girl, i got ur lovin' on repeat

a client? very nice to meet you

[ssaeri]

name ; saeri (she/her, adult)

writing for ; fictional people ☆ currently into genshin, stardew valley, tears of themis, & love and deepspace

masterlist ; here ☆ carrd ; here ☆ all writing

notes ; sideblog #8 to post sfw things on a whim

support me on ko-fi

posts here are cross-posted on ao3

i respond to asks, not replies.

thoughts ok! no requests (commission only). you may get blocked.

spam liking is fine, but reblog what you like as well

i block empty/bot-like followers (ask to unblock)

if anything is plagiarized, i will cry and deactivate :)

some ideas/wips ; sdv alex + jealous of shane ; sdv alex + oblivious ; tot artem + missed dates (sorry, your call could not be forwarded) ; lads zayne + injuries (to the stars that hear me)

[ssaeri]

where I belong

☆ 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.”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

“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.

.

.

.

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?”

.

.

.

“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.”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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?”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

“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!”

.

.

.

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.”

.

.

.

You do thank Alex in your vows. He whoops loudly from the front row.

.

.

.

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.

[celtiastar]

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!

[ssaeri]

that's so sweet!! thank you so much for reblogging :) i prefer reblogs with comments anyway. accurate characterization is one of my goals, so the fact that you highlight it here makes me so happy. thank you for reading!!

[ssaeri]

i wore an elliott inspired outfit to the stardew valley concert eheheheheh

[ssaeri]

where i belong

☆ 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 ☆

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.”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

“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.

.

.

.

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?”

.

.

.

“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.”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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?”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

“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!”

.

.

.

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.”

.

.

.

You do thank Alex in your vows. He whoops loudly from the front row.

.

.

.

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.

[ssaeri]

basically what i said on ao3, but: i'm so so glad you liked it!! you were great to work with - super flexible and responsive. elliott is one of my favorite characters (literally so obsessed with that man), and i'm always happy to write about him. because i had the creative freedom to do what i wanted, the story really blossomed, so thank you for trusting my vision, even though you didn't know what you were going to get LOL i spent a lot of time reading about the condition(s) and people's testimonials about daily life, so it warms my heart to see that the story resonated with you! on ao3, you perfectly worded the themes i was going for. it was a pleasure to work with you - thank you again for trusting me with your idea!

[ssaeri]

where I belong

☆ 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.”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

“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.

.

.

.

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?”

.

.

.

“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.”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

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?”

.

.

.

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.

.

.

.

“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!”

.

.

.

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.”

.

.

.

You do thank Alex in your vows. He whoops loudly from the front row.

.

.

.

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.

[ssaeri]

we fall to ashes

☆ tags: alex x gn!reader, he finds something that he never expected to see on your farm, this was going to be angst with an angst ending, but then my sister begged me to not write a sad ending, so have this relieving happy ending instead, LOTS of alex spoilers! ☆

Alex stretches his arms over his head and breathes in deep. In the distance, he hears chickens screaming—a sure sign that he's getting closer to your farm. The walk from his house isn't short, but while his grandparents would complain about the distance, he finds it ideal for cooling down after his harder work-outs. And he gets to see you at the end? He'd say that's a winner winner chicken dinner situation...out of earshot from your coop, at least.

"Hey there! Evelyn's boy!" Pam calls from his right.

He slows to a stop and waves. She sits in the driver seat of her newly repaired bus, window fully open, and takes another swig from her Joja Cola. Immediately, her face scrunches.

"Mornin', Pam!" he yells back. "How's that alcohol detox going for you?"

"Awful." She smacks her lips and holds the can up to her eyes, searching the ingredients for what makes it so fucking nasty. You often joke that it's the bitter taste of capitalism. "I could go for something stronger in this heat. You think the farmer has an extra glass of pale ale?"

Alex's smile tightens. Ever since Pam and Penny's trailer turned into an actual house, Pam's been doing her best to break old habits and he's glad for it—he can finally walk by her without the reflexive gag and hurried steps. You telling me I stink? she used to ask, angry in her drunken stupor, until she remembered why he showed up on his grandparents' steps nearly two decades ago.

She must read it in his expression now because she waves him off with a roll of her eyes. "I'm kidding, kid. Tell 'em I said hi. They're the only one who takes this damn bus anyway. I might as well take a nap." She slides sunglasses onto her face and reclines her chair until he can't see her anymore. "If I'm still here by the time you go home, wake me up."

Classic Pam, he thinks as he continues to your farm. Your dog is already running from the front door to greet him, panting and barking and disturbing your horse's peace.

"Come on, buddy," he laughs, shooing your dog until he can push open the gate. "I was supposed to surprise them."

Alex scratches your horse's ear as he passes its stable. Grape vines twist and sag on the trellises you've set up for the season, the structures nearly bursting with fruit, and he makes a mental note to stop by tomorrow to help with the harvesting. Maybe it could substitute for a work-out. He's helped you ship boxes of produce before and wondered how ripped he'd be after a month of your lifestyle. Between the trellises, the melons are just starting to come in. He doesn't know how long it takes for them to ripen, only that they taste really good when you drop off a basket for his grandma.

He calls out your name. Not in the fields, not in the pasture. Your new greenhouse, maybe? You were muttering something about ancient fruit last night. Or the mushroom cave, something he still can't believe is a feature on your farm. If Demetrius could add that, maybe Alex could talk you into installing an outdoor lifting station.

He walks past your workbench and active machines...

...and walks backwards again, hoping that his eyes are deceiving him. Crystalariums reproducing diamonds to sell, charcoal kilns working double time for enough coal, bone mills churning out fertilizer, geode crushers crunching rocks into pebbles, furnaces roaring as they smelt ores into bars—and right on top of the furthest furnace sits a wrapped bundle he's only seen in his (second to) worst nightmares.

He hears your content humming now, somewhere in the main farmhouse. Under normal circumstances, he would've called it cute, but the sound rings mockingly in his ears as he approaches the darkened flowers. A wilted bouquet. Fuck.

.

.

"Oh, hey there!" Alex called out as you got closer. He tossed his ever-present gridball into the air. "You here to catch fish again? I think you can find salmon in the river this time of year. At least that's what I heard."

Once you came to a stop in front of him, you shook your head, hands still behind your back. "I'm not fishing today," you said. "I actually wanted to give you something."

"Yeah?" His lips quirked into a grin. Another toss into the air. "Wouldn't happen to be a Salmon Dinner with extra lemon, would it? Those are one of my favorites, but I can never catch any salmon myself. Another egg would be cool, too. I've been adding your weekly deliveries to my workout meals."

You only shifted from one foot to the other, unable to take your eyes off his shoes, and a part of him faltered. You weren't intimidated by him, were you? Ever since you found him crying on the beach, he had been a little more flirtatious than usual, layering on the teasing and showing off. Maybe he came on too strong. Haley always told him that subtlety wasn't his strong suit. The grip on his gridball changed as he tossed it higher.

"You okay there? Did I do something...wait, this is—ow!"

The ball bounced off his head and landed in the grass, but he couldn't care less. He pointed to the bouquet in your hands. Not a regular bouquet, but the Bouquet made to order by Pierre. In a place as small as Pelican Town, there was no need for Pierre to have it in constant stock, so when the signature blooms made the rare appearance, they attracted everyone's eyes.

"...you want to get more serious?" he asked, incredulous.

Something in your expression changed, and you drew the flowers back to your chest. "Oh, sorry, did you not?" You gave him a wide smile, already stepping away. "I must've read the signs wrong. My mistake."

"No! That's not—I mean, you read the signs correctly. I, uh, I feel the same way." He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling his face flush. "So I guess we're together now? Should I be asking you out on a date or something? Or wait, are you asking me out on a date? How does this work?"

You laughed, a genuine sound this time. "We can continue the way we were before."

