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A collection of Elliott fics


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I feel bad cluttering the forum with so many different fics with Elliott, so I thought I'd consolidate everything into one big thing and just add onto this one. I'll do my best to make sure I get these into a somewhat reasonable order and whatnot.


Background! Elliott is my OC for the roleplaying game Fallen London (which I 10/10 recommend if you like Gothic style things and the Victorian era and don't mind some alternate history) Elliott, Warren, and Arthur are all my OCs, but I do use characters/settings/objects/creatures from the game itself.


Elliott: Elliott is a 6'3 American man that's come to London. As of 1895, he is 22 years of age, and has been working as a zailor at Wolfstack Docks for a year and a half, and has adopted Warren as his daughter. He's dating! Hooray! He's soft and goofy and likes to try to make people happy, with a crooked gap-toothed smile, bottle green eyes, and waist length brunette hair. Allergic to flowers, dust, and mushroom spores in the summertime. Has a poor immune system, and tends to frequently be ill. Sneezes when he drinks (esp. mushroom wines).
Warren: Warren is a 4'4 Londoner, and is a blind urchin. She is eight and a half years old, and is a very stubborn child determined to get her way with people. Her eyes are a dull blue, and her hair a dirty blonde. She's Arthur's companion, and has been his partner in crime for two years. She loves Arthur as her other half, and loves Corben (Dad) and Elliott (Mum) as her adoptive parents.
Arthur: Arthur is an orange tabby cat with dark splotches in his fur over his eyes that look like angry eyebrows. He's three years old, and the partner companion and seeing eye animal to Warren. He despises Elliott, but tolerates him because Warren likes him. He's been with Warren for two years, and loves her more than anything else. Often rides on her shoulders.

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Whiskey (1894)



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.


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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Ellie in Wonderland (1894)



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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Not So Bad



Elliott’s lanky frame was covered by a pile of blankets as he slept, hair still tied back, clothes still on; the only thing it seemed he did before sleeping was remove his boots, and even those were simply on the floor next to the bed. He looked miserable, with pale skin and flushed cheeks and nose. The snores that came from him were stuffier than usual, and his usually unending movements were quelled as his heavy limbs were tucked up against him, the only exception being an arm slung over and tucked back beneath his pillow.

“Artie?” Warren called softly, running her fingers over the walls of Elliott’s bedroom and stepping inside hesitantly. She could hear her guardian sleeping soundly.

“Here, kid.” The cat replied lazily, poking his head out from one of Elliott’s boots.

“I want food. Why isn't ‘e awake yet?” She asked grumpily, making her way to the side of his bed and nearly stumbling over the boots in the process.

“He’s sick. From the looks of it he'll be out awhile longer.” Arthur yawned and stretched, slipping out from the boot and hopping up onto the nightstand beside where Warren stood. “You could try waking him, but he sleeps pretty heavily. Even moreso now, just listen to him snore!”

“Oi. Elliott.” She put a small hand on his arm and shook, but he didn't stir. She was afraid of shaking any harder, since he had warned her once he slept with a dagger beneath his pillow, and didn't fancy getting stabbed over breakfast.

“Let me get him for you. I know how to get him up.” Arthur hopped down onto the bedding, walking over to Elliott’s face and squatting down beside him. He looked the picture of misery. Arthur gently licked the man’s nose, and stood back to watch.

Elliott stirred slightly, sniffling involuntarily and rubbing at his nose, but not waking. His skin flushed a promising shade of pink, but he was no closer to waking than before.

Arthur bent down again, licking his nose a few more times before backing up again.

This time Elliott’s lashes fluttered, opening to reveal red-rimmed green eyes. His breath caught in his throat and he brought a hand to his face, sneezing violently into it a few times. He winced, putting a hand over his throat and groaning at the pain. “Ow.”

Warren jumped at the sound. “Oi! Watch it, then!” She suddenly felt a bit guilty for her attitude. He clearly hadn't meant to startle her. “Bless, and all that. When are you making food?”

Elliott sniffled, pressing the handkerchief off the nightstand to his nose to stop it from running. He grabbed the pocket watch with his free hand, squinting at the numbers. “...Renny, it’s only four thirty-seven in the morning. I’ll make breakfast in a few hours, alright?”

“...oh.” She seemed embarrassed. “Go back to sleep, then.”

Arthur simply smirked. Served him right.

“...goodnight, Renny.” He settled back into the blankets, listening to hear her and Arthur leave for settling back to sleep.


He didn't get up for another few hours, before the thick congestion and general sense of feeling unwell forced him to get up. Warren was waiting, he couldn't make her to wait any longer.

He entered the living room wrapped in a few blankets, sniffling and muffling a few coughs into his wrist. “Good morning. Again.” He patted Warren on the head as he passed, and gave Arthur a quick scratch on the chin. “What do you want for breakfast?” His voice was hoarse, and barely came out in some places.

Warren was conflicted, hearing the sorry state her guardian was in. Perhaps she would be better off making herself breakfast and insulating herself from whatever illness he was currently being ravaged by. Maybe she could just give him a couple blankets and put him back to bed?

“I’m fine. Go back to bed.” She crossed her arms in an authoritative manner, tapping one little foot at him with impatience. Arthur glanced up at Warren curiously, ignoring Elliott entirely in the process of doing so.

“What? Don’t be silly, you were hungry just a few hours ago. How about eggs? You seem to like those pretty well.” He shuffled toward the kitchen, sniffling and coughing on the path there. “Do you want me to do the thing where they’re whole, or when they’re poofy and scrambled?”

“I want you to go back to bed ‘fore you make Arthur and I a plate of sickness.” She scolded.

Elliott was rather taken aback by this. “Warren, don’t be silly. It’s a parent’s job to care for their children, even if they’re under the weather.”

“Well now I’m the mum, so back on bed or I’ll give you a right stab to the side.” She brandished her push dagger menacingly.

