to the rise of powers being used for both good and evil. Phil knows that they’re safer now than they’ve ever been, and he refuses to take any more lives in his constant battles just to keep him and his family alive. One kid won’t change that.

“Whatever.” Wilbur finally relents, tearing his eyes away from Phil’s and staring down at the ground and where his shadow should be. “I’m heading out.”

With that, he turns on his heel and stalks off towards the shadows, his form glinting ever so slightly before it fades completely, the only evidence of his existence being the faint footprints left behind.

“Where are you going, mate?” Phil calls out cautiously, not sure if his son is even still there.

“Out.” Wilbur’s voice is faint, and with a small rustle of the leaves, he’s gone.

“That’s not ominous at all.” Techno says. “Think we should go after him?”

“We’d better.” Phil sighs. “If he tracks down a child and kills him, he’ll be so fucking grounded.”

——

Tubbo’s hands are lifted over a small flower, his eyes narrowed in concentration as the flower blooms and reaches petals towards his extended fingers. The tendrils of the plant wrap around his finger, and he lets out a sigh of accomplishment and relief, promptly ignoring the other two in the room.

“You think it’s a dream?” Ranboo questions, his legs unceremoniously thrown over Tommy’s, who couldn’t give less of a shit.

“It had to be.” Tommy agrees. “I’ve seen some fucking weird shit in the past, but this is a new one, innit? There’s no fucking way that I actually saw a guy with wings, like some mothman shit.”

“There’s plenty of people out there with wings, Tommy.” Ranboo tilts his head, confused.

“Hybrids and shit with wings, yeah.” Tommy mutters, finger tapping on his thigh as he thinks. “Y’know, how those heroes make wings using magic. This guy looked like he wasn’t a hybrid, the full-blown thing, feathers and all.”

“I’ve got wings.” Tubbo offers.

“You’ve got bee’s wings, Tubbo, there’s a difference.” Tommy sighs.

“I also have the bee’s knees.” Tubbo provides.

“I would like to kindly ask you to stop.” Ranboo states.

“I would like to not-so-kindly deny your offer, bossman.” Tubbo grins, then turns back to his potted plant, watching as the violet petals extend and bloom around him, growing into something much larger than it was before.

“My point is,” Tommy continues, decidedly ignoring the others, “the man in my dream had feathers and talons and other shit. And then there was the boar guy, who scared the living shit out of me and tried to kill me.”

“Sounds awfully vivid for a dream.” Ranboo frowns.

“It really was, y’know? I actually thought I was gonna actually fucking die and shit, but then I woke up and I was back at my campsite.” Tommy admits. 

“Wait, Tommy,” Tubbo interjects, “you said that your flashlight ran out of battery before those things happened, right?”

“Yeah, why?” Tommy questions.

“Have you checked it all since you got here?”

Now it’s Tommy’s turn to be confused. Without saying anything, he reaches for the flashlight on the table, then aims it at Ranboo’s face, ignoring the protests as he clicks the button.

There’s no light.

All three of them freeze, and Ranboo’s sigh of relief at not being blinded is over before it can even start. They’re all staring right at the flashlight as though it’s personally cursed them.

“Hey, Tommy, here’s a thought.” Tubbo has a nervous smile as his voice cracks. “It wasn’t a dream.”

Tommy’s eyes flick back and forth between the flashlight and Tubbo.

“I’m fucking dead, aren’t I.”

It’s not even a question because Tommy already knows the answer, and that answer is that he’s potentially angered two cryptids and the one thing he knows about his job is how unpredictable they can be.

He’s fucked.

Chapter Text

Wilbur’s phantom wings flutter angrily as he paces around in the clearing, leaving no footprints behind as he just barely touches the ground, drifting above the dead leaves and pine needles that litter the forest floor.

It’s dark now, the sun sinking below the tree line, taking its gold, rose, and violet hues down with it, letting the moon and stars creep up into the dark sky in its place.

An owl hoots and the singing of day birds fades away to nothing as they’re replaced with those that live for the night, crows and ravens laughing harshly in a language that only they (and Phil) can understand. Wilbur’s pretty certain that they’re laughing at him, though he knows that it’s just his paranoia.

Actually, probably not. Phil told him that the crows laugh at him pretty frequently.

He had gone into the city, searched around for hours for what Phil and Techno called a “tall, lanky, blond guy with bright blue eyes,” and found absolutely nothing. There were a few of blond people out and about in the city, but none of them quite fit the description that Wilbur had been given, so after some time he just gave up and went back to the forest he calls home.

Phil and Techno weren’t there when he returned, meaning that Wilbur is completely alone, left to his own devices until his twin and father to come back from whatever excursion they had gone on.

It’s not all that common that any of them leave the forest, but seeing as the events of the past night still loom threateningly over their heads, it’s not really a surprise that Phil and Techno stole away to find out just who (italics) saw them and lived to regret it.

Wilbur’s got to admit that it’s impressive just how good this fucker is at staying underneath the radar.

Either the guy is an expert at hiding away and knows how to avoid cryptids and other beings, or he’s just very fucking basic and hard to notice.

If Wilbur’s going to save his pride, he’s going to have to go with the second option.

He keeps circling, muttering curses as he lets his form materialize for just a moment to kick a pinecone aside. The sunlight has almost completely faded now, leaving just a few final hues of gold dancing across leaves before nightfall drapes over the woods like a soft blanket, the murmurs of a dark promise gentle as the stars begin to illuminate the sky.

Wilbur takes a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs and allowing him a moment to relax. Maybe, just maybe, this was one off occasion and it won’t cause him and his family any problems. The stranger clearly hasn’t told anyone, seeing as no hunters have shoved their way into the woods, and since he’s nowhere to be found, Wilbur begins to find that there’s no use in worrying about it.

Everything’s going to be just fine.

Right?

Well, since life wants to kick Wilbur’s ass into the fucking ground, it turns out that things are not, in fact, fine.

Just as he’s beginning to let himself relax, a loud string of curses echoes throughout the trees, birds scattering with offended calls at the disruption. Wilbur whips around, narrowing his eyes as he realizes that the sound came from a greater distance, wondering what made the noise.

Or who made the noise.

It’s definitely not Techno or Phil, which means—

The fucking guy who’s inadvertently ruining Wilbur’s life has shown up right when he’s trying to calm down.

Holy shit, is a moment of peace really that much to ask for?

Apparently so, because now Wilbur has a job to do, and no matter what Phil tells him, he’s not going to hesitate when it comes to having blood spilled by his hands. Humans have tried too hard for far too long to spill his, so if Wilbur has to stain the forest floor crimson and leave the vultures a meal, he won’t hesitate.

