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Still thinking about the Social Worker Jazz concept that @gilbirda posted about and it's slowly turning into a full Anger Management fic send help
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Jason at length - much longer than it really should have taken really - set the resume down.
The new Social Workerâs resume. Because she was there, in his office, trying to convince him to hire her as a member of his criminal organization.
Crime Alleyâs new social worker. A bright eyed Midwestern transplant from some tiny speck of a place that only qualified as a city because there was nothing bigger in a hundred miles in any direction to claim otherwise. The new social worker who had a Psy D. and three masters degrees and who had graduated Valedictorian. The one that had high paying private gigs lined up all over the country with the offering companies fighting over her.
The one who had, apparently, decided to take a shit job in Gothamâs shoddy social services department instead. The one that got kicked to Crime Alley - which was its own division despite technically being a small neighborhood in the grand scheme of things - within her first month. Supposedly for the sole purpose of scaring her off or getting her killed for all the questions she was asking and secret dealings she was sticking her nose into.
That social worker.
âIâm gonna need you to run this by me again.â Jason said, never so grateful for the voice modulator in his helmet as he was in that moment. It stripped out the bewilderment that had bled through into his words and made him sound stoic instead.
âIâd like to work for you.â The social worker - one Dr. Jasmine Nightingale - repeated primly. Back straight, clothes neat - if skewing more on the librarian side of professional - expression confident and hopeful. Completely and utterly oblivious of how fucking insane she sounded. âI was told that youâre the person in charge of Crime Alley.â
He resisted the urge to scrub at his face. Itâd just look weird with his helmet on and not do anything to actually settle him in that moment anyway. âI understood that part.â
âLook, Doc,â She earned a doctorate and she was crazy enough to waltz into the office of one of Gothamâs most powerful Crime Lords, heâd be respectful about using her proper title at least, even if he suspected she was ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. âYouâre going to have to tell me why. I was under the impression the only reason you ended up dumped on our end of the city ws because you wouldnât play ball. But now you want to sign up for my crew?â
Nightingale frowned a little at that.
âIs that what people are saying?â
âWhat else are they gonna say?â Jason answered, leaning back in his seat, âHead of the department only dumps Crime Alley on folks he donât like. And everyone knows he doesnât like anyone that canât or wonât play his game by his rules.â
âAlright, well. Iâll give you that.â Nightingale conceded, âPayne doesnât like me. The feelingâs mutual. But for the record,â She added giving him a wry smile, as if sharing wry smiles with Red Hood was just something people did, âI asked to be assigned to the Park Row and Bowery neighborhoods.â
âYou wanted to work here.â
âYes.â
âBullshit.â
Nightingale laughed. It was a bright sound. Not especially clear or pretty, but warm and welcoming in a way that carefully calculated giggles or overdone guffaws couldnât be. Something with real and honest amusement in it, that encouraged those nearby to laugh along. Not the kind of involuntary, nervous chuckling people tended to slip into when they thought they had pissed someone that scared them off.
She just wasnât intimidated by him at all, was she?
Behind his helmet, Jason found himself smiling. Just a bit.
âIâm serious.â She assured, blue-green eyes meeting the dark stare of his helmet without a moment of hesitation. He watched as she brushed a lock of her bright red hair behind her ear and out of the way. Sheâd woven it all into a practical, neat braid but a few sly pieces had snuck out to bounce around her. Gilding her quiet professionalism with a playful charm that worked well with her academia but make it cottagecore kindergarten teacher aesthetic.
âIâll admit, Gotham wasnât part of my plan when I first graduated. Time and choices take you funny places sometimes.â She plucked an invisible bit of lint off her soft blue cardigan, not nervous but absent as her gaze went distant for a moment. Thinking back on the events that had led her to his fine city. In a blink, those sharp eyes were back to focusing entirely on him. âBut Gotham is where I am now, and I want to help.â
She looked at him, a serious, determined expression settling easily on her face. âThe city as a whole has so much chaos and crime breaking out all the time.â No censure or horror in her voice, just a neutral fact to be observed. âBut where the rest of the city has millions of dollars poured into it by various foundations or charities run by the Waynes, Park Row is largely ignored.â
Jason watched as steeliness sharpened her gaze, the blue-green shifting from the shine of a birdâs wing to the warning hue of something poisonous and deadly. âNo one deserves that. No one.â Her chin tilted up, proud but not imperious. âSo yes, I want to work here. There are people in Park Row and the Bowery who need help and I refuse to let any of them feel like they are going to be ignored.â
Jason considered her.
Really looked at her. Pealing back his initial off handed impression of her as some clueless transplant in over her head with no idea of what she was doing or what she was poking her nose into to find the real woman beneath. Her confident poise, her clear unshakable belief, her unflinching willingness to look danger in the eye and not blink. The tense curve of her frown, the lines of pain at the corners of her eyes, the simmering anger beneath it all. There was an edge to her, too. Something sharp and dangerously well hidden by the cardigan and folksy charm of her accent.
It was personal for the woman before him, Jason realized. Maybe not Crime Alley specifically, but something about the whole situation. The treatment the neighborhood and its residents received from the city at large, from those even beyond it.
Crime Alley wasnât a place that received much in the way of charitable thought. The average joe with their house in Somerset and job at some corporate shithole hating every second of their life but thinking at least I donât live in Crime Alley. Those asshole hoity-toites in city hall throwing money around equally between shit thatâd get them re-elected and their off-shore slush funds in the Caymens doing their damn level best to pretend the black mark on the other end of the city just didnât exist. Bruce, flooding the entire city with charitable programs and carefully constructed infrastructures shying away from the manifested grief and trauma that was the place he watched his parents get murdered.
For the most part no one from outside of the Alley gave a shit about the Alley other than as a place to avoid at all costs. And most of the time those natives that manages to claw their way out into better and brighter lives didnât ever turn to glance back. Orpheus could have learned a thing or to from an ex-Alley Kid who managed to eek out a steady 9-to-5 and move to Burnley.
And something about that seemed to piss Dr. Jasmine Nightingale Psy. D right the fuck off.
He could see why Bill said he liked her enough to let her in.
âAlright.â He said, tilting his head, watching the woman seated across from him carefully, âStill doesnât explain what youâre doing here. Why youâre trying to get on my payroll.â
âIâm not trying to get on your payroll.â She said, some of the glinting edge softening, but the steel remaining. Strong and unyielding. âIâm trying to get into your community outreach program.â
Jason thanked god and all the saints once again for the gift of his helmet. That baby had saved his ass more times than he could count both by keeping his head in one piece and keeping his stupefied expressions wrapped up and hidden from view. Dr. Nightingale was one hell of a woman to make him have to rely on that fact twice in one conversation.
âWasnât aware that was something I had.â
Nightingale, not fortunate enough to have a full face covering helmet of her own, had nothing to hide her stupefied expression behind. Jason had a feeling she might have removed it to make sure he saw even if she did though. She looked like she had caught him eating glue like it was a cheese stick.
âYes you do.â She said, sounding deeply confused but unshakable confident in what she was saying. âIâve seen it. The soup kitchens, the shelters, the collection boxes for donating old clothes, the after school day care.â Nightingale ticked off on her fingers, âIâve lived here for less than two weeks and Iâve lost count of all the things Iâve seen setup to help people struggling in the area that Iâve been very reliably informed you and your organization are behind.â
Oh.
Those.
âThose arenât part of some community outreach program.â He said, âWe are simply locals offering services for our neighbors.â
He watched as her caught-him-eating-glue expression shifted into one that said sheâd stumbled upon him licking electrical sockets for a mid-day pick-me-up instead. He had to give it to her, the woman was not afraid to let one of the most dangerous men in the city know she thought he was a fucking idiot.
âLet me see if I understand this right.â She said, and he appreciated that there wasnât any kind of condescension in her voice, even though she very clearly thought heâd been dropped on his head as a baby. Possibly from the top of a three story building. âYou have a large group of people working together to plan, organize and execute multiple services in your area - your community, if you will - that provide aid and support to those that otherwise would not receive it. Reaching out with your available time and resources to offer these services, that you provide. For free.â
Alright, Jason got it. He had stumbled ass backwards into creating a community outreach program. But he wasnât just going to let her think she won this one. He was Red Hood, he had a reputation to uphold here.
âWhat makes you think any of that is free?â He tilted his head at just the right angle, the one that cast shadows across the planes of his helmet and made him look hell-touched and terrifying. âJust because we donât charge money, doesnât mean there isnât a price to pay.â
Dr. Nightingale, dressed like a damn kindergarten teacher, laughed at him.
#dpxdc#jazz fen#jason todd#social worker jazz#social worker jazz fenton#anger management ship#anger management#pre anger management#jason todd x jazz fenton#i don't know why i keep writing scenes where Jazz writes resumes to apply to work for crime bosses but it just feels right in my soul okay#the real reason Jason wears a full face helmet is so people can't tell when he utterly fails to hide his emotions about something#the idea of social worker jazz working in crime alley has completely consumed me mind body and soul
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Off topic but what's it like living in LA? I'm considering moving there for work and I'm curious if you're willing to share :)
I will try to condense what 24 years felt "like" lol but I am now more aware that I was very privileged to see every aspect of LA and took most things for granted. Even still, I'm learning things were either regional or upper-middle specific experiences, like living a block from exposition park down fig or going to San Diego every weekend for my summer "job" as a conservation zookeeper in my little khaki uniform.
LA has a unique geographical combo of all the natural terrains grouped together that makes it one of the most beautiful coasts on earth. I know people who did a beach surf, mountain biking, ski trip, and desert camping in one day. The pollution is awful but the grey clouds of ocean mist just feels cleaner to breathe. The sun will come out to dry up the marine layer and kiss your cheeks by 11am. The fires and landslides are scary. But the earthquakes are fun.
you have the widest international mix of stunningly designed immigrant towns that feel more like teleportation, so many major flagship museums, the most innovative nontraditional art galleries, unparalleled delicious restaurants, cutting edge of vegan American cuisine, the worlds best shopping from 99¢ to hermes, popups and events every week. so there's always something to do. Even the tourist stuff like Hollywood can be fun, I've attended many movies premier nights with everyone dressed up as princesses at El Capitan.
People are way friendlier and way crazier and way more community forward so you can't be some antisocial isolated weirdo, you need to go speak to humans. The opportunities are endless, I knew so many people who moved there poor and homeless but made it work. All the child actors are exploited laborers with 0 rights or autonomy. I used to think "some of my friends have a job inside the TV just like my job is cleaning my room" until I realized the parents were all robbing them.
If you make celeb friends, they will get you into cool parties and give you jobs later, my aunts first job was as tom greens' chef because she made him laugh. One of my school friends lived in one of those Malibu camper communes parked all along the pch while hustling on a B lists singers home stylist team as a fashion student from Idaho. Red carpets aren't fun, you mostly just get yelled at to move out of the way and it's only cute when you're little and all the pretty actresses pick you up. Home of all the greatest makeup fx artists, horror props, and costuming people in the world: so Halloween is the biggest craziest all & out holiday of the year. Everyone leaves for Christmas so it feels slow and quiet with less traffic.
I used to find it really annoying when transplants aggressively called themselves angelenos until I met someone born and raised on the east coast last summer, one of my best friends now. she worked in LA for a few years as a college professor in the 00s and still whines about wanting to "go back home" and "missing home" every time we talk, like you can see and hear it in her beachy hair and mean-bubbly hippy personality. LA has a way of crawling under your skin and pushing out your previous concept of home because it feels more alive and home-y than other cities do.
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â- G o s p e l â
[ @extristitiavenit ]
Hope County was truly a beautiful place; the cascading mountains and rolling hills of fertile farmland seemed to stretch for miles and miles, disappearing into lines of thick spring pines that dotted the horizon. It seemed like it was such an idyllic place; Marion often found herself reminiscing about her childhood home in Baton Rouge, Louisiana whilst on her lunch breaks due to the overwhelming amount of very beautiful but very foreign scenery⌠A swampy transplant into an arid tundra, a fish out of water. Being sent all over the country was hard enough as it was, but never being able to stay in one place long enough to grow some roots was harder. It was always something- a new job, a boyfriend, loss of incomeâ something- something- something⌠Deputy Fuller had hoped that a change of scenery into the God fearing farmlands would strike down whatever wandering roots that would grab soil. Maybe this could actually be the place she settled down and called it good. Maybe it was the place where she would live and die quietly after she finished with whatever dumb prospect this job was.
The station was quiet, though as usual there was a gentle chatter over the radio between squad cars and her co-workers idle conversations flowing through the air in a gentle hum while the air conditioning unit whirs quietly overhead. As nice as it was to have such down time, it did put a slight alarm through her. Could it be quiet here for longer than a day? Probably not- there was always something happening over the radio, with those Peggies meandering around the valley and mountains- the âEdenâs Gateâ project, or whatever.. She really didnât care. It didnât affect her life, (well- it did- it did so much she ended up in Hope County, Montana to fill in a position that was, in fact, permanently vacant); and the ways it did affect her were easily written off with a nice blunt and a cold drink at her small cabin after work. Quitting time was always on her mind- her hazy green hues darting over to the white bubble clock that hung over the dirty front door. 5:15 p.m.- another 15 minutes until she could clock out and head home⌠Outside, a caravan of white vehicles with that stupid cross painted on the sides of them head down the main thoroughfare- honking and blasting their music loud enough to be heard all the way inside the station offices- âKeep your rifle by our side!â The tune hangs high in the air like a flag, and soon the cacophony of tires and engines and guitars fade into the distance until there was nothing left but the gentle clicking of the clock and the hum of the air conditioner. Marion rolled her eyes, stretched her arms up above her head and let off a loud yawn; hands unceremoniously rubbing her face and pushing back her mess of black curly hair. What a boring day. Nothing but paperwork and emails, two phone calls from the F.A.N.G center and one from the Chief to keep an eye out for a package that may or may not show up. Again. What a thrilling job; (Junior) Deputy Sheriff and she may as well have been a fucking secretary.
