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the-wiggler · 1 year ago

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If I could stay here, under your idle caress

Ellis tries to cook and plan fails successfully?

word count: 2.2k

“My love?” A tentative voice calls into the dark room, curtains drawn. What little light filters through, Ellis can see the mountains of clothes on the floor, the layer of dust and the empty cups covering the room. On the bed in the corner, a mound under the heavy blanket shifts minutely, and their heart aches. “Oh, my Gem,” They coo, sitting on the side of the bed, slowly peeling back the blanket to reveal a sallow face, tired and weighed down, smooshed against the pillow. Ellis leans over and presses a soft kiss to their cheek, a hollow stare darting to them in vague recognition, “How are you, my dear?”

They groan, shifting to bury their head in Ellis’s middle, quietly inhaling their scent. Their hand moves instinctively to stroke Gem’s hair, grounding repetitive motions as they sit in silence for a few minutes before Ellis breaks it, “Are you hungry? Think you can stomach some food?”

They go to shake their head, instinctively wanting to remain in their bed despite their aching back and stiff legs. Then they register the slow acidic burn spread from their core and absently wonders when they last had a proper meal. “Yeah-could gof’r something.” Stringing together words with what little threads of energy they could muster, their voice hoarse from disuse.

“Ok,” Ellis smiles, one last comforting stroke of their hair before they pull away, “I’ll get you something to eat, you try your best to get out of bed, ok?” They stand and go to pull the blackout curtains open, revealing a second set of thick daytime curtains, and illuminating the room in a soft light. Reaching behind the curtains, they push open the windows, letting the soft breeze and the noises of traffic below waft in. “Take your time, Gem. I’ll be just outside.” They press a gentle kiss on Gem’s forehead before they leave, and Gem misses them already.

Outside, Ellis wracks their brain thinking what Gem could eat. They remembered the stacks of snack wrappers on the table and an idea flutters into their head, perhaps they could cook something? Sure, their cooking left much to be desired, but Gem had been giving them lessons (though they often ended up making out on the countertops instead). Their cooking “lessons” meant that Ellis could now, under supervision, make scrambled eggs, grilled cheese and pasta. And heat up soup.

But their Gem deserved a good, warm, fresh meal, and though they had only “helped” Gem out in the kitchen, Ellis was confident they could handle this. They crack open Gem’s laptop, typing in their password (Ellis’s birthday), and pull up the recipe from a bookmark folder called “Cooking for Ellis”.

‘The perfect food for when I’m feeling sick, Oyakodon is a classic comfort food of Japanese home cooking. Simple, delicious, and utterly comforting, this is the kind of one-bowl meal you can cook in less than 30 minutes!’ The chipper description of this Japanese chicken and egg rice bowl had caught Ellis’s eye. Perfect.

Firstly, the chicken. They rummage through the freezer until they grasped a small container of already-chopped chicken thigh. But it was still frozen, and Ellis didn’t have the time to sit around waiting for it to defrost.

They sighed, cracking open the frozen block of meat and hacking away at it with a spoon until they had what they figured was a big enough portion for Gem to eat. Then, they slapped that in the microwave, doused it in sake, and let it sit, feeling very proud of themself. Off to a very positive note.

Next, the onions. They carefully chopped off the ends of the onions, peeling off the crinkly skin and sliding them off to one side of the cutting board. Then they slice the onion in half, feeling the tears prick their eyes and their vision blur.

A sudden strong gust of wind sends the loose onion skin flying off the counter like leaves in the sky. Ellis curses silently, eyes burning, and rushes to chase after the onion skin now scattered across the kitchen floor. When they finally collected the bits and deposited them into the bin, the tears in their eyes had yet to subside.

Frustrated, they rub their eyes, forgetting the onion residue still on their hands. As their pain suddenly escalated, they cursed silently, blindly grasping around to find the sink and turn on the tap. Quietly panicking to avoid alerting their partner, Ellis rushes to wash their hands with soap and rinse their eyes, tears running down their face.

Once they had finally cleared the sulfuric acid from their eyes, they found their vision blurred and their nose running. They glance, a bit despondent, at the remaining onion and curse it out quietly. Through tears and sniffles, they finally cut the onion into slices Gem once termed ‘Julienne’. This time, they make sure to thoroughly wash their hands before scrubbing at their face.