And so you did, but some things changed for sure. He could hold your hand now as you ran errands around the town, carrying half of the gifts you handed out to the townspeople. He could kiss you goodbye at his door in the evenings, though George cleared his throat loudly every time. Alex remembered making some snide comment about his grandpa, who yelled out a gruff I heard that! before being shushed by Evelyn. When It Howls in the Rain was being shown at the town theater, you bribed him to a screening with the promise of Stardrop Sorbet, but as much as he loved the treat, he would've gone anyway—it was one of his favorite movies with one of his favorite people. Good thing he'd seen it before because he spent most of the time staring at your side profile, wondering when he could finally go pro and have you stare at him on a screen.

.

.

Your dog nips at his fingers. He pets it absently. He thought everything was going fine between the two of you. Just yesterday, you came over and had dinner with him and his grandparents. You told them about your mining adventures in the Skull Caverns and, to his horror, showed off your old stitches from Harvey. (George chided your reckless behavior and gave old-timey advice that you nodded along to.) You talked about the new farm you're setting up at Ginger Island—Ancient Fruit wine all year! you told them excitedly. It's a farmer's heaven!—and the Beach Resort you're trying to restore. (Evelyn hummed at your energy, asking rapid-fire questions about the flora there.) You even promised to bring over a season's worth of eggs and leeks as soon as you got your hands on them. (Alex's mind flashed to the old mariner and the mermaid's pendant he could see hanging around your neck in the future.)

So why is a wilted bouquet sitting here, right on top of your furnaces?

No point in guessing when he can just find out the answer right from the source. He takes the flowers and goes to your door, knocking twice. It opens before he has time to second guess his choice.

"Alex! I didn't know you were coming over," you say, beaming at him. He wants to immortalize this version of you: face full of dirt smudges and t-shirt collar soaked through with sweat, yet glowing in your element. Until your eyes drop to his hands. "Oh, that's..."

He sets his jaw. "Can I come in and talk?"

Your expression falters further at his cold tone, but you step back and lead him to the living room. Your dog trots in and settles by the TV, head on its paws, watching with blank eyes. Alex sits in his usual spot and you yours, and suddenly he hates how familiar he is with your space.

It's still silent.

You clear your throat. "So," you start, wiping your palms on your jeans. A nervous tick he knows well. "What did you want to talk about?"

He puts the bouquet on the coffee table between you.

"Right." You pause, likely waiting for him to continue, but he doesn't say anything. "Alex, can you at least be less mean about this? I feel like you owe me that much after all this time together." He says nothing. "Like, tell me what's wrong instead of sitting here stone-faced. Things were okay. Why are you breaking up with me—"

"Why am I breaking up with you?" He barks a laugh. "Baby, I found this outside on your furnace! I'm not going to beg for you to stay, but what the hell is this?"

Your forehead furrows. "What? I wouldn't."

"If it's not yours and it's not mine, then whose is it?"

"I don't know! Alex, I wouldn't—I never even thought about breaking up," you insist. "Why would I lie about that?"

After scrutinizing your stricken expression, his relief comes in waves. He sinks into your couch, hands rubbing at his face.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, just—" He laughs again, the sound mostly air. "Yoba, that scared me. If someone left this here as a prank, I'm hunting them down tonight." He lifts his head to look at you and opens his arms. "Can you come over here?"

You wrinkle your nose. "I'm gross."

"You could be playing in mud with your pigs, and I'd still jump in."

With a roll of your eyes, you hop over to curl into his side and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You stink, but so does he after a good workout. Now that he thinks about it, he's still in his gym clothes.

"You scared me, too," you tell him, gaze trained on the table. "Not the best thing to see on a Friday afternoon. But now I want to know whose this is. Did you check it for clues?"

"Didn't bother. Thought it was yours." His arm around your waist tightens as you lean forward. "Does it matter?"

But that doesn't stop you. You have the bouquet in your lap now, prying at the blackened ribbon and wrapping. "Look at this," you say, holding it between two fingers. "The ribbon isn't blue, and Pierre always uses blue. The wrap is pretty much disintegrated, but this corner—he always puts his store brand." You suck in a breath. "Oh, duh! Where did you say you found this?"

"The furnaces right outside by the workbench."

"Okay, so mystery solved. This is mine, but not in the way you think."

He raises an eyebrow. "Explain. Don't say you're breaking up with a secret partner because I don't think I can handle a second shock right now."

"I made a wildflower bouquet to put on Grandpa's grave a few days ago, but I totally forgot where I put it, so I made a second one. This one must've been the one I misplaced."

He blinks. "How the hell did you not notice it since?"

"I came back from Ginger Island yesterday and went to sleep right after dinner! The flowers must've wilted from the furnace heat."

"You," he says slowly, pinching your cheek and ignoring your squeak, "are the absolute worst. I can't believe you nearly broke my heart and it turned out to be a whoopsie."

[ssaeri]

thank you for the reblog!! alex is such a cutie...seeing him mean and bitter through y/n for a loop for sure...

[ssaeri]

for your eyes only

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, elliott and farmer are married, he writes love poems for his spouse and is told to monetize them, oh boy is he not happy about that ☆

You pat your pig's backside encouragingly and coo as it digs its snout into the ground, unearthing yet another truffle that you add to your basket. Can't believe you were worried about this one being the runt of its litter—it's quickly proving to be one of the fastest learners, taking to truffle hunting like a duck to water. It'll do just fine with the rest of the adult pigs.

Taking care of the farm by yourself has always been a gargantuan task, but as the years go by, everything grows bigger—the coops, the barns, the ponds, the crops, the expectations—and exhaustion wears you down to the bone. You sigh and push to your feet, ready to head into the nearest coop to collect more eggs. Collect animal products, drop them into churning machines, harvest and sell. It feels like the cycle never ends. Against your neck, the small mermaid's pendant slides on its chain, another reminder of your absent husband. An extra pair of helping hands made the daily work light; you wonder if it's selfish to ask him to stay home more often.

"I know, I know," you say to your angry chickens once you open the door. You miss your husband, but these girls like to remind you that they miss him more. "He'll be home soon. Bear with me, okay?"

After giving each of them pats on the head, a motion they accept with reluctance, you dig around the hay for eggs. The large chicken and dinosaur eggs are easy to spot, but for the delicate duck eggs, you prod every corner with your fingers until you come across something warm and smooth. You push away your hens as they peck at your hands. The ducks are fine with you. The chickens, however...how in the world did Elliott win them over?

Outside, your dog barks. A single warning to the intruder before the tone shifts into excitement. Someone familiar, then. Maybe Marnie is stopping by to give you some hay like she mentioned last night. With winter approaching, any addition to your reserves is appreciated, and you're already wiping your hands on your overalls to greet her.

"Hey, Marnie! I'm just in here—"

You stop in your tracks when the visitor raises his head, though he's not exactly a visitor. Elliott smiles as you draw close, ignoring the horde of chickens now lining the fence for his attention. Their wings flap, clucking loudly as they hit each other.

"Good morning, my love," he says over the noise, as if it really is the start to a normal day. His thumb reaches out to rub at a dirt smudge on your cheek. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Just some leftovers and coffee," you reply, dazed. Your husband tends to have that effect, and after two weeks apart, you feel it more than ever. You lean into his touch, comforting against your wind-blown skin. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"I decided to come back early. The office didn't need me today, anyway."

"You should've messaged me! I would've picked you up at the train station," you say. Behind him sits his traveling suitcase, the wheels speckled with mud from being dragged through the road. He steps in front of it. "Why don't you go get unpacked? I'll be done soon."

He leans his elbows onto the fence, tilting his head until his fiery hair spills over one shoulder. "You're rather quick to dismiss my presence. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're unhappy to see me," he says, though his words hold no accusation. It's merely a way to boost his ego when you reassure him. After all, you practically radiate by his side. "Would you like me to help?"

You glance at the dress shoes, the slacks, the spotless cardigan that he's already shrugging off to reveal a clean pressed button-down. Not exactly farm-friendly attire. "No, I'll be alright by myself."