Elliott simply gave a sigh and a soft smile. “I’ll compromise and lie on the couch instead.” He bundled up under the blankets, scooping Arthur and plopping him into his lap. Arthur hissed and scratched one of his arms, but he remained where he was placed. He knew Warren wanted him to do stay there. He tried desperately not to purr, but the feeling of Elliott’s warm hands gliding through his fur was a luxuriant feeling.

“You stay there.” She walked herself into the kitchen, the sounds of her fumbling through cabinets able to be heard. “Arthur! Oi! C’mere!” She snapped.

Arthur got up after Elliott reluctantly released him, padding into the kitchen with relief. Thankfully, that disgusting man was no longer touching him. “What do you need, kid?”

“ ‘elp me do the tea.” The water in the kettle sloshed as she set it onto the stove, and she felt around for the matches. “Turn it on, then.”

Arthur waited to turn the gas on until she had already struck the match, taking it from her in his mouth and managing to light it. “You don’t need to do that for him. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s disgusting, and he’ll get you sick if you’re not careful.” He warned.

“ ‘e’s not bad. Rather good chap, really.” She said, smiling a bit. She liked this one. More than she was used to. She was oddly fond of him, and hoped that of all the ones she had ever been with that he would be the one that kept her and Arthur.

She jumped when the kettle whistled, and from the living room she could hear Elliott attempting to sneeze quietly. He was spectacularly unsuccessful at it, but she appreciated him trying to keep his volume down because he knew it bothered Arthur. “Bless!” She called into the living room.

“Thank you!” He tried to sound jovial, but he honestly sounded exhausted.

Warren carried out a cup of the tea, humming the tune she always heard Elliott humming as she walked. “ ‘ere you go, then.” She thrust the cup into his hands.

“Thank you, Renny.” He gave her a grateful smile and squeezed one of her little hands in his. “I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, well, it’s nothin’. Go back to sleep or something.” She muttered, embarrassed by his thanking her. She didn’t want to be seen as going out of her way for him and caring.

“You’re a wonderful child. I’m very grateful for you.” He admitted quietly.

“...well...uh...yeah. You’re not so bad for a mum.” She mumbled, giving him a quick hug and leaving the room.

Elliott was stunned and humbled by the statement, and sat pondering it over his cup of tea.

Not so bad for a mum…

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Warren laid in her bed, arms crossed grouchily. “Still don’t know why I ‘afta sleep so early.” She kicked at the blanket in a weak display of dissatisfaction.

“Because,” he sniffled, dabbing at his reddened nose with a damp handkerchief, “it’s bedtime for you and Arthur. I’ll head to sleep too so it’s fair.” Elliott looked down at his frustratingly alert child, casting a glance around for her companion. “Where’s Beans?”

Warren rolled her eyes--where she had picked up that habit from he still couldn’t be sure--and patted the bed. “Arthur is somewhere close. Might’ve gone back to sleep in your boots again.” She paused. “ ‘ow come you keep callin’ ‘im Beans?”

“Because, his feet look like they have little beans on the bottoms.” He paused, holding up a finger to her despite the fact that she couldn’t see it. Not that she needed to. The sounds of her guardian's sneezing were familiar enough that she knew when one was coming without seeing him warn her. “Hhh...iihhh…” Nothing. He sighed, lowering his handkerchief with a resigned sniffle.

Warren quirked a brow. “You scared it off.” She sat up, crawling out from under the blankets and taking his hand. “C’mon.” She led him toward his bedroom, her fingers running over the familiar imperfections in the walls. She no longer needed Arthur to guide her, or have Elliott warn her about when she was too close to a wall or going to hit a doorway. She knew the house well enough by now to make her way through it on her own.

“What are you doing?” He seemed surprised, but didn’t put up a fight. He was impressed every day by how independent she was getting.

“Get in bed. I’ll tell a story, like you do.” She admired his stories more than she wanted to let on.

True to form, upon entering Elliott’s bedroom, a pair of paws crept out from one of Elliott’s boots, followed a moment later by a languidly stretching Arthur. “Did I hear he’s telling us a story? Good luck, he can barely get through ten minutes without sneezing to wake the dead. You’re putting the Boat Man out of business like that.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re really angry all the time or if your eyebrows just make it like you are.” Elliott replied, scooping the snarky up and setting him onto the bedding, leaning back against the headboard and settling into the blankets. “And no, actually. Rennie decided she wanted to tell a story tonight.” He pulled the ribbon from his hair, letting it fall around his shoulders. He would have to wait to change into his nightgown until after Warren had gone to bed.

“That’s right.” She said proudly. “You tell some good’uns, but now it’s my turn.” She tried to think of a good story. Ellie always let her make choices, so she supposed she’d have to let him choose things too. And Arthur always commented afterward that he had been acting a fool, acting things out as they happened and doing voices for all the characters and making props from things in the room. She had a tough performance to live up to. But he always told her stories when she felt bad, so now it was time to repay the favour.

“Arthur and I are ready when you are.”

“Once on a time...there was...a big lion! A great big one with big claws and sharp teeth! And he kept fightin’ the village people! ‘Oh nooooo!’ They all screamed and such. The lion scared ‘em ‘alf to death.” She put her hands up above herself in a circle like a lion’s mane.

Inxxtsch!” Elliott cut her off with a stifled sneeze, jerking the bed in the process. Arthur flicked his tail in disapproval but remained silent, keeping his gaze focused on Warren.

“Bless. And-and the big lion was gonna eat ‘em all unless someone stopped ‘im! And who was gonna do it? Our hero! What was ‘is name?” She asked, waiting intently for Elliott’s reply.

Hih’upsch!” Elliott sniffled, patting around for his handkerchief. “Sorry. Er..how about Theodore?” He offered his father’s name, though Warren didn’t know it.