With a renewed sense of enthusiasm, they gaze proudly at the now conquered pile of onions on the chopping board. Despite this minor hiccup, Ellis felt ever optimistic, grabbing a bowl and mixing the liquid seasonings.

Now, to start the cooking process. Ellis confidently opened the cupboard where Gem kept all their pots and pans. Having lived alone for so long, Gem only had two pans: a larger one for bigger meals when hosting guests, and a smaller one for personal use. Ellis frowned.

The recipe said one small pan should be enough, but…Ellis sent a distrustful look at the accursed mountain of unevenly cut onion pieces and decided to err on the side of caution. They grabbed the larger pan, dumping the onion and seasonings into it.

The seasoning…barely covered the bottom of the pan, let alone the onions.

A quick reference back to the recipe…and…yep, the seasonings should cover the onions. They inwardly grumbled at the idea of having yet another thing to wash and grabbed the smaller pan, pouring the sauce into it. Ellis watched as the liquid in the pan rose and rose until it reached the brim of the pan, forming the meniscus. Ok..too little for the big pan but too much for the smaller pan.

Great.

They pour the rest of the sauce down the drain, lamenting the wasted food. They move to dump the onions into the sauce, forgetting completely the rule of displacement. As the onions tumbled into the pan, the sauce flooded over the edge, forming a small pool around it. Ellis fights the urge to collapse into a heap on the ground and instead carefully lifts the already full pan up, spilling more sauce. They messily clean up the majority of the mess; the rest could be cleared up after they deliver this absolute guarantee of a good meal to their partner.

Having lost a decent chunk of motivation (and seasoning) that they started with, Ellis turns on the stove, waiting for the sauce to come to a simmer. placing a lid over the pan and turning their attention to the mountain of dishes in the sink.

They quietly hummed a song that reminded them of Gem, mind wandering to thoughts of the bright starry eyes of their partner as Ellis served them the perfect Oyakodon. It wasn’t that Ellis was doing this for the thank-you kisses they might receive…but they would be amiss if they said it wasn’t something of a motive.

So lost in thought was Ellis that they completely forgot about the simmering, bubbling, and now boiling pan of sauce and onions just a few feet from them. It wasn’t until the metallic rattling of the lid against the pan did Ellis snap out of their daydreams and worriedly glanced over.

The sauce had bubbled out of the pan, adding to the already large puddle. It was currently dripping over the counter down onto the drawers below, no doubt seeping into the cutlery and crockery that Gem kept there. Completely forgetting about the running tap, they grabbed a cloth and went to wipe at the angry mess on the stove, the hot liquid quickly seeping through the cloth and shooting through Ellis’s hands, making them curse loudly.

The word rang out in the emptiness of the cosy apartment Gem had and they vaguely heard the soft padding of feet approach them before a quiet voice called out. “Ellis? Is- “Yes, my dear,” They quickly interrupt, rushing to intercept their partner at their bedroom door, “Are you feeling well enough to be up? Perhaps you should take a shower, Gem, freshen up.” They clutched their throbbing hand behind their back, chuckling nervously.

Gem casts a confused look at Ellis. Their eyes dart from the sweat dripping down Ellis’s forehead to the panicked look in their bloodshot eyes and the hand they were not very inconspicuously hiding. They begin taking hesitant steps towards the kitchen despite Ellis’s weak assurances.

“No- don’t gaze upon my shame, please, I’m begging!” They joke weakly as Gem reaches the kitchen, but it was too late. Gem could only stare in silence as Ellis stood behind them, sheepish and awkward morphing into an overwhelming amount of guilt. The last thing Gem needed right now was more things to worry about, to shoulder Ellis’s burdens along with their own.

“I-I’m sorry, Gem. I know this is the last thing you need; more things to do.” They sigh, “Look, take a shower, and I promise, once you get out, the mess will be gone. I’ll call up your favourite pizza place, you don’t have to worry about a thing.” Ellis tried to redirect their attention away from the mess, hoping to coax Gem away from the mess they had made.

