#More Goore '24

[kissingghouls]

Last Xmas / First Xmas (aka part two) (part one is here ♥) Mary Goore x f!Reader

Summary: It's your first x-mas with (soft) Mary // from an anon prompt - "I get so sappy when I'm with you." (Part Two takes place after the other More Goore stories ♥ or on its own. choose your own adventure!)

tags: just kissin' & mentions of zombies/zombie attacks

The radiator hisses quietly as fog clouds the living room windows. Mary’s sitting on the floor of your apartment wearing a pair of boxers, a ratty old t-shirt, and a determined look. A festive pair of socks decorated with snowmen cover their feet as they tap out a rhythm playing only in their head. In front of them is a sea of carnage, a mess of bright paper and ribbons smattered across the hardwood. Their hands are covered in bits of tape and there’s a glittery bow stuck to a shock of their black hair, but Mary’s focused. They’ve refused your help a few times already, so you retreated to the safety of the sofa to supervise and drink cocoa.

A zombie show plays on the television with handfuls of students meeting a grisly demise next to a completely pathetic excuse for a miniature Christmas tree. The kind of pathetic that looped right back to being the cutest tree you’ve ever seen. It’s a sad, old, thrifted thing that’s barely more than a handful of pipe cleaners, but Mary covered it in construction paper bats and ghosts before wrapping enough lights around it to power a small city. The finishing touch was a corpse-painted Santa lovingly crafted by your very own death metal boyfriend.

It’s funny how it all just fits. A weird little slice of domestic bliss that probably looked like a horror movie to anyone else. The whole apartment smells of sugar and vanilla thanks to the fresh batch of cookies cooling in the kitchen—cookies Mary insisted on baking from scratch while following a family recipe he’d copied in his own handwriting. Doodles of demons line the margins and you wonder if maybe he’d let you frame it someday.

Tomorrow you’ll spend the day bouncing between your families, doing your best impressions of responsible adults. But tonight it’s just the two of you and the teenage zombies eating their way through the upperclassmen. There are vague plans forming in the Chaos group chat, talk about heading to bar later along with arguments both for and against. Mary opts out for both of you without looking up, prompting a flood of lewd emojis.

“You’re being awfully quiet, darlin,” he notes, still completely focused on his task. There’s only two presents left in his to-wrap pile, a couple of carefully selected items for the boys at Chaos House. It was another task in which Mary put an incredible amount of thought. Watching him pick items for his friends made you that combination of nervous-excited about the neatly wrapped gifts bearing your name.

“Just watching you,” you admit fondly. Their hair is clean and fluffy, falling over their eyes a bit as that stupid bow wobbles with their movements. They’re so cute you can’t stand it, barely containing your urge to tackle them to the floor and kiss them until it all becomes too much. But you stay in your spot, legs pressed together to ignore your growing need so they can finish up.

“Wha? Why? Being a creep? Little Christmas creep.”

“No, it’s just…I guess I never thought you’d be this into the holidays?”

He shrugs, still facing away from you. “Maybe it’s more about where I am and who I’m with than a frankincense and baby Jesus kind of party.”

“Sooo…it’s not Christmas you like, it’s me.”

“Duh,” he laughs and spins around to look you dead in the eye. “I love you,” he replies in a serious tone he doesn’t often use in situations like this. He abandons the box in front of him, half-wrapped with all of those neat creases left in the paper and climbs onto the sofa next to you. “Darlin, I want this Christmas to be better than the last one we spent together.”

“We weren’t together at Christmas last year—”

“No, but do you remember that stupid party Chaos House had a while back? The one where everyone was running around in those stupid ass Christmas sweaters?”

Your eyebrows knit together as you try to think back. There’s a vague, blurry memory attached to feelings of unease. Mary is there too for reasons you can’t quite place, but there’s different feelings attached to a memory of  looking up at his face in the dark. “Yeah, I don’t, um—I don’t really remember a lot about that one.”

“Not much to remember,” he says with a shrug. “It wasn’t exactly one of their best. But you—I remember you had these little sparkly things in your hair that night and you just…” he trails off and smiles to himself for a second. “You were so cute, you know? And after I saw you I couldn’t stop thinking about how you were supposed to take all those little things out of your hair on your own. Because I knew—like, he just fucking left you there. And I—I wanted to—I wanted things to be different. I wanted things to be so much better for you by actual Christmas. And when you and that dickhead broke up for real I knew you would find someone who would help you take the sparkles out of your hair when you were drunk.”

“Mary—“

“I know. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head and cringes. “I get so sappy when I’m around you. Go on, call me Marshmallow Goore.”

You lean in and press your lips to theirs. It’s a reprieve Mary welcomes, hands immediately twisting in your hair as the kiss deepens to express feelings neither of you have found the words for. None of the whispered I love yous seem to match the intensity of what you’ve felt for them since before that first kiss and Mary’s better with words than you anyways.

“I’m so glad it’s you,” you manage between labored breaths, hoping it offers even a fraction of what you mean to say.

He pulls away, trying to hide a slight blush and a shy smile. “Darlin, I—" He shakes his head and intertwines his fingers with yours.

“I mean, I’m not drunk and you’re the one with glitter in your hair, but it’s all the same right?”

“I have glitter in my hair?”

You smile. “Yeah, like a lot.”

“Aw fuck,” he groans and swipes a hand through his hair. “I’m glad it’s you too, you know. There’s not many people in this world—no, you’re the only one I would learn to drive for.”

“Mary, that’s not a promise you have to make me.”

“I know, but that’s the beauty of it, darlin. I already did it.”

“Hang on, are you telling me—“

“Mary Goore, licensed driver.”

“…How?”

“There was a lot of yelling. Why do you think the Chaos House gifts are so nice?”

“You are so—“

“That’s not your gift, by the way. I got you something way better, but that’s for later. I could use a break from all the paper though. You wanna help me draw spooky occult shit on the cookies?” he asks with a wide grin. “I got that gel frosting that looks like blood.”

“Mary Goore, I’m so in love with you it’s stupid.”

“Well, sweetheart I dunno what to tell you. I’ve been stupid over you for years,” he replies with that crooked grin you love so much. He pulls you into his lap and plants a kiss on your cheek. “Merry Christmas, darlin.”

[ask-frater-imperator]

[MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY]

Hello all, I am Frater Imperator. Anyone may call me Copia, Papa, C, Cardi, Papa Emeritus IV (even if it is not my title anymore) or anything appropriate.

I am 54 years old and have been on Tumblr for a while now.. I am still learning things daily, though.

My current rules that I may change one day for now are as follows:

Please, for minors and such only SFW (safe for work) asks or questions, I welcome all my fans and want to ensure that they are all comfortable or feel safe reading this blog.

Flirting and such is still fine..

I will be answering questions or updating when I have the time. I am mainly busy with my duties, but I will always make time for you all.

Andd- time for my (the mod's) into!

Just as always, I still wish to remain anonymous for the most part.

Anyone may call me what they want, I mainly refer to myself as mod, and since this will be posted, a sign off of "-JK". I am commonly called clown or a few other nicknames.

I am in a relationship as well, JOKING flirting is fine if anyone wishes to, but I love my partner like Gomez Addams loves Morticia. So, please keep flirting to just jokes.

My pronouns are He/Him, I am a trans man that has adhd, autism, chonic pain and too much more. I wanted to add an intro for myself to.. I guess remind people I am human? I dunno, I just like rping as my comfort character..

As always, people can ask questions of me. If it gets too personal, I will not answer it. So please keep that in mind. Also, ignore me getting Copias age wrong for the longest time- //

// This blog was created 4/14/24. It was updated on 6/27/24. \\

[THE CLERGY AWAITS YOUR QUESTIONS]

// Working on a chapter of my own.. will probably be done around February..\\

// I also run @ask-the-goore (a mary goore ask/rp blog). I'm putting this here because I need more asks over there..\\

[fishwithtitz]

The Five Times I Hooked Up with Mary Goore (and the One Time I Couldn’t) - Chapter 3

Summary: I swallowed roughly and let out a shaky breath. What I was experiencing wasn’t feelings. No, it was need, and the anticipation of an orgasm from Mary paired with my own touch deprivation was all it took to bring me to the edge. 

And I hoped that tomorrow he’d fucking push me off.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI

Mary Goore x OFC / 11.4k words

Warnings: language, vaginal sex, graphic depiction of manual stimulation, recreational drug use, alcohol, mention of death/post-mortem care

aO3 link

Chapter Three : Hook-up #3: The Kitchen

It had been a while since I’d been out in public past 3 am. Hell, it’d been a while since I’d made it to last call. 

Tonight had been one of Thomas’ band’s bigger shows, and this time, it didn’t take much begging from Des for me to join in on the fun. It was the weekend which meant work was a distant thought easily shelved to the back corner of my mind. After a couple too many cheap tequila shots and a peer-pressured beer before drinks were cut off at the venue, I felt loosened but content, and I made no argument to Mark’s suggestion to hit up an all night restaurant for some greasy food to soak up the booze that coated our stomachs. 

So, here Mark, Des, and I sat at a rounded booth at a 24-hour diner as we waited for the rest of the group to join us. Cracked vinyl scratched against the backs of my knees and the dark yellow foam all but clawed its way through the time-worn rips. As I crossed a leg over the other, my arms came to fold underneath my chest and rest against the chipped tabletop, lost in unimportant thought. 

“Doll,” A hazy voice tickled my ear and began to break me from my daydream. “—hey, Dahlia!” 

I jerked a bit as I felt a hand brush my shoulder and looked up to see Thomas, Greg, Mary, and another one of Thomas’ band mates that I couldn’t remember the name of for the life of me. 

“Mind letting us in?” Thomas asked, hand just barely reaching out to motion to the empty booth seating beside me. 

“Oh! Yeah, sorry,” I chuckled a little, tone more embarrassed than I’d like to admit, and slid out of the booth to let Thomas slide in next to Des. The momentarily nameless drummer and Greg popped in beside Thomas, leaving myself and Mary to squeeze in last. Mary gestured to the seat as if to nonverbally say ‘go ahead,’ and I crammed myself in next to Greg. Mary slid in beside me, weirdly careful not to accidentally knock elbows or brush his leg against mine in the close quarters. I tried not to think anything of it.

Greg dipped forward over the table and grabbed at the small stack of menus. He tossed one to Mary and I before distributing a few more across the table. I pushed the sticky, laminated menu closer to Mary and relaxed my forearms against the stained tabletop. 

As everyone settled, chatter about the show was drummed up and compliments were slued around the table to the three sweaty musicians that occupied the booth. They explained that they were held up by the venue and a nearly stolen guitar, though luckily no fists were thrown and the instrument had been misplaced by the bassist by accident. 

The conversation was cut short by an older employee approaching our table, apron tied high over her robust hips, and she looked around at our motley crew before asking what we wanted to order. She had a gritty voice — tone so rough that I could visualize the sandpaper coating her vocal cords — but her kind, tired eyes showed through the otherwise roughened demeanor. 

We took turns ordering and by the end of the ordeal, I debated submitting the waitress’s name for a Presidential Medal of Freedom for the sheer amount of patience she demonstrated with a group of overly drunk adults. 

Thomas and Des had decided to share a fairly large breakfast platter and a ginger ale (and due to the queasy look on Des’ face when Thomas ordered it, I imagined that most of the food would be sanctioned to Thomas while the ginger ale was her futile attempt to even out the alcohol-to-stomach acid ratio in her gut). Mark insisted on a burger, and Greg had (almost too quickly) insisted on an entire chocolate silk pie. The drummer, who I was now certain was named Vince, stuck with the carafe of coffee we had requested, while I ordered French toast and extra crispy bacon. I had jokingly requested it to be nearly cremated, which did not amuse the waitress. Mary stuck with pancakes. 

As the waitress bustled off to ring in our food, Greg raised an eyebrow at Vince. 

“You’re going to try to eat my pie, huh, asshole?” He said disbelievingly. 

The drummer shrugged and leaned back in the booth. “Ask me nicely enough and I’ll eat your ass, too,” he said with a wink, puckering his lips for a kiss before earning a swift shove in the shoulder and what I swore sounded like a “fuck you���. I heard Mary and Mark laugh and I couldn’t help the chuckle that seeped past my lips. 

Feeling a little bolder after settling down with our anything-but-ordinary group, I leaned a couple inches closer to Mary, our height difference putting my cheek close to his jaw. 

“Never pegged you as a pancake man, Mary.” I said quietly enough for him to hear (or at least I had hoped). “It’s oddly endearing.” I smirked at him from his side, flashing my own grey eyes with a snarky glance. 

Mary raised his eyebrows with near mock disapproval. “Almost as endearing as you giving post mortem instructions for your breakfast side,” he quipped, his own stare never leaving mine as he fumbled with the paper tie on his silverware.  

“At least I didn’t order something with a face on it,” I shot back, referring to the whipped cream and strawberry smiley face that came with every stack of pancakes. 

Mary shrugged. “Cremation tends to get rid of the face, doesn’t it? I’m sure your order had one at one point.”