Another shift, another day completed; clocking out with an actual time punch was always one of the best parts of the job, one of those âlittle thingsâ her therapist back in Los Angeles told her when she was in her early years of being on the force.. What a lifetime ago, freshly 18 and just wanting to do the right thingâ a road to hell paved with the best of intentions.. The old machine reams the paper with a clunk and Marion is out the door with her bag and glasses in hand, headed out to the old Ford truck in the parking lot.. The sun was setting by now, the sky being painted in brilliant chunks of reds and oranges and pinks.. A nice view for the drive home too, tires whirring down the evenly paved road down into Holland Valley. Farm land, for miles and miles. At least, she thought, it didnât stink like some parts of the country she had stayed in.. These people out here took good care of their livestock and it showed. When the engine of the trucks begun to rattle and almost scream with uncertainty, it made her flicker back to reality and ease off the road and onto the shoulder; smoke flooding from the hood of the car as the lever under her seat was pressed with trepidation and concern for how she was now going to get home.
Standing over the fried engine, lit cigarette between her lips and flashlight in her southpaw, she felt like a real tool standing out there in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere, nothing but trees and fields and cars that scooted by almost hurriedly as the night settled into the valley. Marion didnât blame them- things tended to get sketchy at best when night came.
âAaaah fuckin���⌠Yaâ piece of shit, perfect fuckinâ timing to die out on me huh. You jussâ loooooove causing me issues.â The bayou woman scoffed and slammed the hood down after settling on a diagnosis: Fried radiator and snapped belt, transmission broken. Absolute destruction. Leaning now with her back to the warmed metal of the hood, she idly flicks through her phoneâ no signalâ no reach. There was nothing out here, and she wasnât exactly able to take a radio from the station. That was priorly a write up. So with a scoff and a groan and a few more expletives, Marion cleared the cab of her belongings and shoved them unceremoniously into her leather backpack, turned off the lights and slammed the truck door closed with a thud. There was nothing now but the eerie silence and the air current moving through the trees- if she didnât like the dark at home, she surely hated it when outside. There was a certain fear that comes with walking alone at night, but hopefully, hopefully, the 13 mile walk in almost pitch darkness wouldnât be that bad.
#| Gospel of Baptism â John }#And we should. â Starters }#| @extristitiavenit }#(( || And awaaaaaayy we go! ))
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The cityâs commitment to green living extends beyond its markets. Brighton,and many businesses, such as hair transplants and beauty salons, boasts a football team numerous parks and green spaces, such as Preston Park and Stanmer Park, providing ample opportunities for outdoor activities and relaxation. Find below one great hair transplant provider as an example of great beauty company.
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for the meet uglies, 55 indruck sfw? sorry apollo
Here you go! For those wondering, Apollo originates in my Amnesty Super Hero AU
âOkay sir, Iâm gonna say this as nice as I can.â
Indrid looks up from his drawing of some mushrooms. The ranger, a man about his age whose little bronze name tag reads âD. Newtonâ, has the look of someone choosing his words very, very carefully.
âYou are this close to me writin you up. And I mean this. Close.â He puts his thumb against his finger.
âI, is this not allowed?â The log heâs sitting on is technically on the trail, just next to it.
âThis ainât the problem. Itâs everythin you done since this morning thatâs the problem.â
âI-â
âFirst there was leavin your breakfast trash on the picnic table by the visitor center so chipmunks got into it--itâs real bad for them yâknow, makes âem too bold--then there was the selfies on off-limits spots, then you had the fu, uh, freakin nerve to be rude to Juno when she asked you to stay in safe areas, you littered left and right, then you left a beer can in the reeds by the plover nestinâ grounds. I donât even know where to start with that one; you know we donât allow alcohol in the park. Campgrounds sure, but we donât want fellas like you gettin drunk and then fallin off a rock. How can you be so careless, or not give a shit for a place people put time into protectin?
The smile thatâs been spreading across Indridâs face since the word âselfieâ is wide enough that the ranger spots it.
âMan, if you think this is funny, you wonât when youâre too drunk to swim or run from a bear. Then Iâm gonna have to bail your ass out, which I will, and youâre gonna eat a slice of humble pie big as that overinflated ego of yours.â
Indrid snickers. The ranger glares. Slowly, Indrid pulls back the hood of his sweatshirt and retrieves his glasses from the front of his shirt (he doesnât wear them when drawing in color due to their red lenses). The other mans expression slides off confusion and tumbles into horror.
âAw hell, Iâm sorry sir. Thought you were your, uh, well, guessin you got a twin runnin around this park.â He pulls the brim of his hat down in a charming attempt to hide his face.
âI do, and this is far from the first time Iâve been scolded in his place. Less so since I dyed my hairâ he indicates the artificial silver framing his face, âIâm mostly amused by how accurately you captured his orientation towards the world. Itâs also bitterly funny to discover he made someone else's day as unpleasant as he made mine.â
The ranger studies him, seems to notice the creases by his eyes and mouth, âSeem a little old to be gettin forced into family time. Not that you look old. Just, uh, I mean, you might be younger than me, hard to tell with the hair, uh, yeah.â
Indrid points in the direction of the beachside campsites, âThe Cold Family Reunion can only be begged off so long.â His phone dings, the reminder that itâs his turn to help his aunt with dinner, âspeaking of which, I should pack up.â He quickly gathers his supplies, sends the other man a final smile, âthank you for the laugh, Ranger Newton.â
âYouâre uh, youâre welcome. And tell your twin to throw his damn trash away.â He smiles as he says this, suggesting a joke, but Indrid resolves to remind Apollo of his manners anyway.
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The fog caresses the coastline, hiding the dawn entirely. Indrid pulls his hood up against the chill, the wooden bench and viewing deck damp from the weather. Heâs not going back to camp until heâs captured the sight before him; dozens of fishing boats on the dark water, their lights beautiful and soft against the grey world.
Sandy gravel crunches to his right, and then Ranger Newton appears. He keeps glancing at Indrid as he writes something indecipherable on a clipboard.
âIâm the nice one.â Indrid says in response to the quick, searching, looks.
âThank fuck.â He turns so theyâre actually looking at each other, âguess weâre both on the early shift.â
âNormally I wouldnât be, but the cold and quiet is preferable to my twin snoring. I brought my own one person tent, but then my aunt and uncle had their monthly argument and she needed a new place to sleep.â
âThat was mighty kind of you.â
Indrid shrugs, âNot really. I just want to get through this reunion with as little conflict as possible.â
âHowâd you end up on this thing? Said you couldnât get out of it but-â
âI just moved to town a month ago. Turns out this is a place my parents have always wanted to visit. Not enough to see me, mind you, or refrain from criticizing my choice of towns, but enough to host the reunion here so I had no escape. And if I want to eat with the family, I have to spend the night in the camp and not at home. And since money is tight after moving, well..."
The ranger whistles, âDamn, thatâs rough. But uh, since you live in town youâll actually get to see this place in nice weather.â
âIâm looking forward to it.â He shivers, âthough I enjoy the cold when I can be in my nice little apartment. In a tent, not so much.â
âIf you get a good sleepin bag or good company, gets a lot better.â The ranger smiles, then looks at his notes, âsorry, that ainât appropriate talk around a visitor.â
Indrid meets his green eyes, âIf you have recommendations for either, Iâm all ears.â
A gust of wind carries salt spray all the way to the platform, Indrid shivering as it mists his glasses.
âHereâ the ranger holds out his hnd, âI gotta go open the visitor center; nice and warm in there.â
â...Could you possibly come back in ten minutes? Iâd like to finish my sketch.â
âSure, wonât kill me to check on the tide measures while Iâm out here.â He tips his hat and soon Indrid sees him winding down a path to the beach. Eleven minutes later heâs back, telling Indrid about a huge starfish he saw.
On the walk to the visitor center, he learns the âDâ on his nametag is for âDuck,â that heâs a transplant from West Virginia, and that theyâre actually the same age. When Indrid explains that heâs a tattoo artist who sells his drawings on the side.
âYouâll appreciate this, thenâ Duck bends down to roll up his pant leg. Indrid appreciates the view and the well executed geometric tree tattoo on his ankle.
âJuno and I got âem together. Had to go with the ankle because I already got some on my arms. Canât show those off right now though.â
âMy, my, Ranger Newton, youâll flash a scandalous ankle at a guest but not take him to the gun show?â
Duck laughs, the sound like the mating call of a strange tropical bird; absurd and enchanting.
âGlad youâre in town to stay, Indrid. Think youâre the kind of fella Iâd like to get to know.â
----------------------------------------------
Maybe heâs being childish. Itâs not wrong for Apollo to say heâs making their father proud, that heâs successful, that heâs a golden boy of his field.
Itâs just obnoxious for him to do this the one time their extended family expressed Indridâs professional accomplishments. With that smile, the one Indrid knows for a damn fact he had fixed, that tone, that, thatâŚ.
That voice sounds familiar.
He reverses course, takes the path he passed by that points towards the amphitheater. What he gets is more a firepit with a small stage, but standing at the center and addressing fascinated families is Duck.
Indrid sits on the rickety bench furthest from the stage, lets Ducks explanations of night blooming plants and the creatures that pollinate them drown out the echoes of family dinner. When the program ends and the parents shepherd their children off with instructions for bedtime and brushing teeth Indrid stays, not ready to leave but not intending to attract Duckâs attention.
He gets it anyway.
âEnjoy the talk?â Duck stays two steps down from him, rests a foot up on the bench, âthis one is always real popular; when it gets warm, the little animal rehab place south of town brings education animals in. Yâknow, bats and owls, stuff like that.â
âIâll have to come back to see them.â The thought of seeing bats up close excites him, but heâs too tired to sell the emotion.
Duck frowns, âYou okay?â
Indrid shakes his head, tells him about the constant comments, the threat of living forever as the family disappointment, a threat he can deal with until heâs around them all. Then heâs right back to being seventeen and afraid of failing them.
â....Apolloâs always been the golden boy, ruthless and goal focused like our father. He always knows just what to say to get under my skin and dig out the scar tissue,â Indrid sighs, âAll I wanted tonight was to roast marshmallows and go to bed early.â
The ranger moved from the steps to the bench beside him as he told his story. Now, Duck looks at him, smile more soothing than the thrum of the distant waves, âI got an idea. Guessinâ you donât gotta tell your family where youâre goin, right?â
âNo, most of them will assume Iâm off sulking and Apollo will hope Iâve fallen off a cliff.â
âThen leave âem to be their shitty selves and come home with me. Uh, not, not-not like that, fuck, like what youâre thinkin, uh. Fuck. What I mean is; I got a fireplace and some marshmallows. You want in?â
Indrid watches the dying fire flicker of the curves of his face, thinks back on the last week. The ranger has been a frequent companion, brings him hot cocoa from the little cafe and tells him where heâll be for chunks of the day in case Indrid needs a break from his family. Last night, all Indrid could think about was wanting Duck to be in the tent beside him.
âAbsolutely.â
On the drive over, Indrid points out his apartment complex and Duck points out the best places to eat and the cheapest laundromats. His house is tiny, looks like it was built when the town was a logging hub and not a tourist destination.
âMake yourself at home, itâll take me a sec to get the fire goinâ--uhuh, Taco, stop tryinâ to open that cabinet.â He hoists a yowling, blonde ball of fur on the couch. The cat directs a suspicious look Indridâs way and then settles on top of the pile of blankets.
âYou a sâmore man?â Duck calls from the kitchen.
âNo, thank you. I prefer my sugar in a single bite.â
âYou eat marshmallows in one bite? Iâm always worried Iâll choke.â
âI have an accommodating mouth.â Indrid smirks when Duck audibly drops the bag. Heâs not always the best with social cues, but if the way Duck kept brushing their hands together on the center armrest in his car is any indication, the ranger is trying to pick him up.
Once the fire is going Duck sits on the rug, patting the spot to his left. Indrid joins him. Caramelizing sugar and increasingly sleepy laughter soon fills the air. Neither of them keep their knees from touching, and Duck keeps dropping his head to Indridâs shoulder when he giggles. The whole scene is so heavenly Indrid isnât paying attention to their marshmellow consumption. He reaches into the empty bag and makes a disappointed noise.
âDamn, we really went through âem.â He catches Indridâs eye with a playful grin, âyou still cravinâ sugar?â
Indrid licks his lips, âYes.â
Duck cups his cheek, guiding him into a sleepy, close-mouthed kiss, brushing their noses together when he pulls back to murmur, âThat do the trick?â
âHmmmmm?â Indrid cocks his head, âno.â
The other man guffaws as Indrid pulls him down on top of him, kissing him happily and wiggling his hips when Duck digs his fingers into his hair. His own hands migrate under Duckâs shirts, finding his body just as warm and wonderful as he hoped.
He nips Duckâs lower lip. The ranger growls and Indrid is no longer tired.
âCare to see just how accommodating my mouth can be?â
Duck rolls them twice so theyâre a safe distance from the fire, âHell yeah.â
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Indrid saunters into camp late in the morning, some of the Colds already packing up to depart. His twin is stuck on dish duty, grins like a barracuda when he spots Indrid.
âI donât know why youâre here. You missed breakfast, and you werenât in camp last night, so you donât get lunch or dinner either. May as well skulk back into the shadows.â
âMmm, yes, I was rather undutiful.â Indrid spots a figure checking campsite permits, who stealthily blows him a kiss, âbut at this moment in time, I donât particularly care.â
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#Best Plastic-cosmetic Surgeon for nose plastic surgery in Green Park#Best Plastic-cosmetic Surgeon for tatto removal surgeon in Green Park#Best Plastic-cosmetic Surgeon for hair transplant surgeon in Green Park
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Foreign Exchange
This is a re-release since the previous version got blocked for unknown reasons. Iâm not going to bother to find yet another photo that doesnât break the content rule, so youâll have to imagine the lower part of a slim, white guy wearing red trunks with the outline of a massive penis. Or read the original story and more on my Patreon.
It all started in what was supposed to be a one week stay in Cape Town. I don't know what the airline had smoked, but a round trip from Europe sold for almost nothing during a few hours. Probably some clerical error in the pricing department. Whatever the reason, I shuffled some tasks around and manage to arrange myself a one week spring vacation. I had no idea of what to expect. Only thing I knew about South Africa was the Kruger Park, the worlds first heart transplant, excellent red wines, Apartheid and Mandela.