“Ellis-I-What…what were you trying to cook?” They whisper, a layer of incredulity concealed under genuine curiosity, their eyes fixated on the angrily rattling pan.

“Well- I was trying to make an Oyakodon, you know, the one you had saved in your laptop?” Their partner nods wordlessly, “But clearly, I seemed to have overestimated my cooking abilities and I…oh. I forgot to make the rice.” They wring their hands together, watching their partner out the corner of their eye, waiting for the outburst.

After a quiet sigh that seemed to pierce Ellis, Gem moves into the kitchen, slides the pan off the hot surface of the stove and carefully turns the stove off, leaving the liquid to cool. They turn off the running tap before grabbing another, not soaking wet, cloth and carefully lifting the hot pan lid, wincing at the burnt onions and billow of smoke that angrily escapes its confines. They deposit the pan in the sink and grab a bowl, filling it with ice and cold water and gently guiding Ellis’s throbbing hand into it.

“Gem I- “Rest.” They quietly order, silencing any meek protests on the edge of Ellis’s tongue. They resign to sit at the dining table, hand submerged in the icey water. Silently, they watch Gem move through the kitchen cleaning up the mess, chewing on their lip nervously.

Gem was always more on the quiet side, opting to save their energy for acts of service that made Ellis want to smother them in kisses. They talked in quiet smiles and averted gazes, a quiet language that Ellis had slowly become a well-learned expert in. But on days where they could barely manage to leave their bed, they resorted to one-word responses, sometimes just a vague nod, even.

Ellis could tell, in Gem’s tense shoulders, that their disappointment was palpable- tired and exhausted, they still had to clean up after Ellis’s mess. Ellis had meant well, they didn’t doubt that Gem understood that, that they had only intended to provide a warm meal that Gem loved, but intentions meant little when the outcome directly contradicted it.

“I really am sorry, my Gem. I…never intended to make more work for you.” They sigh, watching their partner move through the kitchen as they were stuck in the chair. They sighed, “But I did. Regardless of my intention, I…I made a right mess of things, and I can’t express my apologies enough.” They suddenly felt silly for ever thinking they could somehow whip up a meal when they could barely scramble an egg without burning something (or someone).

A rub on Ellis’s cheek drags them out of their inner criticisms. A hand cupped their cheek gently, and they gazed up from where they were seated to stare at Gem’s eyes. In turn, Ellis turns their head to lay a gentle kiss on the palm of Gem’s hand.

“You did,” They state matter-of-factly, quiet voice barely reaching Ellis’s ears. “But it’s not all bad. You managed to get me out of bed, didn’t you?”

Ellis blinks slowly, then laughs, surprised. “I…hadn’t even noticed. I suppose it is a silver lining in all of this.” They place an unburnt hand over Gem’s waist, pulling them in and resting their head on their partner's stomach. “You really are too kind to me, my Gem.”

“Nonsense.”

#reverie audios #ellis reverie audios #silly writing stuff: reverie edition #my humble offerings #yapping about ellis #the way this had been FERMENTING in my google docs bc I'm too busy fishing in stardew

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the-wiggler · 1 year ago

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Marie and Mother Mary

Relationship : Marie & Milo Greer

Tags : Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Post-Partum Depression, Gender Roles, Catholicism, Motherhood, Italian American Marie Greer

Word Count : 1,510

ao3

Notes and Warnings:

this fic kind of surprised me because I'm not super into the Shaw Pack. But I do find Marie Greer's presence and bits and pieces we know of her character fascinating. I wanted to explore Marie's mind and feelings about being a mother when she's dealing with a gambling husband; and for her to raise someone like Milo Greer- she must've done a great job as a parent.

I took inspiration from my own experiences growing up with Catholicism and specifically in relation to the biblical Mary as a religious figure; and how mothers often find comfort in the thought of a figure who related in their struggles of motherhood and womanhood. It also has a theme of gender roles/ alluding to rigid gender identities because of the circumstances that Marie grew up in.

This fic isn't really... religious per se, and it takes more of a neutral standing while still criticizing how religion could be used to provoke feelings of personal guilt and trauma in someone who grew up in it, while also giving comfort to anyone that needed the universe to say that everything will be okay. If any of the themes may cause distress in you, I do implore you not read this fic, as consuming writing is a vulnerable activity.

