18+

“You’re fucking fine! Jesus fucking Christ!”

He coughs again, eyes unfocused. “B—uh…”

There's a churning squelch that echoes from his side. It's nearly louder than his voice. You never thought that would be possible.

Loving someone so much, when something like this happens, it feels personal. It's a karmic lesson, superstition finding you. Maybe if you didn't step on sidewalk cracks. Maybe if you hadn't almost clipped that cyclist in a rush to turn right.

Maybe if you hadn’t let Adrian go first into the warehouse. Maybe if you hadn’t grown so close it wouldn’t be so obvious that you're losing him.

“Stop, just stop. You’re pissing me off. You can’t." Fear claws up your throat. "You can’t, you—you won’t.”

“Yeah, totally... I won’t.”

But he actively is, and that makes him a liar, and you know why he’s lying. Even while he bleeds out he’s worried about you, concerned with shielding you from reality, protecting you from yourself. Letting you be mad at him as distraction. Stupid fuck.

And now he’s giving in. It’s not going well. 

Quickly - "Wh… what were you gonna say? Back then, in the woods."

There's a thick patch of blood oozing through his hair, staining your glove. It makes you shove your palm under his ribs even further. He can't even moan. "C'mon! You, you had been talking about the dimples in my back, y-you said you liked them, and…"

His blink is so long you're worried you won't see his eyes again. "Oh. Just, that... uh... I thought we were going to last." There's this look that passes over his washed out face, like he's taking on the pain, accepting it's lack of pleasure. Maybe he's simply tired. Believes it's not worth it. Shit. "I... I get you. And it's okay, that you don't—like me... because I love you a, so... lot."

Holding his head is difficult. You move down, but holding his hand is worse. He keeps slipping from your grasp - his palm too cold and damp and yours cramping and sweating from squeezing so hard. Something hot brews behind your eyelids.

"You’d really been about to say that?" Your tongue stings. Distantly, you register you're biting down. Preventing yourself.

"Nahhh." His eyes close, lashes fluttering once after a particularly hard grip from you. "I can’t remember what I was going to say then. I just said what I wanted to say now." His green eyes, dim and murky, grace you once more. "Was it romantic?"

Ouch. Ouch ouch ouch.

Brushing his hair back, you adjust the collar of his suit. Dip the tips of your fingers in, to hold his pulse. Your touch isn't gentle. He needs to know, since it's hard to say. With the smear of blood you've left on his temple, for the first time ever, you find him scary.

"No," you choke out, unable to fight back tears. "It was awful, Adrian."

And he fucking smiles. Because he knows. But he deserves to hear it, even if it's just this once, even if it's late. Cradling his neck that's quickly turning cold, you hold him so tight and steady you're sure you'll leave bruises.

"I like you! I like you, I like you, I-I— you're disgusting, and insane, and I don't know why or how you did it, but I like you." A sob slips out. Your nose goes runny, and tears catch the corners of your mouth. "I don't want you to go. I'm such a liar. I-I'm not better than you. I like you so much. I like who you are, and—and who you are to me. And you can't leave."

It's not up to anyone. The team takes too long, even though their reaction time is a personal best. He's gone and so are you, because who are you without his love, his devotion, his sight?

Flatterer!

Baby I’m still here T_T

I know you horny pigs have been deprived of Adrian content though… sadly the well has run dry. Normally imma one pump and done kind of gal so be thankful it lasted as long as it did LOL

YOU SHOULD EXPECT NOTHING OF ME!

That being said... enjoy cutting Adrian's hair.

-

"It's awful. Oh my god."

"What?" His hands rake through the sides, the very recently fucked up sides, like he's a New York greaser. "Nahhh."

His tone, earnest even while he's actively looking in the mirror, almost has you believing him. But then he turns his head and you see the side where your scissors dug too far into his hair, a fucking chunk gone, and reality sets in. 

“It’s concave.”

"Yeah, you could spelunk down here. I love it."

"It, you're not taking this seriously." You scoff, chewing the inside of your cheek, trying not to absolutely freak out. Is glue a stupid idea? A clip-on bang? “How do you feel about wigs?”

"Mm," he hums, mussing up the front of his hair, "I prefer lace fronts, but I feel like a hat wig would match my Fennelsona better—”

“Your what?” He'd given it thought?

He checks himself out from the side, catching your eye in the reflection. “Honestly, I could go shorter. Should we go shorter?"

His fingers pry the scissors open, round-tip craft ones that are beginning to rust because he never fully dries them after washing, just closes and lets the water eat the blade.

"Stop it."

You reach for the scissors, more gentle and less defensive than you would’ve been if you weren’t two and a half years into your relationship with him. He turns around, and in one swift movement, grabs his front curl, one of your favorites (because you do have favorites), and snips far too close to the root.