"I could go change really quickly," he offers in a suspicious rush.

You search his expression then, and underneath the joy of being back, there's...something. You squint, unable to make it out. Sure, he must've missed you, but this feels like it runs deeper than that. When you give him a nod, he hurries towards the house, your dog chasing and barking at his heels. True to his word, he's back in minutes.

The chickens are much more cooperative now, and you roll your eyes at how they parade around your husband. They even hop around the coop, showing him where they've hidden their eggs from your intrusive searching.

"Thank you, dearies," he says to the hens. You swear they swoon.

"A real heart breaker," you deadpan. "Have you told them you're married?"

He chuckles, taking your hand as you move into the barns next door. While you lay out new hay on the feeding bench, he unhooks the stools and milk pails and sets them on either side of the door. It's hard to believe that just a few months ago he barely knew how to approach your animals, let alone help you with the chores.

He whistles lowly, and the first cow trudges to his station, ready to be milked. You get settled at your own station. One of the newer goats skids to the front of the line, eager to be let outside. It's not quiet in the barn—it never is, not with twelve grown animals waiting for their turn—but when you call Elliott's name, he looks at you. His ponytail needs to be retied.

"So why'd you come home early?" The young adult goats don't have much milk, just enough for a small container. You pat its hind leg, and it runs into the crisp autumn air with an excited bleat.

"I missed the atmosphere of our farm. The fresh air of the valley is good for my creative soul, unlike the bustle of Zuzu City."

You only raise your eyebrows, and he sighs from your all-knowing gaze.

"You read me a little too well, my love."

"I sure hope so, after all this time together. Did something happen at the office?"

Since the release of his last collection of short stories, he's been invited to the city more often for author-related events. This latest stint, running a series of writing workshops in partnership with Zuzu University and the local community, was organized by his agent in hopes of bigger opportunities. Maybe even a guest lecturer contract, they've said on more than one occasion, though Elliott refuses to be apart from you for too long.

Elliott gives another sigh. "Something like that. I just...it was admittedly negligence on my part. I was in the middle of writing you another letter when someone required my presence down the hall. I thought that it'd be a quick matter, so I didn't clear my desk. But apparently one of the secretaries came looking for me while I was out."

"Did they read...?" You wrinkle your nose, knowing how private Elliott is about his unpolished work. He's even more private about what he writes for your eyes only. "I'm sure they were embarrassed."

"That's what bothers me the most! She had the audacity to bring it up in front of everyone when we had a meeting, even quoted a few lines—"

The cow groans as he moves particularly rough. He gives it an apologetic scratch under the chin.

"So for the past two days, everyone has been trying to talk me into releasing a collection of love poems, which I would have no issues with if it didn't stem from such a personal...I mean, the poems were addressed to my muse, and when I explained that it was you, they said that was even better. Something about how the romance will really sell." He frowns. "I like being able to support myself—contribute to our funds, you know—with my writing, but it's not...a commodity. I'm allowed to make art for the sake of making art."

His forehead is furrowed, and you would reach out to ease the frustration if your hands weren't busy.

"What's your plan now?"

He scoffs. "There's no plan regarding that. I completely refuse. It's quite insulting, in fact, the idea that I'd put my love on display for a paycheck."

It's relieving, you have to admit. Even after getting a taste of success, your husband remains the same person you said your vows to. The same romantic who holds you in such high esteem. There's so many emotions—namely affection—swirling in your chest, but you're not the writer so all you manage is a simple Okay.

"Okay," you say again for good measure, but he must understand you because his expression smooths. "So what do you want for lunch?"

[indarius]

oh my gosh i’ve had my eye on elliott since i’ve started playing stardew (minor details to haley and sam) but i think i just fell in love. 😨😨😨

[ssaeri]

as you should! I think that everyone should be in love with elliott

[ssaeri]

the moon as our witness

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, established relationship, reader is farmer, moonlit beach picnic, alcohol mention, drunk shenanigans, silly people in a silly relationship, I quite like the location of elliott’s beach house, I wish we could keep it when we marry him ☆

When Elliott invited you to his home for a picnic under the full moon, you said yes immediately. He’s the writer, not you, but there was something to be said about the feeling of wind in your hair, salt on your tongue, and sand beneath your feet.

And when it came to beach picnics, Elliott could not be beat. At ten o’clock exactly, you walked around his house and arrived at a scene taken straight out of his romance novels. He offered you a glass of wine as you slipped off your sandals and settled onto the checkered blanket next to him. The only thing he let you do was provide the ingredients; he insisted on doing the rest himself. Lemon butter lobster, glazed potatoes, garlic stir-fried string beans, chopped kale and parsnip salad, steamed cauliflower, wild rice, and—he promised with a wink—a strawberry and rhubarb pie waiting in the oven.

The epitome of spring in a meal. You thought that the night was going to be perfect.

However, a bottle and a half of pomegranate wine, split between both your glasses, was all it took for your sweet picnic to devolve into something else entirely.

You wrestle the wooden oar from his hands, and Elliott honest-to-Yoba pouts at you.

”It still counts as operating a vehicle under the influence,” you say, pointing the handle of the oar at his flushed face. “As much as I love you, I am not continuing a relationship behind bars.”

Elliott, ever the drama queen, falls back onto the blanket and throws an arm over his eyes. “O, cruel and cursed fates! You have bound my heart to someone whose love is conditional!” he bemoans to the stars. After a beat of silence, he peeks under his arm. “Wait a minute, the Valley doesn’t even have a jail. Lewis is our only form of law enforcement, and he would simply slap a fine on my door.”

“Taking advantage of an underdeveloped justice system, I see.”

He sits up. “At this hour, you’re the only one around,” he says, slowly turning to you. You do not like that glint in his eyes.  “I’d never be caught if I just…get rid of the only witness.”

You shriek when he pounces and pushes you onto the sand. The oar doesn’t help, either; it keeps you pinned as he giggles breathlessly into your neck, his hands coming to rest on your waist. It takes some wiggling to move the oar out from between you, but once it’s free, you toss it to the side. It lands somewhere with a soft thud.

Elliott settles his head against your shoulder and sighs. After a moment, he says, “You smell lovely.”

“And you’re tickling me,” you retort, but you make no move to change positions. He smells nice, too—a curious mix of pomegranate, sea salt, and ink that’s uniquely his. You feel him smile into your skin as you thread fingers through his hair.

Distantly, waves crash onto the shore, and somewhere at the end of the pier, a leashed wooden rowboat bobs on the water, awaiting its passengers who are—much to Elliott’s disappointment—too inebriated to enjoy a romantic view on the ocean.

You’ll pass, thanks. You’ve seen the movies, you know what would happen next, and waking up stranded on a random island in the middle of the Gem Sea is not on your bucket list.

You’re enjoying the view just fine—here, on solid ground. The full moon bathes everything in a gentle hue, peeking around tree tops like a halo. And the stars. You never saw stars like this from your cramped apartment in the city. Going from the honking bustle of downtown Zuzu City to the buzzing cicadas of Stardew Valley was a hard transition for a cityslicker like you. When you first arrived here, the quiet of evening was unnerving; the silence made space for your thoughts, and the dark for your fears. Time slowed, and for seasons, it felt like you were drowning. Until you let yourself be held by the Valley’s embrace—its land, its resources, its people—and realized that maybe you were actually just learning how to breathe.

You breathe in deep, just because you can.

“It’s beautiful tonight,” you murmur, arms spread wide.

Elliott rolls to the side and props his head up with one hand. “Very beautiful,” he agrees, unabashedly staring at your face.

You push him over. “Okay, cheeseball.”

He only falls onto his back with a chuckle. “...it was also a full moon when you gave me the Bouquet.”

“How do you remember that?”

“How do you not?”

“I’m pretty sure I blacked out. I just remember chasing you after you left the saloon earlier than expected, and when I woke up, you were hugging me.”