I shot him a glare that bordered on playful and somewhat offended, and before I could even open my mouth to retort, the waitress returned with a large carafe of drip coffee and enough mugs for each of us, announcing that she would be back with Des’ ginger ale in a moment. Vince all but tackled Greg to get to it, knocking elbows as he quickly filled up his cup. The acidic, distinct smell drifted across the table to settle between us, and after Greg poured his own mug, I filled a couple for Mary and I. 

Vince took a sip of the blackened liquid in his mug and almost groaned, while Greg shook his head, adding a packet of sugar to his own. “Oh, hey, Mary,” Greg began, “you think you could fill in on bass on Wednesday when we play at The Shredder? Pete has to work and if he calls out again, he’ll get fired.”

Mary took a sip from his own steaming mug. “Can’t man,” he said. 

Vince looked past me to Mary, leaning forward a bit over the table, “Fuck, why not?” he asked. 

Mary shrugged and looked down at his cup. “I have plans.”

Greg raised his eyebrow at Mary. “Dude,” he began, his tone growing a little more combative and most definitely annoyed, “if you don’t want to do it, just say so.”

“I fuckin told you man, I’m busy.”  Mary’s voice was now somewhat louder as he leaned forward to peer around me and back at the two bandmates, his sandy hair falling like a curtain over his left side as if to unknowingly shield other tables from the conversation. 

I could feel the tension building between the three men. In my still drunken haze, I reached forward to grab a single-serve plastic container of coffee creamer and stabbed the paper top with my fork. 

“Can’t you reschedule or something? This is important. We can’t cancel this gig,” Vince pleaded, his own tone much more reserved, and if anything, a little desperate. 

 “Sorry, I don't know what to fucking tell you,” Mary started, lifting his hands up halfway in the air as if to punctuate his point, his annoyance now glaringly obvious. 

I could feel the anxiety at the conflict rising in my chest as he spoke. In the middle of his sentence, I had turned the creamer cup upside down and squeezed it into my coffee, four streams of the thick, room temperature dairy squirting audibly into my cup. “Mooooooooo!” I droned out in a low tone as I roughly milked the container like an udder. 

“-I can’t exactly fucking reschedule my mom’s birthday- why the fuck are you mooing?!” Mary’s gaze shot over to me as he interrupted himself, a look of frustration painted on his features. 

I didn’t exactly know what to say, so I kept my widened eyes locked on his, fingers still kneading the plastic creamer as it let its last few drops into the mug. A round of snickers bordered the table at this and I licked my lips and swallowed.

“Just, uh…breaking the tension…” I murmured, folding my lips under my teeth in defeat. 

Luckily, Vince’s voice sliced through Mary and I’s tense moment. “…you’re missing a show for your mom’s birthday?” He looked at Mary as if he had grown another head and chuckled incredulously at him. 

Thomas, who has been chatting with Mark and Des on the other side of the table, must have overheard this as he suddenly cut in with a serious retort. “Don’t talk shit on Mary’s mom, man. She’s fucking rad.” His face stretched into a defensive scowl as he turned to Vince. 

Mark, who had decided to finally get his own mug of brew, quickly poured the rest of the carafe into the final mug. Thomas must have gotten his own cup earlier. “She helped out when they couldn’t afford some of their gear,” he explained emptying some creamer into the now cooling coffee, sans mooing, “used to drive us to shows when we were younger, too.”

I knew that Mary and Thomas definitely went back a ways, but I had no idea they had been friends for that long. Even more surprising was that Mark was also included in their history. I suppose I had assumed that they would have all been in the same band if they had been close for so many years, which even in my intoxicated state, I realized was ridiculous.

Tail between his legs, Vince mumbled something to the effect of “let us know if something changes” and shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he drank from his chipped mug, eyes cast down at the stained laminate. 

The table grew awkwardly silent for a quick beat, which luckily was broken as the elderly waitress sauntered over with a couple of large, oval-shaped plates in hand. She set down what appeared to be the greasiest burger I’d ever laid eyes on right in front of Mark. Thomas and Des’ shared heaping breakfast platter of eggs, bacon, and hash landed at their place setting and Des (who looked notably less queasy) quickly snatched a triangle of sourdough toast to munch on. I took the opportunity to break the ice with Mary while everyone was distracted by the wafting aroma of diner food. 

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s sweet of you,” I said softly as I leaned in, just close enough so that he could hear my compliment. I looked up at him and flashed him a softened smile. 

Mary looked at me with a millisecond of surprise before his own features relaxed a bit, and I swore I could see a hint of a redness creep onto his cheeks. I filed away to save for later - I had made the infamous Mary Goore blush. 

“What are you getting your mom for her birthday, Goore?” Des’ mouth smacked on her toast as she all but sputtered out the words. Yep, I thought, looks like she’s feeling better enough to pry. The girl may be hot, but she wasn’t always the most couth.

Mary ran a hand through his hair, raking his fingers through to the nape of his neck. “No clue” he sighed, “she’s fucking difficult to shop for.”

“Why don’t you just make her something?” Des replied, crumbs dotting her lips and threatening to fly as she chewed. 

Mary let out a chuckle and grinned in response. “I gave up on the macaroni crafts years ago,” he said, tone dripping with sarcasm. 

Des rolled her eyes and reached over to grab a strip of bacon from the breakfast platter, earning her a side-eye from Thomas. “I meant, like, dinner,” she clarified. 

The waitress returned with Greg’s pie and a stack of small plates. She sat down the pie in the middle of the table and Vince reached towards it, Greg slapping his hand as he swooped in to scoot the pie closer to him. He waved his hand as if to say “we won’t need those” as the waitress tried to set the dessert plates on the table. 

Mary shook his head at Des. I couldn’t tell if he was used to Greg’s antics or if he just wasn’t paying attention. “Already have that part covered. We do Chinese takeout every year. Birthday tradition.” 

By now, Thomas was stuffing eggs into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, and I was impressed with Des’ fortitude in keeping a straight face at the sight. “Dessert?” he said after swallowing. 

“Just make her a cake or something,” Mark added, dipping a fry in the ketchup slathered on Thomas’ eggs. 

“Or a pie!” Greg added. I turned to my right to see him with an abnormally large slice of chocolate silk in his hand, filling and chocolate shavings dripping down his fingers as he began to chomp at it like a slice of pizza. This was apparently the line for Des — she looked at him with an expression of pure disgust— something short lived as her face seemingly lit up with an idea.  

“Doll could help you!” Des waved the stub of bacon at Mary, before motioning it towards me. “She’s great at baking.”

Mark groaned in delight, eyes rolling up at the ceiling dramatically. “That cake you made Tommy was killer. Are you sure you didn’t put crack in it?”

This earned a genuine laugh from me, and I took a small sip of my now cooled coffee. “The only powder I fuck with is sugar,” I jest.

“Seriously, Mary, you should have Dahlia help you,” Des said soberingly, earnestness etched in her voice, “This is her wheelhouse.”

This time, it was my cheeks that began to flush. She wasn’t wrong. I had spent years honing my baking skills and often used them to cope with stress or as a way to show my love for friends and family. Hell, I’d made her more snickerdoodles than I’d like to count. Despite this, I still felt a deep discomfort at my talents being broadcast in front of a table of much more talented musicians. I’d always longed to have a “real” talent — one I could hang my hat on at the end of the day — but whatever higher power that existed (if one existed) decided to grant me the power of edible chemistry. To humor me, they also added a slow metabolism and abysmal self-control. 

I paused for a couple of seconds before turning my head to look at Mary. He had been staring at me, for how long I wasn’t sure, but I drank in the strands of hair that framed his sharp jaw peppered in stubble, tracing the line of his strong brow bone that seemed to mellow whenever I tried to study the meaning behind his eyes. I wet my bottom lip with the tip of my tongue before casting him a small smile, hoping he’d pick up on the telepathic signal that of course I’d be happy to help, and curl my fingers around the pitted ceramic glaze of my mug. 

He returned the look, and for a moment, I felt as if my guts were melting into my ass. I’d been staring, AGAIN, and not only had he caught me, but he seemed to be figuring out just how to make my knees weak as he spoke. “Yeah, maybe.”

Much to my relief, the waitress came back once more, nearly out of breath as she plopped my french toast down in front of me. She muttered out an apology and explained that a few more tables had arrived and they were understaffed. Mary’s plate came next, sliding across the smooth surface of the table as it landed inches from the edge. 

I grabbed a crisp piece of bacon and chomped down on it as I looked at Mary’s stack of flapjacks. The once beaming face of fruit and whipped cream had turned into an almost unrecognizable blob of melted goo and droopy berries that weirdly resembled Sloth from The Goonies, only incapacitated. A giggle bubbled up from my stomach and I clasped a hand onto Mary’s shoulder, leaning in to murmur in his ear. 

“Looks like yours is ready for post-mortem care, afterall, Goore.”

 🜏🜏🜏

A few days and a pounding hangover later, I lazed on my living room couch with a homemade smoothie in one hand and my phone in the other. My cat, Bones, was perched in my lap as I listened to the light rain pelting the window pane across the room. It was a lights-off kind of evening. Although it was still bright enough for some of the glow to filter in through the glass, it was dim in the small front room, and I felt it the perfect ambiance for comfortable socks and silent scrolling. Nights like these weren’t made for the radiant glow of TV against the walls. 

To put it simply, today was shit. My coworker, who was habitually late to arrive, showed up hours late to work with not as much as a peep as to why. Though I wasn’t the kind of person to continuously cover for her irresponsible ass, I knew that if both our responsibilities weren’t done by the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter who arrived on time and who arrived late: we’d both be fucked. So, in true pushover fashion, I sped through both of our laundry lists of tasks in remarkable time. The clock was pushing 4PM when I finally sat down to shove a KIND bar in my mouth as some sort of respite meal. 

After any other difficult day at work, I’d likely be downing a glass of wine or sucking the life out of my vape pen, but the taste of this past weekend still hung heavy on my tongue and threatened to turn my stomach every time I thought of it. I’d seriously contemplated skipping dinner and going straight to bed. Still, my grandmother’s voice hung heavy in the back of my mind as I passed the fridge and I begrudgingly plopped some frozen fruit, spinach, yogurt, and juice into my blender. If I didn’t have the energy to cook my meal, I’d just have to liquify it. 

As Bones purred aimlessly in my lap, I rubbed my feet together in circles, enjoying the feel of my cotton socks on my sore soles and the comfort of the throw pillow tucked haphazardly underneath them. I swiped past various poems, artwork, and occult content on my screen, sipping my green drink intermittently, and tried to mollify my anxious (and still very much frustrated) mind. Unexpectedly, my phone vibrated, a message popping up in the notification bar on my screen from an unrecognized number. 

hey 

I crinkled my eyebrows and opened the text message. There was no history of a conversation and a quick search of my contacts turned up nothing. I contemplated just ignoring it, but I could see the unmistakable three dots dancing underneath the text.

is that offer still open?

I rolled my lips over my teeth in thought and wracked my brain to try to think about what the mystery person was referring to. Nothing came to mind. I quickly typed out and sent a response. 

Who is this?

Again, the three dots flashed - this time just briefly before the sender replied. 

Mary

All the progress I’d made in stilling the stressed leech feeding in the pit of my stomach instantaneously vanished. Mary and I weren’t really on texting terms. We’d seen each other around more than a handful of times since the first night we officially met at Thomas’ house party. Yes, we’d gotten to know each other in ways that I didn’t know my other friends, but in no way were we close. We didn’t make any efforts to see each other — especially just the two of us. Just like Mary said during our roof rendezvous: we were two people engaging in some platonic head. There were no feelings, no complications, and no expectations. Still, just the thought of exchanging words back and forth made my chest palpate and my muscles tense. Why the fuck am I anxious right now? I found myself thinking. I let out a slow breath, shook my head, and tapped out a response, his own lighting up my screen a split second later. 

Oh hey. Which offer?

The baking one. For my moms birthday It’s cool if you cant

I barely realized the smile pulling at the corners of my lips. Mary hadn’t seemed that interested when we talked about it at the diner. I felt a tug of pride swell deep within me that he’d reach out to me privately for help with something important to him. 

I can help. Are you wanting a cake? Orrrr

Yea sure

Flavor?

Shit I didn’t think about that. Ummmm Not chocolate

I let out an audible snort at his answer. From the little I’d gotten to know about Mary, he wasn’t one to extrapolate. 

Very specific, Goore. Thanks.

Her birthday is Wed. When should I be over there to help and what do you want me to bring?

I stared at the screen for a minute and chewed at the chapped skin forming on my bottom lip to quell the flop of the smoothie in my stomach. I’d just assumed that Mary had wanted me to make the cake for him, but no, he wanted me to help him make it. The two of us. And apparently, at my place. 

I opened the calendar app on my phone and scrolled through Tuesday to confirm I hadn’t committed to anything else before shakily sighing and typing out a text back.

Tomorrow at 5? I have everything here.

Cool. Address?

