You raise an eyebrow at Sylus as you carelessly toss away the mangled body of the mage you had just drained. You hunger was sated, at least for now.
Something that never failed to surprise you after turning into a fiend was how insatiable your appetite became after using your magic. It lurked beneath your senses, that longing to sink your fangs into delicate skin, piercing the tender, pulsating lining of a fresh artery, that heady rush of power as the warm, metallic, crimson blood started flooding your mouth.
It was exhilarating, that salty flow of one's life as it mixed with your system, the very thing that kept the haughty, stupid mages that had fought you all your life alive now the source of your new powers. Your eyes carried a feral glow, shining like a twisted angel through the darkness like beacon. The moon, round and fat, hung in a starless sky, and Sylus swears it positioned itself to suit you, forming a halo to complete the picture in his imagination.
He approaches you with adoration, reaching out to tuck away a stray strand of hair behind your ear, before resting his gloved hand on your cheek. The dukes could keep their little duchesses wrapped in silk and muslin, swooning at the sight of a little cut. The sheer greed that consumed you as you killed these silly little mages made him swell with pride. You were embracing your fiend instincts better than he'd expected, and he was enamored with the glisten of carmine droplets that clung to your fangs, streaking onto your pretty lips, adorning your lips better than any of these tawdry cosmetics the nobles tittered over.
When you dont pull away, he closes the gap, tongue darting out to sample the line of blood dribbling over your bottom lip, licking your chin clean. Your skin had a sheen of magic, the flavor exploding on his tongue as he comes back for another taste, his head spinning at the softness of your mouth. You somehow made it sweeter, and he drinks, knowing he'll never satiate the thirst he carries for you. Your saliva accompanied by the brackish bloody aftertaste spills into him, and he can't help but let out a sigh of longing.
You gasp as the sharp graze of his teeth cuts your lip, blood beading at the site as his tongue laves it rapturously, swallowing with care, as though not daring to waste a single drop of the precious nectar infused with your body's essence. His eyes glimmer like rubies, enameled with possessiveness as they bore into yours, the sting from the wound already subsiding as your skin heals.
"I can taste their fear as you ended their pathetic lives, my delectable countess," he says in a quiet snarl. "It's glazed with your bloodlust."
You draw closer to him, your small hand tightening on the ruffles of his shirt. "And?" You ask teasingly, running your tongue along the edge of your fang.
A low rumble emanates from Sylus's chest, his intentions obvious.
"And it makes you look like the creature you were always meant to become.” His voice softens into something almost worshipful. “Untamed. Unapologetic. Absolutely radiant.”
His fingers curl into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back as he nuzzles the smooth column of your throat.
It feels like a privilege to witness.” A thrill runs down your spine as you feel his mouth open over your skin, tingling in anticipation as he bares his fangs.
“I’ve lived centuries, little one… but I’ve never seen power settle so beautifully into someone.”
☆ tags: eventual elliott x gn!reader, no pronouns mentioned for reader, no y/n used, developing relationship, reader is farmer, reader is hinted to have a disability / chronic condition, reader faces the hardships of running a farm, ft. harvey, ft. gus, ft. alex ☆
commissioned by @peppoco / @im-elliotts-wife ☆ thank you so much for trusting me with your story idea!! i hope you enjoy it <3 note: reader farmer's disability isn't named but implied to include excessive daytime sleepiness and fatigue
It’s Harvey who finds out first.
He blinks as he reads through your medical records—freshly transferred from Zuzu City—and then his gaze lands on you, fidgeting on the exam table, longing to be anywhere but here. But you can’t because your annual check-up is overdue, and really, shouldn’t he have read your file before you got to his office?
He calls your name and waits until you meet his eyes. Concern weighs heavy behind thick glasses.
“I don’t think restoring a farm is the best idea,” he says sternly but not unkindly. “I’m not sure if you’re fully aware of how much work it is, but with your condition, I would advise against it.”
“I just get tired easily,” you hedge. “I can work around it.”
“There’s that, yes, but based on your history, I’m hesitant about...”
You fist your cotton pants, trying to maintain a neutral expression as Harvey lists symptoms that you’ve heard a thousand times over. I’m not sure if you’re fully aware—you are. Fully aware, that is. You’ve been dealing with this condition for years, and you knew that running a farm wouldn’t be an easy task. In fact, everything he’s saying ran through your own mind as you tossed and turned in a cramped Zuzu City apartment, wondering whether you should take Grandpa up on his offer.
But how can you explain to Harvey, to anyone, that you have to make this move for yourself? That when you opened up Grandpa’s letter in the Jojo Co break room and saw the opening lines, something finally clicked?
If you’re reading this, you must be in dire need of a change. Yes, you are.
“Harvey,” you start quietly, interrupting his clinical analysis. “I know, okay? All of this. But quite frankly, I’m tired of people telling me what I can and can’t do before I even try.” You take a breath. “I don’t just want to do this, I need to.”
Something in your tone gives him pause, and after a beat of silence, he sighs, taking out a notepad. “Well, then as your new primary care physician, I say that we at least think about preventative care and talk about how to make this possible for you.” He gives you a look over his metal-rimmed frames. “You’ve been working on this darn farm for a good two weeks now without incident, but we don’t know when or how that will change. We’ll check in more often, got it?”
…So I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong.
You grin. “Got it.”
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Compared to the hyper-individualistic community of Zuzu City, the townspeople’s hospitality came as a shock. In addition to making your dilapidated farmhouse livable, you awoke the first morning to a handful of parsnip seeds and rusted tools that have seen better days.
Still, it was both a kind gesture and a luxury considering that you had arrived on that rickety long-distance bus with nothing but a large suitcase and three months’ worth of rent to your name. Robin taught you how to chop down trees, Marnie taught you how to harvest hay, Pierre (begrudgingly) taught you how to find wild seeds, and Jodi taught you how to make natural repellents and keep pesky bugs away. After a good two weeks, your tender hands have started to form callouses, hardening around the handles that are becoming familiar in your grip.
