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da-rulah · 8 months

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The Mayor's Daughter - Mary Goore x f!Reader [Part 5]

Summary: It's the morning after the night before, and there are still things left unsaid. You find yourself asking where you go from here and quickly realise, you're both going to need to work on this a little more. Whatever 'this' is...

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Word Count: 13.6k (lol I did it again...)

Warnings: Angst, more family trauma, emotional discussions, smut, cunnilingus, body worship, emotional sex, unprotected sex (birth control)

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3 | MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

A/N: Apologies for the delay - I ended up pretty sick for like 2 weeks after I posted part 4... still, thank you for coming back. I missed ya! Thank you again to @angellayercake & @her-satanic-wiles for beta reading 🖤

You felt like you were floating... Drifting as you walked the thin line between consciousness, aware that you were beginning to rouse from a sleep that you had so desperately needed. That floating feeling; you felt so weightless, like bobbing slowly through a place where gravity hardly existed. As you began to stir, your eyes fluttering open, you became aware that that feeling was actually the sensation of your head slowly rising and falling rhythmically, as if buoyant on a gentle ocean.

Except, the surface of the ocean felt warm, solid. It took a few moments, but as you came to you realised – it was Mary’s chest beneath you, his soft, gentle breathing lulling you in the same way it had last night as you’d fallen asleep in this exact position. In your sleep, neither one of you had moved – a sure fire sign that you had both been so exhausted and so comfortable with one another, that you could let down your guards, and drift into a deeply restorative sleep.

When your eyes finally fluttered open, you allowed yourself a glance around his humble little apartment; sunlight streamed in through his windows, narrowly missing the bed but highlighting the specks that floated in the air like glitter with a mind of its own. A pattern on the ceiling at the end of the bed caught your attention; little reflections of light hitting the plaster. Sunlight had hit your dress, still folded neatly atop Mary’s dresser, and the light refracted up to the ceiling from each and every little sequin and rhinestone.

No longer wanting to look at the offensively bright material nor think of the memories attached to it, you turned your head in search of something far more comforting to look to; Mary.

Still fast asleep, his pretty long lashes fluttered every so often as he dreamt, his features so relaxed and at peace you were terrified to disturb him. Even in his relaxation, his arms were wrapped around you snugly as they were last night after the two of you had shared possibly the most important kiss you had ever had.

You wondered, then, if that kiss had meant as much to him as it had to you – if he’d felt, in that moment, what you had felt... For you, there was no longer any denying it. This man – this strange, dark, twisted little sweetheart of a man – had become incredibly important to you, to say the least. He was the one you called in a crisis, he was the first and only person you wanted when the world burned around you.

And despite his anger at you, feeling like he’d never wanted to see you again, he’d come running immediately.

You couldn’t help but watch him as your mind began working, thinking of all the reasons you liked having Mary around. For one, he was unapologetically himself; something you had always strived to be. Two, he had never once made you feel unsafe or looked at you like a piece of meat – even that night at the dive bar... He had a respect for you that men usually were void of. Three, he made you feel more beautiful and more desired every time you’d seen him than anybody ever had. Four, there was a softness he was allowing you to see, slowly peeling back the curtain you knew he kept drawn to others. And five – probably the most important to you right now – he came when you called.

Guilt still stabbed at your chest while you lay there thinking of how this guy had showed up for you unlike anyone else. Maybe Mary had judged you, put you in the princess box like everybody else but at least he had still wanted you. Despite that, he wouldn’t have been afraid to walk hand in hand through the town centre with you, to be seen with you, to show people there was something between you. What you had done was arguably far, far worse.

Not only had you stereotyped him – that would have left you on par, on a level playing field, at least – you had decided that your stereotype of him was that of a person you could never be seen with, that you would hide away in secret out of shame.

Given that your father had cast you aside as quickly and easily as a candy wrapper, you wondered what you were doing that for now. ‘Daddy’s image’ had been so important to you, but why? If he was so willing to throw you out of his town rather than see you happily doing something for yourself, then why on earth did you still give any kind of shit about him? You’d sacrificed so much of yourself over the years for your father, to the point where you really didn’t know who you were beneath the facade. He’d turned you into a little version of himself, shallow enough that you had treated perhaps the only authentic person you had ever had the pleasure to meet like shit.

No more.

“You’re a fuckin’ creep, doll,” Mary rumbled beneath you, his chest vibrating against your cheek and startling a jump out of you. You’d thought he was asleep; he certainly looked like it, his eyes still shut, and his body still comfortably limp beneath you. You stared at him for a moment, wondering if you’d imagined it, or maybe he’d spoken in his sleep... At least, until his lips quirking up into a smug little smirk.

“Sorry, I was just... thinking,” you mumbled, suddenly shy as you settled your head against his chest again.

“About...?” he encouraged, the smugness in his tone completely vanishing. He sounded more concerned, with just a touch of insecurity. You turned your head back to face him, your chin now settled on his chest instead of your cheek. He was looking down at you with both eyes this time, waiting patiently for you tell him the worst case scenario; that coming here had been a mistake and you didn’t want to be around him anymore. That’s what he expected, anyway.

“Just...” You didn’t want to ruin the moment, to bombard him with heavy thoughts first thing in the morning... “how pretty you are,” you smiled, masking the guilt and hurt you’d conjured up. Mary just smiled a goofy, ridiculous smile. His arms tightened around you, and suddenly he was rolling you from your side onto your back, the cold, neglected half of the mattress shocking you further awake as Mary’s weight pressed into you. He lay on his elbow above your head, his other hand still wrapped around your waist.

“Tell me more,” he teased, smirking down at you. You giggled – Mary's favourite fucking sound on the planet – and pulled the blankets up a little further, a knee jerk reaction to the sudden cold of the mattress beneath you.

“Well, I couldn’t possibly contribute to that ego of yours, Goore,” you objected, prodding a finger to his chest just below his collar bone.

“Hmm,” he hummed, his gaze flickering across your face as he took in your smile. He noted how genuine it looked, how content you seemed to lay in his bed, wrapped up in him. His chest swelled with warmth, the desire to kiss you as he had last night overwhelming him.

But he wouldn’t. Neither of you had really talked about what had happened between you before you’d drifted to sleep in his arms, but it had been one of the many things that crossed his mind as he struggled with his memories into the early hours.

Just as you caught Mary gazing back down at your lips, thinking maybe he might kiss you again, longing for it... He met your eyes again, with a hint of anxiety.

“I suppose that... two mature adults would probably talk about everything that happened last night?” he asked tentatively. He was right, they probably would.

“Probably...” you agreed, looking down towards where your hands were fiddling with the edge of the blankets. A wave of nausea passed over you, dull fear settling in the pit of your stomach. Mary sensed your change in demeanour, immediately regretting bringing it up. He switched back to his mask immediately, putting that wall back up and fighting the feeling with comedy.

“Good job we ain’t all that mature then, huh?” he laughed, eyes lingering on the frayed edges of the sleeves of his shirt you wore. The two of you were so hopelessly inexperienced at dealing with emotions, let alone talking about them with anybody. But after where your mind had drifted to that morning as you’d watched him sleep, you knew you had to say the things you’d missed last night. He needed to know how much you regretted treating him like that.

“I do want to apologise to you though, Mary...” Mary’s eyes snapped to look at you then, brow furrowing in confusion. But you persisted; you hoped he’d hear you out. “I was a bitch to you.”

“Nah, you’re fine, doll...” he began, but you cut him off gently, pressing your fingertips to his lips.

“Please, hear me out...” you asked him. When he saw the look in your eyes, the regret on your face, he nodded against your fingertips, willing you to continue. “I know you judged me, and I don’t blame you for that at all. I was putting the act on a little too well. But I judged you too, and then I did something worse... I let my world get in my head, and I locked you out of it because you didn’t ‘fit’ in it,” you made air quotes with your hands, awkwardly wringing your fingers while you spoke, not daring to look in his eyes.

“I’ve let my dad run my life for too long, and he got in my head. He made me feel like I should be ashamed to be around someone like you; or, y’know... the ‘you’ people think you are. I just...” You looked up at him then, his expression unreadable, but you looked him in the eye as you continued, “That’s bullshit, Mare. I don’t want that life. I don’t want people telling me I can’t be seen with someone because they don’t suit my ‘lifestyle’. I want to form my own opinions, my own relationships and... I don’t want to shut out the good people.”

You raised your palm to his cheek, desperately hoping that he knew what you meant; that he was good people. You didn’t want to shut him out anymore.

The arm that was wound around your waist lifted, his hand wrapping around your wrist gently as he stroked his thumb over the back of your hand.

“I’m not wasting another second living for that man anymore,” you whimpered, your waterline blurring your vision where tears gathered. “I’m so sorry for how I treated you, Mary.”

Mary’s features softened, his head turning in your hand to press a light kiss to your palm where he held it still. Those words meant more to him than you’d possibly know, a tension releasing from his shoulders he hadn’t known he had built up.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled against your palm between pecks, “I’m sorry for missing the signs of control. I shoulda seen it, and I missed it. Or just ignored it, I don’t know, but... I’m sorry too.”

Silence settled, a comfortable moment to soak in the apologies you’d owed to each other, to settle any possible lingering bad feeling. It was Mary who broke the silence with a small laugh and a shake of his head above you, hair flopping into his face.

“It’s not like I can stay mad at you for long anyway, doll. Believe me, I tried,” he said, biting his lip cheekily as he smiled down at you.

“Oh yeah? You just couldn’t ignore the cries of a damsel in distress,” you joked back, expecting Mary to laugh and come back with another quick-witted quip. Except... his face faltered, his smile dropping in a flash. Instantly, you knew you’d said something wrong. Why it had been wrong, you weren’t sure, but you jumped into damage control. “B-but, um... you know, just meant to say thank you... you didn’t have to do that-”

“Yeah, I did,” he interrupted, his tone serious. “I’d never just walk away if you needed me...”

Another silence settled as his words lay heavy on your mind. You believed him, wholeheartedly. There was no glimmer of uncertainty or comedy in his expression at all – Mary meant it. He’d never turn his back on you if you needed him. But the way his face had dropped... A flicker of sadness you hadn’t missed... You raised your hand back to his cheek, cradling his jaw as your thumb swiped gently against the stubble that was starting to rise.

“No one ever came to save you... did they?” you asked him, hesitantly. The way his jaw clenched, the tendons in his neck tightening only confirmed your suspicions. You could feel the tightness where you held his jaw, and all you could do was continue to stroke your thumb over the skin, trying to soothe him.

“I’d like to try,” you told him, sincerely. Oh god, you wanted to try. You’d do anything you could to save him, if he’d let you. From what, you weren’t sure, but you’d fight tooth and nail for him.

Mary didn’t know what to say. You’d hit the nail on the head, seen him for what he truly was, and it scared him. It scared him so much, to be that transparent to you. His heart hammered inside his chest and before he knew it, he’d lurched forwards to press his lips to yours in place of words.

He held you so gently as he kissed you, careful not to come on too strong with him laying above you but he took note of how you held him too, how you easily melted into his kiss and allowed him his vulnerability. Just as it had last night, this kiss led nowhere in particular and served only the purpose of affirming your connection; whatever that connection was at this stage.

As you drew yourselves apart, Mary avoided your gaze and instead found himself fiddling with your hair that lay against the pillow as if suddenly very interested in your split ends. He wasn’t one to ever verbalise how he felt, never spoke up about his emotions either positive or negative. Instead, he felt awkward, like anything he’d say right now might ruin the moment in some way. He didn’t trust himself to speak, but he knew he had to say something and so he thought carefully as he played with your hair, still hovering above you with an arm wrapped around your waist.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” he admitted honestly. “I... I don’t know what this is.”

You understood his predicament – you weren’t sure what this was either. You weren’t someone who’d had any kind of relationship or felt this way about another person before, and you weren’t sure if Mary ever had either – of all the times you’d noticed Mary before your first night at the bar together, you’d never seen him with the same girl twice.

“I don’t know either, Mary. But... I just know that it’s something,” you told him, “something I’m willing to fight to protect, if that’s what you want.”

Mary’s lips curved into a smile, and without his usual face paints there was no hiding the slight hue of pink that tinted his cheeks as he looked away with a shyness you found incredibly cute on him.

“You gonna fight for me, doll?” he asked, a cheeky smirk returning as he looked back down at you beneath him.

“With my bare fucking hands, if I have to,” you grinned.

“That’s my girl...” he winked, lowering himself to press another kiss to your lips, giving you no time at all to dwell on what he’d just said other than to have those two words swimming around your head on a loop as he spoilt you with the kind of kisses he felt you deserved; slow, impassioned, with feeling.

“My girl.” Mary’s girl. His girl.

His.

“Try these,” Mary offered his hand to you that clasped a pair of black skinny jeans. “They’re women’s cut anyway.”

“That can’t be comfy...” you laughed, taking the jeans from him and holding the waistband up to your own hips, surprised to find they might actually fit.

“Wrong. They’re tighter, yes, but weirdly fit better. Give ‘em a go, and I got this tee you can wear too for now, maybe some boxers that are too small for me...” he rifled through his drawers, pulling out garments that would do just for today as you stood by the edge of his bed in the pyjamas and old shirt he’d given you last night. He turned to you with the aforementioned clothes in his arms, handing them to you.

“You know where everything is if you wanna shower, but you gotta let the water run for like 5 minutes before you get in. Unless you like being pelted by icicles first thing in the morning,” he shrugged.

“I do not,” you laughed. “But a shower sounds good.” Mary nodded, rubbing his hand up and down his arm as he stood awkwardly across from you, still shirtless with his shorts hanging dangerously low on his hips. You pretended you hadn’t noticed...

“So, uh... What do you think you’re gonna do?” he asked, “I mean, you can stay here as long as you want, but-”

“I should get some stuff from my place, yeah. My dad will be at the office all day, I could always sneak in my bedroom window. I doubt my mother would notice...” you shrugged. “Are you sure you don’t mind me crashing here?” you asked, biting at your lip. You didn’t want to impose, but truthfully you had nowhere else to go and you certainly weren’t crawling back into that house with a fake apology and diving headfirst back into that life. Not now. This was too far gone...

“’course not, doll. Never read a fairytale where the knight sends the princess back to the dragon...” he smirked, folding his arms across his chest.

“You can read?” you teased, earning you a playfully indignant scoff.

“Don’t push it, doll...” He stepped towards you then, tilting your chin up with his finger curled underneath it. His eyes darkened and his voice dropped to a menacing pitch, “How can you be so sure I’m not the bad guy?”

That shouldn’t have done something to you. But with your arms full of a bundle of clean clothes there was no hiding the blush on your cheeks, nor the way you gulped or shifted your weight from one foot to another. And Mary was observant. He raised his head proudly, taking a step back as he booped you on the nose like a good little puppy dog and chuckled to himself.

“Go on, go shower. We’ll swing by yours and then maybe we can grab some food. I’ve got nothing in, so...” he shrugged, turning back to his dresser to pull out some clothes for himself.

“What, like... a date?” you asked, maybe sounding a little too hopeful. Mary looked up from his drawer and squinted his eyes at you in mock suspicion.

“You tryna get in my pants, doll?” he taunted. You rolled your eyes, kicking your bare foot against his shin.

“No, I just... Never mind, probably not your style or something,” you shook your head, regretting mentioning a date at all.

