My name is Cora My world smells of leather, green soap, and the buzz of a machine. Not the kind that sews clothes, but the kind that leaves permanent marks on skin—drawings, stories, vows. I dream of becoming a tattoo artist.
My room is my fortress and my workshop. Other girls have posters of actors on their walls; I have sketches plastered over every free space: intricate geometric patterns I dreamed up at night, realistic roses that need to look alive, ancient dragons in old-school style. On my shelves—not makeup and trinkets, but pots of ink, sheets of practice skin, and dozens, hundreds of sharpened pencils. My han.
18 y.o. Curvilínea Flerte quente