Bucky Barnes Tattoo Novels & Stories

A tattoo covers one of his pecs, moving up to his shoulder and down part of his arm. His arms are just as huge as the rest of him—sculpted biceps and forearms and… good Lord, this guy looks like he should be felling trees or something. My eyes don’t stay on his arms, though—they go right back to the bongos. And the fact that those bongos are covering his… bongos. “My package?” he asks. “What?! I’m not looking at your package,” I protest. My voice seems to come out at least an octave higher than it is. I practically squeak like a mouse.

The fiery burn lingered in my throat. "Nothing's wrong with being a gentleman, but pretending to be one just to impress women doesn't make you one." I smirked, taking another swig of whiskey. I surveyed his outfit, taking in every detail. He wore a vivid red shirt left open to showcase a muscular chest inked with a roaring lion whose fiery orange mane seemed to reach beyond his skin. Leonardo. Lion-hearted. That tattoo made perfect sense. A golden cross lay nestled atop the lion's mane, glinting in the light like a beacon of faith. It was clear that Leonardo wore his heart on his sleeve. His was a tattooed visual representation of his inner fire.

Said the girl on the other end of the phone, who is one of my trustees in Japan. "Pavi, I need you to find all information about this person and this Logo, and when I say all, you know what I mean." I told her as I emailed her all the details. "Yeah, I know, hmmm about Argon Socherberg? Who exactly is this man? He also has a tattoo on his face, is this the new trend? This logo, it’s the same with your tattoo right?" she wondered. "Is there any pending mission there?" I asked lazily as I sat in my swivel chair, ignoring her questions.

“I’m happy to set up appointments for you when you get back.” “Really?” Les’s eyes light up. “Sure.” Bronx shrugs. “With as many pack members as we have getting tattoos, I put him on salary.” “That would be great, Bronx. Thank you.” Les bows slightly. “I’ll let the girls know.” “One thing though…” Bronx puts a finger in the air. “The tattoo you already have. The rose and dagger. My sister had the same one. Like, exactly the same, except hers was larger than yours. I was wondering how you ended up with that design?”

And I was surprised to learn that he also had a tattoo, because no photo showed it. It was the head of a lion at the top of his forearm, whose design was of black and bluish tones, so that it stood out perfectly on his Caucasian skin. Flynn said he still had plans to get more tattoos, but, like me, he had a formed and irreducible opinion about needles: A pain that could be avoided if it was not caused by a vaccine.

“Come back soon, okay?” “Okay,” she hung up then. “I’m going to town. Am I needed for anything?” I asked Mr Stark when he walked in. My eyes were glued to the tattoos littered all over his upper body. His left sleeve looked like a forest scenery of some sort. Right at the back, he had numbers, a date, with a tiny baby handprint. I wondered what they meant. “You can go,” he said his back to me. ***** | Emmanuel Stark |

“Bunch of obnoxious, inhumanly attractive, muscled up cavemen.” Seriously, Knight looked like some kind of Playboy fallen angel with his sculpted ass and body stacked with hard muscle. I scanned his numerous tattoos. There was a pack of hungry wolves on one of his arms, surrounded by trees and vines full of thorns. Across his chest was the night sky and aurora borealis, and wrapping around his stomach were wisps of smoke, or shadow, that trailed upwards until they blended into the darker ink.

My eyes drifted down to his torso, and my breath caught. God must have enlisted his finest artist to carve Killian Knight. The tattoo, a haunting web of thorned vines, began at his right hip and sprawled across his torso. Its black branches reached his heart, with another branch peeking over his left shoulder and spreading down his arm to his elbow. The intricate design, hidden beneath his clothes, was now fully exposed.

Stone instructed Jacob. Jacob rolled up his shirt sleeve and revealed a tattoo of a roaring black bear on the inside of his arm, with the word "Black" beneath it. "You want me to get a tattoo like that?" May asked with widening eyes. "Yes," Stone replied. "Everyone who sees it will know that you belong to me and are protected by me. To harm someone with this bear tattoo means they're not respecting me. Not many people dare to do that in this town. This tattoo will protect you, May."

An idea formed in my mind and I went with it, plucking items from the shelves and dropping them into my basket. In the checkout line to pay, I noticed a big guy behind me waiting with his lone bottle of water. Well, I really noticed his tattoo. He had a beauty on the in- side of his forearm a perfect rendition of Jimi Hendrix's signature, the big swirl of the J as clear as if Jimi had scrawled it himself. "Nice tat," I said to him, noticing how really huge he was. At least six five, solid muscle, with spiked white-blond hair and a face that exuded confidence this was a guy you did not mess with. "Thank you." His nearly black eyes softened just a bit and he asked, "Are you a fan?"