Skin In Cursive Novels & Stories

Then at her. “Can I look at the arm directly?” She rolled up her sleeve. He looked at it the way she’d wanted someone to look at it for five years. Not the clinical assessment and not the overcompensating not staring. Just looking. His eyes moved over the scarring slowly, taking in the way the tissue had healed, the raised edges and the flat planes and the places where the texture changed. “The texture variance here,” he said, touching the air above one section without making contact, “is going to catch light differently than the surrounding skin. If I use stipple work in the right density, it’ll look intentional. Like the plant is growing from different terrain.”

* * * “You’re sure this is it?” I stared down at the newspaper, the scribbled cursive overlapping the printed words that had come before. The handwriting was the same as I remembered, as was the description. I re-read the faded words, my chest tightening. It sounded like Cyrus: the feathered hair, dangling across his forehead like the feathers of a crow; the blue eyes, too bright to be human; the porcelain skin, white as the moon. It sounded like Cyrus, and I would accept his evasions no longer.

Jace "Give me a moment." I turned the pages slower now, and I couldn’t find anything in a straight line. The thing wouldn't let me. Every page I turned had me on a different study of it, and each one stopped me before I could get past it. The figure from the back, the long muscles of it laid in like rope under the skin. The skull alone, big as a horse's and shaped like nothing that grazes. A hand again, opened flat, the claw at each fingertip drawn from three sides so you couldn't tell yourself you'd misread it.

On the page. In my head, I scrawled the word in big, ugly handwriting, underlining it twice. UP. The ink hated that. It lurched around us, trying to swirl the other way, trying to drag us down, down, down. But the words didn’t care. They twisted. Lifted. Rearranged themselves into something new. Around me and Corvin, lines of text rose in spirals, sentences linking end to beginning, forming rungs. Paragraphs bent at right angles. Question marks hooked onto commas. Em dashes stretched, stiffening into rails.

I reached and traced the intricate pattern on his skin, the sliver of moonlight peeking through the balcony gave me a glimpse of his ink. “This is new,” I rested my fingers on top of the surfboard ink on his chest. It was about two inches long with little letters in cursive writing under it. I couldn’t make out the words because of the darkness though. “You like surfing now?” “No,” he nuzzled his nose on my neck, his tongue licking my skin ever so sexily. “I got it when you left.”

“Alright. Flaxen.” “Also seems like something Randall would say to make himself sound smart. Flaxen. LF, MF, DF. Light flaxen. Medium flaxen. Dark flaxen.” He points to letters on the photos. “Short, Medium, Long. S. M. L. Straight, Wavy, Curly. S. W. C.” I nod along as he deciphers the code. He pauses and looks at the key he created on a separate sheet of paper.

The stunningly flat muscles under her skin moved with a rhythm that he felt in the pencil he held. His eyes hungrily drank in the details of her form. Her small but firm breasts, her strong arms, flat stomach; the muscles rippling under her skin called to him, even the rise and curve of her ass drew his eyes. The color of her ivory skin burnt into his memory, her auburn hair that hung down to the middle of her back. He was sure he could have remembered everything without the sketch he was quickly jotting down. The sight of her left his mouth dry.

His lips brushed the side of my neck, kissing down to my shoulder, slow, deliberate, a growl vibrating against my skin. “Careful now,” I teased, shivering, “Lucas is already waiting.” Cassian groaned low, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair as I straightened. “Remember this?” I asked, lifting my arm. His initials were still etched on my skin, visible now for anyone to see. “How can I forget?” His smirk was dark, dangerous. “In fact, I’m thinking of giving you another one… right above your breast.” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “Why not just write it all over my body then?”

She says. Lucus is perfectly still as Zia repeats the motions she used on Emma, cleansing and preparing. She doesn't trace an outline first, because unlike Emma, she is perfectly sure of what she is doing and far more comfortable with the idea. "Ready?" She asks, and Lucus nods immediately. The tattoo gun comes to life. Zia glides it across Lucus golden-brown skin with practiced and skilled ease. He bites his bottom lip gently, the pain an unusual and unfamiliar sensation—not entirely uncomfortable, but more something he isn't used to.

I even learned how to use this before doing it on my cutie, so it won't hurt her and at the same time, I don't want to give her any ugly marks on her beautiful skin. I started to curve the letters "Damon's cutie" so beautifully in her smooth soft skin, both on her stomach and on her chest, so it took me around 30 minutes. Then I moved back and saw the art I created, which was so beautiful in her already beautiful body. Then I was above to curve the letters "Mine" in her hand but I stopped as soon as I saw her unconscious body. I took a sigh and whispered, "She is so weak, I have to train her more, so she can take all these little things". Then I took the bandage and started to treat her woun