Tumgik
#mary my beloved
greenbirdtrash · 3 months
Text
Tumblr media
fighting the enby urge to kin the stinkiest character😔
71 notes · View notes
everyone-with-a-para · 2 months
Text
I hope everyone with a para that is a sex worker has a great day
24 notes · View notes
hyperfocusthusly · 5 months
Text
I’m crying at the funeral of a ghost, how did I get here and can someone please send help
24 notes · View notes
onedaughterofman · 1 year
Text
Writing sessions #6 (Mary Goore x g/n reader)
A/N: @synestheticbisexual said something about Mary Goore covered in blood being a wet dream and my brain went with it. Yes. Don't look at it too close, I wrote this in one sitting and I'm sleepy.
Tags: Mentions of blood (fake), rated T, flirting, nothing explicit here. Mostly domestic fluff, a bit of kissing here and there. And sexual tension.
Tumblr media
The water is red. Red are their fingers and the dirt under their nails, red is the blush that blooms on their cheeks. Mary's body is still hot after the concert, blood pumping fast in their veins.
Sitting next to the bathtub, your fingers barely brush over the colored water. "It looks like you're bathing in the blood of your enemies," you mumble, barely audible over the sound of loud music. Sepultura, probably. Mary loves them.
"Like I'm Elizabeth Báthory, right?" They pause, eyelashes fluttering open. Mary's face holds a peaceful bliss, a relaxed expression. The concert drained most of their energy, but it's still odd for you to see them so relaxed. "Wasn't she the 'Blood Countess', or something like that?"
In the dimly lit room, the nod of your head is almost hidden by the shadows. You remain by Mary's side, fingertips tracing figures over the water's surface. It's cold, way too cold for your taste, but Mary insists they like it that way.
The peaceful, quiet mood of Mary doesn't last forever. Soon, their fingers circle around your wrist, engulfing it in one swift movement. Mary pulls, eyes still closed, yanking you until you clearly see their dark eyelashes, the remnants of fake blood on their hairline.
When they kiss you, it tastes like alcohol, cigarette smoke and blood. There's an undeniable sweet tinge, also. Bittersweet as Mary is, you have to stop them before this continues.
Yes, you know Mary is never satisfied with one kiss only. No, they always want more, want it hard, want it fast. Pulling away, you wipe the red tint from your lips. "Finish your bath, Goore," you ask, voice softer than you wanted it to be. They only smile, teeth glistening under the golden light.
"Don't you want to join me? Maybe I need some help."
"No. I'm clean, you're completely dirty. I don't want that blood to stain my clothes."
"Take them off, then." This time, the glint in Goore's eyes is brighter than the glow coming from the lamps. Your mouth opens, fighting to find the right reply, but no sound comes out of it. Mary's smile widens. "And don't act like it doesn't turn you on, all this blood. You're a freak, I know it."
They are right. You have fantasized about Mary Goore covered in blood way too many times to be healthy. When they are on the stage, colored lights falling on their body, all your eyes can see is the crimson liquid staining their skin, falling down their forehead and soaking their dark hair.
Oh, how hot they look, bathed in blood, messy bangs stuck to their forehead and chest heaving for air. Red looks so good on Mary, it gives them a wild and dangerous aura, a raw strength that makes your knees weak.
Yes, you dream a lot about that. Blood on both your bodies and on the floor, warm liquid all around you. Mary's mouth pressing on you, teeth grazing your neck, their hands everywhere... You dream of holding onto them, nails digging on their back, legs wrapping around their hips. How would the blood feel on you? Cold or hot? How would it taste on their skin, on their tongue?
Fuck.
It's useless to try to resist them, you know it. Mary's hands are on you again, fingers leaving red marks on your exposed skin. You attempt to stay firm on your feet, but they pull and pull, lips back on yours before you can even realize it. "I see how you look at me," they whisper. "Don't worry, I think about you the same way."
