Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy was born for the spotlight.

It seemed like an arrogant thing to say, and maybe that’s true. But in all fairness, it wasn’t something said out of proportion. It was true, it was a fact. He was born to be behind the camera, bred and born for his face to be cast on the large stretches of an IMAX movie screen. 

It was in his blood after all, his father was a well-known director throughout Hollywood. Great movies like The Chasing of Elwood Skillet, and inspirational documentaries over the tragic murder of James Canopy. All in his father’s creation, the man was cherished by the nation for his great deeds, Oscars and Academy Awards lined his walls.

Well, they might have, it’s not like Tommy really knows. The man died when he was three and wasn’t around a real lot in the first place, Hollywood was a full-time job after all.

Unlike his father, his mother on the other hand wasn’t famous like the infamous director. The only reason she was even remotely in the public eye was because she married the guy. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have her resources, connections.

His mother was obsessed with money and fame. The second the man died the woman eyed her child like a hawk, looking for anything that could get her remotely any profit. Took his three-year-old ass to every party and affair in the city she was invited to, all in pity for the new widow. Trying to seep out compliments and gazes from anybody who was anyone, trying to get his face out there in the public. 

Tommy vaguely remembers nights sitting on the living room floor, playing with his toys while his mother raged in the kitchen on the telephone. Pacing the tile as she screamed over the phone to producers and talent agencies, trying to get her newly four-year-old son on anywhere or anything she could possibly manage to soak out a quick buck for. 

He didn’t know how the crazed bastard did it, but she did. She somehow landed him a gig as a small part on some shitty TV show at the ripe age of four. Some medical show where he was only going to be on for one tear-jerking episode, having to act like he was a cancer patient about to die in the pediatric unit, crying to his ‘mother’ about he didn’t want to die so young. 

He didn’t know if the director pitied his mother or was afraid of her but either way, Tommy got the part. And everything was history after that.

After his debut on some scraggly, scarcely funded medical program people were astonished by the four-year-old who had the miraculous ability to break out into sobs and blubbering the second the clapperboard snapped shut, the second the scene was called into action he was in action.

Maybe it was psychopathic in some shape of way, but even at such a young age Tommy was able to take whatever emotion someone gave him and just do it. Whatever role, whatever part they wanted him to play he had this estranged ability to take it on with a breathtaking accuracy without question, without hesitance. 

And producers ate that shit up. Getting child actors that didn’t want to run around and play with their little toys and games? Who just wanted to play the role ? It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, especially since there wasn’t much raw talent out there, there weren’t many of him out there.

It was almost like he was the only one.

And gods did they act like it. 

Life after that was a flourish of cameras and old men in barbeque-stained suits shoving him out under the boom mics, self-assured producers bending down and cooing at him his role and part, trying to baby him before shoving him out with the same force as the old men. Just this time with a smile on their face and a new cash prize under their noses.

Tommy was put on Old Navy magazine covers to Anthropologie catalogs, from small parts as the energetic child on Sunday sitcoms to the undead six-year-old on zombie TV shows, dining on his father’s brains.

As much as they loved him for his talent they adored him for his mother’s fawner personality, how she carelessly told the producers and directors that ran her adolescent son to the bone that she took child labor laws as more of a suggestion than actual enforcement. The law that was made to ensure kids like him weren’t being exploited by being forced to work more than seven hours a day, simply brushed off in her eyes. 

It wasn’t like anyone had the guts to snitch about it anyways. As long as he was making others money it didn’t matter if he could barely stand after the numerous takes and outtakes, if he passed out on the shitty little couches scattered around set for the mere hours of the day where he wasn’t being used. While his mother sweet-talked producers into giving him more and more roles to take on, more and more money in her pocket. 

And as he got older it only got better and better for his career and worse and worse for his health, word spread around Hollywood about ‘Tommy Malarvo: the next big thing’. The mere child who could out act middle-aged men who have devoted their lives to the screen, the child who was born for the stage, his father’s passion for film coursing through his veins. 

After a year or two of a continuous cycle of waking up and doing whatever the flurry of assistants and managers, producers and filmmakers told him to do, at the ripe age of eight he finally started to land some bigger roles.

A lot of them were just acting as the younger version of the main character, it wasn’t like many people were out there searching for an eight-year-old to play the lead. But even as young as he was, he knew he had to play the part to the best of his ability. That the big roles like these could make or break his career, and he had to take it by the reigns, show the people he was the future of Hollywood.

And that he did.

Some of his biggest movies to the day were those same roles, playing a young Theseus in a movie retelling of the tragic Greek tale. A movie that took over the box office like a tsunami, money and fame poured into his resume like a waterfall of gold. Suddenly everyone knew him as the blonde child who played the youthful version of the infamous Greek Hero, who some even say played the part better than the actual lead. 

When that movie won an Oscar he remembers that feeling, the feeling of being on top of the world at such a young age. The fact he was in a movie with an Academy Award at eight years old? He was astonished, as was the rest of the world. 

Those small parts on TV shows and kid’s magazine covers were practically nonexistent after that, he was better than those roles by a mile. His eight-year-old ass had standards, he had a minimum wage in the millions . 

He began to star as the young child in heartbreaking features, in one of the more well-known films he was cast in he was a character going through the effects of a child succumbing to a parent’s divorce. The movie was positioned around him as the lead, diving into the mindset of the children left behind in a divorce, what it’s like for such young kids to have to choose a parent in court when it comes down to it.

Tearjerkers, coming-of-age films, even some comedies, you name it and he was in it. Any role that needed a young boy in the frame he was there and ready, always able to provide whatever scene they wanted from him. 

People around the world started to know the name Tommy Malarvo, the kid who was constantly playing the young eight-year-old boy for every movie that asked for it. And even then, as he grew up into his teenage years producers still couldn’t get enough of him. Constantly keeping him busy.

Most child actors fell off the drawing board after they started to age past the twelve or thirteen mark, but not him. Maybe it was his mother, maybe it was his raw talent, maybe it was his long list of box office hits, but they continued to keep him behind the camera. Continued to manage his day-to-day life without a single thought of his interests in mind, simply pushing him into more and more sets, shaking more and more hands.

It became a routine, get up, eat the mandated meals given to him by his superiors, get shoved into a car and get whisked off into his next big thing, the world’s next big thing. Interviews where people asked him about his hobbies and interests and he kept up that big childish smile that everyone associated him with, lying and lying until his lips fell off. 

People saw the big blue eyes and baby fat clinging to his cheeks and called him adorable, unknowing of the eyebags washed away with a swipe of concealer behind it all, the way his hands trembled slightly from exhaustion every fleeting second. Everyone simply knew him as a kid , when you thought of a child you thought of the face of Tommy Malarvo, and that’s what kept his name alive.

And he was slowly but surely working himself out of that hole.

He was going to get older eventually and he had to make sure the people knew he could act as something more than just some incredulous child. So he began pleading for more and more mature roles. While most producers weren’t exactly overjoyed with the prospect of a child playing some of the more mature teenage roles they had, some did relent. 

Besides, his name simply being put onto a feature meant a wave of movie-enjoyers flocking to the theaters. By putting Tommy into maturer roles it would put to the test his acting skills and the people’s desires for him simultaneously. Meaning if he excelled at playing a larger part, in the long run it could make a bigger range of pictures they could shove his face in. 

Or in other words, more money for the filmmakers and more of an opportunity for him, killing two birds with one stone. 

And there was no way in hell the producers were passing up that.

So at fourteen, he started starring in coming of age films, horror, drama, thriller, you name it. His schedule was filled to the brim but he was okay with it, if he took all the long hours and sleepless nights now then once he was older he could finally relax . One day he would be sitting happily on his large sums of money on the coast of Bermuda, being fed grapes as watches the waves wash over the shore, free of the money-haggling vultures controlling his life.

His new wave of genres had people fucking loving it. Again . The child who was known for crying and making parents and hormonal pregnant ladies alike tear up was now making millennials and teens emotional all the same. Making them excited, making them sit on the edge of their seats, making them cheer, scream, sweat he could do it all. He was Tommy Malarvo after all.

Now in interviews, he was known as the teenager who could make quick quips and beckon a laugh out of anybody he wanted to. He had fame, he had a fortune. If he even stepped outside his luscious apartment home he had to be trailed by bodyguards as crowds would swarm him for a picture, an autograph.

Everybody knew his name or at least heard about him once or twice. Fan pages, edits, an adoring swarm of fans that would keep up with his every move. He was the teenager every teen aspired to be, he had that fantasy life everyone dreamed of. The golden child of the nation. He was adored by the public, Tommy Malarvo could do no wrong in their eyes. 

He was on top of the world.

And he still is today, his fifteen-year-old self now stood looking over the city in his luxurious apartment. A large window taking up the entire wall swarmed his home in natural light, modern-esc plants were scattered around the modern white couches and 50 inch TV screens. A large marble-topped kitchen was sat near the corner by the door, with glass lights hanging from the ceiling dazzlingly, black leather bar stools propped up against the island. 

Everything was basked in creams and airy greys, green plants were strewn around in matte black pots. Throw blankets that were never touched because Tommy could never get a fucking break were thrown over the couches, fluffy rugs, a glass coffee table in front of the couch surrounding the TV next to the window. 

And it was all his. 

There was a hallway near the entrance that took you down to the bedrooms, each as lush as the next. Even if only one of them was used.

His mother was currently on ‘vacation’ and had been running his career with his agent from the beaches of the Spanish coast. He’d call it less of a vacation and more of a full fucking move out seeing she has been there for four months. 

Besides, no one really cared if she wasn’t showing up to sets and workshops with him, if he’s there and was doing what he does best, making money, then nobody could give less than a shit if the hag was there with him or not. 

He couldn’t find it in him to care much either, seeing she was spending all of his hard-earned cash on the Spanish countryside. He was pretty sure that’s enough to prove his ‘love’ or whatever. 

He felt Shroud wind through his legs and he looked down to smile at the one-eyed cat. His manager wanted him to get a pet so the fans felt more ‘connected with his personal life’ or whatever the hell that meant. But when she tried to buy him a purebred Simonian he refused, getting his driver to take him down to the local pound. An hour later he took home a five-year-old one-eyed cat named Shroud that no one else wanted to take. 

He didn’t get why no one wanted him, Shroud was the light of his life. He was a big, entirely black, fluffy cat, and when he purred it made Tommy forget about the weight of the world on his shoulders. Shrouds one big green eye was all that mattered.

“How are you today, bud?” He cooes, leaning down to the ground and letting Shroud push his face into Tommy’s hand with an appreciative purr. The boy letting him and petting him just where he likes it, right behind the ears. “Big day today, isn’t it Shroud? Big, big day.” He sweetly murmurs, like how you would to a baby. 

Shroud just leans his head up so Tommy could pet under his chin and he laughs, this fuckin’ cat.

After a moment, he finally hears the inevitable commotion waiting for him behind his door and the star just sighs, sitting down on the floor and leaning onto the glass behind him as the door handle jangles with a key being turned into the multiple locks. Forcefully breaking and entering into his last five seconds of alone time before the day begins. Shroud, the saint, jumps into his lap and rubs against his chest reassuringly, knowing what comes next.

The door flies open with a slam and his usual posse waltz right on in like they own the goddamn place. Tommy’s manager was the first one to break through the doorframe, like usual, in her dark purple pantsuit and brown locks pulled back into a spotless bun, not a loose hair in sight. She had her usual handful of binders in her arms and immediately walked right over to the counter and sat them all down with her prissy fucking huff. He hates that bitch.

His personal assistant, his two wardrobe people, his usual bodyguard (that he actually really likes), and a couple of other people he has no idea what they do but were always in his house anyways walk in behind her, scattering around to do whatever they usually do. 

Once Prissy Teagan, what Tommy has elected to call his manager in his mind, snaps her head over to him it’s usually his calling that the day has started. The boy was sitting over by the window in his pajamas, glowing with the sunrise parting the sky behind him and with the cat in his lap that she's hated from the moment she met the thing. Her mouth downturns into a thin line and the celebrity braces himself. 

“What the hell are you doing Malarvo? Up, up, up. We don’t have all day for you to sit around with that thing , we have work to do.” She hisses, walking over and grabbing him up by the arm. Forcing Shroud to fall out of his lap with a low growl as she makes the star stand before her so she could drag him to his room with his two wardrobe people trailing behind. 

“He’s not a thing .” He angrily grumbles under his breath, priss pants just scoffs with a shake of her head as she lugs him into his bedroom and leaves him with his wardrobe people, parting with a slam of the door.

He has no idea who let that lady think she ruled the fucking world, but she needed to be humbled and soon . The fucker probably thought she was a holy royal highness because she could do whatever she wanted with him until he was eighteen years old and he could finally control his money and who he surrounds himself with. Or maybe it was because she was just a stone-cold bitch.

It was probably the latter.

Just like every morning, his two wardrobe people ruffled through his giant walk-in closet and talked amongst each other about what would look good on him for the day. He didn’t really have a problem with them, his only semblance of hatred for them was only because he wasn’t allowed to pick out his own outfits. But frankly, you wouldn’t want Tommy to pick out outfits for you either, so maybe it was for the best. 

After scrolling through Instagram for a bit and checking out what’s on other celebrities itineraries for the day, as well as messaging a couple of acting friends they finally picked out his clothes for him. One of them laying it on the bed with a smile and their usual ‘tada!’ that never fails to make him smile before he mutters a small thank you and goes into the bathroom to put it on.

It was a muddy blue sweater layered with a white t-shirt underneath, a simple silver chain that he fastens around his neck before moving onto the pants. They were beige polo pants that cuffed at the ankle, long white socks that he had to jump around to pull on. And finally, his signature clean red and white etched sneakers were waiting in the hands of one of his wardrobe personnel right outside the bathroom door. 

They fussed with him in front of the mirror for a little bit, making small talk that he answered to. It was a good way to start the morning anyways, if he went into set looking even the least bit grumpy it could lead to some sort of scandal.

People have been bashed for far less after all.

Once they finished up brushing through his blonde, unruly curls and spraying it with an absurd amount of products, along with adding some natural-looking amount of makeup to his face to clear up the eye bags and blemishes they deemed him good enough. Handing him a pair of small framed black sunglasses and sending him back to his manager waiting impatiently for him in the kitchen. 

“There you are Malarvo, you would think you were caught up in a house fire for how long it was taking you.” His manager ‘jokes’ walking over to him.

