Emma + Tattoos
She gets the buttercup done on a whim. She's walking home from school and the flashing neon lights of the tattoo parlor on the corner of Main beckon to her, whispering to her rebellious side and giving her the courage to push open the door. The thick scent of ink and pencil greets her and the man behind the counter is friendly – nicer to her than anyone has been in years. Her fingers don't even shake when she points at the delicate flower design – something in her pulling her towards it but she doesn't know why.
The burn feels nice – the steady vibration of the needle humming against her skin. It makes her feel and she grins as the man cleans and wraps it, tapping against it with her free fingers the rest of the way home.
Her foster parents aren't pleased but she smiles when she lies in bed that night, thumb running over the raised and red skin.
(He kisses it constantly in a seemingly unconscious gesture – grabbing her arm when he's about to rush out the door, tangling his fingers with hers in the hazy moments between dreaming and waking, over lunch at Granny's when he's laughing loud at one of Henry's jokes. His lips are always warm and smooth against the fragile skin of her wrist and she smiles.)
-/-
She gets the delicate compass tattoo low on her hip when she's released from prison – because she's lost and tired and alone and she just needs to feel.
The buzz is electric – vibrating against the sharp jut of her hip until her whole body is humming. She stares blankly at the faded and cracked ceiling tiles of the parlor and blinks away tears as she thinks of a screaming baby with eyes just like his.
(It isn't until she meets him that she begins to think that her desire for a compass was more than a coincidence. She still doesn't believe in fate and happy endings and true love but he is a pirate and they did go on a journey for a compass – once upon a time. It's more than a little suspect.)
(When he sees it for the first time - his eyes landing on the thin black lines as his desperate fingers work to pull down her jeans, her panting and flushed beneath him on the ridiculously small bed in his quarters – his entire body stills. His eyes snap up to hers and she opens and closes her mouth a couple times, settling on a moan instead of words when his head dips down low, his tongue warm and wet against her skin – tracing the lines and searing them into her.)
(Even years later - after they've come together more times than she can remember – it never fails to make him lose control.)
("Made for me." His whispers against her skin. "It's like you were bloody made for me.")
-/-
She gets the arrow on her neck - small and delicate and just under her hairline – when she's able to rent out her first apartment. The apartment is small, but it's hers, and she feels her chest swell with accomplishment that she has a place to call home.
She doesn't let her mind linger on how empty this home feels when she comes back alone at night, body aching from chasing down a mark. The arrow reminds her that she has a new direction – a whole new life to discover. The thoughts of the life she almost had are much easier to push away the older she gets and when the needle meets her skin – they are hardly a whisper.
(His fingers slide under her hair when she's agitated or nervous, thumb stroking against the lightly raised skin. He gives her that smile that's just for her and his eyes shine blue - so blue – lips kissing at the corner of her mouth.)
(He always knows what she needs – never has to ask.)
(Open book.)
-/-
He has coordinates on his left shoulder, neat and ordered in two small rows. She traces them while he lies on his stomach in bed, the numbers moving as he shoulders stretch and flex – arms pushing out further beneath the pillows.
"What are these?" She whispers.
He blinks at her with sleepy eyes, lazy grin tilting his lips. "A location." Warm fingers tug her closer by the hem of her shirt. "Go to sleep, love."
(One day when she's waiting alone in the cabin of his ship, flipping idly through a navigation book, she sees the familiar numbers written below a mark on a map in his narrow and neat handwriting. Her finger shakes as she traces the line from the location to the margin – four words in the same neat scrawl making her heart pound.
Enchanted Forest. The tree.)