“Well,” he hesitates, then sighs. “Yes, I must admit you made little sense at the time. Perhaps a stammer of my name as a warning before shoving the flowers into my face. But on the footbridge under a full moon? Incredibly romantic, dear. Great job; I couldn’t have done better if I tried.”

“Are you kidding me?” You sit up and gesture at the food. By some miracle of Yoba, you’ve managed to make a sizeable dent in the spread, but you hope that he has a cabinet full of takeout containers and space in the fridge.

“You deserve at least this,” he says absently, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, “if not more for making me the happiest man alive.”

You have to turn to hide the smile on your face, but you’re not fast enough—he sits up and catches your chin, earnest green eyes boring into yours. He scans your features like he’s committing them to memory, and then his gaze flits to your lips. You don’t know if you lean in first or if he does, but the kiss is inevitable either way.

His lips are soft, the movements steeped in wine and adoration, and you distantly register the hand on your chin smoothing out to cup your face. Elliott is always gentle with you. Cradling. Cherishing.

When he pulls back to pepper more kisses across your forehead, you pretend to wrinkle your nose in annoyance.

“Hey, why does it feel like I’m forgetting something?”

“I don’t know.”

.

.

.

Three or so kisses later, you both snap to attention at the same time. “The pie!”

[ssaeri]

for your eyes only

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, elliott and farmer are married, he writes love poems for his spouse and is told to monetize them, oh boy is he not happy about that ☆

You pat your pig's backside encouragingly and coo as it digs its snout into the ground, unearthing yet another truffle that you add to your basket. Can't believe you were worried about this one being the runt of its litter—it's quickly proving to be one of the fastest learners, taking to truffle hunting like a duck to water. It'll do just fine with the rest of the adult pigs.

Taking care of the farm by yourself has always been a gargantuan task, but as the years go by, everything grows bigger—the coops, the barns, the ponds, the crops, the expectations—and exhaustion wears you down to the bone. You sigh and push to your feet, ready to head into the nearest coop to collect more eggs. Collect animal products, drop them into churning machines, harvest and sell. It feels like the cycle never ends. Against your neck, the small mermaid's pendant slides on its chain, another reminder of your absent husband. An extra pair of helping hands made the daily work light; you wonder if it's selfish to ask him to stay home more often.

"I know, I know," you say to your angry chickens once you open the door. You miss your husband, but these girls like to remind you that they miss him more. "He'll be home soon. Bear with me, okay?"

After giving each of them pats on the head, a motion they accept with reluctance, you dig around the hay for eggs. The large chicken and dinosaur eggs are easy to spot, but for the delicate duck eggs, you prod every corner with your fingers until you come across something warm and smooth. You push away your hens as they peck at your hands. The ducks are fine with you. The chickens, however...how in the world did Elliott win them over?

Outside, your dog barks. A single warning to the intruder before the tone shifts into excitement. Someone familiar, then. Maybe Marnie is stopping by to give you some hay like she mentioned last night. With winter approaching, any addition to your reserves is appreciated, and you're already wiping your hands on your overalls to greet her.

"Hey, Marnie! I'm just in here—"

You stop in your tracks when the visitor raises his head, though he's not exactly a visitor. Elliott smiles as you draw close, ignoring the horde of chickens now lining the fence for his attention. Their wings flap, clucking loudly as they hit each other.

"Good morning, my love," he says over the noise, as if it really is the start to a normal day. His thumb reaches out to rub at a dirt smudge on your cheek. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Just some leftovers and coffee," you reply, dazed. Your husband tends to have that effect, and after two weeks apart, you feel it more than ever. You lean into his touch, comforting against your wind-blown skin. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"I decided to come back early. The office didn't need me today, anyway."

"You should've messaged me! I would've picked you up at the train station," you say. Behind him sits his traveling suitcase, the wheels speckled with mud from being dragged through the road. He steps in front of it. "Why don't you go get unpacked? I'll be done soon."

He leans his elbows onto the fence, tilting his head until his fiery hair spills over one shoulder. "You're rather quick to dismiss my presence. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're unhappy to see me," he says, though his words hold no accusation. It's merely a way to boost his ego when you reassure him. After all, you practically radiate by his side. "Would you like me to help?"

You glance at the dress shoes, the slacks, the spotless cardigan that he's already shrugging off to reveal a clean pressed button-down. Not exactly farm-friendly attire. "No, I'll be alright by myself."

"I could go change really quickly," he offers in a suspicious rush.

You search his expression then, and underneath the joy of being back, there's...something. You squint, unable to make it out. Sure, he must've missed you, but this feels like it runs deeper than that. When you give him a nod, he hurries towards the house, your dog chasing and barking at his heels. True to his word, he's back in minutes.

The chickens are much more cooperative now, and you roll your eyes at how they parade around your husband. They even hop around the coop, showing him where they've hidden their eggs from your intrusive searching.

"Thank you, dearies," he says to the hens. You swear they swoon.

"A real heart breaker," you deadpan. "Have you told them you're married?"

He chuckles, taking your hand as you move into the barns next door. While you lay out new hay on the feeding bench, he unhooks the stools and milk pails and sets them on either side of the door. It's hard to believe that just a few months ago he barely knew how to approach your animals, let alone help you with the chores.

He whistles lowly, and the first cow trudges to his station, ready to be milked. You get settled at your own station. One of the newer goats skids to the front of the line, eager to be let outside. It's not quiet in the barn—it never is, not with twelve grown animals waiting for their turn—but when you call Elliott's name, he looks at you. His ponytail needs to be retied.

"So why'd you come home early?" The young adult goats don't have much milk, just enough for a small container. You pat its hind leg, and it runs into the crisp autumn air with an excited bleat.

"I missed the atmosphere of our farm. The fresh air of the valley is good for my creative soul, unlike the bustle of Zuzu City."

You only raise your eyebrows, and he sighs from your all-knowing gaze.

"You read me a little too well, my love."

"I sure hope so, after all this time together. Did something happen at the office?"

Since the release of his last collection of short stories, he's been invited to the city more often for author-related events. This latest stint, running a series of writing workshops in partnership with Zuzu University and the local community, was organized by his agent in hopes of bigger opportunities. Maybe even a guest lecturer contract, they've said on more than one occasion, though Elliott refuses to be apart from you for too long.

Elliott gives another sigh. "Something like that. I just...it was admittedly negligence on my part. I was in the middle of writing you another letter when someone required my presence down the hall. I thought that it'd be a quick matter, so I didn't clear my desk. But apparently one of the secretaries came looking for me while I was out."

"Did they read...?" You wrinkle your nose, knowing how private Elliott is about his unpolished work. He's even more private about what he writes for your eyes only. "I'm sure they were embarrassed."

"That's what bothers me the most! She had the audacity to bring it up in front of everyone when we had a meeting, even quoted a few lines—"

The cow groans as he moves particularly rough. He gives it an apologetic scratch under the chin.

"So for the past two days, everyone has been trying to talk me into releasing a collection of love poems, which I would have no issues with if it didn't stem from such a personal...I mean, the poems were addressed to my muse, and when I explained that it was you, they said that was even better. Something about how the romance will really sell." He frowns. "I like being able to support myself—contribute to our funds, you know—with my writing, but it's not...a commodity. I'm allowed to make art for the sake of making art."

His forehead is furrowed, and you would reach out to ease the frustration if your hands weren't busy.

"What's your plan now?"

He scoffs. "There's no plan regarding that. I completely refuse. It's quite insulting, in fact, the idea that I'd put my love on display for a paycheck."

It's relieving, you have to admit. Even after getting a taste of success, your husband remains the same person you said your vows to. The same romantic who holds you in such high esteem. There's so many emotions—namely affection—swirling in your chest, but you're not the writer so all you manage is a simple Okay.

"Okay," you say again for good measure, but he must understand you because his expression smooths. "So what do you want for lunch?"