“Theodore set out from the village real quiet-like. ‘E ‘ad a great big scar on ‘is face from battle! And a beard! A real fearsome man ‘e was.” She stroked her chin in emphasis of the beard. “So ‘e saw the--”


“--lion, and ‘e drew ‘is sword to fight it, and--”

“--what’d ‘e do?”

Hiih’ptsch’uh!” Elliott pitched forward, groaning slightly afterward.

“He sneezed.” Arthur provided flatly. “Face it, kid, he’s no good for this right now. You did your due diligence with this one. Why don’t we take him around back, put him out of his misery, throw him in the zee, and find one that’s less sickly?” He had stood, hopping off the bed with a soft plopping sound as his paws connected with the floorboards.

“I can--snfff--hear you, Arthur.” Elliott crossed his arms.

“Precisely. You’ll see it coming, which is more than the rest of your family could say.” Arthur hissed--both in tone and physically. “You’re not letting my kid die the same way.”

“Arthur!” Warren was incredulous, flicking the cat on the nose and pushing him away with one leg. “You say sorry to ‘im now! ‘Is mum and dad died when ‘e was smaller ‘an I am, and ‘is brother was a dreadful bloke that tried to off ‘im! Weren’t ‘is fault!”

Elliott was stiff and silent in the bed, not moving or breaking eye contact with the cat. He may felt downright horrid physically, but Arthur cut deeper than the tickle that plagued him. That had hurt. “Arthur. You’re banned from the beds. You’ll sleep in the closet until you can apologise.”

Arthur looked to Warren for support. “Come on, kid, you know this one’s no good. The man can hardly care for himself, let alone us!”

“ ‘e’s done a bang-up job of it so far.” She crossed the room to Elliott, giving him an awkward attempt at a hug. Even seated he towered over her. She more or less hugged around his waist.

“Thank you.” He said quietly, his words punctuated by a series of increasingly congested sniffles.

“C’mon, mum, finish the story. What’d Teddy do?” Warren released him, backing up to be ready to act.

“He...made friends with the lion!”

“That’s boring. ‘Ow can they be friends if the lion is always mean and eatin’ the people?” She was confused, dropping her arms in a dramatic slump.

“Because. Even though the lion hated the man, the man loved the lion, and he was willing to keep working until the lion liked him too.” Elliott looked directly at Arthur as he spoke. “Go get in bed. Thank you for the story. Do you want to feel the new chart on your way out?”

Arthur grumbled and skulked out of the room.

Warren ran her fingers over the paper chart on the desk, feeling the raised lines and bumps where Elliott had jabbed the paper so she could “see” the stars. “Night, mum. Feel better.” She scampered off back to her own bed, ready to consider her first story a success.

Elliott slumped back into his blankets, ready for laudanum and a nap. Damned lion...

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Tails and Tea



Elliott was curled up on his couch, coughing feebly into a fist. The thick congestion had spread a headache pounding to behind his eyes, and his nose was running incessantly. Despite his best efforts to sniffle it away, he was too blocked to really have much of an effect. He bent down, grabbing his pocketwatch from off the floor where it had dropped to.

Two eighteen. Not as late--early?--as he was expecting. He normally got up in a few hours for the docks anyway, so he was rather alert despite the time. Warren had made him promise to sleep, and he felt rather guilty to still be up, but if he laid down he had no hopes of ever breathing from his nose again. He got up, walking into the kitchen and putting the kettle on. What was the phrase Warren always used? “Bitch the pot”? He decided it was time to bitch the pot.

“Why’re you awake?” Came a groggy voice from the doorway. Elliott jumped, a hand over his chest as he felt about ready to have a heart attack and visit the boat man. Warren stood in the doorway, rubbing at her eyes sleepily, clutching her lion close to her chest.

“Good mb--” He attempted to clear his throat, trying to ease the odd sounds the congestion put on his syllables. “Good morning, Ren. A better question is, why are you awake?”

“Woke up.” She shrugged. “ ‘s early. You ‘aven’t gone to bed yet, ‘ave ya?” Damn, she was more astute than he had hoped. Then again, she always was.

“You know, for an eight year old, you’re awfully concerned with being a-ahhh-n adult.” His voice wavered ticklishly, and he patted the breast pocket of his nightgown for his handkerchief. “Ngxxt!” He stifled a sneeze, immediately undoing all of the work that had gone into clearing his congestion. What he wouldn’t give for some Surface honey...he had wondered if prisoner’s honey would have the same soothing effects to his throat, but the risk was far from worth the reward. He had spent enough nights sleeping in the backs of honeydens when he first arrived in the Neath to know that nothing good came of tasting a bit of honey.

“If you took of yourself, maybe I wouldn’t ‘afta.” She crossed her arms, knowing she had him beat. “Bless.” She added afterward.

“Thagk you.” He cringed at the sound of his own voice, and cleared his throat expectantly.

“...oh alright. It’s been months now, and you’re still too delicate a flower to blow your nose in front of me.” She walked out of the room, and he heard the sound of the couch creaking as she sat down on it.

He still turned away from the doorway, blowing his nose into the folds of worn, sky blue fabric. It was a thick, gurgling sound that made him cringe again.

“You sound terrible.” Arthur commented casually, sitting on the counter beside Elliott and stretching with a yawn. “Caught yourself a cold again?”

“Something like that.” Elliott grumbled, shooing the cat from the countertop. “Get down from there. Be a menace on the floor if you insist on being in here.”

“If you insist on me getting off the counters...” He hopped up, landing on Elliott’s shoulders and perching there. Elliott was much less comfortable than Warren to stand on, but he was admittedly much roomier. He would do for now.

“I did say onto the floor.” Elliott fixed the cat with a sharp look that quickly dissolved into one of a man struggling not to sneeze. He was quickly losing the battle.