So he stalks through the shadows, form dissolving into nothingness as he paces towards the source of the sound, careful not to make any sign of his presence. His breaths are short and quiet, drawn in the same way that Phil taught him to do as a child, just small, quiet intakes and outtakes of oxygen in a way that won’t draw anything towards him.

Twigs and leaves brush against him, bark that should be rough against his skin not leaving any marks as he phases through it. He makes no noise, silent as a hunter searching as he tracks down the stranger. He’s not as soft as Phil, he’s not letting this fucker get away from him.

In a few moments of strangling quiet, all of the animals of the forest holding their breath in an effort not to be found by the hunter or the hunted, Wilbur finally manages to find a sign of the intruder. 

Footsteps are imbedded in the soft forest dirt, most of them orderly in the way that a human walks, except for when a tree branch comes across the path and then there’s a dent of someone splayed out on the ground.

Wilbur stifles a snort of laughter as he imagines some absolute dumbass falling face-first into the ground, swearing up a storm and scaring everything within a 50 mile radius, and then going even deeper into the fucking forest.

Clearly, the person that Wil’s dealing with isn’t that smart. 

He smirks to himself as he creeps forward at a slightly faster pace, careful to weave around the footprints and to keep them within his line of sight. He uses the light of the moon and stars as his guide while he tracks down the intruder, eyes glancing at the sky every now and then to make sure that a dark wisp of cloud doesn’t blot out the crescent that rules high in the sky.

His wings twitch with anticipation as he quickens, darting around fallen logs and other such obstacles in his pursuit, a kind of vicious glee clawing at his heart as he gets closer and closer, hot on the intruder’s trail—

Then a light is shining in his eyes, and he does the reasonable thing and shrieks.

“OW! Fuck, why the fuck did you- asshole!” Wilbur cries.

“HOLY SHIT, NOT AGAIN.” The stranger yelps, his flashlight jostling in his grip while he tries to grasp onto it with his shaking hands. “WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME.”

“YOU TELL ME, BITCH!” Wilbur snaps. “YOU JUST SHONE A FUCKING FLASHLIGHT STRAIGHT INTO MY FUCKING EYES! DON’T YOU KNOW BASIC SAFETY MEASURES?”

“I CAN’T EVEN FUCKING SEE YOU, HOW WOULD I KNOW WHERE YOUR EYES ARE?” The stranger’s voice leans towards a higher pitch as he furiously fumbles with the light that is clearly slipping out of his fingers. 

Once the light pours around the stranger, illuminating their figure, Wilbur realizes something.

This is an actual, legitimate child standing in front of him, staring at him with a kind of furious, nervous determination as if daring him to come forward. He has no equipment, just a flashlight and a backpack that’s clearly almost empty, the sound of just a few items rustling around faint and muffled against the old fabric.

The kid, like how Techno and Phil described him, has bright blue eyes, fluffy blond hair, and freckles dancing about his face as though someone flicked a brush with paint at the end of it at him. He’s decently tall, but too thin for comfort, red and white hoodie baggy around his torso where it should be tight. Sweatpants that are clearly too long for him drape down towards his shoes, which- have deliberately placed holes in them?

The fuck?

Wilbur’s so absolutely fucking shocked (not just by the shoes), that he releases his grasp on his transparency for a moment and fades back into existence, eyes wide while fear and guilt course through him.

Holy shit, he was actually trying to kill a child.

“WHAT THE SHIT!” The kid yelps and leaps backwards, his flashlight nearly clattering to the ground until he catches it with a stray hand, directing it at Wilbur. Wil’s phantom pupils shrink with the sudden light, adjusting to the way that the kid seems to be trying to light him up like a fucking Christmas decoration or some shit.

“What?” Wilbur asks, shaking his head lightly to clear his thoughts of holy shit he’s an actual fucking child and absolute gremlin from his mind. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

“WHY DO YOU LOOK LIKE THAT.”

“That’s a very fucking offensive question, dickhead.” Wilbur snaps before clamping his mouth shut upon seeing the terrified look on the boy’s face. “What I mean to say is, what are you doing here? What’s your name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?” The literal fucking gremlin hisses. Like an opossum. He fucking hisses like an actual fucking opossum, and Wilbur’s not sure if he should be offended or worried for the boy.

“I actually would like to know, you fucking goblin, so why don’t you tell me?” Wilbur retorts.

“Because you’re a fucking cryptid and I don’t want to die?” The boy flashes his teeth at Wilbur in an almost animal-like fashion, as if daring him to come forward and face him.

“I’m not going to kill you, shithead.” Wilbur groans. “Here, let’s just start over. I’m Wilbur—”

The gremlin child snorts. “Wilbur? Are you trying to tell me that you’re a fucking monster or some shit and your name is fucking Wilbur?”

“I- What the fuck? Is there something wrong with that?” Wilbur bristles at this.

“Yeah.” The kid nods knowingly.

“Like what?” Wilbur questions.

“The fact that you’re an ugly bitch with an ugly-ass name.” Tommy suggests.

“I don’t feel bad about killing you anymore.” Wilbur growls. “Just give me your fucking name, and then we can talk.”

“We’re talking now, shithead.” The gremlin child states matter-of-factly. “What are you, death?”

“You spelled that wrong.” Wilbur points out.

“How the fuck?” The boy’s eyes widen.

“What?” Wilbur asks.

“What?” The kid questions.

“Alright, I’ve made the consecutive decision to not give a shit about anything you say from now on unless it’s your name.” Wilbur says. 

“Makes sense.” The gremlin child agrees. “So, what do you do for a living, Bitchbur? You look like you write emo poetry or some shit.”

Wilbur ignores him.

“Not that I’m judging or anything.” The boy pauses. “Actually, on second thought, I am judging. My judgement says that you eat shit.”

“No I fucking do not.” Wilbur grits his teeth.

“Prove it.” The gremlin grins.

“How— you know what, if you don’t give me your name in five seconds, I’m going to fucking kill you.” Wilbur threatens.

The kid pales and takes a step back, hands shaking once again as he tries to keep his flashlight pointing at Wilbur. Wil feels a tad bit guilty, but he decides to ignore it in favor of using empty threats to get at the gremlin child.

“You wouldn’t.” The absolute fucking goblin’s voice wavers, and Wilbur flinches at his tone.