One final pull, and down you go. The water is extremely cold, and it splashes everywhere around the bathroom. You gasp, nails digging on Mary's arms, fighting for any support. Their skin is warm, muscles all tense. When they laugh, it's not a sweet sound. No, it's loud, raw, a bit raspy.
Goore's hand raises one last time, despite your complains. His fingers fall on your face, palms pressing on your cheeks. It doesn't take long to realize they have left red stains behind, blood coating all your face too. There's fake blood on your lips when they kiss you, tongue darting out to lick them clean.
"I was wrong, you are Elizabeth Báthory now. Beautiful."
"And you are...?"
Their laugh resonates around the walls one last time, before they reply. There's half a smile on their face and the dark eyes remain obscured by locks of damp hair. "Just another bloody Mary."
ps: The day I stop making "Mary on a cross" jokes about Mary Goore is the day I die.
122 notes · View notes
lavenderknivess · 3 months
Note
THIS is killing me obsessed w the hair
Tumblr media Tumblr media
12 notes · View notes
radrat · 2 years
Text
y'all seem to like Mary a lot, i do too no judgement
Tumblr media Tumblr media
243 notes · View notes
cookies-jar-of-art · 1 month
Text
Tumblr media
New Reference of my Kirin Tor Mage and local Khadgar kisser Marybeth
9 notes · View notes
swirlbuns · 5 months
Text
Tumblr media
It's been awhile since I made any fanart so here's a drawing I made ^.^ (it's also a bit of a drawing practice)
14 notes · View notes
Text
6 notes · View notes
crazynerdandproud · 6 months
Text
Watching Mr Yin Presents and I forgot how sketchy they made Mary lol. He’s such a freak. I love him.
11 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media
your honour, i love him
171 notes · View notes
martha-dobie · 2 years
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
mary helping alison cheat in poker
bbc ghosts: 1.05 moonah ston
131 notes · View notes
Text
you gotta help save me then Charley
Tumblr media
6 notes · View notes
oblivious-idiot · 1 month
Note
Since I'm feeling kinda alone and sad today, I'm gonna send everyone I see on tumblr today something cute 🎀 So hi! Happy valentines day, i wish you all the best! You are loved and matter💕 here's lucy admiring lockwood✨️
Tumblr media
oh mary i’m so sorry you’re feeling sad today 🥺 i’m sending you all the love in the world 🫂🫂
i hope your day gets better and please know you are so loved 🫶🏻
2 notes · View notes
onedaughterofman · 1 year
Text
Untitled vignette #6 (Mary Goore x g/n reader)
Summary: You meet Mary by the old cemetery's gates. On afternoons full of sorrow and misty memories, they show you it's okay to stop running away for a bit.
Tags/Warning: mentions of depression, angst, emotional hurt/comfort maybe. Implied past death. He/they pronouns for Mary. Totally self indulgent.
A/N: wrote this as some sort of therapy for myself, but I liked the vibe so you can also have it. For some reason, Saturdays awake a special type of sadness in me.
Tumblr media
You first met Mary by the old cemetery’s gates.
On an afternoon you thought it’d bring nothing but sorrow, he appeared bathed by the dying golden sunrays. Instead of transferring any clarity to his body, the light casted shadows on his gaunt face, deep circles around his eyes.
“Goore,” he said, sitting down and kicking at the dirt with heavy combat boots. “Mary Goore.”
“Isn’t Mary a girl’s name?”
The question didn’t mean to be invasive or rude. It escaped your tongue without any harm behind it. Mary seemed to understand immediately, because only a smile formed on their lips.
“That’s what I told my parents!” They exclaimed, wildly gesticulating with one hand. “But no, they insisted that was my name, so I stopped fighting. It doesn't matter anymore, it grew on me.”
There are only little pieces and details of Mary’s life that you know. He used to live around the area, he explained one afternoon, when the church was still full of life and not corroded by the passage of time. He’s in his twenties, played guitar for a band and hey, it was an undoubtedly good band.
