Latest Posts by alenseress - Page 6
Ode to the guy that forgot to turn the dog training documentary off, I'd say something poetic if I had it in me
a quick-not-really yen drawing because i’ve been rereading the witcher books and i absolutely adore her first appearance
I'd post something like "me every time historical fanfiction gets turned into a smutty slutty horny musical" but the shitshow that went down for decades so that MOR could exist is truly one of a kind
salieri !!
I saw Loconte sing Mozart irl on accident and I've been losing my mind all over again ever since ignore me
more cowboy au shenanigans 🐴 this time we welcome gwen!
Some random illustrations
Yeehaw chain reaction
Hello WOE.BEGONE community
+ another neige sketch because I discovered that he's described as blonde
I need to be sedated
And oh What a way to die Standing eye to eye Pretending we're alive As we grow colder And oh The devil that I know Is better than the devil that I don't
y'all should really start adding Alfie from Not Quite Dead to your "pathetic little guy" lists cause that man ain't doing well and he hasn't been doing well since the beginning of the show but it surely isn't getting better
"Orion?"
"Mm."
"If we get out..."
"I won't marry you."
"Oh c'mon, I'd make a good husband."
Hold me like water
Or Christ, hold me like a knife
my horrible horrible wife (regency twink obsessed with horrors beyond human comprehension)
Elias laughs and the sound of it isn't unkind. Jon isn't sure why he expects it to be. It's somewhat pleasant, actually, to see his shoulders shake undone, forehead pressed to the roof of the car.
"Did I say something wrong?"
Elias waves him off and straightens up with a smile that gets his face all crinkled up. It's a lot of fine lines, a lot more under the unforgiving streetlights than what Jon is used to. It makes him seem more articulated, somehow. Less of a, what is it that Sasha keeps calling him, Walt Disney's frozen head?
"Not at all. You are one peculiar man, Jonathan."
Jon, he wants to correct, but doesn't know if it's appropriate — they're not really on the first name basis, are they. Elias is, sure. Was, from the very start, but the "Elias" in question never actually slips past Jon's head. So, instead, he finds the logo on the bumper very noteworthy.
"Cadillac," Elias suggests and now Jon scoffs himself.
"Are you showing off?"
Elias bops his head in a touché kind of way and scratches at his brow with a thumb carefully stuck away from the burning cigarette. "You looked like you were about to ask."
"It's just my face."
"Oh, I know."
Jon buries his freezing fingers into the coat's pockets and joins him, pressing a hip to the cold metal. Elias offers his portsigar in that sickeningly polite manner of his and Jon grabs a smoke for himself without thinking it through, mainly because he feels awkward standing empty handed. Something about them and the deserted Tesco parking lot does feel extremely inappropriate, now that he thinks about it with a cold cleared head.
Elias squints at his scrambling. "Are you uncomfortable?"
As he pockets for his lighter, Jon actually contemplates his answer. Elias doesn't rush, but does, however, mirror his stance so they end up face-to-face.
"No, I suppose," Jon clicks the wheel and takes a drag. "Are you uncomfortable?"
Cranks his head a bit and tries to roll something on his tongue along with the smoke. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Elias?"
He looks at him then, really looks at him, so prolonged and heated Jon feels like he might break sweat. But then the gaze slips somewhere above his shoulder and Elias smiles to himself as if remembering a joke.
"Somewhat, yes."
"Unfortunate."
"Not at all."
When Elias reaches out to him after a moment of silence, Jon isn't really surprised. He's not good at this but god knows he isn't entirely lost in clues, not when it comes to someone as blunt as Elias. It leaves him soured, really, the momentary rush of anxiety and disappointment. He takes a deep breath, preparing to say his best collected good-byes.
Elias runs his fingers gently along his clenched fist, so much so that Jon trails off with a stupidly hanging mouth. The nails, somewhat long and polished, scrape his dry skin up the sleeve and slip to the underside, following the veins with just their pointy tips. Jon makes a noise he's terrified to hear as his hand opens involuntarily. Elias holds it like he has held Jon's hand a million times before, like he watched it weather through the years just alongside his own, like he pressed kisses and whispered prayers into his palms. He holds it like he knows it, turning it over towards the dimm light above them.
Jon stares at his own clipper laying now cradled. Elias points a finger, connects the moles on his wrist and draws a thoughtful line to the cheap plastic, eventually tracing the pixelated design. The eye stares back at them.
"Let me drive you home, Jon."
Jon can't breathe for some reason.
"Wha..."
"You seem tired."
Kill count higher than your salary
"Oh. Hah."
Elias makes his way in without much commotion to it. There's certainly enough space around Jon's somewhat limp body sticking out like a sore thumb in the middle of the doorway and he makes use of it, eventually stopping to neatly fold his coat. Jon is not entirely sure he finds it in him to be surprised. Or scared. Or, maybe, he just doesn't have enough will of his own left to feel pretty much anything.
"Take the shoes," he clears his throat out, trying to find his voice. "Take the shoes off. Georgie doesn't—"
"I know."
Of course.
"Of course," he blinks first and shuts the door second.