“I— I would. I’m fucking warning you.” Wilbur stutters, guilt wrapping its claws around his heart as he looks into the terrified eyes of the stranger.

“Fine. It’s… Tommy.” Tommy says, words much quieter than before. His eyes lock onto Wilbur’s for a moment, before switching to his strange holed-shoes as if they’re the most interesting thing in the world. “Tommy.” He repeats, a bit louder this time, though his voice still cracks.

Wilbur feels a strange urge of needing to protect this child, to hold him close and keep him away from whoever hurt him.

But that wouldn’t make any sense- Wilbur just met the kid moments before, and isn’t he supposed to kill him or something? This literal fucking gremlin child has seen Wilbur, Phil, and Techno, and he could be a threat if Wilbur’s not careful.

At the same time, Wilbur can’t bring himself to hurt the boy. He seems roughed up enough, old scars and bruises lining his arms, faint marks pale against his face in the moonlight. 

“Nice to meet you, Tommy.” Wilbur nods in acknowledgment. Then he tilts his head, a teasing hint in his eyes as he grins. “I was going to call you ‘gremlin boy’ if you didn’t give me your name.”

“Ohh, look at me, I’m Wilbur, and I insult everyone I meet for the first time!” Tommy exclaims, voice high and mocking as he takes a few brave steps forward to glower at the man who stands at least a head taller above him. “Shut up bitch boy, or I’ll fucking clart you.”

“You’re very rude, you know that?” Wilbur retorts.

“I’m perfectly aware of that, and I’ll make it your fucking personal problem if you don’t stop being a bitch.” A crooked, yet endearing grin makes its way onto Tommy’s face, though the wary look in his blue eyes never dissipates. 

“Oh, you’re gonna be my personal problem, huh?” Wilbur quizzes. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

“I’ll- I’ll fucking uh- you’ll see, dickhead.” Tommy pokes Wilbur’s arm, Wilbur keeping it solid so as to not let the kid’s hand phase through him.

“Yeah, yeah.” Wilbur chuckles. “I’ll ‘see’ soon then, yeah?”

Tommy laughs. “Yeah, you fucking will. When I come back to this shitty-ass forest, I’ll make your life an absolute shithole.”

“Good luck with that, Tommy.”

Chapter Text

There’s darkness creeping around him.

It’s everywhere, pitch black and suffocating. 

And it’s so quiet… the only sounds being his strangled breathing as he struggles against the leather digging into his skin, holding him tight against the ground while he thrashes about helplessly.

He’s tired, he’s so tired, and he just wants to go home.

Why did they do this to him?

What is there to gain?

He coughs, exhausted from the effort, his stomach hollow and eyes sunken in.

The light turns on in the hallway, bright and blinding as a figure makes their way onto the scene, a small, sharp object in hand and-

Tommy wakes up.

Chapter Text

Purple particles swirl furiously along the moonlit battefield, swarming around a tall, dark figure with clothes that seem much too extravagant for his paycheck.

His ponytail is tucked behind his head, a gem shaped like an eye of Ender holding his hairstyle intact while he fights, ducking and rolling as more attacks are thrown his way— balls of fire and magic are tossed at him, furious attempts at taking away his freedom of movement, or maybe his life.

Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if the “heroes” he’s fighting are trying to take away both.

“Give it up, Enderwalk!” The voice is booming, echoing around the city rooftops with a unnatural edge giving it more volume. The hero, Dream, is practically hissing with frustration as he lifts his hand, green energy swirling around it and bursting away from him in a desperate attempt to kill the vigilante who stares him down.

Ranboo sees the emerald fire shooting his way, decides that he doesn’t want to die today, and dodges.

A string of curses erupt from Dream’s mouth and he throws his head down as Ranboo teleports behind him, clawed hand ready to slash his neck and provide some hindrance as his Tubbo rages with all hell against the other two heroes who are desperately trying to avoid massive vines reaching towards them, poisonous flowers and spores lashing against their skin while roots aim to immobilize them by wrapping around their legs.

Dream lets out an angry noise akin to a tea kettle as he whirls around to face Ranboo, who just shrugs and appears behind him again, hooking out a leg to throw him off his balance. It works, and Dream falls to the ground, arms splayed out as he tries to prevent himself from smashing his face into the concrete. 

He throws his hands out to catch himself, and before Ranboo has the chance to gloat, Dream’s leg is sweeping Ranboo’s from under him, causing him to nearly collapse before he panics and teleports away once again, glowering at Dream from the other side of the battlefield.

Ranboo doesn’t like to use strong language, but wow, Dream is a bitch.

The hero is breathing heavily behind his cracked white mask, the smily face much more imposing than it should be, given the fact that it’s, you know, a smily face.

You’d think that it’d be a welcoming sight.

It’s not. It’s really, really not.

Dream rises to his feet once more (geez, how many hits can this guy take?), and even though Ranboo can’t see his face, it’s obvious that the hero is pissed. He’s tensed up with the rage and frustration that’s been building up ever since the start of the fight, anger at how he and his top-tier heroes can’t even stop two vigilantes, no matter how hard they try.

Ranboo’s awfully smug about that fact, and he won’t hesitate to rub it in the guy’s face.

“What’s wrong? You fall over or somethin’?” Ranboo grins as he calls out across the rooftop-turned-battlefield. “I hope you feel better!”

“Shut. Up.” Dream grits out.

“Make me, green man.” Ranboo smiles innocently before leaping up to avoid another blast of green energy thrown his way, twisting in the sky and lashing his tail out of the way of the emerald flames before ducking into a roll, tumbling across the ground before bounding back to his feet, flashing his teeth at the hero who stares at him with murderous intent.

To be honest, Ranboo knows that he’s not going to win a fight against Dream anytime soon.

But the thing is, he doesn’t have to.

All he has to do is keep the Number One hero away from Tubbo (or “Apis,” as he likes to call himself when doing his vigilante work) while the teen torments Error and Wyvern with his botany, sending vines and thorns in the heroes’ way. It’s kind of funny, really, how much two barely-trained vigilante teens can ruin the top heroes’ day so easily.

Well, to be fair, Dream, Error, and Wyvern ruined Ranboo and Tubbo’s day first. They were just minding their own business, stopping a mugging, maybe breaking someone’s car during the process, and the heroes just had to show up and try to arrest them. The nerve of these guys, right?

The only reason why the fight’s still going is an act of spite, really. This isn’t the first time that the top ranking members of the hero system in L’Manburg purposely tracked down Ranboo and Tubbo to bring them “to justice” in an effort to keep the city safe. However, it seems as though vigilantes are doing a much better job than the heroes, seeing as crime rates have severely gone down since Ranboo, Tubbo, and other vigilantes such as Nephthys and Thunder made their way onto the scene.