It started out amazing. I found a cheap place in Green Point, close to lots of the tourist places, and started to drink my way through South African wine bottles. It was on the third evening I made the wrong move. No, life altering move.
I was heading back to the hotel after some late evening sea side action. I had emptied a particularly good bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, rich with those mineral tones so prevalent in most South African wines. I was slightly sun burned, possibly lost and decidedly round footed when I walked up to two well dressed white men beating the shit out of black kid.
- Hey, stop that!
I said before my brain had fully reengaged. They did stop. One of the men stared right at me, eyes filled with disdain.
- What you say?
I didn't have time to answer him when something hard hit the back of my head with a thud and everything lost focus and disappeared.
When I came to everything was black and my head hurt like hell. I was lying awkwardly, hands bound behind my back, feet tied together, and some sort of bag tied around my head. The sound made me think I was in someones trunk, but I guess it could have been a van or a covered pick up flat bed just as well. In any event, the vehicle was running fast on what I assumed to be a highway. After a bit of struggle I concluded that I was not just bound up, but also tied down and couldn't move much at all. After a boring hour or so still drunk me slipped back into sleep.
Next time I woke up the vehicle was standing still. I was still as tied up as before, but I could hear someone speaking Afrikaan a few steps away. He came close, shuffled some things around, and then I felt a small prick on my arm. I barely had time to realize it was some sort of injection when I lost consciousness again.
Regaining consciousness was quite different third time around. I still couldn't see anything, but I could feel some swim style goggles around my head, probably blacked out. Now I was lying more properly on a firm bed or padded table. I tried to move, but like before I was tightly restrained. This time it felt more professional, like cuffs around arms and legs, and some kind of material pushing against the chest. And I was naked, I think. It was hard to determine, as the temperature was nice and I couldn't move, but I couldn't feel any clothes on my body. I tried to say "hello", but nothing came out.
This quickly became incredibly boring. I couldn't see or feel much. The smell was basically just some generic clean smell of faint detergent. With sounds there were a bit more variation. I could hear some HVAC rumbling once every 5 minutes, or so I guessed. In addition there was a constant low humming in the room. I could hear some faint sounds from outside the room. Perhaps infrequent cars coming and leaving outside the building.
By my estimate I was at least into the third wake hour when suddenly a door opened and I could hear a conversation between the two men who entered the room. They sounded quite far away, so the room was probably large.
"...so many in the database?"
"We use five key measurements combined into one value as sorting key. The circumference and length, both on flaccid and erect, are approximated into two cylinders. Balls are approximated as spheres. Then we just multiply the three volumes together to make the sorting key. First selection priority is of course bio-compatibility, but this size metric allows for fast selection within that set. It only brings candidates though. The final decision is more complex, of course."
"Complex how?"
"Well, let's ask the doctor himself. His coming here."
A third person entered the room.
"You talking about me?"
"Yes, we were just discussing the selection criteria"
"Ah. Well, since this is a demonstration we want to be bold, while being mindful of proportions and aesthetics. In addition to appearance we want to maximize as many of the secondary factors as possible from the paper. For this one we landed in using the Congo supply."
They were standing right next to me now. The "doctor" continued.
"So this is the subject. The first agent is being administered right now, as you can see. Any questions?"
I tried to say something. Anything. But only wheezing air came out.
"Is he trying to speak?", asked the first voice.
"No, he isn't. Come, let's look at the model", replied the doctor, and they left the room as quickly as they entered it.
6-8 HVAC cycles later I heard the door open again and several people walking into the room. I heard a women's voice close to me saying "Everything is green. Go ahead." and I again lost consciousness.
The room was barely furnished, completely white and bathed in light when I opened my eyes.
"Oh, how good. You are awake."
I heard a female voice in a strong South African accent. I turned my head and saw a fat, black South African lady smiling at me. I was super confused. I was in a hospital bed, but this didn't really look like a hospital, and she didn't look like a nurse.
"Wheh...", was as far as I managed on "Where am I" before my voice gave out.
"You need to drink a lot. Here, let me help", said the lady and gave me something that looked like a hospital version of a gym bottle. As I drank she continued.
"You had a traffic accident. Nothing serious. Just a concussion, so you were dismissed from the hospital to make room. This is a recovery home."
I was gulping water. Man, was I was thirsty. "Where are we?" I asked.
"Just outside the city, so still close to Johannesburg."
That's like at least 10 hours away from Cape Town. What the fuck had happened?
"What day is it?"
"It's Thursday today, dear. I'll go and get something for you to eat", the fat lady answered, and started to move towards the door.
Something just didn't feel right. It was Wednesday evening when I was kidnapped. "No, what date?"
"Thursday the 28th", she said from the door.
A whole fucking week.
I felt a sucking black hole in my gut. The lady seemed nice, but there was no way I would trust her right now. Perhaps she believed everything she had just told me, but clearly some things were not true. My head felt fine, as opposed to the last time I was conscious, but what about the rest? I didn't feel any restraints, just my body in a hospital gown, under some white sheets. In fact, nothing hurt anywhere. Just thirsty, still, hungry and a need to piss.
I could see a different door in another wall than the nurse had just left through. Presumably a private toilet for this small recovery room. A pair of slippers stood next to the bed, so I threw off the blankets began to sit up and swing out my legs. That's when I first felt it. It was weird feeling, familiar, but yet very different.
I quickly kicked my feet into the slippers and carefully, still a bit woozy, shuffled into the bath room. It was surprisingly roomy. Well, perhaps not surprisingly, given the number of people with casts, wheelchairs and whatnot passing through. But it had plenty of room around the toilet seat and sink, and a full length mirror next to the sink, presumably for wheel chair bound people.
I raised the gown from my knees to expose my front, and just stared for a several seconds to fully understand what I saw. My dick and balls were gone. In its place was the largest, most aggressively male genitalia I had ever seen, even in pictures. The massive dick went almost down to my knees, and thick as a can of red bull. And even though it was completely flaccid it was veiny as cabbage and the outlines of a massive head was clearly visible through the uncut foreskin.
Behind the dick were two softball sized testicles hanging low, but unevenly so. It was all topped off with a large bush of coarse hair. And all of it, the hair, the balls and the dong, where dark chocolate black.
I just stared in disbelief. Then tentatively I touched the penis. Yep, it was real and it was now apparently mine. Standing straight my hands couldn't even reach halfway down to the tip. My mind caught up with reality and was filling with questions. Who did this? Why did they do this? How did they do this? Isn't there organ rejection? Aren't you supposed to eat some sort of pills forever after receiving a transplant? Are there even any pants I can wear anymore? Did baller shorts just become underwear?
I went to the toilet and emptied my bladder. It worked fine. Better than fine even, as aiming just became a lot easier with such a hose, although using paper involved lifting. Lifting! I could feel that it was much more sensitive than what I was used to, and felt it starting to come alive. I quickly dropped it and went back to bed. Just as I did lunch arrived.
Once fed, and having checked with the care taker, Amahle, that she wouldn't be back for two hours, I decided to try out my new dong. Tissues were already on the side table. I sat up in bed, kicked off the sheet and had another look under the gown. I was again taken aback with the sight. It wan't just massive, but somehow everything, length, girth, balls, looked to be in proportion. I must admit that I haven't spent much time thinking about, looking at or describing cocks, but the first words that came to mind were aggressive, intimidating and virile. The black skin made it even more so, as the light from the window created contrasting highlights on the veins.
Carefully I looked at the border, where the black skin met my pasty, white body. Rather than a sharp line, as I had expected, there was a narrow gradient where one color blended over to the other. How on earth was this done? It looked like perhaps a decades old surgery where the scar had long since gone soft.
I resumed where we left off in the bathroom, slowly stroking it. It reacted right away, and apparently was a grower as well as a shower. Holy fuck was it massive. I just lied in bed and over perhaps 20 minutes had the best wank in my life. I have no idea whose dick I was giving a handjob, but this was clearly his loss and my gain. It was filled to the brim with nerve endings, making every stroke amazing. Or perhaps it was designed and grown in a lab somewhere? In that case, props to the cocksmith.
The head was leaking precum like crazy, sending small droplets of man lube for every noisy slosh of foreskin riding up and down the head. I was probably suffering from some sort of auto-erotic asphyxiation with so much blood displaced, but I managed to be amazed over how long I lasted, in the fog of pleasure.
When I finally couldn't keep it contained anymore, I erupted in rope after rope of cum going everywhere. On my chest, in my face, and some overshooting me all together. As I was catching my breath, sweaty and sticky, I was thinking about what to tell Amahle. Or if I should get up and do some attempts to clean up the mess first. I realized I had plenty of problems ahead of me. Cleaning up, getting home, ever wearing pants again, figuring out how to use toilets. But at least there and then I could not care less.
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Orb/Reanimation
Another part of Doorways! Link to series here.
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âWhatâs his name again?â asked Danny, picking at the hem of his shirt.  Today had been⌠stressful, for a number of reasons.  Partially the long drive and the disastrous breakfast stop, but also the fact that they were driving to meet a guy who was possibly:
a)Â Â Â Â Â Â Vlad Masters version 2.
b)Â Â Â Â Â A horrible hole in reality that would try to kill him.
c)Â Â Â Â Â Â Possessed, like the Keens.
d)Â Â Â Â Â Using ghost stuff without knowing it was ghost stuff.
e)Â Â Â Â Â Messing around with ghost stuff while knowing it was ghost stuff, but without any of the skill to keep it from messing him up in turn. Â
f)Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Crazy in some wonderful, unforeseen way.
Or, finally,
g)Â Â Â Â Â Â Mom and Dadâs one and only normal friend. Â
Danny really wasnât holding for the last one, if he was being honest. Â After all, unlike Marianne, this guy had been part of the Paranormal Research Club. Â
Okay, maybe there were other, positive, options. Â It was completely possible for someone to be weird or crazy and not be evil or even particularly threatening. Â Most ghosts were like that, in fact. Â
Still.
âFrank Stone,â said Dad, cheerfully.
âIf he turns out to be a Dr. Frankenstein type, I quit,â groaned Jazz. Â âJust so you know.â
âYou wonât quit,â said Danny, with complete confidence. Â
âHe is a doctor,â said Mom. Â âHe was studying biology when we met him, for his undergraduate degree.â
âI quit; Iâm telling you.â
âIf you were really quitting,â reasoned Danny, âyouâd just open the door and jump out.â Â He was pleased that Jazz was taking her turn as the resident overdramatic teenager. Â She carried that burden only rarely, but it did seem like long trips in the GAV really brought it out.
Maybe they made her remember the whole Youngblood thing. Â Who knew? Not Danny. Â
âIâm not going to jump out of a moving vehicle. Thatâs more of a âyouâ thing.â
âI canât really dispute that,â said Danny, remembering all the times he had, in fact, jumped out of a moving vehicle. âIn my defense, I can fly.â
âWhy you can fly completely negates that as a defense.â
Danny held up a finger. Â âOkay, so, first off, reality is not a moving vehicle.â
âAnything can be a moving vehicle, depending on your reference frame.â
âI agree on the moving part, but I dispute the vehicle part. Â Vehicle comes from the Latin vehiculum, which is âa means of conveyance.â Reality is not a means of conveyance. Ergo, it cannot be a vehicle.â
âNot so fast, brother dear. Â Words change meaning over time.â
âYeah, but thatâs still what vehicle means,â said Danny. Â âUnless youâre doing the medicine definition, anyway. Â I think.â
âReality is a metaphorical vehicle.â
âWell, if itâs metaphorical, it doesnât matter whether or not itâs moving. Â Does it?â
âIâm⌠not sure.â
âI think this is the place!â exclaimed Dad, pulling into a parking lot. Â âGolding City University Medical Research Lab.â
âHe doesnât live here,â said Danny, slowly, âdoes he?â Â They werenât ambushing this guy at work, were they? Â Even if he did turn out to be just as bad as all of Mom and Dadâs other friends, that was kind of mean. Â
(Except, the Keens had been acceptable, once they were no longer possessed, and even the ghost possessing them hadnât been too terrible.)
âHeâs in the building behind the lab,â said Mom. âThey let the teachers live on-campus, here. Â Heâs expecting us, anyway.â
Right. Â Because they had called ahead, giving warning to their potential enemy. Â Curse you, common courtesy and sundry social conventions.
Jazz was glaring at the small name sign on the building, which was just barely visible through the rain. Â âGolding City University,â she said, eyes narrowed. Â
âUh, is something wrong?â
âFrankenstein,â she said. Â
âUm,â said Danny. Â He looked more closely at the name. Â âGolding City. Â Ingolstadt.â Oh, no. Â Now he was glaring at the name, too. Â Because Jazz was right, and it would be his luck. Â Their parentsâ luck. Â Whatever. Â
âDo you feel anything?â asked Dad. Â
âNo,â said Danny.
âWell,â said Mom.  âWeâll have to run a bit, try to stay out of the rain.  Itâs too bad there isnât a closer parking lotâŚâ
âI could also just make us all intangible,â said Danny. Â
âWhat?â
âI could make us all intangible. Â I do it all the time to miss the rain when no one is looking too closely.â
âHuh,â said Mom. Â
âIt isnât as if my powers disappear when Iâm not fighting ghosts,â said Danny. Â âI get to use them for other things.â
âI know, I know, it just seems⌠petty.â
âPetty is one of the best words to describe ghosts with,â said Danny. Â
.
Frank Stone did not look like a Frankenstein. Not the monster, and not the âdoctor.â
(Because Victor Frankenstein had not, in fact, become a doctor, had he?)
He was actually pretty average looking. Â The same age as Mom and Dad, of course. Brown hair. Â Glasses. Â Skinny, but not that skinny. Â Could Dr. Stone rob a grave? Â Probably. But carrying the loot away without some mechanical advantage was probably out. Â Unless it was old loot. Â Dried out. Maybe just bones. Â
Corpses were heavy. Â
(No, Danny was not going to elaborate.)
