#okay now that this worm is out of my brain

[grayandthyme]

the dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn't. my guilt will not purify me.

Synopsis: The consequences of being Jackson's backbone. Warnings: Please read at your own discretion. Angst. Happyish ending. Reader/Tommy not hurt in any way physically. Mentions of suicide, death, and violence. Sensitive topics. Dialogue-heavy.

♫ a quick one before the eternal worm devours Appalachia - Lizard in the Spring

Your feet struck the earth like they didn’t belong to you—like each step was borrowed, and every one sent a white-hot tremor slicing up through your spine to your skull.

It was pain, yes—but sickly, fevered.

The kind of ache that sits behind your eyes and makes the world tilt sideways.

The walls—so familiar, so close—felt miles away now. You used to count thirteen breaths from your front door to the edge of the town.

Now? It felt like crossing a goddamn ocean just to reach the gate.

You shoved through the crowd with arms that barely remembered how to push, stumbling into a shape that could pass for upright. People moved like shadows around you.

Faceless, murmuring. All of them bleeding into pure noise and fear.

It happened fast—too fast for your brain to catch up to your heart.

Your eyes cut through the blur of bodies, and there he was.

Tommy.

The alert had come in like a siren slicing through sleep. An ambush. A swarm of infected in the woods just east of the river. Jackson’s patrol scattered like buckshot, trying to hold the line.

One of the youngest —barely more than a kid— didn’t make it. Bitten. It was quick. It had to be.

Tommy was the one who did it. No one else could. No one else would.

Your breath caught, broke—and you ran.

Your legs moved before thought could form, slicing through the wall of people, sidestepping hooves and boots and elbows. The world narrowed to the shape of him—alive, upright—and then you collided.

You crashed into him like you were breaking the surface of water after drowning.

Hands grabbed his face, tugging him down to meet you, fingers skimming for warmth, for wounds, for anything. “Look at me—” The words came out in a gasp, thick with bile and adrenaline, “Tommy, look at me—Fuck—Fuck, are you okay?”

You dragged your eyes over him. Scanning for wounds, for anything too red or too still.

“Talk to me—don’t just stand there, say something—”

He folded into you like he’d fall apart if he didn’t. Arms clung tight around your ribs, his face pressed so hard into your chest it almost ached. You could only breathe—shallow, uneven—every nerve lit with fear.

Because someday… someday, he won’t come back.

Someday, these arms will be empty.

“Hey—” your voice cracked as you cupped the side of his head, fingers threading through blood-matted hair. “Look at me.”

He didn’t move at first. You had to coax him like a frightened animal.

“Tommy. Please. Just—just look at me.”

He finally lifted his head, slow like it cost him something. His eyes met yours—haunted, far away. Blood streaked down his neck, dried on his jacket.

None of it his. But it didn’t matter. It was on him. It stayed.

“Tell me what happened,” you said gently. “Okay? Just… slowly. I’m right here—I got you.”

He swallowed hard, jaw locked.

“It was supposed to be clean,” he said, voice low and ragged. “Just a patrol. In, out. We saw movement near the ridge. Thought maybe a straggler, maybe a clicker.”

His grip on you tightened.

“It was.. a lot more than we thought.”

He looked away, ashamed. Like saying that aloud made him less of a man. Less of whatever was keeping him upright.

“Kid got bit—real bad.. practically devoured before we could intervene…” He blinked like he could still see it.

“I didn’t think. I just—”

He put him down. Out of his misery.

His voice broke.

“I didn’t want to kill anybody. I just wanted us to go home.”

You reached up, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek with the sleeve of your coat. “You did what you had to do.”

“No,” he whispered.

“I did what I always do. And it’s never gonna stop, is it?”

He didn’t mean the killing. Not really.

He meant the leaving.

The losing.

The weight of being the one who always walks away, while someone else ends up buried.

“Oh, baby—” The words broke from you in a whisper, gutted and raw. You pulled him into your arms like instinct, like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. Your hands cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through dirt and blood and tangled strands, holding him like a shield.

There was a sharp edge to your silence as your eyes scanned the crowd ahead, lip bitten, jaw tight. And then—Jesse. His eyes met yours. A nod. A tilt of his head.

You had things to handle.

But not until you made sure Tommy could stand again.

“Hey.” You cupped his face and tilted it up to you, voice steady as stone. “Look...”

He did—barely—and your mouth was on him instantly. Kisses scattered across his cheeks, his temple, the bridge of his nose.

Each one a vow. A pulse.

Here. Here. Here. And here.

“I love you,” you whispered between them. “I love you, and you’re going home now. You’re going to breathe, and rest, and wait for me.”

He blinked slowly, lips parting. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” you interrupted, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “I do. I’m handling it. You’ve done enough.”

You stepped back slowly, hands lingering at his shoulders.

“Go. I’ll find you when I'm done.”

He stood there a beat longer than he should’ve—like his feet didn’t quite believe what his heart was telling him. That it was okay to leave it in someone else’s hands. In your hands.

“I ain’t good at walkin’ away,” he muttered, voice low, ashamed.

“I’m not asking you,” you said it softly, but with enough beat that he knew this was final.

And something in your tone made him listen. Maybe it was how sure you sounded. Or maybe it was the way you kissed him like you were sealing him shut—keeping all the broken parts from spilling out.

So he nodded.

Didn’t say anything else. Just turned, slow, toward the trail back—toward home—like he was moving through thick water.

Every few steps, he looked over his shoulder, just to be sure you were still there. Still watching. Still in control.

And you were.

Strong, still, and fierce as hell. You were his peace and his fire. And for once, Tommy let himself lean on that.

You turned on your heel, two large strides and spoke.

“Who was the kid?” you asked—not a greeting, not a breath wasted on pleasantries. Just words, sharp and cold as the air, arms crossed like armor.

Jesse didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes dropped to the tarp—off-white and rumpled at the edges, stained with something dark and already drying. The shape beneath it wasn’t clear anymore. Just a shadow where a boy used to be.

Jesse sighed. “Name was Caleb. Sixteen. Been helping on outer patrols the past few weeks. You probably saw him around.”

You had. You remembered the mop of curls, the wide eyes, the way he held his rifle like it was too big for him.

You stared at the tarp like you could will it to disappear.

Like you could rewind the day by a few hours and unmake what had been done.

Your stomach twisted, the image of it forming in your head before you could stop it.

“Did anyone else—”

“Tommy,” Jesse said quietly. “Tommy made the call. Caleb asked him to.”

Something in your chest buckled.

“Who usually tells the family… when this stuff happens?” you asked, voice low, rough at the edges. You leaned back on your hip, one hand bracing against your thigh like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The taste in your mouth was bitter—like metal, like smoke.

Jesse hesitated. His eyes flicked away for a moment, like maybe if he didn’t look at you, he wouldn’t have to say it.

“Tommy,” he admitted. “He’s the one who… talks to them. Makes it make sense.”