Warren had reentered the kitchen, having gotten quite bored of sitting alone in the living room. “Oi, Artie is only three, ‘ow come you don’t talk to 'im about being a kid?” She took the whistling kettle that Elliott had failed to take note of, feeling around for the cup and pouring some tea into it.

“Yeah, Elliott, why don’t you ever talk to me about being a child?” Arthur echoed, flicking a tail across the zailor’s face, brushing his pink nose expertly.

Iitschh! Hh’iipsshh’uh! Hhh...iihhh...hh’iipsch’uhh!” He snapped forward into his cupped hands with each release, coating his palms in spray. He sniffled pitifully, wiping his palms as clean as he could with his already soiled handkerchief. “You’re h-iihh-orrible.” He scrubbed at his nose, picking off stray orange hairs that clung to it.

“Bless ya, mum!” Warren chirped, offering him the cup of tea--now decidedly only half filled. “Y’know, for someone so big you sneeze somethin’ soft.”

“But loud.” Arthur chimed in, having hopped onto the floor during one of the times Elliott had bent toward the floor. He wound around Warren’s legs, pawing until she lowered an arm and allowed him up onto her shoulders.

“Are we quite done talking about my sneezing?” He asked defensively, his cheeks having flushed the same shade of pink as his nose due to embarrassment. “You heard Corben sneeze once. That’s soft.” He couldn’t help but smile at the thought of his partner’s kittenish sneezes,

Warren snickered. “I s’ppose so.” She stroked Arthur pensively, pretending the wetness along his tail was from steam and not her guardian's nose. “Are you goin’ to tell Artie and I a story tonight? I’m tired, but your stories are always nice.” She reached out, wiping her hand on Elliott’s nightgown. He was thoroughly unimpressed but didn’t comment on it.

“How about I tell you a few extras next week when I’m better?” He sipped his tea, grateful for the feeling of the hot liquid as it soothed his throat. The steam seemed to be helping already, as his nose began to run profusely as he caught the first hint of breath through it in hours.

“Good luck with that, you spend more time sick than you do healthy.” Arthur muttered, purring as Warren’s small hands worked through his fur, scratching under his chin.

Elliott had to admit he had a point. The poor things had yet to spend a summer with him, however. Spore season in London was like his own Hell, and admittedly no picnic for those around him either. Granted, it was rarely much better even on the ship after he had gotten started. He sniffled, wiping his nose with a fresh handkerchief of vibrant red. “Come on, kids and kitties, it’s off to bed with us all.” He herded the pair toward their bedroom, patting both Arthur and Warren on the head, and sparing an affectionate pat for the lion plush as well.

Warren yawned. “G’night, Ellie.” She murmured. Even Arthur looked tired, though he’d never admit to it, nor would he say goodnight to Elliott.

The three parted paths into the two bedrooms, Elliott pausing to blow out lanterns as he passed.

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Zummertime (1894)



Iitsch! Itsch! Hh’iitschuh!” Elliott’s body jerked with each release, an exhausted sigh leaving his lips afterward. He sniffled in vain, wiping at his raw nose with a handkerchief and grimacing as he wiped the spray from his arm and lap. He had stopped bothering to cover awhile ago.

It felt like a million feathers were dancing through his sinuses, and he felt horrendous. He was sure he looked it as well. His eyes were red and itchy, his nose raw and running. Allergic tears were brimming in his eyes, but he didn’t bother moving to wipe them. It was too much effort for so little a reward.

He still hadn’t bothered getting dressed yet. He knew he had to get ready to leave for work soon, but the thought of having to get up was almost too much to bear. He glanced at his pocketwatch, the worn heirloom and last connection of his father aside from the secret rucksack he had hidden beneath the floorboards. He was tempted to go pry the boards up and see the remnants of his life on the Surface--one of Mother’s old dresses, Father’s favourite tie, a pair of his old coveralls, a scrapbook with pressings from his garden--nothing that would help him now, aside from seeing the last possessions of his deceased parents. But he had no reason, nor the energy to pry up the boards now.

He got to his feet, ignoring the soiled handkerchiefs he had left on the flooring and walking to his bedroom. Twice in the process of dressing he had to pause, desperately struggling and barely succeeding in containing the sneezes trying to claw their way out of him. Buttoning his vest, he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked as bad as he felt. Lovely.

“Hhh...ihh-hh’iitscchh! Iipschuh! Iiitsshh!” He groaned, sniffling pitifully. It was time to go to work. Thank the Lord he didn’t believe in that the ship wasn’t going out yet. He didn’t think he could survive a trip to the Tomb Colonies right now. Rotting elderly people were great and all, but dealing with them while he was sniffling and sneezing and trying not to die wasn’t a pleasant thought. Although...being covered in bandages would be like a built-in handkerchief…

He snapped back to attention, having realised he was wasting time. He sighed, walking out the front door and into the street. Immediately, the air was oddly fragrant of mushrooms. It was spore season, he had been told. What that meant, he wasn’t sure, but he knew the scent of fungi hung heavily in the air around him, and he couldn’t breathe in the summertime. He was no stranger, but something about it made him wonder if this was different. He shook his head, clearing the thoughts from his mind.

He stomped up the ramp to the deck of the old cargo vessel, sleeves rolled up and hair tied back. “Good mordi’g, med.” The congestion marred his syllables, and he tried to sniffle it away.

“You sound like Hell.” One of the men grumbled. Elliott had never seen this one before. Perhaps he was simply a new deckhand, or perhaps he was there to help un/load cargo.

“Feel id.” He muttered, grabbing one handkerchief from the wad in his pocket, wiping roughly at his nose.

“The zummertime.” Another man said gruffly. Elliott recognised this one. He was a familiar face among the docks, with a thick beard, stormy blue eyes, and a red bandana tied over his hair. Anderson. “The mushroomz.” His voice was a guttural growl, and he moved away from the men with an air of hostility. Typical of a zailor. Not that he was one to speak, of course. He was a much different person on-deck than he was at home.

