#I like just throwing my fic over the fence and then scuttling away

[transfemlogan]

And When The Moon is High

Chapter 1

Ao3 | chapter two

(Chapter) warning/s: hurt/comfort, pre-transformation mimicks sickness, talk about hurting others on accident

Words: 5,573

Fic summary: A bed squeaks along with cracking bones. A loud crash, followed by a thud and a bang. Fabric rips, metal clangs, and glass shatters.

The wind screams with a howl.

--

After 5 months of dating, Logan wants to share his full moon with Virgil. Virgil promises to do everything in his power to help him.

Then Logan makes a mistake. He didn't mean to.

He swears he didn't mean to.

AWMH masterlist | FANFICTION MASTERLIST

Gravel crunches together underneath thick black boots. A careful breeze pushes down on Virgil’s hood, slipping it off his head. He squints his eyes as the sun, peering through the leaves, hits his face.

Surrounded by tall trees, Virgil follows the very faint path towards his home. Plants have started to overgrow, covering some of the gravel, but as he steps, they all scuttle away from him like puppets on a string, and then return to their original spot. He fixes the bag hung over his shoulder.

The path disappears halfway along the trail, but Virgil’s footsteps never cease. He’s walked this path a million times before and will continue to walk it a million times after. He glances over his shoulder, scanning the area behind him.

Flies buzz past him. And before trotting away, a deer, off in the distance, pauses to stare at him. The sun sits high in the sky.

— —

A door clicks shut.

Virgil sighs, standing in the small entranceway of his home. He drops his bag with a thud and then immediately cringes, face scrunching up.

He needs to make a ward, or some sort of protection, for his guest room and then start dinner and then start the potion and his boyfriend is showing up somewhere in the midst of that– he chews on his thumbnail.

He rummages around his house, unzipping his boots and taking off his large cloak, pulling out everything for dinner and from his drawstring bag (which has accumulated a white pile at the bottom, from the now open bag of salt), before taking the rest of what he needs from his small garden in the back, barricaded with a large fence and a scarecrow in the middle.

He knows Logan is feeling nervous and feeling vulnerable sharing this with him, and he feels nervous, too (What if his ward ends up not working and something Happens? What if his potion doesn’t work and Logan’s transformation is torturous and what if Logan never wants to share this with him ever again and–)

Virgil lets out a few heavy breaths, shoving his hands into his face.

The clock reads noon.

(Logan grips Virgil's hands in his. They're uncharacteristically sweaty and shaky. Virgil stares at him as if he holds the answer to life itself— or as if he is the answer to life itself— and, god, it scares him as much as it makes his heart flutter.

"We've talked a lot about my transformation," Logan starts. Virgil interrupts him.

"You don't have to do anything you're uncomfortable with or— or unready for." Virgil almost sounds as nervous as Logan feels. 

Logan smiles. "I know..." he presses a kiss to Virgil's hand. "I am... very hesitant to share my werewolf heritage with most people. Not everyone is as accepting as you are... but you are not most people, as you have shown to me, and you've spoken so much about wanting to... help me and—"

"— I want to help you as much as I can, L." Virgil opens his mouth to keep speaking, but realises he spoke over Logan and trails off. Logan keeps smiling.

"I would... like to share the upcoming full moon with you.")

He changes out of his day clothes and wipes his hands on his sweatpants, throwing the jeans he was just wearing into a random pile on his bed.

Despite the boiling and heavy feeling in his stomach (he swears he had to have eaten a brick and forgotten about it), Virgil feels… fluttery. They’ve only been dating for 5 months and Logan has always chosen to spend his transformation alone— not that Virgil has ever been upset or offended— but then Logan asked if he could come over for this full moon. Because, despite all his fears, he trusts Virgil and wants to share this time with him.

(Virgil's eyebrows raise and his jaw drops. "Are— are you sure?" Logan looks away, biting his lip.

"Yes, I am very certain," Logan says, "if you'll let me."

Virgil gawks. "Yes, I absolutely would." He thinks he's smiling wider than Logan. "Of course I would, love." 

Logan presses a kiss to his cheek, grinning. "I trust you.")

Virgil wants to jump around his house and cheer and roll around on the floor, and grip Logan’s face in his hands and suffocate him with a million kisses, and maybe cry really really loud, but he doesn’t think that’s too appropriate.

Instead, he’ll start on the guest room’s ward.

— —

Various herbs hang from the ceiling and in small glass containers in racks aside hand-drawn diagrams pinned on the walls.

Virgil walks through the arched opening– he renovated this room himself, taking down the walls due to how stuffy and hot it got quickly because of his cauldron. He hums lowly to himself, tying up his long mullet-like hair into a ponytail, and walking towards his desk on the right side. Behind him, books start flying off the shelves. They spin rapidly through the air, almost having a purple outline, and float towards the witch.

He runs his finger along the spines of notebooks sitting on a shelf above his desk. The numbers on them count up and up, until he stops on the last one, and plucks it off. Glancing at the book midair by his side, he flicks his wrist; the rest of the books shoot back towards their respective spots. He flips through the pages, lethargically, blowing air past his lips. The page he stops on has a long list of healing correspondences and practices.

Virgil continues to hunt through his room. He waves his hands around like a conductor, looking through his herbs and writing in his grimoire.

He doesn’t specialise in healing Magick. Most of the resources in his craft room involve things like cemetery dirt, ashes, and animal bones (Virgil briefly wonders if Logan would enjoy a bone in wolf form, assuming wolves are anything like dogs, but he shakes his head at the thought), none of which are good for healing spells.

Werewolves are also a mystery to him. His bookshelves are filled with books on vampires, sirens, zombies, and dragons, but none of them mention werewolves in any capacity; and he doubts the library in the town closest to him has books on them, unless they want their library to be set on fire by hunters.

(Though, there is that half-reptilian librarian– he doesn’t trust that man in the slightest, but if anyone would have books hiding…)

Virgil sighs, tapping his quill against his lips. He doesn’t know where Logan’s pain gets him the most. If it was muscle pain, he could attempt some sort of ointment to apply, but if it was bone pain, he doesn’t think an ointment would work. This book talks about injections, but… neither of them would enjoy that very much.

“Lilac… Lovage… Honeysuckle…” He skims the page, “juniper berries?” He hums, holding his hand out. A jar floats to the open hand with a label.

“Despite their deceiving title, Juniper berries are not actually berries, but a cone with scales called galbulus.”

He skips a few lines, eyes focusing on the next paragraph.

“... are correlated with protection and cleansing. They are often used in healing rites…”

Virgil shakes the jar of berries. There’s only a few left, but he can make use of them.

The book also talks about apples, which have many different properties, but can be used in healing, along with lavender and chamomile, which don’t have any healing properties, but protection instead.

Virgil knows he has a few bags of chamomile and lavender tea in his cupboard (mainly because it’s Logan’s favourite), and a potion might be the best way to go about helping his were-partner.

He titles a fresh page in his grimoire: pain potion. His quill scribbles furiously, while around the corner, a tea bag, apple, and honey float into the room.

Virgil can already hear his mentor’s voice in his head scolding him for using his magick so carelessly.

He moves towards the front of the room, which rounds out, towards his cauldron; the round walls have large stained glass windows, shining rainbow light and patterns on the floor. The cauldron hangs from a chimney crane, attached to one of the small columns nearby, over logs.

Virgil sets both books on the small side table, before lighting the logs on fire, warming up the water that already sits inside.

He spends time making sure the room is cleansed by meditating, while the tea brews. Physical energy representing the cleanse is better for Virgil, as his anxiety is something he can look at and know the room is cleansed, but visualising it works just as well. 

And he’s on a time constraint.

He lights a green candle on the side table and closes his eyes.

“May this potion bring pain relief to its consumer,” he spoke loudly, vibrant blues and greens dancing behind his eyelids, “heal aches and broken bones.”

The room bursts into colour. 

Blues, greens, and teals jump out of the cauldron, dancing along the walls. The liquid turns from a golden brown to a deep blue as Virgil squeezes a lemon into the pot, the yellow drops rippling against the water. The candle melts wax onto the candlestick and the fire flickers, waving slowly. Smoke billows, smelling of lavender.

Three hesitant knocks rap against the front door down the hall. Virgil halts, startled. The candle glints with his lack of movements. A familiar aura is flickering with anxiety behind the door: indigo… with hints of orange. Well… That’s new... He doesn’t even leave his station to check the door before he lets it unlock, closing his eyes again and waving a hand over the water. The door swings open with hesitance. 

