Daddy issues || h.s

3.3

His head was resting on her chest, the half dried paint smudging his cheek. The colours had blended, their individuality disappearing as they overlapped each other. Now all that was left of the yellow, red and purple flowers, was a blue-grey smudge covering their bodies. It was not a beautiful colour, it was dead, cold, but it was only on the outside of their bodies, not on the inside.

His hands rested on her full thighs, absentmindedly stroking the soft skin. The sun had kissed her body, and her once milky-white limbs had turned a soft caramel colour. He wanted to kiss them, to see if his lips would taste sweet afterwards.

Her thighs were wonderful, so soft and feminine, scattered with silver from where girlhood had turned to womanhood. It was part of what he loved about her body. Her growth was spread out across her skin, like a map. If he followed the silvery lines, he could see where narrow hips had turned to curves and where flat chest had turned to full breast. It was physical evidence of her adventures, her life, and he hoped she knew how utterly beautiful they were. 

"Adelaide?" he asked, still keeping his head down. His breath tickled her skin, and she felt goose bumps rise on her arms.

"Yes Harry?" She answered.

"Now that I have decorated your chest, would you care to decorate mine?" He said, finally looking up at her. The smudge on his cheek was big, stretching from his temple to his chin. She stroked his cheek, the paint rubbing off underneath her palm as she did so.

"What do you mean?" She asked, her eyebrows knitting together in a small frown.

"I want you to give me a tattoo." As he spoke, her mouth fell open, her lips forming a small 'O'. But the shape soon melted away, as a smile formed on her lips.

"Are you sure?" She asked, rubbing away the last of the paint.

"Yes, one hundred per cent." Their eyes locked as he spoke, green trees drowning in a rainstorm, and he realised he didn't mind the weather as much as he used to.

"When do you want to get it done?" She asked, and for a moment, he could hear a sliver of her mother's businesswoman-like tone in her voice. 

"As soon as possible," he answered.

"Then lets go!" She said, her voice dripping with adventure as she hopped off the table and pulled on her shirt. That was the moment Harry realised our parents may influence us, they may impact our behaviour and affect our thoughts, but in the end, who you are, is completely up to you. 

The sun had set and thousands of stars had been scattered across the sky, their white light shining down at the young couple riding a bike through the dark streets of an unnamed town. The girl was laughing, her hair blowing in the wind, and with paint stains on her clothes. The boy was smiling, his arms wrapped around the girl as his heart raced in his chest for more reasons you could ever know. The girl trod on, her legs aching with the effort of moving them forward. She turned at all the right corners, the road in front of her having been travelled so often it had been etched into her memory. The boy had never been down those streets before, and for every turn, his grip on the girl got a little tighter, until she could barely breathe.

"Harry," Adelaide said as his hands squeezed the air out of her lungs. "As opposed to popular belief, I do in fact nee to breathe if I am going to get us there."

"Sorry," Harry mumbled, and his grip loosened. Adelaide laughed a bit, and as the melodious sound reached his ears, they came to a stop. 

The building in front of them was made out of brick, its windows dark, no sign of life shining through the glass. 

"Are you sure this is the right place?" He asked as they got off the bike. His legs were once again shaking from the effort of having been held up for so long, but his racing heart made it hard to focus on anything but the girl in front of him.

"Of course I'm sure. Let's go inside." She said, taking Harrys hand in hers and pulling her towards the door.

"And how do you presume we do that? Do we just break in, or?" He started, but his words disappeared into thin air as he saw her pull out a key and put it in the lock. "Oh, you've got a key, that makes sense." He scratched the back of his neck, and he felt small fires burn on his cheeks. 

"You're an idiot sometimes, you know that?" Adelaide said as she turned on the light in the small tattoo parlour. 

"Yeah, I know." He said. His cheeks were pink, and his hair was even messier than usual, so she got up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, her lips quenching the fires that burned there.

"So, this tattoo. What do you want and where do you want it?" She said as she looked through the cupboards, pulling out bottles of ink.

"I want a pair of swallows," he said, placing a hand on each of her hips, pulling her to him. "And I want them right here," his lips dove down to her chest, placing a light kiss on each collarbone. 

"Well then I suggest you sit down over there and let me do my job," She said, letting out a small laugh as she felt his lips skim her skin.

Harry sat down in the leather chair, feeling the rough paper against his skin, the smell of disinfection tickling his nose as she washed the last smears of the paint off his chest. He watched her work; the soot-black lashes resting on her cheeks as she looked down at the blueprint on his skin, her hair pulled up in a ponytail, a couple of loose strands falling over her ears, the small freckles on her nose. He took it all in as he sat there, trying to etch it into his memory, so that later that day, when she had gone to bed and he was left alone with Abigail, he could close his eyes and remember what she looked like in this exact moment.  

"This may hurt a little," Adelaide said, looking up at him, the heavy needle resting in her small hand. Some people would have been nervous, seeing the tool that would mark them for life rest in the tiny hand of a seventeen year old girl, but her hand didn't shake, her eyes didn't falter, and though Harry's heart raced in his chest, it was not because he was nervous.  

The needle sunk into hisskin and he sucked in a sharp breath. At first, stinging pain shot up fromwhere liquid ink was being seared into his skin, but after a while, it wasreduced to a dull ache, just like every other pain he had ever felt. Blacklines were cut into his skin, lines that would never fade or disappear, she wasmarking him forever, but she had started doing that long before the needlekissed his skin.