You never heard about Mary’s band. They seemed a bit sad when you told them so, a sheepish smile on your face. You promised to give it a try, to listen to the songs and pay attention, but he refused. “No, listen to Sepultura. I mean it. Bestial Devastation, that’s some good shit.”
Mary never talks too much about themselves. On late afternoons and early nights, he sits down by the cemetery and listens. They listen to you complain about life, work and the price of gas and food. They listen to boring routines or whatever recent show you got fixated on.
On gloomy nights, they also listen to the pain that consumes your guts to the very core. Mary doesn’t interrupt. They don’t say things will get better, or that one day you will remember all this and laugh. Mary never advises you to go outside or work out, they never try to tell you it’s all in your mind.
No, they nod, and their hair follows the movement of their head. The auburn curls are darker under the dull light coming from the old lamp, falling on his forehead almost like a black curtain. He flinches when your fingers rise to try and tuck a few stray strands away from his eyes, but then smiles again and moistens his lips.
“Don’t ruin my style,” he says, but there’s something else he’s keeping quiet about.“I spent way too much time in the mirror for this.”
You don’t try to touch him again. For the next afternoons and nights, you merely sit content next to them, listening to music or any wild anecdote of a past concert. Some days, you think it’s a miracle Mary Goore is still alive and breathing. They merely laugh when you mention it, but there’s a sting of bitterness on his tone.
Perhaps it’s not bitterness. Maybe it’s melancholy, or a different type of sadness that clings to his body like a cloak, something that no matter how hard you try, you can’t ever see past it.
Mary Goore remains mainly a mystery. Yet, they listen and wait for you by the cemetery gates. If this is friendship or merely two lonely creatures huddling together to face the raw bleakness of life, you don’t know it.
“I’m tired,” you whisper to Mary one day. They nod, dark pupils lost somewhere in the distance. “I’m so tired all the time.”
“It’s cause you keep running away,” he murmurs too, absentmindedly chewing on his lips. “You are always running.”
“Where am I running?”
“I don’t know,” Mary shrugs, a somber expression on their face.“I used to feel like that, before. Life didn’t make sense, I wasn’t even having a good time and everything felt dull and useless. I think I started running away from things that made me sad, hoping that maybe everything would be better if I ran fast enough.”
“Did it work?”
When Mary laughs, it sounds like bells on the distance. Not the cheerful type of bells people describe in romance novels. No, it sounds like heavy chimes from a ruined chapel, an agonizingly deep rumble.
When Mary laughs, it’s like a death knell.
“No, it fucking didn’t. I made friends and dated people only because I was running away from loneliness. I woke up and forced myself to do shit ‘cause I was trying to escape the dread.” When they pause, the wind howls and the warm air hits your face, coating it in little dew droplets. It will rain later, but Mary doesn't seem to realize it. "When you run because you want to escape something and not because you are going somewhere, it becomes tiresome and senseless. You are blind and dumb.”
“I feel very blind and dumb all the time.”
“Because you run like a headless chicken.”
After tedious days and nights of empty stomachs and full minds, you begin to think he’s absolutely right. Mary nods when you tell him so, letting out a few chuckles. It’s frigid outside, but he’s wearing the same thing he always wears: a leather jacket, a shirt with a band no one has ever heard of, ripped jeans and combats boots.
“Aren’t you freezing there?”
“I’m always cold,” they say, nonchalantly. “But I don’t care anymore.”
Some days, you also don’t care anymore.
Sitting right next to him, so close you could lean to the side and rest your head on his shoulders, you sigh loudly. Even if it’s tempting to attempt any type of physical contact, you don’t. At this point you realize Mary seems to despise it, to flinch any time you reach too close to them. You don’t ask why, don’t question or try to force the contact.
It’s okay.
Mary’s body is close, and that’s all that matters, even if you can’t feel any heat coming from them. He must be freezing, too stubborn to actually wear suitable clothes.
