poodledoodle1

[poodledoodle1]

act of trust - [tim wright x winged!reader]

summary: reader is a human-avian having trouble preening their wings. tim comes to help out :-)

genre: fluff

wc: 2.5k

contains: genderneutral reader, no description of readers physical appearance beside wings, pining, the most awkward attempt at writing a conversation ever, preening inaccuracies probably, reader is a proxy

cw: description of past cannibalism (um), implied cannibal reader, mentions of operator-sickness

a/n: i wrote this bcs i cant stop dreamimg about having wings and bcs i love tim. i was originally going to make this about jack because he's a 'monster' as well and it would have been more fitting but. oh how i love tim. there aren't enough tim fics out there and i have to change that. oh tim my pookie. this is also kinda based off my miserable self insert oc but shh

Sitting on the edge of the wooden railing of the cracked, old balcony with one of your wings curled towards your lap, you harshly tug your fingers through the dirty, dishevelled feathers in an attempt at keeping them neat and in place. It hurts. But the stinging sensation of pain has long since stopped bothering you, considering your line of work.

Being a proxy slave to an eldritch entity means day-to-day life is bound to be filled with all sorts of injuries and suffering. Whether that be by the hand of whatever unfortunate bastard you were hunting down or by the mind-controlling cryptid itself. It varies from the occasional punch to the throat to waking up in the middle of nowhere with a throbbing head and dried blood and tears crusted on your face, not remembering a damn thing about how you ended up here. Knowing you probably deserved it.

Either way, the pain is all the same and whining about it won’t get you out of its vicious clutches.

A sharp, howling gust of wind rushes past you into the foggy night, rustling your feathers and the branches of the thick forest behind the abandoned cabin you're calling home for the time being. It’s nearing the end of September, meaning days are getting shorter, the air chillier and the auburn maple leaves are dancing through the gentle breeze of change again.

The smell of petrichor is wafting through the air, gloomy weather becoming more common with the transition into autumn. It’s going to rain soon. You better hurry up with this.

With a frustrated sigh you stretch your wing a little further, not quite able to reach the one spot in the back. It’s always given you trouble, no matter how much you shift and bend. But you need to get it over with. You’ve been pushing it off for days and you have a long mission ahead of you in the morning. Something about a self proclaimed group of investigators, hiking through the grueling trails of Appalachia, knowing more than they should. You weren't really listening when your ‘coworkers’ were going over details.

You’ve been a part of their little murder group for almost five months now, consisting of you and four other mentally ill and miserable souls, all sharing the unlucky fate of getting caught like flies in the Operator’s wretched web of psychological torture and suffering.

You’re rather quiet around them. Too shy and socially awkward to even attempt holding a conversation. As a.. whatever people would call you –an angel maybe, a beast definitely– either way, you haven't really had a chance at normal human contact, leaving your social skills to be quite rusted. But it doesn't matter. You prefer listening to their banter.

The balcony door creaks open behind you and you smell him before you turn around to see him. Tobacco mixed with an earthy musk and an undertone of sweat.

Tim.

He doesn’t seem to notice you at first. Too preoccupied trying to flick the lighter on a few times to ignite the cigarette in his lips, before his eyes dart up to where your gaze is now pointed at him over your shoulder.

“Oh. Hey.”

His eyes flicker to your fingers combing through your wing. Eyebrows shooting up in surprise. Unsure whether or not the act of preening is something that should be done in private.

“Oh! Uh.. Sorry, didn’t know you’d be out here. I’ll just..-”, his speech slightly muffled with the cigarette between his teeth.

He points his thumb towards the door, already turning his body and taking a step towards it before you interrupt him with a:

“Stay. I don’t mind.”

“Uh, okay…” He clears his throat. “Yeah, cool.”

You watch his eyes screw shut, eyebrows furrowing in a pinch of embarrassment as he turns back towards you.

Amused, you focus your attention back on the problem at hand. Picking up your oil-slicked preening comb in the shape of a bird’s beak, you get back to work. It’s been laying abandoned by your side for long enough, you think as Tim leans his back onto the sturdy wooden railing you're sitting on. Once again flicking his lighter on and lighting the cigarette between his dry lips.

Minutes go by and a thick wave of awkward silence washes over the both of you. Only ever filled by the occasional huff of smoke leaving his lungs and the annoyed tsks and grunts escaping you because of the particularly entangled lump of feathers you're trying to set straight again.