“We are literally in the same house.” 

She stands in front of him and grabs his face with her slimy octopus fingers, turning it from side to side. “Alright, good enough. Everyone ready to go?” She calls out into the room, giving his cheek a parting pat.

Curt nods go around the room and Tommy resists the urge to throw his head back and groan, can’t people just chill out for once in their fucking lives? 

“Great, let’s get this show on the road. Malarvo?”

He looks up to her as she nods for him to walk towards the door, his manager and bodyguard following him from behind as he listens to the silent command. The second his face is turned away from her though he rolls his eyes, this is so fucking stupid. 

His bodyguard, Sam, opens the door for him and he smiles up gratefully at the green-haired man, who immediately smiled back with a nod. 

Then he was back to his normal routine, walking down the hallway to the elevator, getting in and pressing the button to go down to the lobby only 15 stories down.

Before the doors slid open he does his annual quick check of himself in the reflection of the metal elevator doors, making sure he’s up to the Tommy Malarvo steaming hot standards. 

The contraption finally slides open and he takes his leave, walking through the lobby and waving to the receptionist with his casual smile that he does every single day. The star loved the way her eyes turned from lazy to starstruck every time he passed through.

The doorman greets him with a big grin and an in awe “Mr. Malarvo,” before pushing open the door for him. He smiles back and nods at the guy as he walks the short path across the sidewalk to the black Camaro awaiting him.

Sam pulls open the car door and Tommy mumbles a grateful ‘thanks’ as he slides into the seat, his manager following suit.

Sam pokes his head into the car and his grin turns fond as they meet eyes, Sam has been his bodyguard for years and has never failed to let the boy down for a single second. “Have a great day Tommy,” He beams, then shuts the car door behind him.

Leaving him alone with Greasy Bessy over here.

“Alright, so for today...” And then he immediately zoned out. This was his normal, Tommy was never told the night before what he was going to be doing the next day, always right before it was going to happen. Meaning every morning his manager gathered him up into the car, so there was no possible way he could avoid her, and told him his daily schedule. 

His agenda was usually filled, including everything from photoshoots to dinners or lunches with potential filmmakers wanting to shove him in their cast list. Events he has to attend, set hours he has to go to (which usually took up most of his time), etc.

Tommy usually ignored her as she ranted on about his day and let her drag him along until he could finally go back to bed. But today was different, because did she just say what he thinks she said?

“What?” Tommy blurts.

“--then after you’ll probably have to talk with the set team, you know how talkati- Oh, you weren’t even listening were you?”

“Yeah, yeah I was. Definitely, just- what did you just say though?”

She rolls her eyes, “I said we’re going to a reading for your newest film ‘Returning From the Pits’ .”

“No, no not that. Who did you just say was going to be in it?” He questions, leg bouncing with anticipation. He couldn’t have heard wrong right? He couldn’t of. 

This time when she smiles, it was as genuine as it gets. “Wilbur Craft, you’ll be co-starring with Wilbur Craft.”

Oh my fucking god.

Oh my- Holy shit. 

Yes, fucking yes-

“Holy shit!” No, no this can’t be real- “ Really?”

His manager nods excitedly, its a miniscule thing but he could see her eagerness reflecting off of his. While Tommy’s ambition was for meeting one of the greats, hers was for the wads of Franklins she’s going to bank off it. 

The star ignores the speculation, Wilbur Craft talking up the entirety of his thoughts. “I’m gonna-” He brushes his hair out of his eyes, looking out the window with an elated chuckle, chest soaring. “I’m gonna be in a Craft movie.”

“That you are.” She savors, resting a hand on his shoulder. “And you’re gonna do great .”

Wilbur Craft. Wilbur fucking Craft is going to be co-starring with him . Tommy . This is- this is the best day of his life. Fuck the Oscars, this right here, best fucking day of the century .

If you thought Tommy Malarvo was famous, gods you haven’t seen shit yet. The Crafts were like gods in Hollywood, the entirety of the movie scene was all held in their palms. 

Wilbur Craft, also known as Wilbur Soot was starring with him. The man known for his handsome looks and his even more charming demeanor, known for the girls around the country that swooned for him was starring with Tommy. The star was famous for the scandals and numerous rumors held behind his name, word spread that it was impossible to deny him, almost like some sort of siren’s call. Whenever Wilbur Craft asked you answered. 

He was notably known for the alluring way he was able to hold himself up, how by just standing in his presence you could feel whatever he wanted you to. Scared, infatuated, charmed, anything . He could do it with simply a look of an eye. 

He was a tall, lanky brunette who always knew how to dress right. While the star was an actor, a great one at that, he was also well known for his talent in music and playing the guitar. His voice was melodic and honey-sweet, sometimes Tommy even turns on his tracks and dances to it in the shower. 

He was fucking awesome. 

He had a brother named Technoblade that was equally as cool if you asked him. While the guy wasn’t exactly known for music per se, he was still as awe-inspiring in the boy’s eyes. Notorious for his long pink hair that was every director’s nightmare, but still somehow getting cast for every gig needing a brute anyway. 

He was most notably known as an action star, a nine-movie-long series called ‘The Blade’ proved that. It was a series about an everyday librarian suiting up at the dead of night to catch the criminals scouring the city, always with some big boss fight at the end of each one.

Tommy wasn’t really a big fan of action, if he did have time to watch a movie or two he would rather watch a classic or something that would make him feel something other than his ears ringing. But he still had to admit, the guy was pretty cool. He has seen a couple of comedies with him in it where they cast the action star as a joke, making him play some unbelievable role for his large frame to try and leech out a laugh or two out of the audience. 

But nonetheless, he was a great actor. He didn’t know much about the man off-screen but he did know the guy dressed like an 1800’s poet, never seen without his signature cream poet’s shirt and black bottoms. Paired with golden jewels and green gems, flashing off his wealth for all eyes to see. 

Tommy has watched a few interviews and the guy was more intimidating than anything, his sitting face was bleak and void of emotion. A lot of girls and guys alike still crushed on him though, the well-kept pink locks always knit into a loose braid kept viewers latched onto the TV screen. 

And finally, there was Phil Craft. Their father. 

And like the rest of the country, Tommy fucking loves the guy.

Phil made the Craft family. The man’s career was purely classics, every motion picture the infamous actor starred in immediately hit Hollywood history. Oscars, Academy Awards, Best Picture, Best Actor, everything . He had it all, any scene or glimpse at him on the movie screen was revolutionary . Phil Craft made people feel things they didn’t even know they could feel, he made it feel as if he was stepping around your living room spitting out lines with heart-stopping ease instead of being mounted on your common room wall.

A single glance at the man was virtually impossible, he was like a magnet pulling your eyes in. Any other actors or actresses in a scene with him all forgotten, you simply couldn’t bear to take your gaze away from the blonde-haired hotshot whenever he hit your retinas. It felt like sinking in his aura whenever you flicked on one of his vintage pictures. 

Tommy himself idolized the man, if he ever had any time to watch a movie it was Phil Crafts. Sometimes he would sit on the floor, jaw dropped as he hypnotically stared at the screen, taking in every movement and word leaving the actor’s lips. Pausing it periodically to try and say Phil’s lines himself, never amounting an ounce to the passion and precision behind the artistry of a Craft film. 

Phil Craft was Hollywood. He was the perfect rendition of an actor.

And Tommy’s going to be co-starring with his son, Wilbur Craft. 

What a fucking day.

______________________________________

Once they finally arrived at the studio he only had to talk to a few unimportant people for a couple minutes before he was finally allowed to go into his dressing room. 

Today was just a table reading anyways, which means they were going to have them all read through the script and test actors capabilities with each other, make some cuts, make some additions yada yada.

He wasn’t worried about it too much, well of that aspect, the only time he was ever cut at a script reading was simply because he was too young. They wanted a thirteen year old and he was only 11 at the time, barely scratching 12 so they let him go. But today they wanted someone just his age for the role, so he didn’t let the idea scare him. 

Thus the second his manager let him go the star booked it straight to his dressing room. Tommy didn’t even look around the room as he barrelled in, shutting the door and locking it behind him, immediately ripping his phone out of his pocket to dial Tubbo at the speed of light.

It only took a few rings until he answered.

“--ommy? What the fuck did I say about calling me so early- It’s like 8 A.M. ”

“Tubbo! Tubbo , you are not gonna believe this- fucking hell you are gonna piss your pants. Piss em, all over--”

“--get to the fucking point or I’m going back to bed.”

Tommy paces the room, feet burning into the carpet, “I’m- Wilbur Craft. I’m going to be in a movie with Wilbur shitting Craft.” 

A beat of silence.

Shuffling was heard on the other end of the line until Tubbo’s starstruck whisper fed through the receiver, “ Wilbur Craft? ”

“I know! I know! It’s crazy, this is crazy. Tubbo I’m gonna die, I’m gonna have a heart attack and die when I see him.”

“You’re- you’re- Wilbur Craft ?!” Voice raised. 

Tommy’s teeth glimmer under the dressing room lights, “Wilbur Craft Tubso, Wilbur Craft .”

“Oh my god. Oh my god .”

“I fucking know, I know !”

“Holy fuck! Fuck dying Tommy, you made it. You fucking- holy shit my best friends in a Craft movie.”

Tommy collapses into a leather couch with a breath of hot air, “I am! I am ! I’m gonna get so many bitches after this just you fuckin’ wait.” Placing the phone on speaker and laying it on the cushion beside him. 

Tubbo develops into crazed stutters for a few seconds, in awe, and Tommy tunes him out for a moment. Letting his brain run like a locomotive as flashes of Wilbur Craft cross his mind. 

Tubbo stops rambling and they sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, Tommy grinning up at the popcorn ceiling like an idiot as he ponders over the man he’s going to be meeting in the coming hour. 

After a beat Tubbo’s voice suddently picks back up, this time sour, “What- Wait- Tommy what the fuck are you gonna do?”

Huh.

The boys grin melts a bit, “What do you mean?”

More shuffling, “You literally fangirl about him like a little bitch constantly , you needa’ make a good first impression.”

“What the fuck?! I do not .”

“You called me crying in the shower because you ‘couldn’t sing like the great Wilbur Soot’.”

“I was close thank you very much, I was like an angel .”

“When you started singing I thought you stuck your head in a garbage disposal.” Tubbo deadpans.

Tommy sits up with an offended grumble, “Y’know what?! I’d like you to try singing like him, because it is hard . Hard . And I would know, because I have the talent to sing just like the fuck.” He stands up, going off speaker.

“If you put me and him on American Idol together, you wouldn’t even know the difference between us.” Tommy sputters, thinking about how he was craving one of those complimentary croissants they serve.

“Trust me, I could hear your goblin voice a mile away.”

“Fuck you bitch boy.” 

“You still need to make a good first impression y’know,”

Tommy walks up to his dressing room door, deciding to indulge himself with one. “I am the great Tommy Malarvo, I’m not scared of some stupid-”

He turns the door handle, “-little singer that I could best any day with my marvelous throat muscles.”  He steps out and faces the door, not looking around. “And just so you know they are gnarly. Way gnarlier than Wilbur Crafts. ” Tommy adds confidently, pulling the door shut in front of him.

Blissfully ignorant to the force of nature behind him. 

“Stupid, huh?” A voice purred.

Oh fuck.

Oh fucking fuck.

Before you make any assumptions, he would like to say he did not shriek like a little girl and if he did it was manly as he flew twenty feet in the air, skittering away like a fucking raccoon. Dropping his phone with a small thump in the calamity. 

Tommy could hear Tubbo’s off-speaker screaming coming through the now grounded phone but he could barely think properly, nonetheless shut the bitch up.

Wilbur Craft just heard him call him stupid.

Wilbur fucking Craft just heard him call him stupid.

Well folks, its over. Rest in Peace Tommy Malarvo, hello to your local garbage man extraordinaire Tom Malvo. He’s gonna have to change names, move to another country. Do they have garbage men in Russia? Maybe they have deluxe garbage men in Finland.

Finland it is then lads, bye-bye fame and fortune. Hello dumpster diapers.

Tommy slowly turned around to meet the man's cool gaze, feeling searing all the same, body blanching as he pulled a nervous smile on his face as he got his first real life look at his idol.

The star was casually leaned back on the hallway wall, arms crossed over his chest with his ankles intertwined as he leant back. His chin was tilted downwards, scanning over the boy in front of him with a curious gander, making Tommy’s heart jump into his throat. His lips were slimmed into a smirk as his eyes looked Tommy’s form up and down.

He was dressed in a black-fitted turtleneck that was clinging to his frame, with a same shade ebony suit jacket. His pants were the same shade of beige as the youngers but instead he had a black belt holding them up, outfit spun together with black dress shoes. He had golden thin wired glasses held on the bridge of his nose, his molasses locks were blocking out a single hazel eye as he stood. And finally, an expensive looking watch was fastened on his wrist, and a slim golden chain was dangling from his throat, a gleaming emerald fastened onto the gold.

Or in other words, he looked intimidating as fuck. 

And Tommy was screwed. So fucking screwed. 

“Wilbur! My man--!” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “I mean um- Mr. Soot- Mr. Craft? Yeah, yeah um- uh- heyyyyyy, how are- are you today?” Tommy nervously stammers, biting his lip.

The other just narrows his eyes in response, shit.

“Nice weather were having here huh?” Tommy splutters, rocking on the balls of his feet. Kill him, god please kill him. “Nice, nice weather. Mhm, great weather.” Please god someone come airstrike this goddamn hallway, he’s begging you. 

“I guess so.” The older simply hums, his eyes dragging across the youngers frame and it felt as if a surge of ice was plunging through his body. 

Tubbo was still screaming on the other end of the line and Tommy looked down at his phone before gazing back up, Wilbur’s eyes still drilling him to the bone. He gave off a nervous laugh as he stepped on his phone and kicked it backwards, sliding it underneath the hole under the door with a weak, too wide, too fake grin at his now pissy idol.

The man simply watched it slide, looking back up to meet his eyes and shook his head. “So,” He leans off the wall, “I guess you're my great co-star everyones been on and on about. What's the name? ‘Malavo?’ ” 

“ Tommy Malarvo, and um- I guess I am.” He shakily wets his lips, “And um- Mr. Soot- Mr. Craft? I just wanted to say I am so sorry for calling you stupid- That wasn’t my intention at all.” Fuck, he should probably make an excuse. Good idea, he’s great at those. “I didn’t mean to call you stupid. Yeah, I was uh-” Think of a word, c’mon Malarvo. “Stupendous. Yeah, yeah! I was calling you stupendous.”

