Male A collection of Elliott fics

[gay-for-the-snz]

A pal did some gr8 artwork for Elliott and Elliott, so I went ahead and wrote a quick thing based on the scenario! (@tis-sue on Tumblr, don't know what his account is on here/if he has one)

 

Elliott's head drooped as he sat in the bed, nestled under his thick pile of quilts. Warren was babbling on, telling him about her day's adventures and showing artifacts they'd discovered after a day of searching for treasure. The pair of fourth city relics were interesting, but it was mostly stones or garbage that appealed to her sense of touch.

"Oi, mum. 're ya listenin'?" Warren prompted, pushing another item into his hands. The irritation on her face was evident, and he felt a pang of guilt.

"Of course I am, Rennie. Sorry, I'm, er, a bit tired." He admitted reluctantly, rubbing at swollen, prickling nostrils. "You've found quite a few treasures today." He sniffled, and blushed when Warren threw a handkerchief at him. The fact that, even blind, she knew where to find them was embarrassing.

"Oi, mum?" She asked after shoving her recent batch of treasures into her satchel. "You used to live up on the Surface. What'd you do? Dad said y'don't 'ave zailors up there."

"We had sailors, but not zailors. But I was actually a barber." He said, pleased that she was taking an interest in him beyond just whether or not he had brought home sweets. "Can we talk more about this in a little bit, though? I'm very sleepy." The prickling in his sinuses surged, and he had to press the handkerchief firmly to his nose, trying to quell the feeling.

"Fine. You can keep Artie!" She chirped, shoving the cat closer to Elliott before escaping out the room before he could truly complain to her.

"Wha--" Arthur hissed and puffed up, looking at Elliott with disgust. "I don't wanna be here!" He shouted, but the shut door meant that unless either Warren or Elliott opened it, he was trapped--and it didn't seem likely that either of them intended to do that.

"So I suppose it's you and me, then." Elliott said with a faint smile. "I really do intend to nap, though. You can lounge in my boots if you like." He settled back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He was shocked when he felt the pressure of paws on his lap and chest, and saw Arthur standing there.

"Better plan: you just do me a favour and do something unspeakable to me, so I can finally convince the kid you're no good." Arthur replied simply, turning and facing away from Elliott, but glanced over his shoulder to look at him.

"What do you mean? I would never do anything to you on purpose!" He protested, sitting up a bit and gently holding Arthur by the hips as he shifted.

"Yeah, but...you tend to sneeze a lot. Especially when you're sick. Who's to say you didn't sneeze on me on purpose?" He flicked a tail dangerously close to Elliott's nose, and the American recoiled.

"I would! I would say that!" He said, flinching away from the cat who had dug his claws into his thighs as he stood perched on him.

"And you think she'd believe you over me? I recommend you don't test that theory." The cat replied, flicking his tail across Elliott's flared nostrils.

"Hihhh-!" He hitched, and tried to turn away. "Arthurpleasestop!" He reached up and tried to brush the offending tail away, but was reluctant to be too rough with the poor thing. He was a terrible creature, to be sure, but that didn't mean he deserved to be handled unkindly.

"Sorry, were you talking?" He asked, continuing to run his tail beneath Elliott's sensitive nose. He could feel how wet it already was. The giraffe wouldn't last all too much longer at this rate.

"Hiihhh...Lord have-hih-! m-mercy!" He tried not to sniffle, for fear of getting any of the itchy hairs further into his nose. "Please, I cahh-can't help it!" He whimpered, cherry red nose twitching and crinkling and trying desperately not to sneeze on Arthur.

"Sorry, I can't talk to you when you can't actually talk back." He snapped back, scratching at himself and letting orange hairs drift freely.

Elliott was unable to restrain himself any longer, and tented his hands in front of his face, pitching into them desperately. "Hih-iiITDZH'UU! Iihh-NTSH'ieww! Hih-ihh'TZH'UU!" His body tensed with each sneeze, and he jerked with each release. He tried not to move too much and disturb the cat, but he had little control of the situation at this point.

Arthur watched him, disgust mingling with a note of sympathy he detested. "Stop it."

"I'b sorry, I--IIDZH'iEWW! I cad't--hih'TSHUU! IIITDzh'huh! Iitdzh!Iidzh'uu! I cad't help it." He choked out between the fit, trying to speak as the sneezes overtook his slender frame.

"I said stop." Arthur protested, watching Elliott still struggling with the sneezes. Swollen, scarlet nostrils twitched helplessly, eyes squeezed shut tightly as he reached up to massage his nose.

"I'b sorry." He whimpered, genuinely devestated to not be able to comply with the directions he was given.

"Yeah, well, you should be." Arthur slid the handkerchief over to within Elliott's reach, but only because he was certain the stupid giraffe couldn't see him do it.

[Shikee12.haley]

Aww poor Elliott (great picture) I feel sorry for the guy now (but I still love this regardless )

[gay-for-the-snz]

A quick drabble using some canon lore and settings from Fallen London! (seriously guys, play it, it's REALLY good)

 

 

 

The fight rings were brutal. Killing people was something that Elliott couldn't bring himself to do normally, but times were getting tougher. Bills needed to be paid, children needed to eat, and the hearth needed to be kept lit. Corben couldn't afford to work any more than he already did--the poor man practically lived at the Constabulary--and being a zailor was no longer feasible. The children couldn't be left almost completely alone for days or weeks at a time.

He shook his thoughts free from himself. The Ring of Meat required death. The second ring had a new challenge: silence. He simply had to keep silent longer than his opponent, and he could leave. No killing required. Perhaps tonight he would be able to live with himself.

He stepped into the ring, a crude circle of the fallen petals of grave flowers. He fought the urge to try to crack his knuckles, and nervously shook his hands, trying to lose the tension that stiffened his joints.

A small itch ignited in his nose, but it was nothing he couldn't deal with. He simply had to focus. His opponent, a tomb colonist, entered the ring opposite him. God have mercy. A tomb colonist.

He took a stance, carefully feeling the balance of his blade, and watching the way he moved. He looked eager. Overconfident. His hubris would be his downfall.

Elliott swiftly moved aside, lithe frame bending as he dodged the first strike. The scuffle of boots along the ground was the only sound in the ring, but the American's focus was threatening to break. He needed to sneeze.

Hell. He reached up and pinched his nose between his fingers, frame shuddering as he stifled a sneeze. It hurt, that was for certain, but it was what it took to win. He jabbed back, grimacing as the man dodged it with ease. He was slower than he should have been. His movements lacked the typical energy he had, and he was going to lose.

He desperately lunged again, and stifled another painful sneeze. His eyes watering, head aching, and sinuses throbbing. He was desperate to win. He needed the money. His children needed the money. Their sweet faces flashed through his mind.

The metallic clang of blades striking one another overtook the sound of their boots, and the audience members stared in silent but rapt attention. They wanted to see blood.

He was knocked down to a knee, and shoved hia opponent back as hard as he could. He just needed a second--just a second--to think, to make some kind of plan, to figure out what he was going to do.

The chink in the man's defense showed itself, and Elliott went for it. He just--

His breath snagged, and it was too late to stop it. A sharp breath, and a quick release as he sneezed, staggering and hitting the ground. The sound echoed in the crypt, and the audience tensed. Head shakes--disapproval evident--were the only open response, aside from a disgusted look from his opponent.

Elliott stayed on the ground, not daring to move. He had...he had lost. Because of a sneeze. Damn it all! He had done so well--he had been invited to the second ring--and he ruined it, so easily! He stalked out of the ring, tears stinging his eyes. He had failed his family because he was a disgusting mess of a man. He needed whiskey.