They go by a kind of move-stare-follow protocol while Elias proceeds to make himself at home. Although it's mostly Jon doing the staring, Elias doesn't look at all. He walks across the flat blindly, like his muscles remember the floor and the corners. Jon supposes they might, in some omniscient and messed up way.
"Charming," Elias proclaims dryly at the thin mattress Jon came to inhabit.
"Indeed," Jon echoes.
Seeing the man plop down gracelessly in his thick flannel suit doesn't have the same effect anymore. Jon used to think it was some weird corporate thing, something they'd teach you at a workshop about great leadership. Make yourself approachable. Sit down with them on a dusty curb in the back alley, share a cigarette, address them by their names. Crush a man's scull into a purée in their office. Make them feel. Make yourself human.
"Don't," Elias said softly as Jon takes a breath in.
He reaches out a hand that Jon doesn't take. Instead, he sits at the opposite end of the mattress, feeling a sudden vertigo. Elias drops the hand into his lap, palm up. "You're burning up."
Jon cracks a hysterical laugh, heavily propping himself up. He feels a tug at his chest, a yearning for a solid form beside him, spitting "fuck you" in the viper's face — a sad, childlike desire, to call for Tim like he'd make all the monsters go away in an instant. Jon squints at the hungry void across from him, all alone, he's so alone, and the monster creeps closer. Elias takes his still burning, still bubbling hand in a firm hold and tugs until the void swallows Jon whole. He watches the fall of his own body, wet forehead pressed into the wooly fabric, bones twisted in an unnatural position. Elias jolts involuntary as Jon tumbles into him but sits still for the few excruciating moments Jon needs to collect himself. Mentally, mostly, because to recuperate his body on the ground — mattress, — and push himself up against the wall proves to be easier than walking.
They sit now, shoulders and sides touching, and Jon now can't see the void. He closes his eyes to be sure and pants heavily.
"What are you doing to me?"
"Nothing. You're just dehydrated."
"Sure."
Elias sighs and runs circles over his wrist.
"I might get sick," Jon adds.
"You are."
"No, I mean." He gestures vaguely, shaking off the cold fingers. "I mean puke."
"Mhm."
Jon makes an effort to pull his knees up and double over, curling in on himself. He breathes, fast and panicked, trying to will the nausea away and the cold hand returns to pet steadily at his back. Jon feels a very particular nothing about it being there.
"You..."
Killed. A complete sentence, not even an accusations, because Jon doesn't know how to finish it. Leitner. Gertrude. Sasha. You killed me, he wants to say, even when he's still hurting and breathing.
"Time and place, Jon. There's no use to try right now."
Jon squeezes his head between his knees and wants to wail. He wants to cry more and he wants Elias to be gone. He does get away, truth be told, the mattress shifts and pangs and Jon doesn't know if this twisted delirium of his is ever coming back until Elias carefully unfolds him.
"Don't get the wrong idea," he sounds almost amused as he cradles Jon close, pushing a bottle into his hands and palming greasy hair out of the way.
Jon drinks in gulps that hurt him more than the burning and drops his head onto the bony shoulder in some exhausted kind of surrender. Elias smells like the archives. Cologne and cigarettes, too, but mostly dry rot and dust. Never sweat. Never the must of a human body. Jon feels cold terror bite at his ankles and curls up again, this time pressing himself into Elias' rigid form, nose buried in satin. He doesn't knows gods, not the way his grandmother did, but he imagines this to be the smell of those catholic statues adorn in silks and left to stale for centuries on end.
Feed your god fearlessly and without hesitation, or it will feed on you.
He feels a gentle press to the top of his head. Might be lips or something else, Jon doesn't know, but he laughs coarsely, clinging to the shirt with bloodless fingers. "Don't get the wrong idea."
He doesn't really think there are any wrong ideas left between them.
Elias hums and it echoes all around. Jon speaks again. "Is this real?"
He's not sure if he's doing the thing, but Elias scratches at the base of his skull with repulsive tenderness and answers earnestly. "It is."
"What do you want?"
"At the moment?"
"I... Yes."
"For you to sleep, preferably."
"Why?"
Jon feels his pitying gaze. Like he's a blind rat staggering in a labyrinth under a watchful eye from the above.
"There's a job to be done, Jon."
Jon pushes away with a sigh, not meeting much resistance, and buries himself into the scattered sheets. Maybe this is the kind of acceptance the underground woman felt in the face of death. He never understood it before, not before a kiss touches his temple and slips onto his cheek. He's not sure he wants the touch. He's not sure if he resents it. Papers slide across the floor, a statement he won't read, not now, not in this room. He kind of expects footsteps and shutting of doors now, but instead Elias gives them some distance and seemingly settles for good, prickly eyes creeping up Jon's spine.
"Do you want to hurt Georgie?"
"No."
"Are you lying?"
"Not to you, Jon."
Jon turns his back on the monster in his bed and doesn't find it in him to care if he doesn't wake up.
'Cause we'll dance together so close we're sharing breath
But now I'm leading, doesn't that just scare you to death?