394 Rosway

See ya then

I plopped the phone down on the cushion space beside me and inwardly groaned. This would be the first time that I’d be intentionally meeting with him alone. I hadn’t really hung out with a guy in a pre-planned way since I’d been with Brody. Each time Mary and I had been around each other, the night had started with another purpose in mind, another social reason to share the same space. 

Bones chirped from my lap, his yellow eyes nearly glowing up at me as he studied my response in the muted evening light. Had I known any better, he was using the moment to comment on my reaction. 

 “It’s just a friend helping out a friend. I’d do the same for Des,” I said, reaching out to pet his soft fur before quickly adding, “-or Thomas, for that matter.”

Bones exhaled, his arms reaching out in a stretch with claws curled before spiraling into a sleeping position, chin resting on my thigh. I followed suit, sinking back into the comfort of the couch cushions that enveloped me, shutting my eyes as my smoothie glass found its way to the side table. It took a conscious effort to bat away at the butterflies rounding about in my gut. I didn’t know why my body was reacting this way. Friendships with guys weren’t a new concept to me, and that’s what this was — a friendship. One still in its infancy. 

Nevertheless, snapshots like movie stills stretched across my closed eyelids. My dress hugging Mary’s thighs as he moved his fingers inside me. His hand clasped against my mouth as he purred out “Shhh,” emerald eyes hooked on my own slate ones. My legs squeezing the sides of his head, golden brown locks of his hair brushing past my thighs as I came undone on his mouth. His spend dripping down my thr-

I swallowed roughly and let out a shaky breath. What I was experiencing wasn’t feelings. No, it was need, and the anticipation of an orgasm from Mary paired with my own touch deprivation was all it took to bring me to the edge. 

And I hoped that tomorrow he’d fucking push me off. 

 🜏🜏🜏

I’d managed to leave work a whopping ten minutes earlier than I’d expected to, which I’d hoped was enough to allot extra time to take a shower before Mary stopped by. Luckily, working through lunch had actually allowed me to leave my job an hour earlier than usual, so I was ahead of schedule. I’d managed to make a strawberry filling for the cake before I’d left earlier this morning, and I’d crossed my fingers multiple times throughout the day hoping that it’d be set enough to use by the time he arrived. 

After filling Bones’ bowl with kibble and tossing my keys on the counter, I kicked off my shoes and beelined to the bathroom. I glanced down at the clock on my phone. 4:30. I only had a half hour. 

Tying my hair up in a claw clip, I stepped into the steam of the shower and soaped up in a matter of minutes. After a quick shave and final rinse, I stepped out, dried off, and reapplied some basic makeup before unclipping my tresses.

I ran my fingers through the strands to release the few tangles that had gathered throughout the day and made my way back into my bedroom to scout my closet for something to wear. I found myself flipping through the hangers of dresses before stopping myself. I had zero reason to dress up. I was baking, afterall, and this wasn’t a date or a social outing. I opted for a pair of black leggings and an old Misfits tee, leaving my feet bare. 

The next fifteen minutes began with me setting out the ingredients and baking tools we’d need, but my flow was continuously interrupted by my mind’s need to tidy the house. After the fifth interruption, I scolded myself. You’re not inviting the damn Queen to dinner, Doll. I shook my head and threw the shoes I’d absentmindedly picked up back in the living room. A living room needed to look lived in, after all — and the dishes in the sink could go fuck themselves.

A knock on the door brought me back from my mental argument and I padded through the short hallway with a withheld breath to unlock it. Beyond the oak entryway stood Mary in a ripped Carcass tee, jeans, his infamous leather jacket, and Chuck Taylors, his hair falling around his shoulders in messy light brown waves. His left hand clutched onto a couple of grocery bags, while his right was miraculously slid into the tight confines of his studded pocket. 

“Hey,” I stepped to the side and shot him a quick warm smile. “Come on in.”

Mary made his way through the threshold and I clicked the heavy door shut behind him, turning to watch him take in his surroundings. His hand still shoved in his pocket, I studied his reaction to my small home, the bag hung around his wrist swishing slightly as he scanned his head from left to right. 

The house I occupied was fairly small — just about 1,000 square feet — and was old. I didn’t mind the size. On the contrary, it was the perfect set up for a single person and I felt that the old cottage feel gave the home character. The breezeway into the house was short and opened up to the left into the quaint living room. Just past the end of the living area, a doorway led straight ahead into a dinette attached to an open kitchen poised on the left, while a doorway at the right opened up into a hallway that turned to the bedrooms and bathroom. 

“This place is yours?” He asked before craning his neck to look at me. 

I nodded. “Yep. Just me.” I went to shove my hands in my own pockets before remembering that I’d chosen leggings and awkwardly sliding them down my thighs as if I’d totally meant for it to happen. “Well, and Bones,” I added as I felt the black feline rub up against my ankle.

Mary crouched down and offered his hand out to the cat, who tentatively sniffed it, whiskers twitching, before slowly approaching the leather-clad man. Bones rubbed his cheek against the outstretched hand and let out a soft purr when Mary began scratching under the feline’s cheek. My mind flashed back to our conversation as we’d walked from the convenience store to the roof that one night so many weeks ago, and my lips curled with nostalgia as warmth pooled in my gut. Mary wasn’t joking about being an animal person. 

I realized that he was still holding the bags and I suddenly felt like a huge asshole and terrible host for not offering to help. “Here, let me grab those,” I said as I reached forward, taking the plastic bags before pivoting to move down the hallway. The bags were heavy. “What the hell did you bring, Goore?” I asked him lightly with a chuckle as I walked through the threshold to the kitchen area, plopping the bags on the countertop with an audible thunk. 

Mary followed and came up beside me, battle jacket having been discarded and thrown somewhere in the living room, before pulling the plastic sheathing down to reveal two bottles of cheap red wine and a two liter of Coca Cola. While it suddenly made sense why the bags were so heavy, I still had no idea what his thinking was behind the combination of drinks. 

“Red wine and Coke?” I questioned, turning to look at him quizzically. 

Mary was balling up the plastic bags. “You’ve never heard of a calimocho?” He slid past me into the kitchen over to the sink and opened up one of the cupboards beneath, closing it quickly before snapping the next one open to find the trash can. 

“...I can’t say I have.” I replied as he tossed the trash in and made his way back to the wide, open countertop, grabbing one of the bottles of wine. Luckily, he’d bought one with a twist-off top, so there was no need to worry about a cork. He mirrored the action with the bottle of Coke, and I shifted to grab a couple of tumbler glasses from the cabinet before filling them with ice.

I set down the glasses and watched as he poured in enough red wine to fill the glass about halfway in each. He topped both off with the cola and gave each a quick swirl before handing one off to me. I accepted the glass tentatively from him and lifted it to my nose. The smell was distinctly soda-like, but the earthy, sweet, spiciness of the wine came through as I took a large inhale. 

“The last time I trusted your drink-making choices, Mary, the result was a watery beer in a leaky gas station cup,” I said as I lowered the glass from my nose. 

Mary scoffed. “That was an impulse buy. This is a real drink - one of my Basque buddies introduced me to them a few years back.” He reached out his cup and clinked it against mine, causing a bead of the liquid to drip down over his rough fingertips. I felt a pang of heat in my core as I thought about those fingers curling inside of me. Stop it, I scolded to myself. 

We both took a sip and as soon as the drink hit my lips, I let out a surprised noise of delight. He wasn’t lying. It was ridiculously good. I took a small gulp before setting it back down on the counter. “Touche,” I admitted in defeat. 

A quick beat passed as Mary leaned back against the counter, sipping his drink, and I shook my head and clasped my hands together awkwardly. “Right, so,” I took a few steps to the counter space that hugged the near wall, facing him, “I was thinking of a vanilla bean cake with buttercream frosting and strawberry filling. Is that okay?”

Mary shrugged, but I could sense that instead of his usual nonchalance, his posture insinuated trust. “You’re the expert. I defer to you.”

We both put our drinks to the side and washed our hands in the clean side of the sink (me trying not to imagine where those hands had been as the sudsy water slid over the chipped black paint that donned his fingernails) before setting up shop at the larger run of counter. I pulled my hair back into a high ponytail with the spare tie on my wrist. 

“Okay, so you have your dry ingredients and your wet ingredients,” I started, hand motioning to each pile of pre-organized ingredients that I’d set out for us. 

“Are the dry ingredients hard to please or are the wet ones just perpetually horny?” he asked with a smirk. I shot him a look and he put his hands up to his chest in defense. “Just curious!”

I ignored the comment and grabbed a glass bowl to place in front of him, before playfully shoving a box of cake flour to his chest. “Put three cups of cake flour in here. Be sure to level each cup so they’re equal.”

Mary obeyed the instructions carefully, then added in the leavening ingredients and salt as I gave him directions for each, mixing them (albeit somewhat awkwardly) with a fork. 

“Dry ingredients are done. Now for the wet-” I shot him another look when he wagged his eyebrows at me with a smirk, “-unwrap both of the sticks of butter and plop them in here.” I pointed to the mixing bowl, then moved the paddle attachment aside to give him room. 

After the butter was added, Mary cautiously measured out the sugar and added it into the mixer. “I thought you said these were wet ingredients?” He questioned, pointing to the sugar. I let out a chuckle. 

“They are. Sugar is considered a wet ingredient because of how it acts with moisture.” I could see another one-liner brewing behind his eyes, but he must have gotten the hint that I was at least trying to be serious, because he bit his tongue. 

After showing Mary how to cream the sugar (“Gently - I don’t need to scrub chunks of butter off the walls!”) I watched in amusement as Mary tried to crack each egg without getting shells into the batter, a litany of curses following each egg as he had to fish the slippery pieces out with pinched fingers. Some vanilla bean paste and almond flavoring later, and we were ready to combine. 

“Okay, so we’re going to add the dry ingredients and the buttermilk in batches,” I said, turning my head to pick up the carton of buttermilk. As I looked away to grab the last ingredient, Mary dumped the flour into the mixing bowl and turned on the mixer, bumping the lever to full speed. 

A cloud of flour poofed up into the air, swirling around the both of us as if a midwestern tornado, and I fought the urge to cough as I tasted the salty baking soda that coated my lips. I flung forward and shut the mixer off. 

Turning around, I saw Mary shaking out his shirt with a guilt-ridden grin. A light dusting of the dry mixture coated his cheeks and brows, with some of it clinging to his hair. I let out a puff of air to blow the flour-smattered strand of hair from my eyes and looked at him with a seething glare that did a piss-poor job of hiding my amusement. 

“You’ve lost mixer privileges.”

Ten minutes and a quick sweep later, the batter was finished and poured into three round cake pans. After throwing them into the oven and setting the timer, we dusted ourselves off a little more thoroughly, grabbed our drinks, and headed to the living room to wait. 

I sunk into the right side of my plush brown couch with a large exhale, Mary rounding the other side of the couch to follow. Plopping my feet up on the coffee table, I leaned back, head rolling to the side to look at the metalhead next to me. 

I was expecting to meet his eyes, but instead, he was taking in the decor of my living room. The walls were a jewel-toned green (a painting project that Des and I took on a couple of years back) and the furniture, which was nearly all old and thrifted, contrasted the cool tones with warm wood and brass accents. An out-of-commission fireplace sat just in front of us, while a line of bookshelves stood soldier-straight against the right side of the back wall. A bar cabinet and plant shelves hugged the far right side of the room, while the left side held a series of paned windows floating above an old record cabinet. 

As Mary surveyed the room, I chewed on my lip, trying to drink in his reaction. His eyes roamed across the various paintings and prints I had hung on the walls, some of a more occult nature, while some boasted a more classic mix of impressionist influences. When he saw the record cabinet, he popped up and over, sitting cross-legged as he started to thumb through the crate of records beside it. 

“Quite the mix you’ve got here,” He said as he held up a Carpenters record with a smirk. I chuckled and nodded, turning to face him as I snuggled into the arm of the couch. 

“I like a lot of different types of music. Some of those are inherited, some I bought.”

I took a sip of my calimocho and watched as Mary perused the collection, stopping as he pulled out an Alice Cooper record. I nodded towards the turntable as if to say “go ahead.”

With Billion Dollar Babies playing in the background, Mary popped back onto the couch, converse skating across the tip of the coffee table as he leaned back with a sigh. My head was still turned to him, fingertips clutching the sweaty tumbler glass, and I took in the curve of his eyelashes and slope of his cheekbones. 

Other than the sounds emitting from the turntable, it was oddly quiet. Time with Mary was usually filled with easy conversation, but I was having trouble knowing exactly what to say. He must have picked up on this because he opened his eyes and turned his head to look at me, smirking.

“Do I still have shit in my hair or something?” he asked as he caught my stare. 

“Shut up,” I laughed, reaching over to throw a pillow at him. The tension seemed to break as he laughed, throwing the pillow back at me playfully. I smiled at him and brought my legs to criss-cross underneath me. 

Mary took a sip of his drink before setting it back on the coffee table. “Thanks for, uh, this. All this.” He reached up to scratch at the back of his neck somewhat nervously. 