[ssaeri]

i hope you did!! it's my "everyone, marry elliott" agenda - glad it's seen success

[ssaeri]

the taste of home

☆ tags: harvey & gn!reader, harvey tells everyone to eat home-cooked meals because they're better for you (dialogue line), you find out that he mostly eats microwave meals, gift-giving is this farmer's love language, can be read ROMANTICALLY ☆

Maru startles when you enter the clinic, her galaxy-themed pen pausing over a stack of paperwork. Once she realizes that it's just you, her shoulders drop, a half-smile blossoming on her lips.

"Scared me," she says with a huff of a laugh. She closes the manila folder and tucks it away, the motion smooth with practiced efficiency. "I thought I forgot about an appointment or something."

"That's nonsense, Mar. Nothing could ever get past you. I swear you eat organizational tabs for breakfast," you say, waving off her concern. Leaning over the counter, you drop your chin into a palm. "Is the doctor in?"

Her amused expression turns into an eye roll, and she jabs a thumb over her shoulder. "In the private examination room, I think, but make sure you knock first. Last I saw, he was cleaning out the cabinet, and I really don't want to help clean up another jump scare."

"I do it because it's fun to tease him, not to make your job harder," you insist. Opening up your bag, you rummage around for a few seconds before pulling out a glass jar. "But just as an apology for what happened last week, I brought you this. My best strawberry preserves for the best nurse in Pelican Town."

"I'm the only nurse in Pelican Town," she retorts, but still, she hums appreciatively as she takes it, fingers dancing over her name on the lid. You already know that she and Demetrius buy half of your stock at Pierre's, even if she says that they share with the entire family. "While you're back there, can you tell Dr. Harvey that I'm clocking out in fifteen minutes? We were supposed to discuss a patient today, but I think he forgot. I'll finish up here and touch base with him tomorrow."

"Yes, ma'am."

You send her a two-fingered salute that she vaguely returns. Then you disappear into the corridor that melts into the clinic's main hallway. Other than the waiting room you were in, the hallway leads to four other places: the patient room, which holds privacy curtains, two soft beds, and a firm bed that you've grown to dislike after all your Skull Cavern emergency surgeries; the stairway up to Harvey's apartment, blocked by two metal doors; the back of the reception desk; and a private examination room, which doubles as Harvey's office.

Harvey's in there now, back to the door, hands on his hips as he surveys the mess by his feet. His green blazer is flung over the exam bed, and he has his sleeves rolled to his elbows. An end of the day vibe, for sure. You look over your shoulder and see Maru staring at you, pretending to rapt her knuckles on her desk. Fine, you mouth, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. Satisfied, she turns back to her work.

"Knock, knock," you sing at Harvey's door. Despite your announcement, he jumps, hand over his heart as he whirls around. His brown eyes are wide behind his glasses.

"Farmer," he sighs. "You scared me."

"Not the first time I heard that today," you laugh, striding into the room. Behind you, you hear Maru's door click closed. "Your lovely nurse said that she's clocking out soon, by the way. Fifteen minutes."

He glances at his watch. "Oh dear, is it already that time? I guess I got distracted by all the supplies." He drags a hand down his face. "I ordered a new shipment of bandage wrap yesterday, only to find a brand new box in the back. Apparently I did this last time, too. I need to spend my next free day taking inventory."

"I'll just make a few more trips to Skull Cavern and use those right up," you say, but when his glare snaps to your face, you hold up your hands placatingly. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Do you need any help right now?"

He pauses, surveying the stacked boxes, but finally sighs a soft No. "I'll just leave things like this so that I remember tomorrow. Why don't you head upstairs and get settled first? I think the coffee machine is about ready to go."

Now it's your turn to shoot him a look. "How many cups have you had today?"

He flushes. "O-only one this morning! Please don't say anything. Can you just set up the table upstairs?"

You tsk, pretending to be disappointed, if only to get back at him for always giving unsolicited health advice. But he's been helping you a lot lately, so you guess you can cut him a break.

As always, the smell of coffee lingers in the air, growing stronger as you trudge up the stairs. When you first befriended him, it was the only thing you knew he liked. He made sure to always have a tumbler in hand as he walked to the river in the afternoons, and you took note of it. Twice a week, you dropped by to give him a warm cup, which he always took appreciatively, but Maru was quick to tell you what else Harvey liked. You don't want to encourage him, she said mysteriously.

You started giving him more pickles after that.

His room is bathed in orange as the sun sets, light catching on the airplane models scattered across his dining table. They look untouched, frozen in the same positions as last week. Not much to set up, then. You flick on the overhead light and make your way to the kitchen.

Though it’s more of a break room than a kitchen, now that you think about it. You’ve only been over here once or twice. Between the microwave and coffee machine, there’s barely any counter space left, and you wonder how he ever gets any cooking done without a stove. He told you once that he mostly eats food from the Stardrop Saloon, but…your eyes narrow. What about all his lectures about home-cooked meals?

You move around clumsily, unsure of where everything is. Eventually, you find two mugs in the overhead cabinet, coffee packets in the drawer, sugar cubes in a cute little jar you gifted him the other month. The machine whirs and dribbles fresh coffee into the waiting mugs. Just as they top off, you hear footsteps on the stairs.

“Hey, Harvey?” you call out. “Do you have any milk or cream?”

“I have vanilla creamer in the fridge, second shelf,” he replies, but then you hear a sharp intake. “Wait, I’ll get it—”

Too late. You’ve already opened his fridge. The bottle of creamer is there—you pull it out and set it on the counter—but it’s also the only thing there other than half a head of lettuce.

“What the hell?” You scan the empty shelves. “Do you need to go grocery shopping? Pierre’s is closed, but Joja’s open late if you need to pick anything up.”

“No need, I’ll go shopping tomorrow,” he says, hurrying over. He squeezes past you, puts a dash of cream in each mug, and pushes the coffee into your hands. “Go and sit down. I’ll put this away.”

“Oookay.” You furrow your brows. What’s going on? “I’m kind of in the mood for iced coffee, though. Can I let my cup cool in the freezer for a bit and add ice to it?”

“Yes.”

A beat of silence.

“Do you mind…opening the freezer so I can put the mug in? My hands are a little full.”

“Right! Um, why don’t I do that and you sit down first?”

“Harv, I’m already holding the mugs. You just have to open the door. What’re you hiding in there, a dead body?”

You laugh; he doesn’t. Your chuckles die out, leaving the both of you to stand there in silence. If the townspeople were to pick your worst quality, it would probably be your stubbornness—a trait that rears its head now as you stand there, watching Harvey’s flush spread down his neck.

Finally, he sputters a resigned Okay and opens his freezer.

Behind his ice trays are stacks of Joja Mart frozen meals, everything ranging from meatloaf to fries to pizza to peas to chicken parmesan. He shifts a bag of carrots to make room for your coffee. When the door is closed again, you finally find your words.

“So…I guess I found your secret,” you say, making your way to the table and setting down his cup.

“I just don’t have time to cook for myself,” he insists, trailing behind you, “and when I do have free time, I’m too tired.”

“I’m not judging.” You shrug. “I mean, I’m not one to talk. I eat algae from the river and cookies from the trash.”

His face drains. “Wait, you eat what from the—”

“If you’re ever free, though, you can always join me on the farm for dinner. Or I can drop you off some lunch once in a while. I make big portions and freeze them for the week, and I don’t mind sharing.” You wave a hand at the airplane models in front of you. “Think of it as thank you for helping me out with these.”

“That’s…very kind of you, Farmer,” he says after a pause. His fingers curl around the back of a chair. “I might take your offer some time.”

You shoot him a smile. “Great. Now keep that gratitude in mind as we start working on these again.”

[ssaeri]

you gotta do what you gotta do...health is wealth!!