Sure, not everyone welcomed you into the community on your first day—Shane’s grouchy greeting still stings when you think about it—but now, no one jumps when they cross you on paths.
You pat soil over your newly planted cauliflower seeds and tip your watering can over the spot until it’s dark and damp, just like in the video tutorial. The meager corner of four has grown into a decently-sized square of sixteen crop plots, and there’s promising glimpses of green pushing through the dirt.
Sitting back on your heels, you shield your eyes and survey the land that you’re starting to call yours. The rest of the yard is still a work in progress, but wow, what you have done already. The space in front of your house is cleared enough to grow seasonal crops, a pile of firewood is drying next to your porch, and mined stones are stacked sporadically as cairn sculptures. There’s even a makeshift windchime hanging above your door, courtesy of Jas and Vincent’s latest art project.
You spread your arms wide, feeling the sun through your long-sleeved farming shirt, hoping that your grandpa could see you now.
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“Hey. Hey! Get away from there!”
The storm door slams as you jam your feet into work boots and rush onto the field, nearly tripping in your haste. Waving your arms, you continue yelling, but the crow still flies away with your budding strawberries tight in its beak, leaving behind snapped roots and leaf shreds.
Your toe finally catches on uneven ground, sending you crashing onto your knees in the middle of the crops. As if your bruised pride isn’t enough. You stifle a pained cry, digging your fingers into the soil, not caring that the morning dew seeps through your jeans.
This has to be a bad dream. Or an alternate reality or a big old cosmic joke that the universe is playing on you, and if it’s the latter, you would like to tell Yoba that they’re seriously unfunny.
It’s laughable how optimistic you were not too long ago, telling Harvey at your latest check-up that everything was under control. As he had instructed, you kept careful track of your activities and energy levels until you found a schedule that worked around your fatigue; it included enough afternoon naps to keep you going. The structured breaks lulled you into a false sense of security, making you think that going to the Egg Festival and participating in the annual hunt was feasible. Instead, it led to an energy crash that had you housebound for days, effectively throwing your entire routine for a loop.
And the strawberries. You scraped together as much money as possible to buy those darn seeds, adjusting your finances to increase the crop budget, knowing that they would pay in the long run, but now all you have to show for it are—
You look at the damage again, feeling pebbles dig into your palms. Pressure builds in your throat. Your hands shake against earth, itching to rip everything up by the root. What timing. You were going to finally put together a scarecrow today, and tomorrow, you were going to hand Vincent your shiniest strawberry, fulfilling his mom’s Help Wanted request. You even told him to look forward to it when he visited yesterday.
Your eyes slide closed, and you take a breath. A second. A third. The panic in your blood settles, but the deep ache of disappointment stays. The fact that Mayor Lewis fixed up the Help Wanted board shortly after your arrival, the fact that he keeps passing you with comments of Can’t wait to see the farm running again!, the fact that you’re the only one diligently checking the board—it can’t be a coincidence. Everyone is hoping that you return the farm to its former glory.
You turn your face to the sky, letting the sun’s warmth settle over your skin. Grandpa, are you seeing this? What am I supposed to do now? But a part of you hopes that he isn’t watching you fumble his legacy.
After another steadying breath, your eyes flutter open. “Well,” you mutter, heaving yourself to your feet and wiping your hands on worn jeans, “time for soup.”
With your sunhat pulled low over, you stalk into town.
For a variety of reasons, you don’t often confide in others. Sometimes it’s because you don’t want to burden someone else with the depths of your emotions. Sometimes it’s because a single statement is buried beneath twelve layers of context that take forever to explain, and you realize with startling clarity that no one truly understands you. Sometimes it’s because venting is simply not the vibe.
Right now, though, it’s just you, Gus, and the hearty bowl of parsnip soup he’s ladling into your favorite bowl on a quiet afternoon. The Stardrop Saloon is technically open, but no one comes in this early and Emily’s not due to work for another two hours. Gus hums along to the tune easing out of the jukebox as you recount your recent adventures clearing shrubs at the edge of your property, a story that doesn’t feel raw. It’s not easy, you’re telling him between sips of soup that steam your spectacles, to whack at those darn branches all day.
“Aye, I hear you,” he says, handing you a napkin before continuing to wipe down wine glasses.
And that’s the thing about talking with Gus; you do feel heard.
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It’s Alex who finds out second.
You didn’t mean to fall asleep—you never do, really—but you had spent the morning clearing rocks, and the task was so taxing, and you swear you only wanted to take a short break after mining the third large rock. You didn’t think you’d fall asleep so quickly, and that’s how Alex found you on his morning jog. He wanted to swing by to say hello and see if he could be of any help. Instead he found you slumped in your yard, pickaxe frighteningly close to your head.
When you wake up and manage to find your glasses, the medical bay comes into focus, and so does Alex, pacing in the middle of the room.
“And this is normal?” he demands from an ever-patient Harvey.
“For the farmer, yes,” he replies, glancing at you. His moustache twitches when he notices that you’re awake. “Perhaps I should let the expert speak.”
Alex’s shoes squeak as he spins on his heel and makes his way to your side. You’re tempted to make up some kind of lie—Alex, of all people, would believe it—but one look into his puppy dog eyes and you’re caving, navigating through your medical diagnosis in a way that hopefully reassures him. Yes, it’s normal for you now. Yes, that’s why you don’t use giant tractors or horses. Yes, you smile gently, it absolutely sucks.
He stands there for a moment, contemplating. “Well, if you just need muscle, why don’t I help out?”
You blink. “Huh?”
“It sounds like you need someone to do the heavy lifting,” he says, as if it’s as easy as that. Maybe it is. He flexes, blocking out the harsh fluorescent lights with his arms and signature muscle tank, and grins despite your rolling eyes. “For the meager price of lunch and a few breaks every day, you can have the strongest guy in the Valley at your disposal!”
