Tommyinnit Oneshots

Little Moth, It's Gonna Be Hard

Phil gulped.

"Uhm, yes- this is my first time visiting. I was wondering, is there a place here where one could purchase a rune of protection?"

The taller one —he seemed to be the talker for the duo— narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. "That depends," he stated casually.

"On what?"

"On whether you're a witch hunter," the other man said, speaking for the first time in a deep, frank tone.

"Oh- oh Goddess, no! Nothing like that — I'm actually married to a witch, and I need help for her."

The sweater-clad man raised his eyebrows in surprise, while the pink-haired man's frown only deepened.

"Where is she, then?" he asked, accusatory.

"Well, that's a bit complicated. You see, she's in a bit of a... state, and I desperately need a rune because of it."

"We're sorry to hear that," the taller said, seeming genuine. "Yes, there is a place you can get runes-" the man got interrupted by an elbow delivered deep into his side by the furious-looking pinkette, causing the taller to let out a breathless wheeze. He looked to the shorter, and some sort of silent communication seemed to pass between the two. Finally, the pink-haired man turned away with crossed arms and a defeated frown.

"—Apologies— we can lead you there, but we'll escort you inside and stay. Can't be too careful, you know?"

Phil nodded in understanding; it was clear these two were a bit paranoid about witch hunters and were just overprotective. Perhaps the witch was their mother. Or maybe their sister?

---

As they walked through the woods down a well-trodden path, Phil and the talkative one made friendly conversation. The two introduced themselves —or rather, Wilbur introduced himself and Technoblade— and they spoke briefly about the village.

Phil learned it was bigger than it looked, and boasted some strange establishments, such as a church for a religion he had never heard of and even a casino.

The walk was short and genial, and the trio soon arrived at the doorstep of a small, moss-covered cottage. It was what every child imagined old witches housed themselves in — the hut was even in the middle of the woods, for Goddess' sake.

Wilbur knocked on the door, and a low voice called loudly from within, "Who is it?" 

"A customer," Technoblade grumbled back, voice carrying.

Someone puttered around for a moment before throwing the door open.

The person who opened the door was the one thing Phil would ever have expected.

It was a boy, looking to be in his young-teenage years, with a rat's nest of blond hair and a dark cloak thrown over his shoulders.

As he looked up at Phil, he held eye contact and aggressively plopped an obscenely large, stereotypical witch hat right on his head. It was so huge it covered his eyes before he readjusted it, and the top was so heavy the tip of it drooped to the side.

It was somehow the most predictable and unpredictable thing he had ever seen. 

Phil barked out a loud laugh before he could stop himself and the young witch —or so Phil assumed he was— met his eyes in fierce indignation. "What are you laughing at, bitch?"

Taken aback by the harsh language, Phil couldn't help but snort. "Terribly sorry, mate, it's just — the witch hat, it... it caught me off-guard," he said, struggling to contain his giggles at the comical hat.