You Said Your Inbox Is Always Open So!

you said your inbox is always open so!

if there was one thing you could ask concernedape to add to the new update, what would it be?

LET ME MAKE HALEY'S PEPPERMINT COFFEE

Knots

Elliott x gn!farmer, SFW, soft little romantic character study, barely proofed, 1k words, drabble.

content warning: alcohol mention, nothing else I can think of.

This is dedicated to 3 posts in particular that got me thinking the other night: pizza, Elliott Scrap, and be gentle carrying me home.

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Like a knotted skein in loving hands, there's a slow unraveling.

The largest knots get attention first. You find one in his hair, incidentally—after the first night Elliott stays over, accidentally. It was winter and wrapped in warm flannel and a warmer embrace, the farm could wait. He’d come over for dinner, excited to share the latest rounds of edits over some a fresh catch of tuna and your first batch of wine from the farm. When the gentlemanly hour came to leave, the door wouldn’t budge for all the freshly packed snow. You bid him stay, and for the first time, he did.

Chastely—not for lack of interest but for an abundance of intimate moments that might have been stretched too thin if pushed too far: he fumbles taking off his tie and his hands shake unbuttoning his jacket. He folds them, sets them just so on the dresser. He exhales—a sigh or a steadying breath?

He turns, asking what kind of hairbrush you have. You didn’t know how to answer that question—or any question at all, really. It was the first time you’d seen him simply dressed in just his white button-down shirt, and more importantly, one of the few times you’d even seen him look sheepish. This, the same man that an hour ago only let you out of his arms to twirl you to the music, wrapping you back in even tighter than before, filling your head with lovely words in murmured baritone.

And it doesn’t escape you how his fingers absently run over the embroidered hem of his jacket when you manage to say there should be one on the bathroom counter that he’s welcome to use. Nor how his leg bounces as he sits and pours over his manuscript while you change. Nor how he seems to look anywhere else but at you, blushing, once you’ve changed into your most unassuming night clothes.

It’s so quiet but for the crackling fire place and the occasional rushing wind from the blizzard outside. You’re not as good with words as he is, but you have to try. You walk over to him, bare feet quiet against the cold wooden floor. “Elliott?”

It’s slow, but he looks up from his manuscript, at you. “Yes… darling?”

“I know it’s not ideal or perfect but… I’m happy to have this time with you, just…” words fail, and you gesture vaguely at the blizzard, your frayed pajama bottoms and oversized t-shirt, and… him, “just as we are.”

His shoulders lower, slowly, a tension loosening. He exhales—a sigh, this time you’re certain—and sets the manuscript atop his neatly folded clothes. He rises to standing, and meets your gaze with a tired but truly mirthful smile. “As am I.”

Elliott’s hands reach to cup your face, his finger tips brushing against your jaw, hesitating, waiting for permission. You lean your head into his touch, and there’s another exhale—an airy, loving laugh—before he cups your face and leans down to meet your lips. He’s so warm tonight—blame the wine, the fire place, but certainly not the blush—as he holds you and kisses you still.

His freshly brushed hair tickles your cheek when he pulls back. It tickles your neck, shoulders, and lips too, in time, as you share in each other’s body heat throughout the cold, cold night.

You’re dozing, and you’re almost certain he is too when you hear, heavy with sleep and soft with love, “Thank you, my dear.”

“…for what?”

“This.” He says, with a kiss into your hair.

And in the morning while you lay cozily in his arms, slowly combing your fingers through his silky auburn hair as he sleeps, it’s there you find a knot. Nestled above the nape of his neck, it snags and bids you pause. It’s not a matter of how, but a matter of trust—would it be a step too far?

Under loving hands the largest knots are made pliant to reveal the stark truth: it’s never one, but several smaller bundles huddled and wrapped around one another—cornered nestlings shivering at being seen.

The trembling hands, clinging to an ornately embroidered shelter, avoiding your gaze until you offer reassurance…

You withdraw your hand, instead placing it on his chest, where his plain white shirt, albeit wrinkled now, is so…

…so soft.

You’d come to find many more knots in his hair, but that was the last time you saw him sheepish.

