hi! do you have ao3?? i LOVE your work but im not super familiar around tumblr and ao3 is easier for me to use [bashful]. its totally okay if you dont! i'd just like to know lol
!! I DO ACTUALLY !! i dont post a lot on there on account of being more familiar with writing in tumblr drafts but i do !!
the user is sposedtobemylight !! im really glad u like my works tho aaaaaaa !! best ask ive gotten here in a while made my night ty ty !! :-)
âtake a drag and then i wish you away, wish you away.â
(tw for drinking/drug use mention and angst. hey guys hope u all missed me and my oc writing from forever ago)
he saw her everywhere.
when he was sober enough to look, that is.
as he lofted an empty beer can into the trash, his reflection seemed to morph into hers.
on the ride back from alanâs place, she was there, furrowed in the light reflecting on the window.
even in the goddamn bar.
she towered in the lights shining from above, a quiet, challenging, âdo it. i dare you.â
at least that got him to leave well enough alone sometimes.
what was the point of explaining this?
well, sheâs here again.
maveth.
his sister.
her face forming out of the words on his phone screen, twisting and writhing, like something alive, but far too alien to be perceived.
but he knew her.
she was never alien to him.
fuck, she shouldnât even be alien now.
maveth.
poor, sweet maveth who had only wished to keep her brother from suffering.
who had taken on everything to try and keep them out of trouble.
he shook his âhead,â a pathetic attempt to kill that train of thought. he could never truly rid himself of this when he was sober.
maybe he should..
no.
no, heâ he wonât.
he has been sober for a full week.
these stupid fucking hallucinations will not mark the end of that.
back to doomscrolling, then.
he shifts in bed, ignoring the way his legs protest the sudden movement. it wasnât anything new, after all.
his eye stung too, dry and red, he didnât need to see it to know both things were true.
i mean, fuck, if you were high or drunk or gettingâ fucked every week (hell, sometimes every day) your eyes would be in similar condition.
just another flaw of being sober.
he could feel it all so much clearer.
with a sigh, his blurry gaze returned to his phone screen.
what the fuck was he even watching?
it had been tiktok a while ago, giggling absentmindedly at whatever shitty meme he happened across, but now it was reels.
instagram reels.
he canât recall when he switched apps and he doesnât really care.
he was too focused on trying to process what the video even was. a roblox rant, apparently.
a really stupid one with ai generated images.
jesus christ.
on that note, he turns off his phone, sets it down on his side table, and justâ stares at the ceiling. in a very sane manner, rest assured.
but she was there again.
âvitale,â the voice of this phantom maveth was off, stilted, filtered, âget up. get off your ass and make something of yourself.â
harsh words spoken in a flat tone. it was always.. weird when his visual hallucinations tripped over into auditory.
they had no reason to be this rude, either.
with a huff, he turned away.
obviously.
what do you take him for? a masochist?
i mean, ok, maybe sometimes when heâ or that other time where heâ he also goes by vitale when heâs sober, butâ
nevermind.
forget i even asked.
he is incredibly masochistic just not in the traditional sense.
he doesnât exactly derive pleasure from the pain.
comfort is a better word.
an odd, bitter form of comfort, cradling him like a bed of thorns.
thorns that snag on flesh, draw blood, paint themselves with what spills out, with the last true bit of himself he has left, taking all that he once wasâ
he blinks once.
twice.
thrice.
daemon above, he really needs to get out of his head. heâs starting to think in poetry.
maveth had moved to the wall. still just staring at him, hollow as ever.
âget up, vitale,â it whispered, âyou are rotting, brother.â
was thisâ false figure pitying him?
his brow furrowed. thatâs not normal.
the degrading, the insulting, the rough motivation, all normal.
this?
the tone of thisâ thing taking on an actual emotion; worry?
that wasnât normal.
he pulled himself to sit up, legs, back, everything, crying in pain at the sudden movement.
he couldâve sworn he heard something clatter to the messy floor of his bedroom.
âwhat the fuck?â eloquently put sean, good job.
âwhat the fuck. why are youââ
he chuckled to himself, just shy of sounding deranged. âlook at me,â
look at him.
âiâm talking to a fucking shadow version of my sister stuck to the wall.â
our protagonist who yearns for pity from someone so bad he hallucinates his sister.
heâs subconsciously deluding himself with the idea that she still cares.
that she has moved on and willâ what? forgive him?
oh, sean.
you really should know better by now.
the shadow-maveth stares at him, unmoving. still a lifeless husk.
just as it always has been.
âyep, thatâs enough of that.â sean groans as he gets out of bed, reaching for his crutches with shaking hands.
weed. yeah, heâs going to grab some weed.
hard to worry about anything and everything when youâre stoned and elbow deep in some take out.
a beep.
âtally, i canât keep doing this for you,â the voice was mavethâs, staticky, but.. it actually sounded like her.
âdo you know how hard it is? iâ i canât keep meeting all of these people who yearn for life knowing that im the one who will carry them to death in the end.â
âno,â sean had frozen, his crutches sticking to the floor under the weight ofâ his sins? yeah, letâs go with that.
âno, quit, i donât need to listen to you.â
the voice continued; âtheyâll recognize me, tally, i know they will. what do i do then?â
another voice spoke, muffled, censored almost.
âwhat? vitale, do you even hear yourself? do you hear how little you care about these people? they have lives, you know.â
the muffled voice speaks again.
maveth falls silent for a long while.
âyou know what? forget i asked, brother. i hope you have fun doing whatever it is you do down there.â another pause before she adds; âyou make it really hard to love you, vitale.â
sean exhaled.
and he continued making his way to the door.