You nodded slowly, jaw tight.

That tracked. Of course he did.

Tommy was the one who took the weight—of the choices, of the aftermath, of carrying people through the worst days of their lives.

But this time, he couldn’t.

This time, it was on you.

“They know something’s wrong already,” Jesse added, softer now. “They were waiting by the gate when we came in. I think the dad’s still out back. The mom—she’s inside with the little one.”

You didn’t ask their names. You didn’t have to.

You’d seen them at community meals, patching clothes by the fire, holding hands on cold walks. The little girl with her wild curls and mismatched socks, always running ahead.

God.

You pressed a hand to your mouth, willing the bile back down.

“You want me to go with you?” Jesse offered after a beat. “Stand outside the door, at least?”

“No,” you said, almost immediately. Then softer, “Thank you. But no. This needs to come from me.”

He nodded. Respectful. Quiet.

“Take your time,” he murmured. “They’re gonna need you steady.”

You exhaled once, sharp through your nose. “Right.”

Steady.

How often did Tommy feel steady?

You pushed off the wall and turned toward the hall where the family waited, your steps heavier with every one taken. Behind you, Jesse lingered a moment longer before fading back into the quiet hush of the commune.

The walk to the family’s quarters felt like the longest of your life. You paused at the door. You could hear the little girl laughing—playing with something wooden, maybe blocks. The mother’s voice floated gently over hers, soft and steady, like nothing was wrong yet.

And soon, that would change.

You knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a world cracking open.

“Can I come in?”

She looked at you like they already knew.

The mother froze where she stood, one hand still resting lightly on the counter. Her eyes flicked to you, then to the door behind you—searching, maybe, for someone who wasn’t there.

Her hand moved to the dish towel. Reflex, maybe. She wiped it across her palms, slow and rhythmic, before setting it aside. No one spoke. Not yet.

Then, gently, she turned to the little girl on the floor, who was mid-laugh, spinning a carved wooden horse in a circle.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly. “Go to your room for a little bit, okay?”

“Why?” the girl asked, blinking. “I was gonna show—”

“Now.”

Something in her mother’s voice made her pause. Frown. But she obeyed. The horse clattered to the floor as she stood and padded down the hall, curls bouncing behind her. You watched her go, a lump rising hard in your throat.

The back door creaked open before you could say anything more.

He stepped inside—the father. Broad-shouldered, face weathered from years under the sun, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the room, taking in the quiet chaos.

His jaw clenched. His eyes locked on you—searching, accusing.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” the mother said again, her voice breaking like fragile glass.

You swallowed hard, meeting the father’s gaze before answering. “Yes,” you said quietly. “He is.”

The room went heavy with silence. The father’s fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, and you could feel the anger simmering beneath his skin—raw, bitter, helpless.

“How?” His voice was low, but it carried the weight of a storm. “Tell me what happened.”

You took a steadying breath, voice steady but gentle.

“It was quick. Painless—"

"… He got bit on patrol. Tommy was there. It was—he had no choice.”

The father’s eyes darkened, repeating like he couldn't believe. “Tommy.”

“Yes—” you said firmly. “Tommy did what he had to do."

You swallowed. It felt like needles.

"It was mercy.”

The father’s anger spilled out then, a bitter laugh, sharp and hollow.

“Mercy?!” he spat. “You expect me to be grateful that my—my son—was killed by some… some gun? By the man who’s supposed to protect us?!"

The mother turned toward you. “Was it quick?” she asked.

The question stunned you for a beat. No hesitation.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you. “Yes,” you said quietly. “It was.”

Her eyes welled up almost immediately, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Her fingers flexed at her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them.

“Was he scared?”

You hesitated—only a second. But it was enough for her to notice.

“Don’t lie to me,” she whispered. “Please.”

You stepped forward, slowly. Carefully. “He was scared,” you admitted, voice gentle. “But he wasn’t alone. He asked for peace. He asked not to hurt anyone. And Tommy—he made sure that didn’t happen. It was fast. And… and he wasn’t in pain long. I promise…”

"I promise you that—"

Her knees buckled, and you caught her before she could hit the floor. She sank into your arms like the grief had been waiting just behind her ribs, waiting for permission to break free. She didn’t wail. Didn’t scream. Just shook. Silent and raw.

You held her there on the kitchen floor, stroking her back, your own eyes burning.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Behind the door, the little girl’s voice floated out in a hum. A tune you didn’t recognize.

And the sound of it nearly broke you in half.

By the time you finally stepped away, the bitter churn of bile twisted relentlessly beneath your ribs, sloshing uncomfortably against the thin, cold coffee you’d forced down hours ago—the only thing to pass your lips all day.

The walk back to your house was a quiet weight pressing into your chest. No birdsong. No wind. Just the heavy thud of your boots on the cracked earth.

When you reached the door, you stood there longer than you should have—too tired to move, fingers trembling at your sides like they didn’t belong to you.

You couldn’t stop the question from rising, thick and sharp in your mind.

Is this how Tommy feels?

Is this the ritual that haunts him?

Does he stand frozen on his own doorstep, shoulders stiff, greeting the world with a smile carved from something hollow—something scrounged from the ruins he keeps hidden from you?

You exhaled, a breath that felt too heavy to hold.

And you pushed the door open.

Inside, the faint scent of smoke and stale air wrapped around you. The quiet creak of the floorboards greeted your steps.

“Tommy?” Your voice was low, almost hesitant, as you called his name. You glanced sideways, catching him seated on the worn couch—coat tossed aside, elbows pressed hard into his knees. The ashtray before him cradled a cigarette, its ember glowing faintly, tendrils of smoke curling slowly upward into the still air.

He hadn’t touched a cigarette in years.

“Hey,” you murmured, voice soft and careful, lingering in the doorway like you weren’t sure you had the right to step inside his silence.

A silent invitation wrapped in caution.

He didn't answer you.

You swallowed hard, a slow, raw ache twisting deep in your chest—like needles sinking beneath your skin, a silent defense against the storm inside. With measured steps, barely making a sound beyond the soft thud of your boots on the hardwood floor, you crossed into the living room.

“Tommy.” Your voice was a fragile whisper, heavy with something unspoken. You sank down to one knee in front of him, then eased forward until both knees touched the floor—a quiet offering, a surrender. A worshipping stance.

“Look at me.”

He does—soft, slow, like the weight of the world pressing behind heavy, bloodshot eyes glossed over with exhaustion.

“I love you.” Your breath catches, then falls out gentle and real, like a prayer whispered into the dark. “I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true—from the deepest, rawest part of my soul.”

“I love you today, tomorrow, and every goddamn day after—” You swallow hard, the sting of tears threatening. “And that doesn’t stop just because this—because this fucked-up patch came crashing down on us.”

“Because the world shoved another pile of pain in our path, I’ll be there—All the way through it. Holding your hand, side by side. Fuck—I’d go door to door and apologize all over again if it meant anything.”