Dr. Stone appeared to be somewhat confused about why Danny and Jazz were there. Â Evidently, Mom and Dad had managed to give the man the impression that they wanted to fund his research with the fortune they had inherited from Vlad.
Which, incidentally, had been inherited by Danny, who couldnât really do much with it until he was twenty-five.  Not that he was particularly keen on funding⌠Whatever it was that Dr. Stone was researching. Â
Maybe that would be different if he could tell what Dr. Stone was talking about. Â Danny wasnât stupid, far from it, and had a good background in any number of esoteric subjects, but, well. Â It was hard to rival an adult lifetime of learning and research. Â Especially when he didnât have any context. Â
Mom and Dadâs briefing on Dr. Stone had generally focused on what he had been interested in as a member of the Paranormal Research Club, not his true field of study.
âOh,â said Mom, suddenly, âthis is about your organ transplant project, isnât it? Â You really need to provide more context. Â When you just jump right in like that, even weâll get lost!â
Okay. Â Danny felt better. Â
âWell, yes,â said Dr. Stone. Â âI have been working on this off and on since college, you know how it is. Â I know you kept up with that portal business!â Â He flashed a nervous smile and set his coffee mug down on his coffee table. Â It made a soft chinking sound against the glass. Â âBut the university gave me a grant, Vladcoâs been donating some suppliesâFrom their chemical division, mostlyâand Iâve been having a lot of success! Â I canât wait to show you. Â Weâve actually got a few specimens in near-stasis right now, all from mice. Â Weâre going to be implanting one tomorrow. Â See how it functions.â
âHave you implanted any before?â asked Mom, leaning forward. Â
âA few, but, well.  I canât say they were resounding successes.  The most recent subject only lasted a few days⌠Although, that is better than the first! Weâve been adjusting some of our ratios.â
âSay, Frank,â said Dad. Â âWhat chemicals are you using for this, anyway? Â I know youâre using them in conjunction with low temperatures, but keeping crystals from forming in the fleshââ
âYes, yes, thatâs always been the problem with cryogenics,â agreed Dr. Stone. Â Then they dove back into jargon and technical language. Â
Danny glanced sideways at Jazz, uneasy. Â Chemicals. Â From Vladco. Yeah. Â Not suspicious at all. Â
He leaned over. Â âTen dollars says that heâs using ectoplasm to reanimate dead bodies.â
âIâm not taking that bet. Â Do you feel anything weird from him?â Â Jazz whispered back. Â
âWeird, yes, butâŚâ  Danny bit his lip.  âIâm not sensing any⌠doors.  Or ghosts.â
âOkay,â said Jazz. Â âSo, when we do find his mad science lab full of dead body parts, what do we do?â
âWell⌠ Nothing? As long as theyâre legal dead body parts, I guess.  You know, from organ donors, or people who donated their bodies to science.  I meanâŚâ  He shrugged.  âYouâve read Frankenstein, too.  And met Ellie.â
âHm. Â True,â said Jazz. Â âI have to check my biases. Â Iâm still quitting, though. Â As soon as we find his Frankenstein stuff. Â Just so you know.â
âNo, you arenât.â
Jazz just sighed. Â
.
Danny walks silently through the halls of the research facility. Â True, Dr. Stone was planning on giving his family a tour of his workspace first thing tomorrow and had implied that other researchers would be doing the same, but Danny believed in being prepared. Â
Well. Â Sometimes. He was allowed to be inconsistent and contradictory. Â Like any teen, he was still learning how to exist. Â
Maybe he should stop comparing himself to âany teen,â though. Â It was beginning to feel dishonest, even in his own head. Â Even though, technically, it was true. Â
Anyway. Â
This place was kind of creepy. Â At least, he presumed a normal person would find it creepy. Too bad he didnât know any normal people. Â Sam would think it was cool. Â Tucker would be freaking out because it was a medical research lab. Â Ancients, Danny was as bad as his parents. Â
It did have a number of features that one would typically only find on the set of a horror movie, however, so he felt fairly confident in his assessment of its creepiness. Â Also, he had encountered at least five different crimes against nature and sanity (it took one to know one), and he hadnât even gotten to Dr. Stoneâs lab yet. Â
He was impressed. Â He hadnât expected such a high concentration outside of Amity Park or Vladâs hideouts. Â
At the thought of Vlad, Danny drooped. Yeah. Â He still wasnât over the stupid fruitloop. Â Still hated the fact that he had died. Â
Back to the crimes against nature. Â Ectoplasm was definitely a component, if a small one. Hard to get things to glow that precise, reality bending shade of green otherwise. Â Also, well. Â Danny can sense ectoplasm.
And⌠ Now he was in a room of jars full of diluted ectoplasm and⌠He sniffed. Formaldehyde?  He frowned and decided the number, size, and arrangement of jars was suspicious.  He walked around the table.  Yep. That was in the outline of a human body. Yep. Â
Honestly, this wasnât any more alarming than the living mice impaled with various glowing needles, or the disturbingly brown heart beating in a fish tank a few rooms back.  It was, also, significantly less alarming than the prosthetic face (mainly because, dang, that thing looked realistic), the (fresh) skeleton someone had been injecting ectoplasm into (yikes), and the weird flesh⌠blob⌠thing that someone had just left out in their workspace. Â
Still. Â This was another point for the âsomeone is building a Frankensteinâs monster in this buildingâ theory, and Danny had kind of been hoping that he was wrong. Â
He walked out of the room, on alert for random murderous corpse monsters (or sad corpse monsters that needed a shoulder to cry on, a restraining order against their creators, and a loving home). Â Or mad scientists. Â Because, at this point, he was fairly certain that everyone who worked here was crazy, and not necessarily in the fun way Mom and Dad were.
He was glad they had decided to sleep in the GAV and ignore Dr. Stoneâs invitation to stay in his apartment. Â
Dr. Stoneâs office was just next door. Â His lab, just beyond that. Â Danny approached cautiously, his ghost half on high alert, and his deeper self stirring uneasily. Â
He laid a hand flat against the door, and that stirring became wakefulness.
Crimes against nature. Â Hubris. Â Pride.
Superbia. Â It had to be.
A hole. Â A wound.
Well. Â This was fast. Â Even with the Keensâ list of Paranormal Research Club members they had encountered while possessed, Danny hadnât expected to find another thing like Gula so quickly. Â
He hadnât wanted to. Â Despite his outward pessimism, he had hoped that there werenât any more. Â
After several frozen moments where Danny braced himself for an attack, he realized one wasnât forthcoming. Â The tear beyond the door had not noticed him, was not trying to consume him. Â
So, he had a choice. Â He could either try to deal with this alone, right now, or he could sneak away and tell his family what he had found. Â Both choices had pros and cons. Â
Before even a second had passed, Danny was easing away from the door.  He hadnât quite promised to share if he felt anything strange, if he had detected anything bad, but⌠ It was a near thing, and he didnât want to be dishonest with his family after they had been so accepting of all his⌠Stuff. Â
Yeah. Â Call it stuff. Â Nice and generic. Â Covers everything. Â
Plus, his encounter with Gula had confirmed that he needed backup. Â
He refrained from calling on his powers on the way out. Â He didnât want to draw attention. Â The limits of the doors to the place which should not be mentioned were largely unknown to him.
Luckily, the doors werenât alarmed, and he got back to the GAV without a problem. Â He poked Jazz awake first. Â
âHey,â he said, âweâve got a problem.â
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âThis portal is just⌠Sitting there,â said Mom.
âYep.â
âIn Frankâs office.â
âWell, I think it might actually be in the lab, but yes. Â Itâs kind of freaking me out.â
âIs Frank sleeping in his lab?â asked Dad, stroking the stubble on his chin. Â
âNo, I checked that before I went in,â said Danny. âHeâs in his apartment.â
âYou just⌠broke into his apartment?â asked Mom.
Danny shrugged. Â âI didnât break anything,â he said. Â âBut, I mean, what else was I supposed to do?â
For a moment, it looked like Mom was about to argue or scold him, but she shook her head. Â âAlright, then someone else is in his office.â
âMaybe.  Iâm not sure if these portals need a person attached or not.  Using person in the very loosest of senses, becauseâŚâ  He made a gesture he hoped would be interpreted as a soul being forcibly removed from a body without killing the body. Â
âYou donât think itâs in the, um,â Jazz also made a vague gesture. Â
âYou mean the hypothetical Frankensteinâs monster heâs made? Â Yeah. I think thatâs likely. Â Also, judging from the sheer amount of, um, weird stuff in the other labs, Iâd say itâs influencing everyone and everything around it, too.â
âIs that a thing it can do?â asked Mom. Â
âI mean, I can do that,â said Danny.  He paused.  ââIâ in this case being the portal.  Yeah.  Thatâs why Amity Park is so⌠ Amity Park.â
Mom breathed out, slowly. Â âSweetie, trust me on this, Amity Park was strange long before we made the portal.
âWell, yes?â said Danny, not seeing what that had to do with it. Â âSo?â
âSo, that strangeness couldnât be caused by the portal.â
âMom. Â IâmâItâs a hole in reality. Â Do you think itâs going to obey the laws of cause and effect? Â You went to Amity Park because it was already a âthin spot,â right? Â I was already there.â
Mom looked vaguely ill. Â
âOkay,â said Jazz. Â âLetâs table that discussion for right now. Â What are we going to do about this? Â Break in? Â Wait for our âtourâ tomorrow?â
âI donât like the idea of waiting for Dr. Stone to give us a tour,â said Danny. Â âI donât want to give them time to prepare for us.â
âHe doesnât know what weâre here for, though,â said Dad. Â âDoes he?â
âI donât know,â said Danny. Â âI canât read minds.â
âYet,â added Jazz.
âDo you think he even knows about theâŚâ  It was Momâs turn to enter the gesturing game.
âLetâs just call it a hell portal for the sake of communication,â said Danny, despite the fact that the term did not do the actuality justice. Â âOr Superbia for this particular one. Â I think this must be Superbia, anyway.â Â He didnât want to imagine the possibility of even more of these things out there. Â
âIâm not sure how he couldnât notice that something strange was going on,â said Dad. Â âEven if he was using ectoplasm and other supernatural elements in his research, we gave him a good grounding in what to expect from ectoplasm in college.â
âYeah,â said Jazz. Â âBut not everyone is like you and Mom. Â Your college days were over two decades ago.â
Something moving in the dark and rain beyond the GAV windows, catching Dannyâs eye. Â He pushed past his family to get a better look, blinking to adjust his eyes. Â
âHeck,â he said. Â âWe have a mob.â
âWhat?â exclaimed Dad, rushing to the console to turn on the GAVâs exterior floodlights. Â
They illuminated Dr. Stone and a crowd of college and graduate students quite nicely. Â Their eyes reflected a dim red. Â The GAV was, as far as Danny could see, surrounded.
Very briefly, the thought of gunning the GAV and crashing through the crowd crossed his mind. Â It was just as quickly dismissed. Â
He didnât know what the line between influenced and mind controlled was, or how easily Superbia could cross it. Â It was even possible that the âhell portalâ could vault over both of those and land directly in possession. Â
âGhost shield?â suggested Danny. Â
âWill it do anything?â asked Mom. Â
âWonât hurt,â said Danny with a shrug. Â
Mom flipped the switch. Â
âWhat are we going to do?â asked Jazz, softly. âWait them out?â
âRealistically,â said Danny, âwe donât have enough food and water to do that. Â With this many people, they could take turns watching us.â
âCall the police?â suggested Maddie. Â The other three turned to look at her. Â âThey are still human, arenât they?â
âYeah,â said Danny, frowning.  âBut I donât know how much, um, agency they have right now.  If we were in Amity, Iâd say sure, our police understand, mostly, but⌠ Also, bringing extra hostages into this might not be a good idea.â
âIf itâs the campus police that would get called, they might be affected, too,â said Jazz. Â
âThey have campus police? Â How do you know?â
âThis college sent me a brochure once.â
âRight. Â Um. Â I could always just fly us out of here,â said Danny.
âAssuming they donât have ranged attacks,â said Mom, dubiously.
âHm. Â Yeah. Â I think I could lift the GAV, and then we could just leave the shield on.â
âAssuming the shield does anything.â
Danny shrugged. Â âI can always just try to fight them outright. Â Iâd prefer not to do that, though.â
Mom inhaled as if she were about to say something but was cut off by a loud noise from outside.
âJack~  Maddie~ I know youâre in there.â  That was Dr. Stoneâs voice, warped by a megaphone speaker.  âWhy donât you come out and see what Iâve done?  I dare say Iâve exceeded even our wildest dreams from college.â  A long pause.  âI even made a portal⌠ Werenât you trying to get one of those?  Isnât that what got good old Vlad hospitalized?â  There was laughter.  Too much laughter. Â
The mob was laughing, too.
Superbia. Â Pride.
Danny knew what he wanted to do.  He wanted to walk out and deal with the threat that was grating on his every sense.  But⌠ He knew that prideful actions were contraindicated under the present circumstances. Â
Influence. Â Right. How much could Danny be influenced?
How much could his family be influenced?
He looked up at his parents, seeking guidance. They seemed uncertain, too. Â
âI didnât destroy any lives- I made new life. New life!  Powered by an interdimensional portal, oh, yes⌠ Can you imagine the application?  Can you imagine a new world?â
âOkay, he didnât seem like this in the apartment,â muttered Jazz. Â âWe have human nonlethal weapons, right?â
âStill have to worry about running people over,â said Danny. Â He looked back at the lab building. Â âWe could try to cut this off at the source. Â They arenât protecting the building. Â Theyâre using it as part of their perimeter.â
Eyes turned to the dimly lit building. Â
âWe can cover you,â offered Dad. Â
âI donât like this any better than you flying off with us,â said Mom.  âBut⌠ It offers a more permanent solution.â
Danny should have gone after it when he was in the building the first time. Â Well. Â Time only rewound for one ghost, and that ghost wasnât him. Â
Unless he counted⌠ Never mind.  The point was, despite all his other wonderful and troubling features, Danny couldnât go back and change a decision heâd already made.  Agonizing over it was a waste of time and brain power. Â
Dad got behind the wheel. Â Jazz crawled up into the well-disguised turret. Â Maddie manned the other weapons. Â
Danny stood at the door, ready to run, ready to transform as soon as he was through the shield. Â
Family bonding activities. Â So much fun. Â
.