âthanks for that. good show, really, nailed it. captured mavethâs disappointment perfectly.â
he sighed, hand on the cool metal of the doorknob.
it was close enough to the feeling of a bottle in his hand that it vaguely calmed him down.
âbut im still breaking my sober streak over this, mâkay?â
with that, shadow-maveth vanished, twisting back into the shadows.
and sean went on.
what, not satisfied with that ending?
did you need something else?
closure, maybe?
what happened to sean?
well, the fact of the matter is, thereâs nothing else to tell.
sean is a sad, pathetic, angry man who is so set in his ways he refuses to change.
sitting in his room, drinking himself to death, getting stoned, and throwing himself the biggest pity party to ever fucking exist are the only coping mechanisms he knows.
so, yes, this is the end of the story.
because sean will not, has not, and will never change.
and when itâs hard, iâll place your head into my hands.
(hurt/comfort! i love these guys dearly. these guys being vani (my malevolent sona) and jarthur. this is after they save everyone from the mines in addison!)
she was scared.
she had been since theyâd left the dreamlands.
she held hatred and resentment to that damned plane, but it was familiar.
it was predictable in spite of how odd it was.
thinking that just goes to show how long sheâd truly been trapped in there.
familiar.
âcâmon,â she whispered aloud with no one to hear, no one to care. âcâmon, mr. lesterââ
she said his name like she wasnât scared of him, too. a man too brave, too determined, too motivated to fit into his own skin.
and what he did to uncle solidified her fears.
that man, with the kingâs eyes, sobbing, looming over a corpse heâd just maimed.
the image burnt itself into her memory.
a fresh scar.
but, oh, how she yearned for him to be safe, for him to return from those mines unharmed, that same spark twinkling in âhisâ eyes.
something drew her in, made her feel safe in his presence. actually, no, that wasnât it.
she never felt safe with him.
she felt protected.
similar, but not the same. just because arthur protected her didnât mean she felt safe.
but he still cared enough to try.
in the prison pits, even at his lowest of lows, arthur tried.
he sang to her those nights, simple lullabies and melodies. but they helped.
even with his hands stained in blood, that of which belonged to a man he had to kill, he had assured her, he offered comfort.
and she soaked it all up. every last drop.
even when the blood of that man, mr. faust, stained her cheek, she accepted his comfort.
he cradled her face when she wept and wiped her tears as they fell. he brushed back her hair, soft kisses pressed to her forehead.
that was why she cared.
that was why it didnât matter who he killed or how scared she was of him.
because he tried.
because he made an effort and treated her with such care. a kind she never got to experience.
she exhaled a shuddering breath, where was he now, is all she could as herself.
and she hears something. from the pantry.
she rushes in, door creaking loudly on its rusted hinges as she flings it open.
standing there, recently emerged from the trap door, was arthur lester. he was alive.
and she was beside herself with her relief.
âhello, vani.â he said, smiling. john mustâve told him it was her. god, john.
she approached them, slowly. merely an instinct at this point, like if she moved too fast arthur would dart.
and his shirt was stained in blood just as it had been back then. in the pits.
it drew her in.
âhey,â she muttered back, standing in front of them, looking up at them. ânice to see ya alive.â
arthur chuckled.
âyou have john to thank for that. patched me up with a hand and a dream.â
a silence stretched on between them. what had happened down there?
âi missed something again, didnât i?â
arthur paused, again, analyzing the question, listening to whatever john might be suggesting they answer her with.
ânâ donât lie.â she started, only to round it off with; âplease, mr. lester.â
a defeated sigh was the immediate response.
âthe beast had me for a moment back there, pierced right through my stomach.â she fought to remain quiet as he explained.
âbut, i was not joking, john saved me. no matter how vehemently he is denying it.â
âi almost lost you both?â her voice was small. her voice was meek.
it made arthur flinch.
âyes, butââ his words waver as he speaks. âbut you havenât. weâre still here. we didnât give up that easily.â
standing there. thatâs all she was doing, really, facing the only two people who mattered in her life at this point.
sheâd left her mom back home forever ago by now. god, she hoped she was alright.
but that meant there was no one around to scold her for seeking the approval of arthur lester, a dangerous man, a murderer.
there was no one around to see her as she was now, clinging to his torso, pressed up against where a fresh scar lay.
where this man was held together by, in the most literal sense imagineable, friendship.
no one could see this.
no one outside of her and john, really.
but it was arthur who pulled her closer, it was john who laid a hand on her back, it was arthur who cradled her once again, and it was john who rubbed in a circular motion, soothing her.
and it was her who drank it all in as she had before. as she would for as long as they allowed it, for as long as they let this happen.
she was tired. and hungry. and so scared.
but they made it a bit more manageable at the very least.
âcâmon,â arthur finally spoke, âletâs get you a meal and some rest, alright? we can leave in the morning.â
she nodded, reluctant let the comfort slip away again. she let herself speak instead; âalright.â
so, with vanity bundled in his arms, arthur walked into the kitchen. seems he wasnât ready to leave her either.
he was still trying.
he was still fighting and adjusting, perhaps for her sake, perhaps for johnâs sake, but he was still going.
he was growing.
and she was there to aid him.
in some manner or another.
perhaps kayne was right, they were similar. they were destined for this. whether he had meant it as a cruel joke or not.
im afraid i cannot add your fics to my wmf list (https://www.tumblr.com/willis-in-yellow/790455587751280640/wonderfully-malevolent-fanfics-categorized?source=share) (ugh why does that look terrible) because tumblr's being a bitch and not letting me save it :( and its like 11:32 and im too tired to try over and over again
BUT ALAS i would absolutely love to add them. its just not letting me :/
i will figure this out, trust
ITS FINEEEEE TRUST ME THE FACT THAT U EVEN CONSIDERED IS INSANELY SWEET? if i ever make more i might add em to my ao3 acc to see if its easier for u to put em on ur list :)
(its just. okay. im writing this bc i cant get therapy. im writing a british man from the 1930s taking care of me. okay. shhhh. mentions of childhood trauma and whatnot)
arthur cradled me like a mother would their toddler, an action so alien it brought forth another fit of sobs from me.