Virgil’s face is illuminated in a dark teal as he dips the cup into the almost shimmering tea. He sets it on a platter, beside a small plate of apples, "berries", and honey. 

The floorboards creak behind him. It stops at the threshold.

“It’s… very blue in here,” a voice says. Virgil’s lips quirk upwards all on their own.

“That’s what happens when you make potions, babe.”

Virgil turns around, crossing his arms and leaning against the table. He tries his best to hide the platter. “I mean…,” he continues, “most spells are colourful. Correspondences, and all.” He’s facing his boyfriend, Logan, who blinks at him behind thin, gold-framed glasses. Mocking the neatly tied-up hair into a small ponytail, a curl falls out and over his forehead. Why Logan ties up his hair at all, when he barely has any, will always be a mystery to Virgil. 

Logan runs a palm over his hair, smoothing it down. “Well, I don’t make potions, dear, I wouldn’t know.” His voice is high and fluttery, with a pout on his face. Virgil snorts.

“Yeah, that’s my job. Are you pouty that you don’t know witchcraft?”

The werewolf scoffs, continuing to pout. He turns his head away and laces his hands together in his lap.

Virgil laughs and takes long strides up to him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing his lips against Logan’s. Logan makes a very soft, surprised sound, before kissing back.

Virgil leans away an inch, blowing breath against Logan’s lips. “I made dinner, if you’re hungry,” he whispers.

Logan hums in response, staring at the other man through his eyelashes. His face is covered with various blues, greens, and teals, glasses catching light. His arms snake around Virgil’s middle and Virgil wonders if sweatpants are living up to its name right now, or if the room just got a million degrees hotter since Logan walked in, considering how warm he feels all over.

Virgil clears his throat, before pressing another kiss against Logan’s lips. “...Are you hungry?” 

"Yes, actually," Logan smiles softly, "more so than usual.” 

Virgil pulls away from his boyfriend to drag him towards the kitchen.

“From the, uh… full moon?”

“From my transformation, yes,” Logan adjusts his glasses, staring over the large pot of beef stew. “I prefer eating beforehand, anyway, so I’m not–” he hesitates, “... hungry in my form.”

Bowls and spoons clank together as Virgil sets them down on the counter. He decides not to comment. Logan fills their bowls as Virgil cuts them both slices of bread and hands them off. 

Logan gasps– the way he always does when Virgil bakes anything– and Virgil rolls his eyes. “It is not that amazing.”

“It absolutely is,” Logan frowns, “If I tried to bake, I’d burn the house down. Do not undermine your talents.”

Virgil grins. “I have told you a million times I’d teach you how to bake and you always have an excuse!”

“Well,” Logan starts, pulling out a chair from the small dining table, “If I learned how to bake, there’d be no reason for you.”

Virgil barks out a laugh, taking the seat across from Logan. “Oh, really? I have no other usefulness?”

Logan takes a bite out of the bread, tilting his head in pretend-thought. He taps his forefinger against his chin. “... No, I think it’s just being able to bake.” Virgil kicks his leg from under the table and Logan lets out a small laugh (just hearing his laughter makes Virgil’s stomach flip over itself a million times.) 

“This is delicious, V,” Logan says. It’s like he’s… vibrating in his seat, unable to sit still. His leg is bouncing, half shaking the entire table, and Virgil would assume he’s nervous, but Logan’s ears are light pink and he’s grinning widely. 

They continue to eat their dinner and Logan gets up for seconds (and then thirds) and Virgil’s very glad he pulled out his largest pot. 

Through the window, sunlight fills the room. The sun hovering a bit away from the trees on the horizon.

They finish dinner; Logan washes their bowls as Virgil puts away the leftovers. The entire time Logan is moving, almost like twisting his hips or torso back and forth, but not quite his hips and not quite his torso. Virgil stops and watches him, raising an eyebrow.

Virgil doesn't immediately lead him to the guest room after dinner, and Logan doesn't ask. They sit in the living room, curled up together, talking about everything and nothing. The curtains are closed. It leaves the room vaguely lit up with scattered candles doing most of the work as they flicker and wave back and forth. Logan shoves his head into Virgil's neck and tangles their legs, as if he can't get enough of the witch. Virgil scratches behind his ear absentmindedly and Logan literally melts against him, leaving him mumbling incoherent words and humming in response to everything Virgil says.

Virgil talks as if nothing is happening at all, worried Logan will get embarrassed and freak out, but with his heart beating against his ribcage and his chest pressed against Logan's— Logan has to feel it. 

He doesn't know how much time passes before they both begrudgingly stumble off the couch and out of each other's arms.

Virgil's hand is laced with Logan's, leading him down the hall to his guest room; he can't tell if the sweat in his palms is from his own nervousness or Logan's. 

Pushing open the door, it reveals a golden room with a large bed tucked in the corner with half opened and unopened boxes in the other.

Virgil kicks a box to the side. "Sorry about the mess," he says, "I kind of only ever used this room for storage."

Logan stands at the foot of the bed, adjusting his glasses. "It's really no issue, V."

"You, uh," Virgil gestures to the bed, stuttering, "you can sit down."

Logan turns to sit at the edge, folding his hands in his lap. Virgil joins him. They sit at each other's side, wordlessly.

"Once it gets closer to the sunset, I'll bring in the pain potion I made you." Virgil reaches over, lightly gripping the werewolf's wrist. "Unless, you need it now?"

Logan shakes his head. 

Virgil breathes out through his nose and licks his lips, pulling the bottom one in between his teeth.

He stares at Logan out of the corner of his eye. Logan has an expression Virgil has seen all too well, from when he confessed, expecting to be shunned, to after his parents' visit a few weeks ago: lips pursed, eyebrows crinkled, eyes glossy.

Virgil moves his hand to Logan's lower back and Logan's head snaps over to him. Their eyes meet.

“You…” Virgil speaks softly, “You don’t have to spend the night here with me, if you’re uncomfortable… I know, uh... You’ve been hesitant about sharing your wolf…ness with me.” He glances away, fingers rubbing the texture of his pants. Logan’s eyes soften and his Adam’s apple bobs in his neck as he swallows.

“I want to be here with you, Virgil,” Logan says. He takes Virgil’s hand in his own. “I’m just…,” he sighs, “nervous.”

“You? Nervous?” Virgil laughs awkwardly. Logan rolls his eyes. Their shoulders brush against each other.

“I’m…,” Logan stutters through his words. He opens his mouth and closes it a couple times, looking like a gasping fish out of water, before letting his mouth shut completely. The sound of his teeth clacking together is so loud in the quietness of the room. 

He doesn't attempt to speak anymore.

“You can’t remember things after transforming, right?” Virgil asks.

Logan shrugs and then gives a small nod. "It's very foggy... almost like... a very old memory from childhood." He knocks his knee with Virgil's. "I'll have the vaguest idea of what I might have done, but I can't... reach beyond that.

"I'll have the memory of running, but I won't have the context for why I'm running or where I'm running or who I'm with, if I somehow managed to be with anyone. I just—," Logan speaks through the rest of his words like he's choking on them, hissing them past his lips, "I just never know." His jaw is clenched tight, teeth grinding together. He's staring past Virgil, over his shoulder at the window.

Virgil moves his hand up Logan's back and cups Logan’s cheek in his palm, using his other hand to tilt Logan's head towards his own. He's holding Logan's cheeks in his hands. Their noses brush against each other. His thumb rubs underneath Logan’s eyes.

“It’s alright,” Virgil whispers. 

He doesn’t say more than that. 

He doesn’t think there’s much more he can say.

Logan swallows hard.

"I... hate not knowing," Logan whispers. His voice cracks when he talks and he cringes, refusing to make eye contact with his boyfriend. "And I hate not being in control."

Virgil purses his lips.

Logan continues. "I'm so scared, Virgil." He blinks his eyes rapidly. "What if I... do something?"

“Like what?”

“What if I hurt you?”

Virgil frowns. “L, you’re not going to hurt me.”  

“You don’t know that. What if,” Logan breathes in quick, “what if I can’t control myself, or–”

“Logan, you would never hurt me.” Virgil cuts him off, holding his face a little tighter. Logan’s pupils dilate. His tears catch light and glisten. 

He doesn't ask if Logan has ever hurt someone before in his form, because he knows it doesn't matter.

“I trust you.”

Logan's eyes slowly, hesitantly, meet with Virgil's. His bottom lip quivers and Virgil leans forward to kiss it. Logan pulls away only to shove his head into Virgil's neck, shoulders shaking. Wrapping his arms tightly around the other, Virgil kisses his temple.