Heroes are paid to care about the higher districts.

Vigilantes aren’t paid, and they couldn’t care less about who they protect, as long as those they’re trying to protect are kept safe.

So while heroes waste their time trying to arrest vigilantes and ignoring the actual crimes erupting throughout the lower district, Ranboo and Tubbo have made it their goal to mess with them and throw them off as much as possible, because there’s nothing funnier than watching a disheveled trio of the highest ranking heroes walk into the hero tower and admit that a couple of children living off of ramen beat them up.

Ah yes, the sweet taste of victory via pissing off people and mildly inconveniencing them.

Kind of tastes like microwaveable ramen, but maybe that’s just because it literally makes up Ranboo and his roommates’ entire diet.

Ranboo has got to start eating healthier.

He’s drawn back to reality as Tubbo leaps to his side, bee wings fluttering excitedly as he stares down the heroes with a kind of mania in his eyes. He always enjoys these fights, maybe a little too much, but as long as it makes him happy, it’s fine.

Sometimes a little bit of destruction is necessary for self-care.

Tubbo is proving that as he throws both his hands up in the air, laughing with a kind of sick joy that is very worrying for a seventeen year old as vines shoot up through the building’s roof, tendrils leaping towards the top three heroes and dragging them down to the cement rooftop.

All three of them are shouting indignantly, swears and curses that are indistinguishable as Tubbo claps his hands gleefully as the vines pull the heroes closer to the cement, winding around them like serpents and providing binding around their wrists, ankles, and torsos to keep them in place while Ranboo and Tubbo just watch on in victory.

“This is a Tubbo moment.” Tubbo cackles.

“Yep.” Ranboo agrees. “Please never give me a Tubbo moment. I don’t think I’d survive.”

“No promises, bossman.” Tubbo elbows Ranboo, who seems offended at the touch before lightly shoving the bee hybrid back, a smile working its way onto his lips as he glances over to the incapacitated Top Three.

“Think we’ll get on the news?” Ranboo asks.

“We’d better get on the fucking news, and Tommy better fucking watch it.” Tubbo smiles gleefully before throwing his arm around Ranboo’s, a clear signal that they should make their getaway.

Though the incapacitation with the vines is effective at first, it never takes long for Wyvern to scorch through them, flames dancing across the green leaves as his rage burns inside and out, fury giving him a better edge to his power while his two companions slash at the plants with carefully hidden weapons provided by the Hero Tower itself.

So, with one look at one of the vines snapping away from Wyvern’s leg and the laugh of victory that comes from the man, Ranboo grabs Tubbo’s arm and teleports elsewhere, purple particles swirling around him in a violet cloud. 

It’s a natural sensation to him, a feeling of freedom that he gets whenever he teleports, but for some reason, Tubbo and Tommy always complain about it whenever he does it with them. 

The amount of times that Tommy’s vomited on him should give Ranboo a pay raise.

(none of them get paid.)

——

The dingy apartment that they call home is just as dirty as always, Tommy lounging on the couch while an opossum that has clearly seen too much shakes in the corner, a documentary about dinosaurs playing on the screen. Ranboo wonders if there’s therapy for opossums, and if this guy can get some.

If Ranboo had nothing else to do than watch Tommy all day, he’d need therapy too.

The golden-haired teen is distractedly eating chips, eating Chex mix at an alarming rate as he’s completely absorbed by the documentary. He’s clearly been here for hours, his leg tapping repeatedly with anxiety as he barely even acknowledges Tubbo and Ranboo coming in.

There are bags underneath his eyes, and a look of hollow fear that tells Ranboo all he needs to know.

Ranboo, Tubbo, and Tommy have only known each other for so long, a chain of strange accidents and incidents leading up to them finally getting to meet each other properly and move into an apartment, taking care of themselves and living satisfied with the newfound company. It’s much better than the choking loneliness of their old homes, whether it be Tommy living in the apartment alone, Ranboo switching from place to place, or the gardens that Tubbo dwelled in, all of them feel much safer together than separated.

Even though they try to share as much as they can, not everything is open with them. Secrets go unsaid, personal pasts and secrets kept close and never let go as they clutch them close to their hearts, fear lighting their gazes as they try to keep themselves safe in the only way they know how.

Ranboo’s been through his fair share of hardships, Tubbo as well, but sometimes Tommy just seems… broken.

Most of the time, he’s full of life, causing chaos and laughing and being an angry ray of sunshine, but other times, he just shuts down completely. He becomes a hollow, empty shell of himself, seemingly running off of fear and fear alone. He jumps at every sudden move, eyes wide with terror whenever someone so much as looks at him, the bags under his eyes dark and telling that he is, in fact, not okay.

Today seems to be one of those days, his leg bouncing up and down while his right hand rubs his left arm in a futile attempt to soothe himself. His eyes are glued to the documentary, gaze unwavering. It’s almost as though he sees something else in the screen, a different image rather than the small feathered dinosaur narrowly escaping the jaws of a much larger carnivore.

Nobody knows what happened to Tommy. Ranboo and Tubbo have learned not to ask about it, instead providing comfort for him whenever he needs it. They’re all a small, unique support system, leaning on each other and keeping each other safe as much as they can.

Tommy isn’t weak. That’s a fact.

But that doesn’t mean that Ranboo and Tubbo won’t try their absolute hardest to protect him.

“Hey, big man.” Tubbo greets, his voice more kind and welcoming than usual as he plops down on the cushion next to Tommy. “How are ya doing?”

“Shit.” Tommy mutters through a mouthful of Chex mix. “Absolute shit.”

“Do you want to talk about it? You don’t have to if you don’t want to, I mean-” Ranboo stumbles over his words, wishing dearly for his “Polite words for poor people book.” Seeing as being polite is a necessity in situations such as this, and Tommy is clearly very poor (silence, Ranboo is most definitely not also poor. He just doesn’t have money so he can make his friends feel better. Definitely. For sure.), the book would be incredibly helpful right now.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the book, so instead, he has to settle with listening to his impressively bad memory and go off of that.

Ranboo sucks in his breath, waiting for the response so he can figure out how the situation will play out from here. Maybe Tubbo can cover it. Tubbo seems to be a lot better than Ranboo is at this kind of thing, even though Ranboo’s been told that he can be quite comforting when he’s not bragging about himself or being spoiled.