âthere, there.â he cooed, running his fingers through my hair. so gently.
âitâs going to be okay. what is it, dear?â
i sniffled, trying to compose myself.
âi canât save them. my sisters, i mean, theyâreâ theyâre so far gone. i feel so helplessââ
arthur continued to rock, holding me close. so close. so gently.
âshhhh. you were never meant to have to save them. youâre just a kid, vani, this job was never meant to be yours.â
âbut, iââ
âah, ah.â he interjected, cutting me off, not unkindly. just firmly. he wasnât yelling.
ânone of this is your fault, sweetheart. your parents held your fate and they fucked it over. none of this would have happened had they simply been there for you.â
he squeezed me a bit closer and i started up with my sobbing again. this was too new.
this was too strange.
why couldnât i have had this growing up?
âyou did all you could. you fought, and continue to fight, so hard, vani. give yourself credit where credit is due.â
what had i done to deserve this now?
âiâm proud of you, little one.â
and thatâs all it took, in the end. a few words and i couldnât keep from bawling my eyes out into arthurâs shoulder.
âi love you even if they donât. iâm here for you even if they refuse to be. you are never a burden to me.â
(its just. okay. im writing this bc i cant get therapy. im writing a british man from the 1930s taking care of me. okay. shhhh. mentions of childhood trauma and whatnot)
arthur cradled me like a mother would their toddler, an action so alien it brought forth another fit of sobs from me.
âthere, there.â he cooed, running his fingers through my hair. so gently.
âitâs going to be okay. what is it, dear?â
i sniffled, trying to compose myself.
âi canât save them. my sisters, i mean, theyâreâ theyâre so far gone. i feel so helplessââ
arthur continued to rock, holding me close. so close. so gently.
âshhhh. you were never meant to have to save them. youâre just a kid, vani, this job was never meant to be yours.â
âbut, iââ
âah, ah.â he interjected, cutting me off, not unkindly. just firmly. he wasnât yelling.
ânone of this is your fault, sweetheart. your parents held your fate and they fucked it over. none of this would have happened had they simply been there for you.â
he squeezed me a bit closer and i started up with my sobbing again. this was too new.
this was too strange.
why couldnât i have had this growing up?
âyou did all you could. you fought, and continue to fight, so hard, vani. give yourself credit where credit is due.â
what had i done to deserve this now?
âiâm proud of you, little one.â
and thatâs all it took, in the end. a few words and i couldnât keep from bawling my eyes out into arthurâs shoulder.
âi love you even if they donât. iâm here for you even if they refuse to be. you are never a burden to me.â
(this is what happens when i cant find rp blogs to bother. MORE selfship content. whatever man. its SPECIFICALLY noli/sona. angst because oooo baby do i love me some ANGST!)
One, two, feet thudding as they meet the ground, kicking up gravel in one big cloud.
Three, four, a futile attempt to catch their breaths. Short, gasping, hiccups of air.
Five, six, a cooldown ends. A clone dashes off in the opposite direction, buying the pair a few, precious seconds.
Seven, eight, a generator. Half-finished.
Nine, ten, âTADA, [NO]LI AGAIN!â
A feathered tail grasped in his tendril, dragging the poor little birdie closer. Ever closer.
She struggles, all fluffed-up and squirming, sharp cries and sobs. And he laughs at ver.
I mean, how could he not?
He looms over her, the cat pinning down the dove.
A hand crushing ver throat, a paw to its chest, claws unseathed and glinting dangerously in the low light.
âPlease,â She pleads with a voice of reason that doesnât exist. âPlease.â
Or maybe it does.
Noli pauses, freezing for a brief moment.
Ver glasses lay crooked on her nose, cracked and bent out of shape, likely to be fixed next round, but for now..
For now they serve to warp his reflection. To warp ver view of him.
She canât see him properly.
Itâs been a long while since ve has. The Noli that stood over her today was not the man ve once knew. Was not the man she..
She loved.
No, that man had been left behind when the void star fell into his grasp. When his body fell apart around him and his mind followed suit.
This Noli? He could care less for ver.
Or so he thought.
Or so he had convinced himself.
The Noli she knew was still in here, albeit buried under a thousand facades and masks, but he was there.
And ve sees that now, watching as his face falls, twisting into a frown.
Not one of regret nor disdain, just disappointment. Clear as day.
She just smiled back.
Itâs all ve can manage, really. A small grin, showing off her crooked teeth.
The oneâs Noli knew like the back of his hand.
The oneâs heâd spent late nights studying just because he was âcurious.â
He never had the chance to tell ver how beautiful he found them. How sharp her canines were, how some of them overlapped with the others, fighting for space.
He loved them.
Itâs not like he meant to be weird about that. He truly did just find them nice to look at. No ulterior motives.
He eased up the pressure on ver throat.
â[WH]y?â A simple question.
