warnings: mentions of alcohol, sex, and kind of self-destructive vibes I guess?
Similar to and taken some inspiration from @snailmail444's fic, "Elliot Situationship"; but I promise while are inevitably structural similarities, the content is, hmm, unfortunately organically homegrown. Hope you don't mind the mention--it's a fic that stuck with me and I just felt it fair to acknowledge the similarities! 💕
----------
Elliott needed a muse; you needed a release. Neither of you were ready for commitment, but neither of you were ready to be alone.
So together, per the agreement, you do everything except love.
He reads you his manuscript. You tell him the town gossip. You dance, you drink, you dance some more, you drink a little more. You discuss philosophy, politics, religion, family, and all the things neither of your last partners knew very much about. You smell salt in his hair, the cherry wine on his breath, and taste the cherries when he kisses you.
It’s well past 3am—and not for the first time nor for the last—when he asks you if you’ve ever…? And the answer is complicated—it always is. When he listens, you’re certain you see it—in his intention, disbelief, sadness, care. When he holds you in his arms, it’s secure.
Then you make love. Or, you would, but it can’t be that, so you… what was the word he used, ever the wordsmith?
“Fuck.”
He tries to say it smoothly, but it trips out of his mouth like an accident. Elliott doesn’t curse. He could euphemize, allegorize, wax poetic… but whenever it comes to this, he curses instead.
He is gentle, tender, slow as he lights sparks down your body.
The first several times, everything feels right in the world. Riding the high of release and connection, you hardly notice it’s not the same. Then its absence begins to grow heavier on you, time after time, until you finally recognize—it hurts.
You spend your days raking yourself over different scenarios: we have to stop doing this, or I can’t keep doing this, or this is no longer beneficial for me, or you’ve begun to mean too much to me, and always, I’m sorry.
You spend your nights chasing, reaching for what you know you cannot have, and telling, lying to yourself that the act of reaching is enough. Because you can’t, but you do. You do, you do, you do.
If you think you are in love, and you feel like you are in love, then how far of a reach is it to say you simply are?
Pain’s like that, too.
“Harder,” you tell him the next time he’s between your legs.
He kisses you just below your ear, whispering as he does not falter in his steady pace, “Patience, patience…”
“Harder.”
Now he pauses. He looks at you, his beautiful auburn hair tossed in a way he never lets anyone else see, and you look at him. His voice is soft but firm.
“I don’t want to hurt you…”
--but there’s a lift at the end, you heard it. He’s weak for you. “You won’t,” you lie, sinking your teeth into his weakness. “Please.”
You blink and hope the lowlight hides what had welled in the corners of your eyes when he’d stretched you to tears only moments ago.
His eyes hold yours in the winded silence between you. He opens his mouth to say something, then looks away, lips pressed into a thin line.
This is what we signed up for, isn’t it? If you don’t love me, then fuck me like it.
“Do it,” you press.
And not without hesitation or passion, he does.
It hurts, but at least it’s an honest hurt.
Afterwards, you lay your head on his chest and listen to his heart gradually find its steady rhythm again. His arm is wrapped around you. He pauses before he kisses your hair, where his lips do linger.
When it is time to leave, because someone must always leave, his fingertips trail against your skin. For a split second, you imagine they twitch, reaching, as if to grab you and bid you stay. But you stand up and only feel the chill of empty air on your skin.
It’s not the first time you’ve done this together, too, so there’s a ritual around leaving. You go through it with mechanical precision. He thanks you for coming by, says he enjoyed your company. You say the same, and together, at an arm’s length, you do both mean it.
“Good night, Elliott,” you bid him as you reach for the door.
“Good night, love,” he says back to you without flinching.
Why would you say that? you want to scream, Why would you say that?
And so, instead of screaming, you don’t say anything at all. You open the door and step outside and away from the cabin, and maybe the door closes behind you, maybe not, it doesn’t matter. Your eyes transfix on the sea as the roaring of the waves crashing against the shore drowns out everything else. They swell, they break, they reach and reach and reach, and then they’re dragged back, cast back into the devouring void. To be re-congealed, reformed into swells destined to break again and get dragged back again—
and reach. And reach. And reach.
It’s high tide, and the sand an arm’s length away is solid and cold from a wave for now receded. Another wave swells, breaks, reaches, and is dragged back, leaving barely a trace to show so that each wave looks fresh and new, and not an infinite plus one.
You are not so lucky. Though your tracks in the sand quickly erode in the breeze, you will hold the memory from each and every time you find yourself here again.