“Nightmare.” Tommy mumbles quietly.

Well, this is a rare occurrence.

Not the nightmare thing, but more so the fact that Tommy (italics) admitted that something’s wrong. He never does that, he always tries to fight through things himself, only asking for help when he has no other choice.

Yet here he is, saying one simple word that says so much more than it should.

“Oh shit.” Tubbo’s voice is quiet with worry as he scoots closer to Tommy, who just grunts with acknowledgment and inhales another bit of Chex mix. “That bad, huh?”

“Yup.” Tommy agrees bluntly, shaking the bag out into his hand, yielding only crumbs. He doesn’t hesitate before taking them in like a human vacuum. If chips had war crimes, Tommy would be at the top of their “most wanted” lists.

“Uh,” Ranboo begins nervously, wringing his hands as he attempts to make eye contact with his friend, “was it— y’know, about something that happened? Or was it, like, just a basic nightmare thing. Like with monsters and stuff.”

Tommy pauses. All of the faint scars and bruises on his skin seem so much clearer, if only for just a moment, providing Ranboo with a small detail of what may have caused the bad dream. It’s not much, and Ranboo still knows practically nothing about Tommy’s past, but by the haunted look in Tommy’s eyes and the way he holds his own hand tightly for comfort, it clearly wasn’t something good.

“I don’t even know where it fucking came from, I was okay, and then I just-” Tommy chokes out. “It- it was about him. And it fucking hurts.”

Chapter Text

Feeling like shit is just part of Tommy’s routine at this point.

It’s been hours since he woke up from his nightmare, the sun rising even though clouds hide it behind a gray veil, muffling its golden rays. Tubbo and Ranboo are already out doing their actual, normal, everyday jobs, such as working at the supermarket and telling people how poor they are while waiting tables at a restaurant.

Meanwhile, Tommy is stuck in his apartment because his employers decided to take a fucking long-ass break from hunting cryptids for the holidays. According to them, he should “let himself rest for a while” and “spend time with his family.”

Jokes on them, Tommy doesn’t even fucking have a family.

Actually, maybe the joke’s on Tommy, because now he’s completely fucking alone and he doesn’t have much to do other than watch more nature documentaries and watch out for potentially rabid opossums. Even though at this point, they seem more scared of Tommy than he is of them, which is probably because of how he fucking bit one after it looked at him funny.

In his defense, he was left unsupervised.

He’s wondering if he should do it again, simply because one of them is staring at him in absolute horror and fear from the corner, and he’s left alone in the apartment with nothing else to do.

The opossum shakes, trembling as it gazes at him unblinkingly.

Tommy hisses.

It whimpers and dashes into a crack in the wall, skittering into the darkness as its long tail lashes behind it, soon vanishing along with the rest of the creature.

Perhaps the true cryptid was Tommy all along.

He lets out a snort of laughter at that thought, corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly before dropping once more. He’s fucking exhausted and he feels more like shit than he thought was possible, too worn out from the long hours he’s spent awake and the nightmares that haunted him in his sleep. Along with that, there’s nobody here for him to talk to, even though he’s definitely a big man and he’s never needed anyone in his entire life.

Especially not his roommates. He doesn’t miss them at all. It’s easy to tell by how his phone is practically decorated with the minimum of fifty messages sent to them within the last hour.

A big man indeed.

He checks his phone once more, scanning for notifications letting him know that Tubbo and Ranboo have seen his texts and that they’re responding soon.

A lone wolf, if you will.

Upon seeing that Tubbo and Ranboo are still busy doing their jobs (or playing vigilante again. Who knows, really? Those two fucks are always trying to stop crime), Tommy groans and turns over on the couch, tucking his tattered blanket closer to him in an effort to stay warm. 

Winter’s a lot harder to deal with when you don’t have any kind of indoor heating besides blankets and roommates, the chill seeping in through the cracks of the building and wrapping its claws around Tommy much like those monsters that he spends his time trying to catch.

To be honest, the way that the freezing weather clutches him with cold talons reminds him of that crow cryptid he’d seen the other night, the one who seemed to be more corvid than man, his talons twitching and his head tilting curiously as he took Tommy in, black feathers extending towards the kid almost subconsciously.

For some inexplicable reason, the man’s impossibly bright blue eyes have ingrained themselves in Tommy’s memory, a constant azure image of the night that Tommy just can’t seem to get away from. There was something about them, the curiosity lit like crisp blue flames, contrasting the silky black feathers that seemed to block out even the stars in the sky as he stared at Tommy.

It didn’t appear as though the crow was trying to hurt him— in fact, if Tommy’s memory serves him properly, the cryptid had saved him from plummeting into the forest floor and becoming yet another tragic accident.

All three of the cryptids refuse to leave Tommy’s mind, stubborn in his life like pebbles in his brain as he thinks them over. The boar was imposing, eyes a violent scarlet as he rushed through the underbrush in an attempt to tear Tommy’s life away from him, while the crow and Wilbur appeared to be more curious than anything.

Oh yeah, Wilbur.

Tommy had nearly forgotten about the phantom. Annoying ass fucking cryptid looking ass bitch.

Hadn’t Tommy told the fucker that he was going to make his life an absolute shithole? And isn’t his schedule completely free for the day?

Legally, Tommy’s not supposed to take out the cryptid hunting car unless he’s on the job.

Illegally, Tommy doesn’t give a shit.

——

This isn’t one of Tommy’s better ideas.

Well, that’s not really saying much as he’s renowned for doing stupid shit, but this is a new one.

Taking his work car out into an abandoned forest with his fake license and ID, searching for a cryptid that he knows practically nothing about other than his name and can most definitely kill him, all while telling nobody where he’s going is probably not a very smart move.

Which is what Tommy would say if he wasn’t an absolute fucking genuis who does no wrongs.

He even knows how to spell genuis properly. Top tier intelligence, IQ even higher than Einstein’s.

The car jolts ever so slightly as the smooth, well-trodden road turns to one of leaf litter and earth, dirt that falls before the wheels in a less than graceful motion. Tommy flinches at the sound of something rough scratching against the tires, then relaxes as he pulls into his self-proclaimed parking spot beside a particularly large oak.

It’s impossible to tell what the sun’s position in the sky is because of the large, dark gray wisps of clouds that cover it and whisper promises of rain in the near future. It’s beautiful, in a way, how the forest seems more mystical and foreboding with the gray seeping into it, storm-like colorations tinting what used to be green into a more muffled hue.