âWhy,â Vani coughed, âWhy what?â
Noliâs reply came in a maniacal laugh, the glitch of it echoing around the empty map.
â[WHY] do you still [TR]y? What do you [GET] out of it? [REâ RELIEF?]â
Vani laid there for a moment. No answer of her own, just ver uneven breathing to fill the silence. Why did she do this?
âIâm not sure. Maybe I just want to talk with you.â And that same grin flashed on ver face.
Another pause.
â[JOKING] wonât keep me from [KILL]ing you.â
Vani sighed.
âI know.â
A silence grew betwixt the duo, tension threaded into the very air surrounding them, slipping into every crevice it was able.
âHowâs C00lkidd?â
And Noli froze again. Heâs been doing that a lot.
âHeâs [Fâ FINE.]â A sigh, more pressure easing off of Vaniâs throat.
âHe [MISSES] you and Seven.â
Tilting her head to the side, ve couldnât help the question she let slip; âMisses me?â
(HI! this is Very much a piece of Kinda vent writing! dont look into this too hard. kay? that being said! tw for gore and just Angst in general. keep yourself safe<3)
it hurt, she had realized.
ve had noticed it a while ago, of course, but now? now she could feel it clawing at the back of ver mind like a bad taste lingering on the tongue.
it hurt how she was noticed, but never acknowledged.
it hurt how ve was trying her best, doing ver best, and she apparently still had nothing to show for it.
it hurt being put down in spite of all ver efforts.
and she could only assume itâs because ve isnât him. and she never will be.
but veâs face-to-face with him now, william, the one before her, the one who built up all of this for ver, but she only feels envious.
he had all ve could ever ask for.
he had made all of the friends she was losing.
he had reached out and talked and got replies.
he had connected with people.
and ve was just taking over.
she remembered all of them, every single one of them, all of the people âveâ had talked with.
but did it count when all the memories were muted? when they were stuck behind a frosted glass panel?
did it count when she could hardly remember the details to begin with?
and he just stood there. the face they once shared, the face that once housed someone far greater than ve ever could be.
that still housed someone greater than her.
and all ve wanted to know is what she was doing wrong, how he made it look so easy.
ve had moved on, grown, bettered herself, stepped out of their fragile bubble and let verself socialize. she had made friends.
ve had done all of that no problem.
where william struggled with small talk, she had picked up the slack, ve had reformed and adapted to what they needed.
and still, in terms of friends? he had her beat.
he stood there. his hands in his hoodie pocket, the same red tone ve still wore, they truly were no different after all, a nervous smile painted on his face. his antennae twitched.
and she pounced.
odd, how the cryptid didnât move to fight back.
odder still, how ve growled in satisfaction when her hands found his throat.
ve wasnât bad for this. right?
ve wasnât a bad person for killing a piece of herself, for slitting his throat with ver own claws and leaving him to bleed out.
she wasnât a bad person for digging deeper into the gash, past fat and muscle, to his airways.
ve wasnât a bad person.
she isnât a bad person.
ve isnât a bad person for wanting a part of herself dead.
she isnât a bad person, ve swears on it.
veâs an angel. a perfect, prim angel, fit to satisfy all. ever pleasant, ever happy, polite.
palatable.
âiâm a good person.â she whispers through the blood and the tears, to an audience who isnât there. their star had been killed.
veâs a good person. no flaws, no imperfections.
angels canât have those.
and she could never handle upsetting those nearest to ver. even if they didnât talk to her.
even if they didnât recognize ver.
she killed him to make sure they could, to make sure they could see ver, to make sure they could hear her.
âiâm a good person.â ve muttered again, hands clasping together in a facsimile of a prayer.
(bleleleleeh! go my selfship stuff. fluff of my sona, guest1337, and 007n7. cause i HATE YOU ALL!)
âJust breathe for us, âkay?â Simple instructions, wrapped in a soft tone. Meant to be gentle.
Breathe. Okay, yeah, she can do that. Ve does that all the time. She does it in ver sleep! This should be no different.
In, her chest rising as ver lungs fill.
Out, a steady collapse.
In.
Out.
In.
âOW!â Well, she had done as ve was told. It just hadnât worked out in her favor.
Nor in Guestâs, judging by the wounded sigh he let out. One he tried to muffle, but was audible nonetheless. This room was rather quiet.
007n7âs grip tightened, holding ver hands steady. He was here for her.
âSorry..â Ve was, she really was, ve just wished she could promise that would be the last time that happened. The last time ve thrashed and squirmed as her wounds were tended.
A calloused hand found itself on ver shoulder, squeezing tightly. Oh, two hands, actually.
âHere, how âbout I try something. Is that okay with you, Vanity?â Guestâs voice sounded near as delicate as 007n7âs.
Go figure, the man sheâs known for years rubbing off on the man veâs known for however long theyâve been stuck here.
âYeah.â And she had to ignore how ve croaked that out. She had to ignore how ver nerves made their presence known, how her trust in Guest wasnât strong enough for thisâ
Ve felt another pair of hands on her face, guiding ver to just look ahead.
Sevenâs eyes. Those warm amber irises.
Those shockingly soft palms that cradled her chin. Just enough to keep ver grounded.
She exhaled, shaky at best, but ve managed to ease some of the tension off. She hoped that was enough for Guest toâ To understand.
Ve was trying to let her guard down.
âAtta girl.â Then those hands previously on ver shoulders dipped lower, tracing just above where theyâd been trying to bandage.
She hissed through ver teeth. A warning.
But 007n7 drew her back in, bumping his forehead against ver own, just enough to distract her.