You exhale, breath tight in your chest, watching him just stare.

“Please—just talk to me."

"Tell me how it feels. Tell me you want to break down, to cry. Tell me you want to scream. Tell me how much you hate this godforsaken fuckin' world and the mess it’s made of us—"

“There’s nothing I won’t listen to...”

“Nothing you say will ever make me walk away.”

You lean forward on your knees, tilting your head, pressing a string of gentle kisses along the curve of his temple.

“I swore to you, Tommy—"

“That’s what my love means."

"A vow—Tomorrow. Until the day I die. I’m here. Always.”

He blinks, and something fragile shifts in his gaze—a flicker of something like relief, or surrender.

“I don’t know how to carry this,” he admits, voice barely more than a breath.

It felt like someone to a bat to your chest. Swinging. Unruly.

“You don’t have to know—” you say softly, "I'll carry it with you.”

His hand reaches out, hesitating, then settling over yours.

“We’ll do it together."

The morning settled in soft and gray, like the world was holding its breath.

You hadn’t slept much—maybe an hour here or there, caught in the in-between, your body curled around his, whispering him through the worst of it. You kept him grounded, made him eat, coaxed a few laughs out of him—quiet, broken things, but laughter nonetheless.

It wasn’t healing, not yet. But it was something close.

Now, with your eyes still bloodshot and your head gently pulsing from the lack of rest, you moved downstairs on tired feet. The house felt still, like it, too, was nursing a wound. Your chest stayed tight—an anxiety that never really left, just softened and shifted its shape.

You reached for the coffee, your hands moving on instinct, routine holding you up where strength couldn’t.

The scent was comfort. The clatter of the spoon. The slow drip of the kettle. All of it grounding.

You leaned against the counter, arms folded tight across your chest. You could still feel last night clinging to your skin.

“Smells good,” came a voice behind you—rough, sleep-touched, familiar.

You turned to find Tommy in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with everything he hadn’t said.

But he was up. He was standing. That counted.

“You’re up early,” you murmured, softening.

He shrugged. “Didn’t want to be alone.”

You nodded once, then poured him a mug, walking it over into his waiting hands.

“I didn’t sleep much either,” you admitted.

“I know.” He paused. “You were there. All night.”

You lifted your eyes to his. “Of course I was.”

Tommy took a sip, then set the mug down, stepping closer. His fingers grazed yours, slow and searching.

“I keep thinking about his family,” he said.

“His mom."

"The kid sister. I see her face. I hear her voice."

You swallowed hard. “I know.”

“I hate this,” he rasped, voice cracking.

“I know,” you whispered again. “But we’re gonna get through it. You and me.”

He nodded once, jaw clenched. Then softer, like he was asking permission, "I love you."

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

"Tommy—I love you more than words can describe."

By late morning, the warmth of the coffee had faded, replaced with the chill of responsibility.

You and Tommy walked side by side through the main path of the commune, boots crunching on the gravel, the air thick with unspoken tension.

People were quieter today. Not silent, but softened—like grief had wrapped itself around every doorway, every step. A village in mourning. Some nodded at you in acknowledgment. Others avoided your gaze entirely.

Tommy’s hand hovered near yours but never quite held it. You didn’t force it.

Jesse waited near the supply shed, his arms folded, jaw working as he spotted the two of you. He pushed off the wall, stepping forward.

“There’s a meeting,” he said low, eyes darting to Tommy. “Maria’s calling it about security protocol. Patrol rotations. The parents… they’re not coming.”

Tommy just nodded once, but you could feel the tension spike in him—shoulders rigid, breath stalled.

“They’re grieving. It’s not about you,” Jesse added gently. “They know what Caleb chose.”

“That doesn’t make it easier,” Tommy muttered.

“No,” you said quietly, stepping in. “But you showed him mercy. That matters. Even if they can't see it yet.”

Tommy’s eyes met yours for the briefest moment, and then flicked away, jaw clenched.

You knew he was still bleeding somewhere inside.

The town hall wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either. The usual faces. A few newer ones. Whispers passed like wind, brushing across your skin, making it prickle.

Tommy stood behind you, near the back, while you moved forward—closer to Maria and Jesse. You didn’t want to speak, but you knew someone needed to.

Maria looked to you, the question written in her eyes. You nodded once. Then stepped up to speak. Clearing your throat, you took in the room. Faces worn down by worry, by loss.

“Yesterday we lost someone,” you began, a deep settled swallow, “He was brave. He was young. He made the choice to go on patrol, and he made the choice to protect the people he loved… by asking for peace, even when it hurt to give it.”

A silence stretched, dense with pain.

“I was the one who told his family. And I’ll carry that,” you continued. “Just like Tommy carried what he had to do."

"None of this is easy. None of it ever has been.”

You glanced toward the back, where Tommy’s eyes met yours for a beat—something grateful behind them.

“But I believe in what we’re building here. And I believe that the only way we survive… is together."

"... With honesty. With mercy. With strength that looks like care, not cruelty.”

You stepped back as Maria moved forward, but the mood had shifted. A current of understanding moved through the space.

Not forgiveness. Not yet.

But a fracture in the silence. A shift. A breath of something that might one day grow into healing.

Or so you let yourself believe.

The walk back home dragged. Quiet. Unspoken. Every step felt like it belonged to a different life—one where grief didn’t trail behind you like a second shadow. You stole glances at him, at the slope of his shoulders, the slant of his brow. The quiet hollowness of him.

You missed his laugh. Missed the little smirk he used when he was about to say something half-smart and half-stupid. Missed those warm, honey-brown eyes lighting up when he looked at you like the whole world had narrowed down to just the space between your faces.

This wasn’t him.

Or maybe it was. Just… the version of him buried under too much grief.

“Hey,” you said softly, like a stone skipping across still water. “You hungry?”

You kept your eyes forward, trying not to stare too long, to give him space to lie or tell the truth, whichever he needed.

Tommy inhaled slowly, eyes trained on the dirt path ahead.

“I don’t know.”

You nodded like that was enough. “I’ll make something anyway. You don’t have to eat it. Just… sit with me? Maybe.”

"If you're up for it..."

He looked at you, just briefly. A flicker, a ghost of the man he used to be before all this sorrow hollowed him out. But the glance lingered—like something in him was reaching for warmth in a world that had gone cold.

A silent thank-you he couldn't fit into words, tucked behind bloodshot eyes and clenched teeth.

You took another step forward, boots scuffing over gravel, and then—something hit.

It wasn’t sound. It wasn’t instinct. It was a wrongness. A jagged edge in your gut, like your body remembered something before your mind did.

You turned.

Your eyes locked on the matte steel barrel first—unmistakable, unwavering.

Small. A handgun. Nothing extravagant. But deadly all the same.

Your breath caught like it had run into wire.

It was Caleb’s father.

