Clouds 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. . .

“And didn’t I tell you to drop the formalities when we’re alone, darling?” I have heard of the Dread Moon pack wolves being tattooed, but I have never seen one in person before. His right arm and pectoral are adorned with black ink, and I spy his pack crest amidst some rose designs. It is actually quite a beautiful tapestry and something inside of me seems to pull me toward him.

And weirdly excited by it. When I came out, Rafe had changed too. Gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, that V-line disappearing under the waistband like an invitation, it had no shirt on. The tattoo sleeve covered most of his left arm, some geometric pattern mixed with what looked like waves or storm clouds. His chest was broad, lightly dusted with hair, abs tight enough that I forgot how to speak for a second. He was drying his hair with a towel. The motion made everything flex.

The marks crawl higher, winding up my arm in intricate patterns, like veins of living fire. When they reach my shoulder, the bloom dissolves into light and imprints itself into my skin. A tattoo of crimson petals blossoms across my shoulder blade. It is warm and alive with a pulse humming with the same rhythm as the heartbloom itself. Then, with a single deafening crack, the entire garden dissolves around me. The vines shatter. The thorns crumble. The maze collapses into dust. I stand alone on the clearing floor, panting, trembling, with an arm blazing with new power.

He happiness faded as soon as he remembered how she treated him and happy he saw her with the senator. There were some few students around the stream who were on some kind of romantic date. "I guess you will be bringing Tina here soon," Thomas said to Achuba. "I hope so," Achuba replied after he had stopped laughing. "I heard that there is a waterfall behind those trees over there," Achuba continued and pointed in the direction of the trees. "Wow! Can we go and take a look?" Thomas asked. "Don't you see that there no is lightening around there? Don't you think it will dangerous?" Richard asked.

And his board shorts hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-lines of his lower abdomen and the continuation of his tattoos—ink that wound down past his waistband in patterns I could only partially see. Water droplets clung to his skin, caught in the hollow of his collarbone, tracing the defined muscles of his arms. The tattoos on his forearms seemed to shimmer with moisture... And that bracelet—the rose quartz bracelet I'd given him—was still on his wrist, somehow making the whole picture even more devastating. Gods. The soaked version of Max was even more impossibly attractive than the dry one. My heart didn't just skip—it stuttered, stumbled, forgot entirely how to maintain a steady r

That night, Henry finally let go of all restraint. The room lay in shadow, and he pressed me against the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Riverton flickering like stars beyond the glass. “Claire…” “Yes?” “I want to get another tattoo.” “Where?” He gripped my hand and pressed it to his lower back, mirroring the spot that corresponded to mine. There, with each of his breaths, a faint outline of a feral totem emerged. “I want to tattoo your image. I want to carve you into my bones forever.”

He slides his hands around my waist and settles me on his lap. His massive hands circle my waist completely. I look down. His calloused hands are threaded with veins that continue up his muscular forearms. Fuck... I love a good forearm. The tattoos covering his skin are intricate black swirls and symbols. I can make out runes woven amongst them, though I can’t decipher their meaning. My fingers lightly trace the designs, and I feel Lincoln shudder beneath my touch. His breathing deepens. And fuuuck. My stomach tightens. I can feel his eyes on me, so I look up slowly.

In black, grey and blue ink, beautiful, intricate patterns of floral and wing designs mar my skin, but at its centre, Zefiro name sits majestically in stunning calligraphy. The bastard tattooed his name into my skin.

Just barely enough for me to see it and know it was meant for me. I looked away from her and that was when I saw it. The stranger had stepped slightly further into the light of the hallway and his left forearm was visible where his sleeve was pushed up. A tattoo ran along the inside of his forearm, dark ink, a specific pattern — angular lines that curved at the end in a way that was not common, not something you saw every day. I had seen that tattoo before. I had cleaned dried blood away from that exact forearm three days ago in the cold air near my mother's grave, my hands shaking as I pressed gauze against skin that had been torn open by something I hadn't asked about.