You laugh, wondering why you were ever hesitant at all. Harvey did suggest enlisting extra help, but you resisted against letting more people into your secret. Alex seems to be taking it in stride, though you should be surprised with how diligently he takes care of George.
Then a thought strikes you.
“Wait, Alex...how did you get me here?” Your jaw drops in horror. “You didn’t sprint here with me in your arms, did you? Or drag me through the path?”
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“Oi, Farmer!” Alex’s voice floats through the ceiling, and there’s creaking on the stairs until he’s in the living room, arms full of dusty boxes. “This looks useful. Bunch of handwritten notes and diagrams.”
“Oh yeah?” you call out, washing your hands. Next to you, lunch bubbles in a slow cooker. A recipe sent by Caroline; you just throw ingredients into a pot with a sprinkle of purple powder and let the magic happen. It should be ready in ten minutes, but your rumbling stomach wishes it would be sooner. “What are they on?”
He puts the boxes down on your coffee table, opens the top one, and flips through the first book. “Ideal Summer Crop Formations...that would’ve been useful weeks ago,” he says, setting it aside. “Here’s another one on Greenhouse Tips. Might need that one during Winter. Ooh, this one’s about different cookie recipes. Grandma would like it; I’ll take it home later.”
Despite the oppressive summer heat, this season has been much smoother for you than Spring. Not only did you finally erect a scarecrow in the middle of your field, but the introduction of sprinklers has cut out a chore that would normally take your entire morning. Alex has also been worth more than his weight in gold. In a single day, he made a run to Pierre’s for crop starters and planted all of them before you even finished defrosting dinner. Everything goes faster when he’s around, and you’ve had time to get to know the villagers, becoming quick friends with others your age.
Restoring your grandpa’s farm is looking more possible with each passing day.
You sit down at the dining table, chin propped, and watch as he sorts them into piles. Sun-bleached streaks and dents around the edges, these boxes have clearly been untouched for a while. You haven’t gone into the attic at all; how much of Grandpa is left up there?
“Hey,” says Alex, straightening up with a notebook in hand. He turns it over, smoothing his fingers along the worn leather. “I think this is your grandpa’s. Can you read cursive?”
He pads to your side and passes the book with a curious look. In the corner of the cover is an impression of your grandpa’s initials, and you waste no time undoing the simple clasp.
“Yeah, I think this is his,” you breathe, tracing over the title page. That’s the farm’s name and his full name right under it. You flip to the next page, then pause with furrowed brows. “He must’ve written this when he was younger. By the time he wrote that letter to me, he used print. Can anyone in town still read this style of cursive?”
“My grandparents grew up with it, too, but their eyesight isn’t as good anymore. We can check in with the adults tomorrow. Maybe Mayor Lewis still can. Otherwise, I can ask Penny, since she reads so much, or Elliott, since he—” Alex stops with a grin. “Wait a minute, what was that?”
“What was what?” you reply way too quickly. You try not to cringe at how disingenuous it sounds, even to your own ears.
“The reaction when I said Elliott—there it is again!” Alex’s grin widens, and he points at your averted gaze. “Do you like him or something?”
“I like everyone in Pelican Town,” you say evenly, ignoring how the tips of your ears burn. “Wow, do you hear that? Lunch is ready.”
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You blink at your guest, outlined ethereally by the morning sun.
“Good day, Farmer! Alex told me that I could be of assistance?”
Useful or not, you’re going to kill your farmhand.
“Oh...yes, come in,” you say, stepping aside. “I’m guessing he told you about the books? They’re in the study.”
As soon as Elliott walks into your home, you look out into the fields, where Alex watches with a smug smirk. He leans his chin onto the shovel and sends you a thumbs up, winking. You slide your hand across your throat before closing the door.
Inside, Elliott has already shrugged off his sun-protective jacket and slung it over one arm, revealing his signature button-down and vest as he takes in your sparse decorations. Two seasons in, and you still haven’t gotten around to looking at the furniture catalog. Elliott turns to you with a helpless smile not unlike your own.
“I apologize,” he says. “I’m not sure where the study is, and I don’t often make a habit of snooping.”
“Down the hall, first room to your left!” You gesture behind him. “It should already be open. Make yourself at home, and I’ll get some refreshments. Is fruit juice okay?”
“Whatever you have would be lovely, thank you.”
You watch him disappear into the spare bedroom-turned-study before your expression melts into panic and you escape into the kitchen. As soon as you get to the counter, you lean over it, throwing your face into your hands.
Elliott. Elliott! Right here in your house! What the heck! Did you even clean up the study? Did you leave anything embarrassing strewn about? You groan. Please tell me Alex threw out all his protein bar wrappers.
This is fine, actually. So fine. You can be so normal about this. So what if you have a huge crush on him? Doesn’t everyone fall for him at first sight? How can someone lay eyes on Elliott—Elliott with the windblown auburn tresses, the deep belly laughs, the twinkling emerald eyes—and not think him beautiful? In fact, you think, perking up, he must be so used to the whole town being shy around him that there’s no way I’d stand out. That’s right, so you can just grab a bottle of fruit juice from the fridge, march to the study, and put it on the desk. Then you’ll leave him to work in peace.
“I made a batch of blueberry juice yesterday,” you say at his back, your thumb tracing over the bottle’s twist-cap. His sleeves are rolled up to dig through the boxes, and he’s organizing everything into piles, stacking notebooks and loose paper. You clear your throat. “Alex and I are trying different sugar ratios before we start selling to the town. We’d appreciate any feedback.”
“I would be honored to be a taste tester,” Elliott says and turns around, and you’re glad that you already put down the bottle.
You can’t help staring. It has to be illegal for someone to look that good with reading glasses and books cradled in their arms.
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A gasp. “Are you rewriting all of Grandpa’s notes by hand? You don’t have to do that!”