He stood a few feet away, hand outstretched, trembling but sure. His face—hollowed, red-rimmed, like the grief had starved him overnight. Rage and despair had fused into one expression. His jaw clenched. His finger hovered near the trigger.

“Step away from him,” the man said, voice cracked like dried earth.

“Right now.”

Tommy froze beside you. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But you saw his eyes shift—not to the gun, but to you.

You raised your hands slowly. No sudden movements. You stepped half in front of Tommy, not all the way—just enough to put yourself in the line. “Don’t do this.”

Tommy spoke your name—soft, and cut.

“You don’t get to tell me what I get to do,” The man hissed. “You think because you stood in my home and fed me nice words that I’m okay with it? That it made anything better?”

“I don’t think that. I didn’t expect it to,” you replied, voice even, but not soft.

Steady. Protective.

“There is nothing in this world that can make this okay. But pointing that gun at him—the man your son trusted at the end—won’t give you peace. It’ll only take more.”

He laughed—sharp, bitter. “Peace? My boy’s dead. And the man who shot him still breathes.”

Your voice cracked then, a little. “Because your son asked him to. With tears in his eyes, he asked to be spared turning into something else. Something not your boy. Tommy didn’t kill him. He honored him.”

The man’s hands shook harder now. Something in him was breaking—but not the part you needed.

“I have nothing left,” he whispered.

“I know,” you murmured. “But if you do this, you’ll lose what little is still yours. Your wife. Your daughter. Your own soul.”

Behind you, there was a rustle of denim. A shift in breath. A change in air.

Tommy stepped forward.

You turned your head just enough to see him—but he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking past you. At Caleb’s father. At the grief. At the devastation. And for once, he wasn’t shrinking from it.

“I never wanted it to be me,” Tommy said, voice low but clear. It was the kind of voice that came from somewhere old inside him—aged by loss, but not buried by it.

“I never wanted to be the one to make that call—Never. Never wanted to look a kid in the eye and tell him I’d do it. But I did."

"... Because he was scared. Because he didn’t want to turn. And because I knew if it were my boy—I’d want someone to show him mercy.”

The man’s jaw twitched. He was still standing, gun shaking in the air, shoulders slumping lower under the weight of every word.

Tommy took another step, his voice steadier now. Like walking back into a room he used to live in.

“You wanna hate me? Fine. You go right ahead. I’ll carry it. I’ve carried worse…"

"...But don’t let that hate burn down what’s left of your life. Don’t let it take you from your little girl like this world already took your son.”

His voice broke—not with fear, but with a sorrow so deeply buried it could only claw its way out as splinters.

“I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

“Not because I pulled the trigger,” Tommy said, eyes not leaving the man’s broken silhouette. “But because I had to.”

Caleb’s father didn’t speak.

He didn’t nod. He didn’t cry. He hovered—suspended in the ruins of his life. Like a man already gone, bones dressed in skin.

You moved instinctively, like gravity had shifted. One step forward. Two. Sliding yourself into the space between. A shield. A body to catch the bullet if it came.

Because you knew Tommy. Knew what lived inside him. And if it came down to it—if a choice was made—he’d let himself fall before anyone else.

Your lips parted, the beginnings of a plea caught somewhere in your throat.

But he moved too fast.

Faster than grief should’ve allowed.

Caleb’s father didn’t shout. Didn’t shake. He just turned the gun inward with a stare so hollow it scraped your marrow.

And pulled the trigger.

The crack echoed louder than it had any right to.

The sound that ripped from your chest was not just a hollowed cry of shock—it was a rupture.

Grief and fear and helpless fury tangled into something raw. Something primal.

It echoed through the trees, across the gravel, into Tommy’s hands as he reached for you—

—because you were falling. Not physically. But inside. Spiraling.

Tommy moved before thought could. His arms circled you from behind, grounding you as your knees buckled—not to the earth, but to something deeper. You were falling inward, spiraling into the kind of silence that leaves bruises.

“T—” Your voice cracked around the letter like it hurt to say. Like your tongue couldn’t form the shape of his name through the grief. “Tommy—”

You collapsed against him, shoulder blades pressing into his chest, his breath catching just above your ear as he held you tighter. The blood splatter on your own velvet skin.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you—just breathe, baby. Breathe.”

But you couldn’t. Not really. Not through the taste of metal in your mouth or the burn behind your eyes. All you could feel was the tremor in his hands as they pressed flat against your stomach, steadying you, willing you to stay in one piece.

Something shifted in him.

Snapped, not violently—but like a joint slipping into place after too long dislocated.

Because this? This was more than pain.

More than another weight added to the heap of all they’d carried.

This was you—his person—folding into yourself like a dying star.

Scared.

And he couldn’t take that. Not again. Not ever.

He turned you in his arms—slow, deliberate—as if one wrong move might shatter the pieces of you still holding on. His hands came to your face, thumbs brushing the tear-wet edges of your cheeks, anchoring you to the present like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

“Breathe,” Tommy whispered, voice soft and hoarse, a tremble woven through the calm. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

His eyes flicked upward—past you, over your shoulder—scanning the faces now flooding into the street. The bar had emptied like a sudden storm. Jesse was weaving through the onlookers, urgent and grim, his expression carved in disbelief.

But Tommy wasn’t looking at any of them for long.

He was looking at you.

“It’s okay,” he said again, more to convince himself than anyone else. He wrapped you tighter, like he could shield you from the violence of the world with the breadth of his chest alone, pressing your face into the coarse fabric of his jacket. His hand curled protectively at the back of your head. "Fuck—It's okay, baby."

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet—it was deafening. The kind that sets in after a bomb drops. Shock. Static. All of it pressing down like weightless lead.

Jesse arrived first, boots crunching the gravel with too much purpose. He stopped short when he saw the body. The blood. The way Tommy held you like his own heart had just stopped alongside yours.

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse breathed.

Tommy didn’t look up. Just held you tighter.

“He did it,” you murmured, voice muffled by cotton and grief. “He turned the gun… on himself.”

Jesse knelt down beside the body, muttering something under his breath—more prayer than observation—then stood slowly, shaking his head.

“We’ll handle it,” he said quietly, to Tommy, but with eyes on you. "I’ll make sure she and the kid don’t come out here. Not like this.”

Tommy gave a faint nod, his lips pressed to your hairline, murmuring things no one else could hear. Not words, exactly—just promises. The sound of holding on.

“You two should go,” Jesse added. "I'll get Maria—now. Before this turns into something worse.”

You finally pulled back, just enough to look up at Tommy. His face was pale, but his eyes—God, his eyes—had that flicker again. The one that said he was still fighting. That he was still here.

Home held a silence too heavy to feel like peace.

You sat slouched in the living room chair, the weight of the day pressing your spine into the frame. Your eyes were locked on the floorboards—but not really seeing them. You were seeing him. Caleb’s father. The way the gun trembled. The way the grief clung to his face like it had rotted him from the inside out.