He rocks back and forth with Logan, and he feels a hot, boiling anger fill his stomach.

He wants to hurt whoever hurt Logan, but there's no one here to blame— unless he's trying to figure out how to travel back in time and fight the witch that cursed people to be werewolves, but then Logan wouldn't be the man he is today. 

He shoves his head into Logan's hair and waits for Logan to pull away. Logan wipes his face. 

"Also," Virgil tugs on Logan's clothes, pushing past his anger and the original conversation, "I don't think this tie is very comfortable. Let's get you into some other clothes, baby." Virgil kisses his cheek, standing up and turning on his heel to the door, before Logan calls out.

"Thank you."

The stairs creak underneath Virgil's feet, hand gliding down the railing. He carries the clothes he had already set out for the other— an oversized, tattered shirt, that won't be so oversized on him as it is on Virgil, and a pair of shorts— making his way back to the guest room. Crows chitter faintly outside and—

A shot fires.

A loud, piercing sound that makes Virgil stop in his tracks. His heart rattles in his chest, thumping loudly, almost comparable to the gunshot. He breathes in quick and stares at the back door's tiny window. Like a deer in headlights. 

Gold light shimmers through the window, casting a ray of light. Dust floats within it and occasionally the light flickers as birds fly or the leaves shift over the sun.

It's nowhere near Virgil or his house (or Logan), but close enough. 

He rushes to the guest room.

"Logan?" Virgil asks, pushing the door before he turns the knob enough to open it. He swallows hard, attempting once more to get into the room. 

Logan sits, staring at the window's curtain, blinking once, but his eyes dance around.

"A... firework, perhaps." He's lying.

“I don’t think anyone’s shooting off fireworks in the middle of a forest at this time,” Virgil frowns. He walks up to the window, peering behind the curtain. 

The sun slowly sets behind the trees. 

Virgil turns around to face Logan again and lets out a quiet breath. Not quite a sigh. 

Logan laces his fingers together. "It's quite alright, dear."

"It's Alright?" Virgil asks. Logan’s eyes skitter away from him. Virgil licks his lips. 

"It sounded far away—" Logan tries.

"And that's too close," Virgil says.

"It doesn't have to be a hunter. You said that people in the town nearby often hunt for food here."

"Oh, yeah, people are just out hunting on a full moon. Just a coincidence!"

Logan's lips form a tight, thin line. Virgil's eyebrows knit together. Arguing is doing them no good.

Virgil drops the clothes off by Logan, folded neatly. "I'm sorry," he says, running a hand through his hair.

"You're alright," Logan mutters. He doesn't look at him, but he leans forward to press his forehead against Virgil's stomach.

Virgil's hands wrap around Logan's head. They tangle in his hair, with an iron tight grip, and pull Logan close to him.

He's going to be double, no, triple-checking his wards around the house before the sun sets and making sure he triple-checks the ward outside of the guest room.

He moves one of his hands to touch the necklace on his chest, wondering how much protection he can give Logan before it's excessive. 

One thing's for certain:

No one's getting into this fucking house or this room.

“You should change out of your clothes, L.”

When Logan starts undressing– loosening his tie, unbuttoning his vest and shirt– Virgil tilts his head, eyes never straying from the man.

“You’re not going to turn around and give me some privacy?” Logan asks, folding his clothes and setting them on the bed. He glances over his shoulder, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile.

Virgil smirks. “I did tell you I wasn’t going to take my eyes off of you before you came over, right?” Logan has freckles covering the back of his shoulders and a small mole on his lower back near his spine. Virgil has to restrain himself from reaching out and running his hands along his back before it disappears, covered by the shirt.

Stepping into shorts as he turns around, Logan rolls his eyes. He murmurs, ears tinted red, "I have a suspicion you didn't want me to wear your clothes simply for my comfort."

Virgil chuckles, wrapping his arms around Logan's waist and shoving his hands underneath the shirt he made Logan put on— Virgil's shirt. Logan squirms in his grasp, whining about how cold his hands were.

He kisses his partner's neck, trailing up to behind his ear and whispering, "Not my fault you look good in my clothes." Logan twirls around in his arms and Virgil steps back to look him up and down. Logan lifts up his chest, face bright red: a mixture of fluster and enjoying praise.

Virgil pulls away from Logan. “Let me go get that potion I made, I’ll be right bac–” He’s interrupted with a whine.

Virgil spins around, eyebrows raised to his hairline. Logan stares at him, eyebrows also raised, shocked at his own outburst.

“Did you just whine because I was going to leave–”

“Absolutely not,” Logan says, too fast for it to be true, “obviously. That’d be preposterous. Absurd, even.” Logan turns around and tidies up his already impeccably neat clothes. Virgil stands there with his mouth ajar, a small smile slowly widening.

“Well, go on now,” Logan says over his shoulder, “fetch that potion.” He clears his throat.

Virgil starts laughing, placing a palm over his mouth to muffle it (not that it does much). “Don’t tell me to fetch!” he says, walking towards the door, “you’re the dog here.”

Logan sputters behind him. “Wh– I am not a DOG, Virgil, I am a WOLF. They’re very different, I’ll have you know–”

He’s cut off by the door shutting with a click.

When Virgil comes back, Logan’s staring up at him with those big, beautiful, brown eyes of his, and pouting with his arms crossed. 

Virgil doesn't think he could ever get sick of looking into them. 

“Say sorry,” Logan says. Virgil laughs, carrying the cup of tea and plate of fruit. “Don’t laugh! I’m not a dog!”

“Wolves are just undomesticated dogs, Lo! I’m not wrong,” Virgil says, shoulders shaking with his laughter.

Logan doesn’t respond, continuing to pout. Virgil coos instantly, before he can stop himself, and Logan lets out another little whine.

“I’m sorry I called you a dog,” Virgil apologises. Logan lifts up his nose.

“Thank you.”

“A better comparison would’ve been a puppy.”

“Hey!”

Virgil bites his lip, failing to cover up his smile. He holds out the cup.

Logan eyes it, pursing his lips. He tilts his head back a small bit, glancing from the cup to Virgil and back to the cup and then back to Virgil and back to the cup and back to–

“Are you gonna take it?” Virgil shakes it, watching the tea slosh against the walls.

Logan very slowly accepts the cup. He holds it in his hands, warmth spreading through his palms. Lavender and chamomile waft from the cup. He tilts his head (like a confused puppy, Virgil notes).

“… This is just a cup of tea, Virgil,” Logan said, slowly, as if to sound out each syllable.

Virgil nodded. “It sure is.”

Logan blinks, sniffing the cup.

“You know…” Logan starts, “if this is all a healing potion is, I could’ve just done this myself. I have tea at home.”

Virgil rolls his eyes, the corners of his lips quirking up into a soft smile. “Uh-huh, I’m sure babe. I also cut you some apples and drizzled honey on them.”

He holds out the small plate of apples positioned into a circle with the “berries” in the middle.

“Are those juniper berries?” Logan asks. Virgil nods. Logan stares at them as if they’re whispering evil plans to each other.

“You just want me to drink tea and then eat apples?”

“Oh, my god. Babe, just–”

“Can I call myself a witch too because I can brew tea?”

“Just drink it, will you?” Virgil says, exasperated. Logan snickers, taking a sip of the tea. Virgil sits beside Logan on the bed, running one of his hands along the brown blanket.

“It’s all about intent,” he says, “besides… I did more than just brew you a cup of tea, obviously.”

“Oh, yes, you’re right,” Logan nodded seriously. He plucks an apple slice from the plate. “You also cut me apples.”

Virgil hits him softly on the shoulder.

They sit in silence while Logan finishes his potion. Virgil eyes the window, trying to gauge how close the sun is to setting now.

When he brings his attention back to Logan, he’s staring at the empty cup.

“Did…” Logan starts and then stops.

Virgil hums, resting a hand on Logan’s thigh.

“When I showed up… You were working in your craft room,” Logan says.

“Yeah…?”

Logan looks up from the cup to stare into Virgil’s eyes. “Did… you… brew… tea in your cauldron?”

Virgil opens his mouth and then looks away. “Well–”

Logan’s smiling. “You used that massive thing of yours to brew me a single cup of tea?”

“Okay, well–”

“You could’ve used the kettle! Did you just want an excuse to use your cauldron?”

Virgil feels his face heat up. “Be quiet!”

Logan laughs and Virgil joins him, resting his head on the man's shoulder. They sit silently as Logan munches on the apples and berries (he keeps trying to feed them to Virgil and pouting when Virgil refuses.