There’s probably a storm coming as well, seeing as there are seagulls gliding inland, flying away from the sea in an effort not to face the danger of the raging ocean during a hissing typhoon that lashes at all three elements: the sea, the sky, and the land.

Tommy’s beginning to wonder if this was, in fact, a good idea, but he has nothing else to do. Besides, what could go wrong, right? He’ll be fine.

A crow calls out harshly from above, the sound rising from its throat and escaping its mouth in a much more guttural fashion than those of songbirds. It sings, over and over again, almost like it’s laughing.

Tommy stares up at it, and the corvid peers curiously back at him as though surveying him.

A strange sound warbles in its throat, and after gazing at him for only a few more moments, it spreads its black wings and takes off from the branch it had been standing on prior. Pine needles and cones shake from the tree at the loss of the weight, some toppling to the ground while others stay connected.

Right. Weird birds. That’s usually a staple in cryptid hunting.

But Tommy’s not cryptid hunting, he’s looking for someone. He’s looking for Wilbur, even though he’s not entirely sure why. Sure, it’s mostly boredom, but at the same time, it’s dangerous for him to do something like this. He could be staying back at the apartment, huddled under blankets while he watches some random documentary about bovines or something, but instead he’s searching for a phantom, a creature known for its dangerous tendencies.

However, he’s already started this journey, and he’s not one to quit, so he takes in a deep breath and begins his trek down the winding forest trails.

Somehow, the forest grows steadily darker, becoming decidedly more and more silent with every step that Tommy takes. The animals are quiet, and there’s a lack of the rustling in the underbrush that he’s used to, along with a complete absence of the squirrels and birds that usually call the canopy their home.

Something’s tugging at Tommy, a duality of emotion and instinct that tell him both to run home and to keep going.

He decides to stick with the second option.

His breaths come out in silent wisps of air, a translucent fog trailing for only a few moments before it disappears completely. It’s cold, and Tommy’s underdressed, but he’s sure he’ll be fine. He’s handled worse than just a simple chill, and no matter how much it makes him shiver, it doesn’t provide any more threat than just a minor cold.

If he can handle Ranboo reciting his “Polite words for poor people” book, he can deal with a bit of frost.

Seriously, where the fuck did he even get that thing?

Shit’s probably cursed.

Tommy chuckles lightly to himself, the curl on his lips lasting a bit longer than before. There’s something comforting about being able to walk about on his own, no city things to worry about, no rent that he has to think about constantly, just him, the forest, and his thoughts. He revels in it, a sense of peace that he almost never gets, and he doubts he’ll have it again if he doesn’t come back here.

Fuck the “danger,” it’s worth it if Tommy can get a moment of solitude.

True solitude, away from the bustling city life, away from the conflicts breaking out between heroes and villains, just… safe. With only the wilderness to judge him.

He takes in yet another breath, closing his eyes slightly as he breathes in the crisp air. Leaves crunch from underneath him as he digs his shoes into the soft earth, pushing against the dirt as he leaves his own imprints upon the dirt.

A soft breeze brushes against him, cold yet welcoming as he subconsciously extends his hand out to catch the wind while it blows past him, intertwining with his fingers before dissipating into thin air. For once, he feels calm, at peace, and nothing could ruin this moment for him.

Nothing, of course, except for the hulking man with a boar skull for a mask coming up from behind him.

Shit.

Tommy turns around slowly, almost mechanically as he takes in the appearance of the stranger who’s currently glowering at him from a height that shouldn’t be legal. Pink hair cascades around his face, long and silky as it falls into loose braids tied with what seems to be literal gold. His eyes are as scarlet as the sunset, dark and menacing as he peers down at Tommy, almost judging the teen with how he’s posed.

His apparel is almost like that of a pirate with how his loose white sleeves reach down towards his fingerless gloves, while black fabric holds his torso with golden ties, leading down towards long dark pants that stop right before pitch-black heeled boots. The boar skull only partially covers his face, empty eye sockets revealing his own eyes while his jaw is completely revealed, a disdainful expression tightening his mouth as he stares at Tommy.

“Hullo.” Tommy greets.

A master of words.

“Hello.” The stranger dips his head in greeting in a fashion that’s almost… familiar. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”

“Walkin’.” Tommy answers.

“Fair enough.” The stranger nods.

“Yup.” Tommy agrees.

There’s something about the boar who had tried to kill Tommy just a couple of nights ago and this stranger who stands before him wearing a literal boar skull that seem to connect, but Tommy is as oblivious as a goldfish, so he doesn’t put two and two together.

“How about you?” Tommy questions awkwardly, trying not to flinch under the never-ending crimson gaze.

“Me? I was lookin’ for someone.” The stranger states. “He’s about this tall-” he holds his hand out to exactly Tommy’s height “blond, freckled, blue eyes, wears a coat like yours, has a camera around his neck.”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him.” Tommy replies simply. “I’ll let you know if I find him.”

“Try a mirror.” The stranger offers.

“Don’t have one on me, big man.” Tommy shrugs. “Hope you find this guy soon.”

“What if I’ve already found him?” The stranger scrunches up his nose. At least, Tommy thinks he does. It’s awfully hard to tell underneath the massive skull that looms threateningly over his face.

“Then I dunno why you’re fuckin’ asking me about him.” Tommy replies, growing frustrated with the encounter that seems to be going nowhere. 

“You know, the more I try to be threatening, the more I think that you lack the brain cells needed to be scared of me.” The stranger sighs.

“I think the one lacking brain cels is you, dickhead.” Tommy retorts.

“You spelled that wrong.” The stranger points out.

“You have issues.” Tommy snaps back.

“Probably less than you.” The stranger shrugs.

“Fair enough.” Tommy admits.

The stranger narrows his eyes at Tommy for a moment, then exhales. “So, seeing as nothing is working in terms of getting the point across, should I just tell you who I’m looking for?”

“Sure. It’d help with finding the guy.” Tommy agrees unknowningly.

“Alright. Found him.” The stranger states simply before lunging forward at a speed that should be even more illegal than his height, definitely above the speed limit for a haunted forest as he practically tackles Tommy, the two of them rolling across the ground in a flurry of dirt, leaves, and curses. Most of those curses come from Tommy.

“WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK!” Tommy screeches as the stranger pulls out a literal fucking axe, dark and shining with some kind of purple enchantment dancing across the blade. Tommy wants to not die today, because dying is cringe, so when the axe is flying down towards him, he ducks and rolls to the side, frantic eyes never tearing themselves away from the man who is currently trying to murder him.

“Good dodge.” The stranger nods in acknowledgment. “See if you can miss this one.”