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Hunter: Traditional- Respectively known, well balanced and classically refined, unanimously favorited. A real snack.
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Being alone with your thoughts for so many hours a day can make one a little... eccentric.
Content warning: none ☺️ just the silliest little HC.
(also if you consider yourself a writer and have never done something like this, you're lying.)
--------------------------------
It takes, like, YEARS after marriage for this one to come to fruition.
Then, one day, it happens. You bust into the house from the summer heat to grab a drink of water because, fuck, it's hot and--
Elliott didn't expect you back for another couple hours. It's summer! It's the busiest season! He thought he had the house to himself for at least another--
--there's Elliott. Just, uhh... well to be honest you're just not quite sure at first what he's doing.
--he doesn't notice you come in then stand stock-still in the doorway for several confused, dumbstruck, delighted seconds.
Meanwhile: his hair is in a ratty knot on top of his head, he has a very round potato in his hand that he holds aloft like an offering to the gods (the ceiling fan, perhaps?) while he stands barefoot, pajamaed, on top of his desk.
and you don't know what you like more--the voice(s) he uses when he's in-character, or how he so often interrupts himself, out of character, with little nitpicking comments.
"--and with every ounce of my power--ounce? don't they measure in metrics? and is the nature of power fluid or, *gasp* gaseous? ...No, has to be fluid--holdable, shapeable. But fluidity of power," he kneels, scribbling something on the one paper left on the desk. "definitely include that somewhere else, yes..." He stands up, clears his throat and resumes, "--and with all the power now within my reach--nope, already holding it--grasp, I can finally--"
His eyes meet yours with a tiny yelp and he freezes.
Neither of you speak. A bead of sweat falls from your face and plips on the floor. He continues to hold the potato aloft.
Finally, "You're home early, dear."
"Just, uh... need some water," you manage. A few seconds pass by, so you helpfully add, "It's hot."
"Indeed."
Another pause.
Your turn. "Sooo... whatcha doin' up there, dear?"
He slowly lowers the potato. "I... was having trouble figuring out the blocking, you see. Frederick just obtained the orb of power and he's quite conflicted about it. So..."
"...so you stand on your desk and offer it to the ceiling fan?"
"No," he pouts, but you know that's a sign that he's incredibly relieved--you're playing along so he plays along. "No, you go stand on a cliff," he motions to the desk, "and seek communion with the Great Omnipotence," he gestures to the ceiling fan.
"Yes, that's... yup. That's what that is."
He clicks his tongue, non-potatoed hand on his hip. "...this might surprise you, but I have a very vivid imagination. Now, can you help me down?--I accidentally kicked my chair away during the villain's soliloquy."
You walk over, despite: "I'm very sure you're more than capable of getting down safely on your own."
He holds out his hand. "And miss the chance to hold your hand and jump into your arms?"
(depending on the stature of the farmer, he very well may! But only if there's not a single ounce of doubt he wouldn't overwhelm the farmer.)
From there, it's gradual, but he little by little lets his guard down. He talks to himself in low muttrances at first, like quiet bickering when he's particularly focused. Then he takes to dramatic readings while he's cooking or cleaning, trying to strike the right cadence and rhythm. Months later he's pushing furniture aside and pacing out choreographed scenes in the living room. In the winter, you're roped into them with him and... he loves it, and he loves you all the more for it.
He uses your help for scenes he's stuck on, gives you a page or two to work with, then tells you to just say and do what feels right! He doesn't always use exactly what you riff up, but it helps point him in the right direction.
He'll do any kind of scene you're comfortable with, but he especially seems fond of putting you in romantic scenes. 😘
even though half of them never show up in his novels or poetry collections??????? and yet???????
He still maintains his composed facade outside of the house, but inside your little house by the pond, all bets are off. You routinely come home with Elliott pacing, muttering, giving a grandiose speech, nitpicking--he stops, but only a pause, to acknowledge you with a peck on the cheek before he whisks himself away again--prophesizing, arguing, nitpicking, etc....
Your home has never been so full of life, laughter, and love.
Elliott x gn!farmer, SFW, soft little romantic character study, barely proofed, 1k words, drabble.
content warning: alcohol mention, nothing else I can think of.
This is dedicated to 3 posts in particular that got me thinking the other night: pizza, Elliott Scrap, and be gentle carrying me home.
-------------------------------------------
Like a knotted skein in loving hands, there's a slow unraveling.