“Wh—! Oh, my god.”

“The feeling of the hair cutting, it’s like chopping celery, but if celery was as thin as hair. See?”

"That doesn't even make sense." You're starting to drown. The urge to exert complete control. The inability to do so.

The unmistakable sound of scissors snapping. Another curl.

It falls to the floor, keeping its "C". It's the very one you wrap around your finger when he's out of the shower. Is it crazy to tape it inside your definitely-non-existent scrapbook of him? 

“It's just hair,” he says, with hair so short it defies gravity.

“It's your hair.”

You can’t keep the look of mild disgust off your face. He resembles a barbie doll in the hands of a six year old. You think he'd take that as a compliment if you said so.

“I'm glad you cut it. My hair, I mean.” Like there was anything else that could mean. “You wanna cut more?”

He snips the scissors at you, waving them a touch too loose for your liking. 

“I’m so okay.” You're really, really not. And the understanding that you're really really not makes it even worse. Why are you so sensitive? Why is indifference so unattainable?

Adrian turns back around to the mirror, crouches lower to meet you where you are, and with that sick, perverted, kind, achingly thoughtful glint in his eyes, and a soft wet kiss to your temple, he guides your hands to chop off another curl before you can even think.

"No fuckin' biggie."

You pinch the outer leg of your jeans. If he says it's no biggie, then maybe it is. Maybe you have to trust him.

just though you should know all legends in my eyes

STEALSTEELS!? You’re too kind, really, stop!

Real tawlk.. I have only seen one episode of Peacemaker . Maybe not even that. So most of my Adrian Chase characterization is a wing and a prayer, and luckily it seems to play okay!

He gives you a small clay pot, one that’s not even fit for the spread of roots it needs, and it’s clearly a rushed gift if the droopy sopping fabric bow is anything to go off of. But in the center, almost resembling a Charlie Brown Christmas tree in its misery, bud a lavender plant.

Rain droplets run down his neck. "I get it, if it’s wrong." He scratches the underside of his jaw.  It’s unclear if it’s out of nervousness or contemplation.

You don’t take the pot from him. The rain continues down his knuckles, catching the Saran Wrap on his wrist that protects his fresh tattoo. He said months ago he was done getting tattoos, that they were mostly from his twenties, and he was too fucking old to pay for pain. He still won’t let you peek at it.

"Guess I thought you could redefine it. Start new. Er—different, rather."

Definitely nervousness.

"It’s not the right pot for it." Humiliation burns your chest.

Somehow, it’s the only way you can think to say, thank you, thank you, thank you.

"Easy fix." He juts his chin out towards your tucked arms. "Whassat?"

Your teeth snap shut so fast they clip the tip of your tongue. Get it over with. You hand him the pink and red box of mystery chocolate. "It’s…" whatever, stupid, lame, corporate, all I could find, all I could think of, plain, predictable. All true, yet none of it fits. You know he’d scold you if you were self deprecating, so -

"Shit, yeah?"

"Well—"

"'M’not waiting til after dinner.”

His hands grip open the edge, crimping obvious prints into the side, and they’re tipping a striped pink one into his mouth, then feeding you the other half. It’s so quick. It’s so self-assured.

It has you snatching his hand, pressing your forehead into his knuckles in repentance because it’s stupid to get worked up over such a dumb holiday, not when you're dating him. Ghost's thumb traces the length of your nose, resting easy above your top lip. His soft, raspberry tinted breath is on your chin now that he’s more level, and he places a feather light kiss that feels accidental if it weren't for how long he held himself there.

"Happy Valentine’s. Valentine."

Asketh and you shall receiveth

-

He wants you to meet his buddies. You all pile into a pub, sticky dark wood flats, thin coasters with local real estate advertisements. Permanent rings of condensation worn into the bar counter. Lights purposefully dim.

You’re worried about meeting them for a while. It’s nerve wracking, being introduced to the only people in his life. His selectiveness means something. You wonder what linking back with them means.

But work, old and new, doesn’t come up. The table is filled with Guinness pitchers and foreign expletives. You all take turns playing darts. It’s nice.

It’s a lot.

-

You’re with Ghost outside the pub, watching him smoke a cigarette while your fancy boots balance on the toes of his lace ups. You’re pinned against the wall, and he’s smart enough to know to angle back, his chest bowing so his smoke never reaches you. God, he’s fucking sexy. You’ll never tell him that while he’s got a cig in his hand, but you’re sure he knows. He seems to know everything.

-

During your second pub break (needed after a too-sharp back pat from Soap that has you close to the floor), you’re pissed off. Ghost smiles, showing off a sharp canine and a smoke-rasped laugh, because he knew you would be. His angle shows it off, the object of your ire - your initials, tattooed.