The mob attacked before he got the door open. He still made it to the building.
.
Danny didnât bother with doors or windows or halls. He remembered what floor Dr. Stoneâs office was on, and, now that he was sensitized to it, he could feel Superbia. He went through the walls, straight as an arrow.
(He wondered, briefly, if he was being as bigoted as heâd often felt his parents to be. Â If he was ascribing more evil to the portals to the Red Country than was warranted. If he was simply holding up a dark mirror and seeing what he feared from himself.)
(But no. Â He did not command like that. Â He did not force his people to assemble armies in the night or attack people. Â He kept them safe. Â He had rules.)
The lab was awash in sick red not-light that burned in Dannyâs mind. Â It was barely physically perceptible, more present in senses that couldnât translate to human terms than anything to do with Dannyâs eyes, ghostly or not. Â
In the center of the lab, on an operation table, was a stitched-together corpse. Â Perhaps, under other circumstances, it would have been a very pretty corpse. Â A young woman with long dark hair and broad shoulders. Â
Its chest had been torn open. Â Half-in half-out of the cavity was a red orb, the source of the not-light, like some sick imitation of a ghost core. Â
(It reminded Danny of Freakshowâs staff, and he realized that he never did find out where that horrid thing had come from.)
They had been trying to make something like Danny.
He felt like he had eaten those blood blossom pancakes. Â
Danny gritted his teeth and let his light, white-green and clear, fill his hands. Â Ectoplasm fought against the miasma in the air, an oddly purifying presence. It wasnât enough to chase away the wrongness. Â This wasnât his space. Â
The fight against Gula was different. Â Both he and it had been within nominally living bodies. Â They had been next to the heart of Dannyâs territory, his home ground. Â Danny had been tricked and trapped, taken off guard, unable to use the tricks he had grown used to while fighting ghosts and Vlad.
(He could feel Superbia in his mind, pride urging him forward towards error. Â Pride in his abilities, in his mind, in his family.)
Danny drifted sideways, watching. Â Listening. Â Other things in the building were stirring. Â Sparks of wrongness growing and twisting, warping into fountains and springs. Â This whole building was full of it. Â Rotten to the bones. Â It pressed against his teeth. Â
Careful. Â
He had to be careful. Â
The orb shone. Â
(Too much like Freakshowâs staff.)
(Influence, Danny remembered. Â Just how close was it to mind control?)
Doing this as a human was impossible. Â Trying to fight that as a ghost was unwise.
The always-open always-closed door that both contained and laid within Dannyâs soul shifted. Â So did the corpse on the table, its constituent parts sliding over each other gruesomely. Â Death had lost its hold, lost its meaning. Â The ghost that was Danny twisted, and he was too human, too alive.
Special little thing. Â You think you can defeat us.
He could. Â He could open himself and wash all this away in an instant. Â He could burn with electric fire and the cold of deep space. Â He could reach out. Â The orb would be as dust under his hand. Â
He didnât move. Â
In thinking you becomeâŚ
Un-light burned up from the grooves in the tile floor. It didnât reach the soles of his boots, didnât reach his soul. Â He gritted his teeth. Â
US. Â
YOUR VICTORY IS OURS.
âWow, you picked the wrong person to use that strategy on,â said Danny, out loud. Â Internally, he pulled on the delicate and frayed strands of reality that persisted even here. âI have so much imposter syndrome and anxiety that it isnât even funny. Â I know I canât beat you. Â Not here.â
But then, he didnât have to. Â
He found the right string and pulled. Â He found the key and opened the door. Â Death was in the room again. Â Danny could move again. Â Not so much the pile of flesh in front of him. Â It was hard, it hurt, to keep hold of something like this, but half of Danny was this, was dead, even if he had far too many halves to ever be whole. Â
Ice coated the floor, the tiles cracking under the sudden temperature change. Â He dropped to the floor and was human. Â
An impossible thing. Â
And behind the humanâ
Well. Â Danny didnât have to defeat Superbia. Â It wasnât like Gula, didnât have that strength, that experience. Â He just had to make it so the things that would, could. Â
(Danny had rules. Â Some of them were to protect himself.)
He walked over to the orb. Â Ultimately, it was just a representation, not Superbia itself. Still. Â He put his foot down on it and slowly transferred his weight to it until it cracked. Â Until it splintered. Â Until it shattered. Â Until he ground its dust under his heel. Â
Then, the building collapsed. Â Danny didnât move, didnât have to move. Â He was a ghost again, floating in the air, exactly where he had been, all the floors having passed harmlessly through him. Â
Outside, the faculty and student body of the college were sprawled in piles on the ground. Â The GAV was, somehow, halfway up a tree. Â A shockingly sturdy tree. Â Several statues were in pieces. Â
The sun was coming up. Â
Danny put a hand to his chest and assessed himself. Yes. Â Still here. Â Still himself. Â The Ghost Zone still sang in his bones, in his core. Â He was still anchored in Amity Park. Â Everything in order. Â
This place, though⌠This place would be tainted for years, a thin spot forever.  He could feel it, now.  Why couldnât he feel it before, when they drove in?
He shuddered. Â Then he flew down to the GAV and knocked on the window. Â Mom rolled it down. Â
âWant me to fly us away to somewhere secluded before the cops get called and we get asked a bunch of awkward questions?â he asked.
Mom closed her eyes. Â âPlease do,â she said.
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Rose Tattoo [Chapter One]
Rating: PG-13 | Swearing, mentions of death, mentions of a panic attack.
Summary:Â Inspired by this blurb. | Calum is a tattoo artist. Stevie is getting her first tattoo. Sheâs terrified but determined and though Cal looks tough, when he takes off his jacket, Stevie notices the marker staining his arms and realizes that heâs a gentle giant who lets his son use him as a living coloring book. They hit it off but are either of them ready for anything more? [Iâll come up with a better fic summary later, promise.]
Word Count: 8.3k
series masterlist | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five
Stevie could see the clouds of her breath curling around her face, rising and disappearing just as quickly as they appeared, as she weaved through the crowds cluttering the sidewalk. She was uncomfortably aware of the eyes on her, small-town tourists staring at the shock of green hair atop her head, as she waited at a crosswalk. She focused on the music blaring in her headphones, on the bitter cold nipping at the slivers of exposed skin, on evening her breathing and keeping her face void of emotion, as she attempted to ignore them.Â
She hadnât lived in New York long, barely two months, but the adjustment period had been painfully short. Sheâd learned, almost immediately, the best ways to avoid anyone asking her for directions or tips about the city. Sheâd also learned how to navigate the city through the path of least resistance (read: tourists). She rarely crossed paths with them, usually only on the subway to and from her office, as she tried not to venture too far from her own neighborhood. However, it seemed unavoidable today.
Stevieâs job kept her in the same general area. She usually met artists she was scheduled to interview near her office for coffee or in the park nearby if the weather permitted. Her neighborhood, though not perfect by any means, had everything that she needed to live - including an overpriced grocery store and a Vietnamese restaurant whose staff knew her, and her usual order, by name. There was a gym close enough and a coffee shop that made the best chai latte sheâd ever had. The only things it lacked were the things that she rarely needed, like a good tattoo shop.
The tattoo shop at the end of her block with blinking neon signs and Sailor Jerry-esque artwork covering the walls didnât appeal to her in the slightest. The owner, and the most prominent artist, lived across the hall from her and seemed more concerned with his reputation than with good art. The shop itself catered mostly to a certain brand of wannabe Instagram influencers and specialized in a type of tattoo that she didnât want. So, to her dismay, she found herself having to step outside of the comfort zone sheâd constructed and venture across the city to a tattoo shop a friend from work recommended.Â
Stevie felt a flurry of emotions swirling in the pit of her stomach as she drew closer and closer to the shop. She was excited, of course, because she had always loved tattoos. Her dream as a child was to be covered in them, a dream that she abandoned when she realized that she was too indecisive for something so permanent. However, she was also terrified. Needles had always been a fear of hers. Although sheâd been pierced several times, her nose and ears and belly button were all bejeweled, none of her piercings took longer than a few minutes. The needle was in and out before she could really think about the choice sheâd made and that was it.
Tattoos, on the other hand, were a different story.
She knew that the appointment would be at least a few hours long and the thought of sitting there for so long, immobile as a needle was repeatedly driven into her skin, made her nauseous as she stood outside the shop and attempted to control her breathing. She knew that she would be fine once they began the process, it was just getting into the shop and getting started that freaked her out. She knew, though, without a doubt that she had to get the tattoo. She couldnât back out but the thought of postponing briefly crossed her mind as she stared at the bright blue neon sign in the window.
After sending Calum her references and telling him exactly what she wanted, he recommended two sessions. Her tattoo consisted mostly of fine lines and intricate detail, something Calum was comfortable with but knew would take more than the standard few hours, and neither really wanted to plan a day session. The first session was for line work, to get the basic outline of the tattoo onto her skin in black ink, while the second - scheduled for two weeks later - was to be spent adding color and detail. It made sense and she was happy that he didnât push a day session but she almost wished she could just get it all over with immediately. At least that way she would only have to begin a session once.
As she stood outside the shop, gathering herself and hoping that she didnât look as panicked as she felt, the world around her faded. She no longer heard the noise from the street or the loud hum of neon. She didnât see the bright blue glow or the buildings reflected in the shopâs plate glass window. She didnât notice the people passing her by, brushing past her without so much as a glance in her direction, nor did she notice the one person who decided to stop as her nerves held a firm grip on her. It was all white noise and a meaningless blur as she breathed in deeply through her nose and exhaled through her mouth.
Stevie only became aware of the person when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
Stevie jumped, startled out of her reverie, and turned to face the stranger. She recognized him from the few photographs sheâd seen on his Instagram - there were very few of his face but heâd posted one recently so she recognized the buzzcut and fading blue dye - and felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment as she met Calumâs eyes. She had hoped that she would have herself together by the time she met him, she didnât want to give him pause, but that seemed to be out of the question as he stood in front of her.
He didnât look nearly as intimidating in person as he did in pictures and that eased some of the worry in the pit of her stomach. However, Stevie still found herself shrinking under his gaze. A few tattoos - the majority stark black and traditional, a mixture of intricate lines and simple designs from what she had seen online - peeked out of the collar of his shirt, a few more decorated his hands, and she tried not to stare as she took him in. His eyes, contrary to the mask of indifference he wore, were soft and concerned as he moved his hand from her shoulder and let it drop to his side.
Calum stared at her for a moment. He hadnât made it a habit to stop and chat with pedestrians he happened across, regardless of where he happened across them (including in front of the tattoo shop where he worked). In the six years heâd lived in New York, heâd learned how to keep walking. He knew how to tune out the city around him and had gotten over the deep seated desire to help lost tourists or recent transplants. But something about this girl was different.Â
Her short hair, an artful mix of dark brown and green, was mussed - Calum assumed it was both the wind and her seemingly nervous habit of running her fingers through it - and her knuckles were white as she clutched her jacket tight against her body. Her face, illuminated in the late afternoon sun, looked mildly panicked but he could see a steely resolution in the set of her shoulders. It was interesting, the mixture of emotion he saw swirling in her eyes, and he felt compelled to speak to her.
âSorry for scaring you,â he began, his voice quiet and soft in the din of the city as to not frighten her further but loud enough for her to hear, âbut I just wanted to see if you were alright?â
It took Stevie a moment to gather herself, to formulate a response and push it through the thick cotton of panic that had formed in her mouth, but Calum seemed in no rush as he watched her knit her brows and internally assess herself. âSure,â she nodded quickly, the word forced from her mouth and sounding garbled as she brought a hand up to run her fingers through her freshly dyed hair, âyeah. Iâm fine. Iâm just, uh, just a little nervous is all.â When Calum raised an eyebrow, inviting her to continue speaking, she added, âAbout getting a tattoo, my first one. I mean, I didnât just pick a random tattoo studio to have a breakdown in front of. I know that itâs silly but, yeah.â
Stevie noted that Calumâs gaze were curious, maybe a little amused, but in no way judgmental. He understood her apprehension and saw it more often than not with his clients. Getting a tattoo was a big commitment; they hurt, they could take hours to complete, they could be expensive (if they wanted a good tattoo), and theyâre permanent. Although he had more than his fair share, Calum still felt a lingering nervousness in the back of his mind any time he added a piece to his ever-growing collection (though it usually faded to a sort of excitement, something of an adrenaline rush) but he remembered how nervous he had been for his first tattoo and couldnât blame her for needing a moment to settle her nerves.
âItâs not,â he assured her with a shake of his head. âItâs normal, especially for the first one. Nerves are a part of the process,â he stated with a nod that suggested finality as he moved out of the path of pedestrians. She stepped to the side - subtly, he noted, but just enough to put a small distance between them - and averted her gaze as he glanced at his watch. He lifted his head, turning his gaze to her once more, before he asked, âYou wouldnât happen to be Stevie, would you?â
âYep,â she nodded, placing an emphasis on the âpâ, before she huffed out a sigh, âalthough I wish I was anyone but at the moment. Calum, right?â When he nodded, Stevie copied the gesture and offered him a weak smile. âSorry youâre getting stuck with such a baby for a few hours. I have to get this tattoo. Iâm justâŚâ She paused, her eyebrows furrowed and her shoulders dropping, before she added, âNeedles.âÂ
Calum raised an eyebrow at her explanation as he took in the septum ring and the several studs and rings in her ears. He was sure heâd seen a flash of silver when she opened her mouth and he felt certain that if he looked closer, heâd see a barbell in her tongue. âYou have a nose ring,â he pointed out as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and took in the gunmetal ring looped through her septum, âand Iâm pretty sure I saw a tongue ring.â
Stevie huffed indignantly and crossed her arms over her chest as she turned her head. Her cheeks, already pink from the cold, deepened in color as the embarrassment heated her body. âTattoos and piercings are different,â she defended as she glanced at the people passing them by, âone lasts thirty seconds, at most, and the other takes hours. Iâd rather be jabbed with a needle once than have someone keep stabbing me. ItâsâŚâ Stevie paused, searching her brain for the right words to adequately describe her feelings, before she settled on, âItâs the repetition, I guess.â
Calum laughed at Stevieâs explanation and she wanted nothing more than to turn and walk away from the conversation. She imagined that he didnât mean any harm - she hoped that he didnât, anyway - but she didnât like feeling like she was being made fun of. She knew that she was being overly sensitive, that her anxiety lowered her threshold for rationality, but she still didnât like it. However, she wanted Calum to tattoo her - she needed him to tattoo her - so she bit her tongue and stood still as she contemplated her next move.