“I don’t mind. I find it relaxing.”
“Still, that’ll take so long. You’re going to spend forever here.”
A flash of a smile. “Is that such a bad thing?”
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.
Erase whatever innocent, gullible impression you had of Alex. He’s revealing himself to be a scheming little stinker because what do you mean George and Evelyn want to have lunch with him all week? He gives you and Elliott an apologetic pout that you don’t believe for a second.
“What a shame you cannot partake again.” Elliott frowns, taking off his glasses and slipping them into his chest pocket, which eases your erratic heartbeat. But then he reaches up to throw his hair into a ponytail, and your breath catches in your throat again. “Please send George and Evelyn my best.”
“Yes, such a shame, can’t believe they would do this, truly. I want nothing more than to have lunch with you guys,” he says and backs towards the door, one foot already over the threshold. Not a word is sincere. “Anyway, I’ll be back in an hour. You two have fun!”
Before you can get a word in, he pivots and hightails it out of there, and you’re left glaring at the door. The cackle fading into the distance is likely a figment of your imagination, but you wouldn’t put it past him, that sneaky meddler. Getting Elliott onto this project wasn’t enough; he has been finding every excuse to leave you alone, and while you’ve been thankful for the opportunity to get to know the beachside author, your superficial crush has also blossomed into a full blown infatuation and you’re not sure what to do about it.
Elliott calls your name hesitantly. He sits at your dining room table, twiddling his thumbs with knitted brows. Today he wears a blue shirt that matches the summer spangles swaying in your garden, and you’re struck once again by how effortlessly handsome he is.
“Yes?”
“I hope I am not interrupting anything.” He worries his lip between his teeth. “Between you and Alex, I mean. I am happy to be of help with the books, but you seem to have a system figured out without them, and I’m simply...I can switch to a typewriter. The rewrite would be done faster.”
You blink at him. And then his faint blush clicks.
“Oh, no!” You throw your hands up, horrified. “No, there is nothing between me and Alex. He’s like a brother.”
“I see,” he says with a nod and exhale. Face burning, you try not to read it as relief.
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“You know, the other day, Elliott asked me what your favorite flower is.”
“Still ignoring you.”
“Okay, but I’m just saying, Lover Boy seems to be more curious about what you like. When you get married, you can thank me in your vows.”
“Alex, I’m going to throw this spade at you.”
“The only thing you’re throwing right now is a fit, grumpy pants,” he teases with a laugh. But when you yawn for the second time, his expression softens. “Want me to help you inside for a nap, or do you want to stay where you are? You look cozy resting there in the shade.” His smile is a flash in the sun. “Better yet, I can call in your future husband—”
“Alex!”
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It’s Elliott who finds out third, though you suspect the town already knows.
You don’t try to hide it, and neither does Alex, who always hovers in case you end up falling asleep anywhere other than home. After years of fighting your workplace for accommodations, the townspeople’s quiet understanding is more than you could’ve hoped for. Emily and Abigail curate stones to line your bedroom window, choosing ones with healing and calming properties; Sebastian and Sam put together a soothing playlist that you’ve fully incorporated into your routine; Jodi and Gus send over extra ingredients or even fully prepared meals, specifically for those low energy days.
Still, Elliott is the third person you officially tell, and that has to count for something.
He eases you from the floor to the sofa, tucking the throw blanket around your waist. He finds your glasses a short distance away and wipes them clean before passing them to you. Once the world comes back into focus, you notice that his hair is swept into a side braid that ends in a floral elastic, and the detail doesn’t escape you, even though it feels like you’re two long blinks away from melting into the plush cushions.
“I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you. “How did you end up on the floor?”
You lift a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. You mumble something, or at least you think you do—you’re doing everything you can to just keep your eyes open and trained on Elliott’s face. He smooths a hand over your forehead, pushing back your hair, and frowns.
“No fever. Alex is still on vacation, so it is only me today,” he says, the slight waver in his tone betraying his calm expression. “I will fetch some water. Stay here, Farmer.”
Where else would I even go? You scoff in your mind as he heads to the kitchen.
You must have fallen asleep at some point, though it only feels like seconds have passed, because when you come to, Elliott’s cardigan is wrapped around your shoulders and a glass of water sits on the coffee table. You flex your fingers first, tracing over the worn material of the sofa, and wiggle your toes until you feel well enough to reach for the water. It rests atop a scrap of paper that you originally mistook for a napkin. If you are looking for me, I am outside, the note reports in Elliott’s familiar handwriting. You take a few sips from the glass, clutching Elliott’s cardigan to your chest. Its scent is a curious mix of salt spray, pomegranate, and ink—uniquely him. Still holding it against you, you make your way to the front door and crack it open.
You almost mistake him for Alex at first—they both have broad shoulders that stretch out your grandpa’s old farming shirts—but then you catch auburn beneath the wide-brimmed sunhat. Elliott stands in the middle of the field, pants streaked with dirt, white shirt nearly transparent with sweat. Still, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen a sight so stunning. In each hand, he holds a packet of seeds, and he tilts his head curiously as he surveys the empty plot before him.
“Pumpkins,” you call out. When he turns and sends you a smile that borders on radiance, you try not to stutter. “We’re supposed to plant pumpkins in that area. Cranberries go in the next one.”
“Noted. I will do my best.”
He tears open the left packet, tucking the other into his back pocket, and deposits little seeds into holes prepared by the dibber, and when he gives each one a pat, you realize that he’s mimicking Alex’s process almost exactly. Somehow, between the hundreds of pages he’s been meticulously copying, he had time to watch and learn.
“Thank you for this,” you say. “For earlier, too.”
He hums. “It’s my pleasure. How did you end up on the floor earlier?”
“Just tired.”
He hums again. He’s nearing the end of the row.
“I have this”—you hesitate—”condition.”