The year was 1993. Marie Greer walked into the empty church lot with her baby in her arms. It had been decades since she last stepped on its stone floors. The security guard stationed outside looked at her strangely, but let her in once she asserted that she was there to pray.

She passed the main building for a small garden in the back. There were rows of wooden benches but nobody to be found. Good. Marie didn’t want company at the moment. To call it a garden was an overstatement- it was tiny and cramped, overgrown with vines. In front of the benches, the centerpiece of all the foliage was a statue of the Virgin Mary. Mother Mary, she thought, the double entendre not escaping her.

As soon as she sat down right in front of the statue- Milo wailed inconsolably like he always did.

The baby’s loud cries echoed disturbing whatever peace that was left from the place. Marie sighed, tired and weary, of this. He was an especially sensitive child, smaller than other babies his age. Marie was used to catering to people who’d fuss over the littlest things, Colm had a particular affinity for order and cleanliness whenever he came back from blowing his month’s earnings in a night, after all. The addition of Milo to the family just added more on her plate- she had to catalog every single one of his many allergies, and make sure that the room was never dusty because he’d have a coughing fit otherwise. The replacement of their popcorned ceiling had not been cheap, either, not with Colm leaving barely anything left after his trips to Vegas.

She did this all for love. For him. For her husband. But oftentimes, she felt like there was nothing left of her to give. Dry. Hollow.

She shushed Milo and lightly rocked him in hopes that he’d calm down but to no avail. He thrashed and turned, his nails accidentally scratched her in the arm. Marie winced and tried to soothe him, lightly patting his back. It took thirty minutes of rocking and soothing Milo until the baby went back to sleep.

St. Mary’s weathered ivory-colored face looked down at her, her expression blank and unmoving. Her lips were sculpted into a serene smile. Her pupil-less eyes gazed back at Marie.

Just like any other Italian-American family at the time, church was a routine for Marie growing up. Her mother would dress them in their Sunday’s best and wrangled her and her seven unruly siblings into the building. “Quit fussin’ your pigtails, Marie. I did that real pretty for you,” she’d chide. They’d sit in the back of the church because tardiness ran in that family’s blood like a curse.

Past the twelfth and thirteenth pews, God felt distant.

Marie would follow everything diligently. She stood up when everyone else stood up as the priest lifted the circular white wafer, the body of Christ, above the altar. As a child, her height wouldn’t allow her to catch a single glimpse of it. She’d comfort her younger siblings whenever they’d make a ruckus. But the whole thing- it went one ear out of the other.

She could’ve sworn she tried her best to listen and followed whatever the adults did.

I have greatly sinned, escaped past her lips as she did the same thing she had now, rocking her baby sister in her arms. At the time, she hadn’t even lost her milk teeth.

She stopped going when she married Colm. He was the opposite of the man her mother wanted her to marry, and in retrospect, she felt that it was one of the many reasons she liked him. His mind was raucous, his eyes wild and unmoored. Like nothing was holding him back. Colm used to be an ambitious man- the thrill of being an Investigator for DUMP perfect for his unrested soul.

Marie loved that part of him, the fact that he’d question everything, unbelieving in anything unproven.

He said that he wanted to purge the world of assholes- the unjust, those who hurt others for their own sake. As he turned in empowered criminals in the pursuit of it, he became one himself.

Marie met St.Mary’s gaze- almost challenging her hollow stare. Something surged through her, from the ache in her back settling to her tight diaphragm.

After the birth of her boy, Mary couldn’t cook or clean. All she did was stay in bed. Her sister came by to help take care of the house while Colm stepped outside as usual. She said that it was normal, her body had been through hell, after all. But the heavy feeling, the heaviness that settled in her chest persisted for the next two months.

Marie hated feeling helpless- her house a mess, and her baby cried constantly. She was a woman of action, and stagnation shackled her, leaving her trapped. Her visit to the psychiatrist- and the fourth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual- had told her that it was depression with a postpartum onset. She told the doctor that she refused to accept that she was a ‘bozo who was sick in the head’ and that she will cure herself with a margarita and a sorely needed hair perm alongside a fresh coat of manicure.