Calum, sensing the shift in Stevieâs attitude, shook his head and pushed away from the wall. âIf thatâs how it is for you, thatâs how it is for you,â Calum offered with a shrug as he attempted to catch her eye again, âbut, trust me when I tell you that you probably wonât be my worst client this week. As long as you donât faint, youâre miles ahead of a guy I had a few days ago.â
Stevie paled at the mention of fainting and Calum realized, too late, that that might not have been as reassuring as heâd intended it to be. Heâd hoped to put her at ease, to relax her before he brought her into the shop, but with how tight she was wound, he didnât imagine he would be able to. Instead, he sighed and stepped around her to head toward the door. âYou ready to head in? Iâve got some designs drawn up. We can look at them and you can decide which one you like best.â
âSure,â she nodded as she stepped through the door and into the studio itself. âSorry Iâm so early. You know how some people are chronically late? I have the exact opposite problem.â
âYou should stick around, teach us your ways,â Calum hummed as he followed her in. âNo one here is ever on time.â
âFuck you. I am always on time.â Stevie turned just in time to catch sight of a crumbled ball of paper flying toward Calumâs head. The culprit, a man with inky black hair and an array of black and red tattoos, was seated at a drawing table and smiled at her when she caught his eye.
âWhen you own the place, I guess you can never really be late,â Calum deadpanned as he stepped around her and gestured for her to take a seat on the couch in the corner. âHang out here for a second,â he instructed as he reached for the crumbled ball of paper on the floor, âIâll go grab the designs and we can talk about placement and get everything figured out.â
Stevie nodded and watched as Calum navigated the array of equipment with practiced ease. He paused for a moment, long enough to nudge the - well, the owner, she guessed - and laugh as he messed up a line, before he disappeared through a door marked âstaff onlyâ. She glanced around the building, her eyes raking over the various paintings and prints and flash sheets that covered the walls, and found herself getting lost in the artwork as she waited for Calum to return.
**********************
As Stevie was twenty minutes early for her appointment - something that he appreciated; he would rather clients arrive early and have to wait for him to be ready than have them arrive late and derail his schedule for the day - Calum didnât feel so bad taking a moment to breathe as he sifted through his files to find the few designs heâd created for her. Though it was barely three in the afternoon, his day had already been long. Heâd been up since four that morning and he wanted nothing more than to finish her tattoo and head home.
The tattoo itself was fairly simple in concept, a bouquet of roses in shades of red and green with a ribbon tying them together (the only odd detail was a small skull pin on the ribbon), but the tattoo itself was quite large. Heâd warned her, over email, that it would likely become close to a half sleeve if he made it as detailed as she wanted and she hadnât been deterred at all. Despite it being her first tattoo, something she mentioned, she seemed incredibly committed to making it work.Â
Normally, Calum wouldnât have minded sitting for a full session. The tattoo wouldnât have taken more than ten hours and, though he hated marathon sessions, he couldâve done it. However, their schedules never quite clicked and the only time Stevie could get into the shop was after three in the afternoon. In another life, four years earlier, Calum wouldnât have hesitated to accept staying in the shop until one in the morning. A session that ran late into the night wouldâve just been another day at work for him. But, as fate would have it, he was no longer able to schedule his life so selfishly.
The deciding factor in his availability was - and had been for nearly five years - his son.
Calum became a father at the young age of twenty and his apprenticeship (back when he first began tattooing), his bookings now, his life; they all revolved around TÄneâs schedule. He had a babysitter, one that watched TÄne after school and kept him until Calumâs last appointment of the day finished, but it wouldnât be fair to either his son or the babysitter to accept an appointment that lasted so long. Even if it was a one off appointment, he wanted to get home, to have dinner with his son and read him a bedtime story or just tuck him in, just as much as he wanted the babysitter to be free to go home and do her homework or see her own parents.Â
Calum had seen friends, men older than him and even some younger, that let their lives be consumed by their work and made their families pay for it. They chose local celebrity, fleeting online fame, over their home lives and heâd seen what it could do firsthand. Heâd seen them end up divorced and alone, unable to get weekends with their children despite promising to be there for them. Heâd seen them depressed, missing a part of themselves they hadnât even known theyâd had until it was gone. Heâd met the teenage children of older artists and had been told stories about their childhoods, dealing with the absence of their fathers. And he desperately wanted to avoid that.
Calum wanted to be present for his son. He wanted to be a steadfast figure in his life, to be there whenever he needed him, so every decision was made with him in mind. His decision to cut a ten hour session into two shorter, five hour ones was made with TÄne in mind. It gave him time to pick up his son from school - they got out at 1:00 on Fridays - and spend a few hours with him before he had to disappear to the shop. It also helped ensure that he would be home in time to tuck his son into bed before he passed out himself. It ensured that he wouldnât be dead on his feet, dragging into the living room as TÄne begged for chocolate chip pancakes and Saturday morning cartoons. It ensured that he wouldnât be a shell of himself, present in body but absent in mind.
It ensured that he would be able to give his son the attention he deserved.
He leaned against the counter, staring at the transfer paper in his hands without truly seeing it, and took a deep breath. He could already feel the tension in his shoulders. It was present after the long morning heâd had and he could already anticipate the aching pain that came with sitting hunched over for hours at a time. Heâd done a marathon session the day before, an eight hour tattoo that ended with a beautiful piece and a customer he could count on seeing again, but it left him aching and ready for a day off. However, as he lifted his head and turned to face the shelves, he reasoned that at least this session wouldnât be so bad with the placement of Stevieâs tattoo.
After gathering himself, after clearing his head, Calum grabbed the items he would need from the supply closet and returned to set up his station. He imagined that Stevie would be sitting on the couch, waiting patiently as she attempted not to panic, but to his (almost lack of) surprise, he found her sitting on one of the extra artist stools with her chin in her hand as she watched Ashton outline a tattoo he was working on for Michael. Ashton looked calm, happy, even, as he explained the design to her and Calum rolled his eyes.
Stevie was cute, that much he could admit. Her hair, something sheâd smoothed since stepping into the shop, was a shock of green among the blacks and blues of the shop. She was a strange mixture of hard edges and soft lines with but Calum imagined that that only added to her intrigue. Her cheeks seemed permanently flushed despite the warmth of the shop and Calum imagined that it was her nerves. Ashton, however, seemed to have a sixth sense for flirting with cute, nervous clients and it was starting to get old. He told everyone it was to help them be at ease, to calm their nerves before the tattoo, but Calum imagined it was more to help him get laid.
He let them be for a moment, long enough to drop the items heâd gathered onto the stand beside his station, before he decided to interrupt them. âIf I could have my client back, mate,â Calum called, glancing over at the pair of them as he unzipped his jacket and began to shrug it off, âwe can go ahead and get started.â
Ashton, used to Calumâs interruptions, shot him an easy grin as he nodded. âI was just keeping her company until you were ready for her. Sheâs all yours,â Ashton assured him with a mock salute before he returned his full attention to the drawing in front of him.
Stevie smiled at Calum, a little uneasy grin that seemed to be a reflex more than anything, before she returned the stool to the station sheâd grabbed it from and crossed the shop to join him. As he arranged his set up, his movements steady and practiced, Stevie shrugged off her coat and paused for a moment. She glanced around the shop, empty save for her, Calum, and Ashton, before she asked, âI have on an undershirt. Like, Iâm wearing a tank top beneath the long sleeve. Do I justâŚ?â
Calum glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, an amused laugh leaving his lips as he watched her hesitate. âYeah,â he nodded as he grabbed the black ink, âlong sleeve has to go. You can take it off out here or thereâs a bathroom over there.â
Stevie stood frozen, seemingly unsure, and Calum almost urged her toward the bathroom but before he could, she gripped the hem of her long sleeve with one hand and the hem of her tank top with another. She tugged the black garment up and over her head, huffing as it mused her hair even further and as she hit her elbow on the corner of the countertop behind her. She remained stuck in the garment for a moment, struggling to free herself, and Calum had to bite back a laugh as she rubbed her elbow with a frown on her lips.
âRight,â she nodded after dropping her shirt onto her bag and taking a moment to watch him set up - something he felt almost too aware of. âWhere do you want me?â
Calum didnât look at her as he arranged the little pots of ink on his workstation. Instead, he nodded his head toward the designs laying on the counter of his station. âHave a look at those for me,â he encouraged as he reached for the box of gloves beside him, âlet me know which one you like the most and weâll see how it looks in terms of placement and size.â
Calumâs station was in a corner of the shop. There were mirrors surrounding him, something that he felt almost neutral about most days, but he used them to his advantage as he watched Stevie through the mirror. He watched, curious, as she carefully traced her fingers over the designs laying on the counter and analyzed the emotions on her face. She hadnât told him what the tattoo was for, he hadnât asked, but he had gotten good at recognizing emotion in his years as an artist. Heâd always been good at reading people, it was a gift, but heâd learned how to spot grief despite the many faces it wore as heâd done more memorial tattoos than he could count. Each circumstance was different, everyone dealt with grief in their own way, but the tattoo serving as a memorial explained why she felt so strongly about getting the tattoo (including the size and details) despite her obvious nerves.
Although he was outwardly the most reserved artist in the shop, he had always been the one that felt the deepest connection with other people. He empathized far too strongly for his own good and sometimes he hated that part of his job. He sat with people for hours, inking permanent memorials into their skin and listening as they told him stories of parents or grandparents or, God forbid, children that had passed and his heart bled for each one. He never knew what the session would bring - whether they would be an open book or whether the grief was too fresh to even consider speaking - and he didnât know what to expect with Stevie. Usually, he knew what he was hoping for - more often than not, it was a happy medium that didnât leave him emotionally drained by the end of an appointment - but with Stevie, he found himself unsure of what he hoped for.
But, by the way her hand shook and her breathing stuttered when she followed the outline of the skull with soft fingers, Calum knew that, regardless of the session itself, he hoped that the experience would bring her some semblance of closure.
Calum was finished setting up his station by the time she chose a design. He didnât want to push, not when he could see tears glittering on her lashes, so he leaned against the counter and waited for her to speak. âThis one,â she finally breathed, her voice quiet in the nearly empty shop. âThis oneâs perfect.â
The design wasnât much different than her original request, it was still a bouquet of roses with the ribbon and skull (a detail sheâd insisted on), but there were a few smaller flowers throughout as well as a few more intricate lines and details. It was, without a doubt, the hardest of the drawings to place onto her skin, it would bump the session up to twelve hours instead of ten, but it was his favorite, too.
Calum never gave his opinion on which design a client should choose. At the end of the day, it was their body. However, he found himself breathing, âI was hoping thatâs the one youâd go for,â before he knew what he was saying. He didnât know why but something about her vulnerability made him want to assure her that she was making the right decision.
Stevie looked up from the counter and when he met her eyes, his heart broke for her. He could see a glassy sheen of unshed tears and beneath the layer of nerves, he could see just how lost she looked. It was a jarring change, gone were the flushed cheeks and doe eyes, replaced by sadness, and it was hard to keep himself together as he watched her nod. âLetâs get this stencil on, then, and see what it looks like,â he mumbled, his voice quiet as he reached for the stencil and beckoned her closer to him.
Stevie seemed lost in her own thoughts so Calum worked in silence. He didnât speak as he placed the stencil on her upper arm, exactly where sheâd asked for, and was glad to see that the measurements heâd used had worked in just the way heâd hoped. It was a big tattoo, especially for the first, but - and Calum wasnât sure if this was his own selfish desire to make his tattoos look as if they had always been a part of his clientsâ bodies - it looked like it belonged.
Calum stared at it for a moment, his eyes raking over the pale purple lines on her skin, and he decided that it was beautiful. It fit her perfectly, exactly the way heâd hoped it would, and she echoed the thought as she breathed, âItâs beautiful. It looks perfect.â
âThe placement is okay?â he asked, just to be sure, as he nudged her toward the full length mirror to get a better look at the angle. She stared at her reflection for a moment, her eyes glued to her right arm, and nodded. Calum, happy that she was happy, repeated the gesture and pointed to the chair. âOkay. Take a seat for me and weâll. Get started.â
Stevie settled into the chair and kept her eyes on her hands, folded across her lap, as Calum settled onto his stool beside her. He could see the shaking in her limbs, the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tried to steady her breathing, but she was quiet. She didnât want to give him pause, he realized that, and he admired her follow through as she was clearly panicked. The only sound that echoed through the shop was the scratch of Ashtonâs pencil against paper and the sound of traffic outside. Calum almost didnât want to break the silence. It wasnât awkward, just pensive, but he had to get started so he said, âIâm going to start with a line, just to give you a feel for it. Remember to breathe for me and let me know how youâre doing. If you need a break, tell me and Iâll stop.â
Calum kept his eyes on her arm as he traced one line onto her skin. He heard a sharp intake of breath over the hum of the machine but, to his surprise, she kept perfectly still. She was rigid, almost alarmingly so, and had her nails dug into her palms but she nodded at him. âIâm fine. Itâs fine,â she assured him, her voice tight as she stared straight ahead at the artwork on the wall, âGo ahead.â
Stevie kept her posture for the first thirty minutes of her tattoo. Those long minutes passed in silence, Calum focused on the bigger lines that gave the entire image shape, and Stevie kept her eyes on the wall. He glanced at her every so often, just to make sure she hadnât passed out, and was somewhat surprised at how well she seemed to be holding herself together. Her anxiety faded as they went on, her body relaxing and her breathing evening, and nearly an hour into the process, Calum could feel her eyes on him.Â
Stevie watched him work but her gaze wasnât scrutinizing, just curious. She was engaged in the process and Calum was glad to see that sheâd calmed at least somewhat since their initial meeting. He didnât mind silent sessions, ones where the clients didnât speak at all, but he was curious. He wanted to know exactly what the tattoo stood for so he asked, âWhy a bouquet with the skull?â
Stevie hesitated, her eyes glued to his hands as he traced another line, and he almost retracted his question. However, before he could open his mouth, she sighed and leaned her head back against the headrest. âItâs for a friend,â she offered, her voice quiet and barely audible over the buzz of the machine. âShe died a few months ago.â
Calum occasionally offered his ear to clients - some he didnât have to offer it to, they were more than willing to spill regardless of his feelings on the matter - and he felt the need to listen to Stevieâs story. So, as he paused to wipe at the ink on her skin, he asked, âYou want to talk about it? Iâve been told tattoo artists are like therapists. Just, less frequent visits. For most people, anyway.â
Stevie cracked a smile at Calumâs attempted banter and he was surprised at the feeling of accomplishment that blossomed in his chest. He never really invested himself in his clientsâ lives, he had his own shit to worry about, but he felt for her. Losing a friend so young - she had to be his age or younger - and one that meant enough for her to face her fear and get a tattoo for had to be hard. And, if her accent was anything to go by, she was a long way from home and likely didnât have anyone to vent to. So, he felt compelled to offer her an open ear.
