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I love Elliott Stardew Valley. My favourite character trope is slightly awkward hopeless romantic writer man

I drew him with my farmer who for many fun reasons I have to call Leanne. He’s a big awkward mess who does not know how to act like a human but he’s trying his best and that’s what matters. They’re cute together 🥰

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cottage core but make it sad

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collection of sebastian stardew sketches. apparently I've never posted them here! Uglier sketches under the readmore

These ones were from like 2019 when I first played the game ever.

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Is there a word for when I check out a guy in a bus, but not because I’d like to flirt with him, but because I’d like to look like him?

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Omg thank you @studentinpursuitofclouds!

My last song would be : https://open.spotify.com/track/6RESm7ENOUghLSFpfrFBsT?si=06G4LeomS4OJtB9l3AKioA, I love the hunters getting a taste of their own medicine and I’m a fan of depictions of the Devil

Favorite color : surprisingly, gray! It’s calm and I like the symbolism of the in-between, the equivocal atmosphere of not having a clear, absolute good or evil

Last book : heh, I’m reading a couple at once, but “Invisible Women” by Caroline Criado Perez is currently on the table

Last movie : uhhhh, this reminded me how long I didn’t watch one 😅 “Wicked”, probably?

Last TV show : “Delicious in Dungeon” on Netflix, also slowly watching “Naruto”

Sweet/Spicy/Savory : don’t make me choose 🥺 Love ice cream, love popcorn, love spicy instant ramen…

Current obsession : well look at my fanfictions, reblogs or my avatar and take a wild guess…

Last searching : “imiona żeńskie”, that is “female names” in polish, for the RPG I’m DMing

Looking forward to : next headcanons by @studentinpursuitofclouds, playing Stardew Valley, recording my Narnia podcast on Monday (”Behind the Wardrobe” on Spotify)

Tagging: @peachycat17 @clarisinne @charlie-the-egg if you are interested 🩷

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AFAB FARMER COMING OUT AS NON-BINARY

Part 1 of probably more, depending on my inspiration and wether y’all be interested to read more of it. I’m writing with an assumption that Farmer is AFAB and is also perceived as a woman despite making small changes in their appearance, such as short hair and at times wearing a binder. Not a self insert at all. Enjoy!

To Elliott:

This subject didn’t really come up for quite a long time of their friendship. There just weren’t many opportunities for Elliott to refer to Farmer in a third person pronoun, and even when they appeared, Farmer either had something else on their mind or didn’t deem the situation a good one for coming out. But as they met with Elliott in the saloon, emotions enhanced by alcohol that was already circulating in their system, they couldn’t hide a frown when they heard writer exclaim “And wine for the lady!”. Elliott, while oblivious at times, was not stupid. He quickly noticed the change in his friend’s mood and proceeded with an immediate investigation.

“Farmer, what seems to be the culprit of this sudden despair on your face?”

“Oh, it’s nothing…” Farmer attempted to summon a realistic looking smile on their face, but their true emotions could no longer escape from the observant author.

“I see that something had bittered your emotions and I will not stand for this factor to persist! What is it, Farmer? Did I say something that offended you? Perhaps I shouldn’t have ordered you wine?”

“No, wine is fine… It’s just…” Many thoughts ran rampant through Farmer’s head, nervously wondering if coming out to their friend will be something they’ll regret once effects of alcohol on their mind will wither away. They weighted the urge to be known as their real self against the risks of being called a freak and possibly even being outet to other people. Eventually, the first impulse persisted.

“It was the »lady« part” they said quietly. “I don’t… It doesn’t feel right when you- when anybody calls me “lady”. ‘Cause you see, I am…” Farmer took a deep breath, as Elliott waited in anticipation, absorbing their every word. “I am non binary. So, I don’t feel either like a woman or a man. I am just something else, they/them pronouns, that thing… that is… if it’s not too much trouble for you?”

After looking up, the Farmer thought for a moment that disgusted writer just stood up and left them as they were talking. But this fear was quickly dispersed by a soft thump on the floor beneath them.

„Oh, Farmer, I…” Elliott was looking at them from the ground level, surprised and ashamed. Farmer reached their hand to help friend stood up, but instead of doing that, writer remained on his knees and held Farmer’s palm as reverently as if they were at the very least a monarch of medium-sized kingdom. „Farmer, I am so, so, so, so…”

„Oh” Farmer exhaled with relief. „It’s okay, you couldn’t have known”

„…so, so, so, so…”

„Elliott?”