“You’re stupid. Actually stupid. Why would you get it on your throat?”

“Where else?”

You’re flabbergasted. “Anywhere! Simon—stop laughing. It’s not funny.”

“It’s not. Fucking hurt, too.” He’s still coughing around his cigarette.

“Should you even be smoking after that?”

His look is bored. Mean, if you didn’t know him. Rude, if right under his chin didn’t lay your initials. If the finger around his cigarette didn’t hold a resized ring of yours.

You tilt him up to see. His eyes are nearly closed since they insist on tracking you. Resembling a tiny librarian staring down her thinly-rimmed glasses. “It’s so red.” Your thumb traces a wide berth around it.

His throat bobs under your touch. “Kiss it better.”

You flick him in the Adam’s apple, pulling a sudden choke from him. Once recovered, he pockets his cigarette, wraps an arm around your waist, lets his fingers dip under your top to grip your skin, and ducks down for a proper kiss.

Except you swerve him, because he needs a mint after that.

He goes down for your neck, licking it way too intimately for a public place, sucking and bruising deeply, content rumblings vibrating through him to you. He’s squeezing you too fucking tightly. It feels incredible.

“You could get one too,” he offers, sweetening the offer - a bribe - by placing an incriminating hickey under your jaw. “We can go together. I’ll hold your hand.”

Your hand, originally fisted, splays flat against his stomach, neither pushing nor pulling.

“Fuck no,” you breathe, annoyed. It’s how he likes you best.

So much love on my last Ghost post, wut! I’m such a fandom hummingbird (flitting around, sipping ships) that it’s surprising to receive such attention. Maybe it’s a dime a dozen on this site, but I’m new, and so is the praise. Thanks everyone. Have a nibble more.

-

The ceramic green tile is cold and biting against your bare legs as you push to sit on top, tilting up to meet Ghost’s eyes. He’s tired. He’s focused. There’s a small floss pick in his hand.

While you’re busy being drunk, he cleans your teeth. “You ever done this for someone before?”

His hand tilts you to the left, clumsily picking your molars, somehow understanding you through your full mouth. “No.” Eyes catch yours. “Have you?”

“No.” You sigh. His eyes really are beautiful. Dreamy, even though he’d have your head if you said that out loud. “Had it done to me, though.”

He pinches your chin. “Nicking my initials into your gums.”

It makes you smile, and you bare your gums. You had your father in mind, but his jealousy stokes a possessiveness you yourself no longer hide. It’s an ego boost. A pride pet. With a gentle tone -

“Go ahead, S.R.”

Instead, he kisses your bottom lip, not even seeming to mind how chapped and splotchy your lipstick is. It’s a soft and a thorough press, and his top lip grazes your bottom gum, and it’s filled with an amount of kindness that you know requires effort.

Every day passes and it’s easier to give in. You dip under and up, kissing the soft underbelly of his jaw. “As long as you get mine here.”

He used to have a bridge piercing, now closed up and only noticeable because he likes - genuinely loves - when you manhandle his face. Like he’s a giant Rottweiler in desensitization training. Drool catching in the webbed skin between your fingers. Nipping at the tips of your new gel manicure. (He asks if you’d paint his initials on your nails. You say no. He's not bothered. More… pleased. Like he was testing to see if he could push your boundaries, and is happy that he can't.)

He explains his past of being a punk youth, how a counselor got him to quit drugs and enlist. It's mildly infuriating.

"One fucked habit for another." Your muttering isn't lost; he's too present, the alley too narrow for that. He shrugs, like it’s no big deal that he’s still kicking, all ten fingers and toes, seemingly well-adjusted - or at the very least, self-aware.

You thumb the space between his eyes. Feel the thickness of healed skin. "I think you should put it back in."

"Get it re-pierced?" He nudges into your hand, encouraging you after you stop.

"Yeah, why not?"

"Coz I’m fucking forty with a wife."

"Your wife is single," you remind him, like it’s a direct correction.

"Mm." A palm skates across your belly. "Is she pregnant too?"

Your hand stills. Heart stops. Mouth opening - "How - who told you that?"

He mirrors you. Shocked, in his own way. "You’re-?"

You shove him hard. "Fuck no, you fuck! God, you scared the hell out of me."

He settles back in far too easily, in your opinion. Purring, essentially.

"Soon."

"No chance."

"Never, then." His acceptance with your choice. It eases you. No more defense.

"… Maybe not that, either."

His head tilts, chin up. "Yeah?"

You shrug instead of answering. You think you'd do anything for him.

-

No complaining please. You're still here. After all this time, after not knowing if I was, too.

Mama a fourth chapter behind YOU 💜

Kidding. Evil of me. 'Tis the season of tricks, sorry!