“I made it for you, babe.”

“You need to be protected, too, love. Please eat the fruit.”

“That’s not how that works!”)

— —

The guest room door swings open slowly. Hearing its hinges creak and groan, Virgil cringes, gritting his teeth. From inside the room, trapped underneath heavy blankets, he hears Logan let out a little whimper at the noise.

“Sorry, love,” Virgil whispers, pushing the door open with his shoulder and tip-toeing into the room. He makes sure the wet rag and cup of water in his hands don’t knock into the wall.

The room’s overhead light is turned off, leaving a couple candles flickering on the nightstand (Virgil has to remember to blow those out before the moon rises.) Pink, reddish light barely makes its way past the thick curtains.

Virgil sets the cup down on the nightstand, sitting down at the edge of the bed. Logan’s hair is ruffled and he can see the faintest outline of his eyes poking out from underneath the blanket–

He swears they’re almost… glowing.

He tugs the blanket down, revealing his partner’s face. Sweat rolls down the man’s forehead, eyebrows and corners of his eyes crinkling. His breathing comes out heavy and uneven. Virgil runs a hand through his damp hair.

“Is the potion helping, uh… at all?”

Logan nods slowly, squeezing his eyes tightly together. He shuffles over to rest his head in Virgil’s lap, gripping Virgil’s shirt tightly in between his fingers, grasping as if he’s falling off a cliff. He lets out a little noise in the back of his throat

Virgil’s face feels hot.

He presses the rag to Logan’s forehead, rubbing a palm in between Logan’s, very sweaty, shoulder blades.

The wind whistles, almost soundless, through the leaves outside. Virgil can’t help but keep staring at the window through his bangs.

“Is it almost time?” Virgil asks, petting his hair.

Logan nods, again, shoving his face into Virgil’s stomach. Virgil’s fingers clutch the rag, the smallest amount of water running down his fingers and onto his pants.

Logan’s voice is raspy as he talks. “I will make sure to undress… Before transforming. I don’t want to rip your clothes apart.”

Virgil snorts. “It’s okay, love, you don’t need to worry about it.”

Logan sounds like he’s on the verge of tears when he speaks up again. “But I don’t wanna ruin your clothes… I like this shirt…” Virgil squeezes his shoulder, smiling.

“I want you to be comfortable. I won’t be upset if you don’t take them off.”

Logan lets out another whine. He’s been doing that a lot, the closer to the sun setting it gets.

The flames catch light on Logan’s glasses, sitting on the nightstand.

“You should leave now,” Logan says.

Virgil sucks in a breath through his mouth. “Okay,” he says in a soft tone. “I’ll make sure the door is closed.”

“And locked.”

Virgil licks his lips. “And locked. I promise.”

Logan still clings to Virgil even as he tries to get up and leave.

“I love you,” Virgil says.

Logan doesn’t respond.

Before he steps out of the room, he blows out the candles, watching the room become almost pitch black.

Virgil runs a hand down the front of the locked door, staring at the sigil he stuck to the front. He puts a hand over it, closing his eyes.

Warmth erupts from it as red and purple dance behind his eyelids. His hand feels hot. Heat radiates from the room, and then it dissipates in a burst.

Then it’s dark once more.

Virgil blinks his eyes open.

The now burnt sigil turns to ash, crinkling onto the floor. He rubs soot in between his fingers. That’s going to be a bitch to get off, Virgil thinks to himself.

Virgil forces himself to walk away from the guest room. 

From Logan. 

Down the hall and into the living room.

— —

A bed squeaks along with cracking bones. A loud crash, followed by a thud and a bang. Fabric rips, metal clangs, and glass shatters.

The wind screams with a howl.

#sanders sides #analogical #logan sanders #virgil sanders #blog tags -> #fanfics! #revys works! #logan #virgil #awmh fic #logan x virgil #thomas sanders

[queen-of-the-queers]

Here’s a fanfic idea!

Jabitha finding a rat in their apartment😂

(No, I’m not kidding)

I interrupt my Tumblr hiatus to deliver a fic that you requested a year ago, and I wrote months ago. Enjoy!

“Tabitha!” Jughead yelped, jumping backwards, and struggling to pull himself onto a wobbling kitchen stool, “Tabitha, there’s a rat in our kitchen!”

He watched the wriggling creature climb from the bin, clutching a lump of mouldy cheese in its claws and looking at him with innocent, dark eyes. Jughead knew that its harmless appearance was all a façade. He knew that despite looking sweet on the surface, the rodent was an evil, cruel creature whose only purpose in life was to see to his untimely demise. He flipped it off across the room.

“Were you just giving a rat the finger?” Tabitha asked bemusedly, poking her head out of the bathroom before ducking back in, flushing the toilet and walking towards him.

He grimaced and pointed at it across the room, “That bastard ruined my lunch break. I think he deserved it.”

Tabitha walked over to his stool, standing beside him and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder as she surveyed the area. She could almost feel his heart racing under her touch. “You had quite the scare, hey?” Jughead frowned. “Mmm.”

“Ok, how about we…” she paused, thinking, “lure it into a corner and then trap it in something. Maybe one of these Pop’s bags you keep promising to get rid of but always end up leaving on the table?” Jughead smiled sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I promise to do my chores as soon as we deal with this situation.”

..

A few minutes later, both Jughead and Tabitha had found their positions on opposite sides of the room.

“Three,” Tabitha mouthed, crouching behind the table. “Two,” Jughead followed. He shakily stepped off the stool and drew his hands into fists, as though gathering his courage for battle. “And, one.” He started stamping frantically, startling the small, brown creature and causing it to drop its meal, scuttling under the foot of a chair. Jughead cursed under his breath, before inhaling deeply and kicking it out from its shadowy hideaway. Like a furry superhero, the rat flew across the room. Tabitha watched it sail through the air, her boyfriend’s disgusted, almost comical wailing, sounding muffled to her ears as the brief lifespan of the freshly painted, white wall flashed before her eyes. Out of the corner of her vision she watched as Jughead teetered precariously with one foot still raised, before landing flat on his butt. She stifled a giggle, picking up the bag and shuffling towards the rat on her knees. It stared at her, looking like a deer in the headlights, before bolting away, aiming for the gap below the fridge.

Suddenly, she felt her years of fencing experience kick in. Tabitha lunged for the creature, throwing her body across the room with the bag raised high above her head. A feeling of adrenaline washed over her and she laughed in ecstasy as she trapped the creature in one, swift blow. Sure, she lightly bruised her knees and elbows, but it was so worth it. She felt the creature tumble to the bottom of the bag and held it shut, holding it up triumphantly.

“Aha!”

Tabitha then ran to the open window and tipped the creature out. It fell away with a squeal. She was unable to resist the temptation to whisper, “that’s for spooking my boyfriend, ya little bitch,” as she watched it hit the pavement with a squelch. Tabitha spun around to find her boyfriend watching her from the floor with an expression that was equal parts horror, admiration and confusion. She smirked, offering him a hand. “You ok, Jones?” “Aside from the bruised backside and ego, more or less ok,” he replied, “But please, never get me involved in one of your wild, rat containment plans again. After what happened to me in New York I can barely stand to look at one.” Tabitha laughed gently, tossing the now-empty bag into the bin. “What happened to you in New York?” “Wait, you haven’t heard this story?” Jughead asked. His girlfriend shook her head in amusement. He gulped.

“Ahh… You might wanna sit down

#jughead jones #tabitha tate #riverdale #rivvie dale takes #muaficcies #riverdale fanfiction #riverdale season six

[microsuedemouse]

hhhhhhhhhhhhhwoof I hate fandom/ship drama

anyway I’ve been thinking about how. there is nothing, inherently wrong,, with being interested in exploring ships (or even non-romantic/non-sexual character dynamics!) that are unhealthy in-universe.

here’s something: there is value in recognising that a ship is unhealthy or toxic or abusive or whichever other descriptor you feel fits best. (I am going to be using ‘unhealthy’ as my umbrella word in this post; obviously it’s an understatement to call an abusive relationship ‘unhealthy’ but it’s still accurate and it encompasses the variety of things I’m talking about.) there is value in taking that as fact and acknowledging such in whatever exploratory work you may choose to create or engage in.