Elliott brought the handkerchief to his face, muffling a pair of sneezes into his fist. “Iichmmpf! Mmmpff!” He paused, eyes open to little slits. There was always a third. “Iiisschuh!” There it was. He sniffled weakly, wiping his nose. No one said a word, choosing to ignore the sniffling giraffe standing in their midst.

At six foot three, he towered above most of his coworkers--only one came even close to his height, and he still still had them beat by a clean few inches--and he had to be mindful of covering his sneezes thoroughly to avoid showering anyone with a sneeze. That would ensure a sound thrashing, a plunge overboard into the zee, or, in a bad case, a stabbing or his own murder. He had no desire to go see the boat man over a cold.


Hours passed in that way--sneezing, sniffling, grumbling with fellow zailors over odds and ends and where cargo should be moved to. Finally Elliott went below deck, moving into his cabin and collapsing onto his cot. The cabin was cramped, especially for a man his height, and it was not helped by the fact that he had cluttered it with stacks of books, and old charts of stars from the Surface and logs of cargo.

He was curled up, his lean frame fitted into the cot as best he could. He was exhausted, and his nose wouldn’t stop running this entire time. Hell, he had had this infernal cold for more than a week by now, and it still showed no signs of letting up. If he had stopped to think about it, he might have remembered that the same thing had happened the previous summer--or at least what passed for one in the Neath.

In a matter of minutes, the exhaustion that had been clinging to him worked its way to his bones, and he fell into a dreamless slumber. Perhaps he would feel better when he woke up….?

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Eggs and Cuddles



“Mum?” Warren walked into the bedroom, tugging at the hem of her nightgown, lion toy clutched tightly to her chest. “It’s time to get up, Mum, what’re you doing?”

Iisch! Iisch’uh! Hih’uptsch! ...sdeezi’g.” Elliott mumbled tiredly, emerging from his lump of blankets to squint at Warren. “Where’s Dad? Cad’t he help you with whadever you deed?”

Warren cringed at the sound of his voice. He sounded horrible. “Dad’s at work. Your voice sounds funny.” She tugged harder at her nightgown, wishing she could see him and know what to do. Stupid eyes that didn’t work.

Deciding to forego manners for a moment, Elliott grabbed one of the handkerchiefs form the pile on the bedside table, blowing his nose into it. Both he and Warren cringed at the sound, but neither dared comment. There was an unspoken rule that they would simply pretend it hadn’t happened. He was thankful that, at least for the time being, he could speak clearly. “What did you need, Rennie?”

“Are we gonna eat?” She seemed suddenly ashamed to ask this question, when he was so obviously suffering, but Esmee had only taught her a little bit about baking, and none of it could actually work for breakfast. Or lunch, for that matter.

Realisation dawned on him as he looked at his pocket watch. Good Lord, it was nearly one in the afternoon! “Lord have mercy…” He muttered, rubbing lightly at the corners of his eyes to try to soothe the headache gathering behind them. “Of course we are. Let me just...j-just...hh’uupsch! Hh’ptsch!” He groaned, giving a pitiful little sniffle. “Let me just get dressed first.” He finished, reluctantly leaving the warm nest of blankets he had made himself, occupying both his and Corben’s side of the bed. “Did Dad set out clothes yet or is it my day to pick?”

“It’s your day. Dad already went to work.” She frowned, crawling up onto the bed and tugging him over by the shoulders. “Close your eyes, Mum.”

“What are you doing?” Elliott closed his eyes regardless.

Warren reached out, pressing a small hand to Elliott’s forehead. “Oi, Mum, you’re burnin’ up! Like ‘ellfire under your skin!” She gasped, recoiling from his feverishly hot skin. “Get back in bed. Artie and I’ll make breakfast, an’ ‘e can ‘elp me pick my clothes.”

Elliott’s breath caught in his throat, his nose an angry shade of red, scarlet nostrils flickering with the need to sneeze. Tears gathered in beads on his lashes, chest rising and falling with each feathery, threatening breath. In a swift motion, he had thrown a blanket over Warren and twisted as far away from her as he could. “Hh’utschuh! Upsch! Hh’UP’sch!” He snapped forward with each sneeze, feeling as if he practically gave himself whiplash each time.

“Bless.” Came the muffled voice beneath the blanket. She didn’t struggle, even though she had been thrown under one arm like a piece of luggage. She knew he was suffering, so she forgave the action. This time.

“Thank you, Warren.” He sniffled miserably, wiping at his streaming nose. He pulled the blanket off of his daughter, revealing her slightly grouchy face. “Turn that frown upside-down, pumpkin pie. I’m going to get us some breakfast.”

“Mum, you’re sick as a pup. Artie and I can make eggs, we know ‘ow to do it.” She pushed her mother toward bed, irritated that he wouldn’t just go to sleep. “Where’d Artie get off to?”

Arthur crawled out from under the bed, arching his back and yawning, “Right here, kid. Why are you two so needy? I’m trying to nap.” He hopped up, regarding Elliott with disgust. “You look worse than rubbery men.”

“Gee, thanks.” He frowned, pulling his quilt around himself with a huff.

“I’m sure ‘e looks dashing, like a right proper Mum ought to look.” She put her stuffed animal into Elliott’s arms, picking up Arthur in its place. “You can ‘old that if you wanna ‘old somethin’.” She explained, her hands on her hips. His heart melted at the sight. She was precious, and he appreciated that she wanted to take care of him and prove how big and adult she was. Her drive for maturity was truly charming.

“Thank you very much, Rennie. Are you sure I can hold onto him?” He hugged the lion close to his chest. It smelled like Arthur and Warren, and it was comforting, just having the knowledge that she entrusted him with something so important to her as to have her scent in its fabric. It reminded him of stealing Corben’s constable coat, or wearing his dirty shirts in the morning.