„…so, so, so, so deeply, highly, terribly…”

„Elliott!” Farmer pulled their hand upwards, forcing the apologetic writer to stand up from the floor. „I’m telling you, it’s fine! You didn’t know that. I’m just… glad that you’re so accepting of me”

Elliott opened his mouth to say something that was hopefully not the continuation of his apology, but at this moment they were interrupted by Gus, who brought them ordered drinks.

„Here you go, Elliott. One pale ale and one wine for…”

„For me!” Elliott snatched wine from the platter with a wave of a hand, so fast that is was almost a miracle that he didn’t spill anything. „Come on, Gus” He said facing the confused bartender „You had to have noticed that I’m very in touch with my feminine side”

If Stardrop Saloon’s owner attempted to say anything, he gave up on it, leaving eccentric writer to his matters. Elliott and Farmer were drunkenly giggling about the situation for the next couple of minutes.

“But do tell me, Farmer” asked Elliott after some time, taking a sip from his second glass of enhanced grape juice “How am I to address you?”

“With my name” Farmer shrugged, also taking a swig of their drink “Or, you know, they/them pronouns”

“That is to be expected, but I mean in more… exclusive occasions. Like when I’d want to introduce you with all the deserved nobility, or emphasize special circumstances. Referring to you as a Lady is not acceptable, from what you’ve told me Gentelman also wouldn’t suit you…”

“Wow, you have a gift of inventing problems” Farmer gave their companion a friendly laugh “If you insist on having a “special” title for me it can be whatever. Call me “your majesty” for all I care”

“Yes, this is it!” Elliott slammed his fist on the counter, gently enough to not disturb anyone present in the bar. “A perfect title suitable to your merit!”

“Elliott…” Farmer’s expression was a little terrified. “Elliott, this was a joke”

Despite Farmer’s best efforts, Elliott proceeded to address them as “your majesty” whenever he found it suitable for the occasion.

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I always felt I got along better with wild creatures.

Especially the ones others tend to avoid.

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Relatable… Like, objectively - I am intelligent, creative, empathetic, not bad at writing and I can and often do produce great ideas. But sometimes I have to push all that through a thick, dark goo. There are shiny elements in it that I can pick up, but still it slows me down.

Oh babe I know, Yoba nerfed us both.

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Meet his brother (canon)

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THIS! 🩷

Maybe it's just me, but I have to say: Elliott is a deceptively simple character to write for! He's optimistic yet prone to spells of self-doubt. He craves companionship yet shuts himself up in his cabin under the misconception that solitude will more effectively foster his craft. He's charming yet resourceful yet somewhat naive. He's described as "foppish and melodramatic", which is true, yet he lives in a humble shack on the beach, is perfectly happy to help out around the farm once you marry him, and meets life's inconveniences with humor and quiet courage. He's the one to tell you that everyone likes to have a friend--even Clint, "that grumpy blacksmith."

To call him pretentious or, God forbid, creepy, only makes sense if you take his quotes or quirks out of context and read them in the worst faith possible. Sometimes it feels like people insert traits into him that he doesn't actually have--like cattiness, superficiality, arrogance or entitlement--because they've gotten so comfortable with expecting these traits from other Fabio-esque lover-boy characters like him. This one can't possibly be genuine, can he? (/sarcastic)

(PS: Go read this meta written by @elaho while you're here. It's one of the best analyses of his character I've seen in this fandom!)

It's been hard looking for good fics that nail his characterization because of this.

As for me? Whenever I doubt how I should go about portraying him, I remember the cob from E. B. White's The Trumpet of the Swan.

It's an old novel I grew up with about a trumpeter swan named Louis who is born mute and learns to communicate by, well, playing the trumpet. Louis's father, the cob, stands out with his flowery tangents, his vanity, his dramatic flair, and his pride for and devotion to his mate and children. Once he recognizes Louis's disability, the cob does everything he can to ensure Louis can still enjoy life like every other swan. He's especially invested in finding Louis a way to court Serena, a pen Louis falls in love with as he matures.

To that end, the cob risks his life to steal a trumpet for Louis from a local music store! And later, once Louis raises the money to pay for the trumpet through his performances (long story!), the cob risks his life once more to clear his debt with that same store.

