here be monsters...

I'm back again with EVEN MORE Elliott yearning, because apparently I can't get enough of this man. Ohhh he hurts my heart so good. He needs to be seen, to be wanted, to be needed, but our lovely writer can't seem to find the words 🥺

Don't forget to check out @astellus 's prompt list!

Prompt: Routine

Word Count: 1,045

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The ocean never judges.

It simply is. The tides come in. The tides go out. It’s a constant, grounding presence, yet always in motion at the same time. A beautiful paradox at work. A reminder of both nature’s gentleness, and her fury.

Sometimes (a lot of times) Elliott stands on the pier, staring out into that endless void. Sometimes he thinks about his past. About his dreams, his ideas, his fears. Sometimes he doesn’t think about anything at all.

It’s all the same to the sea.

The waves don’t ask questions. The waves don’t let you down, don’t betray you or leave you with a million fractured excuses. The waves don’t care who you are, or where you come from.

Elliott likes that.

The pier is quiet today. It’s been like this ever since he moved to this salt-stained cabin with nothing but his books, his piano, and a dream. Here, he’d promised himself with the last of his savings, here he’d finally find respite from a world that sought to silence him. Here he’d finally write something that mattered.

He stands on the creaking boards at dawn, watching the light break across the horizon. He stands there at dusk, watching it bleed out into the waves. He stands there in the hours between, filled with half-formed sentences and a soul-deep loneliness he hasn’t found a name for.

Willy is usually there too, of course. He’s been fishing these waters since before Elliott was born, probably. They’ve developed an easy rhythm with one another. Companionable silence, an occasional nod, a quick chat now and then before they go their separate ways. Willy never pushes him to talk about more than he’s ready for.

Elliott likes that too.

It’s peaceful. It’s quiet. And at this point in his life? That’s what he needs more than anything.

At least, it was peaceful, until…

Three crab pots.

Three crab pots bobbing in the shallows, right there in his thinking spot.

When Elliott leaves his cabin the next morning, he freezes at the new addition.

It’s not irritation, exactly. It’s just…new. Interesting. A break in his usual routine.

At first he thinks it must be Willy’s handiwork, but the old fisherman never comes this far down on the pier. Something about the fish being left-handed or something? Elliott chuckles at the mental image, shaking his head. He’s never really understood Willy’s superstitions, but he’d learned long ago not to question them.

The farmer arrives at 8:43am.

He hears their boots on the weathered wood. Glances over, even though he tells himself not to. The farmer kneels next to the pots, efficient and careful. Pulling in the catch from each one and refilling it with bait before setting it back into the water.

A crumpled up newspaper from one. A broken CD from another. And sweet Yoba was that a lobster?!

“Mornin’, kid,” Willy calls out as he opens the shop for the day.

“Morning, Willy,” they call back, voice resonant on the breeze.

They finish their work in silence. Leave. Well, not without giving him a smile and a wave as they pass. It’s the smallest gesture, but Elliott finds himself smiling back too.

The pier settles back into its familiar rhythm, but Elliott finds himself staring at the spot where they stood and the gentle bob of the crab pots.

Hmm.

~~~

They come back the next day. 8:43am, like clockwork.

Not that he’s paying attention, or anything.

They come back the day after that, too. And the day after that.

Elliott finds himself…noticing. It’s the pattern of it all, really. The farmer and Willy exchange their morning pleasantries, the farmer empties the crab pots, and then it’s just the sounds: the creak of the pier, the call of the gulls, the slosh of water against the boards.

Footsteps fading into the sand as they leave.

“They’re a hard worker, that one,” Willy mentions one day after the farmer’s gone.

“Mm,” Elliott agrees, noncommittal.

But he’s noticed that too.

~~~

A week passes. Two. A month.

Elliott doesn’t mean to learn their patterns. It’s not like he’s stalking them or anything. It’s not like he’s showing up early just to make sure he can say hi to them too, so he can see that cheerful smile and wave, even when the farmer is covered in salty spray and their hair is tousled by the wind just so…

He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that they don’t matter. They’re just down here doing their job, checking their catch, and going about their day. He should do the same.

And he is.