I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s what friends do.” Reaching down, I dusted a little smear of leftover flour from my knee and continued. “She seems really special to you. Your mom, I mean.”

Mary mirrored my posture by turning to face me a little more head on. “Yeah, she is. She’s fucking great.” He ran a hand through his hair and leaned back a little, moving his legs from the table to cross one ankle over his knee. “She’s never been anything but supportive. Even when I fucked up. Or when I was too stubborn to listen to her.”

I cast him an encouraging smile, a look of both understanding and empathy on my face. “Just the two of you then?”

“Yeah,” Mary said with a sigh, reaching over to take another long drink of his calimocho. “Dad died when I was young.”

My eyes widened a little at this admission and my expression fell to one of concern. “I’m sorry. That’s-” I let out a shaky exhale, “...that’s really shitty.” I didn’t do well with death. I never knew how to comfort those who’d lost someone important to them. I mentally cursed myself for such a bland response, but Mary didn’t seem to mind.

“Eh, shit happens.” he swirled the half empty tumbler glass, ice cubes clinking against the cool shell. “Besides,” he shot me a playful smirk, “it left me with just the right amount of daddy issues to farm sympathy from hot chicks with nice tits and a penchant for leather.”

My face dropped for a split second before I let out an incredulous and obviously uncomfortable laugh. “Jesus Christ, Mary. What the fuck.”

He laughed and raised an eyebrow at me in response, taking another sip of his drink before standing up. “Refill?” he asked. I nodded and he disappeared into the kitchen to pour us another round. 

As I reclined a bit, my vision moved to study the patterns that danced across the painted plaster of the ceiling. Mary was starting to open up to me (even if it was in his usual “sarcastic Mary” way). I wondered if that meant there was an expectation that I also open up to him, or if sharing anything too personal would scare him off. He already knew about my bad breakup with Brody, but the majority of our conversations centered around music, movies, and our mutual connections. 

Mary gently clunked my glass against the top of my head to alert me that he was back, and I grabbed it with a small thank you. This time, he plopped down a little closer to me — our legs brushing up against each other — and I felt the skin prickle underneath the fabric of my leggings. 

“So, how’d you score such nice digs?” he asked, his right arm coming up to rest across the back of the sofa. 

I looked down at the ice in the cup. He must have replenished it, because the cubes were bigger, and each breath I took seemed to shake them just barely within the cup. “I inherited it,” I began, “From my grandma. She left it to me in her will when she passed.”

“No shit?”

“It’s been a point of contention in the family ever since.” I paused for a moment, trying to hide the sad smile that automatically painted the corners of my lips. “But I like it. It’s perfect for just me. I don’t have to worry about a house payment, and I’ve been able to transform it into my own space over time.”

Mary’s tone sobered a little as he shifted in his place on the sofa. “Do you like living alone?”

I pinched my brow in thought for a brief moment. “Most times,” I let out a breath. “It does get lonely. Des used to practically live here, but she’s got her own thing going now — which, good for her, of course — so… it’s just me most of the time.”

Mary leaned back a little, body still facing my own as he looked up and craned his head around to gaze at the decorated walls. “I’d love to have my own place. No one to clean up after except yourself. Walk around naked. Put shit wherever you want.” He stretched out his legs to rest on the coffee table once more. “I room with Mark and he can be a huge dick sometimes,” as if to make a point, he pointed the glass towards me, finger aimed dramatically, “and he snores.”

I let out a laugh and felt that warm, comfortable joy that Mary seemed to bring with him creep back into my stomach. “You’re welcome over here anytime you feel the urge to put a pillow over his face while he sleeps.”

Mary chuckled. “Cool, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Shifting in my seat to bring my legs underneath me, I took a long gulp of my drink, now feeling the buzzing effects of the red wine. I’d drunk enough that I was past the point of feeling drowsy and had safely arrived at feeling loosely confident. “Not to disappoint,” I started, a smirk blooming across my lips, “but I don’t walk around the house naked.”

“That’s easy to fix. You’ve already got the ‘put shit wherever you want’ part down pat.” Mary motioned towards the pair of shoes that I’d thrown earlier that sat towards the wall and I felt myself bristle, a touch of embarrassment coloring the apples of my cheeks (or maybe that was the wine?)

“Wow, asshole. Thanks for pointing out my flaws as I do you a favor.” I tugged my thumb backwards to motion towards the kitchen behind me, doing my best to ignore the innuendo he clearly wanted me to catch. 

The long-haired man in front of me leaned to the side to set his glass on the coffee table, kicking his feet off as he snaked his body closer to mine. “Sorry,” he began, legs adjusting as he started to close the distance between us, the volume of his voice lowering in both pitch and volume, “let me make it up to you.”

Mary’s hand reached out to clasp right above my knee, his thumb pressing into the meat of my leg just enough to drive home his point. By now I could feel his exhales dancing across the pores of my lightly freckled skin. It seemed that things had gone from zero to sixty in mere seconds. I lightly swallowed and my eyes traced a path across the Carcass logo hugging his chest and up his neck, landing on the lips that were now dangerously taunting me. 

I didn’t realize that I had been inclining towards him as well until his free hand grasped onto the back of my neck, my hair catching between his fingers as he pulled us together. Immediately, I noticed the tang of the Coke and wine on his lips and caught the faint smell of smoke lingering in his hair from a hours-past cigarette. 

A noise that was somewhere between a squeak of surprise and a whimper tumbled from my throat, just barely audible as it escaped into his own mouth, and I brought my hand to curl across the curve of his shoulder, thumb pressed to his fabric-covered collarbone. Nearly as soon as our lips met, he pulled away, but before I could complain, he dove back in with a tilt, opening his mouth to swipe his tongue across the soft bend of my bottom lip.

As we kissed on the couch, his thumb now curving around to press lightly on the side of my throat as he gripped my neck, the world seemed to pause in time. I was completely consumed by his taste, the feel of his fingertips against my skin, and the aggressive need that both of us breathed as our movements became more hurried. 

Mary’s right hand began to travel up the expanse of my leg, inching along to rest against the curve of my hip and ass, and I felt fire shoot through my ribcage as he squeezed the flesh there. Without another thought, both of my hands moved to slip underneath his shirt and dance along the skin underneath, warm and surprisingly soft against my fingertips. 

With a loud jolt, the timer to the oven began to sing, causing me to jump and Mary to pull away simultaneously. I cleared my throat just barely and raked my hand through my hair. “Timer to the, uh — cakes are ready to be taken out.”

I sprang up and into the kitchen to turn the blaring alarm off. Luckily, a quick test of the pans showed that each cake was almost perfectly cooked. I pulled them out and set them on the range to cool, tossing the tea towel I’d used as a potholder aside as I turned to face Mary, who’d followed me into the kitchen. 

“We, um, need to make the frosting while they cool,” I explained, motioning back toward the mixer. 

I couldn’t quite decipher the look on Mary’s face. He clearly wasn’t flustered by the quick makeout on the couch. In fact, he looked oddly composed, if not a little arrogant at my excitement. 

Pulling out a spare mixing bowl, I gestured towards the makeshift workstation with a slight swing of my head. Mary came up behind me and rested a hand on the countertop, caging me in. 

“You’ll want to add in both sticks of butter,” I said as I wet my lips, handing him the two sticks. He unwrapped them and plunked them into the bowl. As I turned it on, one of his hands came to rest on my hip, the other returning to the countertop. 

“What next?” His lips were just a couple of inches from my ear, eyes cast forward as he watched the rotating paddle. 

“V-vanilla,” I stammered out as I felt his fingertips squeeze at the meat of my hip. I closed my eyes and let out a breath. He picked up the vanilla and one of the measuring spoons, waiting until I nodded in response to his guess at the amount before letting it drizzle into the whirling mixer. 

His other hand grasped the other hip before traveling down my thigh, grasping onto the front as he twirled his wrist inward to dance between my legs. “...and then?”

My arm jutted out as if in reflex to grab the bag of powdered sugar resting against the backsplash. “Dry- urm - w-wet ingredients.” 

“Hmm,” his voice now sounded arguably more sultry — reminiscent of when he was shushing me on the couch with his fingers deep inside me — and I felt a shiver run down the length of my spine. “I’d help, but I lost mixer privileges. Maybe you should show me how to do it?”

I nodded and dumped half the bag in, pulsing the speed so as to not recreate Mary’s cloud from earlier, and waited a beat before pouring the rest in, repeating the motion. Once it combined, I drizzled some heavy cream in, fighting the urge to slam my eyelids shut at the chuckle that fluttered across my neck as Mary fought the urge to undoubtedly make a cum joke.

Careful not to elbow him, I scraped the sides of the bowl and mixed in the last bits of the dry powdered sugar before detaching it and setting it aside. Slowly, I turned around in his arms and looked up at him. The iconic Mary smirk was permanently etched into his face. I could tell he was having a field day with my reaction to him, and I cursed my inability to keep my shit together in front of the bullet-belted thrasher in front of me. 

It was silent for what seemed like ages but in reality was probably a few seconds. I half expected Mary to resume what we’d started on the couch, but after staring directly into my soul, he pushed back and dusted his hands before shoving them in his pocket. 

“Alright, what’s next?” he said coolly.

I nearly glared at him. Instead, I took a mental breath and grabbed the frosting, shoving it a little harder than I’d intended to into his chest. 

“The part you’re best at: getting frosting everywhere.”

Mary beamed. 

🜏🜏🜏

Mary continued his cool demeanor as we leveled the cakes, only breaking slightly when I gave him a piece of the scraps and he nearly moaned at the taste with a “Fuck, I made this?”

I showed him how to set and frost each layer, and when I turned around to grab the strawberry filling out of the fridge, I pretended not to see him swiping a taste of the frosting out of the bowl. Moments later, the cake was filled, the crumb-coat was completed and briefly chilled in the freezer, and I was showing Mary how to put on the final coat of frosting. 

He stood at the counter with the icing spatula in hand, rubbing the frosting against the side of the cake gingerly. I almost snorted at his dainty touch and reached around him, my front to his back as I grabbed his hand and directed it against the confection. 

“You can be more forceful. It’s not a porcelain doll.” 

Mary shot me a smug look. “Is that a subtle way of telling me you don’t like it rough, dollface?” 

I felt the familiar pang of heat at my insides and I fought back another groan before realizing the compromising position we were in. Taking matters into my own hands, I gripped onto his wrist a little more forcefully, pushing myself up against him as I peered around his height at the cake. 

“Not everything needs a delicate hand, Goore.” I snapped back, pushing his hand with the knife down to evenly coat the side of the cake, my other hand wrapping around him to turn the cake plate. As much as he tried to act unbothered, I could feel his breath pick up as my leg brushed against the back of his. 

We finished the final coat and I handed him the remaining strawberry filling, watching with amusement as he pooled it on top of the cake, letting it drip down the sides while commenting on how it wouldn’t be from him if it didn’t look at least slightly bloodied (which, to be fair, earned him a solid laugh from me). 

“Voila,” I said, standing back with my hands on my hips. Mary mirrored my action and I felt a soft warmth in my chest as I watched his proud reaction. “I’ll be right back to help move it into the fridge. Just give me a sec.”

I popped down the short hallway to the bathroom and quietly shut the door. Leaning over the vanity, I looked at myself in the mirror and studied my features. There was still a tiny bit of flour at the back of my scalp, and my leggings had a smattering of white fingerprints across them. Reaching down, I rinsed my hands with cool water before splashing some on my neck and drying it with a cool towel. This punk was going to be the death of me. 

When I returned to the kitchen, Mary turned around abruptly, the frosting bowl in one hand while the other was scooping a finger full of frosting into his mouth. 

“Go at it,” I chuckled, “You earned it.”

I met him in the kitchen and leaned back against the counter peninsula, arms crossed over my chest as I watched him with poorly hidden glee. 

“Just had to make sure you’re not trying to poison my mother,” he reasoned, and I laughed again, shaking my head. “This is seriously fucking tits, Doll.”

I felt the heat tinge in my face again. “Thanks, Goore.”

He moved toward me, taking his finger to scoop a bit more frosting before setting the bowl down beside me, his body now inches from mine. He held out the icing covered finger just millimeters from my lips and I thought about his chipped polish digging into my thighs. 

Parting my mouth, I dipped my tongue out just enough to lick at the tip of his finger before bringing it between my lips. He was right — the frosting was fantastic, but as I savored the sweet and salty creaminess that coated my tongue, I let my mind wander to how he tasted in my mouth not long ago as I lapped up the spend he shot down my throat. Maybe it was that thought that caused me to start sucking at his finger, eyes gazing doe-like upon his, while I swirled my tongue across his fingertip. 

I could have sworn that I saw Mary’s emerald eyes physically burn as he watched me, moving from flirty to completely feral as he popped the finger from my mouth and dipped his head in, tongue tracing against the line of my bottom lip. 

He pulled away, hunger still nearly evident as he grabbed onto the curve of my hipbone with his now frosting-free hand. 

“I think I missed some.”

With that, he crashed his mouth into mine, this time much harder, and he immediately shifted to deepen the kiss and roll his tongue against my own. His hands moved down to box me into the countertop and I whined, snaking my own arms up to loop around his neck as I pulled him fervently into me. 