You were supposed to be Tommy’s anchor. His shield. The arms that held him steady when the world bent cruel. But now?

Now you were adrift.

What kind of foundation crumbles in the same quake it was meant to absorb?

The tears came before you had the strength to stop them—hot and unrelenting. Your hands flew up to your face as if you could hold it all in, keep the sobs from cracking you wide open. But they did anyway. Wracking. Gut-born. The kind that left your breath in shreds.

And then, a shift in the floor.

Tommy didn’t say a word. Not at first. He crossed the room in those quiet, steady steps of his—like approaching a wounded animal, slow enough not to scare it, sure enough not to let it bolt.

He sank to his knees in front of you, mirroring your earlier posture, the irony not lost on either of you. His hands reached up, pried gently at your wrists until your face was visible.

His thumbs swept along your cheekbones, wiping tears with care that felt like reverence.

“Look at me,” he said—hoarse, but steady. Not pleading. Grounded. Whole.

You blinked up at him, lashes wet, lower lip trembling.

He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, and his voice dropped to something reverent—like a prayer with hands and breath and soul.

“You are not just what I have left. You’re what makes all this—this hell—bearable."

"You’re the reason I wake up and don’t pull the damn trigger myself.”

Jesus Christ.

“Tommy—" Your voice bellowed.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve been buried in grief so long, I forgot what light felt like. And then you came. And I swear to God, I ain’t ever going back under.”

"You're allowed to fall apart," he murmured, voice hoarse, but strong. "Even if you were trying to be the strong one for me."

His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes shutting tight.

"You were there for me. You still are."

His hands moved down to hold yours, gripping them like lifelines.

"You stepped in. You told his family. You stood in front of a gun for me. You stood, when I couldn’t."

He leaned back just enough to look you in the eye.

“I see you,” he said, quiet, firm. “Not just the part of you that tries to fix me. But you. All of you. And I ain’t going anywhere.”

“Let me be that for you too, alright?”

The offer sat between you.

Not fragile—solid. Like a stone you could build a home on.

You both had a lot of cleaning up to do.

"I love you."

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🏷️: @xodilfluvr @angeleen777

[sciderman]

Hope you're doing well Sci!

thank you!! i'm doing much better!! i'm still getting used to how goddamn different everything is for me, but i'm a lot healthier and sexier than i was!

[a-drama-addict]

noachi!!!!!!!!

[skibasyndrome]

.

[lightbulb-warning]

so has anyone figured out WHY there is the Need To Share our Artworks™ or is it just the vibes and our Soul apparently

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

My roommate and I had a conversation last night and I keep rotating it in my brain and I Don’t Like It

[xviruserrorx]

"Is it the smell of power in the room? I think this will never shift from me to you. My spot is taken, try different view." - Distressor by Gothic Tropic

For @polyamships polyshipday #31 "De-stress" (And a teeny tiny fic to go with it if it so Interests you)

[pfhwrittes]

i wake from my nap (dazed), check my notifications (fearful) and see that my mutuals have found the scrubs au post (sweet bliss, a wave of serenity and calm overcomes me). all is well with the world

[zukkaoru]

as much as it emotionally destroyed me, i do have to say those last two pages of bsd 109 are like. the perfect cliffhanger. and i'm kind of super glad bsd releases monthly rather than weekly so it can actually hold the weight it was given

[coffentyme]

haven’t messaged in a bit, but wanted to let you know that you’re in my thoughts and i check your account quite a bit. i like your occasional life updates, even if they’re small.

hope things lighten up soon. don’t push yourself.

(p.s. saying ‘you’re in my thoughts’ feels kind of creepy. plus the checking your account thing. i promise i’m normal) ❄️

Omg! Hi ❄️!! It's good to hear from you :D

You're so good though don't worry!! I know what you mean and I didn't get 'creepy' vibes from it. I do the same thing with lots of my mutuals :3 It's nice to stay up to date especially when people might not post as often

Speaking of which- I realize I've gone a little quiet/changed the vibe on this blog, which, wasn't really intentional but kinda? Life hasn't been very forgiving recently and I decided it was time to remove myself from the more nsft side of it a bit and lean more into the 'personal' blog aspect - plus I got really involved on my art tumblr which has been bringing me significantly more joy than this one :/ Sometimes I miss being silly and horny and writing stupid t4t text posts but I think I'm past that - at least for the time being. Sad in a way but, I promise I'll try and stay silly at least ;3c

[just-a-cinnamon-bun]

Guess who’s struggling mentally because of their parents? :D

[callmecoke]

Cw: handjob, pillow talk, casual sex but not in the “no strings attached” kinda way more in the “wanna quick wank before work?” Kinda way. gn reader x soap smut!!!

Had this brain worm where you are giving Johnny the best handjob in his entire life while you lay next to him and vent about your day…

“I just don’t get it, you know?” You lamented to him, your head propped up by your hand as you laid on your side. “Like, I’m not trying to be greedy, I just wish I could be acknowledged for the work I’ve put in.”

All while, your other hand was lazily stroking up and down his length, using the slickness of his precum to smooth the friction between his hard cock and your fingers. And he’s trying his best not to throw his head back and cry out into the wind but you make it really hard to concentrate when all the blood in his skull has rushed down into his balls.

“Aye…” he strained out between gritted teeth. The only word that was able to escape his lips without releasing the throaty moan building up in his lungs.

“So, should I say something? I want to be acknowledged but it’s so hard to rock the boat.” You continued to vent as if you weren’t single-handedly (literally) ruining this man.

“Do…what…you need to…luv…” he choked out, feeling your hand glide up to rub over his red needy tip, the bulbous head leaking out desperately as you caress it.

“Are you sure? I don’t know…”

he bit his knuckle as you mused, trying not to let out the deep guttural cry that was threatening to bubble out of his throat.

“Mhm…yeah…oh fuck yeah.” He had no idea what he was agreeing to anymore, so lost in the pleasure of your touch his mind had gone foggy.

He felt his balls tighten eagerly as your angelic hand continued it’s assualt on his cock. He felt his release impending like a tidal wave, legs shaking with anticipation and pure overstimulation.

You said something to him but it didn’t quite reach his ears, his body flushed hot against your welcoming palm as it jerked him, fast and tight. He could feel that familiar bubble of warmth in his pelvis, the chase of a release close to come.

“Fuck…gah, fuck!” He groaned out, his head thrown back and his mouth forming an O in a silent scream. The tidal wave of his orgasm came crashing down, his sensitive dick pulsating and spitting hot white strips of cum across his shirt.

He was left panting on the bed, entire body a rosy red as his hips jumped as even the slightest brush of your fingers was enough to keep him sensitive and aching. His entire body felt weak and boneless, all the energy he has left now a stain on the front of his shirt.

