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Good morning, gang! I've decided not to sleep and to instead write another thing involving Elliott. He's a good noodle, and I love writing him.




Elliott was sitting in the bar, looking at his glass absently. What was even the point of drinking if one was alone?

The Singing Mandrake was lively as always, with Bohemians laughing, and poets reciting work on the stage. Spies sat at tables, and the bar was full of people here to simply lead their lives and forget the troubles of the Neath for a moment.

Elliott took another sip, savoring the burning in his throat from the whiskey. Mushroom wines were fine and dandy, but he missed the amber liquid from the Surface, and he was treating himself. He had just returned from his first trip to zee, and he felt he had more than earned a bottle of whiskey and a night to himself.

He continued looking over the bar, drinking his whiskey and thinking. By the time he realised it, he was straddling the line between pleasantly intoxicated and drunk. He knew he should stop, but…

Hh’upsch!” He snapped forward with a sneeze, openly spraying the table. His reflexes, bogged down by the alcohol, kicked in too late, and he raised a hand to cover a second too late. He blinked owlishly at the table. He had forgotten about this.

“I should get a tattoo.” He murmured to no one in particular.

“Hhh...hiitsch! Hh’ipshuh! Iitsshh!” This round he managed to cover in time, coating his hand in a layer of dampness. Thin, calloused fingers pinched his reddening nose, rubbing and massaging to try to rid himself of the tickle. Wine tended to get him much worse, so he thanked his lucky stars that he had picked something else.

He gained a few looks from nearby tables, and his cheeks flushed with more than the intoxication. He felt bad--being the tall, loudly sneezing, drunk American was not a title he was proud of.

“I, er--sorry.” He said sheepishly, looking down at the surface of the table in front of him. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, nervously scratching at it. It was a nervous habit, but then again very few of his habits hadn't developed out of anxiety. God he had to sneeze.

His body jerked with a series of stifled sneezes, his knee slamming against the underside of the table on the final one. He grunted in pain, sniffling and dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief. The sneezing usually tended to subside after after a few more drinks, so he did.

He continued drinking, enjoying the burn. About halfway through a long drink, a sneeze snuck up on him. He couldn't swallow in time, and ended up spitting the whiskey over his lap and the table as he pitched forward with the sneeze.

He was shocked to see a few of the zailors he worked with walking in. He had expected them to be more at the Medusa’s Head, or just drinking at the docks, but here they were. One of them hauled him to his feet.

“Come on, lad, we’re going fer tattoos.” They laughed, a deep, gravelly sound. They graciously ignored the odd wet stains down his shirt and trousers, scented of whiskey. “Finish yer bottle, we're going.”

Obediently, Elliott downed the last of the bottle, coughing and eyes watering, but thankfully no sneezing. He was drunk. Not just tipsy, he was drunk. With a firm hand on his shoulder, he was led out of the Singing Mandrake for a night he wouldn't remember.

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11 hours ago, sickprincess said:

This is too adorable <3 <3 Your writing style is incredible!!! 

Thank you!! I'm really glad you enjoyed it! I love writing him a lot, and I'm really glad that people like reading content with him. He's a dork, but I love him to death. Your comment is well and truly appreciated!!!

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I'm gonna level with y'all, your boy keeps forgetting to refill his prescription for Paxil so we're in the middle of anxiety fueled no sleep writing binge-fest so I wrote another continuation of it and there might be more afterward I dunno yet. I'm sorry if this sucks or you're tired of seeing me update


Raucous laughter and loud cheering echoed through the alleyways as the small band of men made their way to Ladybones Road. Elliott was wobbling as he walked, unsteady on his legs as he looked around for Claremont’s--Clathermont’s?--Clathermont’s Tattoo Parlour.

Elliott staggered in, an arm wrapped around his torso to keep the lad steady. At a lanky six foot three, he towered almost a foot over his fellow zailors--though this was London, so no one else used feet and inches. The curse of being an American in the Neath.

“Whaddya want, lad?” One of the men asked gruffly, gesturing to one of the women assisting Clathermont. For a brief moment Elliott thought he was drunk enough to be seeing three of everything, until someone, bless their soul, explained he was assisted by triplets.