I wanna take a second here to clarify part of what I mean: it is not inherently wrong to enjoy an unhealthy ship, and you are not required to defend a ship as healthy/‘not abusive’ in order to justify your interest in it. this is a very weird result, imo, of purity culture and virtue signalling. when you have a healthy understanding of the difference between fiction and reality, and a recognition of what’s acceptable in reality and what’s compelling in fiction, it’s actually very worth exploring what interests and engages you about Fictional Bad Things.

you know that phenomenon where people love villains? a lot of discourse around purity culture naturally leads to the conclusion: “it is wrong to like villains.” most of us are capable of recognising that this... doesn’t make sense. because obviously, we aren’t - or at least, the great majority of us aren’t - claiming that we would like and support this person in reality, or that we would be entirely comfortable with the deeds they commit if those deeds took place in reality. we’re saying that the character appeals to and compels us for some reason, within fiction. that’s a different thing - and it’s usually a sign of good writing! it’s very worth exploring that experience: what about this villain makes you like them so much? what about them makes them relatable to you, or sympathetic to you, or perhaps even cathartic to you? these kinds of questions can offer both entertainment value and, possibly, some new insights into yourself as a person. those insights might turn out to be interesting and meaningless, or they might provide you with new ways to express yourself, or they might even offer you a new avenue for growth.

(moral purity often also extends to the conclusion ‘you shouldn’t enjoy stories in which the main character suffers, because it’s wrong to enjoy someone’s pain.’ we all know this makes no sense, because that includes most stories. a major reason human beings tell stories is to share in the emotional journey of a protagonist ultimately overcoming great obstacles. but anyway, this is a whole other issue, really.)

what I’m getting at is - the same can apply to ships. there are a few approaches to unhealthy ships, and I wouldn’t go so far as to say they stand on equal moral ground, but there are a variety of ways you might be able to explore them without it making you an inherently evil person, or whatever. it’s also worth noting that while, obviously, I’m expressing here what aligns with my moral position and encouraging you to think similarly - but, I also encourage you to think critically about your own moral positions. decide what is comfortable for you, and what feels right to engage with. it’s fine and it’s normal to draw your own lines in the sand and say, this is where the range of acceptable ends for me. I won’t support or engage with what’s on the other side.

to give a quick overview of some approaches I’m not as comfortable with: sometimes you’ll find a writer/artist/other fan who likes to depict a ship as totally healthy in a way that can only be described as out-of-character. sometimes this seems to be a denial of the actuality of the ship; I don’t like that so much because it’s often a refusal to acknowledge that their canonical behaviour/dynamic is bad. other times this is depicted as a sort of AU; this doesn’t bother me quite as much personally (often depending on what the writer’s overall attitudes seem to be) but it’s also often less interesting to me. in my experience, this is usually very self-indulgent work and has a lot more to do with the writer’s own experiences than with canon itself. which is fair, honestly. sometimes that’s cathartic for the writer and that’s enough - I don’t have to be into it personally to respect it.

another thing that crops up that’s kind of worrisome, imo, is when a writer/artist/etc. depicts the ship as in-character but denies that it’s unhealthy. now, in fairness, if you’re simply reading a fic or looking at a piece of fanart or something, you cannot always tell exactly how the creator thinks the ship actually operates. not everyone is always going to include a disclaimer that says ‘hey I don’t think this is actually Good.’ so try not to immediately ascribe intent to the writer/etc. unless you’ve seen them state outright somewhere: this isn’t abuse, it’s just cute! (or whatever it is they’re seeing.) at that point it is worth being concerned about what this person thinks constitutes a healthy relationship, and if you don’t feel good about supporting their work that’s entirely fair.

HOWEVER. there are also other approaches. two in particular stand out to me that I think are worth discussing. one is simply exploring the possibilities of an unhealthy relationship, with total acknowledgement of its flaws. one unhealthy dynamic that I admittedly find really engaging a lot of the time? ‘these two characters are Very obsessed with each other, and it sure ain’t healthy psychologically, but it’s definitely mutual.’ I love that shit. gimme a couple of unhinged, incredibly codependent pieces of shit, and you have my full attention. particularly if they’re on equal footing - if they’re damaging one another, it’s reciprocal, or at very least they’re both getting exactly what they want out of the relationship. obviously this would not be a dynamic I could support in real life! that’s terrible and I don’t want anyone to go through it! but in fictional characters it can be fascinating to explore. and if the content is going to upset or trigger certain fans: that’s why we use tags and warnings. AO3, where many of us go for a huge amount of our fan content, literally has a whole system in place for precisely this purpose: so we can let each other know what’s inside, and make informed choices about what we want to consume.

the other common approach is the redemption arc. it’s always gonna be up to you which characters you consider redeemable and which ones you don’t - that’s okay. again, it’s your choice what content to engage and what to pass over. but as people we’re traditionally very fond of the redemption arc story, and as fans we love to create the redemption arcs our favourite characters don’t get to live out in canon. because we love something about the character and want to explore them further. like I said earlier, that in itself is worth giving some thought to. sometimes we’ll even end up writing partial redemptions: this character goes from totally reprehensible to kind of appealingly awful. the ship goes from abusive to a much more regular level of fucked up. that can definitely be an interesting story in itself, and it’s okay if you want to explore it.

the main thing is that you always exercise your ability to think critically about what you’re consuming and why you like it - which, honestly, you should be trying to do all of the time, anyway. be clear about what you do and don’t endorse, about what your actual values are, about where you draw the line. (as both an example and a disclaimer, since I know I still have followers from A Certain Fandom where this cropped up a lot before I mostly dipped: one line that I personally draw, and always will, is at ships involving an adult and a literal child. I am not comfortable with exploring this even in the hypothetical space of fan content. it is too objectionable to be compelling.)

go forth. explore your unhealthy ships and shitty favourite characters. experiment and learn why they compel you. write properly-labelled fanfic about them hurting each other and loving it. just remember that everyone has different boundaries, and that fiction and reality are very separate spaces. acknowledge that what you’re enjoying is not inherently right or acceptable in real life just because you enjoy it in a story, and it doesn’t have to be. if you’re a content creator, consider portraying these things in such a way that your audience is well aware of your position on the matter, in order to help them also understand what is and isn’t healthy. be a ruthless writer and a kind person, and you’ll do just fine.

#this got SO long jesus christ #anyway there's a reason I no longer go into ship tags or engage heavily with meta fandom #I like just throwing my fic over the fence and then scuttling away #long post #fandom #shipping

[foxtophat]

MERRY CHRISTMAS IN JANUARY EVERYONE yeah i know ~nothing is fixed~ but whatever, fuck you, have some fanfic

so anyway i’ve been planning this for a while, i’m kinda shocked tho b/c i finished writing it in like less than 3 days??? (aside from editing)  usually it takes me longer to at least figure out how to wrap things up, but at least this one was easy money. i’m sure none of the other ones will be so kind to me

this one takes place a month or so after the last one; it’s set in spring 2028 (omfg finally on a new year!!!!) and it has a little something to do with carmina finally getting some chickens!!!!  one thing about new dawn that i think was really lacking is the explanation of how life... restarted before the highwaymen.  i definitely remember a few houses having chicken coops, too, so i know i’m not crazy putting these feathered friends in.  to me, chickens are the most sensible post-apocalyptic pet outside of a dog; easy to care for, provide food while alive AND after death, and they can reproduce easily enough if you’ve got a rooster on hand.  i can imagine a family making quite a life for themselves as a poultry farm in the apocalypse!

ugh idk what else to say so i’ll just say it: thank you so much for all of your comments and kudos on this series. i am so stoked to know that my self-indulgent trash is delicious to more than just my possum ass!  i’ve had a lot of fun worldbuilding in ubisoft’s playground, and i hope to continue doing more fun stuff that other people will enjoy too!!!

with all that said, i hope you enjoy the fic :) i’ll put it below the cut for you if you don’t wanna leave tumblr, but ao3 looks so much better. anyway, thank you and have a great jan 20th!!!!

Winter melts away the same way it does every year, leaving in its path wet dirt and green buds of spring growth. John, nursing what's likely the last cup of coffee they can wring from this batch of grounds, stares out over the back yard and idly marvels at how quickly the snow had disappeared. Montana had been his first experience with white winters; even though he's gotten used to the changing seasons in theory, though, he can't help but be distracted by it year after year.

Across the yard, situated just in sight by the hangar, John can plainly see Carmina's new chickens looking for breakfast. They're the newest addition to the homestead, but so far John has only had to watch from afar as the Ryes worked to adjust them to their new home. He's not sure who's raising chickens out here, but at least they were willing to barter. Fresh eggs are going to mean a lot more than the dwindling supplies out of Jacob's cache.