He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even look at you, but it’s clear that he’s listening, so you take a breath and forge on.
You start at the beginning, when your world flipped and suddenly your body couldn’t do as much as before and no one knew what was going on. It took time to figure things out, but when a formal diagnosis finally gave words to find solace in, life didn’t get easier. Knowing what was happening didn’t magically erase all of your difficulties; it simply produced a doctor’s note that your employer barely glanced at, though you had little hopes for Jojo Co anyway. You put in your time, your blood and sweat and tears, but it became clear that working there wouldn’t give you the life you needed, so you placed your bets on Grandpa’s promise.
It’s the perfect place to start a new life.
“I don’t know how he did it, though,” you sigh, hugging your legs. “Mayor Lewis said that the farm was a cornerstone of the community, and after he passed, the town scrambled to make up for its loss. Look at me. Just about a year in, and I still haven’t cleared out the overgrowth. I don’t even know where the property ends.”
Elliott sits back on his heels.
“I don’t think you’re being very fair to yourself,” he says, frowning. He heaves himself to his feet, dusts off his hands, and comes over to sit next to you on the patio, close enough to feel the residual sun radiating from him. Even sitting, his frame towers over yours. “Your grandfather was not an overnight success; it took decades for him to reach that point. I read through the library archives recently. Did you know that the farm started as a fraction of its current size?”
“...I didn’t.” During your childhood, Grandpa’s farm felt like a giant’s paradise.
“He learned many lessons, as well. Did you know that for the first two seasons, he kept planting the wrong seeds and wondering why his Fairy Roses wouldn’t bloom?”
You stifle a laugh at that. You did something similar in Summer, trying to grow potatoes.
“I don’t think you should discredit how much work he put in, nor should you discredit how much work you’re putting in to chase this ideal.”
“I just feel like a fake. Everyone keeps putting requests on the Help Wanted board that I can’t fulfill in time.”
“Who said that you are in charge of completing those requests?”
He leans back on his palms, face tilted to catch the afternoon rays, and a gentle breeze tousles the strands that have escaped his braid. In the silence, you’re aware of the songbirds singing, their chirps ringing in the crisp Fall air.
No one said that you’re in charge of it, but, “The board was repaired after I arrived.”
“A coincidence. Prior to that—not that the board was broken for long anyway—requests would pass by word of mouth or be pinned to the tree next to Pierre’s. Sometimes Emily would ask for a gem, and Abigail would get her one while sneaking around the mines. Sometimes Jodi would want a Catfish for dinner, and Willy would drop one off in her mailbox.” Elliott shrugs. “And if little Vincent can’t have fried catfish, then Jodi improvises.”
He turns to you, resting his cheek on his shoulder.
“This may sound harsh, but the town has survived before you and it will continue to do so. Whatever you do will simply add to people’s lives; that’s the beauty of community, isn’t it?” He pauses, then chuckles. “If you feel like an imposter, consider me. I’m known as an author without having published a single book.”
You shake your head with a giggle.
“You’re exceptional, Farmer. You dream of grandeur. I believe that you have the strength and tenacity to do everything you wish to do. But whenever you find that you don’t have the strength”—his voice drops to a murmur—”I’ll lend you mine.”
It takes a moment for his tone to sink in, but when it does, you jolt, letting out a barking laugh. “Sorry!” you say, feeling your face burn. “Reflex. That sounded kind of romantic, so I just—never mind.”
“Did it? Good.” His gaze strikes you through the heart. “That was my intention.”
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You do thank Alex in your vows. He whoops loudly from the front row.
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Epilogue
You’re awoken with kisses fluttering across your exposed shoulders and the warmth of your husband behind you. You reach back to bury your fingers in his hair and hum in contentment when his hands settle on your waist.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Elliott says, pulling you flush against his chest and pressing a kiss to your head. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby. I guess the Skull Cavern run was more tiring than I thought. How about you?”
“Well enough. No dreams, though. I was hoping to be struck by inspiration in my sleep.”
You turn in his arms until you can tuck your head under his chin and throw your own arms around him. The morning sun spills in from the open window, bathing your newly renovated bedroom in warmth, and you’re tempted to just lay here with him until lunch rolls around, but unfortunately, there’s work to be done.
As if he can read your mind, Elliott starts massaging your back, easing the aches from yesterday’s adventure. “Why don’t we stay in for a little longer, hm?”
“I would love to,” you sigh into his collar, “but the iridium ores from yesterday should be done smelting and I need to make new sprinklers. Maybe we can stop by the Stardrop Saloon today after picking up seeds from Pierre’s? I’ve been craving his spaghetti. And after that, I’ll take it easy. Low energy day today.”
“If the only thing forcing you out of bed is making the iridium sprinklers, then don’t worry about it.” He attempts to hug you closer, but you pull back to look him in the face.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he says, “that the iridium sprinklers are made and already set up. We won’t lose a day of watering, either, since the plots are already prepared. Now let me hug—”
“How?”
You stare in disbelief, running through a mental list of Valley miracles. You’ve had the owl statue, the giant crops, the fairy blessing, but you’ve never heard of a miracle that takes your smelted ores from a furnace, crafts them into farm tools, and hooks them up to your irrigation system.
But then you notice Elliott’s sheepish expression and the way his eyes droop, not unlike yours before an afternoon nap. Your fingers brush against the purple tint beneath his lashes.
“I know I skipped dinner and went to bed early, but iridium still takes eight hours to process, so to do all of that, you must’ve...Ellie, what time did you go to bed?”
“Don’t worry about it, angel.” He moves your fingers to his lips and kisses each one in turn. “I knew you would be tired today, so I did what I could to help. Now that we got that out of the way, will you please let me hold you? Pierre’s doesn’t open for another three hours.”
I did it, Grandpa. You burrow into Elliott’s embrace and feel him sigh around you. I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong.