And look where that got her. Crying in front of a statue in church.

She still stared at the other Mary, the statue’s size and height caused her to look like she was looking down on whoever prayed in the confined space, guiding them iin a time of need. With that, for once, Marie realized that she was angry.

She wasn’t stuck to her mattress, fatigued, and lacked energy because of sorrow- she was so angry, the weight of her job description as wife, mother, woman, wolf, dog, bitch- Marie weighed down on her like anchors. She was angry, at the fact that Colm was nowhere to be found throughout all this, angry at her mother- for making her a mother to her own siblings when she was barely a child, angry at the fact that she couldn’t even love her child properly because she no longer had any love left in the hollow of her heart.

The emotions had clawed the insides of her ribs and caused her to let out heavy breaths- she was a dog panting for air when there was none.

“When does it get easier,” she demanded to the Mother of all Mothers through gritted teeth. “Tell me, Mary,” she begged, desperate, as tears started to roll down her face. “Tell me!”

“When does being a mother ever get any easier?”

Her voice was a whisper, barely audible, as she started to sob and heave quietly.

A soft breeze blew past the branches of the trees that surrounded her. It moved the leaves and allowed them to move gently back and forth. The statue still looked down at her, hand slightly outstretched in a supposed kind, helpful gesture. Ants crawled from the crack in the marble, they moved past Mary’s dress down to the hem, circling around her exposed foot, past the head of the sneak that was crushed triumphantly under her toes.

Marie sank into her seat, tired. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, sniffling. Unbecoming of her, she thought. She’d rather die than let anyone see her like this. But there was a comfort between women, she supposed. Damage from rain stained Mary’s cheek like tears- not unlike the thick mascara that currently ran down her own. The air was comfortable, easy, and Marie felt light. It reminded her of the 80s. Of girls in the bathroom of the disco, talking someone out of calling their past lovers as they applied lipstick and passed cigarettes between one another.

“I guess,” she sniffed. “I guess you know better, right?” she stared into a picture that hung on a distant wall. In it, St. Mary cried as she held Jesus' dying body. “He didn’t give you a hell of a good time either,” her voice cracked pathetically.

Girl, tell me about it, Marie imagined the statue said. The Virgin Mary had the voice of her best friend in college. Is that not what being a mother is? The pain so bad, it feels like you’re splitting in two? Going through all seven hells for your baby’s sake?

“Why do we even put ourselves through this,” she chuckled sardonically. “If I wanted to go through pain, I’d rather just listen to Colm talk about whatever fish he caught on the weekend.”

Mary didn’t answer, and Marie understood. Milo opened his big eyes in her arms and reached up to her with tiny hands. He giggled, light and oblivious to the puffiness of Mary’s face and the swell of her eyes. She cooed at him and held up a finger. Milo wrapped his hand around it, gentle.

St. Mary’s serene smile was still plastered on her face, her hand outstretched in the air between them.

#damage from rain stained marys cheek like tears not unlike the thick mascara that currently ran down her own #PAST THE TWELTH AND THIRTEENTH PEW GOD FELT DISTANT #SCREAMING!!#redacted audio #redacted asmr #this is too good i fear

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the-wiggler · 1 year ago

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[you have one new voicemail]

#HELLOOOOO SEXY #I LOVE ELLIOT RAGHHHH #love eberyones hc that elliot wears beanie DELIGHTFUL #redacted audio #elliot redacted #aarons there too i guess…

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the-wiggler · 1 year ago

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take me in your tender arms, roll me in the dirt

Sypnosis: It's not love, but Gage will take what he can (and remain in deep denial).

spotify play lover's dream by saints amongst sinners

[title is from cover me in roses in holden laurence]

word count: 1.3k

“Fuck, this party is boring,” They sigh, leaning on the counter and taking a swig of their beer. They were in the kitchen of some house party, the sound of some Spotify EDM playlist thumping in the background.

Gage glanced over, peeling away at the sticker of some off-brand beer, condensation dripping down his hands. “Yeah,” He chuckled, eyes darting to them, “We should’ve known the minute we heard this music. It’s downright tragic.” His eyes follow the curve of their smirk, searching for approval.