“Not if you keep askin’ questions.”She scolded. “C’mon, Artie, we’re going to make eggs like Euleyis taught us.”

“Which one?” He asked lazily, knowing full well who she was, but refusing to acknowledge they knew her.

“The thief lady, up in the Flit. We tried to rob ‘er and she caught us and taught us to pick locks and make eggs, and-and we got my cloak with ‘er, and she told us the story with the frog and the princess and the chicken ‘ouse with the Baba Yaga witch.” She frowned, combing her fingers through his fur.

“Ah. That one.” He said flatly.

Suddenly, Warren was aware of snoring, realising Elliott had fallen back asleep, congested snoring escaping his parted lips. She smiled a little, and put Arthur down, crawling into the bed beside him and giggling when he groggily pulled her into a snuggle. She closed her eyes, settling in beside him and laying still, eventually nodding off as well.

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22 hours ago, helyzelle said:

Nice to have them all in one place. I like Elliott :)

Thank you so much!! I'm really glad other people like him :D I love writing him, but it's really gratifying to know that I'm not just wasting my time and that other people like him

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Elliott was humming as they walked along, keeping a close eye on Warren as they meandered. She was just shy of two feet shorter than him, and she was quick. She’d lost him in crowds on numerous occasions. Warren was walking along happily beside him, Arthur perched on her shoulders and enjoying the walk.

“Mum, what’re we out after?” She could hear heavy foot traffic around them, making certain to keep close to her mother and his heavy boot strides. Thankfully he walked heavier than anyone she’d previously met, with the heels of his boots clicking along the cobbles in a rather loud manner.

“We came to find a gift for Dad. You can help me with it, actually. Dad said he liked peppermint tea, and hasn’t had in a long long time, so we’re going to get him some, but you’re going to be the one to brew it.” He patted her on the top of her head, earning a grumble and a swat on the wrist.

“Mum? Are you wearin’ perfume?” She scuttled closer to him, grappling with indecision for a brief moment before taking him by the hand.

“No, why?” He looked down at her in surprise.

“Smells like it. What’d ya say it’s s’pposed to smell like? Flowers?” She squeezed his hand tighter.

“Yes, flowers.” He gave his nose a gentle rub. “Lavender in my hair, and floral perfume. You can wear it someday too if you’d like.” He smiled down at her.

A vendor, hawking their wares, caught his attention. Flowers. Real flowers from the Surface. “Rennie, come on. You and I are going to buy some. These are going to be your first flowers, right?” He guided the young girl over to the vendor, and picked a flower from among the stock. “Give it a smell. This is a daisy.”

Warren obediently sniffed the flower, and considered the scent. It smelled like some of his perfume. “I like it.” She said plainly.

“I loved these. Do you want me to buy you some to put in your hair?” He sniffled softly, rubbing at his nose again. It felt a bit itchy. Perhaps he was coming down with something again. He lifted the flower to his nose, taking a deep inhale. The scent was mild and pleasing, though he had little time to consider it before wrenching to the side with a pair of sneezes.

Hh’iitshiew! Hipsh!” He sniffled and went to dab at his nose before horror overtook him. He had gotten a man passing by. “Oh my gracious, please excuse me! I-I didn’t mean to--oh Lord.” He was blushing deeply crinkling his reddened nose in disgust with himself as he offered the man his handkerchief. He grumbled and accepted it, walking off with an air of hostility.

The vendor stared in judgemental silence, clearly not wanting that flower, whose stem Elliott had crushed in his grip during the sneezes, to be returned to his wares. “Please, let me, er, purchase a few of these from you…” He handed the man a handful of echoes, taking some of the flowers and tucking them into Warren’s hair, cautious to keep the daisy for himself.

“Bless, Mum.” Warren reached up and offered him the small makeshift handkerchief he had given her to learn to carry.

Elliott sniffled, gratefully accepting Warren’s handkerchief. “You’re being a lovely young lady. Thank you for carrying this. You’re truly my knight in shining armour today.” He wiped his nose on the soft fabric, soaking up the dampness left behind from his sneezes.

“Yup. Welcome an’ all. Are we still gettin’ Dad ‘is tea?” She couldn’t see herself, but Elliott thought she was darling to look at. Her blonde hair had been brushed out nicely, and it was dotted with flowers, blue eyes shining with mirth. He wished she could see herself. He wished she could see in general, but he felt that if she could see how precious a child she was it might help with her self confidence.

“Of course, sugarplum. You and I are getting Dad some tea and having a nice day when we get home.” He was sniffling still, rubbing at his still itching nose. “Itsh!” He muffled a small sneeze into the handkerchief that he was painfully aware was child sized. Oh well. He was grateful nonetheless, and she was very sweet to have offered it to him.

Whistling, the pair strolled off amongst the crowd.

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Could you please please write another chapter of Elliot sneezing in the bar but this time while drinking wine?

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While your faithful reading of my stories is truly appreciated, I'm going to respectfully decline your repeated requests. I hope you understand and keep reading regardless :)

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@jawzzbubblez hey, just a heads up it's generally not considered polite to ask for requests on a fic where the author doesn't specifically ask for prompts! you probably didn't know, which is fine. There's like a ton of people looking for prompts in the main obs/stories/art area, tho! and ofc no one can stop you from writing your own sneezy wine character if you're truly in need ;)

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    Elliott was curled up on his cot, long legs bent with his feet against the wall to form a platform for his novel. One arm was dangled casually off the side of it, absently running his fingertips over the papers that littered the floor of his bedroom. Old lists of cargo, and half finished star charts, and old maps of the Unterzee. He flipped the page, hungrily taking in the words. He had heard good things about this book, and it was rare that he was able to catch up on a relatively new release. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.