“Hey, I’m great at dates,” he defended, “Just don’t do ‘em very often. And I mean, I don’t think I can live up to the dates you’ve been on with the kind of guys in your circle. Don’t exactly have the cash for a fancy dinner or a helicopter ride over the city or whatever.” He waved his hand in your direction, pretending to be overly interested in rummaging through his drawer.

You scoffed at that, shaking your head. Of course he’d jump to that conclusion, assuming your experience of dating had been like a scene out of The Bachelorette. He was stereotyping again, in an attempt to defend himself. There was a pattern here, you were noticing... Mary was a very defensive guy. But if he’d bothered to ask, maybe he’d be shocked to learn none of the guys you had ‘dated’ had ever taken you on any kind of date. Dinner at your place to be scouted by your father as being good enough for his image was not a date.

“You’re doing it again,” you told him bluntly. Maybe he didn’t even realise he was.

“What?” he snapped, dropping the pair of jeans in his hands back into the drawer in a move that showed he was irritated. Now it was your turn to get defensive.

“Stereotyping me. Maybe it’d shock you to know I’ve never actually been on any kind of date,” you griped. Mary hollowed his cheeks, swallowing his pride when you called him out. You were right, and he knew you were right. He looked over at you from the corner of his eye, unable to hold eye contact as guilt burrowed its way into his chest.

“I just thought-” he tried to make his excuses, but you were tired of hearing them.

“Well, you thought wrong,” you snapped, heading towards the door to his bathroom.

“Wait, doll...” he called after you, frustrated with himself and how quickly he’d managed to turn what had been an almost sweet morning with you into pissing you off.

“Forget it, Mare,” you called back without looking, shutting the door behind you and dumping the pile of clothes in your arms to the counter in front of you. You didn’t want to fight; not with him. You’d had enough of that and while he had pissed you off, part of you knew that maybe you’d started that... ‘Not your style’, what had you even meant by that?

Clearly, the two of you still had some clichés and stereotypes to iron out of your heads. It was easier said than done, when both of you had only ever known the world to be as it was in your bubbles. You only had your previous experience to go off, blindly following what you’d been told and staying in your own lanes. This relationship – or whatever it was – would take some work, and there were still wounds that couldn’t be healed overnight, cracks that a bit of dry wall stuck over them wouldn’t fix. Maybe you’d have to tear it down to its foundations, and rebuild instead.

Outside the bathroom, Mary was thinking much the same thing. You were right to call him out, and he muttered a “you fucking idiot” to himself when you’d shut the door on him. Instead of getting defensive, he should have had the compassion and understanding to know you weren’t trying to be malicious. All you’d done was ask if he was suggesting a date, and his walls went right back up again.

‘What are you protecting yourself from now, idiot?’ he thought to himself. ‘If you like her, you gotta let her in.’

You’d told him you’d fight with your bare hands for him. Was he willing to do the same for you?

‘Yes’ he thought, ‘teeth bared, and claws sharpened.’

The plan was simple – mostly because the air had been too awkwardly stale between the two of you to stomach a better, well-thought-out plan than the brief outline you’d concocted in the shower followed by a brief agreement from Mary.

Mary would drive you back to your house, park up and let you sneak back into your bedroom through your always-unlocked window while he waited for you to pack up your bag and climb back out again. No fuss, no mess, no interactions.

The drive was mostly silent, save for the music settled between a low and medium volume from Mary’s usual radio station. You didn’t mind it, the heavy mashing of guitars and drums mixed with barely intelligible screams and growls. Perhaps you were even growing to like it, for all the time you’d spent in Mary’s van. You could find rhythm to tap your foot along to, and lord knows you often felt like screaming like this too – except, you would have to into a pretty pink and frilly pillow.

“I’ll wait here, no rush,” Mary told you as he parked a little way down the street, on the opposite side of the road.

“I won’t be hanging around, trust me,” you mumbled, nerves eating away at your sanity as you plotted your route over the wall and up the side of the garage. You’d done this plenty of times throughout your adolescence, sneaking in and out, it wasn’t new to you. Yet, the stakes seemed higher today.

Quickly, you rushed out of the van and across the street to avoid being seen by neighbours. Your father’s car wasn’t in the driveway when you climbed over the wall; a sure-fire sign that he was at the office today ruining somebody else’s life. With practised ease, you climbed the side of the garage and tip-toed across the roof towards your bedroom window. Just as you’d expected, it was unlocked, and you could crawl inside without detection.

First, you swung the backpack Mary had lent you from your shoulders, unzipping it and pulling the dress and heels from the night before from it. You folded the dress and lay it on your bed, the heels neatly placed beside it. You knew they’d find them – you wanted them to find them. This was your way of telling them you were done, you’d come home and taken your things and you were gone. There was no crawling back to them.

From your closet, you dragged a duffel bag from the top shelf and began to fill it with your clothes and shoes – at least, the things you wanted to keep. Too many pretty little dresses that weren’t your style at all, too much pink and lace and poofy things you’d dress a china doll in. No, you focussed on the clothes you’d bought with your own money, the basic shirts and sweaters, the jeans and sweatpants, a few pairs of leggings. You had an entire section of your closet you’d never touched, tags still on the items you’d bought but didn’t have the courage to wear.

Mostly black items, things your father would have called ‘too depressing’ or ‘not pretty enough for a girl like you’. He hated black clothing on you, preferred pinks and whites and pale colours that reflected that innocent aura he wanted to get across. So, the black dresses, the ripped jeans, the tighter black tops and oversized graphic tees never saw the light of day. Now, you were stuffing them into your duffel with every intention of wearing what you wanted.

Next, you headed to your drawers to grab your underwear and socks, stuffing them into the bag alongside your clothes. Once empty, you pulled the drawer from the dresser until it was barely hanging on, and ran your fingertips along the bottom until you found the edge of the tape you’d stuck there years ago that held an envelope to the bottom of the drawer. You ripped it off, and stuffed that in your bag too.

As you turned your back to your room shove a handful of jewellery into a side pocket, you heard a creak behind you, near the door. Instantly you froze, waiting for another creak, praying you were hearing things in this big and old house.

“Oh, thank God,” you heard your mother’s voice, whining like she was holding back a sob as she brought her hands to her mouth in shock behind you. You shut your eyes and breathed out a sigh; a mix of relief and regret. You’d so hoped no one would see you, and yet, you were just so glad it wasn’t your father.

You turned to look at her, to see her in her usual put-together wife-of-a-politician attire, clutching her pearls and suppressing a sob as her made-up eyes let tears stream slowly from them.

“Oh, honey... I’m so glad you came home, I’ve been worried sick!” she sobbed, rushing to stand in front of you. Her hands held your shoulders, then one came to cup your cheek as she looked you over for any signs of harm. Her brows creased in concern when she saw the jeans and old AC/DC shirt you’d been given by Mary to wear today. “Where did you-”

“I haven’t come home, Mom,” you pushed her wrists from you gently and walked around her, grabbing various beauty products from your vanity. “I’m just getting my things and I’m leaving again.”

“Leaving? But sweetie, you can’t just leave... Your father was angry, but he’ll come around. H-he... He’s just stressed at work, you know? He loves you-”

“Mom, please!” you snapped, turning back to her. “I don’t know what he told you happened, but he wants me out. And frankly, I’ve put up with his shit for too long. I’m tired of living in his image all the damn time like he’s some fucking messiah!”

“Darling, please,” she pleaded, stepping towards you as she held her hands out to you as if trying to cup your face in her hands again to calm you, “that language sounds so vulgar coming from such a pretty-”

“Stop!” you pushed her hands away, “I don��t want to be daddy’s pretty little trophy, I don’t want to be forced into this life of fake people and pageantry. He doesn’t care that I’m a grown woman with my own thoughts and feelings, he doesn’t care that I went to college to find my own career, or that I want to meet people that I find interesting or that I want to dress how I want, be who I want,” you ranted, letting it spill out. “Look around you, mom. Even my bedroom belongs to a little girl. I don’t like any of this stuff, I don’t want any of this shit! This isn’t ME!” you yelled, the anger manifesting as tears of your own as your mother stared blankly at you, taking it in.

Silence settled, and she turned on her heels to walk over to your bed, sitting herself down on the edge beside your overflowing duffel bag. She flattened her palm to the bedspread, tracing the pattern of the pink lace.

“I told him you never liked pink,” she chuckled sadly. “God, he insisted... Said ‘every little girl likes pink’. He really was clueless.”

You shuffled your feet awkwardly, wiping at the tears in an attempt to remain strong.

“You always were a headstrong little thing. I loved that about you, always thinking for yourself and making your own mind up. I remember the tantrums you had when you asked to have a go-karting party for your 10th birthday instead of a garden party,” she laughed. “I understand more than you think, you know. How your father can be.”

“And you go along with it?” you questioned, confused. She’d never said anything like this or encouraged your freedom of thought before.

Your mother sighed, picking at her manicured fingernails as guilt overwhelmed her.

“I suppose I thought I was doing what was best for you, or maybe just trying to make life easier for the both of us. That doesn’t make it right, I know,” her brow furrowed, still unable to look up at you in her shame, “he’s a persuasive man. That’s politicians for you...”

When she looked up, she smiled softly at you, her eyes once again roaming over your outfit as she let her prejudices down for a moment. Her eyes settled on the shirt, her smile growing just a little more.

“Your grandfather liked them,” she nodded towards the shirt. “Used to play their records all the time.” You looked down at the shirt, completely unaware that your Pops had liked AC/DC. You’d heard the odd song on the radio before, always seemed to like what you’d heard. You found yourself hugging yourself, awkwardly mulling over what your mother had been saying. If this was some attempt to make you stay, to talk to your father, it wasn’t going to work. He’d never let you live under his roof without going back to what he’d moulded you into...

“Mom, I can’t come home... Not if I want to live my own life,” you told her, “I’m sorry...”

And you were, but only for her. Your father had done to her what he did to you, just slower over the course of their 30+ year relationship. She’d been microdosed for decades, until she barely recognised herself anymore. This touch of empathy proved that.

Your mom shook her head, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

“Are you safe?” she asked, her only concern. “I won’t have you on the streets, I need to know you have a place to go.” You nodded at her. “Same place you got those clothes?”

You looked down at them again, trying to figure out what to say to her. You didn’t want to tell her about Mary, you couldn’t. Instead, you just looked back at her blankly. “I’m safe, mom.”

“Good. Well... if this is what you truly want, I won’t stop you,” she stood up, coming to stand in front of you and holding your hand in one of hers, the other tucking some of your hair behind your ear. “Go and live your life, my love. You let me handle your father.”

“Why do you stay with him?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself. But it was too late now. “You laugh along with his bullshit jokes, you let things slide, you let him push you around and tell you how to live your life too. Why?”

“Because it’s too late for me,” she smiled, her eyes glassing over with fresh tears. “But I’ll be okay. There’s good and there’s bad to this, but I love your father. I’ll keep doing my best to influence only the best out of him, because I know it’s in there. I remember when he started his political career, he had nothing... He wanted to help people, to make life a little easier for people. But politics has a way of moulding you into a puppet, like he has with you... All I can do is keep reminding him of where he came from too.”

She pressed a kiss to your forehead, silent tears rolling down her cheeks before she turned away from you with a sniffle and wiped at them.

“He’ll be home soon, you’d better hurry,” she said, picking up the folded dress and heels on your bed. You nodded wordlessly, heading into your bedroom with Mary’s empty backpack to gather the rest of your toiletries. You were in there perhaps two minutes, gathering your things and shoving them into your backpack, but by the time you came back out your mother had disappeared. Your bag was zipped up and ready to go, the dress and heels taken with her.

Without giving yourself the chance to dwell on your decisions, to question yourself or doubt your choices, you hauled the backpack onto your shoulder, hoisted the duffel bag up by the straps and carefully climbed back out of the open window. The front door certainly would have been easier, but if your father was due home soon, you’d rather not run into him. This was safer, and the thought of coming across your mother again drove a white-hot blade straight through your chest.

Carefully, you managed to find your way back over the garden wall, cutting across the street towards Mary’s van. When you wrenched the door open, Mary was laying further down in his seat, one foot up on the dashboard and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He sat up immediately, reaching across the two passenger seats to help drag the duffel back into the footwell while you climbed in, strapping yourself in without a word – just a deep sigh, throwing your head back against the seat.

“You okay?” he asked hesitantly, holding his pack of smokes out to you in offering. You took one wordlessly while Mary pressed the lighter on the centre console in for you. It popped out quickly, having already been heated for his own.

“I will be,” you mumbled, dragging a lungful of smoke in to dull the rising anxiety in your chest. “Let’s go.”

Mary didn’t argue, nor press you for your thoughts. Instead, he switched on the engine, pulled his van away from the curb, and headed off down the street.

At the living room window, your mother stood behind the net curtains, watching you leave. Her chest ached with the heavy sobs she kept from ripping up her throat. She clutched your dress against her, biting her lip and tasting the salt of her tears on them. While she understood why you needed to leave, your father telling her everything you had said to him and how you had ‘betrayed his trust’ by doing so, it still cut her to the core to watch her only child have to run away from her home in order to find her own happiness.

The only comfort to her, was watching you get into a black van that you weren’t driving. You had someone with you, someone who waited for you, who had your back. You had told her you were safe, and she believed you. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see who was driving the van from here, but it was enough to know that you weren’t alone in the world.

She trusted you enough to know you were going to be okay.

Mary drove you straight back to his apartment at your request. When he pulled up outside, he met you at the passenger door and took the heavy duffel bag from your grasp despite your protests, and headed up to the third floor with you in tow.

He dropped the duffel bag on his bed, immediately heading over to his dresser to empty as much space for your things as he could. He compacted his half-filled drawers, shoving jeans in with tees and socks in with underwear to give you the room to empty your duffel. He didn’t think it fair to live out of a bag for however long you might be here.

With a few drawers emptied, he turned back to find you sat on the arm of his couch, defeated and curled in on yourself as you stared at the floor.

“There’s uh... room now, for your stuff I mean,” he mumbled, still feeling awkward. Partially about this morning, that air never really clearing, and partially because he just didn’t know how to help you right now. He had no idea you’d spoken with your mother, no clue of the heavy feeling on your chest and what had caused it. But he noticed something was different when you got back in the van.

“Thanks... You didn’t have to,” you shrugged. Mary ignored that last part.

“There should be room in the bathroom cabinet for your stuff too, but anywhere is fine. This place is yours for however long you want it, so... make yourself at home.” You nodded appreciatively. "I should get some food in, fridge is empty as fuck, so...”

He gathered his keys from the kitchen counter where he’d left them, and moved towards the door.

“Wait, Mare...” you called to him, standing from the couch and quickly walking over to him before he had a chance to open the front door. He turned around, confused and was met with arms wrapping around his waist and your body pressing against his, head laying against his shoulder. Stunned, Mary stood still for a moment, arms raised and eyes blinking.

“I’m sorry. For this morning...” you told him, not ready to burn another bridge over something pathetic such as that. Mary’s shoulders slumped in relief, his arms wrapping around your shoulders and holding you tightly against him.

“S’alright, doll. I’m sorry too. But you don’t gotta panic, alright? We’re fine. We’re gonna be fine,” he assured, resting his chin on the top of your head. He held you for a few moments, feeling the tension leaving your shoulders and your body relaxing into him.

