Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy shoots awake, unable to stop thinking about it. The metallic taste on his tongue, staining his teeth for three days even though Phil had taken it upon themself to hold him down every night since that day and scrub his teeth with a toothbrush that cut into his gums and stained his teeth even more. He can’t stop thinking about the varying textures and how everything tasted so, so, much better when it fought against him first.

Everything is so bland, sticking to his teeth like paste and going down as a painful lump in his throat. Rice was too sticky, going in between his gums and venturing deeper when he tried to pry it out with his nails, eventually coming out when his gums painted his teeth another shade of red. Steak wasn’t bloody enough, cow never compared to real human flesh. Chocolate and other sweets he may find are too sweet, leaving him with a headache he can’t shake off. Nothing tastes how he remembers it.

The cravings are strong and hard to fight back, something inhuman inside of him begging for the thrill of the hunt and the screams that followed. The voices shriek and yell words he doesn’t want to hear, sleeping isn’t comfortable when you have to press pillows on each of your ears to feel even just a bit more alone than you actually are. Tommy’s never alone anymore. When the creatures aren’t hovering over him, the voices are reciting grimm’s fairy tales from memory. His ears bleed from his failed attempts of forever silencing the voices, the claws of a demon he refuses to believe he’s become glistening with blood, shining in the moonlight that hides between his curtains.

He’s perfected smiling a tight-lipped smile that hides his fangs and makes him seem like he’s happier than he actually is. Posing for a camera that’s held with grace and only slightly shaky hands that belonged to a demented crow who demanded they be referred to as Tommy’s father. Tommy doesn’t know why the title means so much to them as the role of his father has already been taken by a man who Tommy’s sure is nothing but bones at the moment. He’s never liked his father, he was mean, so why is this creature so adamant the honorific be theirs?

Tommy has begun to recite bible verses whenever he’s afraid, something that seems so miniscule to him that, in reality, fills his faux family with an anger he hopes to never take out on someone else. They scream, they shout, they order him not to recite the holy words that tumble out of his mouth as he curls into a ball and plugs his ears. They don’t like his parents’ saviour, but he is all that Tommy has. Tommy sobs out prayers every night, hands clasped together and knees pressed against the ground near his bed. He closes his eyes and bows his head, hoping, wishing, that the horns and wings would go away overnight so he didn’t have to live with the fact that he wasn’t human anymore. They never did, and he woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache and back pains that immobilised him until early evening.

Wilbur sings him to sleep whenever he’s awake too long, their shadows weaving in between his legs and pinning his wrists to his bed to prevent him from running. Tommy bit them once when they came too close, his gums still ache from the DIY dentistry they used on him, knives stabbed into his gums, teeth yanked out and pulled on. They grew back the following week but he’ll never forgive nor forget any of that. He was forced to eat various soups and stews for the week his teeth were missing; Beef stew with potatoes that were uncooked and dug into his gums, getting stuck in between his remaining teeth, beef cooked to dryness, somehow unaffected by the hot vegetable broth Tommy remembers watching Techno make months ago. Carrot soup that burnt his tongue and made him cry out. Mushroom soup that tasted like it was made when his parents’ saviour was alive. After eating these specific three soups and stews, he went on a hunger strike, ignoring the harsh rumbles of his stomach and forcing himself into bedrest when the pains were so almighty he couldn’t find it in himself to walk. It was on the fourth day of his hunger strike that the creatures struck, pinning him down onto his bed and pouring another foul tasting soup into his mouth, closing his jaw and pinching his nose until he swallowed. Tommy doesn’t bite anymore.