All of my self-reserve clambered from my body. Despite feeling fairly sober from the mixed drinks, I knew my core had been poisoned with need — lust-drunk and willing. If Mary tried to take things further, there was no way I’d be able to resist. 

Gripping the backs of my legs, Mary pulled me to sit up on the wide, open countertop, and used his knee to kick my legs open as he gripped onto my lower back, all but shoving me into his lean frame. 

His hips rolled to grind against me and I let out a pleased hum against his lips. As my tongue danced against his own, lips moving as if in song, I could taste the saccharine proof of our time spent together, the vanilla mixing with an aftertaste of coke and wine and the flavor that was so distinctly Mary. I inhaled deeply against him through my nose, and felt my senses beam with the mix of smoke and his since shed-leather and my own growing arousal slick between my legs. I thought about his torso on top of mine, of the length I’d only felt in my mouth finally pumping into me, and my abdomen tensed at the vision painted behind my eyelids. 

My legs moved to wrap around Mary’s middle and he growled before he broke the kiss just briefly to pull at the hem of my tee shirt to rip it over my head, my bra immediately following. My arms returned to his middle and I began to fumble with the clasp to his metal-adorned belt, struggling just briefly before I heard it fall to the floor with a loud, heavy clunk. 

Mary took the opportunity to tear his own shirt off and toss it haphazardly behind him. Our lips came back together hungrily, nearly tearing at each other like we would wither without taking and giving and taking and giving, and I’m certain I almost broke the button to his jeans as I aggressively popped it open and ripped down the zipper fly. 

Even with the painted-on tightness of his jeans, they were down his legs in record speed, and he reached a hand down to awkwardly pull on the laces to his converse before shaking and kicking both them and his pants off, earning a giggle from me against his lips. His hands returned to my sides and I felt the pads of his thumbs dig into my pelvic bones wantonly, aggressively. As if I wasn’t just Doll, but his doll.  

Pulling back, I took in the sight of the man in front of me. My eyes flitted over the tattoos on each of his arms, raking over his shoulders and pecs as they trailed down his abdomen and to the trail of hair framing the waistband of his boxer briefs. This was the first time I’d seen him so exposed, skin on display, and I mirrored his feral gaze with my ashen eyes as I raked a hand through his golden brown locks, pulling him eagerly back to kiss me. 

Mary’s fingers dipped into the waistband of my leggings and he began to roll them down, almost hesitantly as if asking silent permission, so I moved to grab onto the edge of the counter and lifted my lower half to allow him to push them, along with my panties, down past my ankles. 

After I kicked the remaining clothing off my body, the cool air kissed at my skin, and I swallowed the feeling of exposure away while Mary closed the gap between us. I could feel his warmth as it tickled my goose-bumped flesh. His lips traveled down the line of my jaw to my neck, and I instinctively craned it to the side to allow him better access to the spot above my collarbone that made my knees putty. I could nearly feel myself dripping onto the counter beneath me, and his still-clothed cock twitched against my inner thigh. 

“Mary?” I let out breathlessly, eyes still closed at the sensation of lips on skin. 

He let out a low hum. “Mmm, dollface?”

I reached past the band of his boxer briefs and wrapped my hand around his shaft, holding it firmly before I started to stroke it. He let out a choked noise and I, myself, sputtered out, “Condom?”

Mary detached from my neck hastily and reached down to his jeans piled on the floor, rifling through the pockets until he found his wallet. I heard the unmistakable wrinkle of foil as he pulled the condom out, and I reached forward, snatching it from his hands eagerly before ripping it open. Mary shoved the fabric covering his cock down his legs, kicking them off mere seconds before I grabbed his length once more, expertly rolling the condom down to the base of him. His head dipped forward to my shoulder and he groaned out a breathy “fuck”. 

Reaching between us with one hand, Mary grabbed his member from my grasp, his other hand pulling my hips closer as he slid the tip of himself against the wetness of my pussy. He flicked it up and down teasingly, and I whined out, hands coming to clasp at his neck. 

My slick now coating him, Mary pushed my inner thigh to the side and lined himself up with my entrance before pushing in tantalizingly slow. It was as if he wanted me to feel each inch of him while he felt each clench of my muscles around him. 

We both let out breaths we didn’t know we had been holding. Mary pushed in to the hilt and I let out a slight gasping noise, an intake of breath at the pure fullness and stretch of him, and my forehead came to rest against his as our lips all but brushed against one another. 

“You are so goddamn tight,” he purred, pulling out halfway before sinking back into me. I uttered a moan, helpless and wanting, and he began moving more steadily in and out of my core. My legs wrapped tightly against his hips and backside and I finally connected our lips again, though the jolts of each of his thrusts served as distraction from my attempt to all but swallow him whole.

We moved like that, rhythmically at first before he picked up the pace, a hand coming to cup at my breast, thumb pressing at the nipple as he fucked me into the counter. My head unwillingly tipped back and though my eyes were open, my vision clouded with swirls of grays, purples, and fiery oranges at the heated sensations between my legs. 

Mary grabbed my breast roughly before reaching up to pull my chin down, thumb on my lip as he looked me directly in the eyes. “Fuck, you’re wet,” he grunted, his other hand gripping roughly just above my backside as he pulled me into his hard shaft. I looked down and saw my arousal gathering around the base of his dick and I bit my lip, feeling that tugging in my abdomen increase with every movement. 

My hands moved to wrap under his arms, curling around his back as my fingers dug into the flesh there, half moon shapes and scratches likely patterning his skin as I held on like letting go would mean certain death. 

On his next thrust, Mary shifted his hips up and grazed against my sensitive spot, resulting in an unrestrained cry of pleasure from deep in my lungs — a noise I didn’t know I was capable of making. I looked back into his eyes, my own threatening to water from complete overstimulation and ecstasy, and he used his free hand to rub over my mound. “Please,” I choked out, not above begging for him to slip his fingers against my clit. 

His lips tugged into a devilish smirk, and the dark Mary that I’d heard whisperings about throughout town flashed before me. “You want me to touch you, babydoll?” he practically growled out. I nodded restlessly, biting my bottom lip as I held back another keening noise bubbling in my throat. “You promise to cum on my cock?” he asked, beginning to stroke the circumference around my clit as he maintained a powered look into my eyes. 

“Yes,” I breathed out, swallowing roughly as I pushed my hips back against his to show my enthusiasm and obedience, “Yes, Mare, I promise.”

He grinned at the nickname I’d never before used and danced his thumb across my nub like a whisper before bearing down harshly, flicking it twice before shoving his hips roughly against mine in quick succession. My vocal cords all but melted from my throat as I groaned out, completely depraved and taken, and I squeezed my eyes tight at the sensation. Mary let out his own string of curses as I clamped down around him. 

“S-so-...close,” I rasped out. He must have been too, as I could feel him increase his speed in his thrusting, his chipped black fingernails digging into the flesh of my backside as the other hand stroked me sloppily yet steadily. The pulling that had been building since our collision on the couch began to spill over, and I felt the electrical bolts spreading like lightning down each limb, across my scalp and to the tip of my nose. “Mary!” I shrieked out, my restraint betraying me, virtually screaming as I came undone around him. 

As each part of my body tensed from my orgasm, Mary picked up speed, removing his hand from between my legs to grasp at my other hip, fucking into me with wild abandon. His own moans were nearly as loud as mine, and each movement burst starlight through my cunt. Mary’s body trembled, pelvis stuttering as I felt him twitch inside of me. Mere moments passed before I could feel his cock roughly kicking inside of my walls and for a split second, I wished that we’d forgone the condom so I could feel his spend as it coated me. 

After a few more pumps to ride out his high, Mary leaned forward, hands bracing himself on the counter around me as his forehead rested against my shoulder. We were both breathing heavily, him more so, and I reached up to play with the sweat-dampened hair at the nape of his neck, kissing against his shoulder. 

He let out a breathy laugh and slid out of me. I could feel him pulling off the condom and tying it, but as he moved to throw it away, I caught his wrist and pulled him back into me. 

“Stay for a second,” I asked, surprising even myself at the request. He humored me and ran a hand up my thigh to rest there, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. 

“Was this the real reason you came over?” I asked after a minute had passed, our breathing now somewhat evened and the chill of stillness pricking at the sweat on our bodies. 

Mary shook his head. “It was just the icing on the cake.” He flashed a grin at me, and I groaned, slapping his chest playfully and earning an “ow, fuck” in return. 

He stepped a few feet away to throw away the condom before returning, hands rubbing soothingly at my thighs as I tried to ignore the feeling of the edge of the countertop biting into my ass. 

Extending his arm out, Mary brushed some of the scarlet hair matted to my damp forehead. I closed my eyes at the touch and allowed myself to smile at the sweet gesture. The smile was short lived, however, as I thought back to his joke.

“Fuck…” I said, eyes opening to stare back at him, “...we forgot to put the cake in the fridge.”

[etoilerigel]

a week before our town fiesta, I saw goore's post on fb, his family were home. didn't really felt anything, just glad that he was home after a while. fast forward, classmates & even my brother have seen him, even asked me if we have met. just make me wonder why the question. 🤔 should we meet? does he have to see me? i guess not, which was right & i know goore knew that too. we have set boundaries because we respect each other enough. tge last time we talk via messenger was a year ago & we were always cool. always has been. maybe yeah, we really have not talked about things in a deeper sense. or should we? personally, seeing him on fb and still staying friends even on socmed is enough closure for those two younger versions of us. now at 40, i believe we are mature & we value family more than anything & i guess that in itself is what kept us conected despite the changes in our lives. but every time, time like this, where i immediately have to scribble down my thoughts always brings me to that younger me, hopeful, faithful, naïve, loyal, easily gets hurt, just hopeful & faithful. but yeah, have to shrug that thought off, this is the present, i am tougher but wiser, knows how not to get offended but is still capable of loving & caring to the core. just thabkful for that past that mold me to be who i am today. and goore will always be gc's favorite time machine.😊

10-6-24

[frankenfaandom]

Can you do a sick or exhausted Mary goore x reader? Or something where Mary isn’t feeling so well and the reader watches over Mary?

Did I see this as soon as I woke up and wrote it immediately? Have I only been awake for 20 minutes? Yes and yes. Ty for the request!!

Warning!!! Immense fluff and adorableness under the cut!

[Not my gif] [he's just rlly hot]

It's pouring outside and Mary is aggravated that he can't go out and enjoy it. He's currently on bed duty, his arm in a cast and his fever high. How he managed to break his arm and catch a cold? Well, this man is full of mysteries and sadly that is one of them.

"Can't we go out for a bit?" Mary whines, uncharacteristic of him. His voice is gruff and raspy from a mixture of him just waking up from a nap and being utterly sick.

"Pretty sure you can't get your cast wet." You say, sitting down beside him, the bed dipping inward. "Plus, you have to rest. Lots of sleep. And I mean it." You brush his sweaty hair from his forehead causing your boyfriend to set out a sigh of relief. "And then tomorrow I'm making you shower."

"'Thought I couldn't get my cast wet." He mimics you, rolling his eyes. If he could slump back into the bed more, he would, just to show his annoyance. Mary's eyes find yours after a moment. He pouts his lips a bit.

"Shut up." You lean down to press a kiss to his damp forehead. It's obvious that Mary's trying not to smile.

"Ay-" Mary takes his free arm to your shoulder, gently pushing you away. "Don't you dare get sick because you couldn't resist kissing your sexy ass boyfriend. I know it's hard, doll, but you gotta live without me--" He's trying to joke, but his words get stuck at his throat and he starts to cough.

You pull away, letting him do his thing. Once he stops the coughing attack, he lays back and closes his eyes. "Maybe some more sleep'll do me some good. I dunno." You smile, feeling a little victorious.

"Thanks Mare." You stand and move an inch to the bathroom, opening the drawers for the cold medicine. Upon finding it, you realize it's almost completely gone, so you pour whatever is left for Mary. "Okay Mare, medicine time."

When you look back to the bed, Mary's playing dead. His tongue is out and his eyes are half shut. You roll your eyes and flick his shoulder, causing him to wince. "Don't do that!" You say in unison.

"Take your medicine." You shove it in his face. "Take it or I'm not cuddling with you tonight." You know you'd still cuddle with him. If he's sick, not sick, took his medicine or not. Mary knows that too, but he takes the little shot glass from your hand with a scowl on his face.

Chug the medicine down, slam it on the nightstand like a shot, and then he's gulping down water like his life depended on it. Had he forgotten it existed?

After a hot minute of the weirdest chugging sounds, he stops, puts the water down and wipes his mouth.

"Better?"

"A little. Medicine doesn't kick in like that. Also my arm's still broken."

"I meant the water, dumbass. When was the last time you had any? I told you before work if you didn't--"

"-If I didn't drink water I'd get kicked in the ass by you, yes. But jokes on you, I'm into tha--"

"Mary Goore!" You laugh, slapping his thigh playfully. "I swear, you're going to be the death of me."