Since I couldn't comment to let the author know how amazing I thought this was, I am reblogging it! This feels so in character for all the Stardew Valley people, and the descriptions were so vivid I felt like I was going through the game as a realistic, first person, 3D version!
Here are some candid photos of our Club 109 Host and Owner, Sylus from our last exclusive event! Follow our main page to catch photos of our lovely dancers at this recent event!
No because he really is a yearner and a loverboy beneath a grumpy facade, the persona that grew like armor on him through years and years of constant rejection and fighting for his right to live. He really is capable of wanting to give love and care despite all the hatered that this world has been throwing at him since his birth and for his whole life.
Sylus came home from work, plopping on the couch next to you, nuzzling his face against your arm. He purred like a cat before inching his face closer to yours—hoping for a welcome back kiss.
But when you turned your head away, stifling a laugh and putting back your poker face—Sylus thought you were just joking around with him and didn’t pry. However, he doesn’t remember the two of you arguing the past week, he did the chores, cooked, and did everything you asked him to, so why was he not getting a kiss?
He murmured something under his breath, resting his head on your chest before intertwining his fingers with yours.
At least you held hands with him.
When the next morning came along, Sylus thought you were done pranking him. But when he woke up to see you were, in fact, not next to him in bed, he groaned in irritation. You always wait for him to wake up so you could give him a good morning kiss? Why were you avoiding him now?
When he headed to the kitchen and saw you cooking, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into a soft hug. And this is when he took the opportunity to cradle his face against your neck, lightly pressing his lips along your skin, kissing you softly as he trailed up to your lips.
But before he could get one centimeter close to your lips, you pulled away before he could make contact with them.
Sylus’ brows furrowed in frustration and he took a deep breath.
“I’ll be back.” Was all he said before leaving the house. (still in his pyjamas)
Sylus took a while to come back home; it’s been longer than you expected. So as you were sitting on the couch, bickering to mephisto about the prank, the door flung open and Sylus walked in with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, panting like he ran a marathon to get them for you.
His hair was messy, all over the place, eyes were droopy, like he was too stressed on his little trip. He looked like a tired mess.
Before you could say anything—ask about his day, he dropped the flowers next to you, glaring at mephisto, waiting for him to leave, before quietly apologizing for whatever he did.
But you only blinked at him, confused. “Uh..Thank you, and it's fine. You didn’t do anything, actually.”
“I didn’t?”
“Mmm, nope.” You say, dramatically popping the p as you fiddle with the petals of the flower.
“Then you won’t avoid me now?”
“I was never avoiding you.” You mumble, trying to act calm from: one, not laughing. and two, noticing the painful desperation filled in Sylus’ voice, making you hold back from breaking character.
“Really, now?” Sylus inched closer, soon dropping his head low until he’s just inches away from you; and you couldn’t help suck in a short breath the closer he got.
Just before his lips were about to meet yours, you successfully turned your head away, teeth sinking on your quivering bottom lip as you tried to suppress your laugh again.
“Kiss me.”
“Can’t…I, Uh.. ate a really strong dinner and now my breath-”
“Don’t care, sweetie.” Sylus murmurs, tucking a finger under your chin before directing your face towards his.
“Kiss. Now. s’been two days.”
“Well-”
And thank the lords that Mephisto started malfunctioning and cawing like an idiot who’s wires got fucked up by a mad scientist. Sylus just rolled his eyes in irritation, pulling away before storming to the room Mephisto was in.
And when you thought you got away with avoiding his kisses for two days straight; that changed just soon after.
-
“Nnh- s’too- ah! Sylus!” You moan hundreds of pleas as your face was stuffed in the soft pillow your noises were getting muffled in.
Sylus, somehow, grabbed your attention a little too well, and instead of kissing you, you fell for his trap of him saying he needed help with something; and now you were arched on the bed, cuddled with a pillow as Sylus deliriously pounded you like a lustful man who hasn’t had sex in ages.
Sylus moaned in delight as he felt your hips buck at every thrust he fed you—his movements were rough, uneven; they weren’t patient or calm like the other times he fucked you.
His cock sunk deeper in your sweet hole, sucking up every inch of you, feeding every inch you can or can’t take–he was seriously losing it. The growls in his voice were louder than usual, he was more louder than usual—his shaky voice dragged out in agony as he praised you like it’s the first time he’s fucked you.
So blinded from the overwhelming feeling of him fucking you like a wild rabbit, and you reaching closer and closer to climax, Sylus’ fingers eventually slid through your hair, carefully lifting your head up before you could feel his warm presence reach closer to your face.
“Kiss me.” He whispered, planting a kiss on your temple before dragging his lips lower until they reached the corner of your mouth, stopping right there; waiting for you to make the first move.
“Kiss.”
Thrust.
“Me.”
When you quivered your lips, itching to just turn your head and kiss him—you still wanted to play along. The prank wasn’t over yet–
“Please?”
“Ngh- Sylus- w-wait!” You pant out a shaky whimper, trying to focus through your blurry vision when you soon feel his hand snake lower down your stomach, fingers stopping on your clit, giving it a light pinch as he waits for your kiss.
“Please, sweetie.” Sylus groaned, sucking in a breath before pressing his cheek against yours, almost nuzzling himself like a cat. “s’gettin’ hard trying to hold back.”
You gulped up the words creeping up your throat and soon moved your head in the direction his face was in. You felt a sigh of relief brush against your skin and Sylus was happy you were finally listening.
“There we go,” he muttered, rocking his hips in a rhythmic pace…back and forth, back and forth—
“Mmph!”
When you finally crashed your lips onto his, Sylus melted in the kiss immediately. Melted like a snowman on a sunny day. You felt his chest press further against your back, and his heart beat was sky rocketing like crazy.