Wilbur seemingly did not take the bait, simply raising an eyebrow at the words. “And here I thought you weren’t going to be the child they say you are.” He sneers, and it feels like a dagger to his chest. 

Fuck. 

Tommy suddenly feels an urge to go on the defense, even if he should very much not. Especially to Wilbur fucking Craft.

But he couldn’t stop himself before the words slipped out of his lips, “I am not a child.”

Wilbur’s expression only turns amused. 

“Oh?” The celebrity questions sweetly, leaning back against the wall. “Go on, what are you now then?”

“I’m a man.” He snarls, baring his teeth. What the fuck is he doing?

Wilbur lets out a surprised laugh, at him, and Tommy feels his defense slip slightly. “A man.” He laughs. “A man with ‘gnarly throat muscles’ . Fucking hell, never heard that one before.” Lips smug as he mockingly grins, oh this bitch-

“Probably because you aren’t one asshole.” Holy fuck- did he just call Wilbur Craft an asshole?

Is he fucking mental?!

Tommy thought the guy would look mad, at least pissed at the words but he just looked strangely amused out of nowhere, like this was just some little game to him. 

“You really are a child aren’t you?” The man marveled, like he wasn’t even upset at being called an asshole, just intrigued. Wilbur picks himself back up off the wall again with a certain grace to his movements, “I have to admit, I’m not used to being around children not on their knees for my autograph.” He snides egotistically. 

“Well good thing you won’t have to get used to it dickhead.” What the fuck is Tommy on? Did someone drug him in his sleep?

The celebrity just laughs with a shake of his head, striding over to him. “Even better.” He beamed, something dancing in his eyes that Tommy didn't want to acknowledge.

Wilbur finds his self right before Tommy, towering over the youngers figure in front of him. The star had an instinctual urge to back up into the wall, please fucking back up into the wall, but he just holds his ground. Glaring, fucking glaring like an idiot.

The celebrity's grin turns predatory as he watches the child glare at him below, intrigue and delight catching his irises as he looks down on him. 

“I see why they talk. You're quite the child aren’t you?” He spiels, lifting a hand to push a stray curl behind Tommy’s ear.

Tommy jerks away with wide eyes, staring wildly at the moviestar. 

“I--” What is happening? 

Wilbur just scoffs, fondly? Did he hear that right? Before he moved his hand down to graze Tommy’s cheek, gently moving his thumb against the pale skin. Almost possessively, the fuck?

After a moment of Tommy gawking at Wilbur Craft stroking his cheek, stuck in some sort of haze, the man suddenly moved away. Forcing him out of the strange interaction with a jolt.

Wilbur just smiles down at the reaction, looking pleased with himself, before stepping away. Content with whatever the fuck that was as he moves away from the younger, his dangling emerald gleaming under the lamplights. 

“I guess I’ll see you around Malarvo.” He remarks, actually getting his name right, and turns away. Starting to walk down the hallway once again.

“See you never Mr. Craft.” He bitterly huffs back, and he’s definitely still on drugs. What the actual fuck does he think he’s doing?!

Wilbur comes to an abrupt stop and his stomach twists with nausea, shit, shit, shit. Too much, too much, abort- But the star simply glances back at him over his shoulder, an ever the present smile still dawning his lips. 

“Will.”

Uh what.

“What..?”

“Call me Will.” And just like that, after blowing a hole in Tommy’s world, he takes his leave. Leaving Tommy’s slack jaw, starstruck eyes and shocked gasp behind as he slinks off into a room up ahead.

He was on a nickname basis with Wilbur Craft.

Wilbur fucking Craft was Will.

Tubbo’s gonna be so jealous. 

______________________________________

Craft movies were something prestigious.

There was reason people called them ‘Craft movies’ instead of simply saying you were going to a movie with ‘insert Craft’ in it. 

Because each and every one of them were perfect, nothing lower than perfection was accepted for a Craft. If you were walking into a Craft movie theater you knew you were going to walk out feeling something, hooked on the premise of the film. Crying, sweating, jaw dropped, horrified. Whatever they wanted, simply their faces cast on a movie screen will have you bend to their will. 

Their movies were never getting anything below a 96% on the rotten tomatoes scale. A constant wave of Oscar nominations, booming critic reviews, and an adoring fanbase wilting to their every move. Any time they were up for an Academy Award you knew whoever was nominated beside them was done for, nobody beats a Craft. Ever.

He couldn’t even imagine the amount of Oscars Phil Craft has holed up in his home, the house was probably covered in the golden yearned statues. Tommy could imagine the man using them as house plants from the tremendous amount of them he has in his storage. 

A Craft movie was perfect, foolproof, a shining star compared to any other piece of filmmaking. 

And Tommy was starring with one of them. Not just starring, co-starring. Hand and hand, an equal with Wilbur Craft. 

He has a lot to live up to right now, this has to be his best performance yet if he ever wants to make it anywhere in Hollywood once he’s older.

When this movie airs people, fans, critics will swamp the theaters, everybody making the trip to the cinema to watch the magic of Wilbur Craft will be constrained to watch Tommy Malarvo as well.

And he has to make sure people want that, that people watch him with the same awe as they do Wilbur. Make sure their gazes don’t just stay on Wilbur Craft, that they stray their eyes away to watch the beauty he is able to paint on a movie screen too. 

It was a lot to give, to ensure. But he was determined to make it happen no matter what. 

So he finds himself walking into the table reading with his chin up, ignoring the thoughts in his head booming about his last interaction with co-star (god thats weird to say) Wilbur Soot. 

Table reads were probably the easiest while simultaneously not days of his career. Usually his background posse did all the work of getting him into the movie, so when he walks into a table read its most likely his first time meeting the production team. Which includes today.

Script reads, also known as table reads and read-throughs, were pretty much exactly what the name said, you read through the script. Screenwriters made them, printed them and handed them out to the cast, producers, everybody that day. And it was your job to make sure that script stayed in your hands. 

Cuts are made, dialogue perfected, stories are tuned. The day was so story writers knew exactly who and what they wanted in their movies, getting opinions around the board from people who knew exactly what they were talking about, which included him.

Some people are cut if they didn’t merge well with the cast, and he was slightly afraid he was going to be one of them. But casting directors usually don’t slip up with their leads, it was a big choice on who they wanted to be the main characters, the stars of the show.

And they obviously wanted him, bad.

So when he walked in, he did so with his chin up. He didn’t let those little thoughts get to him that he would never amount to anything in this feature, simply forgotten. He was Tommy Malarvo, co-lead with Wilbur Craft. He was gonna do great, he had to do great and letting it get to his head will only disprove that. 

The room was just some sort of large lounge, like how they usually were. Table reads could take hours, meaning everyone needed a comfortable, quiet place to chill out while they all went through the script. Refreshments were scattered around the room, comfy chairs and nice coffee tables were placed expertly around the place. There was a large, unscaved area in the middle of the room that was obviously for the speaker whenever they came about.

Tommy had about thirty minutes before it began but even then he hadn’t even touched the script yet, nor listened to his manager when she told him what the movie was even about. So he desperately needed to scope shit out before he sat down and read through with the rest of the actors and writers conversing around the room. 

He finally walked in and he could immediately score out a few faces in the crowd. Including Wilbur Craft, or Will, talking to who he thinks is one of the studio executives, a glass of champagne in his hand. It was like 10 A.M, the fuck is this guy on?

He saw a couple other celebrities he could name with just a look. Including Niki Minerva talking to who he thinks is Fundy Blake. Tommy remembers the guy had some drama a few years ago but doesn’t remember exact what it was, he made a mental note to not be seen by paparazzi with the guy anyways.

Niki Minerva, unlike Fundy, was cool though. She was in her twenties and was stunning. Niki was known for looking good no matter what she wore, with her bleach blonde hair, almost white, and dark roots edging her short, beach waved locks she looked gorgeous.

A couple other people were scattered around that he didn’t know the names of, cast members, his producer, some department heads, financers, but he was looking for a certain someone, he couldn’t find-

“There you are kid!” A hand claps down on his shoulder and he turns around, the director he was looking for in all his glory.

Alex Quackity.

“What's up Big Q?” He chimes, a childish grin unknowingly growing at the sight of the golden clad man. Quackity had been his director for a few films and he’s gotta say, he loves the guy. Usually directors saw him as some sort of pawn, but Quackity never seemed that way. Always greeting him and talking to him, even if it wasn’t about the movie they were currently shooting, Big Q always had time for him.

The director once told him that he was one of his favorite actors to work with. And Tommy, the praise hound, has looked up to him ever since. Always eager to shoot a movie for Big Q.

“I’m doing good man, doing good.” His golden tooth gleams as he talks, “Excited about the new feature? Heard critics are already talkin’, saying it’s gonna’ be a big hit for the Academy Awards this year.”

“When have they never not said that for a Craft movie?” He replies, digging his hand into his pocket. 

Quackity just snorts and ruffles his hair, the many rings adorning the director's hand slightly dug into his scalp but he couldn’t find it in him to care. “Exactly what I was thinkin’ kid.” 

“So? Ya’ excited?” Quackity takes a quick look over his head before dripping back down to his eyes, “You gotta be kid, I mean you scored a big number here Malarvo, co-starring with a Craft? It’s is as big as it gets out here.” 

“I mean I guess.” He mumbles back, twisting the point of his sneaker into the ground. 

He is excited, really. It’s just- it’s a lot to live up to. As big of a man he is, hes only fifteen, theres no way in hell he could compare to a Craft. The longer he takes small glances at the impending wonder of Wilbur Soot beyond Quackity’s shoulder, it’s started to take a hit on him. 

“Oh kid, don’t be like that.” The other chides, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, look at me Malarvo.”

He meets Big Q’s eyes, and they're gentle, lips twisted encouragingly. “Not everybody gets chosen to co-star with a Craft. And you did. You. A fifteen year old kid, that's gotta say something doesn’t it?”

Tommy nods back. “I guess so,”

“Then you should be celebrating! C’mon, you're Tommy Malarvo. Best child actor in the country, maybe the planet. They weren’t making a mistake when they put you in this movie, and from the second I read you on that cast list I knew it.”

“Everyone did. You act like its out of style, and I have no doubt in my mind that you’re going to ace going toe to toe with a Craft. You're inspiring kid, and don’t let anyone let you think otherwise.” Quackity proudly expresses, placing another hand on his other shoulder. Both of his palms pressed against his collarbone, eyes gleaming.

“ Especially Wilbur Craft.”

Tommy lets out a mirthful huff as he smiles gratefully up at Quackity, “Only been here 5 minutes and guess who's already getting sappy.” 

Quackity just snorts, and gives him a playful pat on the shoulder with a “Shut up”. Before an unknown name calls out “Quackity! My man!” and the director just groans, giving him a parting squeeze before looking down and saying a final, “See ya later kid”.

The man steps around him to go greet whoever it was but Tommy spins around and calls out, “Quackity!”

Big Q stops and looks back at him, gaze patient and steady as he divulges the young star. “Yeah?” 

“Thank you. A lot, thank you. That really helped.”

Quackity smiles back at him, “‘Course kid. Besides, I wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself out there with all that ‘I guess’ nonsense.” 

“Shut up old man, you literally embarrass yourself every day.”

“I’m twenty five .” 

“Old. So old.”

Quackity just rolls his eyes with an amused huff, “ Bye Tommy.”

“Bye Big Q!” He calls out, watching as the man stalked away with a shake of his head.

Tommy smiles to himself as he watched Quackity set off with some random awe-struck personnel talking his ear off, the man impatiently nodding along. Hands clenching around his phone, he pulls it out to text Tubbo, check his Instagram follower count or something ego whirling, only to be interrupted by a hand descending on the top of his head. 

Huh.

He incredulously cranes his head up to see Wilbur Craft standing there beside him, him , his hand simply resting on the top of Tommy’s curls. The fuck-

“Guess we meet again, Malarvo.” Wilbur remarks, looking out in the distance like some cryptic fucking movie villain. What the hell does drinking champagne at 10 A.M do to people?

“It’s literally been an hour.” Tommy deadpans back, feeling a bit more relaxed with the man's presence now he’s known as Will .

The star doesn’t know how many people are exactly Will to Wilbur Craft, but it couldn’t be a lot right? And they were going to be co-stars after all, maybe trying to joke around with the celebrity will do him some good. 

Right?

Will looks down at him, gaze strangely softened. “And?” The celebrity questions charmingly, “Can I not greet my co-star?”

“You can , just not like some fucking Bond villain.” Tommy rebuttals, slapping the hand off of his head unthinkingly. “And stop being all fuckin’ weird and shit.”

Which was apparently not the move. 

Wilbur’s grin turns ruthless as he reaches an arm out, slinging it over the boys shoulders and dragging him tight to the movie stars side. “I don’t think you have a say in the matter Malarvo ,” Spitting his name like an insult as he declares the statement all in one breath, all of the sudden bitter, pulling them over to one of the couches strewn along the reading room. 

“Do you have any fucking idea of who I am? Of what I’m capable of?” The words seep into the boys ears as the brunette turns uptight at the youngers words or movements, who knows. Tommy lets the man effortlessly drag him along, knowing he pushed too far. Fuck. 

He was on nickname basis, fucking nickname basis. 

And guess who already had to mess it up, it’s been 5 minutes, 5 shitting minutes.

They make it to the couch and Wilbur nudges him down onto the cushion with him, people around the room glance over but the second they see Wilbur’s pissy exterior they immediately look away, continuing on with their conversations like this is normal .

“I’m Wilbur fucking Craft,” He hisses into Tommy’s ear, arm strewn over the boys shoulder as he curls the tops of his fingers around the boys throat, sharply pulling him in towards the others face. “And I’m not about to be bad mouthed by a child, my co-star , in my movie.”

And Tommy shouldn’t say this. Tommy should shut the fuck up right now, keep his big fucking mouth closed. He should . It would be so fucking easy.

But this Wilbur guy, his supposed idol, was a bitch .

So he looks Wilbur right in the eyes, searing hazel meeting a baby blue and he snarls back, “ Our movie.” Sealing his fate.

Wilburs face turns to one of fury, his eyes darken into viciousness, his nose scrunches in disgust, the fingers curling around his throat dig deeper. And besides it all Tommy just scowls back, not an inch of self preservation in sight as he stares down the egotistical prick. Wilbur opens his mouth to tell him exactly what he has to think-

Tommy internally braces himself, feeling the wrath wafting off of the livid star.