"Hmmm, maybe. Come're." The clock reads 20:24 as Mary coaxes you into bed. You quickly make way of your clothes, putting on one of Mary's shirts instead, and you climb into bed.

"Ohhh yeah." He sighs, pulling you closer. "That's much better. See? All cured." He suppresses a cough, which turns into a worse cough so he moves away just for a moment. He falls right back in place beside you. "All cured." You laugh, holding his face with a hand to give him a kiss.

"Thanks for taking care of me. I dunno what I would've done if you weren't here"

"Probably would've died by now." You joke, but shake your head. "Of course, Mare." You squeeze a little closer, his body is like a fucking heat radiator. "I love you." You look up to watch his expression which softens and he closes his eyes.

"Love you too, doll."

[aliasimagines]

hello hello! completly in love with your Mary Goore content, so id like to request something:

could you please write about young Mary vs older Mary relationship with reader? in my head, they are quite different people, young version more playful and 'ill saying as loud as i can' while older version is more like lovesick and 'its our business, no one else's'.

i need to thank you for everything u gave us until now, i admire you and your writing a lot <3

hi, hi darling thanks for requesting, i made it into headcanons if that's okay but here's a moodboard to make up for it🥺👉🏻👈🏻

Dating Mary would be like:

Younger Mary (from late teens to late twenties )

he loves showing you off and making other people know you are with him, constantly having and arm around you and/or making out with you, or making you wear his jacket when he is not next to you

he is absolutely protective, if someone is looking at you the wrong way he will start a fight

he likes to live in the now and not worry about the future so expect to be dragged into some crazy and illegal shenanigans 

Mary is not the best at expressing his feelings 

I feel like he has trust issues and it's gonna take a lot of convincing from you to make him believe you really want to be with him

his go to date is going to a concert and hooking up in the venue's bathroom 🤷🏻‍♀️

he is not the best at reading the situation so if you're not feeling well, are uncomfortable, or have a problem with how he is acting sometimes, you are going to have to make the first move and talk to him

Older Mary (from thirties-)

He is definitely more chill and not as hyperactive as his younger self

He no longer cares about making a scene and being scandalous 24/7

I can still see him starting to make out with you in public, but that's not as common as it used to be

He cherishes every moment he can spend with you alone

He still goes to concerts and likes to bring you along if you are up for it but he likes having stay at home dates, back in the day he was always on the move, barely spent anytime at home (if he even had a place to call home) so yeah, he likes the fact that he can slow down and enjoy your company in quiet and in the comfort of your home 

He is more romantic than his younger self, expect occasional flowers and small trinkets wrapped in black, skull patterned wrapping paper (because come on y/n that's so cute metal)

He is much more open about his affection, younger Mary was all over his partner but it was about lust more than anything else, now his affection comes from a place of ✨pure love✨ *insert gomez kissing morticia's hand*

And he is much better at wording his emotions

[goorehound]

If I have the time hopefully I’ll do Mary Goore centric kinktober, I’ve got my list below in case anyone wants to see what I’ve got planned and maybe stay tuned to read it. I might change things around more if I get inspiration but I tried to stick to the prompt list I was given.

1. Dry humping

2. Face fucking

3. Somnophilia

4. Masturbation

5. Daddy kink

6. Overstimulation

7. Praising

8. Car sex

9. Voyeurism

10. Orgasm control

11. Sharing kink

12. Age difference

13. Deep throating

14. Dubcon

15. Exhibitionism

16. Choking

17. Cum eating

18. Spanking

19. Restraints

20. Creampie

21. Rimming

22. Being recorded

23. Triple penetration

24. Spreader bars

25. Finger fucking

26. Thigh riding

27. Safe wording

28. Semi-public sex

29. Corruption kink

30. Accidental stimulation

31. Squirting

[jorgeclardiary]

24 AGNES HATS (1/24)

Agnes de Garron is a performance artist known for her dazzling visual sense. In the course of one performance—which might not last more than five minutes—I have seen her change through what would seem to be more than 30 outfits…pushing and pulling accessories and layers to marvelous transformational effect. A master in the creation of accessories, Agnes started knitting her trademark hats in the 1990s.

I discovered her hats at a gathering of the Radical Faeries in 2008, where she sat on a rocking chair knitting near a shelf displaying her creations. Her pointy, “nippled” hats have become a kind of emblem of this secret society.

The first hat I got, like the model pictured here—which Agnes calls her “Everything” hat—dates from 2008. I love the tendrils which go in all directions. They make me think of antennas that broadcast brainwaves.

And so this 24-day series of Agnes hats takes off. I would like to give special thanks to Goor Studio for their kind assistance with the photos. Flower tee by Only NY. Necklace by Blue Bayer.

Photo by Goor Studio

[filthy-rat]

Mary goore ask; Mary sees the reader at a gas station or a store, as they're walking home a creepy guy starts hitting on them and mary shows up to kick ass and take names - consensual, bloody, alley way sex with the corpse fucker ensues.

It’s late. Way too late to be out, but here you are. When the insomnia hits, it tends to hit hard, and you take to wandering, ravenously devouring the pulse of the city you call home. For the most part, you’re left alone by the other night owls. You carry a switchblade and pepper spray just in case, of course, but they hardly see any use and you’re grateful for that.

On one such night, you’ve wandered to a nearby 24-hour drug store in search of impulse purchases. You leave the convenience store, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and place your earbuds back into your ears. With slow, heavy metal blaring from your phone, you don’t notice the footfalls of the menacing man following only a few feet behind you.

Suddenly, a leather-clad arm materializes out of thin air and snakes around your shoulders. Startled at the unexpected contact, you practically rip your earbuds out in shock and try to jerk away. The arm remains tight around you, pinning you close to a lean torso.

“Hey, what the fuck--”

“There you are, babydoll. Been lookin’ everywhere for you. Told you to wait for me at the shop,” interrupts the owner of said arm, in a voice that is much too loud.

The thin young man now at your side, gently but firmly pulling you down the darkened sidewalk, is a complete fucking stranger. He’s tall and ruggedly handsome--in a nasty gutter punk kind of way--with his black hair pulled into a messy devil lock that obscures a good chunk of his face, and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. With wide, panicked eyes, you stare up at him, bewildered, and he leans closer to whisper in your ear.

“Play it cool--there’s some fuckin’ creeper following you.”

Icy fears steals into your veins. Heart pounding, you allow yourself to be led down the street, stiff as a corpse beneath this guy’s arm. Whoever this stranger is, he certainly seems on the up-and-up, but for all you know, he could be in cahoots with your stalker. A tag-team sort of thing--he pretends to be your savior and leads you to an alley where he and his buddy take turns with you. Your anxious mind spins possibility after possibility, each more awful than the last. You try to twist a little to catch a glimpse of the man following you, but the string bean’s grip on your shoulders is like iron. For now, you have no choice but to trust this mystery man.

For several minutes, you walk in step, the tall stranger at your side occasionally muttering words of comfort into your ear.

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna let him fuckin’ hurt you, I promise.” “Fucker’s been following us for like ten minutes.” “I’m gonna knock his fuckin’ teeth in.”

The minutes seem to drip by at a snail’s pace. By the time your mystery stranger guides you into a nearby alley, you’re trembling with nerves. Whatever’s coming is not going to be pleasant, you can already tell. Your hand slips into the pocket of your coat and closes around the switchblade inside. As the cold steel presses into your palm, you feel a modicum of relief, and your racing pulse slows a little.

About halfway down the alley, your stranger comes to a stop. His arm slips from your shoulders and as he turns to face your stalker, he gently pushes you behind him with one hand. Your fingers latch onto the sleeve of his leather jacket automatically, and it’s startling how much calmer you immediately feel. He flashes you a reassuring glance over his shoulder.

The stalker also comes to a halt, several feet away, and the two of them stare one another down.

“Alright, shit-for-brains, it’s about time you fucked off, yeah? They’re not interested in whatever you’re selling,” snarls your stranger.

“Why don’t you let them speak for themselves, then?” rasps the stalker, his voice sending a chill down your spine, and he takes a step forward. “Maybe if I hear it from their mouth--”

“Come any fuckin’ closer and you’re gonna be eating your own goddamn teeth,” replies your stranger, his stance widening a little as he prepares for the inevitable scuffle.

“How about you make me, you fuckin’ qu--”

The rest of the stalker’s sentence, however, is interrupted. In one lightning-fast movement, your stranger lunges for the stalker and tackles him to the ground. Frozen in terror, you can only watch on as they wrestle like two feral dogs, snarling and yelling and grunting. They trade blows for several minutes--your stranger getting in several good hits for every one of your stalker’s. Every punch and kick your stranger takes makes you flinch, but it only seems to spur him on until he’s practically rabid. Eventually, your beanpole savior is victorious, cackling like a madman as your would-be rapist runs off with his tail between his legs.

Breathing hard and sporting a rapidly purpling bruise on his cheek, your savior levers himself onto unsteady legs with a grunt. Wiping blood from his nose and mouth with the back of his hand, he shouts after the hastily retreating stalker.

“Yeah, you better run, you piece of shit coward! If I ever catch you around here again, I’ll fuckin’ gut you like a goddamn pig and wear your entrails as a scarf!”

The adrenaline seems to drain from him all at once. Slowly, he turns back to you, and spits blood onto the pavement. Suddenly, he looks absolutely exhausted.

“You okay?” he asks, in a rough voice.

Your heart swells. This strange, gangly man just took a vicious beating for you and has the temerity to ask if you’re okay. Slowly, you approach him, fish out a tissue from the pack you keep in your pocket, and reach out to wipe the blood from his face. He flinches a little as you press on his bruise, but his eyes are gentle as they regard you.

“I’m okay, thanks to you.” Gently, you wipe him clean. “What’d you do that for?”

He shrugs. “Couldn’t just sit back and let something like that happen, could I? The fuck kinda dickhead wouldn’t step in when someone was in trouble?” He tries to wrinkle his nose, but it just turns into a wince of pain. He clears his throat. “...Anyway, uh... it was no trouble, really.”

“You’d better let me take you home and clean you up,” you say quietly, ghosting a thumb over his lip.

His brow furrows a little and his eyes become wary. “You don’t gotta do that, I’m fine.”

“I know,” you reply, and give him a little smile. “I want to, though. What’s your name?”

“...Mary. Mary Goore.”

[kissingghouls]

Last X-mas (Part One)

Mary Goore x f!Reader

Summary: A shitty xmas party brings you and Mary a little closer. (900 words)(Part One takes place before Winter Chill and Part Two takes place after the other More Goore stories ♥) tags: prequel kinda?, more Goore '24 universe, he/they Mary. warnings: Mary's a little depressed, Reader's boyfriend is an asshole, manipulative behavior. (These things are barely there, but I want everyone to be safe ♥)

Note: Mary anon, your prompt is also included in part 2. I got carried away tbh. ♥ soft Mary forever.

There was nothing worse than a bad party. Scratch that. There was nothing worse than being stuck at a bad party. But there Mary was leaning against a wall at Chaos House, stuck and not having any fun. The living room was full of people in ugly sweaters despite the intense heat being created by said idiots writhing in the tiny space. A poorly decorated artificial tree stood in the corner bent at an odd angle because no one ever properly stored the thing, they just tossed it down the basement stairs when its time was up. Around him, people were having a great time laughing and dancing. But his beer was warm, his mood was sour, and he couldn’t help thinking he wasn’t supposed to be here. 

As much as he loved his friends, watching them all dance to blast beats over that George Michael song wasn’t enough to distract him from all the shit that had gone wrong that year. That shitty relationship. The even shittier breakup afterward. That driver’s test mishap. That job offer in the city that fell through—the one that was supposed to get him out of this shitty little town. Part of him knows this was for the better somehow—that relationship was already beyond doomed, that job would have fucking sucked and he didn’t have a car anyway. But his mind still wandered through all the ways the next year could’ve been different if he wasn’t such a spectacular fuck up. 

They dragged themselves away from the party and slipped through the back door undetected. It was a moonless night and the light on the back porch had burned out at least a year ago, but Chaos House didn’t earn its name ironically and Mary didn’t really mind sulking in the dark alone. They dropped into a chair in a shadowy corner, lit a cigarette, and stared up at the sky. The universe carried on spinning and whatever momentary calm that and the nicotine had brought them was quickly undone by the sudden appearance of you. In all their pathetic self-loathing they hadn’t even realized you were at this party and that, for some unknown reason, made them feel ten times worse.

But there you were, adorable as ever, with sparkles in your hair and a weird Krampus on your shirt.

They sat up and opened their mouth to speak as you passed, not wanting to scare you by being a creep in the shadows. But you marched straight past, heavy boots stomping like you were on an angry mission. Like you were escaping and you couldn’t get away fast enough. You were halfway down the steps before the door flew open and your shitty boyfriend appeared. He crossed the deck without noticing Mary and quickly caught up to you.

“Why are you being like this?” he hissed as he caught your arm to stop you. “It’s not a big deal!”

