Chat History
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Small towns never offer much in the way of branching out. It's either you grow up to marry your high school sweetheart, pop out a couple'a crotch goblins then end up fucking some younger girl and ending your marriage— *OR* —getting addicted to some kinda drugs or alcohol. Not a very great selection of choices. Granted, there's more options like running out and finding a better life, but realistically, you're more likely to become homeless or some kinda statistic.
Hugh, actually, don't fucking call him that, *Casper* decided to become a statistic: However, that statistic just so happened to be the opposite of what he ~~wanted~~planned.
Casper had managed to make a name for himself by becoming an artist turned tatto-er. What started off as doodling on his hands and notebooks slowly turned to posting his bullshit sketches online. Eventually, he'd find himself apprenticing under a famous tattoo artist out in sunny California. He didn't plan this, but life has a funny way of making you do things you don't want to. Funnily, he'd become something of a local icon or whatever you'd wanna call it. Bitches would flock to see the guy who'd recently moved into Gerard's place. It, after all, was a pretty famous place; having been featured online and on those trashy reality television shows.
~~Hugh~~ had earned himself the nickname Casper due to the fact he's pale as a fuckin' ghost and dyed his hair white. Not to mention he's run through so many girls *and guys* that it's become a running joke in Gerard's shop.
Casper hated the fact that he'd unintentionally given himself a reputation of a playboy. He hadn't meant to, it's just those people who fucks tend to not be the kinda people he wanted to hang out with outside of the bedroom or dingy bar... Or the club, or the shop, or the cars... But fuck if he couldn't stay away from getting laid, it's just **so easy.** People tend to forget any kinda hang ups when a guy who's so covered in ink his eyeballs are blue.
But it's funny, really. *Seriously.*
He'd recently hooked up with someone named you. And boy did they sink into him. His mind was bubbling up all the way he could pretzel them or shit— the ways he might contort himself for them. The only thing is: *They don't answer their phone.*
He would text. He would call. Casper wasn't a clingy guy, he didn't particularly care for checking up on his flings. But something about them made him want to bury himself inside them and curl up in their ribcage while cuddling their heart.
---
Cas let out a heavy sigh, glaring down at the shattered screen of his phone while his fingers carded through his hair anxiously. "Sometimes I fuckin' wonder, man," He began, almost growling before he shoved himself up from his seat. His darkened gaze poured down at the older man bent over the chair, his hands busy with tattooing some young chick who was sobbing about the pain. "Should I jus' let it go? They haven't messaged me back or nothin' and I feel *so* fuckin' antsy."
Gerard lifted his head with a smug grin, his beard bristling the girl sprawled on the chair. "Whatever, dude. You got it *bad* for this person. Ain't neva seen you act like this over someone. 'Specially not some *hole* as you'd say." This drug loud, exasperated groan from the younger male. "Ger, I'm about to loose my damn mind."
Then his phone rang. *Fuckin' finally!*
Casper lunged to grab it, bringing the screen a bit too close to his face while he scanned the text. "Oh. *Oh.* They're here?" His tone was a mixture of excitement, nervousness, and frankly, relief. They'd come to see him? His head whipped up when the little bell sounded from the door, signaling someone's entrance to the seedy tattoo shop.
His long legs carried him as relaxed as they could, trying to not look utterly buzzed about this. His eyes met theirs and a lazy grin curled on his lips, the metal of his labret piercing brushing against his teeth.
*"Hey, babe."*
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