Christ, ve felt like an overanxious shelter dog.
Guest was the poor vet stuck with ver, trying to take care of something so very scared and defensive.
That made Seven her emotional support animal, maybe? Someone to regulate ver, keep her from snapping all too hard.
An unexpected groan tore from ver throat, spurred on by something. Whatâ
Oh.
Guest was massaging her back. And it didnât hurt? Somehow? But, he wasâ He was right on the areas of infection how couldâ
With a sigh, ve eased up, shoulders drooping, muscles falling lax for the first time in god knows how long. It felt nice.
âThere ya go.â Something in her basked in the way Guest cooed at ver, the sound of his voice rolling over her in waves. Knowing ve was doing something good.
And she fell right into 007n7âs waiting palms.
Veâd fall over and over again for him, always for him, it didnât matter the situation. She was lovestruck, plain and simple.
It was nice knowing he cared for ver in the exact same manner. That he loved her.
âTrrrrrrr..â The trill slipped before ve could even stop herself, before ve could even processâ
âFeelinâ any better?â
Just a gentle voice, humming, pressing into her tense shoulder blades. Ve felt like a spool of yarn, tugged loose and unraveled.
She chittered again. Fuck words.
Seven chuckled in front of ver, his thumbs brushing along her jaw in slow motions. He was practically petting ver.
Not that she cared.
âCan we try and bandage them again?â 007n7 asked this time, carefully suggesting rather than demanding it of ver.
She nodded, albeit hesitantly, but ve was relaxed. She was hazy, head in the clouds.
Ve wanted more affection from the two.
But she wouldnât be asking for it.
The next 20 minutes went rather well, resulting in Guestâs first success in bandaging ver up. And she felt loads better already.
Maybe itâs because ve almost fell asleep leaning against the man behind her, Seven sitting comfortably on ver lap. They were both so warm.
At the moment? Guestâs head rest atop her own, 007n7 sandwiching ver between the two.
Maybe this place isnât so bad.
Sheâs finally at peace with ver friend/crush of over ten years and she even has a few new, uhmâ âfriendsâ by ver side.
The champagne glass was tall, thin, much like himself. Minus the way it cast pearly reflections onto the surface of their dining table.
Minus the way it warped Timâs reflection when he peered through it.
He was a lightweight when it came to alcohol. Or, more accurately, his corporeal form was a lightweight.
He knew that. He had known that.
Still, theyâd had a long day. And it was in his nature to indulge.
Besides, Tim had âtemptedâ him to a spot of lunch and he was never one to turn down an invitation.
âA toast,â He declared at the moment, raising the glass, letting the other fall back into view.
âA toast to us.â
Tim cocked his head to the side, clearly trying to mask his laughter. Or hide it. Neither of which was working.
It was damn near as bubbly as the champagne.
âA toast to us.â The angel mirrored back. How did Tim have him beat in that regard? Alcohol tolerance, he means.
He was a demon for Satanâs sake.
The clink of glass-on-glass derailed his train of thought, sending him reeling for a moment, fishing to find something else to say.
âBack to yours then?â No, he hadnât processed that Tim was clearly working his way through a plate of food. Of course he hadnât.
âAfter you sober up? Maybe.â
Jon groaned, a long, wounded sound that wasnât fit for a fine establishment like this one. But he is the same guy sitting sideways in his chair so the writingâs on the wall.
âYouâre a whiny thing sometimes, yâknow that?â Tim grumbled back through his most recent mouthful ofâ What Jon could only assume was pasta? The plate was finished by now.
With a snap of the angelâs fingers, he folded into himself, clutching his stomach.
Sobering up.
It was always odd watching as the drink emptied itself
me and my husband awaw.... continuation of the fic!!!! he made of us!!!!! sniles wide :) pspspspspsps @disconnectedkid :3
Randalâs hand was cold in his own, the chill creeping along ver palm like it was trying to reach his bones.
Not that ve cared, it felt nice, if anything.
A stark contrast to the warmth of his own body and the cloying heat of this stuffy, old building. It was sortâve like putting an ice pack on your head after being outside too long.
A relief, a welcome, blissful relief.
The wings on ver head fanned out, fluttered, trying to clear any odd thoughts manually, perhaps? He could never truly tell.
âAwesome,â Ve muttered, sounding far too awestruck. Try again. âAwesome.â
And Randal crooked his head to the side, screen flashing with his own thoughts and oh god, save ver, he should not be this cute.
[ Did you have somewhere in mind? ]
Ah, shit, right, Vanity had to put actual thought into this. Fuck.
âWell, uh, baby steps? Letâs get out of here, first. Get you used to the sun.â Ve paused, thinking. âHave you been in the sun before?â
Randal froze, which sparked a great deal of concern before, no, let him clarify, he has.
[ I think so. There are a few broken windows that let in the sunlight. I like staying near them. The warmth is nice. ]
Maybe he could do something with that. Ve had a few ideas stirring, bubbling up, in his brain already. Veâll let those simmer for now.
âThatâs good! Any exposure is good exposure, I think. How about bright lights?â
Another head tilt. [ What about them? ]
âJust, uh, can you handle them? They wonât be too much for you?â Thatâs a good place to start. They could always wait for dawn if daytime proved to be too much.
[ Iâm not sure. Itâs not exactly the brightest in here, if you havenât noticed. ]
A chuckle, huffed through gritted teeth.