You notice Tim glancing at you out of the corner of your eye every once in a while, never saying anything. You can tell he’s curious, yet too shy to speak whatever plagues his mind.

He’s almost finished with his cigarette by the time he finally breaks the silence, asking “Need help with that?”, probably wondering whether or not he’s crossing a boundary right now.

You barely hear him. Irritated. Taking a few seconds to process his words before your face softens and you let out a “Huh?”

“Ah, you know..-” He stiffly motions to your wing, heat rushing up his neck.

“Ya looked like you were strugglin’. Thought I’d offer.” He doesn’t meet your eyes now, unsure why he even asked in the first place, both of you knowing damn well he doesn't know a thing about preening wings.

“Oh! Um..”

You've never let anyone else do this to you. Not since her.

You still remember the feeling of sinking your teeth into her beating flesh. Heartbeat erratic, pounding under your molars. Hands pushing at your chin and temple, uselessly trying to force your jaw apart. You still remember the taste of her warm, metallic blood squirting on your tongue and splashing against the back of your throat, before swallowing it down your esophagus. You still remember feeling the clank of your teeth reconnecting around the thick piece of meat with a hefty bite. You still-

Enough. You force your eyes shut. Guilt won’t bring her back. Might as well try to get over it by creating new memories. This will be pleasant, Tim has treated you with respect since the beginning.

If you forget about how you got here in the first place.

But that doesn’t matter, it wasn’t his choice and you need to speak before he takes his offer back.

“Yes, please.” Looking at him again, your expression morphs into that of gentle admiration. It always does.

He huffs a nervous laugh through his nose, putting the cigarette out and flicking it towards the ashtray on the round glass table. He turns towards you and shuffles closer.

Hands twitching towards your wing, but not yet wanting to touch it. Unsure.

You shift, sitting up a little straighter, legs pressing tighter together. Fidgeting with the metal comb in your lap, trying to seem like this isn’t affecting you at all, stretching your wing in his direction.

“How do I..” He starts.

Oh right. You forgot he hasn’t done this before.

“Try to untangle them, if-if you can. Make sure they're all straight and get rid of the grime. It gets really uncomfortable if they're not all… Yeah.”

Your wings have been feeling particularly aching as of late. Covered in dirt, debris and the occasional tick. There’s no avoiding it when your job is to hunt people down like a feral animal charging through the woods. Unlike your partners, you don’t use any traditional weapons. Your teeth and claws, partnered with your stamina and ability to blend into the shadows are more than enough for you.

“Alright.” Handing him the comb, he carefully takes the large wing in his callused hand, trying his best to avoid it touching the metal. Acting like you're much more fragile than you really are.

His other hand reaches towards your multicolored feathers, running his fingers through them and brushing off crumbs of dirt. He’s always wondered what this would feel like. ‘Soft’, he likely thinks.

You’ve seen the way they look at the oddities emerging from your back. You’ve felt it. When you’re staring at the moving shapes through the car window. When you’re mumbling a hushed reply to one of your colleagues. You recognize curiosity when you see it. After all, it’s all you’ve ever been met with. Curiosity, pity and unadulterated fear.

You fold your other wing towards your lap, joining him in brushing fingers through it with the intent of saving time to get this done and over with.

Despite it usually feeling like a nice massage or like scratching an itch, you hate doing this. It’s a long, tedious process that typically steals hours of your time. Combing through your feathers absentmindedly while travelling is one thing, but it’s not often that you take your time to properly groom them like you’re supposed to do.

This often leaves your wings feeling uncomfortable and sometimes even painful, even when they're safely tucked away into the warm comfort of your body.

After untangling the lump of feathers you were struggling with earlier, you feel Tim take the comb into his other hand and begin to spread the waxy oil covering the comb over your wing. This makes them waterproof and helps maintain their condition. Not that he knows.

“Let me know if it hurts, yeah?”

As the leader of the group, Tim has always made it his mission to look out for his partners, repeatedly ignoring his own well-being to make sure they have it easy. Standing up to the Operator itself when it’s being especially cruel to them. To you. Knowing damn well he won't come out unharmed. Acting like he’s braver than he is.

You appreciate him for that.

It’s not often that a person sticks up for a beast like you. You’ve torn apart dozens of people with your bared fangs and sharpened claws.

Yet here he is. Brushing your feathers like you’re delicate. Holy. Something to be worshipped. You can’t contain the smile blooming on your lips.