“I’ll be back soon, alright? You unpack, relax,” he said, kissing the top of your head and pulling back from you. You nodded with a half-smile, watching as he left you alone in his apartment.

With a sigh, you walked over to the duffel on his bed, unzipping the fully stuffed bag ready to remove your clothes and sort them into the drawers Mary had emptied for you. But as you opened the bag, your eyes fell on something you hadn’t packed for yourself.

A photo, folded up with a note written on the back of it.

‘Find yourself, angel. All my love, Mom. Xo'

As if your heart wasn’t already busy shredding itself at the note, the picture you unfolded only made it harder to swallow the lump in your throat.

It was you as a toddler, sat on your mother’s knee at a picnic table while your father, younger than you could ever remember him, sat beside you both, feeding you messily from an ice cream cone. No shirt and tie, no matching tweed sets, no pearls – your father wore a plain t-shirt and jeans, your mother dungarees and a ringer tee.

You’d never seen them look so normal... just a sweet, young couple with their little girl on a day out at the park.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore. Your ribcage vibrated at the force of the sob you set free, forcing yourself to sit on the edge of Mary’s bed to allow yourself a moment to lose it. You needed that; just a flash of time to mourn the loss of a life stolen from all of you by the pressures of politics. The smiles on your parents faced showed a time they were truly happy, they weren’t faking for a camera or a crowd.

You had to wonder what had changed, why your father lost sight of his own values. He hadn’t always been a cruel and stoic businessman. He had loved you, wanted to do right by you.

What changed?

By the time Mary came home, over an hour had passed. He carried arms full of paper grocery bags that you rushed to help him with, now calmed and collected from your earlier breakdown. Why he’d bought so much you couldn’t understand, nor how he had the money to do so. As far as you were aware, he had no day job. Guilt washed over you, wondering if he’d filled the cupboards and fridge just because he knew you were staying with him.

“Let me get some cash, it’s not fair you paid for all this if I’m eating too,” you told him, heading for your wallet you’d stuffed into the backpack Mary had given you.

“Nah, you’re fine, doll. I got this one,” he protested, shoving the last of the groceries into the fridge.

“Are you sure?” you asked, worried about burning a hole in his pocket.

“If you’re worrying about money, don’t. I get by,” he shrugged, leaning up against the kitchen counter. “I restore guitars, get ‘em back in shape and ship ‘em back to their owners. Decent enough money for rent and bills, little extra pocket money here and there since the band funds kinda go back into the band.”

“Damn, you do? I didn’t know... I guess I never asked, huh?” You headed back into the kitchen, hopping up onto a kitchen cabinet opposite him.

“Yeah, learned some carpentry from Mr Rogers? He had this workshop in town. I helped out as a kid, he taught me some things...”

Mr Rogers was a name you knew well, a sweet older man even when you were a child. Everybody in town knew Mr Rogers. You looked around his apartment again, seeing the electric guitars up against the wall and the battered old acoustic he’d removed from his bed.

“Is that one you’re working on now?” you asked, pointing to the acoustic. It really was in rough shape...

“Oh, uh... no. That’s... that’s mine. I kinda like it how it is,” he shrugged, clearing his throat. “And I don’t restore them here, I got myself a little storage unit outside of town to do all that when Mr Rogers retired. Anyway, you all unpacked?” he asked, changing the subject quickly.

“Oh yeah, thanks. I didn’t bring much, most of it wasn’t exactly my stuff anyway.”

“Nice. You hungry?” His eyebrow quirked up, his arms folding across his chest. As if your stomach had ears of its own, it growled at the mere thought of food. Through everything today, you’d forgotten to eat and yes... you were hungry. Mary chuckled at the sound of your growling stomach. “Sounds like a yes.”

“Kinda,” you smiled.

“Alright, well get dressed then. We’re going out,” he told you, smiling to himself.

“Out? Where?” you asked.

“Just out. Wear something you like, makes you feel good,” he pushed himself off the kitchen counter, rounding the half wall to sit himself on the couch and flicking on his TV. “Take your time.”

You stared at him in confusion from your seat on the kitchen counter, looking at the back of his head as if he’d grown another one.

“Alright, don’t take that much time...” he teased, “go, go!” He flapped his hand out towards the bedroom half of the apartment, snapping you into motion. You jumped down from the counter, in search of something to wear.

Something that made you feel good, he’d said, as if that was important to him. Not something you thought he would like, not something you thought anybody in the world would like, other than you.

A smile tugged at your lips, flicking through the garments you’d brought with you with the tags still on, the things you’d always wanted to wear, but never had the guts to.

Finally, it was time to figure out your style.

It felt like staring at someone you’d known your whole life, and yet, you’d never met before... Your reflection stared back at you, made up how you wanted, dressed up how you wanted. Darker eye make up, a deeper red lip shade, and a fitted black knitted dress just past your knees with some squeaky-clean black converse. This was the you you’d envisioned when you bought the damn dress, but never had the guts to become. If you’d walked downstairs at home in this outfit, your father would have made you change immediately.

But now, as you reached behind you to rip the tag from the back, you felt like yourself for the first time. This was definitely something that made you feel good, despite it being so simple.

With a deep breath, you stepped out of Mary’s bathroom with an audible “ta-da!” His head whipped around from where he sat on the couch, his eyes scanning over your body, lips quirking up into a smirk.

“Not wearing that just to impress me are you, doll?” he asked, raising an eyebrow cheekily. But truthfully, he was worried you were... He didn’t want you to feel like you had to dress a certain way to be with him or be around him. If you wanted to wear pretty pink dresses, he didn’t care. But if you wanted to wear darker clothes like this? Well... he certainly wasn’t complaining.

“Nope. Pretty much everything I brought with me still has the tags on, because this is how I always wanted to dress and just... didn’t,” you shrugged. Mary stood up then, walking over to you to lift your hand in his and twirl you like a real doll on a music box.

“And how do you feel?” he asked, still holding your hand as you came back around to face him.

“Like me,” you grinned. Mary’s smile widened, leaning forward to press his lips to your forehead.

“You’re missing something though...” he said, wagging his eyebrows at you as he darted off behind the outer bathroom wall that hid the front door from view. When he came back, he’d taken his leather jacket from the pegs next to the front door. When he stopped in front of you, he opened it for you. “Can’t let you get cold.”

“Mary...” you cooed, “after what you went through to get it back?” you teased, threading your arms into the sleeves as he held it for you.

“And I'll go through that again, if that’s what it takes...” he flirted from behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and lowering his voice to a far more seductive tone. Naturally, you leaned into him, sighing happily wrapped in his jacket and him. “Just gimme 5, doll.” He patted your hip as he unravelled himself from around you, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he emerged, he’d styled his hair, painted his face in his usual make up and fake blood, and he smelled distinctly like that night in your bedroom... His cologne.

“Alright, let’s go,” he draped an arm around your shoulders and led you back towards the front door, picking up his keys on the way and a distressed denim jacket that was hung up on the same pegs his leather one had been.

You had no idea where Mary was taking you... He seemed to be driving forever, through town and out the other side, down winding roads and country lanes. Was he taking you into the city? He refused to tell you, instead turning the volume up instantly with a cheeky grin every time you whined about not knowing where you were, and only turning it down again when you stopped talking.

It wasn’t until you found yourself surrounded by trees and on a dirt path that you started to wonder what the fuck Mary was really up to...

“Mare, seriously...” you sat up in your seat, looking out of the windows at the scenery, the sky turning orange and pink as time went on, “where the fuck are we?”

He didn’t touch the volume dial this time, instead focussing on the road ahead with sneaky side glances to you every so often, watching you look around for some kind of clue.

“You trust me, right doll?” he asked, smirking.

“I did, but you’ve brought me to a secluded woodland, alone, in a van,” you joked, only the slightest hint of anxiety in your voice. After all, you hadn’t known Mary that long... “I thought we were going to dinner...?”

“We are. Just trust me,” he assured, losing a bit of that smugness after hearing the slight nerves in your voice. He hadn’t wanted to make you genuinely anxious, and he was trying to quell that as best he could. “Almost there.”

After a little while, the trees started to thin, the burnt orange of the sky more visible to you as you looked out over a huge expanse of water, stretching right out to the horizon where the sun was threatening to dip underneath. The dirt track you were on opened up into what looked like a turning circle, the water lapping at the edge of it. Mary slowed the van down, using the space to turn around and back up just a few feet away from the water’s edge before putting it into park and switching off the engine.

The radio cut out, and left the two of you in silence. Mary turned to you with a smug look, and you waited for him to do something, to say something to explain how on earth you were meant to get dinner here. He said nothing.

“If you think I’m fishing for my dinner, you got another thing coming...” you told him, folding your arms over your chest. Mary just laughed, pulling the keys out of the ignition and jumping out of his side of the van. You stayed put, scowling at him with only a half-serious air of annoyance. He came to your door, opening it for you.

“M’lady...” He bowed and held out his arm to encourage you to step down from the van. You did so gingerly, squinting at him with suspicion.

With the door shut behind you, he walked around to the back of the van, and opened up the double doors to the back. You heard a small click, like a switch, and peered around the doors to look inside half expecting to find a rack of various sharp objects, maybe a chainsaw and plastic sheets from an episode of Dexter...

But instead, you were met with possibly the cutest little sight you’d ever seen.

You’d never seen so many pillows and blankets stuffed into such a small space, the entire back of the van covered in comfort to laze about on. Battery powered fairy lights were strung up across every wall, sitting over patterned wall hangings to make the space look more cozy, almost bohemian. In the middle of the blankets, sat a disposable barbeque, and a grocery bag of burgers, buns and snacks to keep you going for the evening.

“I don’t really do restaurants...” he shrugged, kicking at the dirt at his feet.

Looking around at the setting you found yourself in, you almost felt like crying. He’d put effort in, he’d thought about this, he’d prepared. This felt more intimate than any restaurant could, gave you a chance to just exist with Mary in your own world for a moment, away from the judgement of others and the obvious stares and whispers from a public that knew you all too well.

You were speechless. You had nothing smart to say, no quick wit or little quips. Instead, you were filled with an overwhelming warmth and gratitude.

Before either he or you knew what you were doing, you stepped closer to him and grabbed fistfuls of his t-shirt, pulling him closer to press your lips to his. Words had failed you, but actions spoke louder anyway, right?

Mary stumbled back a little, but promptly held his hands out to grip your hips as he kissed you back with a chuckle. When he pried his lips from yours after a while, he still didn’t let you go, far too comfortable holding you close to him while you still held onto his t-shirt.

“So, you’re not mad at me?” he asked smugly. You shook your head no, biting your lip to contain the grin. “Good... I just wanted it to be us tonight. No one else shoving their noses in our business, y’know?”

“It’s perfect, Mare. Shouldn’t have doubted you,” you told him. “But you better get that barbeque going stat, before I take a chunk out of you instead.”

“Ooh, don’t threaten me with a good time, doll,” he teased with a wink, letting you go and reaching into the van for the supplies he’d brought. As he was setting up the barbeque, he threw his keys to you, “half-turn the key, you’ll just get the radio. Tune it to whatever you want.” You nodded, letting him get on with it while you searched through the stations for something a little less screamy, a little more old-school... You settled for a station known for its classic rock – a middle ground for you and Mary for now.

Getting comfy amongst the pillows and blankets Mary had collected – whilst he’d been grocery shopping, so he told you – you watched him get to work, using his zippo to light the coals and throwing a couple of burger patties on the grill with some chicken skewers. Golden hour was certainly upon you, the gorgeous scenery bathed in an ethereal orange glow as the sun descended.

The sky grew darker as Mary cooked for the two of you, both of you making your way through the burgers, skewers and snacks he’d brought just chatting, laughing, enjoying the company of one another in a way that had so far been impossible. If you had any doubts about Mary’s personality at all, this evening had squashed them completely. He was a dork, a loser, a cheeky little shit and so incredibly charming, sweet and hilarious.

Swapping stories of your adolescence took you well into the darkness of the night, laughing at the shit he’d pulled as a teenager, the trouble he’d gotten into with his friends while you told him of the stupidity of a fake life, the tales of pettiness and girl-drama from high school and the asshole boys you’d dated through the years.

“So, you’ve only ever dated assholes then, huh?” he asks, taking a sip from the soda can in his hand.

“Yep, sure know how to pick ‘em... Or maybe I attract them, I don’t know. Didn’t exactly want most of their attention,” you scoffed, biting the end off a strawberry twizzler.

“Like that asshole at the fair?” he asked, taking another sip. You made a face of disgust, remembering the way that Devon had claimed you that night.

“Mhm. He decided I was his the second he met me. Gross. I spent all evening trying to get him away from me without causing a scene. Like I said, just attract assholes,” you shrugged, turning to face him with a sly smile, “still do.”

Mary swallowed a large gulp of the soda, finishing his can and sat up from where he leaned on his elbow in the pillows, his eyebrow quirked upwards and chest puffed out.

“Oh, I’m an asshole?”

“You deny it?” you teased, taking another bite of the twizzler.

Mary crushed the soda can in his fist and threw it behind him, keeping his eyes on you as he moved closer, practically crawling on his knuckles. You swallowed your bite, butterflies awakening in your stomach at the dark look on his face. His make up only made him look more menacing, a spark of excitement igniting inside you.

“Well, if you only date assholes, does that mean we’re dating, doll?” he challenged, the corner of his lips twitching. Neither of you had labelled whatever this was between you, the conversation this morning only settling on it being something. Was he asking you to officially be his? You grew nervous, worried you’d scare him off with an admission that yes, you wanted to date him. Officially.

“I-I...” you stumbled, trying desperately to think of something smart to say. You fell short.

“I seem to remember you telling me you’d ‘fight for me’ this morning, doll...” he practically growled, continuing to crawl over you until you shuffled back, slowly leaning into the pillows behind you as he loomed over you. His body lay beside yours, and yet, he leaned on his fists either side of you, contorted to cage you in. “’With your bare fucking hands’?”

For the second time tonight, you were speechless. All you could think about was how close he was, how menacing he looked, how your body melted under his and you seemed all too willing to submit beneath him.

“I suppose what I’m asking you, doll, is...” he lowered his head to whisper in your ear, “Are you mine?”

Where words failed you, the involuntary little whimper you let slip spoke for you. Mary had to bite his lip and turn his head away to look at the far wall of the van to contain the proud grin and laugh he wanted to let out. Composing himself, he looked back down at you, gaze drifting over you.

“You just gotta say the words, doll. Easy as that.” He raised one of his fists to toy with the edges of his leather jacket you still had wrapped around you, fingertips grazing your collarbone beneath the knit of your dress. “What do you say, hm?”

You let a beat of quiet pass between you, the low melodies of classic rock still playing from the cabin of the van. He waited patiently, still toying with the badges and spikes of his jacket, admiring how pretty they looked on you.

“I want to be yours, Mary...” you confessed.

Mary’s eyes instantly flicked back up to look into yours. He searched for a moment, looking for any insincerity, anything that made him think you regretted those words slipping from your tongue or you had only said that because he’d asked you to.

Nothing of the sort.

The kiss Mary surprised you with knocked the wind out of you, bruising and all-consuming as his body all but collapsed into you, his lips moulding to yours and smearing your lipstick in such a heated moment of need he surprised even himself. His hand slipped beneath his jacket, palm flattening against your collarbone and sliding up to hold the back of your neck, his thumb stretching to hold your jaw in place and manoeuvre your head to the perfect angle.

