Clouds Forearm Tattoo Novels & Stories

Every curve and line is perfect and accentuated by the glowing energy pulsating beneath my skin as if it were carved from marble by the Goddesses themselves. My right arm has a strange tattoo swirling up it with an odd energy fused into it. The black claws on my hands glisten in the brilliant light of the portal, their sharp points glinting like obsidian knives. As I concentrate, they slowly retract into my fingertips, disappearing from view. With another thought, they shoot out again like deadly daggers, ready for action.

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 whole thing left very little to imagination and absolutely nothing to question. The spotlight found the cherry red of her hair first, then the pale stretch of her throat, then the rest of her. The full curves of her chest pressed against the bralette's cups, the soft weight of her stomach, the flare of her hips, all of it moving in that first slow circle around the pole with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never once been ashamed of the space she occupied. The tattoos caught the light in pieces as she moved. A flash of thorns. The curve of a petal. Three letters on her left forearm that read ART in ink so dark it almost disappeared against the shadows.

More than enough. I didn’t move right away. I just lay there, letting my eyes trace the lines of him. His forearm—thick, corded with muscle, covered in those dark tattoos that twisted like smoke and vines—curved protectively over my stomach. The ink stopped just short of his wrist, leaving a strip of bare skin that looked almost vulnerable. I followed it up to his shoulder, the swell of his bicep, the faint scar from some old motorcycle accident he’d laughed off once like it was nothing.

"Mommy, you can't break your promise." There was a faint tremor in her voice. Winona's heart softened. She made a pinky promise with her. "Pinky promise. Does that make you feel better, Yara?" Only then did Yara reluctantly release her grip on Winona's sleeve. She threw her arms around Julian's neck and buried her face in his chest. Her voice came out muffled. "I'll wait at home for Mommy tomorrow morning." Julian said nothing. He picked up Yara and prepared to leave. However, when he passed by Asher and Carter, he gave them a deep look.

The spotlight found me and I let it. I wore a black lace bodysuit tonight, the kind that left almost nothing to the imagination while technically covering the parts that mattered. My pink hair was down, brushing my shoulder blades, catching the light like cotton candy spun from something dangerous. The tattoo on my forearm — a cascade of flowers and thorns that wound from wrist to elbow — stood out against my pale skin. I started slow. I always started slow.

I added. He blinked a few times. I avoided his gaze. I continued to carefully wipe his wound. As all the blood finally disappeared from his arm, I noticed a large tattoo on his upper biceps. I gently touched it. I didn’t know tattoos could suit someone. It’s a large dragon that covers his forearm. It suits his brown skin perfectly. I looked up at him. He just looked at me quietly, and for the first time, I saw emotion in his eyes. Tiredness. That’s what I see in those unique eyes.

It was the ink. A dragon, winding up from his chest, the tail curling along his ribs, the head climbing over his collarbone and stretching up the length of his left arm, almost entirely sleeved in intricate black and gray tattoo work. Scales, smoke, fire—details that felt as much like armor as art. This wasn't some impulsive drunken mistake. This was deliberate, meaningful. A story etched upon his skin. His throat, too, was fully covered in inked. And then—

Completely naked and with a weak smile on his whitish lips, he pulls the last spl of the plastic sweater and exposes all the rest of the tattooed skin above the bandage on his waist. The drawings engraved on your shapely arms begin in the pectoral muscles with a fusion of messages in different languages, spirals and lines, flowing in a connection with musical notes, stars and rays through your right shoulder to your wrist. On the other side, the head of an open-mouthed Chinese dragon has its syrup outlined on its left shoulder. Among the pigmentation of drawings, there is a skin band with shy black curls separating them.

If I wouldn’t have listened to him, he would have tightened his arm more and I would have ended up with shattered bones. His warmth was heartwarming and it gave me the courage to run my finger along his muscled tattooed arm and I made small circles along the lines of his tattoo. He had this artistic tattoo of a warrior on his forearm, wearing armor and he was looking up at the constellation and that moon that was inked in Romeo’s biceps skin. And I wondered what that tattoo was about.