The misty-gray of early morning has almost evaporated in the rising sunlight, and still the chickens haven't been fed. John watches them from where he stands, their frustration leading to subdued crows as they scratch at the dirt. He doesn't know who's noisier — them, or Nick and Kim arguing at the table behind him. Thank Christ the wet end of winter is over; John doesn't think he can tolerate much more of their married nagging. On some level, he's glad they don't make a habit of yelling at him instead of each other, but Jesus, he can't wait for them to both get some space from one another.

"This is why we said we weren't gonna do pets, remember?" Nick says. "Because if she got a pet, we would end up taking care of it. Remember?"

"Yes, Nick, I remember."

"Yeah, and here we are!"

Kim sighs. John doesn't have to look to see the exasperated eye-roll that comes with it. "It wasn't me who kept her up late last night! Which one of us was egging her on when she should have been asleep?"

This is exactly why John has never owned a pet. They're more trouble than they're worth, and the only thing they seem to be good for is teaching shitty life lessons to kids who don't care enough to learn. The only good thing about the chickens is that they provide something in return other than obnoxious crowing.

Carmina thumps around upstairs. John isn't looking forward to having to listen to Kim lecture her on responsibility, but he's not thrilled to listen to much more of this bickering, either. If his choices are to stay inside and fester or go out into the first nice day of the year — well, that's not much of a choice, is it?

"Fine," John sighs before either of the Ryes can set their sights on him, "I'll do it."

"Nobody's asking you to do it," Kim replies. "It's Carmina's responsibility."

John shakes his head. "Of course it is. Where's the feed?"

Nick points out a white plastic container sitting on the pass-through to the kitchen. "Not gonna wait for us to boss you around?" he asks.

John picks up the container and rattles it to make sure it's full. "I'm streamlining the process," he replies. "Unless you enjoy giving me orders."

Sure enough, implying Nick might like being a bossy piece of shit is enough to get him to shut up. He sighs with a deep frown at John, who ignores him as he heads out to the coop. It's a petty satisfaction to take the rug out from under Nick's feet, but John's not above it. Not by a long shot.

Some of it might be compensating for the disintegrating peace that had come with winter. Before the blizzard set in, they'd had enough on their collective plates as they prepared for the worst of the season. Afterward, the snow had prevented them from doing much more than what was necessary to survive, and the resulting downtime had settled like a comfortable blanket. Even now, with a few weeks of grating interpersonal interactions, John feels more focused, more rested than he can ever remember feeling. Living underground for eight years, he'd naively thought that he'd gotten enough rest to last him a lifetime — but he'd been strung out on Bliss and trying not to suffocate, and he hadn't known what he was doing. He's starting to suspect that the Bliss might've had a worse effect on him than the myriad other drugs he'd ingested. Hell, he's not sure he's clean even now — but he's managing, and that's what matters.

It's only once he's halfway across the yard that John realizes Kim forgot to argue about him going off on his own. Sure, he's only going as far as the hangar, but it's become something of a pleasantry she uses whenever John pretends to have the freedom to go where he pleases. Her irritation at Carmina and Nick probably made her forget. She's gotten so used to trusting John that she's finally found other things to take up her attention.

Weirdly enough, the casual disregard for his potential backslide irritates him. It really shouldn't. He should be thrilled that he can finally disappear from view for an hour without somebody calling out a search party. He's more than earned it, he thinks, but their trust highlights their naivety. Luckily for them, John means it when he says he's changed — but it's a line they're going to hear time and again from people far less genuine than he's been. They're so willing to help everyone and anyone that they don't even realize how much of a target they're making themselves. John's had to hold his tongue whenever Nick gives free supplies to shifty-eyed tweakers who are "just passing through," and while he trusts Kim not to let anyone obviously suspicious into the house, he doesn't trust her to recognize a cunning liar.

The last thing John needs is for the Ryes to put their trust in the wrong reformed psychopath. At least he's capable of picking up their slack. After all, John has his time at law school and years of psychological abuse under his belt — plenty of real-world experience dealing with unrepentant garbage. He'll notice it when somebody cases the hangar or acts too erratically, and hopefully the Ryes will listen to him if he gets the nerve to voice his concerns.

Not for the first time since summer, John is struck with a newfound respect for Jacob and the role he'd inhabited in the Project. It used to be his job to look out for insurrectionists, and he'd taken on that burden even when John and Joseph would openly dismiss his concerns. John can't imagine how many fires Jacob must've put out while the rest of the family was distracted by the Bliss. Looking back on it now, it's honestly a surprise they maintained their operation as long as they did, considering only one of the four of them was ever sober.

The chickens are hopping at his arrival, scuttling around the dirt and crowing as John reaches the pen. They don't notice him so much as the bin he rattles on approach, full of vegetable cuttings and strange white worms that come out whenever it rains. John doesn't mind one lick — he's never been much of an animal person, and he certainly doesn't care if Carmina's so-called pets notice his existence. Of course, knowing Carmina, she's going to use this as an excuse to shift breakfast duty to John full-time, and John won't have much of a say in the matter.

Well, that's not strictly true, but if Carmina asked, he knows he would do it, if only to give his day more structure. Truthfully, he's grown to depend on routine, when before it was impossible to keep to a schedule that didn't involve other people's expectations of him. There's probably a metaphor to be made about trains on and off the tracks, but John has never been particularly interested in locomotives.

John shakes the dead bugs and scraps out into the pen, watching the hens as they race to be the first to eat. They're perfectly happy now that they've been fed, cooing and clucking as they peck the dirt. They certainly seem content with safety and food — not entirely unlike the survivors living day-to-day in the town and beyond. Sure, John might not always be satisfied by bare sustenance, and one day he'll chafe under the grind of surviving week to week, but for now, he might as well be a dumb chicken crowing in the morning sun.

He throws some more feed into the pen, watching the three hens waddle after their meal. One of them lingers by the fence, freezing for a moment as her head swivels back and forth. She pecks at the dirt away from the feed before hustling after her two companions. John watches as she stops again; when he tosses a few worms in her direction, she pecks briefly at them before lifting her head to survey her surroundings.

The primal sensation of something being wrong nearly overtakes John's reasoning, before he manages to remind himself that a chicken's predators aren't exactly his to worry about. Still, he rattles the container to bring the hens scuttling towards him; all three are easily distracted by food now, but John can't shake the feeling that he'd missed something they hadn't. A fox, maybe? A snake? Anything could be lurking in the woods on the other side of the wash. Not a whole lot that could hurt him , of course, but he's not about to be blamed for Carmina's chickens being eaten by a wild dog.

The fence-line is... nebulous past the hangar, sure, but John's positive Kim doesn't consider the rest of the old airport off-limits. Then again, she might be in the mood to lecture him once she gets through with Carmina. It's a risk he's not sure he's willing to take.

Two chickens continue to eat as one keeps watch, their heads bobbing up and down as they switch off. Their unease mirrors his own, and John can imagine Faith giggling at him for being swayed by some dumb birds.

"Very well, ladies," he sighs, shaking the remainder of their breakfast onto the ground. "Don't let them say I don't care."

The chickens don't give three shits about John's motivations, of course; they watch him go, pecking at the food with increasing carelessness as the distance grows. John rolls his eyes at their sudden fearlessness, half-convinced to let whatever animal is lurking eat them out of spite.

There's a wide swath of dirt behind the hangar, separating it from the mostly-overgrown remnants of Rye Aviation that couldn't be saved. John can see the edge of the chicken pen from here, but the hangar is blocking him from the house. Even though he knows the Ryes trust him not to run off, he still feels distinctly uneasy going somewhere where they can't see him. At this point, Nick would probably only tease him for it, but John's not about to linger out here and risk turning Kim's irritation on himself.

To the right of the derelict hangars is a sparse wedge of trees that have grown in uninterrupted. John knows there's a path cut between the trunks, one he'd made himself while hauling the tire-planters for Kim last year, and there's a long stretch of unused runway beyond it. It isn't a great place for anything bigger than a fox to lurk in. That doesn't explain the feeling of being watched that comes over him as he stops halfway across the empty dirt lot; he looks around, but there's no place for anything to hide out here. The overgrowth on the old hangars can't be more than two feet high, and the bushes in the copse are brambly and sparse. The only place anything could hide would be in the trees, which is why John approaches them with more caution than they're worth.

The thinned underbrush is easy to explore, but John goes carefully as he picks through the trees and bushes. He doesn't know exactly what he's looking for — some sign of predators, whatever those might be — but he doesn't find much. There are some hoof-prints clear in the dirt, curving sharply away from the Rye homestead and back out to the airstrip, which tells John that the goddamn deer are back, probably looking to eat their hard-grown crops. Other than that, there's no sign of anything that might be stalking the hen-house. The ground is still somewhat soft from the rain a few nights ago, but it barely takes the imprint of John's boots as he explores the small grove.