He leaned his body weight into you, his elbow propping him up enough to save you from being completely crushed but the weight on your chest was welcomed. You just wanted him close, everywhere all at once.

His lips commanded movement from you, parting them over and over to welcome his tongue into the mix as well as yours. His grip on you tightened, his body rolling into yours with a desperate need to make you his as you’d asked. Your heart hammered against your chest, pounding so hard you thought it might burst through just to get to Mary.

The hand on your neck dragged itself down further, palm flattened against your collarbone and down between the valley of your breasts, over your stomach and quickly dipping to your hip where he squeezed the flesh he adored. With a second squeeze he pulled your hip closer, colliding with his own and earning a groan that parted his lips from yours and spread the heat of his breath against your chin where he was now mouthing recklessly, leaving sloppy kisses on your skin.

“Can I have you now?” he pleaded, the sloppy kisses moving along your jaw to beneath your ear, and down your neck.

“Please, Mary...” you begged, hands fisting the soft blankets beneath you.

He sat up abruptly, pushing himself away to kneel at your feet with every ounce of willpower he could muster to be away from you. You sat yourself up on your elbows wanting to chase him, panic ensuing that he’d changed his mind but when he sat himself at your feet and lifted one to his thigh, you calmed a little, watching with intrigue.

He pulled at your shoelace, slowly unravelling them to loosen your high tops and pull at the heel, removing it along with your sock. He gently placed it between his knees again, lifting the other to do the same except this time, he didn’t lower your foot. Instead, he raised it higher, pressing his lips gently to the inside of your ankle. He leaned forward on his knees, holding your leg to easily trail more slow, open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your calf muscle until he was dipped low enough to rest your ankle on his shoulder, yet still travelling his kisses up to your knee. With his hand now free, he could push the hem of your dress up and chase it with his lips.

You watched him take his time, the heat in your stomach growing inescapably. You wanted to press your thighs together for some kind of friction but in this position, Mary would never allow it. All you could do was wrap your arms around your stomach, gripping onto the material of your dress in anticipation.

The dress bunched against the middle of your thighs, and his lips made their way up the inside of your knee, mouthing at the flesh with gentle scrapes of his teeth and puffs of hot breath as he groaned against you. He looked so lost in his worship of your body, eyes closed and eyebrows knitting together with each moan. Before he could get too close to where you needed him, he sat up again, both hands reaching underneath your dress on the outsides of your thighs and finding the hem of your panties. He dragged them down from under the skirt, pulling them off you and dropping them to one side. Before coming back to you, he stripped himself of his denim jacket and reached behind his head to pull his t-shirt off again, leaving him shirtless with his jeans belted low on his hips.

You allowed yourself to linger on the sight of his little happy trail dipping beneath the material, the distinct ‘V’ shape your remembered from the night in your bedroom making your mouth water and your thighs press together like you’d wanted before.

Without another word, he lowered himself to his stomach, lifting your ankle over his shoulder again and leaning on his elbows. His lips found your inner thigh where he’d left you, and began their ascension with more wet kisses and gentle bites. You helped him with your dress, finally feeling him nudging his nose against the very top of your inner thigh. Raising your hips, you pulled the dress over the swell of your ass beneath you, and exposed your core to him.

Mary couldn’t help but to stare... How pretty you looked for him, practically sparkling with arousal already. Like a man possessed, he was drawn to your centre, his lips pressing to your mound right above where you glistened for him. Instinctively your fingers threaded in his hair, pushing that signature spike in front of his face out of the way and gripping onto the strands to ground yourself.

Finally, he kissed your lips as he wound his arms underneath your thighs, hands flattened to your flesh and pulling your hips down to his mouth. His tongue snuck between your folds and swept across your throbbing clit, getting a taste of you that awoke something primal inside him. His fingers dug into your flesh tighter and he pushed his face deeper into your core, tongue now swishing and flicking over your nerves while you threw your head back at the pleasure.

At the sound of your first breathy and high-pitched moan, he grinned, tongue still laving at your clit. He’d fucking missed that... And with no one around for miles, he had no need to gag you, to stop you from singing for him like a siren’s call. The two of you were finally alone, this time in no danger of being caught or found out. He could hear you tonight, completely unbound.

One of the arms snaked around your thigh unwound, his palm pressing to your abdomen and his thumb stretching to flick over your clit as his tongue dipped lower, burrowing between your folds and finding a well of arousal to lap at where it had gathered at your entrance. You spread your legs wider for him, encouraging him as he drank you in. Mary’s tongue was like fucking magic, casting spells that had your mind dizzy and hazy.

“Mary...” you whined, your hips lazily grinding against his tongue until he pressed further, dipping inside you while his thumb flicked over your clit. You were going to lose yourself quickly, completely drunk on pleasure. Mary didn’t care, so long as he could hear you singing his name over and over.

Somehow, he burrowed his face deeper, groaning into you. When you looked down, you could see his ass rising and falling behind his head, grinding his cock into the makeshift bed beneath him. He was too turned on to stay still, enjoying himself too much to even notice he was humping the pillows and blankets like a horny teenager. And fuck it turned you on.

The coil inside you was winding itself tighter and tighter by the second while Mary only intensified his movements, worshipping you so completely. When you called his name again, your fingers tightening and scratching at his scalp, he only got faster, desperate to bring you to an end like he had so many times before. Your hips bucked despite how hard his palm pressed against your stomach and his other held your thigh down, and soon enough, you were losing your mind with your first orgasm ripping through your body.

Mary drank every drop of fresh arousal he could get, continuing to pleasure you through the waves of your orgasm. Your cries and whimpers only encouraged him to keep going, until your body started to go limp beneath him, muscles contracting in your aftershocks. He only slightly pulled back, pressing light kisses to your clit and chuckling when it had your body jolting in overstimulation.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to gag you again, doll... You sound too pretty,” he remarked, looking at you from between your legs with a coy smile. You giggled, blushing furiously as you combed your fingers through his hair. He crawled his way up your body, wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand and pressing his lips to yours again. You cradled his cheeks in your palms, dreamily losing yourself in his kiss.

Kissing him again allowed you some time to recover from such a strong orgasm, until you found the energy to lift your thigh to his hip and press inwards, rolling your body to force him onto his back while you straddled his waist. He allowed it, moaning involuntarily when your bare core brushed against his erection behind his tight jeans. His hands slid from your waist to your ass, squeezing the exposed flesh like fresh bread dough.

You pulled yourself back, sitting upright and shaking his jacket from your shoulders, dropping it to the side. He joined you, rolling the dress up past your waist for you to take over, lifting it above your head and off your body. He leaned forwards, pressing his lips to your collarbone and sternum, resuming his earlier open-mouthed kissing spree across your chest while you reached behind you to unclasp your bra. He scrambled to pull it from you, never letting his kisses cease while he made his way across your breast to take a nipple into his mouth, nipping and sucking at the bud.

You ground your hips down into him, reminding him you needed his focus there as much as you enjoyed his attention on your breasts. It was all well and good him worshipping you and making you feel good, but you were so desperate to please him too... Yes, it turned him on to make you feel good, he derived most of his pleasure from it, but you wanted to give him the same.

“You focus too much on me,” you told him, slipping your hands between you both and reaching for his belt. “What about you, hm? Don’t I get to make you lose your mind too?”

Mary looked up at you in total awe, “didn’t you notice? I lost my mind the second you told me you were mine, baby...”

You grinned down at him, overwhelmed with an emotion you couldn’t pinpoint but it didn’t stop you from undoing his belt and jeans and slipping a hand beneath the layers of material separating you. When your hand wrapped around him, he threw his head back, groaning and rolling his eyes into the back of his head.

“Help me get ‘em off, Mare,” you told him, and he didn’t have it in him to argue at all. Why would he?

You shuffled back, pulling at the hem of his jeans and boxers while he planted his palms to the blankets beneath him and lifted his hips so you could shimmy them down. He helped to push them further, while you reached behind him to take off his boots and socks. He kicked the jeans and boxers from his legs, leaning back on his palms again as you shuffled yourself back to straddle his hips.

“You got any idea how beautiful you are, doll?” he asked, watching his own hand dance across your thigh and up over your hip.

“Never felt like that until you came along...” you admitted shyly. His head snapped in your direction, his eyes meeting yours.

“That’s a fucking crime,” he told you, pressing his thumb to your chin and pinching gently. You turned your head to press a light kiss to the heel of his palm, then leaned in to steal a real kiss from him again. While his mind was preoccupied with your lips, you reached between you both again, taking him in your hand with a stroke and beaming at the praise that came in the form of a whimper. Without disconnecting your kiss, you lined your hips up with his, and slowly began to sink down on his length.

Mary’s jaw swung open with a loud moan, one of the hands he was leaning on shooting to your thigh and digging into the flesh as if it would stop the world imploding around him. You understood, your own body reacting much the same with your arms latching around his neck to keep you stable as he filled you. You felt so tight around him, walls already contracting as you derived your pleasure from the intrusion.

You had to take a moment when he had nothing more to fill you with, stretched around him and overwhelmed. His grip on your thigh never lessened, the two of you pressing your foreheads together with parted lips and hot, uneven breaths fanning each other’s face. It felt so incredibly intimate; whatever this connection with Mary was, it was all-consuming. If it weren’t for the throb of need between your legs, you’d have been content to stay like this for as long as he’d allow.

But now accustomed to his size and the depths to which he filled you, you couldn't help yourself. Slowly, you began to roll your hips against his, your fingers snaking into the hair at the base of his neck as you brushed your nose against his. The hand on your thigh slid to your hips, his nails biting at your curves.

As you found a rhythm, moans dripped from his lips like the sweetest syrup. You taking control, needing him so close you could practically swallow each other whole was driving Mary wild. In his head, he was battling between begging you to ride him faster and wanting to keep you like this as long as possible, prolonging both of your pleasure. All either of you cared about was how the other was feeling – your own pleasures were simply a bonus.

“Take what you need from me, baby,” he panted as your pace picked up a little, your hips rocking into him and body rolling against him. “I’m yours just... just as much as you’re mine.”

Hearing that, you lost yourself. Your head fell back, hair cascading down your shoulders and body rolling faster into him. He shifted his weight beneath you to relieve the need to hold himself up with one hand, instead wrapping his arms around your back and digging his fingernails in there too. Feeling him clawing at your flesh, you felt so wanted it drove you insane.

Mary’s lips collided with your chest again, mouthing at the skin as he groaned and whimpered into you. His hands were all over you, feeling every inch of you surrounding him, guiding you in your mission to capture bliss with every roll of your hips. You felt Mary everywhere, and it was fucking perfect.

Unbridled moans filled the van, spilling out into the night and across the still waters of the lake under the moonlight. In such a picturesque snapshot of Mother Nature’s work, nothing felt more natural than this moment with him. No insecurities, no doubts, nothing to be unsure about.

The way you rode him had his cock reaching every spot inside you, the control allowing you to pinpoint what felt the best and demand more of it. Mary could feel you squeezing him, massaging every inch of him as he sunk further and further into madness. The spell you were casting on him was a welcomed hex, and he was a willing victim.

“M-Mary?” you called out to him, your eyes shut so tight; you were afraid to open them in case everything you were feeling disappeared.

“I’m here... Fuck, I’m here, doll. Not goin’ nowhere,” he vowed, his grip tightening, his promises muffled by the swell of your breast.

You became almost frantic, chasing both of your highs. It was the only thing that mattered to you; that bond, that simultaneous desire to prove to each other how vital this attachment was. Mary let one of his hands slither between you both, giving you his palm to rut yourself against while you took him deeper with each thrust against him. The direct contact with your clit had you fluttering around him, and he couldn’t help but bite down on your breast and send a brief flash of welcomed pain through your body.

The yelp you let out snapped his head up to look at you, finding your face contorted into an expression of euphoria. His free hand gripped your neck, his thumb curling around your jaw to hold your face tightly.

“Look at me,” he demanded, growling through grit teeth, his orgasm hurtling towards him like a runaway train. He needed to see you. “Baby look at me, c-come on, please...” he begged.

Your eyes shot open at his request and the blissful tears in your eyes were all it took to send him over the edge. He pulled your face to his and smashed his lips to yours, rocking underneath you to match your thrusts while his cock pulsated and kicked inside you, spilling everything he had deep inside you. The lewd sounds of his cum and your slick mixing and were so intoxicating, and the warmth of his release had you whimpering into his mouth.

His didn’t remove his hand from between you, nor from your neck. If anything, his palm pressed harder against your clit, and there really was no hope of containing your orgasm if you had wanted to. A powerful wave of ecstasy sucked you under the surface, tumbling you until you couldn’t discern which way was up or down. You gasped, the air being punched out of your lungs to separate your last desperate kiss.

Mary cried out as if he was in pain, overstimulated by the way your core sucked him inside and refused to let go. The hand at your clit shot to your back to stop you from falling backwards, your balance long lost. Instead, you fell forwards, Mary powerless to stop your weight from sending him flying back into the pillows.

Now laying in a heap of limbs, you convulsed and whimpered while your climax ebbed away. Mary too, the shockwaves jolting him every time your walls contracted on his still semi-hard length. Neither of you could speak, simply exhausted and almost catatonic. It took all of his energy to wrap his arms around you.

Minutes passed as you caught your breaths, like astronauts floating through space and finding a safe place to land. This felt different to any other time with Mary... It wasn’t dirty, it wasn’t rushed, you weren’t in danger of being discovered and you weren’t suppressed. You were simply so drunk on each other, so completely enamoured that words weren’t enough anymore.

You’d never had this before. Neither had Mary. Both of you were just as clueless as to what to do with these feelings – and you were both as terrified as each other for whatever were to come next.

You lifted your head to look up at him, resting your chin on his chest. He looked back down at you too, and before either of you knew what you were doing, you both erupted into laughter.

You couldn’t pinpoint why; was it relief? Was it at the absurdity of how you got here? Was it just noise to fill the after-bliss void? Perhaps all of the above, but as Mary cuddled you into his side and wrapped you both in a blanket to stave of the chill of the night seeping into the space around you now you’d stilled, neither of you could stop the laughter.

“What the fuck are we doing, doll?” he laughed, running his palm down his face as his laughter calmed to a chuckle.

“Being young and dumb...” you gleamed, pressing a kiss to his chest and grinning up at him.

“...and full of cum,” he teased, earning a loud slap to his bare chest and more laughter erupting from the two of you.

“You had to ruin it!” you accused.

“That’s me, doll. Ruin everything,” he winked, pulling you to lay higher next to him so you were face to face. “Certainly ruined your life.”

“Wouldn’t change a second of it.”

Mary’s smirk turned into a genuine smile, his fingers tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear.

“Nah, me neither,” he declared, before cradling your cheek and leaning into you for another kiss; this time, one that had butterflies dancing in your stomach to a different tune – a more mellow, contented melody.

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da-rulah · 8 months

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The Mayor's Daughter - Mary Goore x f!Reader [Part 4]

Summary: Mary can't think straight; at least, not about anything but you. He's angry, and he's hurt - rightly so - but he can't help the feeling that he's missing something. His spider senses are tingling, and his saviour complex is nagging in his head...