“Yeah.”

The sound of rain drops gently hitting the balcony roof guides you out of your thoughts. Watching the water wet the large, empty field under the balcony, dirt path leading up to the house growing muddy. You hope the sky clears up by the time you have to leave.

“It's almost morning. What brings ya out here anyway, couldn’t sleep?”, you hear him ask.

“No.”

He hums, picking at a stray leaf stuck between your feathers. “I know the feeling.”

“Are you an insomniac?”, you wonder out loud. You’ve always been blunt.

A brief chuckle escapes his throat. “What makes you say that?”

“I hear you play guitar a lot. When you think everyone is sleeping.” Good dreams come to you easier those nights. When you fall asleep listening to the tender melodies and his quiet voice.

You feel his hands freeze for a second, “Sorry, uh..”, clearing his throat, he continues. “Didn’t know I was keepin’ you up with that. I’ll stop.”

“Don’t. I like it.”, you lied. You love it.

You barely catch him letting out a shaky breath over the sound of the rain. He continues fixing your feathers with the comb.

“Thanks.”

You see a flash of lightning from your peripherals. The distant storm clouds hanging far above the field you're facing. A few seconds pass and you hear the matching rumble of thunder somewhere. The rain is growing heavier, dampening your dangling legs.

“You know.. I’ve never seen you fly before.”, he starts. You recognize his statement to be a question in disguise. He wants to know, ‘Can you?’

“I used to. Somewhat. I just don't get the chance to do it anymore.” Spending most of your time in a dense forest, a cramped, stolen family van or in some cheap motel means there's not a lot of space to spread your wings in, leaving you to fold them into yourself more often than you’d like.

“I see.” He carefully plucks an insect off of you and flicks it down the balcony. Quietly, he asks, “Would you like to?”

“What?”

“Would you like to fly again?”, speaking louder this time.

Of course you would. Soaring through the skies, reaching your fingers towards misty clouds, spinning in the wind, watching the glistening stars with no one to suffocate you with their endless staring, no one to prick your skin, then veins with stainless steel, sucking up your blood in a small glass container, bringing it away to run the test of the day. Being alone. It was heavenly. Of course you would like to fly again.

“I would.”

“I ca- we can make time for that when we get back. If you want. Enough space out there, right?”

He’s talking about the field in front of you. Large and vacant. Without nosy strangers to watch. That could work. But you haven’t done it in so long, it would be embarrassing to fail in front of them.

“That would be nice.”

The balcony door slams open with a bang, both of you nearly jumping out of your skin. Tim’s hands leave your wing as you whip around to look behind you.

It’s Toby.

“The hhh-hell are y-you two doing?”

He barely gives you time to open your mouth before he starts speaking again, holding up a hand.

“Actually I don’t c-care, we have to guh-go soon, come on.” He grunts, head jerking towards his shoulder in a harsh, involuntary shrug. “B-Brian is already bringin’ the bags down. He actually w-wanted me to help with that but honessss… -honestly that prick can eat shit and die, so I came to get you guys inste-instead.”

He has such a way with words, you think to yourself.

Despite him starting the conversation off with urgency, he’s sauntering over to the wooden bench next to you now, slumping onto it with a groan of relief. Leaning his arms over the back, legs spread wide and head thrown back, making himself comfortable.

“God, I’ve been puh-packing for…” He lets out a guttural grunt again, face scrunches up. “-over an hour. 'M not helping him with fff-fuckall.”

Listening to him run his mouth all day is something you find amusing. The brunette constantly finding something to moan about, often bickering with Tim or Kate, seemingly unable to exist in silence.

“I told you to get it done yesterday, didn’t I?” you hear the man behind you scold as you shuffle your wings back upright and turn around.

“Fuck off, Tim”

He hands you the comb back and steps away from you, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and avoiding your eyes. His ears are red.

"Hey, watch your mouth before I throw your ass off this balcony."

As much as you would love to stay and watch these two bicker and try to beat each other up – as they so often do – you're getting rather cold out here and the rain is becoming harsher by the second. There's only so much the balcony roof can protect you from. They can fight in the car.

“We should go. Let’s not keep Kate and Brian waiting.”, you mutter, hopping down the railing and onto your dripping feet. You give your legs a few shakes each to brush the water off.

Your wings already feel much better. The day will be easy.

can u tell i've no idea on how to write an ending :3

this is my first time writing a fic ever so you aren't allowed to be mean to me btw