Wilbur opens his mouth, wide and open and angry, so angry and Tommy squeezes his eyes closed and clenches his fists, ready for the blowout of the century, the end of his career-

Except nothing happens. 

There's no screaming, no snarls, no hisses, no fingers pressing against his throat, closing off his airway.

There's nothing . 

Just silence.

Tommy slowly opens his eyes, hands untensing as he gapes at the sight before him.

Wilbur Crafts mouth hangs open. Speechless.

Wilbur Craft was speechless.

Because of him .

His once fury written eyes were slowly downing away, slowly turning into something fascinated . The man once pissed to his core was now breathing heavily, letting the irritation flow away as he ponders over the child in front of him. Snarl written lips slowly turning blank, something dark glinting into his eyes as they look over him for the first time, really look over him.

A child glaring back at him. A child glaring back at him . Wilbur Craft. 

He looked astonished, enthralled at the idea of it. A mere child, as his co-star, willing to stand up to him. Willing to risk his entire career, his entire lifespan, all to bash Wilbur Soot.

The anger gradually slipped away into nothingness, the longer Wilbur looked, really looked and pondered over the child before him he found himself feeling euphoric . His lips slowly upturning from the once snarl, teeth gleaming, a dark, dangerous glint in his hazel as he watched his little co-star stare him down.

He leaned away from the boys face and into the couch cushion with a new excitement burning through his chest, a plan seeping into his mind. Tugging the child closer to his side with a small noise, only adding to the mans glee.

“I guess you and me will be spending a lot of time together, yeah?” Wilbur speaks up after a second of sickening silence, words eerily tender. Ignoring Tommy’s literal mental breakdown right beside him.

“I mean,” He picks up Tommy’s chin between his fingers, turning it towards his gaze. “It’s our movie afterall.”

______________________________________

Tommy was going to have a heart attack 15. 

That seemed to be a pretty good assumption, seeing he was tucked under the arm of Wilbur Craft. 

In the past hour or two he called one of the greatest actors of all time a bitch, an asshole, a dickhead, and the kicker. You won’t believe this.

He called him weird .

Appalling. Astounding. How dare he?!

And now, after it all, he was tucked under his arm. Tommy Malarvo was tucked under Wilbur Crafts arm getting his shoulder rubbed by the mans thumb.

What the hell.

Apparently after the celebrity has his annual psychotic breakdown or whatever the fuck that just was, the celeb turns cool and collected, satisfied with himself as he sits leisurely on the two person leather couch, feet kicked up onto the coffee table and an a-list celebrity wrapped in his arms. 

Hence why Tommy was now missing his thirty minute scope out of the script, all because he decided to call Wilbur Soot a fucking bond villain, and the fuck decided to act out as one. Like bitch, save that for the big screen, not him .

So now he was diluted down to the apparent ten minutes Wilbur takes to read through the entirety of the script. The star would’ve gotten up and just grabbed one, like any normal person would. But no , he was stuck under this ugly fucks arm, too scared to move an inch, especially after the guys temper tantrum. Tommy wasn’t going to try shit .

The actor has no idea how Wilbur Soot has turned from his idol, to insanic creep in the past thirty minutes. But if anyone was able to achieve it it would be Will Craft himself, so at least that wasn’t out of question.

The star seemed content though for the around twenty minute wait, a hint of bliss sparkling in his features as he hummed a cheery tune under his breath. Holding him close, Wilbur Craft was holding him close , and rubbing a pattern onto Tommy’s shoulder, occasionally moving up to his collarbone as Wilbur was seemingly stuck in thought, what he was thinking about unbeknownst to the boy beside him. 

And Tommy was trying his best not to freak the fuck out.

The teen really just wanted to tell himself that maybe Wilbur Craft was just having a bad day. But that was all thrown down the gutter whenever Tommy looked up to see how the man looked so goddamn happy with himself as he had the infamous child actor hidden in his embrace, humming some victory song under his breath like he just won the fuckin’ World Series. 

His idol, now turned psychotic maniac, was staring out at the rest of the table reading room almost daring somebody to come closer to his prize or whatever Tommy was to the jackass for the moment. Challenging the room to say something about it as he kept him close.

People around the room were looking, that was obvious. He means who wouldn’t look over at Wilbur Craft holding a child . Everyone who looked over at the two though immediately spun back around the second they hit Wilbur’s piercing gaze. Acting oblivious to the scene in front of them, scared of what the Craft may do.

He had no idea what was happening. What did he do to make him act this way? He called the guy an asshole, Wilbur Craft doesn’t tuck you under his arm almost possesively after you call him an asshole. 

Tommy should be kicked to the streets right now, the Malarvo name as dead as his father. But no, he’s fucking getting carresed. Caressed . By a Craft. 

After a painstakingly long wait, one of the Crafts many assistants finally came up to Wilbur and him. A small, tense smile on the assistant face as he handed Wilbur a packet of papers, the script. And thank fucking god, because the guy handed him one too. Give this guy a Nobel Peace Prize right here, right now, because there was no way in hell he was sharing with Creep Mcgee over here. 

Tommy nodded to him with a “thank you,” while Wilbur did absolutely nothing. Simply squeezing his shoulder. The assistant must of never heard gratitude before, go figures , because his face split into a grin as he said a small “you're welcome,” before walking away. 

Wilbur already started flipping through the pages and Tommy placed his own on his lap. The packet thankfully had a summary for the roles and the movie in full at the top. 

The feature was a war movie. Of course it was. Based in the 1960’s when Johnathan, Wilbur Crafts character, chose to willingly go out to war. Leaving Jack, Tommy Malarvo’s role, at home with his abusive mother for four years. Knowing fully well who he was leaving his brother behind with, having gone through it himself.

The movie surrounded itself on Johnathan coming home after the war, meeting his mother and fifteen year old brother after a four year long fight in Vietnam. He came back expecting hugs and a grand welcome only to come home to a bitter brother and less present mother. The entire picture was about Jack and Johnathan learning about each others experiences and long drueling fights between the two, each having their own argument on why the other was wrong.

And all Tommy got from that was that he was going to need a lot of cough drops and honey drizzled tea. Because ‘fights’ meant he was going to be screaming his throat raw at ‘Johnathan’. No doubt in his mind.

He flipped through the packet a bit, it didn’t seem like anything too hard. He could fight with someone, he was born for it after all. Fighting, crying, screaming it all came easy to him. Diving into a characters mind was like childsplay.

Jack hated Johnathan because he didn’t understand why his big brother would leave him behind, especially in a situation where he was endangering dying. Johnathan knew he might never come home and Jack hated him for that, the fact he was okay to leave a young boy alone with his torturous mother. 

He didn’t need to give two shits about Johnathans perspective until it was healing time or whatever. Where he’s 90% sure they are just going to kill off his character the second he forgives the bastard for a tear or two.

And he was going to make those tears run. People are going to choke on their tears and Tommy was going to sit and watch. 

“You having fun over there?” Wilbur picks up and he jerks, looking up to the man.

“Whats it to you?” Tommy spits back.

He guessed Wilbur was already over getting all pissyfooted about Tommy’s snips. Not even that, he now seemed overjoyed that Tommy was talking back to him. Like some fucking teeter-totter, this guy was unhinged.

The celeb just pulls him in closer, Tommy grumbling all the way as he was now pressed flush with the elders ribcage, happily tracing away a pattern on his skin. “I just wanna know whats got you all riled up Toms, no need to get all huffy about it.” He chides.

Toms?

Did he just call him Toms?

It was apparently Tommy’s turn to become speechless as he snaps his head up to look at the man, who didn’t give two flying shits about Tommy’s overarching thoughts. Casually leaning back against the couch reading the script in his lap, using his thumb and index finger to flip the page with a loud flourish as he flicks through the papers, his other arm slung around Tommy’s chest. 

The other wasn’t even sparing him a look but Tommy could tell he knew exactly what he just said. And the shithead was obviously happy about it. 

And wanted Tommy to know he was happy about it.

This pretencious fuck-

A clatter was heard as a piece of silverware was clanged against a wine glass, gaining the attention of the entire room.

Signaling it was time for the real part of the day, the actual table read.

After the producer clanged his glass he went on this long spiel about the great history of moviemaking, a buncha bullshit just to fill up much needed time. He thanked the investors and financers, the director, some heads of departments, and then he finally got around to Wilbur Craft. 

“--And to the Craft family, for gracing us all with the pleasure of having the prestigious Wilbur Craft in the studio today.” He flatters raising a glass, the bootlicker, and the rest of the room follows suit.

Tommy has no idea why adults drink at 10 fucking A.M, but they all did anyways. Everyone raising a glass to the esteemed man and the teen could feel their eyes on him simultaneously. All downing a glass while Tommy just looked around, he could hear Wilbur snort into his champagne as Tommy just watched them all drink. 

“Alright everybody, please get seated, get comfortable, this is going to be a long day so everybody get comfy. You're all in for it now.” The producer calls out to the lounge of ranging list celebrities. 

Shuffling and quiet small talk fills the room as everybody gets seated, nobody even remotely getting close to the couch off to the side where him and the Craft were sitting. The few stragglers without a seating arrangement all preferring to sit on the floor than by the few seats surrounding the two. 

Tommy decides to take getting comfy to heart, squirming under Wilbur’s grip so his back wasn’t pushed up against his side. 

As much as Tommy wanted to squirm away, the actor already pissed the guy off enough today, and it was only 10 A.M. And since he had an entire day, plus the few months of filming left to please the celebrity he relented for just not being in such an awkward position.

Wilbur did not seem to be happy with Tommy’s new determination to move around, tightening his grip warningly until he realized the star was just trying to find a snug spot on the couch where the teen didn’t feel as stiff as a board. 

Tommy ended up wedging himself between his side, and way too far away from the other armrest for the boys liking. But it wasn't like he could do shit about it, Wilbur Craft was holding him like some giant fucking teddy bear. 

And before Tommy could even think, preoccupied by wiggling into a better position on the couch the literal strangest thing that has ever happened, happened.

Wilbur Soot picked up the hand from around his waist and placed it on top of is head, and stroked. 

Fucking stroked. 

He was getting pet, Tommy Malarvo was getting pet, like some fucking dog. By Wilbur Craft.

Tommy has no idea how this was the strangest part of his day. He called Wilbur Craft an asshole, a bitch, a dickhead, and the greatest of all Tommy called him weird. Shocking. He watched the guy have a psychotic breakdown right in front of his eyes,

And this was somehow the worst. Getting stroked. He was getting his head scratched by Wilbur Soot.

Tommy let out a shuddering breath as he looked up at Wilbur, the other moving his hand so he could keep brushing through the boys curls as he looked up. Winding his fingers through the gold and pulling through gently.

“What- what are you doing?” Tommy questioned, feeling out of place.

Wilbur met his eyes and had the audacity to looked confused. “What do you mean?” 

“The y’know- the-” He doesn't want to say it, please don't make it say it. He jerked his head up to gesture to the hand on his head. “That!” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Tommy,” When he obviously does know what he was talking about. Pulling a curl out and twirling it around his finger. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes you fucking are.” He grumbles back, tugging his head away. Only for Wilburs fingers to tighten, not enough to hurt, but enough to pull his head back where he could comb through the unruly locks. 

“Hey--! Stop that.” The younger curses, trying to yank the digits out of his curls. 

“Why should I?” The elder questions, smug dancing in his words. “You obviously like it after all.”

“I do not.” He rebuttals, scowling at the star.

“Tommy you’re an actor. Act all you want but I can see right through it, you like it.” 

Tommy crosses his arms across his chest with a huff, “You're not superman bitch, you aren’t seeing through shit.”

Wilbur snorts with a snobbish undertone, “No, but I am a Craft.”

“Thats not even cool, that’s like so thirty minutes ago.”

“The ‘man with gnarly throat muscles ’ I met an hour ago didn’t seem to agree with that.”

“Yeah, thats why I said thirty minutes ago. Keep up prick.”

Wilbur just looks down at him and gives an amused huff, eyes fond? Is Tommy on drugs? Is this what death is like? Is hell fucking sitting on this couch with Ego Amigo beside him?

Fuck, it definitley is.

A clang of a glass is heard again, everyone now in their seats. The producer, some others and Big Q stands in the middle of the room with a camera set up behind them so they could record the table read.

“Alright, lets get this show on the road. Craft? Malarvo?”

Wilbur looks down on him with one last comb through his gold. “You ready?”

“Born ready dick.”

________________________________________

The script reading wasn’t terrible.

Tommy really thought it would be, readings could last hours and especially it being a Craft movie? It had to be up to Wilbur’s standards to the digit, there couldn’t be a single etch of misspoken dialogue, mediocre acting, nothing.

Which was Tommy’s specialty.

Tommy killed it this morning, he didn’t know if it was because he was already pissed at Wilbur or what. But his character Jack was pissy and fiery, just how they liked it. 

Him and Wilbur ended up going into the middle of the room and he couldn’t find it in himself to be intimidated anymore by the mans presence. He was a nutjob, but apparently he was a nutjob that liked Tommy. Meaning the child actor could use that to his advantage.

If Wilbur had some weird marveling moment before when his co-star told him the feature was their movie instead of just his, you should've seen his face when they started working through the opening scenes. When he finally figured out that Tommy wasn’t just some child actor, that he was the child actor.

The way his eyes widened, his jaw going slack just a tad as it gradually morphed into a gleaming grin as Tommy, Jack, read out lines with the actress casted as his mother, Clara Puffy. The way he looked enamored almost, like the more he watched Tommy the more his appreciation grew for the young moviestar. The more adoring he grew towards the child before him, a dark pleasure swirling in his chest. 

A possessive need forming in his mind. 

They switched around for a bit, going through lines and takes with other actresses and actors. Fixing up dialogue, Wilbur gave most of the changes snobbily but Tommy helped with a couple solves as well. They tried some new directions, talking with screenwriters, among other things, Wilbur charming as ever.

It was any other table read. He thought it wouldn't be, but when him and Wilbur got in the middle of the circle he just dived into his character instead of noticing it was Wilbur Craft. The only person in front of him was Jonathan, who Jack thought was a traitorous bitch. Jacks only desire being to prove that to him, but Johnathan wouldn’t budge.

