Elena smoothed her knuckles along the inked skin in broad strokes. Her birdlike hands played across the smaller areas, tracing the details as if she was painting them on with her fingertips. She leaned in to study the piece more closely, her delicate nose mere inches from the tender flesh of the muscular young man’s back. Ian, his name was. He smelled rugged and incredible, like a forest or maybe a meadow. Like the sexiest motherfucking meadow she had ever smelled in her life. She felt an overwhelming urge to bite him, to slide her tongue along his perfect trapezius, to claim him with her mouth and drag him home like prey.
“Pretty great, isn’t it?” A booming voice cut through the chatter in the gallery and jarred Elena from her cannibalistic reverie. She stepped back in surprise and stared at the voice’s owner. Cary Grant in suede work boots and an ill-fitting cardigan, striking a delicate balance between hipster and lumberjack. An artist, she thought.
“Is this yours?” she asked, gesturing to the elaborate tattoo. The tree covered the man’s entire left torso, leaves and branches reaching up into the sky around his neck while the massive trunk and forked roots extended down into the ground below his waistline. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed, and reached out to touch it again.
Cary Grant chuckled. “No, that’s not mine,” he said, “but this is.” He slid his hand around Ian’s waist and murmured into his exquisitely formed ear. “This belongs to me.”
Prompt: Include something forked in your post or just use the word Fork or Furcate