Yeah. When I try to get into Elliott's head, I think of the cob. And if not the cob, then I think of Louis himself.

How do the rest of you go about writing Elliott? 🥰

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Been on Facebook. Saw this meme. Why does he have to be named Harvey? 😭😭😭

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Reposting so I don’t forget to read this later

A/N: After reading @studentinpursuitofclouds headcanon about the bachelors/ettes' reactions to being kidnapped for revenge or ransom only for their furious Farmer spouse to storm in and rescue them. I felt inspired. I couldn’t help but write a version for Lance, blending it with my farmer OCs' backstories. Hope you enjoy the fic!

The moon loomed high over the farmhouse, casting its pale, silver glow across the quiet fields. The night was still, almost unnervingly so, with only the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. The greenhouse stood as a lone beacon in the darkness, its glass panels faintly aglow, sheltering a world of warmth and life separate from the cool hush outside. Inside, Rosemary moved among rows of flourishing crops, the earthy scent of soil and faint hum of lingering magic surrounding her. Yet, despite the comforting atmosphere, a knot of unease twisted tightly in her chest.

Lance should be home by now.

He had left at dawn, that familiar confident grin on his face, promising—promising—to return before sunset. She had believed him. Lance always kept his word. But now, as the hours stretched long past nightfall, the promise felt like a fading echo.

A message had come earlier, brief and reassuring. But Rosemary’s instincts screamed otherwise. She brushed her gloved fingers over the rough skin of a void root. The dark, twisted form seemed to absorb the soft light, pulsing faintly with ancient magic. She tried to focus on the task at hand—on the routine—but her thoughts kept circling back to one question.

Why isn’t he back?

Her pruning slowed. Water dripped from a nearby watering can. The silence grew thick.

Then it happened.

A chill—sharp and sudden—sliced down her spine.

Her breath hitched.

Her gloved hand froze mid-motion.

It wasn’t a sound. Not a shadow shifting in the corner of her vision. No. This was deeper. Internal. Like something inside her had snapped.

No...

The comforting aura of Lance’s magic, ever-present beside her own like a steady heartbeat—had vanished.

Gone.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

“No.”

The word escaped her lips in a broken whisper. The trowel slipped from her hand, clattering against the stone path. A ragged cry tore from her throat as she stumbled back. Her gaze snapped toward the hills beyond the farmhouse. She reached inward—desperately—trying to find the familiar pulse of his magic.

There. Faint. So faint.

But still there.

A gasp tore from her.

Lance...

Alive. Barely conscious. But alive. Reaching for her.

Her hands fumbled for her phone. The screen blurred before her eyes as her fingers darted across it, moving faster than her mind could process. Only one number mattered.

The line rang once. Twice.

“Rosie?”, Her sister’s voice answered calm as ever, but edged with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Cerise!!! I can’t feel him.” Rosemary’s voice cracked. “His magic! it’s gone—I don’t know what’s happening, what does it mean?”

Silence.

A silence that stretched for only a moment but felt like a lifetime.

When Cerise finally spoke, her tone had shifted, cool, sharp, edged with something Rosemary rarely heard from her sister: fear.

“No… they wouldn’t.” The words came as a whisper. Then, sharper, cold with realization: “Stay where you are. I’ll be there soon.”

Rosemary’s grip tightened around the phone.

“They must've took him.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

“They took my husband.”

This time, her voice was low, dangerous, a quiet fury simmering beneath each syllable.

Cerise inhaled sharply on the other end of the line. “Most likely. If they couldn’t get my Jio, their next move would be—”

“I’m going.”

“Rose—”

“I’m not waiting around, sister.” Rosemary’s jaw tightened. Her ocean jade eyes—usually bright and warm—narrowed into cold flames of determination. “I’m getting my husband back. Whatever it takes.”

”Rosemary, wait—”

But the call had already ended.

Without hesitation, Rosemary snatched up her sword from the greenhouse floor. The blade thrummed with her magic, responding to her rage. She pulled on her dark cloak, fastened the clasp at her neck, and slung a pouch of potions over her shoulder.

She stepped out into the night.

She didn’t need a plan.

Only a direction.

Lance’s faint magic—like a whisper at the edge of her mind—would guide her.

“Hold on, love” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’m coming.”

And nothing would stand in her way.