Techno lets him cook alongside them sometimes. They don’t allow him to hold knives or sneak pieces of raw steak and chicken, but they allow him into the kitchen. He often finds himself sitting on the small island that sat in the middle of the already small room. The cabinets were a lovely light brown, natural wood with circular handles. The countertops were painted white and were always clean, smooth and good as new come Saturday (cleaning day). The stove was grey with four burners, attached to an oven that sometimes sang a symphony of creaks when it was opened. The refrigerator sat closely to the end cabinets, pressed closely together as if they were family. Phil doesn’t trust him in the kitchen, always insisting that he would get hurt even though Techno keeps him closely monitored as if he were a baby. Tommy just wants them to leave him alone. He vaguely remembers crawling out of his room one night to go into the kitchen because he was hungry, he skillfully avoided all the creaky floorboards as he made his way over to the fridge, saliva pooling in his mouth and sliding down his chin once he opened the doors and felt the slight cold rush over him. Phil had to pry the bloody pieces of fresh beef from his unwilling fingertips. Techno rarely lets him help cook anymore.

Phil often drags him onto the itchy brown couch whenever they feel that he hasn’t come out of his room enough that day, holding him to their chest and whispering about how much they missed him into the mess of curls that rested on top of his head. He retorts with a few salty sentences regarding their inability to leave him the fuck alone. Phil disregards him with a ‘tsk’, running their hands up and down his back as if he were in need of comfort. Wilbur’s shadows often interrupt Phil when he rambles, snaking around their arms and across Tommy’s horns. Phil scolds them whenever Tommy shivers and presses into Phil for warmth. The couch is covered in pillows and blankets, surrounded by candles that smell like vanilla and peppermint. He’s never been a fan of candles, always associating them with seances and revivals. His parents are proud haters of both. He remembers when Phil made the mistake of falling asleep underneath him and leaving him alone with the lit candles. Tommy wiggled and squirmed until he was out of the creature’s firm grip, moving to lean over the candle that spread the pleasing peppermint smell across the house. His eyes lit up when he got closer, red shining in the pleasant barely-there glow. He remembers the flame flickering as he hovered one of his hands overtop of the glass jar full of scented wax, almost akin to how someone may cower fearfully when in the presence of a murderer. He wrapped his hands around the heated glass, practically inhaling the burn that implanted itself into his fingertips, lifting it off of the wooden shelf that held meaningful knick-knacks and boring old books and bringing it to his mouth. The melted wax burnt going down but he managed, drinking in the ache that settled in his throat when he finished, the candle no longer burning. Phil doesn’t drag him onto the itchy brown couch anymore.

He can’t say he likes it here, trapped in a house that smells of vanilla and peppermint. He’s grown sick of the same old flavours and scents, he just wants to be free. Though there is no possible way of him ever getting out of here, his hopes dwindling and leaving him all alone. He’s going to die here, melted into the floorboards by his bed, leaving behind nothing but a family name he didn’t belong to anymore. Maybe he’d see his parents when he passed. Or maybe he’d find an escape route that made sense and wouldn’t lead to him being captured and brought back immediately. He doesn’t believe he’s strong enough to pull that off.

He drifts back asleep when the sun starts to rise and the crickets chirp their favourite song. Forever fearful of the days to come.

Chapter Text

Techno made roast chicken and mashed potatoes for dinner, Tommy wasn’t allowed to help this time. And he knows why. He knows why they refuse to let him even do so much as sit on the counters while they cook. It’s not his fault he wants the chance to sink his teeth into a piece of meat less cooked than Techno would ever allow it be.

Tommy didn’t eat it. He’s never been one for chicken, much less cooked chicken. Techno chose to simmer it in a sauce that burnt his nostrils and made his skin crawl, a disapproving look on his face when Tommy said he wouldn’t do so much as give it a try.

Phil and Wilbur weren’t much better when it came to food. Wilbur barely eats, and when he does it isn’t much. Tommy supposes you don’t have to eat much when you’re made up of what hides on the walls when the lights go out. Phil lives off of seeds and bugs, primarily worms that he’s dug out of the ground, Tommy screams when he catches him in the act.

Tommy doesn’t even bother with them when they try to coerce him into eating with the promise of sweets and ice cream after dinner. He knows they’ll drug the ice cream so he goes to bed earlier and they don’t have to deal with him anymore.

