Half Sleeve Tattoos Men Novels & Stories

The bitch is supporting his son and the others in doing this so he can go to hell for all I care. "The decorated one." Shade says nodding to the stencil in Rux's right hand. Mr. Rux beams and hands the stencil over to the tattoo artist. The bald man with a bushy beard is covered in tattoos and seems to in his fifties. He doesn't spare the chains around my wrist a glance as he grabs my forearm and twists it so that the underside of it faces upwards. All business, he shaves and cleans where the tattoo will be. He places the stencil so it begins right beneath the crease between my forearm and arm. I stay still. If this is going to happen then I at least don't want it to be a shitty tattoo. It'l

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.

Colin broke his concentration on my breasts and laughed, “I may have gotten a tribal tattoo when I turned 18, on a whim,” he explained. It was a surprisingly well done half sleeve, not a cliche 90’s tribal style but with intricate mandala designs. It looked like something I would have designed. “I like it,” I told him.

she said with a sigh, taking a sip from her straw. Lilly had the face of an angel adorned with tattoos. There was one just above her eyebrow and several scattered along her arms. She had honey blonde hair, dark brown eyes, a mole above her lip, a septum piercing, and multiple piercings in her earlobe. Leah had shoulder-length red hair and caramel-brown skin that matched her eyes. Zeek had dark brown hair and eyebrows, with a small patch of white on his hand that he had turned into an art piece. I noticed he had vitiligo, which fascinated me.

It made my skin tingle all over again. I spotted another group of fighters—four strong men this time. Their bodies gleamed with oil from the morning's fights. Sweat mixed with it, running down their muscled chests and arms. One guy had a long scar across his chest, red and raised like a mark of pride from past battles. Another had dark tattoos snaking up his arms, thick lines that looked like twisting ropes. The other two were just as built, one with short blond hair matted to his head, the other with a shaved scalp that showed off his thick neck.

His shirt was unbuttoned and I noticed he had added a new tattoo to his collection. Standing by the doorway with sleeves rolled up, he looked relaxed, as if he hadn’t just flown across an ocean. For me. It's normal for friends to do that for each other, right?

Still, that shield was as vulnerable as if it was made of paper under Dalton’s incoming sword. A muffled sound rang off! The man’s shield was shattered into pieces. The clothes on his body exploded, revealing the upper half of his body. A ping-pong ball-sized Red Moon tattoo on the man’s chest was revealed, and the pattern was too dazzling not to be seen.

I spotted a thin scar slashing through his left eyebrow and a hint of a tattoo peeking out from both sleeves of his shirt. I’ve seen this man before but where?

I immediately look away, cheeks burning, a visceral unease in the pit of my stomach. Around 11 a.m., he takes off his suit shirt, remaining in a tight grey t‑shirt that perfectly hugs his broad shoulders and muscular chest. I try not to look. Really. But my eyes slide despite themselves over the tattoos that peek out from the short sleeves: black geometric lines, Orthodox symbols, a stylised raven on his left forearm. I freeze.

My wrists were red-ringed from the zip ties, but the pain felt distant compared to the hole in my chest where Tallia used to be. I sensed him, I forced myself not to look in his direction but my neck did the whole opposite. I looked like I’d been standing there waiting for him to join me. He filled the doorway. At least 6’7”, brawny, broad-shouldered, his black shirt stretched taut across his chest and arms like it had been tailored to showcase every hard line of muscle. His sleeves rolled to his elbows revealing forearms corded with strength and inked in dark, intricate patterns that disappeared under the fabric—nice tattoos .