The largest knots get attention first. You find one in his hair, incidentally—after the first night Elliott stays over, accidentally. It was winter and wrapped in warm flannel and a warmer embrace, the farm could wait. He’d come over for dinner, excited to share the latest rounds of edits over some a fresh catch of tuna and your first batch of wine from the farm. When the gentlemanly hour came to leave, the door wouldn’t budge for all the freshly packed snow. You bid him stay, and for the first time, he did.
Chastely—not for lack of interest but for an abundance of intimate moments that might have been stretched too thin if pushed too far: he fumbles taking off his tie and his hands shake unbuttoning his jacket. He folds them, sets them just so on the dresser. He exhales—a sigh or a steadying breath?
He turns, asking what kind of hairbrush you have. You didn’t know how to answer that question—or any question at all, really. It was the first time you’d seen him simply dressed in just his white button-down shirt, and more importantly, one of the few times you’d even seen him look sheepish. This, the same man that an hour ago only let you out of his arms to twirl you to the music, wrapping you back in even tighter than before, filling your head with lovely words in murmured baritone.
And it doesn’t escape you how his fingers absently run over the embroidered hem of his jacket when you manage to say there should be one on the bathroom counter that he’s welcome to use. Nor how his leg bounces as he sits and pours over his manuscript while you change. Nor how he seems to look anywhere else but at you, blushing, once you’ve changed into your most unassuming night clothes.
It’s so quiet but for the crackling fire place and the occasional rushing wind from the blizzard outside. You’re not as good with words as he is, but you have to try. You walk over to him, bare feet quiet against the cold wooden floor. “Elliott?”
It’s slow, but he looks up from his manuscript, at you. “Yes… darling?”
“I know it’s not ideal or perfect but… I’m happy to have this time with you, just…” words fail, and you gesture vaguely at the blizzard, your frayed pajama bottoms and oversized t-shirt, and… him, “just as we are.”
His shoulders lower, slowly, a tension loosening. He exhales—a sigh, this time you’re certain—and sets the manuscript atop his neatly folded clothes. He rises to standing, and meets your gaze with a tired but truly mirthful smile. “As am I.”
Elliott’s hands reach to cup your face, his finger tips brushing against your jaw, hesitating, waiting for permission. You lean your head into his touch, and there’s another exhale—an airy, loving laugh—before he cups your face and leans down to meet your lips. He’s so warm tonight—blame the wine, the fire place, but certainly not the blush—as he holds you and kisses you still.
His freshly brushed hair tickles your cheek when he pulls back. It tickles your neck, shoulders, and lips too, in time, as you share in each other’s body heat throughout the cold, cold night.
You’re dozing, and you’re almost certain he is too when you hear, heavy with sleep and soft with love, “Thank you, my dear.”
“…for what?”
“This.” He says, with a kiss into your hair.
And in the morning while you lay cozily in his arms, slowly combing your fingers through his silky auburn hair as he sleeps, it’s there you find a knot. Nestled above the nape of his neck, it snags and bids you pause. It’s not a matter of how, but a matter of trust—would it be a step too far?
Under loving hands the largest knots are made pliant to reveal the stark truth: it’s never one, but several smaller bundles huddled and wrapped around one another—cornered nestlings shivering at being seen.
The trembling hands, clinging to an ornately embroidered shelter, avoiding your gaze until you offer reassurance…
You withdraw your hand, instead placing it on his chest, where his plain white shirt, albeit wrinkled now, is so…
…so soft.
You’d come to find many more knots in his hair, but that was the last time you saw him sheepish.
It’s autumn now—not the autumn of your wedding, but the autumn of your anniversary. You’re playfully sick of picking his discarded ties off the foot of the bed. The sound of the microwave beeping at 3am wakes you to the sight of him partway through a slice of cold, leftover pizza. (He cooly, lying, insists you dreamt such a thing.) Elliott eagerly and openly makes his plans to get fully “sloshed” on pumpkin ale and asks that you still claim him at the end of the night and be gentle carrying him home. The next day he vows that was a horrid idea he’ll never repeat, and in the autumn after your first child is born, he does it happily again.
There’s a barbecue stain on one of his white shirts, and despite both your best efforts, the ghost of the stain persists. It’s now accompanied by speckling of other stains from being worn and worn out as he helps you on the farm. Originally a “house shirt”, he no longer has need for that, as it turns out sometimes an oversized t-shirt and frayed pajama bottoms will do the trick just as well.
And you still doze in on winter mornings. Combing your fingers through his hair, delighting in both the sun-kissed copper and moon-kissed silver strands, when you hit a snag, you know it’s just a simple knot. One that will come gently, surely undone under your patient, loving hands.