Wilbur was Johnathan and Tommy was Jack. It was almost refreshing being up there with an actor that didn’t break character every thirty seconds, someone who knew what they were doing. It was nice, it was him and Wilbur, finding their way through the scene with ease.

He felt his anger towards the man melt away a bit as they worked through lines among other things together, the idolization slowly growing back at a tenfold as Wilbur eased through the dialogue with a Craft flourish. That nice, relaxed feeling of just being able to act brushing away his previous anger. Like drinking Dasani all your life and finally finding Fuji water, he never wanted to go back. 

Once the production team deemed them both good enough for the moment, evaporating any worry he might of had about getting cut, Wilbur dragged them back over to the couch to watch some other minor roles go through their dialogue. 

They weren’t done yet though, the team was all just working through the misfits for a bit before they called them back to make some final touch ups, leaving him and Wilbur sitting on the couch again at around two, time really flying by.

“I gotta admit Toms, you’re quite the force out there.” 

Tommy looks back up at him, not having the energy to fight about the nickname. “Can’t say the same for you.” The star lies through his teeth.

“Oh c’mon gremlin, you looked as happy as a kid on Christmas day up there with me.” Wilbur jabs, “Finally coming to your senses, huh?”

“Shut up. You still aren’t cool.” The actor defends.

“I think the ladies would say differently.” He charms.

“The ladies are all just using you as a bridge to get to me, so stay mad prick.” 

“Oh are they now?” Wilbur laughs, kicking his feet up on the table. “And where are all of your little women right now?” 

Tommy scuffs his foot on the floor, “At my house, duh.” 

“Oh yeah?” Wilbur challenges, opening his mouth to go on before pausing for a second, seemingly in thought. Tommy could practically hear the gears whirring around in the others brain as he keeps quiet for a moment. 

After a few seconds of the others mouth staying sealed, Tommy surveying him skeptically, suddenly his eyes slowly lit up with feat, a joyous smile spreading across his lips like honey-butter. Almost like some sort of plan just formed in his mind.

“Then show me.”

“What?” 

“You heard me, after the reading, take me to your house.” He states like some casual conversation, like it's an everyday thing to invite a Craft to your home. Like Tommy was going to invite him to his house. 

“The fuck?! No.” Tommy practically yells, turning fully towards him.

“Okay, then come to mine.”

Is this guy mental?!

“You- what- no. I’m not going to your fucking house.” The star communicates with a wild expression.

“Why not?” He questions sweetly, like Tommy’s the issue here. 

“Because- Why?! I’m not going to your home when we barely know each other.” 

Wilbur just throws an arm up on the back of the couch, casual as ever in a situation that is very much not . “Then lets get to know each other then gremlin.” The other smiles. 

“What if I don’t wanna know you?! How ‘bout that?” Tommy rebuttals.

“We’re co-stars Toms,” He states matter-of factly, reaching his hand out to cup his cheek. “Were going to be spending a lot of time with each other after all, why not make it easier?”

“This does not seem easier.” He says, jerking his face away.

Wilbur eyes him for a second until he eventually figures out Tommy’s not going to relent, sighing. “Y’know what? Fine, coffee shop. 8 A.M tomorrow, I’ll make some calls and make sure theres a couple cameras. You get your photo, I get my quality time with my little co-star.” 

What?

Did he just- 

Did Tommy just gaslight Wilbur Craft into getting fucking paparazzi for them?! 

Holy shit, he did. He didn’t even mean to and- Oh my fuck he did. He outsmarted Wilbur shitting Craft without even trying. Holy fuckin’ shit, damn watch out America cause Tommy Malarvo going up in life, hell yeah baby. Ridin’ in style at 8 A.M tomorrow. 

Maybe he could try and get more out of the guy… He means if Tommy’s so great at gaslighting and all..

Wilbur somehow read his fucking mind because before he could even open his mouth he scolds, “A couple photos and thats it. You aren’t getting anything beyond that gremlin.” 

Tommy crosses his arms over his chest and tries to pull a Wilbur on Wilbur, “What if I don’t go then, hm? Whatcha gonna do then big man?”

The other leans down daringly towards him, Tommy did not gulp thank you very much. “You’re really going to miss getting prints of you out with Wilbur Craft? ” 

He leans back casually, “And here I thought you were smarter than that child.”

Fuck.

Fine alright? Fine . He’s still exploiting Wilbur okay? It’s just maybe Wilburs exploiting a little back, but Tommy getting so much more exploiting him than Wilbur is Tommy so he’s still the bigger man. Take that bitch.

“Fine,” He angrily huffs. 

“Deal.”

________________________________________

Tommy finds himself sitting in a coffee shop at 7:55 sharp the next morning. 

He’s guessing Wilbur is going to take the liberty to be fashionably late or whatever, and Tommy’s fine with that. Just peachy . 

So he sat there, after the lady behind the counter gave him his drink she was nowhere to be seen. Or thats what she wanted him to think, the star could see her peeking out behind the doorframe into the backroom on the phone with somebody, giggling and frantically whispering into the phone as she admirably eyes him sitting there. 

Tommy didn't mind.

He ended up sitting there for about a good 10 minutes until a black car pulled up to the cafe, several paparazzi were already taking photos of him through the coffee shop window. Tommy already accustomed to the way camera flashes blind his irises. So you could imagine their surprise when an expensive ass car rolled up to the small shop.

The star held back a groan, he really didn’t want to talk to Wilbur. Especially now he knows the guys a creep and the fact he has to deal with him when it’s this fucking early. But it was a necessary sacrifice, being seen with the famed moviestar will swirl up fans and shit into a frenzy. And y’know Tommy loves that. 

The car door flew open with a Craft™️ flourish, a single leg sticking out of the doorframe until the morning glow developed into a whirr of flashing cameras and people swarming the Craft. 

Tommy didn’t even bother looking, simply taking a sip of his hot chocolate before resting his face on his hand, trying to get rid of the residue sleepiness still clinging to him and the groan building up in his throat.

The chime of the doorbell rang and the star just rolled his eyes, looking up and already knowing what hes going to see. Wilbur in some extravagant clothing piece and a charming grin splitting his face like the red sea.

What Tommy didn’t understand was that that was only the half truth.

Because Wilbur Craft did walk into the cafe, a charming grin split on his face.

But he wasn’t the only one.

Technoblade stood beside him.

Technoblade.

Somebody please kill him. 

His face slipped out of his palm and he almost bashed his head into the table as he incredulously stared at the two. Jaw slack as Wilbur looked over to him, tipping his sunglasses at the awestruck teen before strolling up to the counter. 

Technoblade was trailing behind him. The man was dressed in a white, slightly see-through collared shirt. The first few buttons were unbuttoned around his throat as his collar was trailed with golden jewelry. He was holding a blood red suit jacket between his fingers, throwing it carelessly over his shoulder. Wrist draped with golden and emerald gems. His long pink hair was twisted into a braid as it trailed down his collarbone, black pants and slacks bringing the outfit together. 

All Tommy wanted was a nice burial, alright? Is that too much to ask?

He didn’t think the guy was going to kill him per se, but after he kills Wilbur for even bringing his ass here Tommy’s for sure going to be six feet under. 

Unlike Tommy, lady at the counter was having the time of her life. She looked on the verge of fucking combusting as she gapes at the two, eyes as wide as saucers and mouth hanging open for the whole wide world to see.

“Oh my god- Oh my- hey um- Welcome to uh- where do I work? Yeah! Um welcome,” She giggles hazily, “what can I get you two- I mean Mr. Craft- Misters Craft-?”

Wilbur stopped her hysterical rambling with a slap of his palm against the counter, leaning towards her. 

What the fuck was this guy’s problem and leaning? 

“Mocha Latte and a black coffee,” He pulls a bill out of his pocket and Tommy could see the franklin on it. Tommy only tipped fifty, fucking show off- “Keep the change.” He says with a careless smile, and the teens surprised lady behind the counter hasn’t passed out on the spot. 

Techno turns around with a huff, towards him, and Tommy really wishes he passed out on the spot too. God save the queen, and him.  

Techno just stares at him for a moment, expression blank as he just looks at him. Nothing behind the man’s eyes before suddenly realization strikes his features, nudging Wilbur and twisting towards him. 

“You didn’t tell me ya’ kids Theseus.” Voice thick and monotone, if black molasses had a voice it would be Technos, gruff and surly.

Wilbur casts Tommy a glance before looking back at his brother once again, “Not my fault you didn’t do your research.” The star wily states, both brothers standing near the counter. 

“You still coulda’ told me.” Techno grunts back.

Did Technoblade see Tommy’s movie? He did not seem like the guy who sits around watching tragic Greek tales, especially the movie retelling of Theseus. He was an action star not a history buff. 

Wait- was Technoblade a nerd?!

Holy shit Technoblade was a nerd.

Tommy’s so going to tell Tubbo. 

“I’m not a nerd.” A voice gruffly picks up out of nowhere and Tommy falls headfirst out of his thoughts. 

Wait- did he fucking say that out loud?!?

God fucking damnit.

How the hell is he so bad at first impressions?

Tommy opens his mouth to defend himself but Wilbur beats him to it, “You fucking watch all that history shit religiously. ‘Course you’re a nerd.” The star rejoices with a snicker, sliding the pair of sunglasses off his eyes and to the top of his hair.

Techno just grunts back and before he could say anything more lady behind the counter comes back with their drinks, sliding it across the table top as her eye twitches from hysteria. Is she okay?

The Crafts don't seem to mind that they just broke a woman at all, Wilbur simply taking their drinks with his trademarked smile before handing the black coffee to Techno, walking over to Tommy’s table.

“Why the fuck did you bring him here?” Tommy hisses faintly the second he gets close.

“Good morning to you too, gremlin.” The celebrity greets, sliding into the booth with Techno hot on his heels.

“I thought you just said it was going to be you and me.”

“All I said was that I was going to bring a few cameras,” He gestures innocently at the cameras flashing at them outside the cafe window. “Nothing about who joins me.” He smoothes.

Fucking bitch. 

Tommy just grumbles in answer as he looks around. “Well,” He sarcastically remarks, “What now?” 

Wilbur’s face turned gleeful, “We get to know each other.”

“If I heard right us co-stars will be getting to know each other. I didn’t know I was being cast in ‘The Blade’.”

Techno grunts angrily and Tommy snaps his head back over, kinda forgetting the guy was here too. Which was strange to say since his presence was suffocating, the blank, barren stare dug into the jeweled man’s eyes felt like a mantra in Tommy’s ears to shut the fuck up and stop insulting the infamous celebrity in front of him.  

But eh, it’s 8 A.M and he’s already made a shit impression. All he could do now was go with it.

“What? I told you he has a mouth, Techno.” Wilbur suddenly addresses his brother at the grunt, he looks back to the teen and something longing and dangerous gleamed through his eyes, restless and hungry. “That’s why I like him.” 

“You didn’t tell me he was going to sit here and insult me.” Techno protests, glaring back at the moviestar.

Wilbur just shrugs. “Should've came prepared, Blade.” 

Wilbur was talking about him?! To Technoblade?!

“Huh?” 

“Don’t worry about it Toms, so.. What do you wanna talk about?”

What does he want to talk about?! God, what does he want to talk about. Maybe something about what the fuck was going on?! Y’know, just maybe.

Tommy didn’t ask that though, even if he badly wanted and needed to. Instead, he decided to address the elephant in the room.

“Are you really a nerd?”

Techno glares at him, trying to force Tommy into wilting but Tommy needed to know. He needed to know that Techno was a nerd. He had to tell everyone. 

Finally after a few seconds of intense glaring Techno drags a hand across his face with a groan, “No, I’m not a nerd.”

“Big man, big man lying to yourself? At this day in age? Thats just sad, real sad.”

“I’m not lying to myself, I’m not a nerd.”

“I see the signs Blade, eye bags? Intense emotional baggage? You clearly have a chronic case of denial-”

“ I do not.”

“My hypothesis? Must be from a deep, deep underlying case of nerdism. Treatment? Telling me the truth, right here, right now big man.” He iterates by clasping his hands together and leaning towards the action star. 

Techno glares with the wrath of a thousand suns, “I’m not in denial.” He fucking growls, like some sort of caged animal. 

Holy fucking shit.

He totally was a nerd.

Tommy simply raises his hands up in surrender, glee catching in his chest. “Let’s not get too hasty here Big Blade, I’m just warnin’ you. Left untreated?” He leans back into the booth. 

“Death. 100% rate of death.”

If Tommy wasn’t sure Technoblade wasn’t the real Blade he would've thought his head was going to get chopped off real soon. 

The brute swung his head back incredously towards his brother.  “Him? Out of everybody you could've chose, you want him?”

Uhh what…

“You aren’t even giving him a chance Techno, c’mon I know you loved him as Theseus.” Wilbur slides with a sip of his drink. 

“And apparently my love stopped there.” He spits back.

Wilbur gestures to Tommy with his eyes, “Look at him Tech, really look at him.”

Is he hallucinating?

What the actual fuck were they talking about?

Techno heatedly huffs but picks up his gaze back to the teen anyways, looking at him for a beat before sighing. “Fine.” 

“Favorite film, go.” 

“What the fuck are you two on about?!” He abruptly yells out, ignoring the question, darting his eyes between the two brothers. 

Pinky Pie over here did not look patient with him at all, or his choice to yell back at them instead of answering the stupid ass question when Tommy’s was obviously more of a necessity.

“Favorite. Film.” 

What the fuck does Tommy even answer to that? What the fuck were they talking about? ‘Out of everybody you could’ve chose, you want him?’ Want him? Who wants him? As a co-star? He already is one-- what do they want?

Tommy’s mind was begging for him to ask, to demand answers, but Techno’s gaze was so intense, boring into his skull and trying to enforce his mouth to spit up an answer. And the teen already made such a bad impression towards the action star. Tommy couldn’t afford making him pissier. 

He can’t tell them a Phil Craft picture- that would be fangirling and Tommy was not a fangirl, he had priorities and making sure the Crafts knew that was on the top of the list. 

Does he want him to say an action movie? No, this is a test. If Tommy answered back some big mission impossible shit then he would be a suck up, and he isn’t sucking up to the fucking Blade.

Does he answer truthfully? There can’t be an issue in that right? If he says his own movie he would be selfish and cocky, if he says a Wilbur Craft picture that could be seen as trying to pick favorites and intentionally piss the guy off. 

Truthful it is then he guesses. 

Ughhhhhh now Tommy’s going to be the nerd. 