The room reeked of damp stone and stale air, a subterranean prison swallowed by oppressive darkness. The narrow space was barely lit by a flickering lantern that hung from a rusted chain in the corner, its dim glow casting trembling shadows across the concrete walls slick with condensation. The ceiling sagged low, pressing down like a weight upon the soul. The air itself was suffocating, thick with the scent of mold and the faint, undeniable metallic tang of old blood. A chill seeped from the stone floor, gnawing at the skin, while the silence—broken only by the rhythmic drip of water echoing from some distant corridor—felt almost unnatural. But worse than the cold or the damp was the lingering, suffocating aura of magic that clung to every surface, woven into the very air. It was a cruel enchantment, designed to sap strength, to suppress power. And it was working.

Lance shifted in the chair he had been bound to, the rough rope digging into his wrists. His head hung low, dark pink hair falling messily into his face. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, sharp and insistent, growing worse with each breath drawn in the magic-saturated air. His eyes flickered open with slow, deliberate effort. His arms ached from the tight restraints that hummed faintly with the same suppressive power in the room. Even the smallest attempt to draw upon his magic was met with resistance, a suffocating weight that dulled the spark he relied on.

A breath slipped from his lips—slow, frustrated, bitter.

The Second-in-Command of the First Slash Clan, renowned combat mage, captured.

Not by a rival clan worthy of his strength. Not in battle against some formidable foe.

No, by a group of low-ranking mafia thugs who had no comprehension of the power they were trifling with.

The humiliation stung, but it wasn’t the real issue gnawing at him. His pride could endure this. What he could not endure was the knowledge he had failed. Failed to see the ambush coming. Failed to protect what mattered most. With all his training, all his magical prowess, he should have burned through these restraints with a flick of his wrist. But this room—the entire place—reeked of the kind of magic meant to weaken him, suppress him, render him vulnerable.

Still, it wasn’t his own fate that consumed his thoughts.

It was hers.

The realization cut deeper than any blade.

They weren’t after him.

They were after Rosemary.

He had heard them, muffled voices beyond the door, carelessly assuming he was too weak, too broken to care. But he had listened. Every word. Every plan. The truth had struck him harder than any blow. They believed that taking him would draw her out. They thought Rosemary would come running, desperate and vulnerable—a perfect trap.

But they didn’t know her.

They didn’t know Rosemary.

She wasn’t some fragile woman to be lured like a helpless bird. She had Cerise’s blood in her veins—the blood of the Crimson Wraith.

And worse still, they didn’t simply want to use her as bait. No. Their plan was far more twisted. They wanted her alive. They wanted to mold her into a weapon—a new puppet assassin forged from the only sister of the Crimson Wraith.

The thought made Lance’s jaw tighten, his fingers twitching against the ropes. His entire being recoiled at the idea of anyone laying a hand on her. His Rosemary. His wife. The woman who had fought for her freedom, who had lived in the shadow of her sister’s bloody past but had never allowed it to define her. They thought they could twist her into something she wasn’t.

The audacity.

The rage brewed quietly beneath his composed exterior, his magic stirring despite the oppressive weight. He would burn this place to ash for even daring to think of touching her.

The door creaked open.

Rusty hinges groaned like a dying animal, breaking the stillness.

Lance lifted his head, eyes narrowing as two figures stepped into the dim light. One was tall, broad-shouldered, with a jagged scar slashing across his cheek—a permanent sneer carved into his skin. The other remained near the door, arms crossed, eyes dull with boredom.

The scarred man grinned, a slow, mocking curve of his lips.

“You know.” he drawled, stepping forward with deliberate slowness. “None of this would’ve happened if you hadn’t married that red-haired bitch. We didn’t want you. You were never the target.”

He crouched, bringing his face close enough that Lance could smell the foul mix of tobacco and cheap liquor on his breath.

“We wanted her sister. Cerise. She was... valuable to us. But she escaped. Left everything behind, dragging her little sister along like a coward.”

His grin widened, malicious satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

“But now? We have something better. You see, we realized something. What better way to replace the Crimson Wraith than with her own blood? We’ll take your precious wife, and turn her into the perfect weapon. Our new puppet.”

The words echoed in the damp room.

Lance didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. His face remained calm, far too calm.

But inside?

How dare you.

The air shifted.

Even bound and suppressed, his magic stirred, a quiet storm gathering, waiting. The ropes bit into his wrists, but they were nothing more than an inconvenience. He would burn this entire place to the ground before he let them touch her.