“Never,” he pulled away for a moment, catching his breath before crashing his lips on yours again, this time more eagerly, like he’s been dying for this touch. “Do that…”
if we look at current cards for sylusmc i don't think he'd really be into "punishments" of any sort, him being rough with mc during their first meeting really bothered him later on and after that he's only been very gentle with handling her in every instance whether in every day life or in more intimate situations
THIS IS SO WELL WRITTEN YES. EXACTLY WHAT I WAS THINKING AFTER MAJORITY OF THE PPL SAID YES.
sylus is really gentle and i think that he’d only indulge if mc wants it, but i feel like idk if he’d enjoy it THAT much yk?…
i honestly only think he’d do it in a playful way to tease you in random moments or if you’re play fighting 🤔 not when you’re disobedient and all.. honestly i don’t think he would punish you physically if youre disobedient.. that isn’t him
anyway the question only popped up because of a tweet i saw 😅 kinda made me curious what other people thought.
"Was the date really that bad you needed me to pick you up?"
You didn't answer and plopped on the velvet seat, slumping your body down before burying your face in your palms, groaning in irritation.
"That's why I told you to not go, sweetie." Sylus sighed, flicking his finger on the steering wheel—thinking if he should start the car or... wait a little longer.
"it wasn't bad, well- I dont know how to explain! there was just no connection."
Sylus nodded. A moment of silence passed between the two of you before he spoke up again. "So... all that practice for nothing, huh?"
You let out an exasperated sigh and nodded, turning your head to the window and stared at the foggy night ahead of you. You weren't that mad about tonight—you were just really unsatisfied.
So unsatisfied to the point you're pinned against the backseat while Sylus towers over you, cascading his large fingers up your thighs, snaking under your skirt before reaching your soaked panties.
A quiet sigh left his lips and you felt the air brush against you. You avoided his gaze, worried about how he might react at such a strange moment between the two of you; but he was surprisingly acting normal... way too normal.
"How'd he do it?" he muttered, asking the question like it was a rhetorical one. Of course he didn't want to know how someone else pleasured you (if you even got pleasured, that is.) so when you stayed silent, shaking your head, bucking your hips towards his fingers, Sylus hummed.
He slid a finger under the fabric of your panties, snaking his fingers lower until they reached your weak spot. But he didn't move yet. He just pressed his fingers against your clit, rubbing slow circular movements before leaning in.
His lips soon found yours and he kissed you with hunger. He was awfully starved without your touch. As his mouth moved against yours, sloppy, open mouthed kisses planting on your damp lips, his fingers started to regain a quicker pace.
He rubbed your clit in a fast movement before snaking his finger down your wet slit, pumping his fingers in and out, dragging his thiick digits along your slick, lazily stroking you.
You moan breathlessly against him, feeling him reach your sweet spots at every thrust of his fingers, he was good, way too good at it. And you hated how he made you feel better at your lowest. It worked every time.
He pulled away, staring down at you with a breathless look before his fingers slid out of your already used cunt. He cupped your knees with his large palms, spreading your legs further apart before pressing himself against you, grinding his hard boner against your leaking pussy.
The movements of his hips were impatient, uneven—he couldn't focus at all. And especially considering the space of the car, he was trying to get things done quickly.
The knocks of his head hitting against the ceiling of the tiny backseat space made it hard for you to focus. Sylus, however, ignored that and continued to grind his painful hardness against you.
"ngh—j-just- please Sylus!"
The moment Sylus heard your plea, he stopped. And before you knew it, his pants were off before you could even blink. The rocks of his hips against yours grew faster and faster, his cock slid against your pussy, he didn't put it in yet, but at every move of his hips, it made you practically beg for at least the tip.
"mhm... patience, sweetie." An exhausted groan left his lips and he pushed your legs back until your knees were pressed against the back seat. Sylus pulled away, staring at your hole, crimson iris glowing at the sight and even though he told you to be patient—he, himself, didn't listen to his own words and patience seemed to be the last thing on Sylus' mind.
Gulping at the sight, he inched closer and pressed his tip against your entrance, glancing at you before looking back down, watching his cock stretch you out at every inch he's feeding you.
You instinctively buck your hips towards his, twitching at the feeling of him filling you up. Inch after inch you started to feel more satisfied, you were reacting a lot more, feeling him give you exactly what you needed for the night.
"Ah- f-feels so good!"
"Doesn't it? Hngh- keep still."
At every brutal thrust getting thrown at you, the loud thuds of sylus' head hitting against the ceiling (once again) gave you the urge to pull him closer, wanting to make him also feel good.
And after convincing him a good amount, you both got distracted, and what was meant to be you pulling him for a quick kiss—that soon got dragged out to you switching positions and now you were arched on the seat as Sylus pounded you from the back.
His hands stayed put on your sides, gripping onto you like you're going to run away. The heat in your body grew stronger and you felt the air in the car suffocate you by the second, it was burning hot.
You lift your head to glance at anything to keep you awake and you notice the condensation of the window start to grow. The fogging ridiculously filled up each tinted window and as you stared—Sylus then pressed his finger against the glass.
"Don't go on your next date," he whispered, leaning in closer before his fingers drew out two familiar letters on the window: both of your initials.
"If you aren't satisfied like right now."
And then, when you thought he was finished, the knot in your stomach tied tighter, you felt sick—you were close. You continue to stare at the window, watching his fingers draw out another thing, this time it was a shape.
He drew a heart.
Around your initials.
a/n. not proofread + I hate pacing, how do I get straight to the point :(( this is literally 1k words, help.
To the Tumblr LADS fandom, can we make a community effort to reblog more posts on this platform?
Ever since I started playing the game this summer and began browsing the main tag, I've noticed the likes to reblog ratio on posts here is not great. Here are examples of two I reblogged with a lot of notes.
A gif set:
And fanart:
This makes me sad. The other day I had even seen a gif maker wonder why they even bother making and posting gifs if fellow fans aren't going to reblog them.
I understand liking a post to add to a queue, but Tumblr is the reblogging site. If there's a post you really like, please reblog it! (:
Another thing gif makers tend to bring up is people reposting their gifs without permission to other platforms like Twitter. Please don't do that.