He enjoyed this so far. The thought of a young lad on the river having adventures was nice. An orphan like him having adventures, making friends, and doing well for himself was reassuring. Here he was himself having adventures on the water--granted, this was an underground ocean with no waves and that was teeming with horrifying monsters instead of a calm river in the countryside, but still.

He suddenly caught himself dozing. “Lord have mercy…” He muttered, rubbing his eyes. He set the novel down, rolling onto his stomach and setting it gently onto the floor, between the ever growing stack of books and the journal Ramey had given him. While he detested the things written in it, it had belonged to their late father, and he couldn't shake the feeling they might want it back someday. Should that day come, he would have to let them find out for themself what their father had thought of them.

Elliott cuddled down against the pillow, something new he had purchased himself earlier that morning. He knew he shouldn't be spending extravagantly, but the salesman had made a compelling case for trying something called a ‘down pillow’. Why it was called that, he hadn't the foggiest, but he had been told it had feathers in it, and he was so tickled by the thought he *had* to purchase it.

Speaking of tickle...goodness gracious, his nose was itchy. He rubbed at it none too gently, and for the to me being the feeling subsided. He took note of a tear he had managed to put in the pillow already, soft bits of feather poking out. He would have to sew that after his nap, and move Eilene’s dagger from under the pillow. It was a handy spot, but mending it every morning would be tiresome.

Soon enough, he had fallen asleep.


In his sleep, Elliott tossed and turned, mumbled and moaned, moving every which way and ending up with his arms pinned to his sides in the tangle of blankets. He was renowned for being a restless sleeper, despite how heavily he slept.

He had shifted enough that his face was over the tear, soft ticklish feather tips straying out against his cheek and, ultimately, his nose. Immediately he wrinkled his itching nose, his unconscious body struggling in vain to rid itself of the offending feathers. In desperation he turned toward the pillow, rubbing his nose deeper into it. It had begun to run freely onto the fabric.

He took a shaking breath, his red nose alive with irritation, desperate for relief. Unfortunately for him, he was a heavy sleeper of the highest caliber, and despite his body’s desperation to expel irritants, it would have to wait until he awoke. The feathers seemed determined to ensure it wouldn't be a long wait.

The soft, grey tips caressed his skin, causing it to flush an angry red, his nostrils flaring of their own accord, as if to beckon the feathers deeper. They took the invitation, invading his sensitive nose, rubbing their way against the wet lining.

He groaned in his sleep, mashing his nose against his shoulder. This only served to shove one of the inquisitive feathers deeper, and it took the opportunity to dance along his twitching nostrils. It gently brushed against a spot in the back, teasing and twitching, caressing and irritating.

The veil of sleep was lifted off of Elliott, and he awoke to the most powerful need to sneeze he had ever experienced in his life. He tried to bring a hand to his face, but his arms were still trapped. With a split second to decide what to do, Elliott turned and buried his face into the feather-stuffed pillow to muffle his sneezes.

“Iiiishuh! Iisheww! Iipsh! Uusch’iew!” He drew back for a breath, a string of mucous still connecting him to the pillow. His nose and eyes were streaming as he fell back into another fit, this time directed at the floor. “Iish! Iishuh! Iiisheww! IshIEW! Uuup’sch! Iiissshhh!” He gasped for a breath, a mucous coated feather now resting on the mattress in front of himself. He managed to free his arms, catching another rogue pair of sneezes into his cupped hands.

He sniffled miserably, trying to wipe up some of the mess he had made. The down pillow had to go. With one last tired sneeze, he launched the pillow onto the floor, flinging it as far from himself as he could. He flopped back down onto the mattress, trying to get comfortable again. Lord knew why he tried getting nice things for himself. He was confiscating his old pillow from Arthur in the morning. The cat could have this one.

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3 hours ago, WolfPack said:

I love this thread! Please update! :doublethumbsup:

By the way, your writing is superb.

Aaaa, thank you! I really appreciate you saying that! (Gah, I'm blushing) I promise you won't have to wait too awful long for an update ;)

2 hours ago, Blackraspberrycheesecake said:

I lov the stories. Keep up the good work!

Thank you!!! I intend to! Thank you so much for reading!

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Oof okay, final's week took it's toll and I lost all motivation, and I promise I'm working on it, but it might take just a little longer. I'm really sorry :(

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I don't know how good it is, but hopefully this is at least sort of worth the wait?



Elliott was awoken from his slumber by something he couldn't decipher. Had it been a nightmare? Simply waking for no reason? Were the rats back?

Cautiously, he grabbed his pistol from the table beside his bed and crept out of the room, candle and weapon in hand.

After a thorough investigation, the house seemed empty. Bitey’s closet was as uninhabited as the day Zacharie had disposed of his infestation for him--and thank the Lord it had only been a small one. There wasn't so much as a paper out of place anywhere else in the house.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he returned to his bed, pulling back the covers and preparing to get back in, when he noticed something. A singular pawprint adorned one of the papers, having been smeared from a spill of ink on the floor. Something had overturned his inkwell, and this time it hadn't been Warren and Arthur’s attempts at “painting” his floorboards.

He knelt by his bedside and had to ignore the long forgotten compulsion to pray the action reignited, instead focusing on taking a breath before laying against the floor and peering under the bed.

Two eyes peered back at him, but not the eyes he had been expecting. Was that really...a salt weasel? Gracious, those weren't supposed to be in London! They belonged much further north--or was it South? Regardless of the direction, it wasn't supposed to be here.

He crawled under the bed after it, capturing it with relative ease. This was a much friendlier chap than Bitey or any of her fellow species were. “Gotcha!”

He crawled back from under, depositing the weasel on top of the blankets as he attempted to clean himself off.

Dust clung to his skin and his nightgown, even despite his efforts to brush it off. His nose itched just looking at the soft substance and the way it changed the soft white of his nightgown to a heather grey, clinging to the lace and ruffles as if it too wanted to become a part of the gown.