(featuring Normal Goober, HammasJenkins, and Living Hat Activated Goober, Elodie.)
commissioned @eindersein for a Goober of my main farmer, Elodie, and they brought her to LIFE. 😍
Farmer Origin Story: Known to Joja Corp by her legal name, HammasJenkins, she felt lost in the world until she followed grandpa's letter to a farm. On her first day in the valley, she set to mindless work as she was used to doing, but in clearing the fields, she stumbled upon a piece of the living earth that called itself the Living Hat. She began wearing the Living Hat and her symbiotic and entirely normal relationship with the earth around her completely changed.
For the better! She found her calling in becoming a steward of the land and valley, enough to find and reclaim her own identity, and with the Wizard's help, now goes by Elodie.
What Actually Happened: I started a co-op farm with a randomized character with a throwaway randomized name, and then found the Living Hat on the first day, and after the co-op game naturally died a few days into the spring, I reclaimed the file and now it's my 100% completion [pending] file.
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Sailor!Elliott AU, inspired by Letters from the Atlantic by The Arcadian Wild...
content warning: storm exposure, near drowning, hospitalization, near death experience, depressive themes, emotional numbing
(also don't let the initial formatting fool you--this is not fanfiction. This is just a HC in a narrative format instead of the usual bullet points because I have a lot of Thoughts(TM).)
I’m being followed by the rain clouds
My clothes are soaking up the pain that keeps pouring down
Too much more and I may drown
I’m being followed by the night sky
It stole away my sight, it seems I have lost my way
I need someone to be my guide...
-- "Rain Clouds" by The Arcadian Wild
You board the train for Stardew Valley, weary but eager to begin a new life on the old farm in Pelican town. The locals are friendly and lively, and when you make your way to the beach, you find an empty cabin in the sand...
When you meet Willy and ask about it, he shrugs. "It's where I stayed while Robin and I was buildin' my shop home on the pier. Now I s'pose it could be used as a shed or something..."
Your first season on the farm passes with lots of tears, sweat, and some blood, if you're the mining type. Summer only increases the sweat.
The locals forewarn of the Clockwork Storms--storm cells that always generate on Summer 13 and 26, every year, unfailingly. They warn they're usually the worst of the year and recommend you prepare accordingly and just bunker down with the rest of them.
Sure enough, Summer 13's Clockwork Storm hits with flashes bright as the sun and bangs that make the ground tremble.
Emerging on the 14th, you count yourself lucky that you only lost a few crops to the storm. On your way to Pierre's to recoup your losses, you hear some commotion from the beach. Curiosity and concern draw you to the source, and you hurry to the pier to find Willy hauling something out of his boat. A big something.
The closer you get, the thing starts to take the form of--
"He's still breathin', I think!" Willy grunts. "Come quick, help me get'm up on the deck."
You and Willy manage to get the man off the boat and onto the deck of the pier. The man's long, reddish-auburn hair is tied back in a frayed braid, and he's bare chested, his shoulders and back hot and beginning to blister from exposure. His olive green pants, once rolled at the bottom, are now ragged and torn. Willy was right--he is breathing, but it's shallow. He's gaunt and scalding hot to the touch, but alive, despite it all.
As you're assessing him, his eyes flutter open. He's dazed. It seems to take a great effort to even move his eyes. You're unsure if he's even conscious. Then his eyes land on you. There's a brief but vibrant spark, and you can't help but notice his eyes are the same verdant green that reminds you of your new home on the farm. His lips part as if to speak, but nothing comes out. His eyes flutter shut
You have the good sense to know that if this man's going to survive, he needs to be brought to the clinic--there's nothing to be done for him here. You and Willy manage to get him to the clinic where he's promptly tended to and given emergency, likely life-saving measures. After a tenuous hour or so, Harvey emerges and said that he believes the man has stabilized, but he's horribly sun poisoned and dehydrated, and that's just what he can tell on the surface. Harvey says he's working with limited resources, but he'll do everything he can to give the guy the best chance at pulling through. He encourages you to come by tomorrow and check in.
The clinic is closed for the rest of the day.
- - -
If you choose to return on the 15th, Harvey approves, and gives you the update that the man remained stable overnight, but he's still very weak and will likely wake up in a lot of pain. But he will likely wake up, Harvey reiterates with relief
- - -
If you choose to return on the 16th, Harvey approves, and says that the man seems to be recovering. He says there's brief flashes of consciousness and he seems to attend to questions, but he's still too dazed to speak. Harvey encourages you to come by again tomorrow. He anticipates he'll be well enough to interact with for brief periods of time.