That's why it's such a shock to see the tread of a narrow boot in the dirt by the trunk of one of the trees, well off the beaten path. It's an old print, he thinks — but he doesn't remember the last time any one of them had been out this way. Certainly not since the last time it rained.

An electric shock conducts itself down his spine. Somebody had been out here, hiding here in the trees, and it's only been two, three days since the last rain. John turns, and from his vantage point, he can clearly see the coop and the back of the hangar, but not the house. For that, he'd have to move out of the trees, into direct view of the porch.

It has to be Grace's boot. She's the only one he could imagine creeping around the property with good intentions. But even that explanation doesn't settle the anxious flip of his stomach; he tries not to let it show as he marches from the trees, intent on dragging Nick over and proving to him once and for all that they need to be more goddamn careful about who they let around the property. Somebody is going to want the copper fixtures they've salvaged, even if there's nobody to sell the metal to these days.

John gets halfway back to the coop when he catches something in his peripheral vision. Terrible, primal terror grips him as he fixes his gaze on the trick of the light that had scared him, ready to catch Grace peering at him over the abandoned hangars, or maybe a pack of wild dogs. What he sees instead turns his blood to ice, caught like a deer in headlights as the low-hanging shrubbery and thick vines shift and part for a rising mass of dark brown fur. The shape that rises from the underbrush is a tall, dark smudge against the blue sky, and John nearly swallows his tongue when he sees its face — or the horrifying absence of one, replaced with white, flaking skin and two huge, empty eye-sockets that are fixed on John's position.

It doesn't move. Neither does John, frozen to the spot as the chickens begin to crow and fuss. He can't fathom what he's looking at — a bear, a person, a fucking mutant? — but whatever it is, he suspects it's infected with Bliss. Who knows how many angels ended up underground after the Collapse? What might've happened to them in the years since? All John knows about them is that they're dangerous to everybody but Faith, and Faith died a decade ago. If this is an angel — God, there'll be no stopping it. And if it isn't — then what the hell is it ?

There's no way for John to get from here to the house without the thing chasing him. The hangar is blocking his brutal oncoming murder from the two people who might actually be able to do something about it. He doesn't have to look to know the distance from here to the house is insurmountable.

The creature lifts its arm, and the situation that couldn't get any worse takes an even more horrifying turn as it reveals its weapon of choice: a crudely fashioned bow, the same kind of handmade weaponry that Joseph's followers have been seen with.

All at once, Nick's voice is ringing in John's ears, warning him of what's going to happen if this gargoyle takes him away. The things John hadn't considered before — the Ryes' reputation, Carmina's safety, the hard-won trust John's gained from the survivors — it's all in jeopardy. The situation barrels into him all at once — the realization that whatever Joseph did to create this thing , he won't hesitate to turn on John.

He tries to shout a warning, but his breath is caught in his throat. Faith's voice, faint on the breeze, laughs and whispers sing-song into his ear:

They've found you!

The monster barrels down the slope of the hill as if prodded into action by a hot poker. Its gait is wide, bringing it towards John at speeds impossible to outrun. This time, John's shout comes out clear as a bell, panic screaming through him as he turns and bolts for the house. He nearly clips himself on the pen as he hangs a sharp right turn, the porch coming into full sight —

Something snags the back of John's shirt, and his momentum briefly chokes him. A thick arm bears down across his neck before he can rip free, the creature grunting in exertion as it yanks him backward. John feels his boots scrape on the dirt as he's dragged towards the trees, away from the safety that's plain in sight.

Animal instinct kicks in. John gnashes his teeth but there's nothing to bite, so he kicks out his feet instead, first in front of him and then harshly backward until he can hook his shin behind his assailant's and trip them both to the ground. The creature goes down with a surprised grunt; John does his best to roll away, only to be yanked back by his hair. He's distantly aware that he's spitting like a cat in a sack, clawing and biting, the two of them rolling in the dirt as John screams profanities and heresy at the monster trying to pin him down, anything to convince the universe to take mercy on him for once in his fucking life!

The creature manages to grab him by the shoulder, throwing him into the dirt before backhanding him violently across the face. It's enough to daze him; for one horrible second, he's unable to do anything as the monster begins to drag him across the dirt by the legs.

There's a commotion coming from the house. For a split second, the creature looks up, and John realizes his opening at the same time the monster realizes its mistake. It looks down just in time for John to kick it square in its barky, hollow-eyed face, sending a split down the wooden facade.

" John !"

The monster reels backward as if burned, grabbing at the mask as it falls away. John catches sight of a single dark, wild eye behind the broken wood before he kicks out again, sending both boots into his assailant's chest. As soon as the creature staggers back, John bolts, scrambling towards Kim as she races toward him with the rifle drawn. Nick is hot behind her; he grabs John's shoulder and drags him partway back to the house. John doesn't need the escort, and so Nick quickly leaves him to scramble up the porch as he goes after his wife.

John gets all the way to the stairs inside before he realizes there's no safe place to hide. He'd found out this winter just how flimsy the prisoner story had been; if somebody wants to take him, all they have to do is climb onto the roof and jimmy the lock on the nearest window. Whether it's through the broken window in his room or a gap in the roof leading to the attic, the Project will find him. He can't possibly outrun them forever. He'd be stupid to even try. God, he'd been a fool for thinking Joseph wouldn't send someone looking for him, that he wouldn't want to snatch John back from the clutches of apostasy. There's no way Joseph will leave a loose end like him untied.

John sinks to the bottom steps in his mounting despair, only to realize for a second time that he's being watched. The realization is less of a shock as Carmina peers at him around the kitchen archway; she jumps at the distant rapport of gunfire, staring owl-eyed at John as though she expects him to do something.

"Stay down," John hisses, setting an example as he keeps low on his way into the kitchen.

"What happened?" Carmina asks, frantic, "Is mom gonna be okay?"

"Yes," John replies, although he can't possibly know that for sure. He waits a beat, listening for more gunshots, then carefully lifts his head to check out the window when none come. He lets out the breath he'd been holding when he sees Nick standing with his hands on his hips, staring at Kim further down the yard. Whatever the danger had been, it's not pressing enough to warrant immediate action.

"Seriously," Carmina whines, as if that could hide her fear. "What was it? Was it a bear? Grace says there are bears in the woods but I've never seen —"

John sinks to the ground, his mind reeling even as the panic passes, leaving him numb. "It wasn't a bear."

Carmina chews on her lower lip, looking up towards the window as though she might try looking for herself. "Are the chickens okay?" she asks.

"They're fine," he sighs. He pushes his hair from his face, only to realize that his hands have started to tremble with run-off adrenaline.

"Are... you okay?" she asks, frowning as though she can't decide whether or not his wellbeing is her problem to deal with.

Goodwill must be genetic, John laments. "I'm fine," he tells her. She gives his shaking hands a hard look; he sighs and reiterates, "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"I'm not," Carmina huffs. Apparently, Nick's attempts to teach Carmina how to bluff haven't worked out.

John is saved from needing to reassure her as Nick abruptly appears in the kitchen arch, out of breath and red-faced. His shock gives way to relief at the sight of the two of them huddled by the counter. He's out of breath and visibly bewildered.

"Shit, John, you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, although he doubts Nick will believe it any more than Carmina had. His foot jogs uselessly against the floor. "Kim — did she...?"

Nick shakes his head. "She tried," he says, "But it was too fast. What the fuck was it ?"

"Somebody from the Project."

"No shit. But — look, it wasn't an angel , was it?"

John shakes his head. "I don't know."

Kim storms into view, making her way to the pass-through from the living room side. She sets the rifle down on the counter, catching John's eye with a glare. John hurries to explain himself, as if he could possibly apologize for bringing the cult back to her doorstep.

"I was checking for foxes," he tells her, "I didn't think it — if I'd known what it was, I wouldn't have gone on my own."

Despite the fury in her eyes and the hard edge to her voice, Kim seems to mean it when she replies, "As long as nobody's hurt."

But the damage is done, and John can't help but babble on uselessly. "I wasn't looking in the right place. But I shouted as soon as I saw it. I just — couldn't outrun it. I wasn't fast enough. And I wasn't — it was stronger than I expected, stronger than..." Even he can hear the panic edging into his voice, cutting himself off with one last worried question. "Do you think it's gone?"