And then—

Footsteps.

At first faint, almost mistaken for an echo. But then louder. Steady. Unyielding.

The two mafia members stiffened. Their smug confidence faltered.

The pressure in the air built, thick and suffocating. The flickering lantern dimmed, shadows crawling further along the walls. The footsteps didn’t slow.

They grew louder. Closer.

And then—

The door exploded inward.

Wood shattered into splinters. The force of the blast sent fragments clattering across the stone floor. The oppressive magic that had choked the room recoiled instantly. For a moment, the air itself seemed to fear the figure standing in the doorway.

Rosemary stood there���fury incarnate.

Her rose-red hair blazed in the dim light, cascading behind her like a river of flame. Ocean jade eyes burned with unrelenting rage and fear, swirling with power she no longer cared to conceal. The aura surrounding her crackled with raw magic—a tempest on the brink of being unleashed.

“Where...”, she whispered, her voice low, trembling with restrained wrath, “Is my husband?”

The scarred man stumbled back. “Oh shit-!” he muttered in disbelief, glancing at his companion.

But the moment he moved—

Rosemary vanished.

A flash of purple swept through the air. Her blade glinted once, a crescent of death cutting through the dim light. With a scream, the scarred man flew backward, crashing into the far wall with a sickening crunch. The second man barely had time to react before Rosemary descended on him with relentless precision. Her strikes were merciless—graceful yet devastating. Every movement spoke of years of training, of lessons carved into muscle and bone.

They had expected a weak sister.

They received a force of nature.

The second man crumpled to the floor without a sound.

Silence fell.

Lance remained still, his gaze fixed on the woman who had torn apart his captors without hesitation. His heart thundered in his chest—not out of fear, but awe. She had come for him. She had shattered their illusions. She was magnificent.

Rosemary turned.

Her gaze softened the moment it met his. The fury faded, replaced by something far deeper—fear, worry, desperation.

“Lance.”

Her voice broke.

In two strides, she was beside him, dropping to her knees. Her hands reached for his face first, trembling as they brushed against his skin, as if afraid he would vanish.

“Are you—did they—?” Her voice cracked, unable to form the question.

“I’m fine.” His voice was soft but firm, though his smile faded when he saw the tears shining in her eyes.

“No, you’re not.” She gritted her teeth, glancing at the glowing restraints. Without hesitation, her fingers tightened around the ropes. Magic pulsed through her veins, rushing to her hands.

The ropes hissed.

With a surge of power and a cry laced with all the fear and rage she had suppressed, Rosemary ripped them apart. The restraints shattered into ash beneath her touch.

Lance didn’t move. He simply watched her—watched as she clung to him, as her shoulders shook.

“I thought—” she choked out, “I thought I was too late.”

Gently, Lance wrapped his arms around her.

“You weren’t.”

She buried her face in his chest. “I would have destroyed this whole place if they’d laid a hand on you.”

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You were perfect.”

“No.” She pulled back slightly, her ocean jade eyes locking onto his, fierce even through the tears. “Not perfect. Just in time.”

And when Lance leaned forward to press his lips to hers, tender lingering. It wasn’t simply relief that filled the space between them.

It was a promise.

A promise that no matter who came for them next, no matter what shadows lurked in the past, they would face them—together.

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Ridgeside is amazing, but everybody there has mummy/ daddy issues. Tell me I’m wrong.

So yeah I am very addicted to Stardew Valley BUT ESPECIALLY to the Ridgeside village mod cause idk why but the characters are very fun for me, especially Mr. Aguar he is the old man tired dad energy I need as a role model in my life.

I insist that Lenny and Ms. Maive have something between them you cannot convince me otherwise

(I will draw some base game SV stuff soon don’t worry)

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our polite and affectionate king 👑🌷

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I’m the „Demetrius is actually a pretty good husband” team, but lesbian comic is lesbian comic is lesbian comic

Everybody wants Robin

Just a silly little scenario

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Why does Lance try to almond mum me? He gives me recipe for a treat to enjoy „in moderation”. Screw you, I saved the world on nothing but cheese and chocolate cake from granny Evelyn! Am I giving you unwanted advice about your impractical cape?

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Shells | Part 16 (shelliot stardew fic)

all parts | <- previous | next ->

love it when I get to make interact a new pair 😁

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