Skin In Cursive Novels & Stories

Unable to resist her curiosity any longer, Visenya traced her hand along the smooth surface of Lucian’s dragon skin. She longed to know what it felt like and was not disappointed at all. She was intrigued by its glossy, micro-patterned texture that felt soft like silk. She couldn’t help but trace her delicate hands along the smooth skin of his back, causing Lucian to purr like a cat from the pleasurable sensation of her caress. Visenya chuckled at his obvious enjoyment of her petting him, and he let out an angry huff.

On your heart," she expressed. Elizah let out a soft chuckle. "It already has your name on it. But if you want you can ink it," he leaned back on his palms, expanding his already expansive chest. Sabrina felt multiple throbs in her core as she marveled at his ripped abs. "It will hurt," she warned him. He gave her a charming smile and motioned for her to go ahead. She leaned forward and with as much gentality as she could, pierced through his skin. The man was as calm as cucumber as she dragged her name into his skin with her trembling fingers. She had done a poor job of inking his skin. His letters looked like crushed ants. Her face fell. Arguably, it was the worst piece among his impeccabl

I co‌ul​d see th⁠e​m m‌oving under his shirt. Then they s‍toppe​d. Just stopped.⁠ He took a shaky brea⁠th. Another. The lines started to fade. S‍lowly. Like someon‌e w‌as erasing them. "T​h​at's the curse," he said quietly. His voice w⁠as rough. "It's g‍et⁠tin‌g wo​rs⁠e." I stared at him‌. At the fadin‍g marks on‌ his s⁠ki‍n. "How long‍—"

I feel the cold, hard plastic of a pen I stole from the library yesterday. I look around. The hallway is empty. I hike up my skirt. The white silk bunches at my waist. I expose my thigh—pale, smooth skin that Ciro marked with bruises days ago. I uncap the pen. My hand shakes as I press the ballpoint to my flesh. V. The ink is cold. It scratches. I. It hurts, just a little. A pinch. N. I write the letters large, dark, permanent. C. E. R. E.

He was shirtless. I couldn’t help but notice the lines of his muscles rippling beneath his skin, the definition of his broad back, his sculpted shoulders. Every strike seemed to pull the muscles of his back into sharp relief, his skin flushed from exertion. His inked arm was a work of art—dark tattoos that twisted and swirled across his skin, snakes and vines wrapping around his biceps and forearm. The intricate designs seemed to come alive with every movement, as if they were telling a story only he could understand.

4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} I shifted so that I could look properly at Samyak’s face. His dark skin shone in the moonlight, and his deep eyes glittered beneath their long lashes. The light cast shadows down his cheeks, gossamer strands falling, incandescent, across his cheekbones.

He straddled my hip and carved the letter S into the skin just above my thigh. Not deep. But permanent. Azric took the blade next. He kissed my lips softly then carved A below my ribs. The pain and the bond surged together, and my body sang. “You’re ours,” he whispered. “And everyone will know it.” Then it started. My skin burned. Right between their initials. A glowing, magical brand began to form untouched. D. I gasped. And then... “Carve me in too, little flame. I’m almost there.” The voice echoed through the room like thunder in their heads.

Slowly, I tilt my head, my eyes focusing on the strange, beautiful pattern now etched into my skin. It’s not just a faint bruise anymore; it’s something more. The mark has grown bolder, its fiery pattern glowing against my skin. Tendrils of flame, rich and molten gold, curl and intertwine, creating an intricate design that seems to pulse with its own light. I can almost feel the warmth radiating from it, as if my skin had been kissed by fire. The flames seem alive, dancing with a mesmerizing energy that draws me in, making it impossible to look away.

And he, was still in class. Their literature teacher, Sam, didn't notice that one of his students had just woken up from a doze. He was so engrossed in copying the notes onto the whiteboard with his calligraphy handwriting. The extra curve he added to the letter "F" had turned it into a "P" in everybody's eyes except his own. The missing dot on the "i" made it seem like it was joined with the next letter "n", forming an "m". He claimed it was stylish when it was just a bunch of messy chains of alphabets grouped together to form words.

Handwriting I recognized as Lyra's, quick, slanted, and pressed hard. Cain's name. Written across the page in different sizes, different pressures. Circled once. Scratched out. Written again. Circled again. Like someone working through something they couldn't stop thinking about. At the bottom corner of the page, not writing. A smear. Dark reddish brown against the white paper, already dried at the edges.