- - -
If you return on the 17th, you'll walk in on Harvey assessing the man, who is now fully conscious. As predicted, he appears to be in a fair amount of pain, but Harvey is confident that it's just residual soreness and sunburns. Harvey introduces you as one of the people who helped save him.
The man takes you in with a weary gaze, one that soon softens and warms. He sounds breathless as he says, "Thank you."
The man quickly clears his throat, trying again. His voice is still weak and raspy, as he says, "Thank you... I owe you... my life." He swallows, a challenging thing. "Elliott," he manages, shakily holding his hand out.
You give your name, and reach to shake his hand. Instead, he gently draws your hand to him and kisses your knuckles with his sun-chapped lips.
Elliott winces as he lays back, visibly drained. Harvey encourages Elliott to go back to resting, and for you to return to your day. As you're leaving, you hear a weak, hoarse voice trying desperately to be heard.
"Come back..."
You turn around. Elliott has his eyes closed and is lying still. He takes another breath, then looks to you through a half-lidded gaze.
"...tomorrow?" Elliott finishes.
You nod.
- - -
If you come back on the 18th, Harvey and Elliott approve. Elliott is sitting up on the bed reading when you come in.
He looks up and greets you by name. It looks like he's been given the chance to wash up--he looks brighter, and his auburn reddish hair shines, tied back loosely at his shoulders and pulled to the side with less bandages on it. He's shirtless, skin almost as red as his hair, and you can see all the bandages across his shoulders and back.
What happened to your shirt?
(no change in approval) Elliott blinks. "It was too painful to keep taking it off and putting it back on again for bandage changes. I hope it doesn't bother you."
How are you feeling today?
(approval gain) Elliott gives a polite smile. "Moving hurts, breathing hurts… but I can do both, and for that I am thankful."
What are you reading?
(approval gain) Elliott lights up, flashing the cover. "Kind doctor Harvey was generous enough to lend me a tome from his collection. It's a collection of short stories he had left over from his undergraduate studies. Turns out we went to university around the same time, so it's been a wonderful trip down memory lane. And a relief that it wasn't one of his medical textbooks!"
ALL PATHS CONVERGE: "So… I'm guessing you're probably curious as to how I got here? Besides, of course, the part where you pulled me from death's doorstep."
From the other room, Harvey interjects, monotone, "You weren't on death's doorstep."
"Alright, then you pulled me from the speeding taxi to Death's neighborhood?" he lifts the end of the sentence, looking towards the sound of Harvey's voice for approval.
Harvey's voice comes after a pause, "Wordy, but accurate."
"We'll workshop it," Elliott calls back, then turns his attention back to you. "So, yes, I'm afraid it's not much of a story--unlucky wayfaring sailor caught in a bad storm… The Clockwork Storms, I'm told a bit too late. I've held my own against a few storms in my day, but this was… I didn't give my love the respect she deserves, and as they say, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. A mistake I won't make twice!"
(A perceptive farmer notices a certain flippancy about his story that seems out of place for a man who otherwise appears passionate and verbose.)
He goes on, "Oh, [name], I've been meaning to ask--did you happen to find any of my possessions or a rucksack on me when you revived me?"
You shake your head, indicating it was Willy who got to him first.
"So Willy was the one who pulled me from the sea, and you helped him get me from shore to here? Oh dear, I really was succumbed. Ah well. I'll check with him tomorrow after I get discharged. It'd be nice to have my own clothes back, among other things.
"Thanks for stopping by. It means a lot. I've been many places, and so few as full of kindness as here. I do hope to get to see you again tomorrow."
- - -
Elliott gets discharged from the hospital on the 19th. If you enter Pelican Town before 5pm, you'll encounter Elliott leaving the clinic. He looked well-kept, freshly shaven, and his clothes have been laundered. He wears his same olive green pants and a plain white shirt. He'll flag you down and ask you to help him find his way around.
Sorry, I'm too busy right now.
(no change in approval) Elliott visibly deflates, but forces a smile. "Ah, well. I... suppose I've seen myself through larger ports than this. No matter, I'll find my own way..."
(the cutscene ends with Elliott meandering towards the east side of town, murmuring about finding Willy.)
I'd be happy to!
(Elliott approves) Elliott beams. "Splendid. I knew I could rely on your kindness to see me through."
A short montage style cutscene follows where the farmer appears with Elliott in front of the different areas in Pelican Town. He's shown having a few introductions to the people around town, having a little heart bubble over his head at the library, having a very lively conversation with Robin [about building boats], and going to Pierre's to stock up on a few things. Finally, the farmer walks Elliott over the bridge to the beach.
