Orion and the Girl With Ink
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Early that evening she and her mate picked him up, taking him off to a crepe and coffee shop where the light was good. As she begun her work, one of his hands palm-down on the table between them and several felt-tip pens traded back and forth between her hands, he mentioned that he'd done a hit of acid earlier, one of his latest drugs of choice. She laughed, and asked if he'd ever tried acid and DXM at the same time, a drug she had actually been the one to introduce him to several months ago. He shook his head, but agreed that they were similar enough that they might make a good combination. She tossed him a bottle, a full dosing of DXM, that she had apparently unpackaged and brought with her.
The drinks the three of them had ordered arrived, and without any real hesitation he downed the drugs, expecting at most to feel a bit high and enjoy the pretty colors. He hadn't caught the subtle exchange of glances between the inker and her mate, nor was he sober enough to begin with to realize that she was looking at him intently, gaze far more focused than usual, her eyes never leaving his face unless she was actively applying ink. She'd actively encouraged his habitual drug use several times in the past, supplying him with alcohol, sharing some weed, and of course offering him DXM, so her sudden eagerness went unnoticed.
Her drugs are quick, made quicker by the acid already in his system and the lack of solid food; only water and coffee washed them down and it wasn't long before they were beginning to kick in. At first it was just an enhanced trip, the colors brighter, the music more interesting, the play of lights and shadow more entrancing. Then he began to focus on what she was inking, and perhaps more importantly, what she was saying about it, and about him, as she worked. Her words were hypnotic, the rhythm matching his pulse, an effect his conscious mind barely noticed but one his subconscious, drugged and vulnerable, latched onto. It was as if some part of her was reaching into his thoughts, pulling them out, speaking them aloud. She found words for things he had never been able to express.
By the time the inkwork was finished, both arms and his face were decorated, some of it simply a demonstration of her art as far as he knew, and some of it so clearly matched to him that he was already convinced it should be his first tattoo, he was high as a kite. Unwilling to go home, at the slightest hint that she would take him with them, he begged to come along. That won him a smile as well as an invitation; this boy who so often fought and argued, who played the part of the young rebel to the hilt, was already beginning to beg with words as sincere and beautiful as any slave might use. She herded him into the car, her mate driving, a CD she'd burned earlier in preparation for a moment like this playing, and off they went.
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