Inner Forearm Tattoos For Guys Novels & Stories

“is just for fun.” Heat climbed up my neck. “And what’s the fun one supposed to mean?” “You’d have to find out for yourself.” His voice dipped low again, and I swore my heart skipped. One of his friends Ryan grin leaned in then, resting an elbow on the table. “You’re not the only one with ink worth showing off,” he said, tugging up his own sleeve. The tattoo was intricate, swirling with roses and blades, like beauty tangled with danger. The other two joined in, each showing me their designs a phoenix across one’s back that peeked over his collar, a serpent winding down another’s arm in precise, dangerous curves.

I hear him curse at me as I'm knocked on my ass. "Watch where you're walking," His voice is a growl and so not appreciated after the time I've had. I look up to see a face I don't recognize. Someone completely unknown to me. I open my mouth to tell him exactly what's on my mind-none of it is nice mind you-and I abruptly stop when I catch sight of the tattoo on his inner forearm. A tattoo I've seen many times on many different people. It's an oddly shaped star of sorts with what looks like two scythes circling it. A very specific type of tattoo. A specific gang tattoo. A tattoo I'm all too familiar with.

I stopped. The tattoos I'd been catching fragments of for weeks were finally visible in their entirety, and they were — extensive. Dark ink covering both arms nearly to the wrists, climbing his chest and shoulders, wrapping around his back in patterns I couldn't fully read from here. A skull on his forearm, a snake threading through the eye socket, dark red and black. Words in Russian across his ribs — I could see them but not read them at this distance. On his chest, above his heart, a single phrase in Cyrillic I could just make out:

His chest was carved with strength, the ridges of his abs tense as he pulled the shirt open. His broad shoulders flexed as he shrugged the fabric off, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos that covered his arms. The ink drove up to his biceps, down his forearms, covering him like a work of art. Symbols of power, of death, of a life built on blood and violence. Heat rushed to my face, and I quickly looked away. "What the hell was happening?" I asked myself once again, as if expecting to give an answer. Fernando had never done this before.

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—

The suit's fabric embraced his form with precision, sculpting his frame in a way that conveyed strength and elegance in equal measure. The darkness of his attire was punctuated by a bold statement: a deep red shirt that accentuated his confidence. The top buttons of the shirt remained undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his tattooed chest. The inked patterns danced across his skin, a testament to a hidden side of him that few were privy to witness. The intricate designs told stories of his past, a tapestry of experiences woven into the very fabric of his being.

“You got another tattoo??” Em didn’t like the way he said it. Quinn was covered in tattoos. He had a huge wolf on his shoulder, several arrows and symbols all over his arms and chest and neck. He had a huge tattoo on his back that reminded her of their town. It was a lake and a mountain surrounded by trees. She thought it was beautiful, even though she had never seen it up close.

“You're not training with Dane today. Neither with Napoli, nor will you practice Muay Thai with Collins. He tossed his black jacket to the side and for the first time I got a glimpse of his biceps and discovered that he has tattoos on one of his arms. They look like Egyptian hieroglyphs, letters and a compass. I always kept in mind the numbers that she has tattooed on her fingers, but my fascination with it made me ignore them all this time so as not to lose my temper. I find that detail very attractive, but now that I see it... I don't know how I'm going to control myself.

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.

' he replied in an icy voice. I slowly turned around to look at him, why was his features so tense? Before he went to sleep, he seemed to be in a better state, but now there was an evil aura rippling through his body. My eye suddenly fell on his left arm, he had a tattoo; it was a black dragon tattoo with a savage mouth opening that started from the end of his shoulder and extended to his wrist. This tattoo made him look tougher and more dangerous. She suddenly turns and slams her hips on the table, this movement taking her left arm out of my view, causing me to see her right arm. My eyes widened in surprise, for there was a tattoo of history on his right arm on his biceps.