Meanwhile, you're dragged to a formal dinner at the Town Hall with your father's sleazy political associates. What could possibly go wrong?

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Angst, childhood memories/trauma, alcoholism, addiction, minor drug use, creepy men being creepy, unwanted physical touch/harassment, abandonment, panic attacks

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3 | MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

A/N: Once again, a huge thank you to @her-satanic-wiles & @angellayercake for workshopping and beta reading this fic with me! I live for their reactions every time I sent them an idea or a draft... 🤭 This chapter got away from me, as so many do, and ending up pretty damn long... Enjoy!

He had to be quick. Any longer, and he might be chased out. But he couldn’t help himself... he wanted to look, to touch...

“HEY!” A gruff male voice shouted from somewhere behind him. Mary startled, stumbling back and shoving his hands in his pockets. “These are for people who know what they’re doing, not little hooligans!”

The store clerk came rushing over, coming in between Mary and the beautiful Gibson Les Paul on display, hung up on the wall amongst the others. The body shone in a stunning hue of deep red wood, orange bursting from the fret board. He’d always dreamt of owning a guitar like this – or any at all. He just wanted to pick one up, to learn, to play.

“S-sorry mister... I didn’t mean to-”

“Go on, out with you! Comin’ in here every damn day, gettin’ in the way of my customers. Go on, get!” The old man shooed a 10-year-old Mary out of the store, shutting the door in his face and folding his arms behind the glass, watching until Mary finally sagged his little shoulders and sighed to himself, trudging down the sidewalk with his head hung low.

Other people were allowed in to look at the guitars, to touch them, test them; why wasn’t he? Sure, he knew he was a kid but he wasn’t a bad kid... He knew he could never afford a guitar like that Les Paul, but oh how he dreamed of owning his own guitar. Just a little acoustic thing to practise on. He'd put in the work, he’d swear it. He just wanted to learn.

Still, Mary headed home with his hands in his pockets and his head hung low, avoiding the eyes of the adults around town who looked down on him with looks of either disgust or pity; he was never sure which was worse.

“Mom?” he called out as he walked into the small and run-down little apartment block on the edge of town. They’d had to move in here almost a six months ago after his father left, unable to afford much else on his mother’s salary; her job at the local diner didn’t pay well.

Music from the radio filtered through the hall, along with the smell of yesterday’s spaghetti being reheated on the stove. “In here, baby,” a weak shout came from the kitchen. She sounded weaker with each week that passed, barely eating and drinking far too much to be considered healthy at all. Mary had spotted that, not totally understanding the ramifications of it at his tender age but he was wiser beyond most 10-year-old’s years. That’s the thing about a shitty childhood; you grow up quick.

Still, he was grateful his father was out of the picture now. Honestly? The lesser of two evils. It was better him gone than be here still, hurting everybody around him.

Mary headed into the kitchen, sitting down at the small table for the two of them and waiting patiently as his mum stirred the pot over the stove, her back to him. He watched as her left hand lifted a glass from beside the stove; a wine glass, half-filled with the cheapest red on the market.

“Good day?” she asked, looking briefly over her shoulder. Mary just shrugged; he hadn’t paid much attention in school, and he didn’t want to tell her about being chased out of the music store. Although he wasn’t sure what he’d done to get kicked out, he still lived under the assumption it was somehow his fault.

His mother hummed along to the radio as she heated their food, taking gulps of the wine to her left and refilling it before plating up two small bowls of food – hers noticeably smaller – and sitting opposite Mary as she placed them down.

“Thank you,” he smiled at her shyly, never forgetting his manners as he tucked into his meal. His mother smiled fondly at her boy, twirling her fork in the pasta noodles as she sipped her wine. The radio played to fill the silence, songs from another decade that had his mother reminiscing over happier years.

As he chewed, he thought back to that guitar, how he’d do anything to have one like that. But he’d settle for a smaller, cheaper, second-hand one. He’d be delighted with one. He just wanted to learn how to play, and then maybe one day, his mom could hum along to his songs on her radio.

“Ma, I think I know what I want for my birthday...”

“Oh? Well good! I was wondering when you’d give me some ideas,” she smiled. Mary hesitated, chewing his lip. Was he asking for too much? Perhaps, but he had to try at least. “Come on, baby, what is it?”

“Well... can I get a guitar? Not like, an expensive one or anything... Just second-hand or something. I wanna learn to play, Ma. I think I’d get real good at it!” he rambled, his excitement barely contained as he thought about how people might change how they saw him if he could prove he was good at something, that he could work hard and prove himself.

His mother’s smile faltered, fading as she dropped her fork against her bowl and grabbed her wine glass, finishing the rest of it off and pouring herself another hefty glass.

“Baby, guitars aren’t cheap, even the second-hand ones...” she began, her voice quiet and full of regret.

“No, I know, but I thought, maybe if I could get a job somewhere, I could mow lawns or something, maybe help Mr Rogers at the carpenters or get a paper route, then maybe I could-”

“Baby you’re ten years old, you should just be a kid as long as you can,” she smiled sadly, her eyes betraying her as they glassed over with tears. It broke her heart to see her little boy so desperate to be a man, to help her, to help pay for his own damn birthday present.

“I... I can still be a kid, I just thought I could help?” he questioned.

“I just don’t think I can afford it baby...” Mary’s shoulders slumped, his own fork dropping into his bowl as he sat back against the chair in defeat.

“Could you stop buying wine for a little, Ma? I just really want a guitar... And then you can get more again. Just for a bit, I promise!”

If her heart wasn’t already breaking for her little boy, it did then. The guilt rose like bile in her throat, her eyes staring at the bottle on the table, her glass emptied again and the taste lingering on her tongue. She’d had her own selfishness reflected back at her, a mirror held up to the truth; the truth being that her lips were stained with the red of her addiction, paired with her sunken eyes, bearing the weight of her sorrow.

She should try, she thought to herself. For him, for her little Mary. He never asked her for anything, and the one thing he wants in the world for his birthday was a crummy little second-hand guitar? She should be able to give him that; as a mother, she wanted to give him the world. He certainly deserved it after all he’d been through.

“I-I’ll... I’ll try, Mary. I’ll really try,” her voice cracked, swallowing the guilt down and forcing the tears to recede. Mary nodded to himself, looking down into his bowl and back to hers that even untouched, still had less in than his half-eaten leftovers.

He stood up, the bowl in his hands and placed it down in front of her. She needed to eat more, he thought.

“Oh, baby no, it’s okay. You should ea-”

“I’m not that hungry, Ma. Please take it.”

She stopped protesting, nodding as she held a shaking hand out to hold his cheek, stroking her thumb over the pudge he was yet to grow out of with a gentle smile.

“Thank you, angel,” she told him, pressing a wine-stained kiss to his forehead. “I promise, I’ll try harder.”

Deft fingers plucked at the strings of a battered old acoustic guitar. The wood was splintering where the neck met the body, the varnish worn down in places that hands would dance over as it had been played to within an inch of its life. Stickers littered the body, hiding nicks and damages from over the years but they too were beginning to wear down to white patches of nothing.

Still, she sang like a dream the way she always had. Mary’s skilled hands worked her strings mindlessly, drifting from riffs he’d learned of his favourite bands over the years to riffs of his own he’d written – the most recent sounding much more melancholy than he’d anticipated.

Sitting in his dimly lit studio apartment, he reclined against the wall at the head of his bed with his first guitar in his lap. His intention had been to drift off into his own world, to write some riffs for songs he could present to the guys and form into tracks for upcoming shows, but he’d been unable to focus, his fingers working on muscle memory alone as his head drifted to the same thing he’d thought of for the last few days.

He’d had time to calm down, for the fog of anger to dissipate and now he’d entered the reflection stage. The anger morphed into hurt, reminded once again that no matter if you wanted him or not, you still were ashamed to be seen with him. He didn’t fit your image, his mere existence in your life was inconvenient and a black stain on your pristine white image.

He wondered if cleaning himself up was an option for a brief moment. What if he didn’t paint his face? What if he wore a shirt instead of his cut off band tees? What if he styled his hair different? All the ‘what if’s swam around his head, but they’d be lies. Mary was many things, but never a phony. He refused to bow down to public opinion and become one of the masses if it meant sacrificing everything that was genuinely him.

He decided he’d rather be hated for who he was, than adored for something he wasn’t. Which is exactly the life you were living.

You’d chosen a world where people loved you, fell at your feet to be known by you and yet somewhere along the way, you’d sacrificed whoever you truly were, covered it up with bows and frills and shiny trinkets. He almost felt sorry for you.

Still, he couldn’t swallow the nagging feeling that he’d done something wrong, that he was letting you slip through his fingers. He wasn’t dumb; Mary knew there was more to you than this image. He’d seen glimpses of it, this vulnerable yet feisty woman clawing at you from inside. Frankly, you drove him crazy. He'd never wanted anything for himself so badly in his life, except maybe the guitar in his hands. He couldn’t lay his eyes on you without wanting you; perhaps up until recently, he thought that was simply physical attraction, a need to take you and have you both coming undone together.

But the way you plagued his mind, how he thought of you during the smallest moments of peace to himself... he was beginning to understand he’d formed a kind of connection with you he couldn’t begin to explain. But he was starting to recognise a feeling within himself that stung like rubbing alcohol on a wound, a feeling that shot him right back to his childhood, to a place so painful he’d shoved it down and ignored it for years.

Before he could go down that route, his shook his head to rid the memories and lay his guitar gently beside him, reaching for his smokes on his nightstand. Lighting one up with his zippo lighter, he rested himself back against the wall, swiping a hand down his face in exasperation. He’d spent too long on this, too many moments infiltrated by thoughts of you.

If Mary was being honest with himself, he only had to ask himself one simple question; were you worth compromising everything he knew about himself? Were you worth him changing himself, becoming something he wasn’t so he could be ‘acceptable’ in your world?

No.

Because that was a world that would only ever see him as a delinquent. They had when he was a child, a teenager and now into adulthood. The second they’d known who his father was, who his mother was, they’d judged him. That would never change, so why should he?

The town hall ballroom was the last fucking place you wanted to be at any given moment, let alone when it was filled with governors, police chiefs, politicians and seedy businessmen. If you’d had your way, you’d have stayed tucked up in bed, like you’d spent most of your spare time in the last week or so since the Bicentennial fair. Facing reality was something you’d tried to avoid, but that wasn’t going to be possible for Daddy’s big dinner party for all the town’s biggest officials.

No, you were to be paraded like a shiny trophy daughter tonight, mingling with the rich and seedy underbelly of your father’s political career. These people made your stomach turn and your skin crawl. You observed them from the corner of the room, a glass of prosecco in a hand covered by white satin gloves to the elbow, in a fancy, floor-length, glittered evening dress of the same pale peach colouring as the bubbly. Your mother had picked the outfit, “elegance with a touch of sparkle” she had said.

Watching them mingle and chatter away, you could barely help the expression on your face turning to one of vague disgust. Your father made his way around the room, shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with the elite while your mother followed in tow, laughing at all the jokes she must have heard a thousand times over the years and nattering with the wives in the room about the latest gossip.

Shallow; all of this was so fucking shallow. But the worst part? This was your future. Your mother... her life was the future your father had paved for you, expected you to walk. You couldn’t think of anything worse.

“Pumpkin! Come and say hello to Mr. Nelson,” you father flagged you down from your inner monologue of disapproval, notably stood with an old man you recognised as the town’s previous Mayor. Mr. Nelson had handed the title over to your dad when you were little, staying a consistent advisor in the governing of the town’s affairs ever since his retirement six years ago.

You’d never liked him. There was something untoward about him, sleazy and manipulative; but that’s politicians for you.

You knocked back the rest of your prosecco glass for a bit of liquid encouragement and walked towards them with your prettiest fake smile on.

“Good evening, Mr. Nelson,” you said, taking his outstretched hand to shake.

“Good evening, my dear!” He didn’t let go of your hand like you’d expected, instead tightening his grip and pulling you to lean forwards so he could press a whiskered kiss to your cheek – or what was actually closer to the corner of your lips. When he leaned back, he winked at you, still keeping hold of your hand to lift it, unashamedly scanning his eyes over your body in your dress and twirling you like a doll on a music box. “My, my... how you’ve grown, hm?”

Your eyes locked onto your father, who was smiling at you fondly as if there wasn’t a problem. You, however, were exceedingly uncomfortable. You looked back to Mr. Nelson, smiling and acting the part. Honestly, you’d always wondered if acting would be a good career for you; you did it often enough.

“Quite the beautiful young lady these days,” Mr. Nelson commented, letting go of your hand and coming to stand beside you, a hand resting on the small of your back as he turned to speak to your father.

“She gets all that from her mother, of course,” he smiled proudly, squeezing the shoulders of your mother beside him, who swatted him with her own gloved hand.

“Oh, stop it, you charmer,” she laughed. You recoiled from the interaction, uncomfortable that there was still a hand on you at all, let alone on the small of your back.

“Your father was telling us about your college days; quite impressive, my dear!” Mr. Nelson said, his hand patting just above the curve of your behind.

“Y-yeah... I mean, thank you, sir,” you smiled graciously. How could you get out of this?

“Now, if only we could find her a nice man to settle down with,” your father joked, your mother smiling along with him as Mr. Nelson chuckled.

“I’m sure that won’t be difficult, hm? Plenty of fine men about town. Any catch your eye?” he asked, looking down at you with a raised white eyebrow.

Instantly, your mind flew to Mary. Certainly, he was not the kind of ‘fine man’ Mr. Nelson or your father would envision for you; in fact, you’re sure they would recoil in horror, but you couldn’t help but think of him. Any opportunity for your brain to remind you of how painfully you’d fucked that up, it would take.

You took too long to answer, head full of Mary as it so often was.

“Pumpkin, Mr. Nelson asked you a question,” he insisted with an expectant nod of his head.

“Oh, not to worry. She clearly has somebody in mind, if the mere mention of a man has her daydreaming about him, hm?” he chortled, his hand now slipping lower to pat at the curve of your backside. Instinctively you jumped forward half a step to get away from the unwanted contact, head whipping to your father in the hope he’d seen that, that he’d step in and defend you. But of course, he didn’t.

“Pumpkin? What’s gotten into you, hm?” His glare was disapproving, his eyebrow quirking as he waited for your answer, but an awkward silence fell on the four of you instead.

“I, um... I’m so sorry, I think I lost my balance. These, uh, damn heels, that’s all,” you laughed nervously, averting the eyes of everyone around you.

“Perhaps a little too much bubbly,” Mr. Nelson accused, tipping his head towards your empty flute in your hand.

“Y-yes, maybe... Perhaps I need some air. Would you excuse me?”

You were turning and leaving before your father could stop you, shoving the glass in your hand onto the tray of a waiter on your way to the door, ignoring the calls of “pumpkin!” behind you, sounding aggravated and embarrassed. Heads turned to watch you leave but you couldn’t look at them, overwhelmed and uncomfortable. You just had to get out.

You headed directly for your father’s office, a small and private space to collect yourself before inevitably having to go back to the ballroom sooner rather than later, lest your father come looking for you.

Finally alone and in a quiet spot, you slumped into your father’s chair behind his desk, spinning absentmindedly from side to side guided by your stiletto on the ground. You focussed on breathing, helping to subside the panic that had risen in you. Bad enough you’d been forced to come to this thing, let alone subjected to the wandering hands of a man who’d known you since you were barely out of diapers. This evening was the nightmare you’d expected it to be.