[ssaeri]

I attended the Stardew Valley concert and have a sudden desire to write again. Expect something next month

[ssaeri]

for your eyes only

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, elliott and farmer are married, he writes love poems for his spouse and is told to monetize them, oh boy is he not happy about that ☆

You pat your pig's backside encouragingly and coo as it digs its snout into the ground, unearthing yet another truffle that you add to your basket. Can't believe you were worried about this one being the runt of its litter—it's quickly proving to be one of the fastest learners, taking to truffle hunting like a duck to water. It'll do just fine with the rest of the adult pigs.

Taking care of the farm by yourself has always been a gargantuan task, but as the years go by, everything grows bigger—the coops, the barns, the ponds, the crops, the expectations—and exhaustion wears you down to the bone. You sigh and push to your feet, ready to head into the nearest coop to collect more eggs. Collect animal products, drop them into churning machines, harvest and sell. It feels like the cycle never ends. Against your neck, the small mermaid's pendant slides on its chain, another reminder of your absent husband. An extra pair of helping hands made the daily work light; you wonder if it's selfish to ask him to stay home more often.

"I know, I know," you say to your angry chickens once you open the door. You miss your husband, but these girls like to remind you that they miss him more. "He'll be home soon. Bear with me, okay?"

After giving each of them pats on the head, a motion they accept with reluctance, you dig around the hay for eggs. The large chicken and dinosaur eggs are easy to spot, but for the delicate duck eggs, you prod every corner with your fingers until you come across something warm and smooth. You push away your hens as they peck at your hands. The ducks are fine with you. The chickens, however...how in the world did Elliott win them over?

Outside, your dog barks. A single warning to the intruder before the tone shifts into excitement. Someone familiar, then. Maybe Marnie is stopping by to give you some hay like she mentioned last night. With winter approaching, any addition to your reserves is appreciated, and you're already wiping your hands on your overalls to greet her.

"Hey, Marnie! I'm just in here—"

You stop in your tracks when the visitor raises his head, though he's not exactly a visitor. Elliott smiles as you draw close, ignoring the horde of chickens now lining the fence for his attention. Their wings flap, clucking loudly as they hit each other.

"Good morning, my love," he says over the noise, as if it really is the start to a normal day. His thumb reaches out to rub at a dirt smudge on your cheek. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Just some leftovers and coffee," you reply, dazed. Your husband tends to have that effect, and after two weeks apart, you feel it more than ever. You lean into his touch, comforting against your wind-blown skin. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"I decided to come back early. The office didn't need me today, anyway."

"You should've messaged me! I would've picked you up at the train station," you say. Behind him sits his traveling suitcase, the wheels speckled with mud from being dragged through the road. He steps in front of it. "Why don't you go get unpacked? I'll be done soon."

He leans his elbows onto the fence, tilting his head until his fiery hair spills over one shoulder. "You're rather quick to dismiss my presence. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're unhappy to see me," he says, though his words hold no accusation. It's merely a way to boost his ego when you reassure him. After all, you practically radiate by his side. "Would you like me to help?"

You glance at the dress shoes, the slacks, the spotless cardigan that he's already shrugging off to reveal a clean pressed button-down. Not exactly farm-friendly attire. "No, I'll be alright by myself."

"I could go change really quickly," he offers in a suspicious rush.

You search his expression then, and underneath the joy of being back, there's...something. You squint, unable to make it out. Sure, he must've missed you, but this feels like it runs deeper than that. When you give him a nod, he hurries towards the house, your dog chasing and barking at his heels. True to his word, he's back in minutes.

The chickens are much more cooperative now, and you roll your eyes at how they parade around your husband. They even hop around the coop, showing him where they've hidden their eggs from your intrusive searching.

"Thank you, dearies," he says to the hens. You swear they swoon.

"A real heart breaker," you deadpan. "Have you told them you're married?"

He chuckles, taking your hand as you move into the barns next door. While you lay out new hay on the feeding bench, he unhooks the stools and milk pails and sets them on either side of the door. It's hard to believe that just a few months ago he barely knew how to approach your animals, let alone help you with the chores.

He whistles lowly, and the first cow trudges to his station, ready to be milked. You get settled at your own station. One of the newer goats skids to the front of the line, eager to be let outside. It's not quiet in the barn—it never is, not with twelve grown animals waiting for their turn—but when you call Elliott's name, he looks at you. His ponytail needs to be retied.

"So why'd you come home early?" The young adult goats don't have much milk, just enough for a small container. You pat its hind leg, and it runs into the crisp autumn air with an excited bleat.

"I missed the atmosphere of our farm. The fresh air of the valley is good for my creative soul, unlike the bustle of Zuzu City."

You only raise your eyebrows, and he sighs from your all-knowing gaze.

"You read me a little too well, my love."

"I sure hope so, after all this time together. Did something happen at the office?"

Since the release of his last collection of short stories, he's been invited to the city more often for author-related events. This latest stint, running a series of writing workshops in partnership with Zuzu University and the local community, was organized by his agent in hopes of bigger opportunities. Maybe even a guest lecturer contract, they've said on more than one occasion, though Elliott refuses to be apart from you for too long.

Elliott gives another sigh. "Something like that. I just...it was admittedly negligence on my part. I was in the middle of writing you another letter when someone required my presence down the hall. I thought that it'd be a quick matter, so I didn't clear my desk. But apparently one of the secretaries came looking for me while I was out."

"Did they read...?" You wrinkle your nose, knowing how private Elliott is about his unpolished work. He's even more private about what he writes for your eyes only. "I'm sure they were embarrassed."

"That's what bothers me the most! She had the audacity to bring it up in front of everyone when we had a meeting, even quoted a few lines—"

The cow groans as he moves particularly rough. He gives it an apologetic scratch under the chin.

"So for the past two days, everyone has been trying to talk me into releasing a collection of love poems, which I would have no issues with if it didn't stem from such a personal...I mean, the poems were addressed to my muse, and when I explained that it was you, they said that was even better. Something about how the romance will really sell." He frowns. "I like being able to support myself—contribute to our funds, you know—with my writing, but it's not...a commodity. I'm allowed to make art for the sake of making art."

His forehead is furrowed, and you would reach out to ease the frustration if your hands weren't busy.

"What's your plan now?"

He scoffs. "There's no plan regarding that. I completely refuse. It's quite insulting, in fact, the idea that I'd put my love on display for a paycheck."

It's relieving, you have to admit. Even after getting a taste of success, your husband remains the same person you said your vows to. The same romantic who holds you in such high esteem. There's so many emotions—namely affection—swirling in your chest, but you're not the writer so all you manage is a simple Okay.

"Okay," you say again for good measure, but he must understand you because his expression smooths. "So what do you want for lunch?"

[ushisroa]

he’s the love of my life your honor

[ssaeri]

mine, too. I miss him lots. thanks for reading!!

[ssaeri]

your god won't hear you

☆ tags: m!sydney x gn!reader, just a little fallen!sydney, slightly corrupted!sydney, he’s still strawberry blond because I don't want to dye his hair, it's that temple scene where he gets protective of you, I cut out the good night scene because I got lazy, SFW, but the game itself is 18+ so might be suggestive due to the nature of the game, ft. f!jordan, ft. m!sirris ☆

The temple is quiet at night.

During the day, there is always movement: supplies to be transported, shrubs to be cleared, sheets to be washed. But once the sun slips in the sky, a sigh of silence settles over the space, and one by one, robed figures roam along the perimeter, leaving flickering candles in their wake. Sometimes, you sought solace in the embrace of the holy, letting the murmured prayers wash over your frayed nerves like a soothing balm; other times, you skirted around the edges of the temple, the weight of sin heavy on your skin.