âIt was cancer,â she finally answered after such a prolonged silence that Calum had almost forgotten heâd asked. He glanced up from the line he was working on and frowned as she kept her eyes on the ceiling. âHer name was Angela. We were best friends for ages. She was the first friend I made when I moved after Katrina and we did everything together. We went to college together. We were going to move up here together. But she got sick.â Stevie paused for a moment, gathering herself, and Calum almost reached for the box of tissues on Lukeâs station but stopped himself as he continued tattooing. âShe dropped out, couldnât keep up with the work because of the chemo, and that was it. She died. She had this bucket list, all these things she wanted to do before before she died, and I promised her Iâd finish it for her. The tattoo was the next thing on the list. She really wanted the roses. You wouldnât have thought it, looking at her, but she loved flowers.â
âShit,â Calum breathed, his voice barely audible despite the absence of the buzzing machine. âThatâs⌠Iâm sorry.â He wasnât sure what else he could say.Â
âDonât be,â Stevie shrugged before quickly apologizing for the movement. âSheâs not suffering anymore. It got really bad toward the end. She was in a lot of pain. I wouldâve preferred she got better, of course, but an endâs an end, I guess.â She paused for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she attempted to blink back tears, before she added, âThe skull is this ring she wore literally every day. Her mom gave it to me.â She lifted her left hand and pulled a long chain from beneath the neckline of her tank top. At the end dangled a small silver ring in the shape of a skull with two red gems for eyes.
Calum, despite his countless jokes about how much they annoyed him, couldnât imagine losing any of his friends. They were his brothers, they always had been, and he knew that no matter how much they exhausted him, heâd be lost without them. They made his world better, they made his sonâs world better, and if he lost one of them, he wasnât sure heâd be able to properly function. He admired what she was doing, finishing her friendâs bucket list, and felt honored to be part of the quest.
However, before Calum had the chance to tell her as much, Stevie shook her head. âSad hours are over,â she laughed as she brought her left hand up to wipe at her eyes. âWhat about you?â she asked, glancing at his arm. âYour tattoos are beautiful. I really like the intricate line work - it looks good on you - but it looks like someoneâs been coloring outside the lines.â
Calum was mildly thrown off by the sudden shift in her attitude but found himself glancing at his forearms, at the tattoos she could easily see beneath the rolled sleeves of his shirt, and flushed as he caught sight of the neon marker staining his skin. âMy son,â he explained, smiling sheepishly at her. âHe likes coloring in my tattoos. Some of them are a little too intricate for him to stay inside the lines but he likes it and the markers stain.â
Calum could see Stevieâs face light up with a smile out of the corner of his eye. The crushing sadness, the loss, that had been so clear only a moment earlier faded slightly as she took in the marker staining his skin. âThatâs so sweet,â she cooed, her accent growing thicker as she brought her left hand to her heart. âHeâs got a living coloring book. How old is he?â She paused for a moment, considered her question, and then added, âIf you donât mind me asking, sorry.â
âNo, itâs okay,â Calum assured her, a soft smile on his lips as he nodded toward the photo of TÄne he kept on his station. âThatâs him. Heâs almost five.â
âFour and three quarters, thank you,â Ashton, who had been silent throughout their conversation, interjected with a bright grin as he was given the opportunity to talk about his pseudo-nephew.
âFour and three quarters,â Calum agreed with a laugh, âyeah. He gets offended if you forget that part.â
âIâm the same way with my height,â Stevie nodded, âI get it. Heâd adorable. He looks just like you and Iâm assuming heâs got the artist thing down, too?â
âHeâll put us all out of a job one day,â Calum agreed with a smile as he glanced up at her. âHe was a tattoo artist for Halloween. Had Ash give him tattoos like mine and everything,â Calum confessed with a grin as he thought back to the shock of seeing his son, dressed in a small pair of Docs and covered in Sharpie.
âIâm gonna go out on a limb and say that was incredibly adorable but also got you a lot of funny looks.â When Calum laughed, Stevie smiled. âIâm guessing the curls are what you used to look like?â she asked, glancing at the photo once more before she returned her gaze to Calumâs buzzed and blue hair.
âMm, yeah. Once upon a time,â Calum nodded. Calum studied her, glancing at the green and brown mess of curls, before he asked, âWhat about you? Iâm guessing the same was true for you before you chopped and dyed yours?â
âBrown, yeah. Curly? No. I wish. My hair was limp as fuck,â Stevie laughed as she tousled the green curls with her left hand. âIt was gross and unhealthy so I cut it all off when I moved up here. I dyed it, too. I always wanted green hair and people donât give a shit about your hair color here.â
âThey did back home?â Calum asked, reaching out to wipe at her skin. When Stevie nodded, Calum asked, âWhere is home?â
Stevie paused, staring at him as he added another line, before she said, âIâm sure you can tell by the accent, but Iâm from the south. New Orleans. Well, not really New Orleans because if I was from there, they wouldnât have cared about the hair - they see far weirder shit on the regular, believe me, but thatâs the closest city youâd know.â
Calum nodded, certain that was true - he barely knew anything about New Orleans, let alone Louisiana as a whole - before he asked, âWhy New York?â
âWe had this running joke,â Stevie began, shifting in her seat as the discomfort of sitting still for nearly two hours started to set in, âthat I was going to move to New York to become some obnoxious fucking fashion blogger or something and that Angela was going to follow me and be my photographer. Thatâs not exactly what happened but, well, close enough.â
âHow close is close?â Calum asked as he pushed away from her and pulled off his gloves. âWe can take a break for a second. Get up, move around. Iâll grab you some water.â
It was unlike him to be so invested in a clientâs life but he felt at ease chatting with her. Something about her was easy, like talking to an old friend, and he felt himself growing more and more curious about her life. So, he kept the conversation flowing and was happy to hear her answer.
âI write for Rolling Stone,â Stevie told him, her voice following him as he moved toward the back to grab a bottle of water for himself and one for her. âAngela was going to be a photographer. Her editing skills were out of this world and she had an eye for detail like no one else. All of my work, the writing samples I sent in, they were a package deal. They all came with photos from her. We both had jobs lined up but⌠Anyway, I couldnât stay at home so I took the job. Packed it all up and here I am.â Calum watched as she wandered around the shop, her right hand flexing as she attempted to wake it from where sheâd sat with it so still for nearly two hours. She moved slowly, carefully, and paused at each flash sheet to study it just a little closer. âWhat about you?â she asked after a moment of silence, turning her head to glance at him over her should. âThereâs a twinge of something not New York there.â
âAustralia,â Ashton answered for him, a wide grin on his lips as he stood from his drawing table and stretched his arms. âAll of us hail from the land down under. We packed it all up and moved here after Cal, Luke, and Mike finished high school. It was supposed to be a temporary thing but here we are, six years later.â
âYouâre a lot farther from home than I am,â Stevie noted as she returned her gaze to the flash sheets on the wall. âBut I guess some places just become like home, regardless of whether you mean for them to,â she offered with a shrug and Calum couldnât help but agree.
He hadnât meant for New York to become his home. He, like Ashton said, hadnât intended to stay very long at all. The goal was to get enough experience under a talented enough artist to return home and open his own shop somewhere in Sydney. He wanted to be near his parents, near his sister, but something about the city sank its claws into his heart and kept him rooted in the Big Apple. Heâd decided to stay before TÄne and now, now he couldnât imagine disrupting his sonâs life. Now, New York felt more like home than his real home did, though he sometimes felt the familiar ache to return to warmer weather and familiar scenes settle in his bones.
As the conversation lulled, Stevie returned to the chair and Calum found himself surprised at how quickly her appointment seemed to pass. Her initial nerves, the crippling fear that had seen her almost have a panic attack on the sidewalk in front of the shop, disappeared after the first few strokes of his machine. Getting started had been the hard part. Every part of her body had been tense and Calum was worried that she would stop breathing and pass out on him. However, once heâd settled into a groove and got her talking, sharing stories of her hometown and telling Ashton what bars to avoid should he ever venture down south for Mardi Gras, the appointment flew by.Â
He didnât get attached to clients often, didnât truly enjoy their presence beyond them being easy to work with, but he liked Stevie. She was his dream client, easy to work with and good at sitting still. She didnât seem to mind the pain - or, if she did, she didnât say anything about it. She sat calmly, never forcing conversation but letting it flow naturally, and Calum found himself at ease as he worked on her. The rough morning heâd had melted as he talked with her (and occasionally Ashton) about music and he was almost surprised when he added the last stroke to her outline. Her upper arm was covered in a beautiful bouquet of roses, only missing the red and green ink, and he had to take a moment to admire the beautiful, finished (for now) product.
âAlright,â Calum began as he pulled away from her and nodded his head toward the full length mirror sheâd first taken a glance at her arm in, âtake a look and let me know how you feel.â
Stevie walked across the shop, groaning as she got the blood flowing in her legs once more, and stopped in front of the mirror. Calum watched her face, his eyes on trained on hers, and breathed a sigh of relief at the awed look she wore. Her left hand came up to her arm, her fingers not quite touch the fresh ink, as she stared at herself in the mirror. She was quiet, scrutinizing, but Calum could see the approval in her eyes. It looked like sheâd wanted it to, exactly as she imagined it would, and that was all he wanted.
Stevie was quiet for a moment, gathering herself, before she turned away from the mirror to look at Calum. âShe wouldâve loved it,â she breathed, her voice cracking slightly as she smiled at him. âI know itâs not finished yet but itâs already so perfect. Thank you.â
âOf course,â Calum nodded, a small smile on his lips as he gestured for her to return to the chair, âIâm glad itâs doing her justice. Let me wrap it up and weâll get you out of here.â
Wrapping her tattoo took only moments and, after she paid, Stevie was out the door with a final heartfelt thank you and an agreement to return the same time two weeks later. Calum watched her leave, his eyes glued to the door, and remained in his spot behind the desk until Ashton said, âShe was cute.â
Calum blinked, surprised at the sound of Ashtonâs voice, and rolled his eyes as he let the comment settle in his mind. âSheâll be back in two weeks,â he informed him with a sigh, âyou can ask her out then.â Normally, that wouldnât have irked him so much, imagining Ashton taking one of his clients out for drinks. However, something about him asking Stevie unsettled him and he didnât like the annoyance he felt in the pit of his stomach as he imagined Ashton flirting with her.
However, the annoyed was short lived as Ashton tossed another ball of paper at his head. âNot for me, dickhead,â he huffed as he stood from his chair and turned off the lamp at his station. âFor you. You two would look good together.â
At that, Calum turned and stared at his friend. It wasnât in his nature to attempt to set him up, to even encourage him to date, and he wondered what the change of heart was about. However, he didnât bother to ask as he stated plainly, âNo,â and moved to clean his station so he could get home to TÄne.
âLook,â Ashton began as he crossed the shop to help him clean, âI know that you donât want to make things difficult for TÄne and youâre still on edge after El but itâs been three years. One date wonât be the end of the world, mate.â He paused, weighing his words carefully, before he added, âYou talked more with her today than you ever have with a client. You guys clicked.â
Calum was quiet as he considered Ashtonâs words. He had spoken more with Stevie than he ever had any client. Heâd felt comfortable with her, the conversation flew naturally and five hours passed in the blink of an eye, but he couldnât bring himself to consider that as an option. He knew that time had passed for him to move on, he had moved on, but he didnât want open himself up to another heartbreak. Not when the first one was still weighing so heavily on his life. So, instead of telling Ashton that he was afraid of loving and losing once more, he deflected the conversation.
âElâs lawyer called this morning,â he sighed as he returned the box of gloves to his station. âIâve got other shit to deal with that doesnât involve finding a girlfriend. And Stevie - sheâs nice but sheâs got other shit on her mind, too. Just leave it, mate.â
âWait, Elâs lawyer? Sheâs not still trying to get custody, is she?â Ashton asked as he stopped cleaning and turned his full attention to Calum.
âMm,â he confirmed with a sigh as he dropped the bottle of antiseptic cleaner and took a seat on his stool. âStill thinks Iâm an unfit parent. She thinks that she and fuckface will do a better job. They want to move to Boston and she wants to take him with them.â
âFuck, Cal,â Ashton breathes as he reaches out to place a hand on his friendâs shoulder. âIâm sorry, man. She doesnât deserve custody and Iâll help you however I can. You know that, right?â
âYeah,â he nodded as he reached for the discarded tissues heâd used to wipe at the ink on Stevieâs tattoo. âI know.â
Calum knew that his friends would help however they could. He knew that, like Ashton, Michael and Luke would do whatever he needed of them to help him keep his son and the job he loved so much. He also knew that, when the dust settled around the latest in his exâs attempts to unsettle his life, Ashton would return his attention to the topic of Calumâs lack of a partner and, for the first time in a long time, he didnât exactly mind it. He was steadfast in his decision to focus on one problem at a time - his most pressing being his impending battle for custody - but maybe, just maybe, there would soon be room in his life for someone else. And maybe, just maybe, that would be the girl with the rose tattoo.