Looking around your father’s office, it hadn’t changed much. The American flag stuck in his pen cup, the portrait of President George Washington on the wall, the photo frame on his desk that housed a very official looking family portrait taken when you were still in middle school.

This was your life. This façade of pomp and circumstance, governed by sleazy men and dodgy business deals... this was all you could see for yourself. No wonder you were clinging onto Mary by your perfectly manicured fingernails, allowing him back in so easily whenever there was room in your mind. He was the antithesis of that horrendous life already mapped out for you. He was the embodiment of freedom to you, someone that lived their life governed by them and them alone.

He liked dark things, heavy music, grungy clothes. He didn’t restrict himself, lived freely, chasing the dreams he so obviously strived for. He didn’t care what people thought of him, he lived his truth.

You wished you could live like that.

Lost to your musings and memories of brief encounters with Mary, you startled at the sound of the door to your father’s office slamming shut, with him stood before it. He’d come alone, his arms folded over his chest in his crisp tuxedo, and a hardened look of fury in his features.

Your stomach dropped and you sat upright immediately; this wasn’t going to be pretty.

“What the hell was that?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper and yet spat through clenched teeth.

“Daddy, I just... Mr. Nelson, he-”

“Don’t you ‘daddy’ me. Do you realise how embarrassing that was for your mother and I?” he scolded. You swallowed your words, thrown right back to being told off as a child. “Mr. Nelson thinks you were drunk. Are you?”

“No, daddy, I swear!” you protested, having only drank two glasses... on an empty stomach and faster than a shot of your favourite flavour schnapps.

“Then explain why you were so damn rude to him, hm?” he raised his voice, stepping towards you and leaning down on his own desk by his palms.

“He put his hands on me! He’s a creep, dad!” you matched his volume, defending yourself. Your dad just scoffed at you, shaking his head in disbelief.

“He’s a respected member of this community. One bad word from him, and this could all be over for us. My career, our way of life, everything! Do you understand that?” he shouted. How silly of you to think your own father might take your side when one of his creep associates lay a finger on you.

“It was a knee-jerk reaction, he touched my ass dad, like some fucking pervert!” you yelled back, standing from his chair and finding the guts to finally answer back, to fight for what was right instead of pander to him. Mary would be proud.

“You watch your mouth, young lady. I am your father-”

“YES! YOU ARE! And as my father, I thought you might stand up for me, oh, I don’t know, maybe be disgusted when some old man lays a hand on your daughter’s ass!”

Your father lifted an accusatory finger at you, wagging it in your face as if scolding a bad dog. “He was talking to you about your future. A future that he can take away with a snap of his fingers.” He demonstrated with the hand he waved wildly in front of you. “You’re lucky your mother has such a way with words...”

“You mean she’s a good liar,” you laughed humourlessly. “Suppose you have to be in this kind of life...” His face paled, his eyes darkening and appearing to sink further into his skull as he stood up straight, his brow furrowing.

“I have worked for over two decades to build us ‘this life’,” his voice deepened, darkening considerably as he loomed over you. “Look around you. Do you think this just happens? I have done nothing but provide for you, you ungrateful little girl.”

“This is the problem... I’m not a little girl anymore, and you still treat me like I can’t think for myself. I’ve got my own mind, things that I want to do. Do you give a shit about that at all?” The anger inside you you’d caged up for too long was surfacing, the heat on that simmering pot turning up with every word out of your father’s mouth. Already you were too far gone to reel it back in. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to hear this.

“I give a shit about this family!” he screamed. “I will not allow you to tear it all down in some childish tantrum!”

“Tear what down?!” you protested, “I just want to be able to do something for myself for a change, to start my life! It’s got nothing to do with your prestige as Mayor, I just want to be able to finally crawl out from under your shadow!"

Your father ignored you completely, still only seeing the pigtailed little girl from the portrait on his desk standing in front of him. He had no idea she’d grown up before his very eyes. He’d blinked and missed it, too damn focussed on his own career and image to notice.

“You selfish little brat. You don’t get it, do you?” he sneered, “This is MY TOWN! MY LEGACY! You will live by MY RULES!”

And truthfully, that was all it was ever going to boil down to. His fucking legacy.

You sagged your shoulders in defeat, tears begging to fall out of anger. Everything you thought your dad still believed, he’d proven to you in just a few minutes; you were still a child to him, and his legacy was more important than your own happiness. Nothing you could say would win this fight. Nothing would make him see how badly he was hurting you.

You took a deep breath, composing yourself to speak a little calmer, more collected. With emotions heightened, it was easy to yell and scream back at him, to get carried away but you were determined to show him this was not some ‘tantrum’. You meant this.

“What if I don’t want to do that anymore?” you asked, staring him straight in the eye. The air seemed to thicken around you as you waited for it to soak in, for him to hear you, process, and respond. The silence was suffocating.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, turning his head to present his ear as if he hadn’t heard you, but he most certainly had. He just wanted you to repeat yourself, testing you, warning you; did you have the balls to say it again?

“What if... I don’t want to live by your rules anymore?” You spoke calmly, methodically. You will listen, you thought to yourself.

Your father straightened up again, his head twitching as he tidied up his cuff links, straightened his bow tie and slicked back his hair before he gave you the time of day. This was just a part of his intimidation, his macho technique, reminding you he was a distinguished man, one with power. When he finally looked you in the eye again, his face was set in stone.

“Then you can get the hell out of my office.”

Like a punch to the gut, it knocked the wind right out of you. He wanted you to leave.

“F-fine...” you stuttered, walking around the desk as if to head for the door, pulling your cell phone out of your clutch, “I’ll get one of your lap dogs to take me home, and we’ll talk about this in the morning,” you told him, trying to keep a modicum of dignity, prove to him you were an adult and taking the moral high ground. But your father laughed...

“I don’t think you heard me. Perhaps you didn’t understand...” he turned around to face you, now stood by the door to his office. “This is my town, Pumpkin. This whole town is my office.”

The weight of what he was saying fell like a barrel of hot tar over you, the scorching, searing pain radiating through you. You stared in disbelief, waiting for him to laugh, to tell you he was kidding, just pushing your buttons to see your reaction but nothing... He just stared at you, as you stared at him, like a deer in headlights.

“Y-you’re not serious...?” you dared to whisper, shaking your head in denial.

“Deadly. Get out,” he growled, “or do I have to call security?”

Those angry tears turned into streams now falling down your cheeks silently while you were unable to blink, processing his command until your body moved of its own accord, reaching for the doorknob and opening it behind you.

“I’m sure your precious town will love to hear about this,” you threatened, wiping the tears away with the back of your hand. He just smirked and folded his arms over his chest again.

“Careful, Pumpkin. Daddy’s got one hell of a legal team; and they’re all eating out of his palm in that ballroom tonight.”

He had you beat. Checkmate. Every credible lawyer – and the seedy ones – were on his damn payroll. You couldn’t win this no matter what you did. You just had to walk away...

And so, you did. Quietly, you slipped out from the opulent town hall and found yourself stood on a street corner a couple of blocks away, out of the sight of not only your father and his invitees behind the huge windows of the ballroom, but out of sight of his cronies, already given the instruction to make sure you left quietly, and didn’t attempt to come back in.

You were alone, as you had become so accustomed to being.

Every riff felt wrong. For over a week now, Mary tried to write something new, something fresh that he’d never heard before, that excited him and inspired him but... nothing. He was beginning to think he’d lost his touch. He knew he couldn’t force inspiration to come, but this was a longer, drier spell than even he was used to...

He reached for his pack of smokes on the nightstand where they usually sat, only to discover he was fresh out – that last cigarette had truly been his last.

“Shit,” he cursed to himself, crushing the empty box in his palm and throwing it in the general direction of the trash can, hitting the rim and bouncing off to the floor beside two or three other crumpled cigarette boxes from the last few days.

Whew, he thought to himself, smokin’ more now, too. Awesome. Still, ignoring the mess he’d neglected to tidy, he stood up from his bed with a stretch, abandoning his tattered acoustic on his bed. His leather jacket that he’d slung over the back of his couch still held his keys, wallet and cell phone from his last outing to the gas station, and so he slithered his arms into the sleeves and headed for the door.

He knew he didn’t need to take the van to travel the four blocks to the gas station on the edge of town just for cigarettes, but there was something about a late-night drive that calmed Mary. It always felt like one of those rare moments where he got to be himself; a decent band on the stereo and some open road to clear his head.

He also knew he didn’t need to go all the way to the gas station for smokes; the convenience store on the corner would do just fine. Except, Forrest usually worked the late-night shifts at the gas station, and he’d get to take advantage of his staff discount.

“Hey man!” Mary called out as he walked into the store, the bell dinging above his head. Forrest looked up from the magazine he was reading, slumped over the counter.

“Well, look what the dogs dragged in...” Forrest smirked, “where’d you fuck off to the other night?”

Ah. He’d never explained where he’d disappeared to the night of the fair, nor had he seen any of his friends since. He hadn’t realised he’d shut himself off for that long, but seemingly, he had.

“Oh, uh...” he stammered, thinking up an excuse.

“Some chick got your attention, huh?” he stood upright and folded his arms, leaning against the edge of the counter. “I don’t know how you do it, man. You got ‘em lining up out the door. You shoot strawberry milkshake outta that dick, or what?” Mary relaxed instantly, his alibi already created for him.

“Why, you wanna taste?” he mocked, shooting a flying kiss at him as he stepped up to the counter in an overly camp, seductive walk to make the other laugh.

“I’ll stick to the slurpie machine, thanks,” he joked, pretending to gag at the thought of Mary’s strawberry milkshake. “You need somethin’, or you just here to entertain me?”

“Outta smokes,” Mary shrugged. “I’ll grab the usual.”

Forrest nodded, turning his back to fish through the cigarettes that lined the wall behind the counter, coming to the brand Mary would usually purchase. Mary looked to his left, seeing a special offer on party size bags of Takis and an array of candy bars. He chucked a bag up on the counter with some candy and fished inside his jacket for his wallet as Forrest rung him up.

“Big plans tonight, huh?”

“Oh yeah, big night in with my favourite girl, Mary Jane,” Mary waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Explains the snacks, you always did get munchies worse than any of us...” he laughed, punching his employee code into the register to add his discount; something he did without thinking these days. Mary was always grateful. “$15.75”

“Thanks, man,” Mary handed over a twenty, shoving the change back in his wallet just as his phone started to buzz in his other pocket. He whipped it from his jacket, checking the caller ID when his chest tightened.

You.

Mary sneered at the phone in his hand, shoving it back into his pocket with a scowl on his face. If Forrest noticed, he didn’t question it, probably assuming it were a telemarketing scam.

“We should get a practise in before Saturday,” Forrest suggested, “I think Davey’s free on Tuesday? And I'm off too.” Mary hadn’t forgotten; they had a show to play in the city, some new goth club were having a metal night, and word of Mary’s band was starting to spread beyond the scene they’d been playing for the last two years.

“Uh yeah.” His phone stopped buzzing in his pocket. He ignored the feeling of disappointment in him, that gnawing voice in the back of his head that told him he should have answered it. “Yeah, I think I’m free. You wanna see if Jed’s about?”

Forrest made a noise that sounded vaguely like an affirmative as Mary picked up the bag with his purchases inside.

“Alright, uh...” Mary’s phone began vibrating in his pocket again, barely any respite since the last call. He ignored it, trying to claw himself back to reality instead of letting his mind drift to whatever you could possibly be calling him for. He was sure it was only one thing, anyway. “Let me know, man!”

“Yeah, see ya!” Forrest grinned, shutting the register with a ping and picking up his discarded magazine as Mary turned and left, the bell dinging above the door again. He stood outside for a moment, fishing his phone out of his pocket and seeing that it was indeed your name that flashed on his screen.

Once again, he ignored it, shoving it this time into the back pocket of his jeans and skulking back over to his van, parked in a bay near the door. It stopped just as he wrenched the door open with a rusty creak, throwing his bag into the passenger seat. He climbed in behind it, slamming the door shut and settling into the seat as he shoved the keys into the ignition. As he turned them and the engine roared to life with his stereo, he took a deep breath, leaning back against the head rest and desperately willing the thoughts of you to leave him be.

He’d wasted too much time on you already, and he meant what he’d said last time. He was tired of being everybody’s dirty little secret, and he wasn’t about to answer your fucking booty call. Not again.

Reaching into the plastic bag beside him, he pulled out his carton of cigarettes and ravaged the packaging until he could pry one from the box and shove it between his lips, pushing the lighter button in on his dashboard and waiting patiently for it to heat. Closing his eyes, he waited for the telltale click, reclining into his seat, when his phone began to buzz in his back pocket once again.

Mary’s eyes shot open, anger coursing through his veins. Were you that desperate to get laid? It wasn’t fair. He thought he’d made it clear where he stood, that he wasn’t interested in being picked up and dropped whenever someone felt like it anymore. He had to start thinking less with his dick and more with his head – and his heart.

But you were not getting the message – ignoring your calls wasn’t working. Maye he just needed to say it in black and fucking white.

Muttering curses to himself, he fished his phone from his back pocket where he sat, seeing that the caller ID did indeed read “Doll” again. He turned the volume of his stereo way down, took a deep breath, and answered the call.

“Look, I’m really not interested in being your booty call, Barbie,” he spat down the microphone, “so you might wanna just give it up now before you embarrass yourself.”

He was met with silence. He almost wanted to laugh, picturing the look of sheer shock on your face as you sat surrounded by your pink frills and stuffed animals in that ivory tower of yours. But instead, he waited. Would you dare speak? Argue with him? He’d managed to rile himself up enough by this point that maybe a fight was exactly what he needed to expel the rage.

The silence continued for a beat too long, and confusion set in. His brow furrowed, checking his phone screen to see if you’d hung up but no, you were still connected. He lifted the phone to his ear again, waiting... and then he heard it.

A sob.

A sob so small and timid, he thought maybe he wasn’t supposed to have heard it. But instantly, his face paled, and his chest hollowed. Every muscle in his shoulders that had tensed in his anger when he picked up the phone instantly turned to jelly. He’d expected resistance, maybe a “fuck you, Goore” or something to that effect. He’d expected an argument, rage, denial or defence.

He waited again, clicking the side button on his phone to turn the volume up in case he’d missed it. Now, he heard the sniffles too, along with the shuddering breath from an inhale that sounded uncontrollable. And then another small, suppressed sob.

He panicked, sitting bolt upright in his seat and pulling the cigarette from his lips as he looked around his surroundings as if there was something, someone who could help. Of course, there was nothing.

He didn’t expect you to react that way... Perhaps he’d been too harsh, maybe yelling at you wasn’t the right way to go about this, to cut his ties with you before they were truly bonded, but he hadn’t even thought it through. Mary just thought severing it with a quick, clean blow would do the trick...

“I-I... d-didn't... know who... to call,” you wept down the phone, breathing irregular as if you were suffering a panic attack. “I’m s-s... sorry.”

Instantly, Mary knew he’d fucked up. You weren’t calling him for a hook up, this was something different. Something had happened. You had already been in this state. And you’d turned to him for help. Mary swallowed a gulp of nothing, now realising his mouth and throat had gone dry whilst his jaw had hung open in bewilderment and panic.