It’s autumn now—not the autumn of your wedding, but the autumn of your anniversary. You’re playfully sick of picking his discarded ties off the foot of the bed. The sound of the microwave beeping at 3am wakes you to the sight of him partway through a slice of cold, leftover pizza. (He cooly, lying, insists you dreamt such a thing.) Elliott eagerly and openly makes his plans to get fully “sloshed” on pumpkin ale and asks that you still claim him at the end of the night and be gentle carrying him home. The next day he vows that was a horrid idea he’ll never repeat, and in the autumn after your first child is born, he does it happily again.

There’s a barbecue stain on one of his white shirts, and despite both your best efforts, the ghost of the stain persists. It’s now accompanied by speckling of other stains from being worn and worn out as he helps you on the farm. Originally a “house shirt”, he no longer has need for that, as it turns out sometimes an oversized t-shirt and frayed pajama bottoms will do the trick just as well.

And you still doze in on winter mornings. Combing your fingers through his hair, delighting in both the sun-kissed copper and moon-kissed silver strands, when you hit a snag, you know it’s just a simple knot. One that will come gently, surely undone under your patient, loving hands.

currently trying to woo him on my new farm 😈

Hi, is it ok if I request nsfw headcanons of Leah with top femreader? Also Happy Halloween!

Jesus christ, you literally sent this before halloween. I am so sorry. I desperately hope this was worth the wait. Anyway, hell yeah it’s okay! This gave me so many thoughts. None of them were appropriate or PG. Also I could’ve sworn I couldn’t imagine her as a bottom. Clearly this post is proof of otherwise. I have got to write a full blurb about this at some point, so let me know if you'd like to see that too, anon.

Nsfw, smutty as hell. Minors y'all know the drill. TopFem!Reader, Bottom!Leah is a bit of a brat, mentions of overstim, one(1) mention of drinking, aaaaaaand I think that's it. Lmk if I missed anything. Enjoy!

Leah already knows that you’re a top before y’all get into a relationship (in case you’re curious, she found out during a drunken game of truth or dare between you and the older marriage candidates)

So when she gets into a relationship with you, she’s thinking about it pretty frequently

Leah has never bottomed before—it’s not that she isn’t into it, it’s just that her hookups and relationships have never gone that way

Never mind that all of her past partners were incredibly self serving (FUCK YOU, KEL)

They never really cared about her pleasure all that much, and the ones that did weren’t too great at it

And sure, she knows you’re different from all of them

But that insecurity, that fear—it’s hard to get rid of without definitive proof

And god do you give her some

Bottoming gives her a new avenue to explore herself in a way, as well

Like, she could’ve sworn she wasn’t this bratty, but something about you telling her what to do makes her want to act out

Probably because she likes when you treat her firmly

But let’s make this clear now: she does not like painful punishments

Overstim is your best friend when she’s being a little shit

Also I know I’ve said “she’ll be at her loudest when all of the focus is on you” but let’s toss that in the fucking gutter right now okay?

Because while she enjoys topping for you, bottoming is. Oof. A new kind of drug

Absolutely loves it when you boss her around

Make her get herself off without touching her

Trust me.

Tell her to ride your thigh while you watch

And refuse to touch her until she makes herself come at least once

It’s embarrassing and she’s loving every fucking second of it

Praiiiiiisssseeeee kiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIIINK

‘Nough said.

Compliment her. Tell her she’s doing a good job and that she’s pretty I'm serious she's insecure

And while she loves when you force her to get herself off, nothing compares to coming with your hands on her

Has a thing for your hands specifically

And being underneath you

Pin her to literally any surface—feeling your chests press together will always have her eyes rolling back

SHE HAS SENSITIVE NIPPLES

Lol sorry for yelling but! Yes!!

loves it when you play with her chest, bro

Pinch her nipples a little bit and she'll be whimpering in absolutely no time at all

also loves seeing you between her thighs, especially because she knows that’s when she’s really in for it

Has bruises littered across her inner thighs basically all the time now, and cannot—I repeat—cannot get enough of them

You catch her staring at them a lot

She wears shorts when it’s just the two of you on purpose

You know exactly what she’s playing at and yes, you do punish her a little bit because you know she’s trying to rile you up

She’ll play innocent but we all know the truth

She’ll do whatever it takes to get you on her again once she finds out how you like it

Elliot and his emotional support crab burning the midnight oil.