Elliott takes in a big breath of the sea air and releases it contentedly. "Back again... lovely place, when one's conscious enough to enjoy it."
You take him over to the docks near Willy's shop, and Willy enters the scene from the ocean on his fishing boat. Willy greets you and Elliott. He addresses Elliott, "I remember you sayin' you'd had some belongings so I went back to about where I'd found ya, accountin' fer a few days drift and whatnot, and poked around a bit..."
Willy steps out of his boat and onto the docks, handing him a plank of wood with splintered edges. It has the name of his boat painted on it, but you can't make it out before he puts it under his arm as Willy then hands him a battered and torn rucksack. "Found these. Thought you might like that back. The rucksack I saw was caught on a splintered piece of, well, what's now driftwood, unfortunately."
"I can't begin to thank you enough." Elliott begins to dig through the rucksack. "Once I can get the saltwater out of my town clothes, I'll feel so much more... Hmm." He frowns. "Where's...? I know I put it in here..."
Elliott continues to search. He kneels on the dock and takes out every article of clothing, a few pens, hair ties, soaked rations, and some spare g contained in the rucksack until it is flat and empty. His demeanor begins to falter. "Uh, Willy? A book. Was there a book? Brown leather, bound across the cover with a string, papers, envelopes, writing inside? Did you find anything like that?"
Willy can tell Elliott's becoming distressed. "I... I'm 'fraid not, nothing that I seen like that. I'm sorry."
Elliott stares at the contents of the rucksack. There's an immense heaviness to his features. He kneels there in silence, hardly moving, for a several moments. Finally, he says, "I... see." His voice is low, with no affect. He slowly, numbly, puts the items back in the torn rucksack. Once they're back in, he stands, a bit unsteady. He doesn't look at you or Willy, but you can see the rims of his eyes are red.
"Sincerely, thank you, both of you... I am just... That book was... important. I... need some time alone... please, excuse me."
Elliott walks off screen and the cutscene ends.
Elliott's sprite will remain sitting on the beach, unresponsive, for the remainder of the day. When it becomes dark, he'll move to one of the towels on the beach and lay down, still unresponsive. The game is set not to rain or storm on Summer 19 or 20th.
- - -
If you return to the beach on the 20th, Elliott will still be back to sitting by the water, unresponsive. Willy will approach you, saying he talked to Robin about getting a bed for the old cabin, and that he's gonna let Elliott stay there. He says he picked the best time to stay on the beach, but it won't be that way for long. Willy asks for your help to talk to Elliott. You nod.
You and Willy approach Elliott.
Alright, that's enough moping.
(no approval change) Elliott remains unresponsive.
Hey, there's a cabin you can stay in.
(no approval change) Elliott doesn't look up, distantly shrugs.
Elliott? It's [name] and Willy. We're concerned for you.
(no approval change) Elliott meets your gaze. His eyes are dull and red rimmed. His voice is raspy as he says, "Sorry?"
ALL PATHS CONVERGE: Willy clears his throat. "Ain't right to let somebody stay out in the elements without at least offerin' refuge." Willy motions to the cabin. "Robin'll be by with a bed soon. It ain't much, but you're welcome to use it for s'long as you need."
Elliott's mouth hangs slightly open as he looks between the two of you. He swallows, starts to speak but his voice is cracked. He clears his throat and starts again. "Truly? ...Your kindness knows no bounds."
Willy offers him a hand to help him get up and Elliott takes it, slow to rise. You and Willy walk Elliott over to the cabin and Willy opens the door, letting you all in. It's musty inside, but the sunlight coming through the window gives it a warm, cozy glow.
Willy excuses himself: "Lemme go see about that bed. I reckon she may have other furniture to spare too."
Elliott is quiet for a few moments when you are both alone.
Put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
(Elliott approves) Elliott almost flinches, then like melting ice relaxes into your touch. After a moment, he looks to you and says, "Thank you, [name]. I'm... at a loss for words."
I'll go see about helping, too.
(no approval change) As you turn to leave, Elliott stops you.
ALL PATHS CONVERGE: "I apologize for my... persistent moroseness. Give me a few days, and I'll come around. I'd be happy to speak more with you then."
Elliott is inaccessible for the next 3 days and does not attend any festivals during that time.
- - -
On Summer 23, he begins his normal routine.
