Badass Forearm Tattoo Novels & Stories

I was seeing his entire tattoo. For the first time. I lowered my hand, staring at it. It was the picture of a large wolf, its head resting over his right pectoral region and his heart. There were breathtaking swirls and designs made around the wolf's head reaching up to his shoulders and part of his right forearm. The ink of the tattoo looked so dark against his skin it was almost like looking at an actual mind-blowing artwork. Beneath the design his chest looked hard and sturdy and. . .

He never really mentioned her much, but they had issues. LuciferessX: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves… Reign707: I’ll try not to Lol. You owe me a picture, remember? Of your new tattoo? Oh yeah! I look down at my right shoulder. I had a tattoo of vines, with small thorns and red roses that spread from my shoulder down the right side of my breast and to my waist, as well as the full sleeve of my right arm. Well, if he wants a picture…

Shirtless. The soft morning light pours through the massive windows, highlighting every ridge, every dip, every perfect inch of his sculpted back and arms. Every muscle shifts and flexes as he moves, making intricate tattoos come alive. His whole torso is covered in them, all black and grey scale, with details I can't see unless I get much closer than I want to. He's made of granite and bad decisions. He is perfection, massive, brooding, perfection. I have never seen a body like it.

The only source of light present in the room was the side lamp that ignited their faces with its gloriously aesthetic fire hued light. Her body trembled a bit when he walked in wearing his usual tee-shirt which reached his neck hiding his flesh yet the muscles popping out didn't care to push in the shirt. Only his arms were on display which had dark tattoes guiding them. His left arm was completely covered with a dark scary scorpion tattoo while the other was only inked around his bicep.

Why the wind decided to seek me out now was just a poetic justice. Taking off his shirt I finally saw those muscles in full. For the last day I had seen hints of them. His arms were the most striking to me at the time but those abs. They crawled up his stomach with two black tattoos on each of his pecks. Paw prints? “What are those about?” I pointed to my own chest then to him. Looking down he twitched slightly before shrugging, “Just something my brothers and I do when we start training. Conrad chose lines, Alfred chose stars. It’s like a a symbol that we have completed training.”

After I shower, I opt for a wife beater and a pair of loose-fitting shorts. My right forearm is still scabbed over from my latest tattoo. Every time I look at it, I am proud that I now have my pack displayed on my body. It had taken me a while to draw out the design just the way I wanted it to look. It depicts a full moon coming up over a hazy horizon. A wolf's head with bright red eyes is baring its teeth as it emerges forth from the moons' surface.

“Something exclusive.” “Exclusive? Sure. I’ll have him recommend some.” Soon a batch of designs came through. Forrest introduced them seriously. “Demon tattoo, also called a slave mark. Usually on the lower abdomen. You know what it means. But people who get this are usually women…” Forrest turned his head and saw Lorenzo studying the designs with full focus. A chill ran down his spine. “Bro, you are not thinking of doing this, right?” Lorenzo stubbed out his cigarette and said calmly, “She said she wanted to leave her exclusive mark on me.”

The icy blast would’ve made anyone else recoil, but Dante stood there, solid and unmoving, like he was made of stone. His back was a canvas of ink, just like his front. The artwork was nothing short of breathtaking. Spanning across his entire back was a massive, detailed tattoo—an angel, powerful and divine, standing within the ruins of an ancient temple. The wings spread wide across his shoulder blades, reaching toward his arms, while crumbling pillars surrounded the figure in dramatic grayscale contrast. It wasn’t just a tattoo; it was a story, a testament, a work of devotion etched forever into his flesh. It was absolutely beautiful—mesmerizing, even.

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.