“Okay, I think I’ll try that.” You said, almost triumphant and pleased in your decision. “I’ll say something to her once I get to work. Put myself out there.” You leaned over his flushed body to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek, a rather tame and loving moment compared to what had happened seconds prior. ”I’m gonna wash my hands and leave for work. you want to me put your shirt in the wash before I head out?”

He shook his head weakly and raised his hand to usher you away, in a sort of “I’ll be fine” gesture.

You smiled, giving him one last kiss on the cheek before standing and leaving the poor weak man on the bed

[salmonlyster]

im feeling really normally about the 4k remaster and the release of gerards character name so here r my im not okay headcanons :ppp ive drawn frank and ray maybe once ever

more thoughts under the cut vv

okay i might make these fuckerrs into a little comic because theyre eating in my brain like a little worm.... similarly to the im not okay mv the primary inspiration is rushmore but id also want to draw from like heathers and blue monday and eltingville etc

here are some screenshots w notes on them and dynamics etc

illi: glue of the group, introduces them all to each other. for the sake of this, illi and louise are not related. name is from the 4k rendition of the mv. incredibly ambitious and always creates the main idea for the schemes that the group gets up to. kind of only nonbinary due to the fact that illi is an incredibly interesting name, and a very open opportunity for me to make revenge gerard even more nonbinary. their uniform is neat and tidy, not particularly out of respect for the school, but more out of awareness of their own appearance. into fashion but doesn't really know how to deal with their hair. just lets it grow out and fucks with it in the moment. croquet mallet is blue, so draws a lot of inspiration from veronica sawyer. they/she pronouns? maybe? but i lean towards they/them.

frances: placeholder name i guess? it's important for him to have the initials "FTW" to play on both ft willis/fuck the world but i think percy also works since it's a bit of a play on pencey prep. incredibly strained relationship with louise- very different personalities is a source of conflict between them. frances has the messiest uniform because he's the least put together, and has the most carefree attitude about things. hes really into being a problem but hes an unnaturally bright student when he actually gets into doing the work - taking a page from max fischers book here lmao. chipped nail polish. wears barrettes sometimes. very clever.

louise: i've always been enamored by that interview where gerard says that the band used "louise" as a nickname for mikey so i've associated it specifically with his glasses era. no last name for now but i think it has to have the same ou sound. primary inspiration for his character is max from rushmore. used to wear his hair slicked down until illi staged an intervention and forced him and frances to hang out one-on-one and style hair. neat uniform, but doesn't fit him properly for whatever reason. hand me down? transgenderism? he's just too tall? idk! connected with adults more than peers growing up and as a result is very under-socialized. involved with student leadership at the school.

ray: ughhhhh WHYYY did he have to write ray rules on the paper it would have been so fun to make a completely new name. okay anyways i just like graham and i think it suits whatever i have built for him. undiagnosed adhd and if anything a bit of a halfway point between illi and the rest of the group. illi is really intense and cannot be stopped sometimes so graham is kind of the "babygirl i was made to understand you vision" person. yeah im getting this from the hand on shoulder and sitting closer in that one scene but be nice to me im working with like. two minutes of footage as a launching point. uniform isn't buttoned, not because of carelessness, but forgetfulness. he's a little bit inconsistent about everything he does.

the school in general: rushmore style private school, kind of dying in recent years so funding and management is all over the place. mascot used to be the dogs or something but there were copyright issues with the logo and now they are the bears.

i thiiiink thats all i have for now?? im going to draw them more just you guys wait lmfao. ive always loved im not okay more than any other mv by a large margin so all things considered this is me being normal.

[ectoplasmer]

thinking about um. ummmmm love nest

[beloveds-embrace]

Hello! Thank you for feeding us the angstier timeline of the dukedom au!! I live for angst

You don’t have to entertain this thought ofc, the angst and how good you write for my brain worms worming. I just can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if König wasn’t there and instead the duchess had to suffer all on her own

(Or better yet, if he was there but ended up also leaving the duchess for someone else or was killed protecting the duchess)

Reader having to endure everything on her own which eventually leads her to falling terribly ill and in the olden times we all know how a simple cold could turn into more and yield deadly results

The stress combined with the overall lack of appetite (and the food not cooked well at times to add to that… more angst (: ) as well as other factors rendered the reader terribly ill

Maybe she fell into a body of water and had to save herself, or maybe she was caught up in a rainy storm on a walk with no one offering her warm clothing or a cover up until she eventually managed to get back that leads to pneumonia

Maybe she gets injured but hides it until the blood loss gets to her and infection sets in

Just so many options and flavours of angst

Anyway, thank you for sharing your writing with us! Agin, you don’t have to engage with this, so please don’t feel pressured!! I’m just having many thoughts and am currently going feral /pos

WAITTT WAIT I LOVE THIS

Because imagine clinging to König, to your one singular source of comfort in a manor that has no room for you, and in the end, he leaves as well.

You had been telling yourself that you had been simply more imaginative lately; König was simply busy, he wasn’t growing more and more distant! The way he looks at you now compard to before hasn’t changed. At all. His responses were in hums and nods, noncommittal but that’s okay, sometimes you did not feel like speaking- like existing- either.

Until he stands in your office, the light from the windows reflecting off his armour. You had been happy to see him, a smile on your lips to be in the company of the only one who didn’t seem to despise you.

When he tells you that he will not be doing this anymore, it feels, for a very split second, like your heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. You can feel the shattering of each, single piece.

Better place. He says, pity in his eyes but no regret. He pauses for a second. I wish… the best for you.

König leaves you like that; staring after his back in abject horror. Every step he takes echoes in your ears, until you are left alone in your office, hands trembling, and your ears ringing.

After that day, everything practically crumbled. You crumbled.

Without him, the weight of your isolation became unbearable. The disdain of the household grew sharper once it became known your only solace was no longer there, the whispers more cutting. Meals came cold, uneaten. Sleep eluded you, and the constant stress gnawed away at your strength.

One fateful day, you went outside in a desperate bid to escape the suffocation. The air was crisp, the sky gray with the promise of rain, and yet you still did not turn back. You wandered farther than you intended, your steps aimless even as the first drops began to fall.

The storm came quickly afterwards, drenching you to the bone. Your thin cloak offered little protection, and the chill seeped deep into your skin. By the time you returned, trembling and soaked, no one was waiting to help you. No fire had been lit in your chambers; no warm blanket was offered, and no company was given.

The fever began that very night, burning through you with a strength that left you bedridden. Days passed in a haze of pain and delirium. The wound you had hidden- an injury from your fall in the storm- festered, the infection spreading rapidly through your weakened body. You hadn’t the strength to call for help, nor the faith that anyone would come even if you did hoarse out your voice in your attempts.

Only when your condition worsened and you really, truly disappeared out of view, the household finally took notice. Whispers swirled, faint echoes beyond the fog of your fading consciousness, and everyone became alert of your absence, meals returned untouched and maids reporting it’s weeks since they’d helped you with anything.

John sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey as the fire crackled in the hearth. He told himself your absence didn’t matter- that you were retreating because you’d finally realized the truth. But when he closed his eyes, he saw your face as it had been on your wedding day- hopeful, trusting, and unaware of the coldness that would greet you.

Simon found himself pacing the halls around your room more often than usual. He would glance toward your chambers but never step inside, convincing himself it wasn’t his concern. And yet, something about the silence unsettled him.

Johnny had begun to notice the meals sent to your chambers were left untouched, the plates returned barely touched or sometimes not taken at all. He hadn’t cared at first, dismissing it as you sulking because no one was giving you attention. But now the thought lingered- had you even been eating at all?

Even Kyle, with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze, felt the unease creeping in. He found himself hesitating when passing your door, his usual indifference cracking as guilt gnawed at him.

In the end, it’s Kyle who couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He stepped into your room, telling himself it was simply to prove to himself that you were fine and just- sulking.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the faint, sour scent of illness. You lay motionless on the bed, your body shockingly frail, your skin damp with fever. Your hair clung to your forehead, and your breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in your chest.

You didn’t even notice him. Not even when he turned around and barked sharply for John, for a doctor now. You didn’t notice him at all. Not him, not John or Simon or Johnny when they appear while the maids run to get the doctor.

(Kyle will never tell anyone how utterly sick he felt upon seeing the dried tear-tracks on your face. The unfinished, rotten meals near the bed. The tear spots on your pillows. He will never, ever forget today. He doubts any of the others will be able to do so, either.)

[augiewrites]

"valley reverie" - sebastian

summary: the timeline of sebastian and the farmer’s relationship based on canon dialogue

pairing: sdv sebastian x farmer

word count: 2.5K

a/n: this may be my magnum opus

The sun was beginning its descent behind the mountains when Sebastian emerged from the house for the first—and only—time that day.

He shot a glance to his mother and Demetrius, who were standing at the edge of their property, looking over the valley bathed in golden light. His mother sent a small smile back, followed by a pointed disappointed look at the carton of cigarettes held loosely in his hand. Demetruis didn’t acknowledge his existence.

Sebastian knew it was a nasty habit, but he spent most of his life with not much thought to the future—he was surprised he made it this far. Maybe his life would have been different if he had planned better; if he had considered for a moment that there was such a thing as life past sixteen, then eighteen, then twenty-one. He supposed he should start to consider a life past twenty-four, but quickly dropped the thought as he placed the cigarette between his lips and continued his stroll to the lake.

He saw it then, as his lighter sparked to life and helped the cigarette take eleven minutes off his.

Someone was sitting in his spot. A humanoid blob of denim focused intently on the bobber floating in the water.

He hesitated, then decided to keep moving—his trajectory now locked in past the stranger and across the rickety planks of wood to the smaller islands in the middle of the lake. His mother had been saying for years that she needed to build something more structurally sound, but had yet to get around to it.

As he got closer, he took in more of the scene. There was a muddy bucket next to the stranger, and he noticed a couple slimy carp flopping around inside. Whoever this was, they clearly didn’t have enough experience to catch the tricker creatures in the lake.

Just as he was about to slip past toward solitude, he locked eyes with the stranger. Their bored expression quickly turned to worry.

“Sorry, am I in your spot? Robin said it was okay for me to fish here.”

Recognition sparked in his brain—his mother had told him about the new resident of Pelican Town. The words she had used to describe them flashed behind his eyes: sweet, a little lost, cute. That last one was sent his way with an exaggerated wink and met with a scoff from him.

“Oh. You just moved in, right? Cool.”

The farmer didn’t respond, just looked on waiting for an answer to their question. Sebastian didn’t gratify them with a response, instead looking across the lake at the tree line and abandoned quarry.

“Out of all the places you could live, you chose Pelican Town?”

The farmer scrunched up their mouth slightly, beginning to reel in their line. There was nothing but a limp worm dangling from the hook. Sebastian took note of the grieving look flashing on their face before it was gone in a blink.

“Better than where I was.”

Sebastian didn’t bother responding as the farmer heaved up the bucket—they were a lot stronger than they looked—and walked away without another word.

Robin smiled at the farmer with a wave and shouted goodnight before sending another disapproving look to her son.

_________________________________________

Sebastian heaved open the door of the house, exhausted from band practice. Sam was his best friend, and he enjoyed spending time with him more than he would admit, but the newest addition to the band was definitely a hindrance.

He didn’t dislike Abigail, and he couldn’t deny that she was a talented drummer, but he had been hoping for years that her little crush on him would fade away. He could only take so much of puppy dog eyes and over exaggerated laughter at his quips that definitely aren’t that funny.

He was so absorbed in his thoughts on how to shake off the purple-haired girl—more importantly, how to shake her off without actual confrontation—that he didn’t notice the farmer leaning against the shop counter until their voice pierced through. His mother was nowhere to be seen, so they had to have been talking to him.

“What? I didn't hear you...I'm busy thinking about something. What do you want?”

The farmer narrowed their eyes at him, leveling him with a glare. “You know, I get that you’d rather be listening to My Chemical Romance and jerking off to Nietzsche than interacting with a human being, but you really need to work on your people skills.”

Well, he hadn’t been expecting that.

He expected avoidance from the farmer, based on their first meeting and subsequent run-ins where they gave him a nod of acknowledgement before going back to acting like he didn’t exist.

He realized that the farmer wasn’t as timid and one-dimensional as he let himself think.

The moment was saved by Robin entering the shop room and dropping a workbench on the floor with a heavy thud. “You’ll make better use of this than I have lately—it’s pretty old,” she looked up from the dusty bench, noticing her son frozen in the doorway, “oh, hi Sebby.”

“Sebby?” the farmer questioned with a smirk.

Sebastian rolled his eyes, brushing past his mother to get to his lair.

“Sorry about him,” he heard his mother as he descended the stairs.

“It’s fine,” the farmer laughed, “he’s cool.”

He couldn’t help the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. _________________________________________

Sebastian looked down at the frozen tear in his hand with a neutral expression on his face, though his heart was quickening its pace.

“Gunther told me it’s fabled to be the frozen tears of a yeti.”

He met the farmer’s grin with one of his own, “I really love this. How did you know?”

They shrugged, “Seemed like some emo shit you’d be into.”

A breathy laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “Well…thanks.”

“No prob. I’ll keep an eye out for more when I’m in the mines.”

“The mines?,” his brow furrowed, “how far down did you go?”

“Not super deep, I think I stopped at sixty since it was getting late.”

Sebastian gaped at the farmer—who he now realized he really misjudged—as they shouldered their backpack and turned toward the door.

“Oh,” they stopped just shy of the threshold, “your code is wrong, by the way. Third line down.”

He looked to the screen, baffled, seeing that there was, in fact, a mistake in his code.

He began to ask the farmer how they knew that, but they were gone. _________________________________________

The sun was setting on the valley, and Sebastian found himself sitting by the lake’s edge with the farmer, who was reeling in sturgeon and bass with ease.