His breath caught in his throat as he tried to draw a smooth breath. His body was not cooperating, with his pink nose twitching and itching, his smooth breathing being caught and snagged and snatched up in his airway, his eyes trying to shut of their own accord in preparation of what was to come.

“Hiitsh! Hh’uutschiew! Ih..hihh...hh’upsch! Itsh! ‘pshuh!” He sneezed into cupped hands, sniffling in a vain attempt to keep his nose from running down his face. He cursed every profane word he had in his vocabulary, turning his colourful language into a veritable rainbow as he sought out any of his handkerchiefs. The thought crossed his mind to wipe his nose on the weasel’s soft fur, but he dismissed it with a grimace and a disgusted wrinkle of his nose.

He thanked the stars he couldn't see when he finally located a handkerchief of a faded colour that had once been nearly the same verdant shade of bottle green as his eyes.

He blew his nose into it, relishing the momentary relief it brought to his troubled nose. He gave a cautious sniff before deciding he was finished for the moment, and he crawled back under the covers without a second thought. The weasel had escaped during his fit, startled by the loud, sudden noises, and if it hadn't already made its way outside, he could certainly deal with it in the morning.

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  • 4 months later...

So I was thinking "gee maybe you should write but also try to switch things up with Elliott" so here we are. A quick one-shot from off my Tumblr!



Elliott was engrossed in his novel, rereading it for at least the sixth time since he'd picked up another copy. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. It had everything: adventure, mystery, nonsense, heroism; he just loved it.

From outside his door, he could hear squabbling growing louder, culminating with "fine! Ask the giraffe!"

Warren bursted in, Arthur hot on her heels. Despite being eight, she was impressively short, small frame encumbered as she lifted up Arthur's fat body. The cat had gotten rather...hefty since he began living in the house.

"Mum! Mum!" She shouted, holding Arthur out to him. "Is Arthur smelly?" She pushed Arthur against Elliott, holding the cat up to his face for him to smell.

"Rennie, I--heh-iiTSHZ'uhh! NDTz'shuh! NgKXT! Hih--he'hhIISH'ieww!" The first spraying release caught the cat, and he yowled as he scrambled away. The rest of the fit was issued into his hands, as he twisted as far away from Warren and Arthur as possible.

"Oi, oi, didn't want ya t'give 'im a bath like that!" Warren cried defensively as Arthur scrambled up onto her shoulders, puffed up and hissing.

"Kid, just let me take one of his eyes. He deserves it! He's loud and diseased and we should just go toss him in the zee! Put him out of his misery!" Arthur snapped, threatening to launch at the American.

"I'm sehh--itszh'uh! Sorry." He finished, wiping at his streaming eyes. He scrubbed at his pink nostrils, trying to quell the tickle and rid himself of the hairs still stuck to his skin. "Think I'm getting sick again." He mumbled.

"Well, now we gotta wash "im anyway." Warren said cheerfully, before turning to leave. "Thanks for 'elpin', mum." She was quite smug as she carried the cursing cat out of the room. She had won the argument.

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Elliott was sitting silently in the bathtub, the hot water sending coils of steam rolling across the surface and up around his shoulders, working to penetrate his clogged sinuses.

He was exhausted. The previous night had simply been a bit of a sniffle, a slightly scratchy throat. That was practically the norm. But this morning he woke up unable to breathe through his nose, thick congestion having settled in his ever itchy sinuses, and his limbs were heavy and ached. Fever wracked his body, and he could feel the hot water doing little to ease the chills.

"Hh..." The dull buzz of irritation spiked, and stole his breath away for a moment. "Hihh..." His brows slanted desperately as he hovered a loose fist in front of his face. "Hh-iTSZH'uh!" He sighed, knuckling his swollen nostrils and sinking lower into the water.

He stayed sitting in the water, and rested his head on the wall beside the tub, letting the cool surface try to ease the burning of his feverish skin. "Heh'iISH'uh!" He sneezed rather tiredly, his usual perpetual energy having been sapped.

The next thing he realised, the water had gone frigid, and he scrambled out of it as fast as his sluggish body would allow. "Lord have mercy!" He wrapped himself in a towel, lanky frame trembling like he was stark unclothed in a snowstorm. Long hair clung to his skin, and dripped onto the flooring as he scurried into the bedroom.

Thankfully, Corben was at work, and Warren and Arthur were off doing...actually, he wasn't sure what those two got up to when they left for the day. So long as she returned safely, and the only constable who turned up to the house at the end of the day was Corben, he didn't care what she filled her days with. Children needed to be free, but especially those like Warren who grew up as urchins and were used to having nothing but freedom to roam.

"Heh-ih'hIITDZH'uu! Hihh...iiISH'iew!" He sneezed into his cupped hands, and groaned. "Mercy me." He sniffled, grabbing a handkerchief off the bedside table on his side of the bed, and have his nose a harsh, gurgling blow that did little to really ease the dull pressure behind his eyes, and the wall of congestion that had set up shop in his sinuses.

Yanking on undergarments and his nightgown, he left the towel on the floor, and threw his hair into the quickest braid he could manage. After a false start and another desperate scrubbing of irritated nostrils, he hauled himself into bed, pulling the blankets over himself and trying to settle in.

Scarlet nostrils, alive with barbs of ticklish aggravation, flickered with the need to sneeze. Chapped lips parted slightly, and Elliott held the handkerchief to his nose. "Hhh...heh-eh'INDTZH'iuh! Hh'iIISH! Hhihh...hih-? ...nnnnggh..."

He groaned, hesitantly dabbing at his streaming nose to try to stem the flow without setting off another fit. A pathetically tired sniffle was followed by one last harsh rub of the nose before trying to fall asleep again. Perhaps just a bit of rest might do him good...

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