"It better be, if it knows what's good for it," Kim replies. "Are you sure you're okay?"

At any other time, John would be irritated to have to reassure every single Rye individually that he isn't in the throes of a panic attack. Right now, he's only grateful to realize that Kim doesn't blame him for the thing's appearance.

"I am," he says. "Thank you."

Nick groans, covering his eyes with one hand as he leans against the counter. "So much for it being safe to go out alone. Damn it, we got too comfortable."

" I got too comfortable," John says. "It wouldn't have cared about either of you."

"What about the chickens?" Carmina asks, "Are they safe there?"

Kim crosses her arms. "What I want to know is what the hell the Project is doing out here."

Her question is the only one John has any insight into, although he doesn't know how realistic his theory is. "They might be hunting deer," he says. "The only thing I saw, other than — than that , were deer tracks."

"All the way out here?" Kim asks skeptically.

"The hunting can't be any good in that swamp they're hiding in," Nick points out, frowning as he considers the idea. "And there are more survivors around the river these days. I'd bet that'd make for slim pickings."

"I doubt we'd even know they come out this far if I hadn't been the one out there. At least we've confirmed they're actively searching for resources beyond their compound — and they're relying on traditional methods to do so. Most likely because the armory was destroyed."

"Thank God for the Deputy," Nick sighs. "Okay. We're just gonna have to... I dunno, be willing to shoot, I guess." He doesn't sound so sure about it, and he quickly softens the intention. "At least a couple more warning shots. Once they remember guns outstrip arrows every way but sustainability, they'll probably keep back."

"We can push the fence-line out, too," Kim says. "It won't necessarily stop them, but at least it'll give them a line to cross. They're not cavemen — they remember property laws and how those get enforced around here."

"We'll have to start checking the traps more often. They might be living like bloodthirsty Mennonites right now, but that doesn't mean they aren't willing to steal to survive."

"They'll justify it one way or another," John sighs.

"So I guess we don't have to move the chickens after all," Nick says, "So long as we establish a perimeter. Sound good, Carmina?"

Carmina must have slipped out at some point during the conversation because she's nowhere to be found in the kitchen. Nick glances over John's head and out the window, swearing loudly.

"What the hell is she doing out there?"

John gets to his feet as Nick and Kim take off. He watches them through the window as they chase after Carmina, who's stopped to look around partway towards the coop. Either she's dumber than she seems, or she's inherited both of her parents' reckless streaks. Either way, she's going to leave herself open the same way John had. She's too confident that nobody wants to hurt her. The only way John knows how to teach that lesson, though, is not one that Kim or Nick would approve of — and so he sidelines his worries in favor of sticking with whoever is more armed than he is.

By the time John comes outside, Kim is knee-deep in the middle of a heated lecture about safety and responsibility. Carmina scowls at her feet, her face turning red as she's scolded. John ignores them, passing them by in favor of catching up with Nick, who's come to a stop a few yards past the coop. He's staring out into the unoccupied land — land that used to be his property, once. Now Nick is as much a stranger here as John is.

"Check it out," Nick says, holding out a thin, white-barked piece of wood. John takes it and recognizes it immediately as part of the mask he'd broken in two. The hole for the eye is a roughly cut gouge in the soft wood, and the bark flakes as he wipes his thumb across it.

"I hadn't even considered a mask," John admits. "I thought it was a monster."

"You and me both," Nick replies. He heaves a sigh. "Still waiting for the mutants to crawl out of the sewers, I guess. But I think we can handle a couple of jackasses with arrows."

John squints across the clearing, as if maybe his assailant has hung around waiting for them to reappear. "Next time, it might be Joseph," he points out grimly. "That hunter recognized me immediately. They'll tell him I'm here, and he'll want to find me."

"Come on. Like Joseph's gonna risk crossing enemy territory on foot. I'd be more worried about those goddamn hunting parties you used to send out."

John unconsciously reaches up to rub his throat. "Yeah," he says. "You're right. One of them clearly wasn't enough, but if Joseph decides I'm worthwhile, they'll come as a pack. If he's still manufacturing Bliss somehow, it would be easy to subdue me. And then..."

He's surprised out of his would-be reverie as Nick slaps his shoulder with a heavy hand. "We're not gonna let that happen," he says. "As long as you put up the same fight you did today, Kim and I are gonna come running."

Despite the reality of hidden archers and surprise ambushes, John allows himself to be reassured by the sentiment. At the very least, he pretends for Nick's sake. "I suppose you two were quick to the rescue," he drawls. "But if they get me to the tree-line, I'd rather you just put me down before I get dragged all the way back to the compound."

Nick chuckles. "We'll try to avoid that for now."

Looking over his shoulder, John catches Kim crouched down in front of Carmina, hands on her shoulders. Whatever she's saying, it's too quiet for John to hear, but Carmina's sniffles are a loud precursor to a lot of tears.

"I guess she believed you when you said the Project wouldn't care about us," Nick sighs. "At this rate, we're gonna have to put a bell on her."

"I could tell her about the child soldiers from the summer camp, if that would prove the gravity of the situation."

Just the mention of it makes Nick look a little queasy, and John immediately regrets bringing it up. "I don't want to scare her that badly," Nick says. "She's a good kid, she means well. She just needs to stop going off half-cocked, is all." He rubs his hand across his forehead and complains, "I thought we taught her to be smarter than this."

"She's still your kid," John says. Nick gives him a sour look, but it's the truth no matter how bitter Nick might feel about it. "You can't expect her to be utterly obedient, given her genetics."

"I guess ." He sighs, shaking his head. "At any rate, it's time we stop sugar-coating the cult for her benefit. She's obviously not taking it seriously."

John looks again and sees Kim embracing Carmina tightly. He can't help but worry about what might happen if the hunters come back. When he'd been with the Project, he'd understood Joseph's motivations — at least superficially — but now he's completely in the dark. They used to fill their ranks with abducted children and their desperate parents. He has no idea if Joseph is in a position to expand his flock, but if he is... John does not doubt that they'll start with the young and impressionable. Carmina, being young but not as impressionable as they'd like, probably wouldn't make it back to the compound before she got herself killed. He can't imagine anyone having enough patience to break her.

"You... uh, think we should be worried?" Nick asks after a brief stretch of silence.

"Not yet," John replies grimly. After all, the Ryes have a bargaining chip like no other, in case their daughter is ever taken. John can see to it that she's left alone, but it will only work once — and after that, who knows which brother will be sending hunters after her.

"Good thing we got ourselves a couple of extra guns," Nick says. "You and her are gonna have to start carrying pretty much everywhere."

"I'm sure people will love that."

"Fuck people, man, did you see the size of that fucking guy?"

John can't help a wry smile. "They weren't so big. If I were a couple of years younger, I would have taken them."

"Yeah, sure. "

The lecture must be over with for now, as Carmina's attention has turned back to her chickens. Kim watches her from a distance; John can't read her expression from here, but her posture is tense and defensive. John can't blame her — he doesn't have a parental bone in his body, but the stress of raising a child in these conditions isn't lost on him. Trying to instill a sense of fear into somebody who lived their formative years without a threat in sight can't be easy. Doubly so, considering Carmina can no doubt outgun the rudimentary weaponry the Project is utilizing. Hell, maybe they really are only a threat to him. Maybe it doesn't matter if Carmina sneaks out of the house.

"She won't leave unnoticed again," John decides, because it's the only promise he can genuinely keep.

"Oh yeah? You're gonna eat those words when she's a teenager."

"I'd hope she would be smart enough to bring back up by then."

"Me too." Nick exhales loudly enough to get Kim's attention, stretching one arm over his chest, then the other. "Well, I guess we better get started if we want to have anything to show for it by nightfall."

Even so, it takes Nick another moment before he brings himself to move. John lingers behind, unable to help himself as he eyes the trees distrustfully. There's nothing saying that hunter isn't still out there, watching them from a safe distance. If Jacob had a hand in training them, it's unlikely that John will ever see them coming again. He's likely lost the one chance at a level playing field, and he hadn't even realized it was something he could lose.

Fuck it. It doesn't matter. John has adapted time and again to every disaster in his life, and there's something to be said for the person who he's become. If this is the next catastrophe that he'll have to weather, then so be it. If he isn't capable of dealing with Joseph by now, then it's likely he never will be — and if that turns out to be the case, he can only hope that Kim is as quick on the trigger as she seemed to be today.

#far cry new dawn #fcnd #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #carmina rye #far cry fanfic #my fic #ugh tagging sucks on this site #mercyverse