âNo, believe me, I have. Weâll be cautious then. So, uhââ Right. Still holding the computer boyâs hand. Hey, no, donât tighten your gripâ
âReady to go?â
Randal was hesitant, his own tail, that Vanity had just now noticed, tucked in. He seemed to shrink in on himself, shying away, but not letting go of ver hand.
[ As Iâll ever be. ]
And, yeah, heâs sure that if ve was able to hear the tone associated with those words veâd point out how unconfident Randy was, but, no, heâll just go along with it.
Hand in hand, ver wings began to beat a tad stronger. A steady rhythm that brought them ever higher into the air.
He totally didnât have to grab Randal from underneath his armpits.
Totally.
Hauling an entire other being as ve flew wasâ Shockingly a lot easier than heâd thought it be.
With all eight pairs of ver wings flapping, he really shouldâve expected it to be less troublesome.
I mean, ve had eight pairs of fucking wings.
Right. Right, he was very out of shape though. Ve didnât have much time to sit and ponder lest he wish to drop ver new friend.
Up and out of the same skylight heâd come in through, zipping around as fast as ve could manage with the extra weight tagged on. Not that Randal added much, no.
Again; heâs just out of shape.
Quick scan around once theyâre out, and, oh, would you look at that.
A willow tree perched at the top of a hill, the now setting sun painting the horizon with a plethora of hibiscus-hued strokes.
Perfect.
Short flight too, barely a couple of minutes before veâs landing. He took extra caution in setting Randy down, steadying the other on his feet before lowering verself to the ground.
Ever the gentleman. Gentle-thing?
He still hadnât figured that out yet. Ve had plenty of time. More than he could keep track of really.
Nevermind that.
Randy seemedâ Hesitant. Stiff in his movements as he stalked towards the willow tree. He didnât seem to be fully robotic.
Was he?
âYâknow, my mom almost named me Willow.â That got the otherâs attention, a head tilt of acknowledgement, but still something.
âMy deadname, I mean. Vanity and William are both hand chosen by yours truly.â And, yes, ve did have to accentuate that point with a bow. If his wings spread in tandem then so be it.
[ Deadname? ]
âOh, yeah, like, the name my parents gave me before I discovered I didnât wanna be my assigned gender? Transitioning? You do know what being trans is, right?â
Randy began to nod his head quite aggressively at that, ve could only assume he was offended.
[ Of course I do, but I didnât know angels were able to do that. Or that they had momâs. Or that they even existed before today. ]
âAh, well, youâll learn a lot more if ya stick with me. See a lot more.â
The otherâs screen displayed three dots, animated as though someone was typing. Did he do that on purpose?
[ You avoided the point. ]
âDid I? Oh, if you mean those questions-not-questions, then, hmââ Yâknow what? Heâs new here! Ve might as well make a grand introduction.
âIâm not exactly an angel angel, catch my drift?â Randy shook his head.
âIâm a special case, a certain kind, I am an angel by all intents and purposes, but when you get down to it? Itâs more a form, than anything.â Then he laughed to verself.
âIt is a form, actually. No questions about it.â
[ So, you have other âformsâ then? ]
He gave another curt nod, approaching Randy, light-footed, steady. Ve knew he didnât need to, but it felt right.
âThatâs the gist of it! Iâm the most recent and the one that will beâ Present. As of now. There were others before me, and theyâre still around, but itâs mostly me.â
Huh. Thatâs a new reaction.
A pixelated emoji, nodding its head, displayed on the otherâs screen.
Then Randy turned back to the willow tree, palm flat on the rough bark. And he began to stroke it, looking as if he were calming a beast.
But, no, that imagery didnât fit him all too well.
No, no, no.
He was analyzing, yes, thatâs it.
He was using any sense he had to his advantage to discover more.
He was taking note of the wood grains, charting the paths carved out by bugs, gathering splinters in the very tips of his fingers for the sake of learning.
âHey, care to look out on the horizon for me?â Randyâs attention snapped back to him, a spotlight of focus shining bright.
He did what was asked of him, coming to stand beside his newâ Friend? Acquaintance? Whatever he viewed Vanity as.
And, fine, okay, whatever, ve mightâve used his wing as a canopy of sorts. For Randy.
He was being courteous.
I mean, ve was! It was the guyâs first sunset, first time being outside in oh-so long, first time with this much fresh air andâ It was his first time on a lot of things.
Surely it helped to lighten the load on his processors just a tad?
As for his reaction? Randy was positively starstruck, frozen apart from the wagging of his tail, that Vanity had just noticed.
And, wow, his wings really had a mind of their own today!
Huddled in the small shelter provided by them, all white feathers and eyes, ve got to watch as the buffer on the otherâs screen ebbed away.
âAll present and accounted for, Rands?â
It had rolled off his tongue so naturally, almost instinctively, a joke so out in the open, so unguarded.
Ve hadnât expected an answer of an almost similar nature.
Randy, slowly tilting his head up, slowly bringing his cameras or whatever he sees out of to meet Vanityâs eyes, screen blinking.
(tw for. i dunno. just jon being out of it in general. the short of it is hes high off meds and acts different as a result. gets a little angsty but dw!!!!! hurt/comfort to the rescue....)
Try as he might, Jon cannot move at the moment. Not far, at least.
Or, he can, heâd just rather not, knowing heâd collapse to the floor and all. The cot isnât close enough to crawl to anymore.
But he needs to go somewhere.
Maybe.
He sortâve forgot where exactly he needs to go, but he knows itâs somewhere.
He taps at the buttons on his little office phone, dialing a number he thinks is important, and bringing the receiver to his ear. At least he remembers how that works.
âJon? Do you need something?â No. No, that wasnât right he didnât want that voice.