Today is an instance of the former. You get to the corner of Wolf Street when the warning bells start tolling, signaling ten minutes before the start of the evening service, and you watch as temple members rush to complete their chores. For once, you're not among them. One lithe initiate pulls sun-dried habits from the laundry line, rolls them into a pile, and stuffs them into her basket in a rush. The head nun of housekeeping is not going to appreciate the unnecessary wrinkles; you've earned her ire enough times to know that ironing out every individual crease is another form of earthly torture. Meanwhile a tall monk hefts bags of hedge trimmings over his shoulder to deposit by the roadside, and when he sees you, he waves with a shy smile.

Cute.

You wink back. You don't know his name.

A line of initiates not much younger than you push open the wooden temple doors with a loud creak, and you cut across the street to trail in behind them, smoothing down the tattered remains of your overalls and hoping that you’re decent enough to not draw stares. A chant has already started. Half of the candles are lit. You're afraid to make a sound.

Like you said, the temple is quiet at night.

Your eyes strain to scan the pews until they land on a familiar figure in a corner of the main hall, knelt in prayer, head bowed over clasped hands. Strawberry blond hair—colored burnt umber in the low light—spills over one shoulder.

Bingo.

The monk to your right greets the entrance with a murmured Welcome to the temple, his eyes closed, his steepled fingers pressed to his lips. You side-step him. You also tiptoe around the sleeping drunkard in the back pew who clutches an empty bottle to her chest, the rumbling exhales smelling of liquor.

Your boyfriend doesn't greet you when you settle down near him—a respectable distance of two and a half feet minimum—but he’s fighting back a smile and you wait patiently for him to finish reciting his lines. As Sydney mouths the last few words, his eyes flutter open and crease at the sight of you. You loved his glasses, but you must admit that he looks better like this, adoration for you unfiltered.

“Good evening, my love,” he whispers, reaching across the space to brush the back of your hand. You catch it in his retreat and intertwine your fingers. “What are you doing here?”

“Praying,” you say simply, though you are clearly not.

Still, he hums in accord, squeezes your hand, and resumes his previous posture. At the altar, Jordan finishes setting up the religious artifacts and does a sweeping glance of the space. You wonder what she sees. Monks on the side processing with a sweet-smelling thurible. Initiates carrying the remaining piles of scrolls to the back rooms. Nuns walking around with a donation basket. Temple-goers lining the wall to confess their sins and seek grace. Jordan’s gaze eventually lands on you, and you swear you see an infinitesimal nod of approval before she descends to her usual place in the first pew, pearl-white and spun-silver robes setting her apart from the rest.

Jordan leads the congregation into the next set of prayers by chiming a golden bell that echoes eerily in the space. The temple isn't empty, but the vaulted ceiling, extending into darkness, morphs the sound into something resembling the pained groan of spirits. You kneel, too, feeling wood against bare skin, the holes in your overalls fresh from a forest adventure. You wouldn't call yourself a believer, but you'll take all the help you can get in this town.

You pray for salvation. For the orphanage. For the math project that you still haven’t finished. Sydney’s expression is concentrated now, troubled by the thoughts that plague his mind, but you can’t spend too much time dwelling on it because your own thoughts drift to hopes for the future and how things could be better. The next hour passes quickly behind closed eyes, and with every exhale, you feel your burden lighten.

The calm is interrupted by a nasal:

“A token of appreciation from the faithful, hm?”

The voice comes from a stout nun who stops in front of you, holding out a donation basket and barely missing your elbow. While her smile is neutral, she scans your outfit with thinly veiled contempt, and it's in that judgmental expression that you realize why she's so familiar—it's the one who always has a bone to pick with you and your faith. She swears that you're a fraud (you are) and that you treat the temple like a playground (you do) and that you’ve been tempting temple members in the chambers (you have)—but honestly, that is beside the point. As a woman of the veil, couldn’t one expect more grace from her?

Sydney reaches in front of you to drop in a crumpled £10, which the nun accepts with a sniff of her upturned nose. Tacking on your best customer service smile, you make a big show of rummaging for your wallet and pulling out the crispest £100 you have, courtesy of your last customer at the massage salon.

“Of course, Sister. Anything to support the temple,” you say with conviction you do not feel. “Perhaps this can help buy new curtains for the west wing.”

At your emphasis, the nun flushes down to her neck and stalks away without another word, coins rattling in her basket. You swear she's muttering something about you under her breath, but it doesn't matter; you've clearly won. There’s a beat of silence before Sydney leans over, shoulders shaking.

“Did you know the curtains were burned down last week because she knocked over a candle in her sleep?”

“Why do you think I said it?”

A suppressed laugh that makes his eyes twinkle.

“Oh, you are bad,” he says, and his mirth makes your skin tingle pleasantly.

“Thanks, I try.”

The golden bell rings again, and as one, the congregation sits back onto the pews to shift into the next prayer. It’s one that you kind of know. The language is foreign, some ancient tongue that you never learned, but the cadence is almost melodic, so you mumble along and hope that it’s enough. Their god is a forgiving god, right? Surely your intentions will win over your execution.

.

.

Another hour or two passes in this way. At some point, during another break, Sydney turns to you and asks what you're praying for. For peace, you reply vaguely. Honestly, as it grows later, you've just been trying not to nod off, the lingering effects of treasure hunting in the lake wearing down your muscles. Your watch reads almost midnight, and soon Sirris will emerge from a hidden corner, offering you a ride home before he returns to the Danube mansions with his son. You're banking on it; walking home at this hour would probably invite some unwanted encounters.

Suddenly, there’s a new warmth at your side. A slender man, dressed in a monk’s habit, leans in close and sneers as his chest brushes against your shoulder. A light but intentional caresss. You tense, biting back a yelp of surprise. He takes that—your silence, your stillness, your deer in headlights look—as a sign to continue, resting a hand on your exposed thigh. The tattered overalls. The bastard leans closer still.

“Don’t cause a fuss,” he murmurs, his sickly sweet tone edged with the promise of threat, “or I’ll say you attacked me. Who will they believe?”

Certainly not you. You've been carefully balancing your notoriety; photography sessions with Niki are now monthly instead of weekly, chef shifts at the local café are limited, no more cabaret shows on Friday nights—you’ve even started wearing conservative clothing to keep a low profile. But none of it feels like it’s enough, especially when you still get recognized on the street for your nightclub shifts and the growing list of crimes that have you in hot waters with the police.

This guy? He has a golden pendant around his neck, the center inlaid with a blue gemstone. You're not familiar with the colored rankings, other than the fact that Jordan’s pure diamonds denote her as the head of this temple, but just having a gemstone places him higher than your initiate level, marked by the plain gold cross pendant that dangles on a simple chain.

Before you can say anything, though, Sydney lifts the hand off your thigh, holding it in a crushing grip. A smile is frozen on his face. Despite not being directed at you, the barely masked fury and crazed eyes send a chill down your spine.

“Belief won’t matter because I’ll attack you for real,” he says lowly. Slowly. Letting the words sink in like stones in water.

And unlike yours, Sydney’s reputation does hold weight in the temple. There’s rumors of him being Jordan’s successor decades down the line, but even without the help of those rumors, you know that Sydney is ready to send this man to hell and back for daring to touch you, much less threaten you. Sydney’s grip is steady; the man’s fingers tremble and redden, seconds away from snapping. Sydney’s hand has been around your neck before, but it was always gentle, never more than a loving pressure. Now you lightly brush your sternum, wondering what it would be like to have this energy turned on you.

The man’s life must flash before his eyes because suddenly he has the strength to rip his hand away and scurry to the back of the temple, the worn monk habit swishing at his ankles. Smart move. You don't know who he is, and honestly, you can barely recall his face, but you doubt that he'll be bothering you for a long time.

“Fucking heathens,” Sydney spits at the retreat.

He waits until the man’s figure completely disappears into the shadows. Sydney isn’t much of a fighter, but from the straight line of his shoulders, you don’t doubt that it’d change in a heartbeat.

Then his attention is on you, and his anger crumbles. “Are you alright, love?”

He cups your face in his palms, and you lean into the touch.