Tommy caught a bunny outside the house once, it came from the forest. Its speckled brown fur was caked in dirt and its white cottontail wiggled from side to side in a panic Tommy understood in a way. Pure and soul-shaking. The voices told him to eat it so he did, peeling the soft spring coat off of its frail bones and manipulating them in every which way in order to get the most meat in his mouth possible. He licked his fingers clean and walked back to the creature's house with the poor bunny’s bloodstained coat in his hands.

Phil grounded him for a month after he found one of the couch cushions torn open, stuffing spilling out, Tommy sitting next to it, bunny coat full of feathers in hand as he makeshift stitched the tiny pillow together.

-

To say that Tommy didn’t like what he had become was an understatement. He hated the leathery wings that barely carried him more than a couple inches at a time. He despised the piercing red eyes that replaced his old precious blue ones that used to shine with childlike innocence. He loathes the horns that rest on his forehead, pointy and heavy.

Phil tells him that he’ll get used to them in just a matter of time but Tommy doesn’t think he ever will. He thinks he’s more likely to take his own life before that happens.

-

Wilbur tries to get to know him sometimes. Just like brothers do, they say.

Tommy knows everything he doesn’t need to know about Wilbur.

He knows they used to play the guitar before Phil took them to the forest. And he knows that they can’t play it anymore before the shadows that make up their hands always phase through the strings, even when they were acting as functional hands just minutes prior.

He knows their favourite colour is turquoise, and he knows they like the sea.

But he doesn’t know who they were before Phil took them in. He doesn’t know what Phil’s told them, and he doesn’t know what they think of themself on the nights they weep and scream late into the night just to pretend they’re fine in the morning.

So, Tommy knows what Wilbur is telling him, but he doesn’t know the more important parts of them.

Wilbur is an enigma. One Tommy can’t care to figure out right now.

-

Squirrels are far too chewy, Tommy decides one evening. Their eyeballs are unexpectedly crunchy and their guts are far too warm. Their paws are by far the chewiest part of them, their feet coming in close second. He finds the thighs nice and soft, a bit more packed with blood than he expected but he won’t complain. Their stomachs are all well and fine, though their organs just aren’t that filling. He goes to bed that night disappointed and determined to hunt something better tomorrow.

The rain that pelts down on the tall grass lets him down when he wakes up the next day, and so does the “family puzzle day” that the creatures have planned for the day.

“Help me find the puzzle pieces Theseus,”. Techno grumbles by his side, reading glasses perched on the edge of his snout. Tommy sighs in return and picks one up from the table, he stares down at the puzzle for a few silent moments before putting the piece in his mouth.

Phil sent him to his room soon after he spat it out.

They didn’t let him help with the puzzles after that.

-

Tommy isn’t having fun with his new life.

When he was younger he supposed he’d be a famous actor by now, starring in shows and movies, and crushing all the girls' hearts when they swooned for the characters he played.

He didn’t think to guess that he’d be living with the creatures that kidnapped him and took him to their house in the woods and turned him into a demon with cannibalistic tendencies.

He knows you shouldn’t plan out your whole life when you’re younger, as you’re bound to be disappointed, but he just can’t help but wish everything would have gone differently.

He can’t bring himself to properly hate his parents for what they did. They wanted to protect him, and what’s so bad about that? Maybe he just wasn’t being grateful enough for what he had. Maybe if he had read the bible a couple more times, his parents’ saviour would’ve swooped down and saved him.

He shakes his head, this isn’t time for maybe. If he wants something to happen, he needs to do it now before anything else happens.

And so, with an empty stomach, stomach rumbling with cravings, and voices shouting in excitement, he wiggles his fingers underneath his window and pulls it upwards, looking up at the moon with a forbidden sense of determination rippling under his skin. The ground is softer than last time, and he’s back on his feet in no time, running into the woods and away from the house.

He was getting out of there, he was finally getting out of there.

Let’s just hope it lasts longer than last time.