‘Down, boy. Your tail is practically wagging.’

Gage quickly averts his eyes, paying close attention to the way the ceiling light hits his beer bottle. He could barely look in their eyes most of the time, breathtakingly beautiful and full of promises. But now, when they were dressed in some tight top that left little to the imagination and showed just enough skin to leave him craving for more, Gage feared bursting into flames if he looked at them too long.

“I thought that parties now would be better than those booze-fests in high school but God,” They sigh, running a hand through their hair, “This is somehow worse. It smells like sex and artificial fruits everywhere.”

“That’s the vapes, I think. All the rage nowadays.”

They wrinkle their nose, “Fuck, that must be it. God, I can’t believe I got dressed for nothing.”

“I mean you look good,” He nervously forces out, taking a swig of his beer to fuel his confidence, “And maybe I could, uh, give that outfit the attention it deserves. Could think of a few ways to make it worth your while. Upstairs, maybe.”

They return the look with a surreptitious smile and throw back a sip of their own beer, letting the question linger in the stale, suddenly too-quiet kitchen. “Yeah? And just what do you intend to do to me upstairs, mister?”

It’s a game they play, sometimes at a frat party, sometimes when they message him in the middle of the night to come over, and they spend the hour making “small talk” before they inevitably end up in bed again. Always playing coy, dancing around what they really wanted. Teasing him and pushing him until he took the final step. It made Gage’s head spin.

“Oh? You want me to say it here? In the kitchen?” He feigns disbelief, placing his beer bottle down, placing it on his chest in astonishment, “You absolute heathen!”

Mocking, joking, in an attempt to break the blatantly brewing sexual tension.

He’s still learning to get over his people-pleasing propensities, learning to ask for what he wants directly and accepting the consequences. But it’s a work in progress, and when faced with his friends-with-benefits that he’s not in love with, his resolve crumbles and all he knows is to beat around the bush, to laugh off any sense of intimacy between them, to hide any semblance of yearning on his part.

“Hmm,” They smile, enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. Putting down their beer and moving to face him, they crowd him against the countertop, pressing their barely covered chest to his, eyes slowly dragging up, lingering, very pointedly, on his lips before meeting his gaze, “Me? A heathen? You’re the one who’s been staring at me all evening, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” The words whispered against his lips, softly, their lips grazing against his for the briefest of seconds before pulling away, like it was a secret only for the both of them.

Cause at the end of the day, that was all it was, wasn’t it? They were each other's dirty secret, whispered under the loud music of a frat party, said in the silent looks sent across the room. And Gage was fine with that, really, he was. The physical satisfaction of feeling them close to him, sending waves and waves of pleasure coursing through him, sneaking out of their room even before the sun had risen, hiding away in closets and watching them flirt with other people, just for him to end up in their bed again. He was absolutely ok with that.

That’s what he tells himself, at least, as he surges forward, closing the distance between them with one hand cupping their face, the other dropping down to their waist, removing any semblance of space between them.

They move in tandem, lips moulding and bodies pushing against each other. God, they tasted good, like beer and passion and wanton lust. He was addicted to the taste, addicted to them, their hands roaming his body, their body grinding against his. An erotic display of bodies moving against each other, grasping desperately where they could, tiny gasps and moans entirely too inappropriate for the back of some frat boy’s kitchen.

They part, eyes still closed, his lips desperately chasing theirs. “Shall we, uh, adjourn to the bedroom, my liege?” Even now, even when they’ve made clear their desires, will he continue to hide the hopeless pining of his heart. Because this isn’t what he wants, not really, no matter how much he lies to himself, tells himself otherwise.

He wants to kiss them because he wants to, wants to kiss them over morning breakfast, wants to be greeted with their sweet smile when he comes home from work, wants to learn the quiet, intimate, inconsequential details of their everyday life, wants to become so intertwined with them that he teetered on the very edge of losing himself.

Most importantly, he wanted them to love him the way he loves them.

But that’s for another night.