He'll greet the farmer the first time they interact with a tired but optimistic smile. "Good to see you again, [name]. Thank you for your understanding earlier. Things still hurt, my heart chief among them, but if grief is love with nowhere to go, it's time to turn my sails to the wind and chart a new course. First things first, I need a new boat... time to get to work!"
If you talk to him again, he'll add, "I'll be keeping myself busy rebuilding, but don't let that turn you into a stranger. Stop by any time. Some company every now and then would be nice."
(end notes: I chose not to give any reactions to when he kisses the farmer's hand in the clinic because we all know what we're here for and it's not to be mean.)
sailor!Elliott AU inventory:
Introduction | General Overworld HCs | Heart Events 1-10 | Proposal and Marriage
another Sad Bitch Hours kinda night tonight, so I took it out on Elliott. see below for a snippet of some sub!Elliott getting the self-doubt lovingly fucked out of him. MDNI, etc. etc.
You huff and rock back to rest your bottom on your heels, taking away that precious contact. Elliott bucks in vain attempts to bring you back. “For a writer,” you speak slowly, drawing out the punishment. “You sure could do better to choose your words more wisely.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” Elliott sputters, then adds, “first draft, I promise.”
You take him in for another moment. Truthfully, the worry etched in his brow as he holds his beautiful green eyes still on you would break your heart if you let it. So instead you focus on his lips, kissed pink and full, the reddening marks of your lips on his jaw and neck that’ll soon burnish to a grayish purple, his copper hair splayed out in throes behind him, the light sheen of sweat down his muscled arms and torso that invite your gaze to trickle down the body he holds openly, vulnerably for you.
You sigh, in appreciation and acquiescence. “You still need more to help you understand, don’t you?”
His chest rises and falls, but his eyes never leave you. “My head is entirely empty but for the thought of filling you.”
A smile cracks your stern façade. There’s the man you love. Your voice is measurably softer as you lean forward to say, “You practiced that one, didn’t you?”
His worried expression melts when you take his face in your hands. “What gave it away?”
“That you were able to string it out in one breath.” You meet his lips in a chaste, loving kiss that he cranes forward to try and deepen. You let it happen—it is a damn sexy line. He’s earned it.
When you pull away, you keep one hand cupping his cheek. “Are you doing okay?”
When the roles are reversed, the tone of authority and control Elliott can adopt can leave you trembling and pliant. This… there’s no pretense to this. It’s raw and unfettered when he says, “Don’t you dare stop.”
…Fuck, you can’t wait to forget your own name on his cock.
But, you have to get there first—or, you remind yourself, he has to get there first.
🌊 sailor!Elliott AU: General Overworld and Characterization ⛵
an AU inspired by "Letters from the Atlantic" by The Arcadian Wild
content warnings: briefest mentions of heartbreak and divorce
Slight spoilers for the Proposal and Marriage section, only because Elliott's length of stay in Pelican Town is dependent on the number of hearts he has with the farmer.
This life's a vapor that quickly escapes
My love, my hate, my memory will soon be erased
So let's breathe in this vapor and drink this sea dry
To do and dare greatly 'til our last day arrives.
A man must always have something to conquer
a lover to fight for,
a war to be waged
We are born for the storm,
we risk all and rebuild.
To live hard and die well is why we were made.
-- "The Storm" by The Arcadian Wild
Starting Summer 23, the countdown clock begins. Elliott will finish his boat on Summer 3 of Year 2, and, unless you give him reason to stay, he will 🎵sail, sail, sail away, my dear...🎶
Unless any of the conditions below are met, he will only return to Pelican Town for a day on either side of the holidays, making it much more difficult to build approval with him.
Conditions that make him stay on Summer 3, Year 2:
6 hearts or above: If you have 6 hearts with Elliott, he will stay through Autumn 8, Year 2.
8 hearts (no bouquet): Elliott will remain in Pelican Town until Spring 2, Year 3
8-10 hearts (bouquet, no Mermaid Pendant, no second 10heart scene): Elliott will remain in Pelican Town until Summer 15, Year 3, at which point he will express love for you but that he can't keep holding on forever. He says he misses the sea, but he recognizes you can't leave the farm, so it seems you're at an impasse. He asks you what you think would be best. You have the option to break things off with him (reducing him to 8 hearts), or plead him to stay. If you break up with him, he'll admit he's heartbroken, but not surprised. He thanks you for some lovely memories, anyway, and says he'll set off in the morning. Elliott sails away the next day and only returns around holidays. If you plead him to stay, he'll grant you until the end of summer, citing avoiding the storms anyway. During this time, you have the opportunity to activate his second 10heart scene. If you activate his second 10heart scene, he'll propose to you on Summer 30. If you do not activate his second 10heart scene within that time, this conversation will repeat on Autumn 1, and if you try to ask him to stay again, he'll become upset and will drop down to 4 hearts and act with the divorced status. He'll set sail the next day and will return around holidays starting in Year 4.