âTim.â That one. He wanted that one. âMartin, can youâ Tim. Please. Thank you, Martin.â
And he hung up, smiling. Tim was on his way! Tim, Tim, Tim. He liked that guy. He liked that guy a lot and Martin was getting him.
What an amazing day.
Then he zoned out for a bit and guess what? Tim was actually there. Real and in the flesh, right there in the doorway. He was staring.
âYou rang, boss?â Yes. Yes, mhm, thatâs what he wanted. More of that.
âYes, Tim, itâs very urgent, as you can see, I need to, uhââ And he wasnât moving, was he?
He hadnât moved. He was too caught up in enjoying the sound of Timâs name leaving his mouth, rolling the syllables on his tongue.
âHow many painkillers did yâ take?â No. No, he didnât want that. That didnât matter.
âEnough. Can youâ Talk. Can you talk more. I like your voice, Tim, itâs very nice.â And heâs smiling again, a wide, loose-lipped grin.
âJesus christ, youâre high as a kite. Why are you even here?â He wasnât in the sky, was he? He felt like he was on the ground. He was on the ground. Two feet on the floor for proof.
âI had things to get done. Andâ And I needed to talk to you. Needed you to talk to me. Wait, noââ Apologize. Yes, right, thatâs what he needed to do. Good job, Jonathan.
âIâm sorry. Yes, thatâs what I needed. Iâm sorry, Tim, for stalking you andâ And being an awful friend.â He sniffled.
âI donâtââ
âNo, no, no, shut up, Iâmâ Listen. Please. Iâm sorry for everything. Itâs all my fault and, and I shouldnât have tried to carry it all myself. I shouldâve trusted you and, andââ
He choked around the words, sobs tearing through him and tears falling. This is what he had needed to do.
âIâm sorry for what Iâve done. Sasha would still be alive if it werenât for me. And youâd still, youâd still like me if only Iâd listened.â
Oh, yeah, he was standing now, stumbling his way over to Tim. His fingers found themselves clawed into the manâs bomber jacket and his face buried into his chest, tears and snot staining the fabric.
âI, I missed you, Tim, Iâm so sorry.â
And, really, that was what heâd needed. Heâd been longing to get that off his chest.
Two arms. He felt two arms around him, one on his waist and the other cradling his head. Tim wasnât just here and listening, he was holding him. He was comforting him.
A violent sob is all he managed in terms of a reply, then another, then another.
âLet it out, boss, donât have much reason to stop you. Youâve already blabbered on and youâre clinging to me like a koala.â
Oh.
Oh, Tim, listened to him.
Well, crying just a tad harder was certainly his only valid response. Or the one that he landed on at least.
Only worsened by Tim starting to rock and sway, shushing him all the while. Gentle and quiet. When had he last been so timid?
âItâs okay,â He mutters now, resting his chin on top of Jonâs head. âItâs okay.â
But heâs not accepting the apology.
But Tim isnât forgiving him.
âPlease, Iâm sorry, Iâm so sorry.â And just for good measure, with his face stuffed into the crook of the otherâs neck; âForgive me.â
âNot now. Iâmââ And Tim sighed.
âNot now, Jon. I just canât.â
âWhy not?â Is all he could get out, clawing and asking, damn near pleading. Why? Why, why, why? He just wants to know why.
âDoesnât matter.â Tim still hadnât pulled away. Good. Thatâs good. He missed this warmth.
âIt does.â He chokes, somehow still sobbing. Was he lightheaded? He felt lightheaded.
âIt does to me. Iâm here. Iâm listening now. Please, Tim, give me a chance.â
âYouâre high, boss.â
âSo?â He could hear the begging edge to his own voice and he let it remain there. He let it seep in and take over.
âSo,â Tim continued, pulling himself away from Jonâs grip. âLetâs get you home. You havenât been working anyhow.â
âHome?â
âChrist, yeah, home, Jon, Georgieâs flat?â
âI, ahmâ I donât, I donât live with her anymore. Iâve been staying in the Archives. Or, or hotels.â
And Tim all but glared at him. But he could see it, tucked and buried and hidden, was the otherâs concern for him.
âRight, of course. With me then.â
What?
âI, uhâ Pardon?â
âCome back to my place. You can stay with me for a bit. Just until youâre off whatever the docs put you on.â
(tw more angst! probably. theyre bickering and it does get a little sad)
âBecause weâre fucking trapped, Jon!â Third time this week.
Third fucking time this week.
This conversation had been had over and over, commonly involving Jon uttering something about how he should go on vacation and him, yâknow, jumping in to explain he had tried.
âDonât be ridiculous. We can go home, can we not?â Oh, right, of course that was his defense.
âLike you would know. You havenât had a proper home in months. Youâve been on the run, huh, boss?â He was proud of that one.
The resulting sputter and falter from the Archivist was delightful. Satisfying, even.
âIâve been with Georgie, actually. It is a roof over my head that isnât the Instituteâs. I believe you get my point.â
âYeah, well, I believe youâre being a prick and refusing to listen to mine.â And Jon had no right to sigh like he was the one being tortured.
âRight, get on with it then, Tim.â
As if on command, he launched into his own prattle on and on about how he felt.
âI feel likeâ I feel like a fly in a goddamn web. Stuck up in here with no real escape. The vacation wasnât really a vacation. I wanted to run away and itââ He had felt the tingle since he had first started talking. Compulsion.