“YOU HAVE ISSUES, MAN! GO TO FUCKIN’ THERAPY OR SOME SHIT!” Tommy screams as he just narrowly avoids the shining blade swinging in his direction, some of his hair getting clipped off before the axe buries itself in a nearby tree. Tommy has a sense of victory and relief that he at least has some more time, but then the stranger simply yanks his weapon out of the bark as if it’s nothing and turns back to Tommy, humming thoughtfully.

“You’re good. Have you done this before?” The stranger asks.

“WHAT, LIKE FUCKIN’ AVOIDING A PSYCHOPATH IN THE WOODS? NO, I HAVEN’T FUCKIN’ DONE THIS SHIT BEFORE, ASSHOLE!” Tommy yells before tucking into another roll, flinching at the sound of metal crashing into dirt behind him. This is a certified Tubbo moment. “GO FUCKIN’ PLAY BEDWARS OR SOME SHIT!”

“What’s bedwars?” The stranger asks right before Tommy fucking kicks him in the shin, a grunt of surprise erupting from the man before Tommy does an epic gamer move™️ and rugby tackles the guy to the ground.

“IT’S FROM HYPIXEL, DIPSHIT! STOP RUINING MY FUCKIN’ DAY!” Tommy practically hollers as he leaps back, avoiding another close call with the blade before backing up, gaze never breaking away from the eyes of the stranger. “IT’S LIKE NEW YORK! I’M FUCKIN’ WALKING HERE!”

“Walk faster.” The stranger advises.

“SHUT UP, DICKHEAD!” Tommy retorts. “YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”

“I’ve got the axe.” The stranger states.

“AND I’VE GOT MICROWAVEABLE RAMEN AT HOME, YOU’RE NOT SPECIAL!” Tommy snaps.

“My crow- what?” The stranger tilts his head, eyes confused as he attempts to take in the words that Tommy just said.

“I’M ABOUT TO BE FUCKIN’ MURDERED AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT RAMEN IS?” Tommy cries. “NOW I’M NOT JUST DYING, I’M OFFENDED!”

“After talking to you for about five minutes, I agree with you. I do need therapy.” The stranger sighs before heaving up his axe again, the strange metal glinting with violet runes as its shadow is casted over Tommy.

“THEN GO BOOK A FUCKIN’ APPOINTMENT NOW, BITCH!” Tommy screeches as he ducks and weaves, frantically trying to get out of the way of the shining blade that continuously tries to behead him, the owner losing no breath and seemingly putting no effort into the “fight.” “I HEARD THEY’RE ON SALE!” 

“Therapy can be on sale?” The stranger quizzes.

“GO FUCKING CHECK!” Tommy swerves out of the way in an almost practiced fashion, eyes wide as he calculates the next movement that the stranger will take. “THERE’S SPECIAL INFO ON https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QB7ACr7pUuE!”

“How did you even have time to say that?” The stranger asks before swinging the axe at him again.

“HOW DO YOU HAVE TIME TO BE SUCH A BITCH?” Tommy retorts.

“You’re very rude for a child.” The stranger comments.

“YOU’RE TRYING TO FUCKIN’ KILL ME, OF COURSE I’M GOING TO BE FUCKIN’ RUDE!” Tommy snaps.

“Fair enough.” The stranger agrees. “Except, you got one thing wrong.”

“AND WHAT’S THAT, BITCHBOY?” Tommy yells.

“I’m not trying to kill you. I thought you’d have figured that out by now.” The stranger states.

“I- You- what?” Tommy struggles to get the words out. “Care to explain?

“I don’t think I have time to, seeing as I myself am about to get murdered. Hey, Wil.” The stranger nods towards a seemingly blank space next to him, and Tommy begins to wonder if the guy really is fucking bonkers.

“Hey, asshole. Don’t fucking touch Tommy.” Wilbur’s voice is echoing, ghost-like around the forest as the stranger gets absolutely fucking decked in the face.

Chapter Text

“Tech-no-blade.” Tommy sounds out the name as the man who had tried to kill him only moments before extends his hand in some form of greeting. “That’s a strange fuckin’ name.” He frowns before taking Techno’s hand in his own, watching the man’s crimson gaze set on him with a strange mix of boredom and curiosity, intertwining their fingers for a moment while Techno shakes his hand with his own. His hands are somehow simultaneously battleworn and delicate to the touch, scars lacing his palms feeling out of place with the way he holds himself, like he’s a poet or something. Tommy could swear that he sees ink stains on some of his fingers.

“You’re a strange kid.” Techno points out. His voice is monotone, seeming to be in some kind of permanent drawl, but the corners of his mouth lift as he teases Tommy. “I’ve never met a human who could use so many swear words while avoiding my blade, let alone a child.”

“I’m not a child.” Tommy mutters. “I’m eighteen.”

The lie is something that Tommy’s been telling for some time now, something that he uses in order to legally take his job and avoid the pitying looks he gets from strangers. He hates it when people look at him and think of him as a lost child, someone who needs support, who needs affection and needs to be loved.

Tommy doesn’t need or want to be loved by anyone other than his roommates, though sometimes even that seems difficult with the constant guilt weighing down on him. He can’t fully trust people other than Tubbo and Ranboo, no matter how much he wants to in some cases. He has to stick to himself, and lying about his age is just one of many things he has to do in order to keep himself safe.

Then again, he wonders why he’s lying to cryptids. It’s not like they would care— depending on their species, they probably have a completely different grasp on age than Tommy has. The two men standing in front of him could be eons old, creatures that have withstood the test of time, seeing with their own eyes much more than Tommy could ever even imagine.

A small unwanted jolt of anxiety courses through Tommy as he thinks of whether or not he can trust these two not to kill him. They’re cryptids, beings that he’s been trying to hunt for so long to no avail. Sure, he never believed in them, but now that he’s face-to-face with them, he’s not entirely sure what to think.

“Nah, you look like you’re fifteen at best.” Techno deadpans, cutting through his thoughts as though he had sliced them with his axe. “You’ve still got that baby face.”

“I don’t have a fuckin’ baby face, dickhead!” Tommy protests. “Just because you’re old as fuck doesn’t mean that you can call me a fuckin’ child!”

“Hey, I’m only like, fucking uh… Techno, when were we born?” Wilbur asks.

“I dunno, at least a few years ago. Maybe like… uhh… a hundred or something?” Techno shrugs, counting the years off his fingers to the best of his ability.

“You’re old as fuck.” Tommy states.