“What’s going on?” he asked, frenzied. He waited for a response, only hearing more sobs; ones that you clearly were unable to hold back as you tried to speak, to tell him what had happened. Whatever it was, it was bad enough that you couldn’t say it without losing the small semblance of composure you had. You were in no fit state to talk about this on the phone.

The hand holding the phone dropped to his lap for a moment as he muttered a “shit” to himself, slamming his head back against the headrest. He was really going to do this, wasn’t he? He was going to run right to you, to go and fucking save you with some twisted sense of duty towards you. But then, yes, of course he was; Mary’s saviour complex had kicked in the second he heard that first tiny, frail sob.

He held the phone to his ear again.

“Look just... fuck, just breathe alright? Slowly, if you can. I’m coming, just make sure your window’s unlocked,” he instructed you, pressing his foot down on the clutch and shoving the gear stick into reverse.

“’m not... home...” you sobbed. Mary paused, confused.

“Well... where are you?” he asked, now more concerned as to what the hell had happened. If someone had laid a fucking finger on you...

“R-Raynor... street...”

Dead centre of town; anything could have happened, anybody could have been around.

“Alone?” he asked, incredibly uncomfortable with the idea of you being alone at this hour in the middle of town.

“M-mhm...” Mary cursed to himself again, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder while he used both hands to spin the wheel of his van, quickly looking in his mirrors to reverse out of his parking spot before he could speed off into the night to come and find you.

“I’m coming, alright? Stay there. Keep your phone close, stay on the line. You keep off the street ‘til you hear me coming, you understand?” His instructions were clear, almost military-like. He needed you to hear him plainly.

“Oh...kay,” you sobbed, trying to quieten your sobs and regain control.

“Keep breathing, I’m on my way.”

Mary picked the phone from between his ear and shoulder and hit the loud-speaker button, throwing it onto his dash so he could drive easier through the streets as he headed into town. Thankfully the roads had been somewhat empty, most traffic lights turning green on the approach and no one to get in his way or flag him down for speeding at this hour. He just needed to get to you, as fast as possible.

Turning onto Raynor street, he slowed right down and got a good look; you were nowhere to be seen. He prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that you’d just followed his advice, hiding down an alleyway off the main street to keep out of sight of any passersby with bad intentions. He turned his stereo back up, a clear indication that it was him who was driving slowly down the street, watching and waiting for you to pop your head out of somewhere.

“C’mon, doll... where are you?” he muttered anxiously to himself, looking down every nook and cranny between buildings.

The music you heard edging closer down the street echoed what you could hear from your phone speaker, telling you that the vehicle approaching was him. A wave of relief washed over you, and you stepped out from between a hair salon and an apartment block near the end of the street. Mary's headlights caught on your dress, the sparkle catching his eye immediately and he sped up until he could break suddenly right next to you, jumping out of his van and running around it to get to you as quickly as he could.

His hands gripped onto your biceps and he held you out at arm's reach to get a good look at you; carefully placed make up had streaked from your tears, black rings forming around your eyes where your mascara had run. Your eyes themselves were bloodshot; how long had you been out here like this before you’d called him? You shivered in his hands, the cold of the night getting to you in this dress that left your arms and shoulders exposed, doing nothing to warm you at this late hour. He didn’t even think, shucking himself out of his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders where his body heat had already warmed it.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, cupping your face in his hands and swiping the tear tracks away with his thumbs. You shook your head no, another sob rising in your throat now that he was here. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting, his initial reaction to your phone call clearly indicating he was still very much mad at you; not that you could blame him. But it didn’t escape your notice that he had come anyway, and the expression on his face was almost one of terror before his eyes had fallen on you, and softened considerably.

Something in him cared.

“Alright, come on... get in,” he settled a hand between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently and quickly to the passenger side of his van where he opened the door for you, helping you up. You settled into the seat, curling in on yourself and hugging Mary’s jacket closer to you for the warmth the night had stripped from you as he climbed in the driver’s side. He turned the stereo right down, the music now only to fill a silence rather than to alert you to his arrival.

“Is there... somewhere you want me to take you?” he asked, an awkwardness coming over him. He had no idea how to react in this situation, no clue what had happened or why you’d called him of all people when you had an entire security team on your side.

You seemed to think about it for a moment, a fresh wave of tears trickling from your eyes and dripping to your lap when you looked down in an attempt to hide your face.

“I... don’t have anywhere...” you sobbed, your fists tightening around the edges of Mary’s jacket to have something to ground you while your shoulders shook.

Mary watched on helplessly, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to reach over, to pull you into him and hold you so you could let out the much more violent sobs you were so obviously holding back. He was so used to the feistier side of you; your smart mouth, your confidence... It’s what drew him in, what attracted him to you like a moth to a flame. This wasn’t you.

It stirred up a need in him to help, to sacrifice his own discomfort in favour of your comfort. Instantly, he put you first, forgetting any resignations he had about ever seeing you again. That anger he harboured at how out-of-touch he thought you were? It dissipated the second he’d heard the first sob. He’d been triggered like a sleeper cell, instantly needing to patch up whatever wound you’d suffered.

“You don’t wanna go home?” he asked, figuring he already knew the answer. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. When you shook your head violently, he got the confirmation he needed. “Alright, well...” He was going to regret this, wasn’t he? But he’d said it before he could stop himself. “You could stop at my place for a bit.” Yep, he regretted it. “If it’s not too weird, or anything... I mean, I live alone, if you’re worried about my friends being ther-”

“Okay...” you sniffled.

Mary stopped rambling, instead reaching for the cigarette he’d never lit and thrown on his dash with his phone. Once again, he pushed the cigarette lighter in to heat up, adjusting the heating in the van to a warmer temperature too to warm you up.

“Alright um, sure...” He held the cigarette between his lips, shoving the van into gear and continuing down the street. “There’s a carton of cigs in the bag by your feet, if you want one,” he offered – more to fill the silence between you than anything. The quiet stereo could only do so much.

You sniffled and reached down to the bag, fishing through the plastic until you found the carton he’d mentioned and pulling one out for yourself hoping it might help to calm you. With a pop, the lighter signalled it was ready, and Mary held it out to you first as he focussed on the road. You lit it carefully with a small ‘thank you’ and settled back into your seat. The first drag helped settle your nerves, the heating in the van calming the shakes you’d had too, although you weren’t sure if that had been the panic or the cold of the night.

A few streets into the journey back to his place, you couldn’t take the quiet any longer. The awkward air between you felt so stale, icy in comparison to the warmth the van generated. As much as you wanted to relax in his presence – as he up until now had always been able to make you do – you just couldn’t. Not with the elephant in the back of the van, so to speak...

“I’m sorry... for calling,” you mumbled, still too full of shame to be able to look at him directly, only stealing a glance from the corner of your eye. Mary took a long drag of his cigarette, flicking the ash out of the crack he’d opened in his window. He looked between you and the road, as if thinking through his response a few times.

“You don’t have to apologise for that. I’m not one to leave a lady out in the cold...” he shrugged. He certainly wasn’t; literally or metaphorically.

“Thank you for coming, Mary. I didn’t know where to go...” Every time you thought back to the fight with your father, fresh and hot tears would well up in your eyes. It didn’t escape Mary’s notice, and he wanted nothing more than to reach over and squeeze your hand with reassurance. Instead, he settled on trying to lighten the mood a little. Comedy always had been his defence mechanism, after all...

“Dressed like that? I’d have said... Cinderella’s ball?”

You scoffed, the first genuine smile he’d seen from you as you shook your head. “Shut up,” you told him.

“You couldn’t call on the creatures of the forest to come help?” he continued, smirking when he saw your shoulders shaking in silent laughter, elbow propped up on the edge of your window. “Tinkerbell not got any pixie dust left for ya?”

You reached over and playfully slapped his chest, earning you an ‘ouch’ and an act of feigned pain as he recoiled. But you giggled to yourself, the absurdity of it all finally hitting you. Here you were sat in your sparkly peach gown with your satin elbow gloves, high heels and fancy hairdo, cradled by Mary’s leather jacket in a beat-up van that was old enough to still have a damn cigarette lighter in the dash. Perhaps you were Cinderella... Did that make Mary your Prince Charming, or your fairy God mother?

Now he’d heard you giggle – something he always loved hearing out of you – Mary could relax a little. There was still an awkwardness between you both, neither one of you could deny that, but the first layer of ice had been broken. For now, that would be enough. If you wanted to talk to him about what had happened when you got to his, then fine. If not, he figured that was okay too. At least he’d know you were safe and had someone by your side who cared about you; and yes, Mary could admit to himself now that he did care about you...

Just, maybe not to you – not yet. But it wasn’t something he could exactly deny either, when he’d dropped his ‘big plans’ of getting high and demolishing a bag of snacks alone with his guitar the second he’d heard your despair. And all of that in spite of his lingering anger towards you. How quickly he’d flipped that, from wanting nothing to do with you to racing to your rescue.

Mary’s apartment was small, as you’d expected. As you followed him inside, you looked around. The kitchen sat directly to your left cut off by a half wall to corner it in, a couch that looked like it had seen better days backed up against that half wall and pointed at an old television. Mary’s bed was unmade and pushed up against the far-right corner, facing the bathroom that took up as much space as his kitchen did but was the only room closed off. In the way of bedroom furniture, all he had was a small nightstand and a chest of drawers that had been knocked about some...

It seemed cosy, lived in. It wasn’t particularly tidy; a blanket strewn over the tatty couch, vinyls laying on top of his little coffee table and around his record player in the corner of his living space, guitars laying up against the wall here and there, an acoustic on his bed, pots and pans stacked up on the draining board in his kitchen – clean, but not yet put away.

Had Mary known he was having royalty stop by, he might have tidied up a little, but this was how it looked most of the time. He didn’t spend much time at home, especially now that his band were starting to take off a little. But truthfully, he avoided being alone at all costs. He got too much thinking done alone, hence why he had his distraction methods of weed and song-writing.

Mary scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and went to flick on a lamp by the couch. He quickly whipped around the space, picking up the strewn vinyls, straightening up the blankets. “Sorry about the mess,” he set as he jetted past you towards his bed to pick up his guitar and straighten out the blankets and pillows. You stood awkwardly in the entryway, his jacket still hanging off your shoulders as you picked at your gloves.

“No, it’s fine, it’s not that bad,” you told him, noting the few personal belongings Mary had too; most notably the little picture frame on a windowsill by the couch. A strikingly beautiful woman, and a goofy little boy snuggled tightly in her lap. Both were grinning into the camera, the boy’s front teeth missing. You guessed that was Mary, and the woman, his mother.

“Can I get you anything? I don’t know, a drink maybe? Or, uh...” He stood awkwardly, nervously wringing his hands and fiddling with his rings. It was so out of character for him, usually cocky and confident in everything he said or did. In a way, it was quite endearing...

“Maybe some water, if you don’t mind...” You winced at your own request, feeling like you’d already asked for too much tonight.

“Yeah... yeah, sure!” He jumped into action, rushing into the kitchen to fetch a clean glass from the cabinet. “Make yourself at home,” he told you, nodding towards the couch he’d just tidied. You walked towards it, draping his jacket over the arm and sitting on the edge of it, playing with your gloves until he came and sat opposite you, handing you a cold glass of water.

You took it with a thank you, downing a third of the glass once the water hit your tongue – you hadn’t realised just how thirsty the tears and panic had made you.

“So, um... you wanna tell me why you’re dressed like that?” Mary nodded at your dress, getting himself comfortable and ready to listen. You looked down at yourself, feeling utterly ridiculous now. This was your world... glitter, glam, sparkles; and you despised it.

“Fancy dinner at the town hall – pompous twats and vile politicians. Mom picked this out,” you scoffed.

“Huh,” he mused, “I mean, if it helps, you do look pretty...” he shrugged. A warmth rose to your cheeks at his compliment. “The mascara smudges are a nice touch, I think.” You laughed at that, wiping your fingertips along the underneath of your eyes and seeing the black collecting on the white satin. “So... what happened?”

He asked you so gently, and instantly you felt safe. His gaze wasn’t judgemental, just soft. In fact, it had taken you this long to mentally note that Mary wasn’t made up with his usual faded skull paint and fake blood. His face was clean, you could see every detail. You could see every emotive line, every twitch of his expressions and a vulnerability in him that the face paint usually masked. He had a kinder face than people gave him credit for. Suddenly, you got it. He was putting on a mask every day, just like you.

And so, you told him. You told him how you’d felt in that ballroom, looking around and seeing the real scumbags of this town. You told him about Mr. Nelson; what he’d said, what he’d done. Mary’s face hardened at that, an anger and protectiveness washing over him that had his fists balling up tightly. You told him how you’d excused yourself, and how your father had followed you to his office. Throughout, he stayed quiet, letting you speak and listening to everything you said. He’d react every so often, fetched you some tissues when the tears had started again. You told him everything, including how your father had screamed at you to follow his rules to not damage his “legacy”.

“And I told him I didn’t want to do that anymore... I wanted to do my own thing and live for me.”

Mary’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Shit... What did he say?” he asked, obviously knowing it hadn’t ended well.

“Told me to get out of his office,” the tears came again, your voice raising in pitch as you tried to hold back the sobs, “that this whole town was his office. Threatened me with lawyers if I tried anything. So... I just left.”

“He kicked you out into the street, alone, dressed like that, in the middle of the fucking night?” Mary’s anger was clear, spitting venom between clenched teeth. He couldn’t understand the nerve of your father, how he could be so damn stupid putting you in danger like that. “Fucking arrogant asshole...”

It was clearer to him more now than ever that he’d been so wrong about you...

He shuffled closer to you on the couch, cautiously wrapping an arm around your shoulders to comfort you in some way. Truthfully, he wanted to completely envelope you, to hold you and rock you and let you cry and sob and scream if you needed it. But it wasn’t until you lay your head on his shoulder that he felt okay to do so, finally pulling you into him to wrap his arms around you and let you cry into his chest.

He felt so warm beneath you, his heart rate a little elevated but the thumping kept you grounded as you held onto his shirt, curling into a sparkly little ball in his side. Mary cradled your head to him, stroking your hair and whispering to you about letting go, that you were safe here.

If he was being honest with himself, he knew how shitty he’d been to you. He’d become far too defensive too quickly, unable to see past his own injustices in his world to understand that your world came with them too. There had been signs of your confinement, of the tight leash you were kept on, but he’d wilfully ignored them, striking them off as privilege. Your bedroom alone should have been a giant red flag; how was a grown woman still sleeping in a child’s bedroom?

“I’m sorry, doll...” he told you, muttering into your hair as his lips gently pressed to the top of your head.

“Not on you, Mare. This has been coming for a while...” you sniffled, wiping your tears with your gloves as you snuggled into him a little further, utterly comfortable in his hold.

“No, I mean...” Mary sighed to himself, “I’ve been an asshole. I got too defensive, thought you were just being a brat or something, y’know? I judged you and I shouldn’t have.”

Slowly, you sat upright, turning to look at him as his arms fell to his sides.

“You don’t have to apologise, I get it... I wasn’t exactly good to you either,” you admitted, looking down at his shirt now stained with tears to avoid his eyes. “You were right, I was treating you like I was ashamed of you.”