For now, he revels in their breathless chuckle, letting them pull him through the throngs of drunkards into some random’s bedroom. There, they push him onto the bed, grinning deviously as he lets out a quiet oof before climbing on top of him and continuing their heated kiss. His hands move to tug at their hair, swallowing the groan that falls from their lips while they move to slip under his shirt, cold hands against his warm body making him shudder.

“Watch the hands,” He breathlessly warns as they part, even as he quickly pushes his sweater over his shirt, “Oh- fuck- wait, my sweater uh- a little help please?” They snort, breaking the mood momentarily as they carefully manoeuvre his sweater over his head.

“Ok, ok quit laughing, asshole,” He complains, tugging at the hem of their tight shirt, “C’mon, off. S’not fair I’m the only half-dressed one here.”

“Wait.” They mutter, moving their head down to press a light kiss to his neck, forcing a gasp through Gage’s lips. They continue their assault on him, pressing soft kisses all over his body, marking him, smiling against his soft body as he falls apart under their ministrations.

And maybe one day, Gage will ruin this perfectly good arrangement, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week. But for now? For tonight? When they’re worshipping him like this, sweet praises falling from those kiss-bruised lips? When their hands are pressed against his sweaty body? Gage will tell himself that maybe, just maybe, they feel the same way he does, that they want him the way he does.

That maybe their heart also threatens to burst when they hear him laugh, that they search for him in every room without even meaning to. That every joke they tell is just to hear him laugh, that every love song seems to have that one specific line that so perfectly describes him, that they have a secret playlist for him that they listen to in the dead of night. That every kiss they press to his body is an admission of love, of adoration for his entire being.

He lets himself forget, momentarily, that this is all a dream, that in the morning (if they even stayed that long) this would be over; that the love and ecstasy he feels is only a means to an end for them, a temporary distraction for his aching heart.

For tonight, he forgets.

#reverie audios #gage reverie audios #when i said i couldnt get gage out of my head....#I MEANT IT #i hate when they have angst but I also EAT THAT SHIT UP!!!#also i was gna post on ao3 but I understand the tagging system even less then tumblr #also ALSO i made a playlist of gage in his pining era and hell yeah u bet do i wanna know os there #silly writing stuff: reverie edition #yapping about gage #my humble offerings

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the-wiggler · 1 year ago

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Guy the Pizza guy that you are <3

#meow?!#redacted asmr #redacted guy

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the-wiggler · 1 year ago

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I hope we kiss goodnight, it might just end my life

phyiscally cannot stop thinking about elliot and sunshine and im projecting bad in this fic but shhhh im allowed to.

sypnosis: sunshine cant sleep, except when elliot is around. [title is from Kiss Goodnight by IDKHOW]

word count: 1.1k

Their eyes slowly fluttered open, blue morning light washing over their room, tinting everything in the same hue. They were facing the ceiling now, their blanket tangled between their legs. 6 am. Their eyes fluttered shut, a weary sigh filling the empty room. That was what…2 hours of sleep? It’s better this way. Force themselves to sleep later, the self-induced insomnia meant that their brain prioritises deep sleep over REM, the dream-having sleep phase. That was what their therapist said anyway. Less sleep means less REM means less dreams means less nightmares.

Sure, it was an “unhealthy” coping mechanism, with its “averse” side effects, and a method their therapist “highly discouraged”. But if it meant fewer nightmares, Sunshine would brave the sluggishness, the irritation, the occasional nausea and the concerned looks from their friends.

Like now, as they sat on the worn, soft couch of Elliot’s apartment. Sinking into the worse-for-wear leather, scratched and faded in a way that perfectly matched Elliot’s second-hand-vintage-found-on-the-side-of-the-road-borderline-trash-esque design choices, they avoided the watchful gaze of their friend and hoped that their concealer had done a good enough job to cover their eyebags.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, because I think you look amazing as you are, Sunshine,” He chuckled, settling down next to them, “But, uh, you’re looking a little….worse for wear.”

Ok so maybe the concealer wasn’t doing the best job.

They waved their hand dismissively, making up some excuse about jobs, life, busy this, busy that, no time to rest. It came easily now. Lying, that is. And it wasn’t really a lie, they had filled and jam-packed their schedule full of random events to avoid a moment of rest, should they accidentally slip back into the ever-inviting embrace of sleep.