“I’m okay,” you say, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

If this happened a year ago, you would’ve been shaking in your boots, bewildered at the audacity of the stranger, but ever since Bailey insisted on weekly payments, you’ve…seen the world. For better and for worse.

Right on time, Sirris strolls over, blissfully unaware. He swings his car keys from a finger. “Ready to go, kids?”

[ssaeri]

big thank you to the stardew valley fandom for loving those alex and elliott fics—those reblogs are really making them go around

[ssaeri]

it looks like this 1.6 update has brought many people to my page. hello! i hope to play the game again / write more soon! just very busy :(

[ssaeri]

big thank you to the stardew valley fandom for loving those alex and elliott fics—those reblogs are really making them go around

[ssaeri]

hello !! just wanted to say i really REALLY enjoy your writing, especially the pieces about stardew valley characters, and most especially about Elliott, because he’s my favorite lol. you have such incredible skill and do an amazing job working with building around characters and their world !! i think you write Elliott’s character beautifully and would be so excited to read more if you ever decide to write about the silly writer that lives on the beachside of Pelican Town again 💖💕

you are so incredibly sweet!! elliott is my favorite, too :) i hope to be writing again when work slows down—maybe during the summer? i missed him recently, so i loaded up my save file just to see him for a minute haha your support means a lot!!

[ssaeri]

for your eyes only

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, elliott and farmer are married, he writes love poems for his spouse and is told to monetize them, oh boy is he not happy about that ☆

You pat your pig's backside encouragingly and coo as it digs its snout into the ground, unearthing yet another truffle that you add to your basket. Can't believe you were worried about this one being the runt of its litter—it's quickly proving to be one of the fastest learners, taking to truffle hunting like a duck to water. It'll do just fine with the rest of the adult pigs.

Taking care of the farm by yourself has always been a gargantuan task, but as the years go by, everything grows bigger—the coops, the barns, the ponds, the crops, the expectations—and exhaustion wears you down to the bone. You sigh and push to your feet, ready to head into the nearest coop to collect more eggs. Collect animal products, drop them into churning machines, harvest and sell. It feels like the cycle never ends. Against your neck, the small mermaid's pendant slides on its chain, another reminder of your absent husband. An extra pair of helping hands made the daily work light; you wonder if it's selfish to ask him to stay home more often.

"I know, I know," you say to your angry chickens once you open the door. You miss your husband, but these girls like to remind you that they miss him more. "He'll be home soon. Bear with me, okay?"

After giving each of them pats on the head, a motion they accept with reluctance, you dig around the hay for eggs. The large chicken and dinosaur eggs are easy to spot, but for the delicate duck eggs, you prod every corner with your fingers until you come across something warm and smooth. You push away your hens as they peck at your hands. The ducks are fine with you. The chickens, however...how in the world did Elliott win them over?

Outside, your dog barks. A single warning to the intruder before the tone shifts into excitement. Someone familiar, then. Maybe Marnie is stopping by to give you some hay like she mentioned last night. With winter approaching, any addition to your reserves is appreciated, and you're already wiping your hands on your overalls to greet her.

"Hey, Marnie! I'm just in here—"

You stop in your tracks when the visitor raises his head, though he's not exactly a visitor. Elliott smiles as you draw close, ignoring the horde of chickens now lining the fence for his attention. Their wings flap, clucking loudly as they hit each other.

"Good morning, my love," he says over the noise, as if it really is the start to a normal day. His thumb reaches out to rub at a dirt smudge on your cheek. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Just some leftovers and coffee," you reply, dazed. Your husband tends to have that effect, and after two weeks apart, you feel it more than ever. You lean into his touch, comforting against your wind-blown skin. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"I decided to come back early. The office didn't need me today, anyway."

"You should've messaged me! I would've picked you up at the train station," you say. Behind him sits his traveling suitcase, the wheels speckled with mud from being dragged through the road. He steps in front of it. "Why don't you go get unpacked? I'll be done soon."

He leans his elbows onto the fence, tilting his head until his fiery hair spills over one shoulder. "You're rather quick to dismiss my presence. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're unhappy to see me," he says, though his words hold no accusation. It's merely a way to boost his ego when you reassure him. After all, you practically radiate by his side. "Would you like me to help?"

You glance at the dress shoes, the slacks, the spotless cardigan that he's already shrugging off to reveal a clean pressed button-down. Not exactly farm-friendly attire. "No, I'll be alright by myself."

"I could go change really quickly," he offers in a suspicious rush.

You search his expression then, and underneath the joy of being back, there's...something. You squint, unable to make it out. Sure, he must've missed you, but this feels like it runs deeper than that. When you give him a nod, he hurries towards the house, your dog chasing and barking at his heels. True to his word, he's back in minutes.

The chickens are much more cooperative now, and you roll your eyes at how they parade around your husband. They even hop around the coop, showing him where they've hidden their eggs from your intrusive searching.

"Thank you, dearies," he says to the hens. You swear they swoon.

"A real heart breaker," you deadpan. "Have you told them you're married?"

He chuckles, taking your hand as you move into the barns next door. While you lay out new hay on the feeding bench, he unhooks the stools and milk pails and sets them on either side of the door. It's hard to believe that just a few months ago he barely knew how to approach your animals, let alone help you with the chores.

He whistles lowly, and the first cow trudges to his station, ready to be milked. You get settled at your own station. One of the newer goats skids to the front of the line, eager to be let outside. It's not quiet in the barn—it never is, not with twelve grown animals waiting for their turn—but when you call Elliott's name, he looks at you. His ponytail needs to be retied.

"So why'd you come home early?" The young adult goats don't have much milk, just enough for a small container. You pat its hind leg, and it runs into the crisp autumn air with an excited bleat.

"I missed the atmosphere of our farm. The fresh air of the valley is good for my creative soul, unlike the bustle of Zuzu City."

You only raise your eyebrows, and he sighs from your all-knowing gaze.

"You read me a little too well, my love."

"I sure hope so, after all this time together. Did something happen at the office?"

Since the release of his last collection of short stories, he's been invited to the city more often for author-related events. This latest stint, running a series of writing workshops in partnership with Zuzu University and the local community, was organized by his agent in hopes of bigger opportunities. Maybe even a guest lecturer contract, they've said on more than one occasion, though Elliott refuses to be apart from you for too long.

Elliott gives another sigh. "Something like that. I just...it was admittedly negligence on my part. I was in the middle of writing you another letter when someone required my presence down the hall. I thought that it'd be a quick matter, so I didn't clear my desk. But apparently one of the secretaries came looking for me while I was out."

"Did they read...?" You wrinkle your nose, knowing how private Elliott is about his unpolished work. He's even more private about what he writes for your eyes only. "I'm sure they were embarrassed."

"That's what bothers me the most! She had the audacity to bring it up in front of everyone when we had a meeting, even quoted a few lines—"

The cow groans as he moves particularly rough. He gives it an apologetic scratch under the chin.

"So for the past two days, everyone has been trying to talk me into releasing a collection of love poems, which I would have no issues with if it didn't stem from such a personal...I mean, the poems were addressed to my muse, and when I explained that it was you, they said that was even better. Something about how the romance will really sell." He frowns. "I like being able to support myself—contribute to our funds, you know—with my writing, but it's not...a commodity. I'm allowed to make art for the sake of making art."

His forehead is furrowed, and you would reach out to ease the frustration if your hands weren't busy.

"What's your plan now?"

He scoffs. "There's no plan regarding that. I completely refuse. It's quite insulting, in fact, the idea that I'd put my love on display for a paycheck."

It's relieving, you have to admit. Even after getting a taste of success, your husband remains the same person you said your vows to. The same romantic who holds you in such high esteem. There's so many emotions—namely affection—swirling in your chest, but you're not the writer so all you manage is a simple Okay.

"Okay," you say again for good measure, but he must understand you because his expression smooths. "So what do you want for lunch?"

[lasrehsif]

[ssaeri]

this little cat picture made my day. you're so kind