Tommy tried one last ditch attempt to get out of the question, looking down sheepishly as he grouches. “Do I have to?”

“Theseus.”

“Fine! Okay, okay I will. Geez-” The star gulps, darting his gaze between Techno and the numerous photo vultures haunting the cafe window outside, snapping pictures of the three. 

Tommy bites his lip before looking back up at Techno, sighing he snoops down to the table, covering his lips away from the paparazzi with a palm blocking the view of his future words towards the brute, leaning towards Techno. 

“You can’t tell anyone, okay?” He nearly whispers, casting a weary glance at lady behind the counter who is standing there mesmerized, occasionally twitching as she goes crossed eyed at the trio. Seriously, is she fucking okay? 

Techno’s irritation slips away slightly at the vulnerability, turning amused as he quirks an eyebrow up, crossing his arms as he laxes back into the booth. “What? You scared your fans are going to know your a nerd too?”

Tommy makes an offended gasp, “I’ll have you know I am not some fucking nerd like you Tech-no-blade. That title goes to you and yourself only.” 

“Guess whose in denial now,” Wilbur mocks with a laugh at the disgruntled glare he gets in return.

“Am. Not.”

Techno pulls out a hand and leisurely takes a sip of his coffee, “Go on, enlighten me Theseus. What’s your little nerd movie?”

Yeah, fuck you too Blade. 

Tommy huffs and looks down at his shoes, watching his toes wiggle under the material as he grumbles the cursed name of the movie inconspicuously. 

“I can’t hear you, Malarvo.” Techno taunts, he could hear the smug smile in his voice.

Pricks, the lot of them. 

Tommy grumbles the film a little louder this time, but the mumbling is still hushed, barely audible to the human ear.

“C’mon Toms, it can’t be that bad.” Wilbur coaxes, but Tommy could hear the eagerness to know the picture hidden in the young stars mind. 

Killing him would be a whole lot faster than the shit he’s going to get for this. 

Stupid, idiotic, dumbass, nerds. 

Please god, he’s begging you. End his suffering.

“Achilles of Phthia,”  Tommy finally huffs out reluctantly, cheeks blushed red as he grips the cushion of the booth between his fingers, knuckles white. 

And Wilbur cackles.

Cackles.

Tommy’s going to gouge out his eyes, just you fucking wait. 

“Oh my god. You’re fucking kidding me.” The celebrity says with a disbelieving chuckle. Laughter between his words, “Both of you? Greek nerds? Who would've thought.” The celebrity snorts and points over to his brother, “I thought you were on my side gremlin, you were supposed to save me from this freaks ‘greek tragedy’ bullshit.”

Tommy barely peaks his eyes up at Techno as Wilbur laughs on and on about the young actors apparent love for greek mythology. The man wasn’t reacting to Wilbur’s words at the slightest, both eyes latched onto the youngers embarrassed form. The earlier irritation gone in a flash all for the utter of three words, a common denominator between the two that leaves the pink-haired celebrity as captivated as his brother for the childish teen. 

Something pleased was taking over the brutes face like an ambush, irked features contorted into that same dark, craving look the star found familiar with Wilbur. Except this time it was much less distinct, notable. Tommy questioned if it was even real, if it was just a trick of light. 

Wilbur’s laughter dies down into a standpoint and Tommy watches as both brothers meet eyes, the musician turned to the other questioning for a moment until Techno gestured over to him with a simple tilt of a head, a turn of his lips and an ominous glint in his eyes.

Wilbur eventually settles into realization, both eyeing each other with the same revereing, possessive gander. Smiles wringing into grins as they consider each other, considering the idea of the adored child star across from them, thoughts aligned like a parallel line of railroad tracks. 

And before Tommy could even realize what they might possibly be thinking, it was over.

He was theirs. 

Only to be written in stone, evermore. 

______________________________________

After all of that, the mocking, the jokes, the atrocious ripping apart of Tommy Malarvo’s beloved reputation of being the biggest man in existence. 

(He isn’t a nerd by the way, shut the fuck up.)

Wilbur Craft seemed to change directions for the better. 

The fuck was actually turning out to be nice. 

He knows, right?! It was fucking crazy, insane, wack, preposterous.

That was not how he thought working with Wilbur would go, he thought it was going to be Nightmare on Elm Street: The Sequel working with the crazed shitter. You don’t expect much out of a guy who has a psychotic breakdown in the middle of a table reading. 

But Tommy’s starting to think maybe theres another reason behind it all, that maybe Tuesdays were Heroin Tuesdays to the Craft, or just maybe he has some sort of chronic condition that makes him turn into Miley Cyrus 2012 whenever he’s around children. 

But somehow, someway, Wilbur has ended up being actually fun to be around with after the whole coffee fiasco.

Tommy’s fans were tripping balls after the photos found there way to the internet, all humming and buzzing with excitement on twitter and other media outlets about the trios meetup at the cafe, most posts were all rumors about what they were doing with the Malarvo boy. But other than that it was mostly questions and all capped texts about whats to come next in the Malarvo and Craft name. 

When in reality it was just them bashing the manliest of men for an hour and a half.

Tommy’s first thought was that the publicity was the reason behind why Wilbur was being nice to him all of the sudden, finally realizing what he could get out of being friends with the great Tommy Malarvo. 

However, for some odd reason it seemed like that wasn’t the case.

It started the day they began shooting the film, seeming like any other normal first day. Tommy got his own trailer in the parking lot. A pretty nice thing, complete with a small kitchen, a bathroom, a TV and lounge sort of area, and a bed tucked into the end of the automobile, taking over the entire end wall. 

But that was a pretty normal occurrence in the Malarvo career line, he always had a trailer. 

What wasn’t normal however was Wilbur Craft’s apparent attitude change.

Because the second he walked into the studio on the first day, walked into Wilbur’s line of sight, he was immediately embraced.

And he hasn’t been let go since. 

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. But only a bit, because it is true. The shitter was like a fucking starved octopus and Tommy was an inc sac. Who the fuck was going to tell this shithead theres a staples down the street, and curling around him isn’t going to fix his ink cartlidge problems, who knows.

It was fucking strange. And while he knew Wilbur had a touching problem before, he couldn’t help but notice this time it was different.

The guy turned protective. Tommy had no idea what to call the event at the script reading, and yeah there was probably some sort of protective gleam in his eye then, maybe Tommy missed something or another. But now it wasn’t a prediction, it wasn’t an assumption, it was a fact.

Wilbur Craft was protective over him, ‘big man’ extraordinaire Tommy Malarvo. 

It was a whole new level of protective at that matter, Tommy couldn’t go anywhere where he wasn’t being guarded by the man like he was the fucking Constitution in a National Treasure film.

Anywhere he went there was an arm slung around his shoulder, walking to get a bagel? Embraced. Leaving his trailer after hiding away from his manager? Tucked into his side. Talking to another actor or filmmaker? Immediately cornered and enveloped.

After they finished a scene and were deemed a thumbs up by the director and set crew, Wilbur was on him at all times. Keeping contact in some way or another, dragging the grumbling child along with him wherever he pleased. 

Even if that meant sitting through hour long talks between the Craft and a producer, team executive, anybody. The jackass had Tommy sitting right there with him, unable to leave.

It wasn’t like he didn’t try, he did. But there was some complications with those attempts, and by the end of the day Tommy ended up sitting there twiddling his thumbs while Wilbur Craft charmed the crew to anything he wanted, not saying a peep about it. 

Although, Tommy did learn a lot by sitting there by Will as he rambled for hours. Including exactly how much a Craft actually influences a film. He had no idea until he was forced to endure all of it, watching Wilbur gaslight the team to twist the film into exactly what he sought out to be in. Without a single ounce of opinion from anybody else. Always having this impeccable talent to leave the person he manipulated feel as if they made up all the changes on their own. 

The fuck made cuts for whoever he wanted, even if it was in the middle of production. Recasted new roles, changed the script, enforced retakes on scenes. All with a hidden threat of the Craft name hidden under the demands. 

Tommy tried to speak up about it after Wilbur pulled him away from the long drooling spews, but he was only given vague answers before he was dragged along to the next thing. 

It was crazy, it was fucking nuts. Watching as Wilbur Craft kept him hidden in his embrace while he walked around with that almighty big ego of his, all of the allure and glamor on the planet fixed into one single man. A single man who wanted Tommy next to his side at all times.

And it sucked ass. It did! It sucked so much ass. So much ass in fact there wasn’t club left in LA from all the ass that sucked from the Craft’s fucking problem with encircling him like he was a worm and the other was a bird who wanted a midnight snack.

But even if Tommy would rather become a fucking groundhog rather than admit it. Even if he was very vocal about his hatred towards the bear hugs and arms slung around his shoulders, the hours wasted tucked under the mans side watching as he dwindles this, his, movie away from the original viewpoint into a Crafts.

It- it wasn’t all that bad.

Just- just hear him out, okay? He wasn’t going soft , he wasn’t shit. Just- hugs came near and far, okay? The majority of hugs and touches he has gotten his entire fifteen years of fame were either from his father, that died when he was three years old. And the frequent hugs from fans who wanted a photo with him, or simply wanted to hug him before he signed away an autograph.

And whenever Wilbur touched him, even if it was during his plots for evil. (Like making Jake a vegan, who the fuck cares if Jake was vegan?!) His touch was always soothing, gentle, adoring. Everything Tommy never had, the hands pressed tenderly on his shoulders, the ruffles of his locks, the long digits threading through them, the hugs tangling around body, face pressed against Wilbur’s chest, the palms pressed against his cheek.

It was everything Tommy always wanted. 

Being leaned into his side, it was kind of nice okay? It was, people don’t lean into Wilbur Crafts side, and he was getting enforced to. Like, how cool is that?!

Okay, maybe it wasn’t that cool. But let him have his moment, alright? It was cool. 

While Tommy started to build more of a friendship with the man, started to actually talk to him instead of snark. He somehow found some sort of refuge in it, in his touch.

Somewhere along the way Tommy slowly stopped thinking of Wilbur as the psychotic maniac who has a touching issue, stopped viewing his touch as creepy, possessive. He found himself starting to view Wilbur as like some sort of friend, his touch as a needed part of their friendship. 

Behind closed doors Wilbur was a lot nicer too. Which added to the appeal.  That charming, bad boy demeanor that constantly followed him around like some sort of lap dog, gone, without a trace whenever it was just the two of them alone.

Wilbur Craft was Will. Even if that took a coffee shop and a script reading to find, he was. 

Tommy Malarvo was his friend.

And if that wasn’t the weirdest shit you ever heard, he doesn’t know what is.

Set days usually started with his normal daily routine, getting there with the squeaky, obnoxious rambling of Prissy Teagan before he was dropped off and walked into the dressing room with his bodyguard Sam, getting his hair and makeup done, wardrobe changed by the many tailors and costume designers that worked for the film while he read and memorized the lines for the day.

Once everything was done he got shipped off to the director, Big Q, and the expensive, high quality cameras. Got the sweat wiped off his brow one last time before he strutted up to the green screens and met Wilbur Craft’s eyes waiting for him. An enthralling smirk morphing into a warm beam as they met eyes. 

And after that all he had to do was act.

Then immediately after his work was done for the day lie to his manager that he had to do a couple more takes so he could go into Wilbur’s trailer, dressing room, a private lounge, etc and could goof off with the prestigious man.

Tommy had learned a lot about Wilbur during his days simply being tucked under the bitches arm, which might’ve help build that friendship to the place he could goof off like that. Including one, lighthearted bickering was a-okay. And anything past that was very much not . Two, slapping away hands and arms, pushing away from the man, was all out of mention, don’t even fucking think about doing it.

And three, Wilbur ate sand as a kid.

He thinks you could guess Tommy’s favorite fact about Wilbur. 

He ate sand as a kid. Wilbur Craft ate fucking sand as a kid. 

It was the best thing he had ever heard in his life, entire fifteen years of eavesdropping in on all of Hollywood's greatest secrets. Affairs, scandals, dick sizes. He’s heard it all.

Except just that. That Wilbur Craft ate sand as a kid. 

Fucking sand.

And it was just what he needed to start opening up to the the celebrity.

Tommy developed a tendency to… how do you put this..

Bash Wilburs entire reputation to the ground with a flaming sledgehammer after he heard the news.

He mocked the guy like it was out of style, calling him sandman, crabcake, sand witch, sandy tits. Everything a-z, he dragged his prissy ass to the dirt. 

But the strangest thing was, instead of being mad, pissed about Tommy making fun of him, instead of going into a psychotic breakdown part two for all the mocks and jokes. Wilbur did the impossible-

Wilbur indulged him.

The two became a force to be reckoned with on set once the teen discovered Wilbur actually had a sense of humor, whenever they weren't shooting, whenever they weren’t talking with the boring old white men who ran their mouths like the worlds ending tomorrow.

They were bickering.

All the fucking time. 

They got into it about everything, the Trojan War? Tommy doesn’t even know what the fuck that was, but they were jabbing each other about if for hours. Blue macaws? He now has a thirty foot long google search list about the endangered species, and Wilbur Craft now has a deal with him that he would get one tattooed on his ass if the movie surpasses one billion in box office revenue.

The two of them became some sort of duo on set, they were constantly seen out together. People started to just expect him to be next to Wilbur, on the very few occasions he wasn’t standing with an arm tucked around him people were ambushing him with questions over why the celebrity wasn’t by his side. And Tommy couldn’t help but be overjoyed by it, Wilbur was turning out to be actually pretty fucking cool.

Whenever Wilbur was talking to anybody else, Tommy Malarvo obviously stuck to his side like velcro, it was all charm and appeal. The man had his chin up higher than the snob faced noses of rich ladies who call caviar their favorite dish. He always seemed to be at lax, a gleam in his eyes that he already knew he won, whatever he was talking about Wilbur knew what he wanted and knew exactly how to take it. Without fail.

But for some reason that all changed when it was the two of them alone. His chin lowered to meet his eyes, the gleam changed into something new, warm, something dangerous. All of the falsetto that came packed with the grand Wilbur Craft was buried deep, pushed away only for Tommy’s eyes.

And Tommy took that to heart. 

After about a week of this new friendship and constant bickering between the two, he employed Wilbur to band together for the greater good. To go on Instagram and DM random, snobby influencers that think they are some prestigious bitch because they could sell two dollar makeup and tell them that they, Wilbur Craft and Tommy Malarvo, loved their stuff and then right after go to another cocky account to tell them that the person they just DMed sucked shit. Starting a war between the two.

