[waynecross]

it’s this incredible anguish, wraps itself around his neck and toys with choking him out. he’s out of his head he doesn’t know what he’s saying what he’s projecting, what he’s putting down. dear mary is a goddamn knife, she’s cutting and while he appreciates it, admires it. it’s like a bite, rabid dog who won’t let go of him. her touch like pins on his skin but he doesn’t move, grounds him. piercing blue stare looks at her hand moving before meeting her eyes, a thousand lives something ancient lives in her and wayne doesn’t comprehend it entirely. mary does this, she looks like she is. nothing to hide, right now. she is a crazy unhinged animal, he doesn't know how she does that. she makes this shit look easy, effortless. fuck.

wayne knows there wasn't anything else to do that night but die, he had hoped for the longest time that something would go different, replayed the events in his head. he swears he can smell the bodies, the booze, the last of his life vanishing before him. he swallows, he’s always been incredible alone, her words get to him. he isn't alone, something to be played with now. he gets a smile, it's slow and steady, murderous. a click. something snaps, like it was bound to give. “so easy for you to just run your mouth. forgot who i was talking to.” as he talks his hand slides up from where it rested on his knee, leans into her space taking the decision to intrude back, he’s got claws too. a lingering sense of fight that mary digs in and twists to get at.

she asks for a cigarette and he rolls his eyes, she's on thin ice, patience barely holding him back. she takes it a step further, made of fire just consuming everything in front of her. he wraps his hand around her wrist before it can get to the pack, pulls it out of his pocket (a dare, try and touch me again. let's play one of those stupid games.) little to no space in between them, he knows what would piss her off, send her away but he doesn't want that. what he doesn’t know is what he really wants in the moment, he'd stuck his head in the lions mouth long before this, he stayed there. he is there now.

“like hell 'm gonna give you a cig after all that." lit up, it's alive, it's malleable and he's petty, easy to hurt, finds himself ready for a scrap, from zero to a hundred. she could do anything in this moment. he's not folding, it's not one of those nights. he makes this one terrible choice over and over again where he trusts her. "you want a smoke that bad?" raises and eyebrow, the anger clings to some of his words, only natural. fucking take it from me. i want to sink my teeth in you. i want you to sink yours in me.

[molomarymoved]

wayne's hand wraps around her wrist, the friendliest cuff she's ever felt. he plays mean too, some nights, but he never bites down as hard as she wants. she knows he wants an apology. he wants her to duck her head, bend into the person that doesn't want to rip his throat out. he's got no luck, seems he never has, 'cause she isn't even a person.

mary's lips split into a mean smile, thin, mean, her fangs cutting into her bottom lip. there it is: he's sparking mad, she's looking for a full blown flame. "you need it nice tonight, baby? that it?" mary sits further back on her hips, imposes herself further onto his lap. he's close enough for them to share breath, if that was a thing either of them truly needed. she takes an unnecessary breath in, then pushes it out through her nose, fanning the air from her lungs over his cupid bow. "alright. i can do nice." she shakes the hair out of her face, all animal instinct, and then she brings her other hand up, feels up wayne's chest. she's laying claim over every part of him she can reach. it's not enough of him-- never is, for an eternally open maw like mary-- but she'll take it. the line draws closer and closer. she can get him to snap, she knows they're well on the way, but she's savoring their twin descent. "nothing bad ever happens to good people like us. no one's gonna hurt us but each other."

mary's whole posture changes. she slumps down, presses her face ever closer to his, and she juts her battered bottom lip out. her fingers spread right over where that un-beating heart of his lies. "please, mr. cross, won't you give me a light?" slowly, mary folds herself further down, nipping gently at the fingers wrapped around her wrist. "gimme me something to put my lips around."

[molomarymoved]

"every fiber in me screamed out, but i couldn't make a sound." @waynecross

“poor little songbird. no voice to sing, huh?” mary walks her fingers across the shitty fabric of the hotel couch, veering closer and closer to wayne’s arm. she hates it when he gets like this. that pretty face all empty, hollowed out. christ, the melodrama never ends with the new ones. kids these days.

she crawls forward across the cushions on her knees, crossing the unspoken boundary of her space into his. they had a big show tonight. wayne’s supposed to be all hazy, jittery, hopped up on adrenaline. they could’ve fucked. they could’ve feasted. instead, it’s the whining, the incessant fucking soul searching. she cranes her head down, makes sure to get to his eye level. the expression she gives him- it’s crazed, it’s wide-eyed like an prey animal. mary would know; she’s spent countless hours in front of the mirror, pulling at skin, categorizing each expression. she once spent a week inside the empty house of a former meal, standing in front of the mirror and wasting away, watching the facade of life leak out— her own corpse rot, an audience to her own starvation. she’s seen everything her mask of skin can do.

“what would you have done? cried? whimpered? begged for help?” maybe she’s playing more of an antagonist than she needs to. maybe she’s itching for violence and barking up a volatile tree. mary doesn’t have it in her to feel all that torn up about it. they don’t call her molotov for nothing— give her something flammable and she’ll blow that shit up. “you think vampire daddy was gonna come back and help you out?”

mary shakes her head and breaks the unblinking eye contact. she pats down her too tight jeans, comes up empty, and seamlessly moves to pat down his. “jesus. you got a cigarette?”