______________________________________________
Authorâs Note: So. Thoughts? Feelings? Iâm really excited for this. Iâve had this fic in mind for ages. The first chapter wasnât as fluffy as I was imagining it would be nor is it as filled with Calum being a dad but there are some soft moments and Iâm really looking forward to continuing it. I have it all planned out and Iâm already halfway through chapter two Iâm pretty stoked. Also, Iâm trying to do it from both perspectives (Stevieâs and Calumâs because a) there are things about Stevie I donât want you to know yet and b) itâs about single dad!Cal so. Anyway!).  Let me know your thoughts!Â
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My Guardian Crow
Chapter two
Kara set Itachi up in a guest room near her own and began to treat his wounds. he had multiple cuts and bruises. she sighed slightly seeing that his eye sockets were unfortunately still bleeding quite a bit. she cleaned off the blood as much as she could and said softly. "I'm going to go and get you some new eyes, you sleep for awhi--"
"KARA!!!!" A loud deep voice called and made her flinch.
"I'll be right back, I'm going to leave a clone with you though," she said, and making a hand seal quickly she made a shadow clone and went to see her father. she gulped nervously and saw the long-haired redhead male.
"hi papa," she said and looked up at him sheepishly seeing those ruby eyes glaring down at her. "I can explain."
"then start," he said folding his arms. kara swallowed again and watched him. her father was very tall, about six feet tall with knee-length bright red hair like hers and ruby red eyes.
"he's badly injured and near-death... Someone also took his eyes and... Papa, I didn't sense even a cell of malice inside him... Please let me help?" She rambled and gulped.
Her father sighed and looked into his daughter's deep green eyes. "Alright, he may stay for as long as he needs..." He said and flinched at her excited squeaks. "however, if he hurts you, I want him gone."
"But Papa, what if it's accidentally?" She pointed out and gave him a cute pout he could rarely resist.
He sighed a little defeated and replied. "Fine, if he purposely hurts you, he's out, got it, Kara?"
She grinned and hugged him tightly. "thanks, Papa. I love you." She said and kissed his stubbled cheek before turning and running back to Itachi. "My dad said you can stay for as long as you want."
"want or need?" He asked and let her see a little smirk. "your dad isn't the quietest man, I've already noticed."
She laughed slightly out of nervousness and said. "Okay, he said you can stay as long as you need to."
Itachi nodded and smiled. "That's better." He praised teasingly and relaxed. "Now tell me your little plan to get those eyes..."
She thought for a moment and said. "at first I was thinking that maybe I could go in disguise but... I think someone would figure it out quick...."
He nodded and said. "there are many shinobi there who are very skilled in sensory type Jutsu... So a simple transformation would be pointless..."
She nodded and said. "I kind of figured... My only other idea was using my dragon sage training and transforming into my dragon form."
"you can turn into a dragon?" He asked amused and turned his head to her voice curiously.
"Yeah, I'll even show you after I get your eyes." She said and smiled at him. "it's all black so I think maybe if I stick to the shadows, I won't be seen or noticed as easily."
"you'll have to show me your dragon form when I get my new eyes." he said and smiled. "but that seems like a good idea, however you'll need to hide your chakra just in case."
she nodded and touched his hand gently. "I know, Itachi. I've done stealth missions before," she said softly and smiled at him. "I'll be okay, I promise."
he seemed unsure for a moment and squeezed her hand softly. "if you run into any trouble, use a signal for my friend, Kisame." he said seriously and paused as a small crow landed on the window sill.
kara looked at it curiously and then back at him. "one of yours?"
he nodded and lifted his free hand so the young crow could come closer. "her name is Misora. Kisame helped me nurse her back to health in secret at one of our old bases and now she's bonded with us both."
kara nodded and teased kindly. "who would have known two Akatsuki would have soft spots?" she stroked Misora gently noticing how softly her feathers were and smiled as she was gently nibbled on. "so she'll get Kisame for me if I run into any problems?"
he nodded and set her on the redhead's shoulder. "yes and be careful, both of you, please?" he asked and scrunched his brows together worriedly.
"we'll be careful, Itachi," she promised and leaned down kissing his cheek gently. "I'll have some of the clan doctors check on you and they'll be able to treat your wounds more... and they'll be able to transplant your new eyes." her stomach fluttered as she looked down at him and swallowed a little bit.
he nodded light pink tinting his cheeks before he looked away and said. "alright, be back soon, or I'll send a message to Kisame if you're not back in a couple of days.... and Danzo's headquarters are underneath the Hokage's mansion."
she smiled a little bit seeing the light blush on him before he hid it with his bangs. "sounds fair, ponytail." she said and stood. she got ready and pet the little crow before grabbing her sword ring and left after taking care of his medical needs.
the flight to the village didn't take long, just a few hours and she was able to sneak in easily. she found a dark spot to land and changed to her human form. she found where she had to go and set Misora in a tree nearby. she stroked the bird gently and whispered. "if I don't come out in about ten or twenty minutes, you can go get your friend, okay?"
Misora nibbled her fingers gently and nodded slowly in understanding. kara pulled her hood up tucking her red hair into it and put on a similar mask to what the people going in and out she had seen so far. it was a simple oni mask, red and white with touches of gold around the teeth and horns.
she took a deep breath and came out of her hiding spot. she checked her surroundings before walking in and cautiously and bravely searched the place. it was cold as ice and so much like a maze. it must be to confuse intruders... not bad. she thought to herself as she kept walking and swallowed slightly. she soon found a locked room labeled private and prayed there wasn't anything too disgusting in there. she checked the hallway; it seemed pretty empty and took a deep breath again quietly. there was a pit in her stomach as she knelt and picked the lock. she kept looking around to make sure she wasn't caught. she smirked a little to herself when it unlocked quickly and tiptoed in. she closed the door behind herself and flipped the switch on. she looked around and raised her brows surprised, shocked and a little disgusted.
there were several shelves full of Sharingan in jars and they all smelled of formaldehyde causing her to gag slightly. she took out her sealing scrolls and sealed three jars of eyes into it rolling it back up quickly when she heard voices coming near the room. she found a vent she could use to escape and quickly turned the lights off. she made her way to the vent and quickly opened it before climbing in and closing it. she crawled through as quickly and quietly as possible and found another vent looking through it to make sure it was safe. she opened it and hopped down. she smirked confidently after finding the front door but quickly got serious when an alarm went off.
she bolted to the door and made it out. but that didn't mean she could stop running. her body kept going, pushing her harder to get away as quickly as possible. her only thoughts were of Itachi and being able to be seen by him, making her heart flutter in her chest. she ditched her mask and kept going before running into someone. they both went down falling on their butts and she sat up rubbing her head. "ow..." she groaned and looked to see a blonde boy that was about her age and dress in orange and black.
"Hey, what's the big idea?" he growled rubbing his head and paused hearing running footsteps approaching. Kara flinched before she could answer and looked back hearing voices to see the guys from the underground place.
"hey are you in trouble or something?" he asked and stood when she nodded.
"I was getting something to help my friend," she said quickly and stood next to him slightly as the group stopped in front of them. she bit her lip hoping she'd be able to go back home to Itachi and looked at Naruto for help. Naruto smiled at her and nodded to her silent request.
the blonde did a hand sign for the ram seal and soon the group of five masked men was outnumbered by seven shadow clones. she widened her eyes slightly but smiled at him gratefully before getting ready to fight them as well.
Kara lifted her right hand and said calmly focusing her chakra into her ring. "Growl, Hayjo." her sword ring glowed brightly and a katana with a red and black hilt appeared in her hand. it rang and vibrated as if celebrating.
The blonde charged forward with his clones and Kara blocked an attack with her sword. She focused her chakra into the blade and muttered slightly. "Mumyo Jinpu Ryu Satsujin ken... Shinkiro."
A thick dark red fog surrounded her and the green and white-masked shinobi and she disappeared into it. several oni demons formed from the bloody fog and lunged at him. some had chipped swords and some had rusty butcher knives. kara swallowed and tried to focus. this genjutsu made her feel cold.... hateful.... she knew better than to give into it but it was oh so tempting to give in to the darkness and just kill anyone who got in her way.
She watched from nearby as the masked male slashed at the genjutsu demons and stepped behind him hitting the nape of his neck with the blunt side of her sword. She watched as he collapsed and sighed as the genjutsu released. She looked at the blonde male she had previously run into and frowned slightly seeing blood coming from his leg. "You're injured..." She said and went to his side.
She looked at the deep leg wound and the shallow cheek scratch and frowned. She helped him up and away from the unconscious group and to what looked like a park. She pushed her hood off letting her long hair down, the soft curls framing her faces, and grabbed a section of her shirt cutting it and ripping it into strips. she also took her belt off and sat up on her knees. guilt filled her gut and she couldn't think of any other way to make it up to him.
"You don't have to--ow!!" He began to argue and winced when she began to tie the belt around his leg as a tourniquet.
"shut up and let me focus, please?" she asked and looked up at him, green eyes meeting blue. "you're hurt because of me."
before the blonde could argue anymore, a pair of voices began to call his name which appeared to be Naruto. kara looked at the pair briefly and concentrated on his wound.
a girl with chin-length pink hair in a red shirt, pink skirt, and black mid-thigh shorts stopped by them and panted with her hands on her knees. "Ino said she saw you getting into some sort of fight.... also who is this?" she said and looked at kara who was more focused on treating the wound than anything else.
"oh, yeah. they were chasing her and I thought that I should help her, ya know?" he said and looked at her as she finished. "what is your name anyway?"
"Kara," she answered and sat next to him as she leaned over undoing the belt.
"you were running from ROOT men, what did you do if I may ask?" the other male asked her.
Kara looked at him studying his features. he was tall, very pale with black hair. he wore a long sleeve black crop and matching black pants. "I had to get something to help my friend..." she answered making sure she still had her scroll.
"what was it anyway?" naruto asked and watched her curiously.
she hesitated a little bit and said. "special eyes. he... someone took his eyes so I needed to get some that were like his old ones."
the pale boy blinked a little bit and said. "your friend needs Sharingan.... that means you must know Sasuke."
she raised an eyebrow for a moment and blinked slightly as naruto and the pinkette began to bombard her with questions too quick for her to answer. "I don't know who that is..." she said honestly and saw their faces fall.
she looked at naruto since he seemed the saddest of the three and asked. "did something happen to your friend?"
Naruto looked at her and sighed a little bit. he told her everything and had to stop to swallow a few times. the entire time she couldn't help thinking about Itachi and how he must have felt fighting with his brother.
kara listened and slowly hugged his shoulders. "you'll get him back, naruto... you might just have to kick his ass to get him to realize that the darkness is not the way to go." she said softly and gave him an encouraging smile.
she gasped a little bit when he hugged her back tightly and gave her a grin. "thanks for believing me."
"you're welcome, Naru-Kun," she said smiling softly and paused when Misora landed on his good knee. she looked up to see a very tall blue-skinned man staring at her and the others.
"well, it seems the little birdy led me to the nine tails and his little friends," he said in a deep quiet voice. it held a silkiness and a dark tint to it.... but kara also noticed that it was a little raspy as if he normally didn't talk much.
Misora turned to him and cawed in a disapproving tone and then hopped onto kara's shoulder nuzzling her cheek and nibbling on her.
kara smiled softly at the affection and stood. she saw the others get into fighting stances. she made naruto sit since he was injured and said. "it's okay, guys. he's um... a friend of my friend."
she walked up to the shark man and set Misora on his shoulder. she turned back and gave naruto a tight hug. "good luck getting your friend back, Naruto. I know you can do it." she said softly in his ear and smiled softly feeling him hug back. he reminded her of her brother and it made her feel warm and safe.
"heh, don't you worry about me. I'll get him back even if I have to kick his ass, believe it!" he boasted beaming at her and gave her a thumbs-up as she pulled away.
kara giggled a little bit and went back to Kisame. "have you ever ridden on a dragon before?" she asked him and smiled a little after receiving a confused brow raise just for a moment.
she took a deep breath for a moment focusing her chakra and transformed into her dragon form. she fairly large, larger than most houses but smaller than most tailed beasts.
her scales were pitch black and shiny as if freshly polished. she stretched her elongated body and scaly bat-like wings and shook her mane of black silky fur. she looked down at Kisame with red slitted eyes and smiled a little bit. "don't worry, I don't eat sharks." she teased and crouched on all fours for him to get on purring happily.
Kisame had to admit he was pretty surprised by the dragon girl but decided that if Itachi and Misora trusted her, he'd try to give her a chance.
he got on carefully and paused as samehada chattered and purred at the potential new meal. he patted the sword's hilt gently and debated on whether or not to feed her to the living sword if she did hurt his friend.
kara took off and flew back home. she was a little more relaxed now that she had gotten the new eyes and it showed through her soft purring.
her purrs sounded like a cross between a cat's and a lizard's, low and rumbling. Kisame noted and watched her.
"you know I have to ask... who are you and how does Misora know you?" he asked and waited.
"my name is Kara Muramasa and Itachi sent me to the leaf village to get him something and told Misora to go with me in case I ran into trouble." she said and looked back at him. "he told Misora to get you if I needed help."
he widened his eyes a fraction and smirked a little bit. "It seems the son of a bitch is harder to kill than some thought.... and how did you meet Itachi?"
she explained the whole story, which wasn't that long, and looked back at him. "....now here we are," she said and smiled.
he listened patiently and nodded. "I see... thank you for taking care of him."
she smiled and said. "you can stay with us too if you'd like. I can tell he means a lot to you."
Kisame blushed just a little and hid half his face with her coat. "because he's my best friend and brother.... almost any way."
she smiled and kept flying in silence purring softly again. "we'll be there soon." she said and smiled.
he craned his neck and leaned this way and that to see the compound and village before they landed. "it looks very nice."
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