“I’m sure the city’s different for other people, but it was corporate hell for me,” the farmer spoke softly as they baited their hook—it was different than any bait he had ever seen, and the farmer had informed him that the wild man living behind their house had taught them the recipe.

Sebastian hummed, “I guess that makes sense.”

“You guess?” the farmer teased him, flicking water at his face.

He blew a puff of smoke in their face.

The farmer coughed, then began to laugh as they fanned the smoke out of their face, “asshole.”

Sebastian grinned, leaning back on the palms of his hands and gazing across the water.

They sat in comfortable silence as the farmer cast out their line and half-heartedly focused on the bobber—they didn’t really need it anymore, but liked the safety net.

“You and Sam are probably my only friends in this town.” Sebastian broke the silence, but continued looking straight ahead.

“Well I am very likable.”

Sebastian knocked their shoulders together with a scoff.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” _________________________________________

Sebastian was indifferent—and sometimes loathful—toward most events held in their little town, but tonight was an exception. It was hard to not be in awe of the midnight jellies, and he was excited for the farmer to see them for the first time.

They were perched at the edge of the dock, along with Sam and Abigail, their feet dangling inches above the water.

It was a lot colder than expected, and the farmer was bundled in his black jacket. He couldn’t help but feel bad about the sad glances Abigail was sending their way.

The farmer looked content, and Sebastian recalled something they told him at the beginning of the season—the used to be terrified of the ocean before moving to the valley.

He nudged their shoulder with his own. It didn’t take much effort—they were sitting a lot closer than he realized. A light blush dusted his cheekbones.

“I thought I saw something moving in there…” he pointed to the void of the ocean and leaned closer to their ear, whispering, “something big, something dark.”

The farmer’s eyes widened as they looked across the vast darkness before they narrowed and turned to him.

“Just trying to scare you...” Sebastian laughed.

The farmer smiled, knocking their knee against his, muttering an all too familiar “asshole.”

It wasn’t too long before Lewis sent out the first lantern, and the water surrounding the docks was filled with glowing jellyfish.

“It’s beautiful,” the farmer breathed out as their head landed on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” his eyes landed on a glowing green jelly before looking down at the farmer, “it is.” _________________________________________

Sebastian never saw the farm in its full glory—before the farmer’s grandfather grew old and passed away—but he had been there plenty of times when it was overgrown and abandoned.

He had told the farmer this as they sat on the newly installed swinging bench on their porch. They joked that they would be suing him for trespassing, since it was technically their property at the time, even if they hadn’t known it.

It was a chilly fall day, but the farmer had made a pot of coffee to keep them warm.

“I thought this was your busy season,” Sebastian lit up a cigarette and moved the ashtray closer to where he sat. It was a newer addition to the farmer’s decor. He thought about the prideful look on their face as they held it up and told him that Leah let them use her pottery wheel. It was painted with little creatures that looked like the much happier cousins of the slimes living in the caves.

The farmer hummed, holding their mug close to their face, but not taking a sip, “Yeah…a lot busier than I thought it would be, actually.”

He grinned at them, “so, you’re slacking today, huh?”

The farmer laughed.

“I’d rather hang out with your sorry ass than work.” Despite the insult, the farmer’s tone was soft and earnest. Sebastian felt his cheeks heat up.

“Could you picture me living on a farm? It seems ridiculous, but I have been thinking about it lately.”

“If I could do it, then so could you,” the farmer linked their pinky with his, “it’s a lot more freeing than you’d think.” _________________________________________

Boxes filled with Sebastian’s things lined the walls of the farmhouse, but Sebastian and the farmer lay in bed, choosing to ignore them. 

They had all the time in the world.

The farmer was twirling the pendant dangling from Sebastian’s neck, “there’s steam coming out of your ears, Seb,” the farmer giggled and smoothed out the wrinkle between his brows with their finger.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Sebastian turned his attention from the ceiling to the farmer, “The older I get, the less I'm drawn to the city. It had a certain mystique to it, once. But it turns out that was just a romantic fantasy. The city's so busy, so full of people... I don't belong there. I'm a loner.”

A beat.

“Present company excluded, of course.”

The farmer laughed, “Well I would hope so,” they tugged gently on the pendant, pulling him closer, “because you’re stuck with me.” _________________________________________

Sebastian and the farmer had joined his family for dinner, and his mother had shooed them away with one hand as she cooed at the bundle held tightly in her other arm.

The valley was coming to life, but the ghost of a winter chill was in the air. They settled down by the lake despite the cold. It was no longer his spot, but theirs.

The farmer was skipping stones across the lake when he grumbled about how being in that spot made him want a smoke.

“No one’s stopping you,” the farmer laughed.

“I am.”

The farmer still held a loose smile as they raised their eyebrows at him, “oh?”

“I'm trying my best to quit smoking now that we're married…” He avoided their gaze and brushed some mud on the palm of his hand onto his jeans, “I don't wanna die on you. It's a bad habit. I want to have a future together.”

A baby cried in the distance. Sebastian and the farmer smiled at each other. _________________________________________

The farmer was surprised to find Sebastian’s side of the bed empty when they woke up. It wasn’t a rare occasion, as they usually found Sebastian in the kitchen after a restless sleep, but he was nowhere to be found.

They couldn’t help but worry a little bit as they pulled on their boots and opened the screen door. They paused out of instinct to let the dog run out before them only to realize that the dog wasn’t hot on their heels like usual.

They had only gotten two steps onto the porch before a mass of fur and slobber crashed into their legs.

“Oh hello baby,” they cooed down at the dog as it rolled onto its back, breathing heavily out of excitement, “good morning stink.”

“Good morning to you too.”

The farmer was so caught up in giving the dog attention that they hadn’t noticed Sebastian leaning against the porch railing.

They straightened from their crouch, smiling at him as the dog whined from the loss of affection.

“I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went ahead and fed the animals,” he pushed off the railing and took a few steps forward to fix a rogue piece of the farmer’s hair, “one less thing for you to do.”

“Thanks, Seb,” the farmer said softly, suddenly bashful, “I’m going to check on the pumpkins. Thought I could make some soup tonight if any of them are ripe.”

They took a few steps off the porch, “feel like being a country boy today? Or did you get your fix?”

He smiled, leaning his forearms against the railing, “I'll just watch you from here. I enjoy watching you.” _________________________________________

Sebastian and the farmer found themselves sitting on the porch swing once again. It was a mild summer evening, and he was looking on as a toddler played with the dog in the yard.

He tore his attention away from the rowdy scene in front of him to look at the farmer, who was curled up at his side reading a book. He felt his heart swell.

“This is so different from my old life, but I'm really starting to like it. I feel like I really belong here.”

The farmer looked up from the book in their lap, smiling.

“I don't often show it, but I'm really happy that I'm your husband. Marrying you was the best decision I ever made.”