10 hearts (no Mermaid Pendant, second 10heart scene viewed): Elliott will remain in Pelican Town, and will propose to you on Summer 30 of Year 3 (if you do not propose to him first).
General Overworld Characteristics Notes:
The main arc of sailor!Elliott's story, instead of finishing a novel, is fixing his boat and reclaiming the loss of his books of poetry to the sea (his "first love").
Sailor!Elliott's writing tends to focus almost entirely on poetry, though he'll talk about a hypothetical novel when people ask him about his writing and he doesn't feel that they'll respect or understand if he answers that he writes books of poetry.
He's actually a bit guarded about his poetry, which is a huge difference from SDV!Elliott. He's been through many ports and many experiences of less than tepid receptions to labeling himself as a poet, and as someone for whom first impressions are paramount (since it's often all he has), he leans into his identity as a sailor first, and a writer second. A writer of what? Oh, it depends on who he's talking to and if they pass the vibe check...
speaking of poetry, his style is similar to SDV!Elliott except he incorporates more spoken word/shanty stylisms due to having plenty of time to recite them out loud.
Sailor!Elliott has arguably more bravado than SDV!Elliott, primarily as a cover for some relational insecurities and a desire for closeness. It's difficult to become close to people when you're not around for long, and being by yourself on the open seas doesn't give a lot of practice for social skills, so sailor!Elliott tries to use bravado to get past the superficial as quickly as possible. It does not always work for him, but it aligns with his self-image and who he wants to be, so he's learned how to somewhat-gracefully back away too. Usually it just means leaving the port, but he hasn't entirely forgotten the manners his privileged upbringing begot him.
So, ofc, he still talks Like That. Most of his dialogue lines could remain, but any that explicitly refer to his own writing may either need to be redirected to sailing, the sea, his boat, or could remain IF it's either 1.) about "his novel" at low approval or 2.) about poetry at high approval.
Sailor!Elliott compartmentalizes a little more than SDV!Elliott. He is a little more emotionally composed and reserved with two exceptions--when drunk, and when at the beach/on the sea. (see below) His time on the sea has also sharpened his ability to think and work under pressure without spiraling... at least in the heat of the moment.
While still prim and proper around town, the moment he gets to the beach aLL SHIRTS ARE OFF. ALWAYS. He just loves being as close to the sun and the sea as possible. Poor ginger has a masochistic relationship with the sun.
His inhibitions fly off with his shirt. This means he's as open and brash with his emotions, highs and lows, as the sea (when shirtless by/on the sea). He'll take someone by the hands and dance for joy, he'll fall on his knees and openly weep, and he'll also growl, snarl, and curse in anger (though he despises himself when he loses his temper, which… doesn't help buddy!). (TBF, he'd still take someone by the hands and dance for joy while in town, but it's like the difference of a structured, ballroom dance vs. a jaunty little jig on the beach.)
With the physical nature of sailing, too, sailor!Elliott is much more comfortable with physical labor. Get to part 2 of his 10 heart scene and he'll show you just how comfortable he makes some physical labor look……..
Sailor!Elliott keeps a fairly similar schedule to SDV!Elliott, though any time he isn't in the library or writing in his cabin, he's at the beach working on his boat or consulting with Robin about his boat. So that said, he does spend a fair bit more time with Robin, and they likely become good friends. (HC your own way with how that impacts his relationship with Maru, Sebastian, and Demetrius!)
His relationship with Leah is probably much more meaningful to him, given that she is one he can openly wax poetic with. They wouldn't end up together, though (or if they tried it'd just end horribly for both of them), because wlw/mlm solidarity supremacy because Leah's too stubborn about being with the land, and Elliott's far too impassioned about the sea, and neither of them are willing to compromise. 🤦♀️🤷♀️ (What makes the farmer's situation different? Get to the second part of sailor! Elliott's 10heart scene to find out.......)
he still likes to ballroom dance and you can rip that from my cold dead hands. I mean, just imagine--a romantic dance on the beach under the moon, barefoot in the sand?! Learning to rock and rumba to the rhythm of the sea?!! A waltz to the beat of the waves?!??! Be still my beating heart... 💓
sailor!Elliott AU inventory:
Introduction | General Overworld HCs | Heart Events 1-10 | Proposal and Marriage