“My legs feel like jelly.” He moaned, slumping down into one of the chairs.

“The lad wants a jellyfish.” One of them reported.

Elliott wasn’t sure whether or not this was the case, and simply wobbled to the counter, slammed a fistful of echoes onto the counter, and demanded the tattoo cover his entire back. “Do it in colour!” He asked, squinting at the occupants of the parlour. Someone raised a brow, but it seemed pay was pay. This man obviously wasn’t a spy asking for a coded tattoo. It seemed he was just a drunk man looking for a bit of ink. No trouble there.

He was directed to a chair, and he pulled his overcoat and shirt off, slumping down into it. “I’m gonna sneeze.” He muttered. True to his word, a moment later his body shook with a series of sneezes. He turned away and took a gasp of air. “Iishh! Upsch! ‘Psch! Hhh...hhihhh…” His brows were slanted at a desperate angle, scarlet nostrils flared. Tears gathered on his dark lashes before he finally pitched forward into the crook of his arm. “Hh’iishh’uh!” He remained in that position a moment longer before dropping his arm, resting his cheek on the chair.

His fit of sneezes was met with silence, only punctuated by a miserable sniffle from Elliott himself. “God bless me.” He said quietly, his voice hardly above a whimper. He yelped as the needle touched his skin for the first time. Even drunk as he was, he could more than feel the pain of it.

“Alright, lad, no movin’ now. Tap my knee if yer gonna sneeze again. Can’t have ya ruinin’ that ink.” Elliott had no idea which of his fellow zailors had said that, but he was very grateful for that man.

“Whiskey.” He made a grabbing hand at one of them.

“Y’already drank it.” The coworker said in a rather gruff but hopefully comforting way.

“No, it’s the..the…” He reached aside, swatting the knee next to him.

The man signalled to pause the tattooing, and watched Elliott with rapt attention. This man, a newcomer to the Neath and the newest addition to the crew that helped on the ship, seemed helpless but kind. London was going to chew him up and spit him out.

Perhaps if he had been born before the Fall, before the Masters of the Bazaar took London, he could have been alright. But these were different times. Criminals were everywhere. Pissing off the wrong person could land you with one extra sorrow spider on the pillow and one less eye in your skull. The kid seemed like someone who would accidentally agree to knife-and-candle with someone not knowing what it was. He needed a job like this--something dangerous and full of adventure--to put a bit of hair on his chest.

Hipshuh! Hitshh! Hh...huptsch’uh!” He sniffled weakly, whimpering. He hadn’t the faintest idea where his handkerchief had gone, so he simply sniffled it back as best he could. He hoped he could find it again--he had been carrying one that had belonged to Father, and he couldn’t afford to lose some of the last things he had left connecting him to the Surface. His parents had been gone for thirteen years, it wasn’t like he could simply pick up another memento of his family somewhere.

He received a pat on the back, and he shivered under the warm, calloused skin. He was cold with his shirt off. “It’s the whiskey.” He said again. “Keeps...keeps makin’ me sneeze.” He sniffled badly, wiping his nose on his wrist.

“Ztop talkin’.” The man replied. Elliott was obedient, and fell silent. A few moments later he was snoring in the chair, having passed out, it seemed. The men looked between each other for some sort of consensus, and finally they decided to simply have the tattoo finished. He had asked for it, and already paid for it and had a few lines drawn, so he didn’t really have much of a choice in getting it finished the rest of the way.

Hopefully he would forgive them.

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I'll see what I can do ;) thank you for your comments! They warmed my heart

1 hour ago, jawzzbubblez said:

And if you do continue this story could you have him drink wine and start sneezing a lot?


3 hours ago, jawzzbubblez said:

Please PLEASE write more and have Elliot sneeze a whole lot more please. I love this. 

I have a lot of stories floating around the original fiction section with him in the meantime

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3 hours ago, jawzzbubblez said:

And if you do continue this story could you have him drink wine and start sneezing a lot?

Hopefully this is up to snuff for you!