Usually things like that would get him canceled, and he voiced that exact thought to Wilbur but the Craft simply brushed it off and told him he’d pay his way out of any scandal he might get into.

And who’d pass up on fucking that?!

Maybe it was a little mean. Okay, it was really bitching mean. But who cared? He was rich, he was famous, and he was sitting next to Wilbur Craft who was cackling at his shenanigans. Making Wilbur laugh fueled something inside him, made his chest flutter with something foreign, made his face light up more than it has in years. It was where he felt happiest, and if that was starting an actual fucking warzone in the middle of Instagram, then so be it. 

They started to do all kinds of things together, after about two weeks on set they were already starting a competition to see who could catch the most food in their mouth at unplanned times. At any point of the day they could throw a snack at the other and they had to catch it in there mouth, or else they lost Big Man points. 

It was Tommy’s idea, and it seemed to fuel Wilbur’s fire to the point where he was constantly being bombarded with goldfish and marshmallows being thrown at his head, a mischievous smirk holding the ammo.  

The two ended up having to give the competition up when Tommy threw a nacho with guacamole at Wilbur and it went all over his hair in the middle of a mexican restaurant the Craft took him to. Saying he wanted to be seen out with Tommy Malarvo more often, and there was no way in hell Tommy was passing up on that. 

Problem was, they ended up having a food fight in the middle of the restaurant, both leaving with big grins and salsa smeared all over their faces, careless to the paparazzi and news outlets screaming their names right outside the door, trying to get the story as they walked to the car.

The photo of the two was everywhere . It was of Wilbur looking down at him, eyes fond and lips quirked wide as Tommy looked up at him, childish glee and a quesadilla mashed into his hair, the numerous flashes spread all over lighting the darkness of the night around them as their eyes lit up by just looking each other, each mischievous and playful as they looked upon the other.

It was, life was fucking bonkers after that. Wilbur Craft didn’t play around with children, he was a movie star, a Craft. He wasn’t seen around with guacamole smeared down his neck, a mystery sauce clinging to his chocolate curls. And epecially , he was certainly not seen around with a child actor who looked like he just jumped out of a fucking dumpster with some fancy cologne. 

But the second Wilbur Craft took a look at him for the first time in that reading room, he seemed to be able to let all that go just for him. It wasn’t like it was affecting his career, not in the slightest. He still did interviews where he was a snobby, girl swooning bitch. Still had that charismatic glint in his eye as he strutted down the street with Tommy Malarvo by his side. 

And that only added to the captivation of it all, that Wilbur Soot was fond for a child and no one else. That he was able to let go of all that falsetto whenever he was around the infamous Tommy Malarvo, turn that narcissistic, admirable look to himself to fond and precious whenever he set his eyes to the child always beside him. 

And people ate it up. 

People were like badgers trying to muck around and get the story between the two. Why out of nowhere they were everywhere together, why Wilbur Craft was seen suddenly tuned fond, affectionate. Out and about playing around with the famous, golden child of the country Tommy Malarvo. 

Both of their PR teams were having a field day with the new excitement over the duo. Tommy suddenly found he didn’t have any free time at all, always being shoved out on the streets with Wilbur Craft, swarmed with media outlets and interviewers following them around. Trying to catch the two wherever they went, PR planning shit for them constantly. 

It was out of nowhere, one second Wilbur was a psychotic maniac and the next he was his ‘brother’ according to the entire internet. 

They went to ice cream shops, where the entire shop was stocked full of paparazzi, press outlets, youtubers, influencers. Anyone who could take a photo or a video with a license, there. 

It was kinda traumatizing if you ask Tommy, he felt like a fucking sardine packed in there trying to eat ice cream with Wilbur. But being packed in a little box seemed to be where the Craft thrived. Sitting there leisurely as he joked with Tommy, not even casting a glance at the numerous vultures trying to get their picture.

It didn’t take long for until Tommy found himself embracing it as well, racing with the man for who could eat their cone from the bottom up the fastest. The teen obviously winning. Wilbur glaring at him like he just killed his mother, mischievously, before lunging over the table to smear ice cream all over his face. Laughing harder than he ever has on camera before.

Photos of them being covered in food seemed to be more and more of a common occurrence. 

The videos and photos of the two getting ice cream, rolling around on the floor while shoving the desert into their faces was not seen disrespectful at all somehow. It was probably the fact the Craft family donated a whopping 50 thousand dollars to the small business when the phots were taken, but Tommy likes to think it was because he slapped the shit out of Wilbur with a waffle cone. 

Which by the way, was voted best photo of the year by Teen Weekly.

This rampage for content with the two continued on, after a photoshoot on a day he didn’t have to go in to the studio their PR teams planned them to both go to some skate park with a pro skateboarder. Trying to get them to learn how to skate. 

Well, it was more Tommy learned how to skate. With his pink kneepads and dora the explorer helmet as Wilbur laughed at him off to the side. Occasionally coming over to help hold him up as he shouted profanities every twenty seconds after almost falling off the board onto his face. All of the interview outlets surrounding them with their video cameras as Tommy skated face first into a bush. 

During all of the commotion he even got posted on Wilbur’s instagram, a photo of the two was the first of many after their first appearance together. It was of him and the celebrity when Wilbur took him to some art museum and they had some big, priceless painting behind them that apparently made art history or some bullshit, called the ‘Mono Laura’ or some shit, fuck if he knows.

He was standing on his tippy toes with Wilbur’s arm wrapped around him, a giant gleaming grin that hurt his cheeks from how wide it was while Wilbur had his graceful, casual smile. Only this time it looked like he trying miserably to hold back his snickers as Tommy tried to match his insane height.

People were fucking loving it, again . Tommy Malarvo and Wilbur Craft found their way into being the talk of the nation. Everyone wanted to know what shenanigans they would get in to next. And the teen had to admit, he loved it too. Not only the publicity he got off it, but the friend he made through it all. 

The internet was practically on fire, twitters #1 hashtag was #crimeboys for an entire three weeks, only sweeping down to second after the dog from some sitcom died. Crimeboys was apparently a nickname given to them after they were seen constanly out together doing something stupid and stupider by the minute, endearing to the public and swirling up every fan and casual watchers eyes onto their phone screens as they ached to figure out the story between the two.

The fans didn’t know about the movie yet, since it was still in production. So they both had the job to keep it all under wraps before making a big show out of the reveal that the reason their both out together all the time was because they were playing co-leads in an up and coming film.

Interviews with him and the Craft were flooding in, all asking how they met and they both kept their mouths sealed. Wilbur clasping his hand over his lips whenever Tommy opened his mouth to spoil, joking with the interviewer that Tommy couldn’t keep his mouth shut about it for the life of him.

Tommy was still slightly afraid Wilbur was doing it all for the publicity. He means who wouldn’t? But for some reason it just- it didn't seem true. There was a lot that happened behind the scenes that seemed too real, too-

He didn’t know, but it just couldn’t be fake. It couldn't. 

Maybe it was the overbearing protectiveness, the way Wilbur’s eyes turn blaring whenever someone looks at Tommy with even remotely any malice. The way Wilbur failed miserably to hide his smile during Tommy’s antics, even the greatest actor in the world couldn’t stand to not crack Tommy’s quips and jokes. 

It was nice, refreshing even. To have somebody by his side who cared about him. Yeah, he did have Tubbo but his friend was thousands of miles away at most times and although he was only one phone call away it was just so much different to have somebody real, a real person next to you to help lick your wounds. 

And if he missed the dark looks that followed his frame whenever he looked away, the outright ominous thoughts that rolled around in the man’s brain as he talked the guy’s ear off with his childish fixations. Then that was for Wilbur to know, and for Tommy only when the time comes.

Tommy was at the highlight of his life. Everything was going great, they were about a month into production and everything was handy dandy. The film was going amazing so far and the fans were riled to their core by the idea of the two. Leaving Tommy as happy as could be, the constant praise and adoration poured into his ego was fueling the praise hound inside of him. The way Wilbur appreciated him just as the media did was fueling that warm, gooey feeling inside of him, even if Wilbur adored him in a way that Tommy would never approve of.  

They bickered on screen, they bickered on set, they bickered when they were alone. In interviews, the fans were enraptured by it all, the young star telling stories about the pranks they set up around the studio. Wilbur letting him ramble while he looked over to the boy affectionately as Tommy talked about the way Quackity shat his pants after they bought a tarantula and put it in the director’s car. Telling another story about how he accidentally walked in on Wilbur using tinder, in which the man immediately developed into denial about it to the interviewer. 

People believed him, obviously , the lying cunt. 

Wilbur kept up the charisma while Tommy kept up the childishness. It wasn’t even acting at this point, the two just fit together like two pieces of velcro and everybody could see it. The only way you could part the two was if you physically ripped them apart, something the Craft would never allow. 

And today was like any other day, instead of going out they had a long day at the studio, which was okay. They didn’t need to go out every day. It was getting late by the time they finished up at set, so instead of going home he decided to sit with Wilbur after little convincing from the man. 

Which left him to where he he is now, sitting on Wilbur’s couch in the Craft’s trailer as he poured out a glass of wine and Tubbo texted Tommy about his english teacher.

Tubbo wasn’t an actor like him, the only reason they met was because his dad was the famous Jebediah Schlatt. Known for his comedy acting. The fuck was always in some big shot comedy movie about his sad life where he was dating/married to some beautiful woman while he looked like he just crawled out of a sewer with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. The movie was always shot in Vegas or some shit as he tried to get his girl back in some hilarious way.

He met Tubbo when his friend was on set with his dad while Tommy was playing Schlatt’s son as some small part in one of his comedy movies. They needed him on set constantly for a week for only a five minute scene, thinking they were going to use him a lot more than they did. 

Schlatt saw the bored eight year old Tommy and saw his same age son Tubbo and decided to set them up for a playdate in the comedy stars dressing room now stocked to the ceiling with toys for his kid before taking his leave with a ruffle of Tubbo’s hair. 

And they stuck together like glue ever since. 

The glup glup glup of Wilbur’s red wine trudged him out of his vigorous tapping spree of trying to coax Tubbo out of murdering his english teacher. Looking up to the celebrity as Wilbur set the bottle down and took a sip with a sighed ‘ah’ before setting his gaze back to the child beside him, face twisting to a smile as he looks upon the big blue eyes watching him. 

He walks over with his glass and drops gracefully onto the couch beside him, ruffling his golden curls before wrapping an arm around the youngers waist and pulling him flush against his chest, Tommy leaning in appreciatively.

After a moment of bliss by Wilbur’s side he hears a ping of his messages and reaches over to make a grab for his phone. Reading out Tubbo’s text on how his english teacher had the audacity to say Tubbo Schlatt was ‘below average’ and needed ‘extra tutoring’. 

“Who’s that?” Wilbur speaks up, all while taking a sip of his glass with his gaze drowned in the Disney movie playing on the TV screen he mockingly put on for Tommy. 

“Tubbo. He says he’s going to use his dad’s mercedes to run over his english teacher.”

The celebrity snorts, “Course he is. Didn’t he want to murder his history teacher last week?”

“Thats what I said! But apparently that was last week, he’s moved on now.”

Tommy had told Wilbur all about Tubbo after the guy told him about his friendship with Schlatt. Apparently they were just as inseparable as Tubbo and Tommy, and the two were known to be seen at bars and shit together back in the day.

Wilbur just hummed and squeezed him a bit and Tommy took the liberty to curl up right next to the movie stars side after he texted a goodnight to Tubbo once his friend told him he's going to bed for the night. Promptly shoving his face into Wilbur’s sweater as the other rubs up and down his his back lazily and takes ocasional sips of wine.

Something he forgot to mention, just a bit, maybe it wasn’t only just arms slung around his shoulder. 

Ever since the first time they met at the reading, Wilbur has only got steadily more demanding with his commands for Tommy to soften up around him and let him coddle and hold the boy, let him keep contact with him in front of the people roaming around set. 

Though, Tommy couldn’t find it in himself to mind too much. Even if he should. He didn’t know if it was the publicity getting to his head or the obviously touch starved part of him yearning to be close to the Craft, to let him card through his hair and sit beside the warmth leaking from the celebrities side, but whenever Wilbur pulled him over he couldn’t find it in himself to move away. 

Right after the table reading Tommy still had the courage to try to pull away and fight the star whenever Wilbur tried to yank him into his embrace when the cameras weren’t around, or when Wilbur went to have those famous hour long talks with Tommy Malarvo tucked under his arm. Scared for his big man reputation of not subcombing to the urge to become a mushy, little affection leach being ripped away from him. 

But the Craft had none of that, keeping him pinned in his embrace behind closed doors. It got to the point where Wilbur was hissing into his ear threats towards his career if he didn’t stop and drop the act, obviously having the upper hand. The demeaning words always leaving him a limp, slumped image of himself. Letting the celebrities humming and tender fingers do whatever they pleased. 

Later Tommy found himself willingly crawling over, letting the ministrations overtake his mind and body instead of being a worrywart about it. Not worrying about the way the stars eyes darkened whenever he didn’t listen to the other, the way the fingers yanked at his hair whenever he tried to slither away, the almost obsessive eyes that followed his every move, the possessive squeezes and glares that overtook the celebrity whenever someone else looked at the, his , child with even remotely any bitterness, telling him to go to another room as he ‘had a talk’ with the assailant.

Tommy tried to push those memories away at any chance he got, trying to tell himself he was just interpreting the situation wrong, that it was his fault for thinking of it that way other than Wilbur’s doing. 

And it worked, somewhat. As long as he kept Wilbur happy everybody else was grateful for it, including him. Wilbur wasn’t psychotic, insane, he wasn’t shit . Tommy just had a bad first impression with the star, and that wasn’t anything to put blame on Wilbur for, especially when his first meeting with the famed man he was shit talking him in front of his very eyes. 

The fans loved them. Together. Sitting around and telling himself things are wrong, that what Wilbur was doing was wrong was only going to mess up that for him and his long in the making career. He was in the highlight of his life, he was in an infamous duo with Wilbur Craft. He was friends with Wilbur Craft. If that meant he was subject to some needed, forced, affection every once in a while, then he’d have to deal with it. 

It wasn’t like it was hurting him, was it?

Even if it meant dealing with the temper, the times when he got into even the slightest quarrel with the celebrity that wasn’t simply lighthearted bickering, and it was like something took over the man. While it never got any more violent than yanks and pushes, the occasional iron shackle grip against his skin, the words spat at him felt worse than a stab to his gut. 

