Bible Verse Forearm Tattoos Novels & Stories

Another tattoo: ‘Darkness is real, and it’s the best place to be’ Why would that be the best place to be? “Why are your tattoos sad?” I question, kneading his precious spinous process. “They’re not all sad. Different seasons of my life…” “Were you sad in the past?” He shrugs, a leisurely smile playing on his lips. Another tattoo beneath his neck: ‘Psalm 139:14’ “You’ve got a Bible scripture,” I note out loud. “See. Not all of them are sad. I’ve got two of those.”

he confessed. I placed a kiss on his shoulder as my fingers started to trace the chain tattoo on his arm. It started from his neck and curved around the Leon before continuing down the length of his arm, stopping right above his elbow. “What about this one? What does it mean?” I asked, soothing my hand over the heavy, black chains. Artemy froze underneath my touch. I froze too. I started to divert the conversation when he answered, his voice low and deep. “It means I am chained to my past.”

I take a deep breath before reading it. “Be strong and of good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the LORD your God, he it is that does go with you; he will not fail you, nor forsake you.” I looked up and closed the Bible. The verse is right; Fear not nor be afraid of them. What a beautiful verse? I closed my eyes and thought about the verse that I had read for a moment.

Her hands instinctively flew to her breasts. He walked towards her, rolling his sleeves even higher. His forearms flexed the multiples veins that complimented his tattoos, “Get in,”

She laid next to me, naked and glorious after sex. “Why are the angels tattooed on both arms blindfolded?” Evelina asked, tracing the outline with her delicate fingers. “Because justice is blind,” I replied bluntly. Her body shifted closer to mine, and one bare leg wrapped around my own leg. “But the goddess of justice usually has a scale in one hand. The angels here have their hands tied.”

He stares at my arm, at where the sleeve of the jumper I’m wearing is rolled up enough and his eyes focus right in on where the tattoo is. I paid a small fortune for that tattoo. It’s a phoenix. It felt almost poetic at the time although I’d admit now it’s a bit cheesy. Its wings are inked into flames. It stretches over my forearm, not too big, but it covers what he’d done. How he’d marked me.

The three marks on Wren’s inner forearm itched with a low, persistent thrum, a living tattoo of longing etched into her skin by a ritual gone beautifully, catastrophically wrong. They weren't scars, but claims waiting to be made. One for tender worship, one for rude praise, one for slow dominance. Tonight, the first of them, a silvery crescent like a wolf’s gentle bite, burned with a need that was becoming a torment.

Lighting flashed— and that’s when I saw them. Tattoos. Black ink snaking up his arms. Crosses, wings, words I couldn’t read fast enough. Bible verses, twisted and fierce. He looked like sin under heaven’s rain. “Battery’s dead,” he called over the thunder. “You leave your lights on?” “Maybe.” I muttered. My cheeks were burning. He grinned. “Happens to the best of us.” And then, just because I clearly make decision that are very terrible for my life. I opened the door and I came out.

“Thank you, child.” “Come, come,” he says, ushering us inside. A particular wristwear catches my eye — ancient, gleaming faintly under the lamplight. I reach toward it without thinking. “Careful,” Rauth warns. “That’s something primal to Uncle.” “Really?” I ask, still studying it. “Yes,” Rauth says. “It holds a deep bloodline — like the ancestral fang of kings. It signifies Uncle as a true blood of the royal line.”

His sleeve rides up, revealing the edge of a mantis tattoo. “-Fuck”