Brock Lesnar Tattoo Novels & Stories

"Fuck." I stared at Ronan, really looking at him for the first time. His shirt had ridden up during the fight, and there on his forearm was a tattoo I'd never noticed before. Dark ink forming symbols I recognized from a mile away. The brotherhood of Fir Tattoo. The same type Darragh had etched. The hallway tilted. My stomach lurched, and I barely made it to the nearest trash can before everything came up. The sound echoed off the walls, sharp and wet and humiliating.

“Your turn.” “I’m not getting a tattoo.” He shrugged. “Didn’t think you would.” “Oh, fuck you. Fine.” I settled for two small tattoos. One of a pair of cherries with a bite mark above my right breast. “Those yours?” He smirked. “Because I’d bite harder.” I rolled my eyes at him but the tattoo artist found it funny. I got another one. “𝒮𝒾𝓃” on my side, under my left breast.

The skin of his ribs is inked with tattoos, and I squint to discern what they are, my hands reaching out to touch one in particular. I’ve never noticed it before, hidden amongst a tattoo of a forest treeline and a wild wolf howling at the moon. I reach out to trace my fingers over the letter ‘A’, and Brock flinches. I suck in a breath, peering up at him as his eyes come to mine. “It is for…?” I start to ask, but the look in his eyes tells me his answer before his lips do.

Leon is a man who is the head of an organization specializing in assassination and "Boss! Calm down, I have a tattoo on my arm. This is the symbol of the BT organization and we are allies, we are not enemies, please listen to me." Finn raised his tattooed arm in front of Leon. This tattoo is the design of their organization. Only people from the same organization have tattoos like this. This is also the symbol of the BT organization. The tattoo on Finn's arm is very intricately designed, it is a dragon head. This is the identity of the organization. Leon saw the tattoo on Finn's arm, his head hurt again, and the pain suddenly came so that Leon could not do anything. He staggered for a hold.

he asked as he checked his tattoo machine. “Permanent,” Yash replied. “Of what you want a tattoo of and where do you want me to crave it? Sir?” The tattoo artist asked Yash. “On my backbone,” Yash replied as he took off his shirt and lay down. “Are you sure? Backbone tattoos hurt the most,” He informed Yash, but all Yash needed right then was pain; only pain could tackle his pain into not killing himself, he needed to be alive and only another pain could help him.

“Lorenzo, the bar….The weight's going to fall.” Lorenzo didn't move an inch, all he said was: “You wanted to lift weights and that's what you're going to do.” “Please,” I struggled. If I stayed here much longer, the weight would come falling and it'd land on my chest, then I'd be dead and a dead person can't get vengeance. “Loren—” His hands came under the bar and his forearms bracketed my entire field of vision, and the Latin text on the tattoo was right at eye level now, close enough to read.

he chuckled,”You’re a good asset to my gang. “What’s the last part of my training?” I asked, remembering the conversation from earlier. “You have to get a tattoo,” he stated. “A tattoo?” I gaped, “Why?” “It’s the trademark,” he smiled,”It’s kind of like a brand. Everyone in my gang has the tattoo.” “What’s the tattoo of?” I wondered. “A Devil's,” he smiled, “Or serpents.” “Why a Devil?” I questioned. “My gang name is The Devil's Brotherhood,” he smirked. I chuckled, and looked at him.

"You can say that to Carson." Carson, I didn't know he was that much of a psychopath if it was Nelson I wouldn't be that surprise but him, the guy who is unbothered and fucking rude. "Other than piercings, do you have tattoos?" I asked and he nodded showing off his back. I know that he has one on his left arm, the drawing is a racing car with his name on it and flames around the car, on his abdomen, there is a drawing of angels wing with a rose on the middle. And finally, on the back, there is a large phoenix with a cursive name on the top.

My fingers itched to touch the knives I could see magnetized to a wall rack. And then I saw him. Armando Denaro. Shirtless. He was standing at the massive island, his back to me, muscles rippling under a tapestry of dark ink that covered his shoulders and snaked down his spine. The tattoos were even more intricate than I’d remembered from our night together—a mix of script, religious icons, and patterns that told a story I couldn’t decipher. The bandage on his right palm was stark white against his olive skin. A little spark of vicious satisfaction shot through me. Good. I hope it hurts.

“I’m here for a tattoo.” He leaned back, arms folding across his broad chest. The motion made the fabric of his shirt strain. “You? A tattoo?” He laughed, low and cruel. “Let me guess. Tiny heart on your wrist? Or maybe a quote about ‘strength’ in some flowery script so everyone knows how deep you are.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the design. “Lower back. Crescent moon with vines. I have the reference.”