...Sort of.

~~~

Autumn comes. The mornings grow cold.

The farmer shows up in a jacket now, breath misting in the salt air. They’re late, Elliott recognizes, and hates himself for noticing. He’s just out here getting some fresh air. Thinking about his next chapter and getting some inspiration in nature. They say the sea is good for the muse, right?

But the farmer is late, and he’s trying not to pay attention to the small empty feeling in his chest.

“Elliott?”

He whirls around, finds the farmer standing there with a mug of coffee. They hold it out like an offering. “Thought you might want some. It’s freezing out here.”

For a moment, all he can do is stare. Steam curls off the offered cup and floats away in the breeze. For him. They brought something specifically for him. Something in his chest does a complicated little twist.

A gift.

“Thank you,” he manages, and takes it.

Their fingers brush. Warm against the morning chill. Gone too soon.

The farmer goes back to their pots like it’s nothing. Like they haven’t just fundamentally altered his morning routine and added themselves into his life over the past few months. How he stupidly finds himself looking forward to this every day.

Willy hums old sea shanties. The farmer tends their crab pots. Elliott stands between both and lets the sounds wash over him. The splash of crab pots. The rush of the waves. The soft, satisfied sound he’s learned the farmer makes when they have a great catch.

The once-silent pier isn’t empty anymore. It’s full.

Full of all the things Elliott doesn’t say. Doesn’t write. Doesn’t dare to want.

It's a-me, back from the dead with an Elliott obsession burning a hole in my brain. Luckily @astellus is here to save the day with a month-long prompt challenge about The Boy ™️

Without further ado, I give you... 650 words of Elliott REALLY enjoying a pomegranate 😂

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78742361

Prompt: Pomegranate

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elliott holds the pomegranate like a secret, and something in his chest aches with a sweetness he doesn’t have the words for yet.

The farmer’s gift, still warm from their touch.

The fruit is heavy, substantial in stark contrast to the rest of his life. His aging cabin creaks in the salted breeze, and outside the call of the sea waits endlessly, promising everything and nothing all at once. He’d come here to find inspiration. To chase the ever-elusive muse and finish his book at last.

Instead, he’d found them. 

Elliott’s fingers dig into the pomegranate’s darkened skin. It’s grounding, in a way. Important. All the more so because of who had given it to him. 

When he breaks it open, thumbs pressing until it gives, the sound is obscene. Intimate. Like something far more precious than a fruit splitting open at his touch. The seeds catch the fading light, glittering clusters of rubies, small little hearts in their white-ribbed chambers. 

Persephone ate six seeds and lost herself to the underworld, he thinks, and brings the fruit to his mouth anyway.

It breaks open on his tongue, all vibrant tart-sweet, and Elliott makes a sound he’s glad no one is here to witness. The juice floods his mouth, cold and alive. Little rivulets escape to roll down his chin, dark red and sticky-sweet. 

It’s so good.

Sinfully so.

And since no one is watching…

Elliott eats like a man starving. Like the poet who’s finally found the perfect phrase after seasons of searching. Seeds crack between his teeth, dozens of tiny destructions all at once. Each one floods his senses with sweetness, and acid, and something that tastes almost like copper, almost like — 

Blood. Rich, pure, powerful. The essence of life, held in his hands.

He doesn’t stop eating.

Juice runs down his wrist. Stains his cuffs. His fingers are sticky with it, red and marked in a way that feels significant even though it’s just fruit.

Just.

Hmm. 

It’s never just anything when it comes from them, is it?

Piece by piece, he tears the pomegranate apart. The white pith breaks in his crimson hands. Seeds scatter across his desk like small casualties. His mouth is so full of sweetness and sharpness that he can barely breathe from the intensity of it all.

There’s something so debauched about this, he knows. Something raw and hedonistic, so unlike the careful persona he presents to the rest of the valley. It’s a secret indulgence, a guilty pleasure he seldom allows. 

(There’s a reason pomegranates are his favorites, after all…)

When he catches his reflection in the window, he barely recognizes himself. Lips stained the color of wine, of crushed roses, of want. His tongue is painted with it, the drops of red on his collar bearing witness to a timeless hunger.

Chin glistening. Eyes dark. Covered in juices and panting like a man possessed. 

He looks utterly undone.

Good, something whispers deep in his chest. Good.

Soon there’s nothing left but the hollow rind cupped in his palm. Something offered up, accepted, and consumed. The flesh is gone, and now only the memory of it remains. 

His hands are still shaking.

When he brings his fingers to his mouth, he tastes the lingering sweetness there, and with it? The farmer’s kindness. 

This is what it means to be consumed by something, he thinks. To be split open, body and soul.

Outside, the sea crashes against the shore. Eternal. Patient.

Inside, Elliott sits in his cabin stained with pomegranate juice and longing.

The farmer’s soft hands and warm smile linger in his memory. The devoured pomegranate and scattered seeds evidence of his sin.

Maybe, just this once, he could allow himself to want.

The farmer will visit again tomorrow.