Not good enough for Elliot, though. As they watched his brow furrow in a way that made them want to instinctively smooth out, they racked their brain to reassure Elliot. There was, after all, no need to pile on more shit to Elliot’s plate.

“I’ve just been having trouble sleeping is all,” They reassured him quickly, “Nothing to worry about, I got some melatonin pills and it’s just taking some time to get used to.”

He conceded with one last concerned look, before turning his attention to the TV. “Alright, so, I was thinking for tonight, we could watch…The Tunnel? Or….Final Prayer?”

Now it was their turn to quirk an eyebrow. “You want to watch a horror movie? Mr. Never Watched FNAF, Mr. Scared of the Babadook, Mr-”

“Ok listen, I think we both know that the 4th FNAF game is genuinely horrifying. And, well, no, I’d much rather watch an actually feel-good movie. But if my bestest friend of all time has been raving about how wonderful this movie is, and has been feeling down, I will concede and watch whatever mind-fucky content you so eagerly consume as a coping mechanism. I’m simply fulfilling my best friend duties. No matter how messed up it is. And I will ignore how the fact that you watch horror movies as a coping mechanism is a major red flag and possibly a sign of a budding serial killer. Because I’m such a good friend. The best, even. ”

They scoff indignantly, “Ok, yeah I’m the serial killer. Says the one whose forever excuse is Sorry, was burying the bodies.”

It always starts like this. As Elliot loads up the movie, they make sure to maintain a completely platonic distance between them, two friends sitting on a couch, five feet apart because they are not pining for their ridiculously attractive, soft-hearted best friend. Elliot scoots closer, the leather dipping under his weight, forming a crater around them, cocooning them together, pushing Elliot closer to them. They feign annoyance as Elliot shoots a mischievous look at them. “Oh don’t think you’re getting away scot-free, Sunshine. I might be sacrificing several nights of sleep to cheer you up, but you’re going to be my human shield tonight. Trade-offs.”

Despite this, he wraps an arm around them, the dip of the couch pushing them snugly into his side. Who’s protecting who, Elliot? Regardless, they lean into his touch, his hand gently moving up and down their arm.

They blink.

The blanket around them definitely did not belong to them, but smelled familiarly comforting in a way that broke down all of Sunshine’s defences. Half asleep and not fully cognizant of their surroundings, they push themself deeper into the blanket burrow around them, instinctually chasing the fuzzy feeling of slowly waking up in the morning after a good, solid, rejuvenated night of sleep.

“Morning sleepyhead.” A familiarly husky voice; and the words don’t register, nothing but the groggy understanding that this voice emanated safety, understanding, and protection pulled Sunshine out of their dazed state. They push themselves up, rubbing their eyes to see Elliot standing there, morning hair unruly, beaming down at them. “You zonked out last night on my couch.”

Too groggy to come up with a retort, they lean into him as he sits next to them. He makes a noise of surprise, but otherwise lifts his arm to allow them to press into his side. “You’re oddly snuggly Sunshine,” He chuckles, pulling them closer, “And you fall asleep every time we hang out, am I that boring?” They half-heartedly slap his chest, feeling his chuckles reverberate through them. They sit there, in silence, simply enjoying the slow mornin in each others presence before Elliot clears his throat awkwardly.

“Anyways, uh, how was your sleep last night?”

“Good,” They mumble, “Slept well.” No nightmares, no dreams at all, actually rested. Better than they had all month

“That’s uh-that’s good.”

“Only ever sleep well when you’re around.” Still sleep-addled and fueled by the simple wants of the heart, they bring their arms to wrap around his torso, mumbling sleepily against his chest, “Maybe you’re magic.”

As they drift off back into a dreamless sleep, Elliot’s hands move to pull them in closer. Pressing a kiss to the crown of their head, he whispers, his voice impossibly soft, yearning dripping from his words, “Just for you, Sunshine.”

#redacted elliot #elliot redacted #redacted asmr #redacted audio #the balance redacted #no. 1 fan of reuniting elliot and sunshine PLEASE #fuck wlse do u tag lmfaoooo #silly writing stuff: redacted edition #yapping about elliot #my humble offerings

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