“And you’re a fucking gremlin, what else is new?” Wilbur retorts, but there’s an emotion in his gaze that Tommy can’t quite put his finger on. Fondness, maybe?

No, it has to be something else. Tommy’s just really fucking lonely.

(Not lonely, he’s a Big Man, he’s never felt lonely or touch starved in his entire life. If anyone says otherwise they’re wrong and he WILL get his lawyers involved.)

(Because he also most definitely has lawyers. Many of them. He has never lost a single court case. The IRS would agree if they could find him.)

“I’m not a gremlin, you’re just being a jackass.” Tommy argues. 

“Whatever, gremlin boy.” Wilbur teases. 

“‘OoOo, you’re such a little gremlin!’ Well you’re a fuckin’ dirty crime boy, that’s what you are!” Tommy snaps, failing to stop himself from grinning at the offended look that crosses Wilbur’s face.

“‘Dirty crime boy,’” Techno repeats. “Phil will love that nickname.”

“If you tell Phil, I’m getting rid of your bones.” Wilbur threatens, face going red. “You’re such an asshole, Technoblade.”

“At least I’m not a ‘dirty little crime boy.’” Techno smirks, voice still monotone but with a more teasing lilt to it as he avoids a false swipe from Wilbur. “Oh, Phil’s never going to leave you alone once he hears about this. You’re really out here getting bullied by a child, Wil. Weak.”

“Who the fuck is Phil?” Tommy quizzes. 

“Okay, first of all, this is all your fucking fault, gremlin child-” Wilbur begins, but he’s cut off by Techno, who stomps on his foot in a not-so-gentle manner.

“Phil’s our dad. You met him just a couple of nights ago.” Techno states, completely ignoring the yelp of pain erupting from his brother. “Do black feathers and wings ring a bell?”

The memory of velvety wings, dark as the night sky folding around him invade Tommy’s mind, bright blue eyes shining azure in the moonlight like the ocean, though they seemed to threaten of a storm soon to come despite the stranger, or Phil’s, as Techno had called him, kindness.

“He’s your fuckin’ dad?” Tommy blurts out. “Holy shit, he must be ancient.”

There are many mistakes you can make in front of a group of cryptids.

Calling them old is one of those mistakes, but at this point in life, Tommy doesn’t give a shit and if he gets murdered by these guys then he’ll die with his middle fingers up. However, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel just a tad bit scared, for when Techno and Wilbur turn eyes onto him, crimson and a mix of swirling green, blue, and violet hues, Tommy finds yet another jolt of anxiety.

But to his surprise, instead of reprimanding him with sharp words or tearing him apart, Techno just barks out a laugh while Wilbur practically folds in on himself cackling.

“Holy shit.” Wilbur chokes out. “Holy shit. Techno, Techno we have to tell Phil. We have to take the fucking gremlin to him.”

“Alright.” Techno tries and fails to keep up his monotone voice as he wheezes on the last syllable, sharp teeth and small tusks flashing as he turns back to Tommy. “Hey, Tommy, how do you feel about getting kidnapped?”

“Quite bad, actually.” Tommy states.

He’s got a bad fucking feeling about where this is going.

At least he told Tubbo about the fruit loops.

“Nice to know your opinion.” Techno nods before striding over to Tommy, making his way over in just a few steps. He picks up the teen by wrapping his arms around his chest, then slings him over his shoulder like some kind of sleeping bag or camping kit. “You’re going to be kidnapped now.”

“I fuckin’ hate both of you.” Tommy hisses, attempting to throw glares at the two. He fails, because the fur that marks the start of Techno’s cape is really fucking soft and his face is quite literally stuck in it.

“Don’t worry, Toms.” Wilbur grins before prodding him lightly on the arm. “You’ll get used to it.”

“That statement is just causing me to worry more.” Tommy points out, voice muffled by how he’s starting to practically burrow into Techno’s cape. It’s so cold out, and the freezing wind is really starting to bite at him, so the red fabric and white fur just seems like a safe haven to him. His shivering that he had barely even noticed before has begun to die down now, and at this point, Tommy couldn’t care less about getting kidnapped by cryptids. As long as he gets to curl up in this cape, it’s a win for him.

“Worrying is for the weak.” Techno deadpans, leaves crunching underneath his weird-ass pirate boots as he begins to stroll through the forest. “Kidnapping is not.”

“You’ve got problems, man.” Tommy mumbles, pulling the fur closer to him in an effort to escape the cold of winter. “Have you ever tried seeing a therapist?”

“Have you?” Techno questions.

“Can’t afford one, big man.” Tommy replies. “Cryptid hunting doesn’t pay that well.”

“Yeah, I would imagine it doesn’t.” Wilbur agrees.

They lapse into silence for a few moments, Tommy wondering if bringing up his job of literally searching for cryptids in front of two of them was a good idea. Honestly though, he’s beginning to get the feeling that Techno and Wilbur don’t have any plans to hurt him— if they did, they would’ve done it by now, seeing as Tommy’s been insulting them every chance he gets.

The sounds of Techno and Wilbur making their way through the forest, leaves crunching and soft dirt being pushed by their shoes, along with the soft fur of Techno’s cape just has a kind of… safe feel to it. Wilbur hums an unfamiliar tune while Techno hums along with it every so often, sometimes pausing to let Wilbur continue until joining in once more later on in the song.

Despite the fact that Tommy should be on high alert, he finds himself getting drowsy, the gentle rhythm of Techno’s chest rising and falling with each note lulling him to sleep, a soft whisper drifting through the winter air.

Tommy’s eyelids droop, fluttering as he struggles to keep them open in an effort to remain safe. But the more time that goes by, the more he realizes that Techno and Wilbur are absolute fucking nerds and that they really don’t mean him any harm. It’s more like they saw him in the woods, looked at him, decided that they wanted him to be his friend, and proceeded to drag him back to wherever they came from.

A really fucking weird way to socialize, but hey, they’re cryptids. Tommy doesn’t really expect much in the social department from them.

Tommy opens his eyes for just long enough to catch sight of a snowflake drifting towards him, then makes the consecutive decision to ignore it in favor of tucking his face back into the cape while listening to the steady rhythm of Techno talking to Wilbur about something. Tommy’s tuned out the words, hearing only a distant conversation as his breathing slows and he begins to relax, feeling like he’s back in his apartment except for once, he has an actually good blanket and it just so happens to be a cape from a cryptid.

The sound of talking gets farther and farther away, and as the sounds fade, Tommy’s eyes shut and he starts drifting into sleep.