And on the topic of reposts, there are way too many art reposters in the LADS tag. Please don't repost art that is not your own unless you have permission from the artist.
To any LADS artists, gif makers, and fanfic writers who may be feeling discouraged, know that I appreciate all that you do! <3
they even lash out at people going to planned parenthood for reasons unrelated to abortion...possibly one of the most fucking unhinged political demographics
It’s also a completely false equivalency even if the history of violence wasn’t true.
They pull this same false equivalency with lgbt rights where they act like we take political differences to personally - when their rights aren’t being threatened and we are fighting tooth an nail for our own families and rights.
Roe didn’t reduce their rights in any way. This ruling reduces the bodily autonomy of anyone with a uterus to less than that of a corpse.
still so fucking weird to go from real life, where a cis man being flamboyant/effeminate/camp is judged like 70+% by how he speaks and carries himself, to online queer communities, which often seem to have no concept of male gender non-conformity that doesn’t involve wearing a skirt
i promise you, a man can be fem to the point of being in danger while wearing literally exactly the same thing as a hypermasculine guy. a boring basic black suit. a t shirt and jeans. a UNIFORM. gender conformity is not only about what you wear
Hey so it’s time for the annual “It’s the Non-Denominational Winter Holiday season and I’m a poor disabled tran with very limited income and no nice things” post, if by some small chance I have any rich benefactors following me here’s my Crimsnus list which has a lot of important research material for my work as well as some cute clothes and a lot of nice things I just want. If u buy something from it and enjoy queer swashbuckling adventure fiction lmk and I will send u some ebooks.
DEADLINE: JAN 1. help a disabled trans dude pay his medical insurance.
hey all. quenn here again. disabled trans guy. so the situation is this. i’ve been living on my own for a few months now ( yay for freedom from a transph*bic family! ). the biggest struggle by far has been insurance.
due to all the fees last month, i wasn’t able to pay my premium. i was already behind, but paying extra to get caught up. doesn’t matter, because I was behind, so they canceled it. this means no doctor visits, no hospital treatments, nothing. medicare parts A & B only cover part of the costs. i’d be liable to each hospital, doctor, etc., for the rest, and have to manage paying those, too.
i’m asking you for any assistance you can provide. if you can, share this with your circle of friends. thank you in advance for your time and consideration.
hi my roommate normally buys cat food but we ran out last night and he told me he’s broke and i have to get some myself. my account is overdrafted by 16 dollars and i really don’t want my cat to go hungry, i’m really nervous. i also have to get new litter or else he won’t have any
please i just need to make sure my cat is fed and safe, im really upset right now.
c*shapp: $frogiess
v*mno: @finchfrog
https://www.paypal.me/skyve
Go to paypal.me/skyve and type in the amount. Since it’s PayPal, it's easy and secure. Don’t have a PayPal account? No worries.
now, more than ever, people need to show their support for trans women. JK Rowling is back on her terf shit on twitter and that means self-proclaimed 'radblr' is going to be having a fucking field day celebrating and harrassing trans women calling us rapists.
seriously, drop harry potter. i don't care what your excuse is for reading the books, creating content for it whether it just be dumb tumblr posts or writing fanfiction. take it from a trans girl in the uk - your engagement does have a tangible effect on our lives, and JKR has openly stated that most people who engage with that series agree with her view.
I have a family friend who worked at our local Salvation Army headquarters as a a secretary. This particular office took all the Christmas donations for children in need, put them in a warehouse, and on a designated day the staff and their friends picked through them all, taking whatever they wanted. She saw people hauling away bikes donated for specific families. Some local children had hundreds of dollars of gifts donated in their name, and on Christmas they received three cheap things, items likely not even from the person who sponsored them.
My friend quit, and I’ve not given them a dime of my money since then.
I deal with a lot of agencies who provide disaster relief.
I used to say the Salvation Army’s disaster services were the one (literally the ONE) good thing they did.
They would come in, set up a canteen trailer, make and pass out hot coffee and donated food in a disaster, usually being one of the first agencies to get there and the last to leave.
Then I found out.
Every time they did this, regardless of if they were actually invited or deployed by the agency in charge (usually FEMA, sometimes others) they would SELF-DEPLOY. Meanjng they would just show up. Ok. That’s not TOO bad, sometimes agencies have to take initiative and get there before the red tape is sorted out. BUT. They, after they left at the end of the incident, they would send FEMA or the host agency a BILL. They used one or two paid employees (usually the driver of the truck and a supervisor); and many VOLUNTEERS, but they would bill for EVERYONE’s Labor at standard federal rates. They would bill for the food they distributed even though it was all donated by another agency or private parties. They would bill for the coffee they made and the supplies. Except they would use electricity from the shelter location, water from donations or from the shelter, and in many cases, they would get the coffee and industrial filters DONATED, but bill for them at retail prices.
The Salvation Army is also ass to the workers. A good number of people join it, naively thinking that it’s doing good, and end up leaving cynical and beaten down. The management is hostile, if not outright abusive, and demand some ridiculous hours of it lower to mid-level staff. Don’t support these people.
Also just for even more horrific context on the original twitter thread?
Salvation Army reached out to Milknmuffins and asked what shelter she’s at with the promise to address the abuse in it. She…ended up saying where she was. She was thrown out onto the street. It’s also all on Twitter.
They invited her to a personal talk so she could explain the situation in person.
And then they threatened her with a screenshot of a rape-threat made supposedly by her:
And then threw her out into the street while claiming she broke house rules that
So yeah, the Salvation Army is a bunch of entitled assholes that will treat the most vulnerable like shit if they dare try to do anything that makes them look bad
The “Fuck Salvation Army” posts are making the rounds again, so conisder this your reminder:
Do. Not. Give. These. Assholes. A. Single. Fucking. Penny.