You whipped around with fire in your eyes and pried yourself free of his grip. It was obvious now that you’d been crying and the more you tried to get away from the guy, the more Mary could tell you were drunk. On unsteady feet, you managed to back out of his reach, mumbling as you swiped at your face and smeared your makeup even more. 

“Not a big deal?” you asked through gritted teeth. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

Mary’s stomach sank. He leaned further into the shadows, embarrassed about overhearing such an intense and clearly private conversation. He never liked the guy and couldn’t give a fuck less about what happened to him, but you—god, you deserved so much better than this dipshit. 

“C’mon don’t be like that,” he groaned and reached for you.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warned, stumbling back a few steps.

“God, you’re really going to act like this? It’s not a big deal—”

“If you say that one more time I’m going to kick you in the dick.”

“Whatever. You’re just mad because you’re drunk. Let’s go,” he ordered in an annoyed tone and tried to wrangle you back up the steps.

“Don’t touch me—”

“Hey!” Mary shouted as he stood. He rushed from his spot in the dark and leaned hard into your boyfriend, shoving him away from you. “She said don’t touch her.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, not you,” he groaned, rolling his eyes. “Mind your own fucking business, Goore.”

“Nah, this is my business now, so why don’t you fuck off?”

“You know what? Fine. Why don’t you take her home since you love her so much. I’m fucking done,” he huffed and stormed off.

Mary stood silently, watching as the hulking shadow of your asshat boyfriend made his way around the outside of the house. Seconds later a car door slammed and tires spun, leaving you and him awkwardly alone outside.

He turned toward you and cleared his throat. “I…uh— “

“Don’t,” you begged quietly.

“Wasn’t gonna. You ok?”

“No,” you admitted shaking your head. “Why is he so…”

“I don’t know. Probably because he’s a dick.”

You sniffed hard and wiped the tears away with the back of your hand. “I wanna go home.”

His chest grew tight. The only thing you wanted at that moment was something he couldn’t really give you himself. “You want me to help you find a ride?”

“Nah, I’ll be ok.” You looked up at him with big, sad eyes. “Thank you, Mary.”

He shrugged. “It’s nothin’.”

“It’s something, Goore. Accept it.”

“Okay.”

You gave him a soft smile and a tiny wave before making your way back up to the house.

“Hey, uh…Merry Christmas or whatever,” he called after you.

You snorted and turned back to him. “It’s July.”

[synestheticbisexual]

I posted 2,671 times in 2022

That's 2,671 more posts than 2021!

22 posts created (1%)

2,649 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@/rocktheholygrail

@/clownstiel

@/partynthem

@/filthyfeasting

@/thurnerstorms

I tagged 203 of my posts in 2022

#will graham - 26 posts

#hannibal - 22 posts

#hannigram - 18 posts

#murder husbands - 18 posts

#alexander te amo - 14 posts

#the band ghost - 13 posts

#arctic monkeys - 11 posts

#am7 - 11 posts

#hannibal lecter - 10 posts

#prev tags - 10 posts

Longest Tag: 116 characters

#terzo may be your favourite papa as well but i love him in a far more intellectual and bisexual way than anyone else

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

I tried to make my catholic friend listen to Ghost and she said no, cause the are satanic and scary.

Girlypop have you seen my paintings??

Also, are you scare of this???

Are you scare of my babygirl??

16 notes - Posted November 28, 2022

#4

Tobias was updating this playlist a few hours ago, wtf, Mary Goore are you alive?

Also its full of absolute bangers, the one ABBA song was a paid actor.

18 notes - Posted November 9, 2022

#3

At this point I'm collecting kinks like pokemon cards.

24 notes - Posted September 4, 2022

#2

Sometimes I just can't understand how some people are oblivious to the queerness of Hannibal, like, they are flirting all the time, they were not just besties or enemies or a mix of both, they were creating this weird, intricate love story full of blood, betrayal, tears, murder and cannibalism (and aesthetically pleasing crime scenes).

Since s1e1, and the "I don't like eye contact", and then throughout the show proceeded to make eye contact on multiple occasions even when one of them had their hands inside another person.

And their final lines being "See, this is all I ever wanted...for both of us.", "its beautiful" ????

You can't be that stupid.

123 notes - Posted August 3, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Will and Hannibal flirting and eye fucking at a crime scene but Need to know by Doja cat is playing in the background.

169 notes - Posted August 1, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[trustbrazil]

Carla in the heights

Carla in the heights movie#

Co-creator Dan Goor revealing that everyone was so excited for Beatriz to join In The Heights, especially considering how important it was for the actress to join the project. The executive producers of the show, luckily, were more than happy to accommodate the film's demands. Despite being set in the fictional 99th Precinct in Brooklyn, the series is actually being filmed in Los Angeles which made things more complicated for Beatriz to do both projects. All orders are custom made and most ship worldwide within 24 hours. T-shirts, posters, stickers, home decor, and more, designed and sold by independent artists around the world.

Carla in the heights movie#

In In The Heights, Carla works for Daniela at her salon in Washington Heights, but the movie adaptation of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Broadway hit musical puts a new spin on their relationship. It coincided with filming for her sitcom, hence why she's barely in the Brookly Nine-Nine season 7 premiere. High quality Carla In The Heights-inspired gifts and merchandise. When they adapted In The Heights to film, they made one small change to the relationship between Carla and Daniela that makes a big difference. The film, based on Lin Manuel Miranda’s stage musical, is set to come. Filming for the Chu-helmed project began in June 2019 on location in New York City. In the Heights is shaping up to be one of the biggest movies of the summer, and we can’t wait. Secondly, even with her limited role in In The Heights, it was already difficult to make Beatriz's schedule work in relation to her regular stint with Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Carla, on the other hand, was a hairstylist at the neighborhood's salon, and although she and her fellow co-workers were always in the know of what's happening around town, they're technically supporting characters. Firstly, while the narrative is about a community, its core story is really focused on four main characters: Usnavi (Anthony Ramos) Nina (Leslie Grace), his childhood friends who came home from a year at Stanford Benny (Corey Hawkins), Usnavi's friend and Nina's boyfriend and Vanessa (Melissa Barrera), an aspiring fashion designer and Usnavi's love interest.

[samdukewieland]

Stuck Inside Media Diary Week 5

I realized the last movie I saw in theaters was Little Women for the third time. Then that got me thinking about how I ranked my Top whatever movies from last year and inconsequential ranking things is. It was probably the movie that makes me feel the best; it and Knives Out were the two movies I saw the most in a theater last year and they were both the ones that I get excited talking about with people. Good flicks, you should check ‘em out. (I also re-learned recently that Emma Stone was originally supposed to play Meg who was played by Emma Watson. Had this happened, my brain would’ve collapsed due to trying to figure out how to balance crushes on Greta Gerwig, Saoirse Ronan, Florence Pugh, Laura Dern and Emma Stone all in the same thing).

Sunday, April 19

Deliverance, Boorman 1972

On the one hand there is no real way to prepare you for how awful the assault on Ned Beatty and John Voight scene is as well as having me wonder if this was actually a Vietnam movie masked in something about the destruction of the natural world (maybe it’s both or just one). On the other hand, I thought it’d be funny to compare the characters to this to the characters in American Pie, but there’s no Stiffler or Jim’s Dad in this movie, so it doesn’t completely work.

Mad Men, “Long Weekend”, “Indian Summer”, “Nixon Vs. Kennedy”, “The Wheel” [season 1 finale]

There’s two things I’ll never forget the first time I ran through the first season of Mad Men: 1. Thinking “is Don even good at his job? I don’t think we’ve even seen this guy even really do his job yet, how did he become partner?” and then “The Wheel happens”. 2. I had let one of my favorite History teachers borrow my DVDs (this would happen again in my life when I later lent my English teacher The Wire when I was a senior two years later) and when he finished the first season he and I talked about what dumb-dumb idiots we were because we hadn’t figured out that Peggy was definitely pregnant and were surprised by this revelation, while his girlfriend at the time figured it out instantly.

Parks And Rec, “Greg Pikitis”, “Ron And Tammy”

That these two episodes were on back-to-back was probably the moment in the public consciousness that Parks was the real deal. How could you not; I watch “Greg Pikitis” every Halloween.

The Last Dance, Parts 1 & 2

I can’t remember the last thing I watched in real time on the tv. It’s very possible, though I don’t think so, that The Last Dance might be quarantine great and in real life very, very good. It doesn’t really matter, because this thing is just crazy fun to watch, as a person who was not able to watch Jordan basketball and sometimes thinks that Gen Xers gets way too [whatever that Spongebob meme is where you capitalize every other letter in a sentence] about Michael Jordan. The music cues are God-tier.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Shows You Iron”, “Joe Pera Takes You To Breakfast”, “Joe Pera Takes You On A Fall Drive”

“Joe Pera Takes You To Breakfast” might be one of the funniest episodes of television I’ve seen in a long time. As someone who takes too much enjoyment in stream of consciousness humor, I might be too in the bag for this show. I certainly don’t know how to sell it to any of you, other than it might be the perfect counterpart to Review. That could just be that Joe Pera looks like an alt-universe Andy Daly or it could be that Forrest MacNeil could’ve, desperately, used a friend like Joe Pera if only just to see how they’d interact with each other.

Monday, April 20

Under The Silver Lake, Mitchell 2018 [as of now this is available on Prime]

I’m embarrassed that I caved into watching a stoner movie on 4/20, but I’m glad it was this. This weird, gross and beautifully shot weird little movie that really did some good work in reminding me that Andrew Garfield is good. People will argue that this broke his brain, when in reality it was those two embarrassing Spider-Man movies.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Shows You How To Dance”, “Joe Pera Talks You Back To Sleep”, “Joe Pera Reads You The Church Announcements”

So “Church Announcements” was the first episode of this show that I had ever seen, because I had three different friends recommend it to me because I had posted something about “Baba O’Riley” very off-handedly, not even knowing this episode existed. It’s probably the purest expression of joy and one of the most sincerely happy things I might have ever seen. I love this show so much.

Tuesday, April 21

The Birdcage, Nichols 1996 [as of now this is available on Prime]

This is a good reminder that Nathan Lane is insanely talented and easily one of the most undervalued performers alive. I wanted to watch a Gene Hackman movie and this was available and it’s pretty good. Sometimes plays shouldn’t be turned into movies, that’s my take here-what do you want from me.

Better Call Saul, “Something Unforgivable”

Safe to say Saul’s got the belt. I was listening to Greenwald and Ryan the other night and someone had throughout a hypothetical to them that if they could would they want Gilligan and the gang to to remake Breaking Bad now, and have that (essentially) be the spin-off from Saul instead of vice-versa. That then got me thinking about if there’s ever been a property that’s taken place within the same universe that waited almost a season and a half to introduce the character (or thing) that connected the two things? There’s probably some kind of sci-fi or fantasy story that nerds would be eager to inform me of and it’s called 2une or something like that. Cool if so! If not, then no one steal my idea, this could be huge.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Lights Up The Night with You”, “Joe Pera Talks to You About the Rat Wars of Alberta, Canada (1950–Present Day)”, “Joe Pera Answers Your Questions About Cold Weather” [Season 1 finale]

“Can you believe those jag-offs through a New Year’s Eve party with just one bottle of Disarooney” is something I just say out loud when I’m frustrated now. I stayed up until like 3AM last Tuesday wrapping up the first season.

Wednesday, April 22

The Stranger, Welles 1946 [as of now this is available on Netflix]

First Orson Welles movie. It was fine! I don’t really think it should’ve been an hour-and-a-half long, but I was also surprised that they were already making movies about Nazis escaping to the US in 1946, but I’m definitely not a historian and I’m sure a lot of things would surprise me about 1946. It’s also a public domain movie which is just kinda....weird and would probably piss off Orson Welles or maybe he’d be thrilled.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Hughes 1986 [as of now this is available on Netflix]

Maybe the best use of a Beatles song in a movie that doesn’t star The Beatles? I used to go back and forth on whether or not I like this movie, because so many people do like it and I used to be loathe to conform to non-controversial opinions. But something I think that gets really overlooked is how well this movie is shot-Hughes had a real eye for framing and blocking. Or maybe people talk about this all the time and I just haven’t cared to ever listen or seek it out.

The Plot Against America, “Part 2″

Mad Men,  [Season 2 premier] “For Those Who Think Young”, “Flight 1″

I had forgotten how GD disorienting this show can be when it goes out of its way to not tell you how much time has passed between each season (it’s like 15 months this time). That’s all I’ve got now, that and Duck Phillips: welcome back into my life, you sick son of a bitch.

Joe Pera Talks With You, [Season 2 premier] “Joe Pera Talks With You About Beans”, “Joe Pera Takes You On A Hike”

Thursday, April 23

Harold And Maude, Ashby 1971 [as of now this is available on Prime]

Another entry in the “I didn’t realize how many movies try to be this one” book. Really funny, and so shockingly dark, I can’t imagine how much people hated this when it first came out and how hard of a sell it would be to try and talk someone into seeing it. Probably what I liked most about it was how earned the sense of finding joy in life is in this movie, considering how cynical it is in depicting the fetishization guys tend to do with the notion of suicide. It’s quirky without being twee (if you want that, I guess go to Rushmore, a movie I adore, but definitely borrows heavily from this, something Anderson wouldn’t ever deny).