âIt went horrible. I went to Malaysia. And the further I was gone the worse condition I found myself in. I was sick, Jon, just being away from all of thisââ He gestured around himself, to the shelves lined with files. âLeft me sick.â
âSo, we really are stuck here, then?â Jon sounded wistful, his voice light.
âThatâd be the short of it.â
Jon scoffed. He scoffed. What was he scoffing for? At Tim, no less.
âThe Buried.â
Ah. No, just a classic moment of Jon being a monster, rattling off the names of his fellow eldritch fear gods like no tomorrow.
âExcuse me?â Is all Tim muttered.
âThe, the Buried. The Choke. Too Close I Canât Breathe. The fear of, of being trapped. Especially without enough space.â This was followed by a shaky exhale.
âYou said you felt trapped.â
âI said I am trapped.â Tim corrected.
âYes, well, taking issue with that might be a cause of the Buried.â
âWonderful. Any more advice, my dear eldritch encyclopedia?â He offered Jon a sneer for his troubles, curling his lips into an awful false grin.
âI was trying to help.â
Oh? Oh, help, was he?
âNo,â Tim drew himself closer to the other, standing in front of his desk now. âNo, you donât get to pull that bullshit with me now, boss. You donât get that option.â
And he jabbed a finger to the otherâs chest, pressing in like he could break the skin if he just tried hard enough.
âYou donât get to help. Youââ He emphasized with another jab, this one drawing a disgruntled sound from Jon. âYou get to watch as I tear myself down just as you did, yeah?â
âTimââ
âNo. Shut it. Okay? For once keep your mouth shut and say nothing.â
And that silence was cherished. Treasured.
âYou donât get to help me now. You refused mine so I have every right to refuse yours. Keep it away from me, boss.â
And then he backed out of the room. Tim simply turned heel and left, no further explanation. He justâ
âWhere did they evenââ They had moved his stuff. Of course, they had moved his stuff.
Suppose thatâs what he gets for being in a coma for the last six months, right?
But they couldâve, I donât know, warned him when he got back? Maybe a simple âhey, Jon, by the way, all of your shit is in the wrong place and nothing is as you left it.â
No. No, thatâs asking too much of them.
Heâs lucky they even let him back into the archives, isnât he?
A sigh, drawn from his own lips, slipped through and out into the open air. Another drawer rattled shut as he closed it.
He just needed a goddamn pen.
Heâd found a plethora of pencils and markers, mostly of the colored variety for whatever reason, but zero pens.
Would the Spiral play this kind of trick on him? Send himâ Send him spiraling via something that seemed rather harmless?
No. No, it wouldnât.
Helen didnât seem the kind to scatter markers and pencils around his workspace to throw him off. Or maybe it did. It was harder to tell the Distortionâs motives, nowadays.
With Michael, it had been much easier. Just as confusing and strange and migraine-inducing, yes, but it had at least spoke of its intentions.
Anyhow, next drawer.
This one creaked on its hinges as it was pulled out, the grating sound of metal on metal, the kind that set his teeth grinding.
And he felt a small tug, a pull, guiding him to look inside. He knew something was in here, just not what. He had no clue of what had captured the Eyeâs attention with such ease.
Until he saw it.
Until he saw what it was and his breath caught in his throat, a gasp ripped from his lungs.
A lanyard.
Timâs lanyard.
Trapped in a plastic sleeve, glinting in the low light, was Timâs grinning face. He had never been one for stuffy office photos, meaning heâd taken this himself.
It was a simple portrait, a headshot, and the quality wasnât great, but it had a charm to it.
He stared at the camera, his hazel eyes scattered with flecks of gold, green and brown, all captured and held close in a bundle of pixels.
His smile was wide and bright, baring his crooked teeth in all their sharp, angular glory. The indent of dimples lining his cheeks that only added to the authenticity of it all.
And damn his heart for seizing. And damn his lips for quivering. And damn his eyes for watering so readily. So quickly.
With shaky hands, he drew the lanyard into his grasp, holding it as if it were liable to shatter. To his chest. Straight to his chest is where he tucked it.
And he wished he could feel Timâs warmth again, he realized. Wished he could feel anything from that man just one more time.
He missed him.
But it was his fault he had to mourn in the first place, isnât it?
Stalking his friend, prying into his private life like he had any business to be there, of course he deserved the cold-hearted demeanor Tim had taken with him in the last few months before his death.
Tim who had worried for him. Tim who had only wanted to help. Tim who was shoved to the side in favor of his paranoia.
Tim who wanted Jonâs trust.
He snapped. All the weight on his shoulders proving too much as he sank to his knees, clutching the lanyard like a lifeline.
He was cradling it, he noticed, as the tears overflowed and streamed down his face.
Sob after sob, wail after wail, choking back the torrent of emotions, pushing back the current of grief and longing he couldnât help but feel.
And he longed for so much.
He longed for another chance. He longed to crawl on hands and knees to Tim, to claw at his legs, and beg for his forgiveness like a sinner does to their god. He longed for stuff he could no longer have as well.
He wanted Tim back. He wanted him back more than he could ever express.
With Martin wrapped up with Peter, Basira on edge near him constantly, Melanie out for his blood, and Daisy presumed dead, he could really use the manâs company again.
But he was gone. And there was nothing Jon could do to bring him back.
And, besides, even if he was here, heâd said it himself. Heâd never forgive Jon. Heâd simply thanked him for letting him die.
That didnât stop Jon from weeping, tucked in a ball practically underneath his desk. Itâs not like he had anyone left to hear him.
Just his thoughts.
Just his thoughts and the evidence of what heâd done surrounding him. Faces wrecked by his own actions and lack thereof.