Mary sat up straight, clasping his hands together as he nodded in understanding. “We’ve all got our shit, doll.” His eyes drifted to the picture on his windowsill, and you couldn’t help but follow his gaze. You saw how he clenched his jaw, fiddling with the rings on his fingers as sadness crept into his eyes.

“Who was she?” The question slipped out before you got the chance to stop yourself. From the way Mary tensed up beside you, you could tell it was a sore spot.

“That’s my mom,” he looked back to you, a sad smile on his face.

“Is she...?”

“Dead? No...” he laughed awkwardly. “But she is in a care facility. That’s just the only photo of us I’ve got.”

You nodded in understanding, not wanting to push the matter. But Mary felt like sharing... You’d been vulnerable with him, shared your shit. Maybe he should share his too, or at least some of it. Maybe you were the only person he could be honest with. You were certainly the only person he’d wanted to get to know him in a long time.

“She was a drinker. It got worse when my dad left, but he was a waste of fucking space anyway. We, uh, didn’t have a lot...” his eyes flickered to the battered old guitar that now leaned against the wall by his bed, “but eventually her liver kind of gave up, so she’s on dialysis for the rest of her life. She needs constant care, but she’s still with us.”

“I’m so sorry... no wonder you thought I was just being a brat,” you laughed awkwardly, feeling a little pathetic now.

“Like I said, we all got our shit. It's not a contest, I just... realised I wanted you to know something real about me.”

Silence descended over you along with the weight of what he’d just admitted. Mary wanted you to know him. He wasn’t running or hiding himself from you. He’d shared something so personal to him, and you felt that it was something not a lot of people might know about him, if any. Something about you made him feel just as safe as a part of him did for you.

You looked at him; really looked at him. There was a sadness in his eyes, something you could notice now that you were sat merely inches apart from him with his mask firmly ripped away and laying in pieces on the floor. Whatever wall he usually put up, he’d let down just for you. You felt close to him, unbelievably so. You felt an urge to protect him, defend him. You felt a pull towards him, undistinguished in its meaning but so strong you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

And as Mary stared back at you, his wounds exposed, he too felt that same pull. Who was he kidding? He’d felt it for a while. How else would he explain being unable to go barely minutes without thinking of you over the last few weeks?

His eyes flicked down to your lips, heart racing and mind spinning out of control. He’d never felt so exposed. He wanted to kiss you, to show you what he felt in that moment, but it scared him. He already had shared so much, feeling just as vulnerable as he had as a child.

In your corner, the silence got heavier with every second that passed. If he was going to kiss you, you would let him. You couldn't think of a better way to show him just how much you cared, how close you felt to him; that you truly wanted him.

Just as you thought he might lean in, he snapped out of his trance, sucking in a breath between his teeth.

“Well, hey... you can stop here tonight. I can find you something to wear, I’m pretty sure I got something in the back,” he joked, wiggling his eyebrows, “I can take you from riches to rags!”

He slapped his thighs and stood up from the couch, marching over to the dresser by his bed and rifling through his drawers. You stayed put, thrown off by his sudden escape. From such an emotional, tender moment to him throwing that wall back up, closing up shop... You almost got whiplash from the speed at which he put the brakes on. Disappointment lay heavy in your chest.

He came back over with a folded t-shirt and some plaid pyjama pants you could tie up to keep them on. “There’s clean cloths in the bathroom under the sink if you wanna wash up, towels if you wanna shower,” he handed you the clothes where you sat. “I’ll take the couch, you got the bed and we’ll figure out a plan in the morning.”

“O-okay...” you stammered, standing up with the folded clothes. Frankly, you felt a little dazed from his shift in demeanour, but you could hardly blame him either. Sharing that had to have been harder than you first thought.

You walked past him into the bathroom, locking the door and pulling on the string light to awaken the fluorescent bulb above you. Now catching a glimpse of yourself in his mirrored medicine cabinet, you saw the state of yourself. Make up smeared all over your face, streaks of black running from your eyes to halfway down your neck. They looked bloodshot and tired, staring lifelessly back at you. Your hair had fallen out of place from its fancy updo, and you looked as if you’d been dragged through a cornfield by your ankles.

Deciding against a shower, you settled for wiping the make-up from your face and taking your hair down, attempting to detangle it with the comb you found in the medicine cabinet. You’d found a bottle of cologne in there too, which when you sniffed, smelled exactly like Mary had smelled the night he’d climbed through your bedroom window. You smiled fondly at the memory, noting how the bottle was largely untouched, still having the price tag on it which only confirmed that he’d bought it and worn it just for you.

By the time you were done and changed into the clothes Mary had found you, Mary had made himself a makeshift bed from the blanket he’d previously folded on the couch and one of the pillows from his bed. He was already laying under it, having changed into some old shorts and removed his shirt.

“You can put your dress on the dresser, and I can run out and grab you something to wear tomorrow so you’ve got something other than this to wear,” he called from the couch, sitting up so he could speak directly to you.

“Thank you. I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow, I’m sure my dad just needs to calm down...” you told him. Mary couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, but also, protective. He wasn’t about to send you home to that, and he didn’t want you to feel like a burden on him either.

“Sure, if that’s what you wanna do...” he muttered, his lips straightening into a line as he nodded. “Well... get some rest.”

“Yeah, I will... thank you, Mary,” you told him.

“Don’t sweat it,” he smiled, laying down on the couch and pulling the blanket over his bare shoulders. Without another word, you placed your clothes on the dresser and crawled into his bed, notably cold without him in it. Mary flicked off the lamp by the couch, plunging the apartment into mostly darkness save for the moonlight and the nearest streetlamp shining through his window.

The same window where the picture of him and his mother sat.

He could see it where he lay. In fact, he couldn’t look away. That smile on both of their faces reminded him of a time that was so rare. He could still hear her laughter mixing with his giggles as she’d hugged and tickled him, his grandmother who was long since gone snapping the picture on a whim.

That little boy didn’t have many memories like that to come. He’d grown up far too soon, knowing how desperately his mother needed the help. His childhood was the two of them stuck out at sea, a hole in their boat – and Mary was the only one fishing the water out with a bucket. Eventually, it was bound to go under, so he worked harder, did everything he could to keep them afloat and yet... it wasn’t enough.

The world had got him all wrong. When they thought he was bunking off school, he was working for a dollar an hour. When he’d been caught shoplifting, it was for a gift for his mother’s birthday. When he’d dropped out of school, it was to work every hour God sent to keep them from going hungry. When he finally did go off the rails in his late teens, it was after his mother’s liver failed. This poor, grown-up little boy had no one to look after anymore, and he’d spiralled. He was his only responsibility, but he’d never learned to care for himself – just the people around him. He always had to save them.

Mary wiped the stray tear from his cheek, rolling over to face the back of the couch and will himself to sleep. He couldn’t tell if it was an hour or mere minutes that passed as he lay there, huddled under his old blanket on a couch that poked at his ribs under the cushions.

“Mary...?” you whispered into the night, testing and hoping that he’d still been awake enough to hear. When he looked up, he saw you sat up in his bed, surrounded by emptiness, hugging your knees to your chest. In the dim streetlight, tear tracks sparkled on your face just like your dress.

Before he knew what he was doing, his feet had carried him across the room. Tentatively, he sat at the edge of his bed, close enough that he could reach out and tuck your fallen hair behind your ear. Neither of you spoke; there was no need. It was obvious you needed the proximity, both vulnerable and in need of comfort.

Mary’s eyes flicked between yours and your lips again, hesitating as his mind raced with conflicting arguments for and against giving in. He still wasn’t sure you truly wanted him. Maybe all you wanted in him was a friend, the sex having been a distraction or way to rebel. All Mary knew for sure was that you’d trusted him enough to be the one you called when you were in trouble. He didn’t want to break that trust now...

But it was like you could see the cogs turning in his brain, the inner argument going on inside him. The battle wouldn’t be won by him alone; you were going to have to prove to him that you wanted him, that he wasn’t just your dirty little secret or some booty call.

Slowly, you shuffled yourself closer to him, unwrapping your arms from around yourself and instead, pushing his floppy hair from in front of his face, getting a good look at him. That gorgeous face of his sat bathed in the dim light, caught between distant sadness and childlike wonder. With one last flicker down to your lips and back up to your eyes, he caught you smiling softly at him, your fingertips dancing across his jawline.

And then finally, you leaned into him and pressed your lips gently to his. His eyes fluttered shut just as yours did, and he relaxed under your touch as if his limbs had melted. Mary, now feeling marginally more confident in where he stood, tilted his head to better sculpt his lips against yours. He was so gentle with you, his hands lifting to hold yours against his cheeks by the wrists. As the seconds passed, your lips moved together in tandem, both of you leaning into each other until he was able to wrap a hand around your waist and hold you against him, cradling each other in such a tender moment.

This was undeniably different to any other kiss you’d shared. There was no move to advance, no desperation, no frantic arousal or rushed passion. This time, you simply held each other, seeking comfort in the affection you had for each other.

As you parted, you rested your forehead against his, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as he held you still so close to him, not yet willing to let go.

“Stay with me tonight...?” you requested, hoping he’d have no problem with the idea. Mary just nodded dumbly, overcome with a warm desire to never let you sleep alone again. You reached around you, pulling the blankets off of your lap to welcome him into them. He climbed in beside you, resting his head on the pillows as you, without a second thought, curled into his chest and let his arms envelope you. Neither one of you wanted to be alone tonight after sharing pieces of your soul with one another.

Exhausted from the outpouring of emotion, you were soon lulled into a deep sleep by his rhythmic heartbeat and natural warmth. Mary, although exhausted himself, was still barely awake when he felt your body go limp against him. He smiled to himself, satisfied in the knowledge that he’d given up a part of himself he was sure he’d never trust anybody with.

And yet, the wound was still open; spinning with memories, his mind lingered on one in particular, triggered when his tired eyes had fallen on that battered and beat up old guitar against the wall. That thing served as a reminder that Mary had only ever had Mary looking out for him, and that given a choice between himself and somebody else, he would always save anybody but himself...

Mary waited patiently on the couch, his attention span null and void as the after-school cartoons blared on the TV set in front of him. He sat on the edge of his seat, quite literally, his feet kicking back and forth as he watched the clock.

With the big hand on the 2, and the little hand on the 6, she’d be home any minute now. So, Mary waited as patiently as he could.

Except, it wasn’t until the big hand had done a full circle, and the little hand was on the 7, that he heard the keys fumbling in the lock of the front door, followed by a telltale creak, and the slam of it behind footsteps.

Mary jumped up, already on edge and over-excited. He ran into the hallway, to find his mother leaning against the wall with her eyes shut, head back against the plaster. She looked sick, her skin paled more than usual and her lips tainted with a familiar red stain.

“Ma?” he asked, placing his little hand on her arm. Her eyes shot open, and she looked down at Mary next to her.

“There’s my boy!” she slurred, leaning down to smother a sloppy kiss to his cheek. He wiped his cheek in childlike disgust, giggling to himself. “Happy birthday, baby!”

She stood as upright as she could manage, bringing her purse with her while she stumbled into the living room, into the armchair Mary’s dad used to occupy that faced the TV set. Mary followed, bouncing on his feet with excitement. He’d waited all day for his mom to come home, hadn’t been able to focus in school for even a second. He stood and waited in front of her as she settled into the chair, dropping her purse in her lap.

“Would you like your present baby?” she asked, smiling through hooded eyes that could barely focus. Mary nodded frantically, his heart pounding in his chest.

It had been weeks since he’d spoken to his mother about the guitar he so desperately wanted. He’d spent most of his weekends at Mr. Rogers’ workshop, sweeping up wood shavings and running errands for a little bit of pocket money to help his mother save for this exact moment. He couldn’t wait any longer...

His mother giggled, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small, square-shaped gift wrapped in balloon wrapping paper.

For a moment, Mary was confused... But this had to be just a decoy. He remembered seeing these CDs in the music store; ‘Guitar Basics for Beginners’, audio instructive lessons that would be far cheaper than real in-person lessons.

He tore into the paper, throwing the trash to the side and flipped the CD around to look at the front. It was an album; State of Euphoria by Anthrax. Mary’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, surprised to find it wasn’t what he’d thought.

“That’s the band you like, right? Or... One of them,” his mother hiccupped, leaning on her elbows with a grin.

“Y-yeah... thanks, ma.” His tone was unmistakably disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, swiping her thumb across his cheek and pinching it lightly. Mary chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should say anything. He wasn’t one to be ungrateful, this was still a pretty great gift. Anthrax were one of the bands he had found he really loved recently.

“No it’s great, ma, really. Thank you... It’s just,” he paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully, “could I get my guitar now? I read this book that teaches you about the frets and the notes of the strings, and stuff!” His words were rushed in that way over-excited children speed up the longer their sentence becomes.

If his mother’s skin could pale any more, it did then.

“Well, I... I couldn’t get the guitar, baby,” she told him, trying to let him down gently.

“But... I helped Mr. Rogers? I thought we had enough?” he asked, his cheeks heating as if he were about to cry, but he didn’t want to make his mother feel bad by letting them spill.

“I-I’m sorry, Mary... I needed to use that money...” she shrank back within herself, shame and guilt weighing on her shoulders.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely confused, his tears building in his eyes. He was devastated... He worked so hard to get the guitar, to prove his mind was made up and he wouldn’t give up on learning it. But his mother just stared at him, her lip trembling as she saw her little boy so heartbroken.

She knew exactly what she had spent it on; the very thing she promised she’d try and give up.

“I... I’m s-sorry, b-baby,” she sobbed, tears spilling down her pale cheeks and her chest tightening around her breaths. She broke down, sobbing into her hands and hiding her face from the son she’d just disappointed so tragically.

Mary wanted to be angry. It wasn’t fair... It was him who worked for that money, him who had tried so hard to help her. She was supposed to be the one adult he could count on, they were a team, weren’t they? He never asked for anything, ever. But just once, he wanted this. But she’d put her wine and God only knows what other alcohol before him again.

He wanted to be angry. He tried to be. But his mother was hurting, she was crying, sobbing in front of him. She needed help. She was broken. She hadn’t meant to do this... right?

Of course not. Her alcoholism had just gotten out of control, and unfortunately, addiction is a lonely and selfish ailment. Sober, her mind wouldn’t even think of doing something so selfish. But these days, she was rarely sober.

Mary looked at his mother, crumpled up and sickly looking, weeping into her palms, and he just wanted to save her. He always wanted to save her.

“Ma, it’s okay...” he told her, trying too hard for an 11-year-old not to cry. “Ma, don’t cry... I can keep working for one, it’s okay. I like the CD, I really do.” he squished himself between her and the arm of the chair, wrapping his arms around her and cuddling into her. She was inconsolable, sobbing so loudly she drowned out the cartoons on the TV set. She’d lost control of herself, and Mary was the only one around to pick up the pieces.

“Shh, ma, it’s okay. It’ll be okay!” he told her, squeezing her as tightly as he could. “I’m here, don’t cry.”

She’d screwed up big time, and whether Mary had chosen to forgive her or not, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for this. If she wasn’t already buried up to the neck in a pit of self-loathing, this was the last shovel full of cement to trap her in.

But Mary had already decided that he’d do what he could to dig her out. She was his mother, she did everything for him that she could... why wouldn’t he help her too?

A guitar could wait a little while longer. For now, his mother needed him – and he’d work as hard as he needed to save her.

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