“I think I died,” you utter under your breath one day while fidgeting with the rings on your fingers. Mary does the same, dusky eyes locked on the ground. He seems to realize you don’t want anyone to look at your face. “Sometimes I feel like I have died a thousand times in different ways, except physically.”
The silence is heavy, but not oppressively so. It’s almost like a weighted blanket on a rainy day, sheltering you from the biting cold. Mary sighs profoundly, hair falling on their face when they nod. “Sometimes I feel I have died in all the ways I could die,” he says, after a beat. As much as you ache to reach out and grab his hand, you don’t.
Mary seems to think the same. Instead of extending his hand, he leans to gather a stick from the ground. The wood is cold and slightly damp when they move it in your direction, offering the other end of it. Eyes wide and mouth agape, you hold onto it for dear life. The smile on their face is gentle, softer than you have seen it before, but it carries that clear sadness that constantly follows them like a shadow.
“Stay that way, okay?” Mary comments, when the sun is gone and the clouds obscure the already inky sky. "Die in a thousand more different ways, but not physically. You can’t run towards something without a body.”
“What should I run towards, anyway? Right now I’m just running away.”
“I don’t know, man. It’s shitty, but that’s the way things are, I guess. You’ll find something along the road, if you stop moving without eyes and actually see.”
“Is that all life is? Running and moving around, either escaping or searching for something?”
“You can come and sit down here. I used to do it all the time. I was tired of running, so I came and sat here for hours and hours. Drank something weird, got sick and fell asleep on the ground. Woke up so cold and dizzy. It wasn’t nice.”
“Weren’t you scared to fall asleep on a cemetery?”
“No, I felt right at home.”
Again, the bells tolling in the distance. For long seconds, you stare at Mary, at the youthful yet gaunt face, at the pale skin and long black lashes. The shadows, the deep circles, the thin hair… You take all of that in and engrave it in your memory.
Under the moonlight, surrounded by death and decay, Mary looks terribly ephemeral. He appears to be made only of memories, of a collection of past experiences and desires that no longer exist outside these rusty fences.
It’s a sorrowful thought, but also a reality. Just like they appeared one afternoon without forewarning, you feel one day they will be gone.
They notice the way you have become lost in mind. The wooden stick moves between your fingers as they shake it from the other end, swaying it back and forth in a motion meant to be comforting, to remind you to stay in the present.
“Thank you for stopping by and spending time with me,” they murmur in a hushed tone. The wind howls, a prolonged languish sound that send shivers down your spine. “I wish I had met you before.”
You want to speak, but there are no words inside your mouth. Swallowing doesn’t break down the knot in your throat, doesn’t kill the burning anguish that has made a home of it.
“And I meant it. If you are too tired to move towards something or whatever, just sit down with me for a while.”
“Maybe we could find another place, don’t you think? It’s so cold and gloomy here.”
“Why? Like I said, I feel at home right here.”
Exactly like that first encounter, you continue meeting Mary by the old cemetery’s gate. No one sets a foot on that abandoned land guarded by gargoyles and crows, except you two. Mary expends hours talking about obscure bands no one remembers anymore, or Sunday masses that used to take place on the ancient chapel that now falls into ruins next to the graveyard.
Sitting down on the damp ground, fingers curled around the end of a small, withered branch that shakes every time Mary gesticulates with one hand, you stop running for a bit.
Ps: DO listen to Sepultura's Bestial Devastation. Mary's tattoo (the one on their arm) seems to be based on the cover of that EP. If you like Repugnant, you'll probably like it too.
I hope this distracted you all from The Dread.
107 notes · View notes
xiaoluclair · 10 months
Note
you probably already answered and i missed it (apologies), but i give you an opportunity for a list of 5 more 🫶🏻
List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox of the last 10 people who reblogged something from you. Learn to know your mutuals and followers 💕🥰
darling! hello, you are forgiven (just about) <3
hearing about things that make other people happy
talking to someone new
ticking anything off the metaphorical to-do list
race weekend memes / general shitposting
a good strawberry
8 notes · View notes