Unfiltered seethes directed towards Tommy that he was an ungrateful brat for taking for granted Wilbur’s generosity, that he was doing Tommy a favor for even gracing him with his presence, nonetheless seen out with him. Long dragged out spews of Wilbur rambling on about his ego, his greatness, how the world was at his feet.

Usually, it developed into a digression of how he believed Tommy was destined for so much more by his side, how he believed that Tommy could be the next Hollywood, the next him. 

The next Craft, by everything but blood. 

The spews always ended with Wilbur sitting down next to him and brushing the hair out of his eyes, something needlessly affectionate, cupping his cheek, wiping away the stray tears left from the man’s outrage. Telling him gently that he just wanted to raise the stardom inside of him, keep it all to himself, have front row tickets to watch the future of Tommy, never Tommy Malarvo.  

Ending with Wilbur looking at him like he wanted to say so much more, always ending with a comma and never a period. Looking at him wildly with this untamed look to his eye, craving something only Tommy had, the stardom burning inside of him. 

The teen had to admit, it was unnerving sometimes. The way Wilbur looked at him left him shaken and eyes burned with tears. The harsh vocabulary turned to praise leaving him unknowing what to think. 

But at the end of the day, the celebrity always cooed at the unshed waterworks and wrapped him up in a sympathetic hug, so it was okay. Had to be. Nothing was wrong, it was Wilbur Craft he was talking about, if anything Tommy was just being a big, overthinking baby anyways. 

Tommy means, yeah Wilbur’s eyes and lips may turn protective and vicious whenever he read any criticism from a critic or fan on Tommy’s performance, sometimes even dismissing himself from the room to make a phone call after a particularly harsh take. 

Yeah, sometimes Wilbur left the room with a commanding ‘stay’ when his phone rang, a command which Tommy never listened to because he wasn’t some fucking dog. Placing his ear against the door as he could hear Wilbur pacing outside in the hallway. He didn’t ever know what the guy was talking about, but it seemed like he was planning something of some sort. Saying things about ‘after the premier’ and asking ‘if Phil had approved’ or some shit like that.

Tommy could never make it out, so he usually found himself back on the couch and waiting for Wilbur to come back to him, pushing the words out of his mind. 

But that was normal, Wilbur had his quirks but it was okay. Tommy was getting so much fame and attention there was no reason to hold up on the thought. How sometimes at night he stares up at his ceiling while his mind buzzes with irrational thoughts about the tidbits of things he heard the celebrity say, things that couldn’t be normal. Things that he tried to tell himself that he never heard. 

Everything was okay, it will be okay. He had Wilbur by his side, nothing could go wrong.

Right?

Tommy curled up tighter around the celebrity at the thought, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist and nuzzling into his soft, expensive sweater further. Drawing in a deep breath of the sweet cinnamon and gingerbread smell that he found dear in his heart, a smell that came with Wilbur.

The boy felt Wilbur kiss his temple when he tucked his head under his chin, and he closed his eyes in return with a small longing sigh when Wilbur began to rub up and down his back, scratching where it’s just right, the man in turn burying his nose into Tommy’s hair with a sigh of relief.

And that’s just what they did. They sat just like that for a little while, Wilbur drinking his wine and switching the channel with Tommy Malarvo tucked away in his lap, curling his fingers into the back of his hair and kneading his way through the gold, occasionally scratching patterns into the scalp behind his curls.

He carded his fingers up and down throughout the golden fluff, eventually  moving his fingers down to his nape, only to play with the baby hairs still sticking out on the back of his neck.

Tommy felt his eyes droop and didn’t think twice about it, absent minded to the fact his manager had no idea where he was, or that he needed to go home and see Shroud, that his team was going to be clueless the next morning, the responsibilities that he would be leaving behind when he shut his eyes. 

He found himself letting them slip closed as Tommy let his mind focus on the affection surrounding him, the chin propped up against his hair, the fingers trailing his spine, and the quiet buzz of the television behind him.

Tommy didn’t feel the way the face in his hair twisted into a smile as his breath evened out into sleep, Wilbur doing nothing to wake him up, dark and eager of the future for the child buried in his protection, didn’t hear the possessive “Mine” whispered reverently into the air above his head, didn’t feel the arms tightening around him.

All he felt was the darkness taking over, succumbing him to the dim drifts of slumber.

______________________________________

The trailer door swiped open with just barely a twinge of a rusty squeak, the respected Alex Quackity walking through the door and closing it behind him.

“Help yourself to some wine, Quackity.” Wilbur leisurely dictates while gesturing with his free hand to the upscale-priced bottle of red sitting on the counter. 

Quackity looked over but he wasn’t looking at him nor the bottle, figures, his now bewildered eyes were latched on to the small lump under the blankets beside him, the golden curls peeking out from under the duvet.

Tommy. 

Wilbur understood why all two pairs of eyes in the room fell directly on his child’s curled-up form, the way the world’s eyes all drift to the golden boys acting and reputation. What he didn’t understand was why people looked at him for only that when there was so much more under the surface, such an adorable face peeking out of the soft weaves of the blanket.

He had been trying to get Tommy to trust him enough to fall asleep in his presence for what felt like centuries now. Always fleeing to his sanctuary whenever he had free time after the clock ticked any time after nine or ten.

When Wilbur should be his sanctuary.

Tommy fell asleep about an hour ago and the treasured celebrity took the liberty to scoop the young boy’s form up and into his arms, the soft golden curls resting against his nape, and eased them both into the trailer bed. Finally able to make the call he’s been wanting to make since Techno came to the same realization he did.

That there’s a new Craft waiting to be taken home, born into the wrong arms, and waiting to be returned once again. 

“What the fuck do you think you're doing, Craft?” Quackity outwardly replies, voice level and flat. Almost as if he’s trying to keep his composure. Defensive over the young blonde laying boneless in his lap, in the lion’s den. 

The actor has a feeling the composures not going to last long by the time their done today.

Wilbur twirls a finger through the golden curls sleeping soundly against his chest, a warning , and Quackity’s careful eyes watch him like a hawk. “What ever do you mean?” The movie star conveys with a vicious smirk.

“You called me. And if it’s the type of call I think it is, then you don’t call me about Tommy Malarvo.” Quackity spits back ignorantly. 

“Well, it’s a good thing it isn't.” Wilbur charms. 

“Then why the hell am I here?”

Fed up with the attitude, Wilbur enthralls with faux sweetness. “Y’know Q, I thought we were friends.” Wilbur brushes through the curls, looking down at Tommy with a thoughtful expression. 

“We've been working with each other for years, so why don’t you grab a glass of wine, like I asked, and we can talk about this like men.” Peeking his cruel eyes up at the man. 

Quackity, the imbecile, does not do what he asks at all, simply scowling at the star.

Instead of being smart, the director continuously demands. “What’s the plan?” 

Wilbur just sighs, the stubborn bastard. He keeps his gaze down at the slumbering boy against his chest, how his cheek was slightly smooshed into his sweater with a thin line of drool pooling under it. Fucking adorable . Tommy’s face was slightly disgruntled against him, somehow even looking angry in his sleep. 

He impulsively began to run his fingers through the child’s hair again, Tommy making a quiet, sleepy hum at the movement and snuggling further into his chest with an “mmph”, and Wilbur had to physically restrain the urge to coo at the younger. A warm, gooey affection swirling in his chest as he relents to just press a featherlight kiss to his temple with a meager, fond smile before pulling away to look up triumphantly at Quackity.

The director did not seem happy in the slightest with Wilbur’s display of affection, arms crossed against his chest and foot tapping impatiently on the ground. A defensive glare set into his eyes as he must’ve thought he had the upper ground in some way, that by simply being invited into a room with the Craft gave him some sort of jurisdiction for his tantrum. Gave him some sort of reasoning to think he could go toe to toe with Wilbur Craft. 

That he was allowed to demand answers from him, instead of begging for forgiveness. 

Wilbur didn’t understand the man’s behavior at all, his father was known for the power he holds over Hollywood, over him, the ruined careers and lives he’s left in his wake to get there. You don’t get to where he is without walking over people, after all, a lesson well kept by his two (almost three) sons. 

He kept his intentions clear, trying to get through Quackity’s head that he held Tommy all in his palms, a clear indication of mine crawling through his movements as he pulls a stray curl off the sleeping child’s scalp and twirls it around his finger. 

Wilbur finally answers the question once he finally sees the first flicker of doubt in the director’s eyes. “Phil Craft, my father, has quite the reputation. The Craft name is lined with prestigious actors, the best of the best.”

“Get to the point.” 

Wilbur rolls his eyes at the director’s ignorance. You’d think after a few years of this bullshit he’d finally get it in his fucking pea-sized brain. “You took up quite the liking for Tommy, didn't you?” 

Quackity’s mouth flies open but Wilbur simply places a hand up to stop him, a fierce turn to his irises. “Don’t lie to me Quackity, I read the casting director’s notes. How you practically begged them to make Jack’s role meant for a younger part so your little golden boy could get recognition in a Craft film.” The celebrity spat. 

Quackity blanches for a moment, only to regain his composure and reset his posture, brow and mouth set into a thin line. “And?” 

The irritation chases away from his features as this time when Wilbur Craft smiles it’s sickeningly sweet, turning his gaze down to the drowsy boy so he could drag his thumb possessively down the pale of his cheek adoringly, cupping his jawline lightly once he reaches it. 

“And I’m glad you did.”

It’s silent for only a moment.

“What?!”

Wilbur shakes his head. “Everybody could see it, you did, he’s perfect.” 

The star picks up his hand and trails the fingers through the boys hair, “Golden hair, sapphire blue eyes,” Wilbur tracks his fingers over the closed pupils, brushing over them. “Those big toothy grins that could light up the world. My world.”

“He’s just a little kid.” Wilbur marvels, words airy. “A little kid in a world that could care less about his age, the life he deserves. All alone, no one to go to.”

“What the fuck are you implying?”

“I’m implying Quackity.” The celebrity leans back into the pillows, ensuring an arm is still wrapped around the youngers shoulders, a sinister look in his eye. 

“That I think a family reunion is in order.”

The director only turns confused. “Don’t family reunions defeat the purpose if you fucking live with them?”

Wilbur scoffs with a roll of his eyes, “Can’t you see it?” He hysterically murmurs, grabbing Tommy’s sleeping face all in one hand, squishing his cheeks between his fingers and thumb so he could turn it towards Quackity. The boy grumbled sleepily but the star couldn’t care less. “He’s talented, you know it just as the world does. So fucking talented. God, I’d be surprised if Phil could do the things this mere child could at his age.”

“All eyes are on him at all times, all of mine. He could act out anything you give him. I’ll be fucking surprised if anybody even takes a glance at me, Wilbur Craft, in this movie.” Getting wrapped up in his words Wilbur turns the boy’s face towards him all in one quick movement, watching as his child's eyes blearily blink open he promptly develops into tender shushing, letting go and pulling his small head right back where it came from, under his chin. Resting his jawline on the child’s curls. 

He runs his fingers through the boy’s hair once again, listening intently as his breath falls steady, easing away into a quiet snooze as he nuzzles further into Wilbur’s chest with a small, sleepy noise. His forehead pushed into his neck with a short breath of air.

“He’s a force of nature behind a camera, and a small child everywhere else,” Wilbur mutters, his voice falling calmer just as the sleeping child. He rugs the boy further into his embrace and buried his nose into the boys curls with a crescent moon smile. “He’s adorable. He’s perfect, in every single way.”

Quackity just stares at him puzzled for a moment, and Wilbur catches the moment he strikes realization. Eyes widening only a smidgen. 

“You want him- you want him to be a Craft?”

Wilbur grins, predatory.

“I always wanted a little brother.” 

They sit and stare at each other, no one making a single sound until Quackity eventually breaks it. A crude laugh leaving his lips. 

Quackity brushes the hair out of his eyes in disbelief, a bitter scoff escaping. “You’re fucking insane, insane. He’s a kid. A fucking kid Wilbur- you can’t just-”

“And when’s that ever stopped me before, Quackity?” The movie star interrupts, patience falling at the seams. 

“You know what we do, you know what these ‘calls’ are for. You don’t get to where we are without stepping over a few people, you didn’t get to where you are without it.”

“Without me.”

Wilbur is the only one laughing this time, “I want to know who told you could walk in here and think you can fucking question me? I made you, the only reason you're in a thirty-mile radius of Hollywood is because of me.”

“And to think I wasted all this time just for you to come in here and mock me. Like you have some sort of power over me.” The Craft shakes his head, something ruthless digging into his ribcage. “I could ruin you in my sleep ‘director’, just you watch.” He seethes.

Quackity’s eyes were blown wide, shoulders tense, nails dug into his palm enough to draw blood.

“I want what’s mine. And either your gonna help me take it or I can send your ass to the streets.” Wilbur sneers.

“I’ve done it before, we’ve done it before. Together. And if you want to fight with me on it? I’d have no issue with replacing you. There’s many more where you came from.”

Wilbur’s hands weave through gold possessively, “Tommy’s mine, mine. He was born to be a Craft, born to be in my arms, born to be mine. And if you want to undermine that? Sit here and call me insane as if I didn’t build everything you have?”

Quackity gulps.

“You’re as dead as his mother.”

He watches as the man goes through a full-body shudder, frowning and shakily wetting his lips. “His- his mother?”

Wilbur draws back by taking in a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down as he quickly checks on Tommy to make sure he didn’t wake. Either the boy sleeps like some form of rock or has the ear canal of an 80 year old because he didn’t do as much as stir during the altercation. Still left sleepily content in fisting Wilbur’s sweater gently and shoving his face into the darkness between the pillow and the musician’s throat. 

The star sighs, impulsively pulling the blanket up a tad further over the curve of Tommy’s shoulder. “From my sources, apparently the bitch has been on the Spanish coast spending away all of my sunshine’s money for the past six months.”

To Quackity's credit, his voice only trembles slightly. “And what do you want me to do?”

Wilbur smiles and it isn’t charming, it isn’t warm, it isn’t anything he’s felt in the past few weeks around the light of the world, his world. It’s malicious, unforgiving. Nothing you’d ever want to see on the lips of someone as powerful as him, as a Craft.

“What you do best, of course.” Wilbur charms, insanic glee feeding his very bones. 

“The night of the premiere, I want you to put a bullet in her head.”