Elliott struggled with the cork to the bottle of wine he had purchased him, but if he could face zee beasts and brave the threat of Drownies, he could open a goddamn bottle of wine. Probably. What kind had he bought?

“Morelways, from 1872…” He muttered, reading off the label. He couldn’t afford anything Mr. Wines would recommend, but according to what he’d heard this didn’t tend to taste as much like mushrooms as some of the other wines. This ‘vintage’ was only fifteen years old. Fifteen? He paused to do the math. If it was 1894 now...no, that made it twenty-two years old. Hell, it was older than he was by a year. Perhaps that made *him* vintage too, he thought with amusement.

With a pop, the cork finally dislodged from the bottle, and the scent of fermented grapes filled the air. Perfect. He considered getting a glass, but after a moment of debate with himself he decided against it. He was the only one drinking, and it was in the privacy of his own home, so he decided to indulge himself and drink directly from the bottle.

A few sips in, he remembered why he didn’t drink wine more often. It was terrible. But waste not, want not. He hadn’t bought himself wine to just not drink it.

Upsch!” He was rather surprised by how soft that had been, at least by his standards. He was used to sneezing rather loudly and wetly--the kind of sneeze that people couldn’t help but look over at you for. But one stray, dainty sneeze wouldn’t bother him. He had wine to finish.

He set the bottle down, grabbing his quilt and a book from the stack beside the bed, settling down in front of the hearth to enjoy a night in. He had recently picked up a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, which had come recommended by a few people in the bookshop, and seeing as he had recently finished the Divine Comedy, something a bit lighter seemed nice.

“Hhh...hitshh! Hupsch’uh! Ipsh’iew!” He sneezed a triple into his hand, grimacing and leaving the comfort of the quilt to seek out a handkerchief. He wiped his palm before gently wiping at his nose, satisfied that he was done for now.

“Curiouser and curiouser.” He muttered to himself. London was rather like Wonderland. Down in a large hole, with some talking animals, and Brits, and laws and such that made no sense. Both were nothing like the land at the surface that had been left behind. But, unlike Alice, Elliott had no hope of ever returning home. He belonged to the Neath, now, and would never see sunlight, or grass, or anything else of that sort again.

He took a long drink of the wine--it got more palatable the more he drank--and settled into the couch to read in peace. But only a few pages in, he had to set the wine bottle and book down, readying his handkerchief.

Bottle green eyes squinted to slits as his head tipped back a bit, jaw falling slack. His pink nose twitched, nostrils flaring with his uneven breaths. God he had to sneeze, but nothing seemed to be happening, the sensation so strong but relief seeming so far away. His breath caught in his throat, and finally he’s had enough. He took a lock of his hair in trembling hands, gently brushing it against his nose.

He didn’t even have time to grab his handkerchief, simply pitching into his cupped hands. “Hiish’uh! Hipsh! Hh’upsh’uh! ‘Psh! ‘Psh! Hh...hh’iisshhh!” He sniffled, trying to clean himself up before falling back into another helpless fit. “Iishh! Upsh’uh! Hupshiew! ‘pshuh!

He sighed, sniffling pathetically and trying to wipe off his hands and pants. Tears and mucous dribbled down his face, and he hastily wiped them both away. He had forgotten about this, and why he rarely ventured into the wine cabinets. Not only did he detest the taste, he couldn’t stop sneezing when he drank it.

“We’ll…*snff* have to finish this another time, Alice.” He closed the book and left the wine on the table. He’d find someone else to drink it for him, for now he just wanted to sleep. “‘Psh!” He muffled the sneeze into his wrist, peeling off his clothing that he was certain was now covered in a fine layer of mucous, and tugged in his nightgown. He didn’t even bother untying his hair, simply yanking the pile of blankets over himself and calling it a day.

The blanket lump that was Elliott passed the next few hours alternating between light dozing and sneezing, before finally slipping into the warm embrace of deep sleep.

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That was awesome. Please write more chapters. And in the next chapter could you maybe have Elliot accidentally sneeze on a stranger multiple times please?

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Cause I’d really like to read a chapter where he goes to the bar and has wine and then has a big sneezing fit and accidentally sneezes on a stranger 3 times because his reaction time is slow 

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