Mad Men, “The Benefactor”, “Three Sundays”

Harry Crane’s campaign to be the least liked person in Mad Men, you could argue, starts more-so here than it did in the finale of S1 when he cheats on his wife.

The Plot Against America, “Part 3″

I don’t think anything, Television-wise, has benefited less from the pandemic than TPAA. Of course it would happen to a David Simon show and maybe it’s a good thing, considering how the number of bad takes would greatly outweigh the number of good takes that would come about if there was some more attention on it. 

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Waits With You”, “Joe Pera Guides You Through The Dark”

I can’t remember the last time I laughed as hard as I did when they started demonstrating the different hair styles you can get when getting your hair cut. These episodes have somehow gotten goofier than the first season and it’s, uh, really good.

Friday, April 24

Parks And Recreation, “The Camel”

Top Chef, Season 17 episode 6

Brooklyn Nine-Nine, “Lights Out”

Dan Goor & Luke Del Tredici is to Brooklyn Nine-Nine as Michael Schur & Aisha Muharrar was to Parks And Recreation.

The Beastie Boys Story, Jonze 2020 [available on AppleTV+]

As with any kind of retrospective, there’s a fair amount of yadda-yadda-ing and maybe not everything totally works with this live-documentary, but it’s so deeply Beastie Boys that I can’t help but just be so grateful that it exists. While it’s like a vaudeville symposium it is absolutely doubles as a love letter to a departed friend and immense talent. The worst thing that could happen is that it’ll just make you want to re-listen to the gods.

Mad Men, “The New Girl”, “Maidenform”

I just can’t believe that Chauncey exits the series the same episode that he enters.This was and still remains the turning point of Duck Phillips: terrible human (and kind of when he turns a little cartoonish).

Saturday, April 25

Parks And Recreation, “Hunting Trip”

Mad Men, “The Gold Violin”, “A Night To Remember”, “Six Month Leave”, “The Inheritance”, “The Jet Set”

Quite a run of episodes here for ole Mad Men here. Always love when they remind us that everyone really underestimates Ken Cosgrove (even himself). And as I was watching “Six Month Leave” it kind of hit me that this is an outlier episode of Mad Men. It’s so much of a whole that I find it hard to put one episode above another, but if I needed just an episode of Mad Men to watch at random like a year or so from now, this is one that would really stick out to me. A great farewell to a great Murray brother.

Bad Education, Finley 2019 [available on HBO Now/Go]

It sucks that HBO makes more bad movies than it does good, but when they’re good, man they’re really good. It hits some HBO movie bingo squares which are kind of eye-rolley to me, but all-in-all, this is a really outstanding little movie. It feels weird that it’s taken this long for Ray Romano to start carving out a character actor niche for himself, but I’m just happy we’re finally here! I saw someone compare it to or with Wolf Of Wall Street and as someone not from Long Island I feel confident in saying that they’re a helluva Long Island scum-bag (repetitive?) double feature.

The Plot Against America, “Part 4″

Was really hoping this was going to be the thing that made people remember that Winona is incredible and not Stranger Things, but that’d require like a dozen monkey’s paw wishes that I just don’t have. (What a world it’d be if The Plot Against America adaptation somehow eclipsed Stranger Things in terms of cultural significance) However badly I wanted that though, this has really been Zoe Kazan’s show-a quieter role than Anthony Boyle (who I am also just floored by) but more effective in how much internal processing she’s doing with this character.

Joe Pera Talks With You, “Joe Pera Takes You To The Grocery Store”, “Joe Pera Goes To Dave Wojcek’s Bachelor Party With You”

[jorgeclardiary]

Electron (A Spotify Playlist) [To listen, click HERE] Dedicated to the Council of Planets checkup of the Earth’s planetary vibration level (24 July–August 8), here is a playlist of songs akin to electronic particles of the veil of duality. The last time the Council of Planets assessed the vibration of Earth was 70 million years ago. According to a message channeled from the Archangel Michael by samtheillusionist an ensuing rapture of consciousness will ensue based on the conclusions of the council. Archangel Michael, per his assessments, has stated that “the chance of rapture occurring in your planet is very high.” The Council of Planets “is of the opinion, as of now, that the planet is progressing into a positive cycle. There has been a huge increase in the level of consciousness of many entities.” Entities on this planet must take care of two things, the Archangel says:

Choose serving others before serving the self. (Note: When we serve others, we are serving ourselves.)

Learn to manipulate energy by learning how they can use their inner feelings to choose reality and create their outward circumstance. (Each being must understand the outward reality that surrounds each being is created based upon the emotions that each entity is feeling. The feelings that each entity allows to feel in its body and heart will determine the outward reality. There is a certain connection between what beings feel and what they will perceive in the outward reality.)

These actions will accelerate the dawn of the New Earth, the fourth-density consciousness. Many vibration changes are occurring right now. Characterizing the veil of illusion for it to be removed, the playlist is comprised of selections by Espanto, The Flying Lizards, Cielo, Oviformio SCI, Gina X Performance, Crash Course in Science, Mathématiques Modernes, Grauzone, Depeche Mode, Aviador Dro, and Los Iniciados. “This planet, and the life that surrounds you, are simply an illusion—a teacher. They are nothing more than that.” —Archangel Michael On the cover photo, I am wearing a hat by Only NY, be happy glasses by Sabine Be, shirt by Dickies. Photo by Goor Studio

[gannicussclothing-blog]

#Repost @topgymtips (@get_repost) ・・・ How many calories do you eat per day? By @smurray_32 . For those not interested, let’s quickly address calorie requirements. When it comes to energy requirements, while there are undoubtedly exceptions (as I explain below), several studies have shown that the AVERAGE daily energy requirement for AVERAGE males lies between ~2400-3000kcal/day with average female requirements significantly lower ranging from 1600-2100kcal/day (Beaton et al 1979, Braitman et al 1985, Goor et al 1985, USDA 1984, LRC 1980). ➖ However, due to the development of our environment which now promotes excessive food consumption & sedentary behaviour, these values are often blown out of the water with the average American now consuming >3,600kcal/day i.e. a 24% increase from 1961. ➖ So what affects requirements? Kcal intake is influenced by many variables, including age (younger individuals needing more), sex (men needing more), environmental temperature (low requiring slight more), energy expenditure (active individuals requiring more), pregnancy (to fuel growth of baby) & hormonal status (thyroid in particular). However out of the aforementioned, energy expenditure (formal & NEAT) plays one of, if not the biggest rolea in increasing/decreasing requirements with those heavily active and/or with high lvls of NEAT requiring far more than sedentary individuals (common sense) (Woo et al 1985, Levine 2002). ➖ Therefore, while intakes of >3600kcal or in my case 4000kcal may be acceptable for active individuals (like me or @mattdoesfitness) for the average male, this would result in rapid weight gain & potentially obesity thus stressing the importance of kcal control. ➖ I get asked so often how me (& other fitfammers) are able to eat so many kcals & not get fat & the answer is this, we are not “average males” we are extremely active & in some cases have elevated metabolism which contribute to increasing energy turnover (Danforth & Burger 1984, Satoh et al 1999) . . . #ahmedabad #ahmedabadblogger #ahmedabad_instagram #ahmedabaddiaries #ahmedabadi #amdavad #amdavadism #ahmedabadfoodblogger #ahmedabadfoodie #ahmedabadfood #ahmedabadshopping #ahmedabadtimes #india

[filthy-rat]

Since we all know Mary likes to hunt nazis for fun. How would he react if a scum like that tried to go near you? Give me the murderous protective bloody boi plz 🥺👉👈

It’s a dark and stormy night. That sounds like a cliche, because it is, but that’s what’s this night is like. Rain comes in heavy sheets all around you, soaking you to the bone, blinding you.

The only thing you can see is the glint of the knife flashing in the dark and stormy night.

Dark and stormy never bothered you, and neither did the night, really. You’ve always been drawn to the darker corners of the city, to the black underbelly of it all. That’s where the most interesting people tend to congregate.

That’s where you’d met Mary Goore.

He’d been bumming around some shitty dive bar, flirting with all the insufferably hetero dudes there, buying them the fruitiest drinks on the menu with a wink and a salacious lick of his lips. He liked to start fights that he invariably lost, and you were there to patch him up afterwards.

He flirted with you, too, a couple of times. Always pretty words and playful winks and light touches. Even though you knew better than to feed scraps to strays, he was just so damn pretty, just like his words. Even when he was bruised and covered in blood. You couldn’t stay away.

The two of you became drinking buddies, although secretly, you wish for more with him. You think maybe he does, too, but it’s hard to tell with Mary.

You spend your weekends bar hopping with him, going from shitty dives to swanky clubs to chaotic raves. Somehow he always gets inside, even when the cover charge is well in the triple digits, and you never once see him exchange money with the bouncer. He simply slides up to them, murmurs something in their ear, and that velvet rope is hastily untethered.

“C’mon, babe,” he’d say with a crooked grin, and he’d sling an arm around your shoulders and pull you through the doors.

Every time you ask just how he slithers his way into these places without fail, he gives you a different answer.

“Said I’d give him a blowjob,” he says.

“My dad’s the owner,” he says.

“Saved his life in prison,” he says.

You learn that asking questions of Mary isn’t really a game you can win, especially when he’s constantly changing the rules without notice. That doesn’t stop him from asking questions of you, of course. And he does ask questions. About your life, your preferences, your history--Mary wants to know it all. You find yourself being unexpectedly candid with your answers. Maybe it’s the way he seems to take a genuine interest in the things you say, holding your gaze while you talk.

You’ve never had someone be so sincere about you before.

Anyway, it was a dark and stormy night. The two of you are out drunkenly wandering, devouring the pulse of the city, unbothered by the heavy rain or the ominous thundering overhead. Arm in arm, you meander through the streets, shouting the lyrics to your favorite songs and telling terrible jokes in between the choruses.

“Let’s stop and get a pack of smokes,” says Mary, tugging you towards the glowing neon of a 24-hour convenience store.

“I’ll wait out here,” you say, flashing him a grin. “Rain’s nice. Hurry up.”

Mary smirks, bumps his forehead against yours a little too hard, and disentangles himself from your grasp. He leaves you leaning against the storefront, humming under your breath, and ducks inside for his cigarettes.

That’s when the trouble began.

In your stupor, you barely register the arrival of others. You and Mary had been wandering for awhile when you stopped and came across hardly anyone else. Rain tends to keep people indoors, but these guys seem to care as little as you do.

Initially, you offer the group a polite smile, but when they enter the light of the storefront and you see them fully, you realize that these four men are definitely less than friendly. Everything about them screams threat, and that’s before you noticed the red armbands many of them are wearing. Immediately, you avert your gaze, hoping they hadn’t seen you. But you’re never that lucky.

“Well, well, well! Hey there, sweet thing,” hums one as he comes to lean against the wall beside you. He’s much too close and you can smell the stench of beer on his breath. “Who left you out here, all wet and alone? C’mon, sugar, I don’t bite.”

"Fuck off,” you snap, trying to sound braver than you felt, and you retreat a few inches.

They just laugh and close the distance once more. Panic is beginning to rise now, and you’re desperately looking for an exit route.

Without warning, the head of the man closest to you is grabbed and slammed once, twice, three times against the concrete wall. With a pained grunt, your aggressor collapses to the rain-slick pavement and doesn’t move. A faint red trickle is now present on the wall where his head had been. His companions all whirl on the spot towards the source of the violence, and your heart leaps at the sight of Mary standing there, glaring down at the unmoving nazi.

There’s a terrifying, bone-chilling rage in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. As he flicks his gaze up to regard the rest of them, they all recoil in fear. Despite the evident anger boiling inside him, Mary’s voice is unnervingly calm when he speaks. Somehow, this makes him even more frightening.

“Better get the fuck outta here before something bad happens to you.“

And that’s when he pulls out the bowie knife you had no idea he even owned. It’s about the length of his forearm, and you can tell even from this distance it’s wickedly sharp. He flourishes it with a twirl of his wrist, and the edge glints, flashing like a beacon in the dark and stormy night.

Wordlessly, the group scramble to gather up their unconscious friend, and beat a hasty retreat.

“And if I ever fuckin’ see your faces around here again,” snarls Mary as they scurry away, “I’ll gut you like the fuckin’ pigs you are!”

When he’s satisfied they’re gone, he slides the knife back into the holster at the small of his back, and turns to you without coming closer. There’s an anxiety to his eyes now, even if it’s hard to see. Perhaps he thinks you’ll be afraid of him, too. Without another word, you close the distance and throw your arms around his neck.

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you.” You nuzzle your face into his neck and take a deep, calming breath.

Automatically, his arms come around your back, holding you close. A relieved sigh escapes him, and he buries his face into your shoulder. After a moment, he pulls back to rest his forehead on yours, eyes gentle.

“Just glad you’re okay.”