Memorial Forearm Tattoos Novels & Stories

Alarich lowers his head in submission "I speak to you not only as your humble servant, but as a friend. If you don't perform your duty, despite you being above the law. Our kingdom will be emboldened and a potential unnecessary rebellion could be on our hands" My mark. To humans it looks like a tattoo all over my left side. It starts from my bite scar, above my left breast. Black vines and flowers trail from it, down my side and wrapping around my leg to my foot. Then it trails up my chest, along the side of my neck, swirling and wrapping down my arm and ending at the tip of my ring finger.

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.

Mom with her wild auburn hair whipping in the wind, Dad grinning beside her, and me as a gangly teenager, my arms wrapped around a much younger Aofie. They looked so alive, so unbreakable. A perfect family portrait, or so I'd always thought. I stared at the photo under the dim bulb's flickering glow, my breath catching. My eyes lingered on Mom's wrist, where a bracelet of seashells partially obscured her skin. I squinted, tilting the photo closer to the light. There, peeking out from beneath the shells, was a tattoo — a bold, stylized letter V, etched in delicate black ink, the lines curving like a serpent's tail.

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.

The three marks on Wren’s inner forearm itched with a low, persistent thrum, a living tattoo of longing etched into her skin by a ritual gone beautifully, catastrophically wrong. They weren't scars, but claims waiting to be made. One for tender worship, one for rude praise, one for slow dominance. Tonight, the first of them, a silvery crescent like a wolf’s gentle bite, burned with a need that was becoming a torment.

As he turned back toward her, something caught her eye. A mark on his left forearm, faint and partially hidden beneath the edge of his sleeve. When he lifted his arm, the fabric slipped just enough for the ink to show. A tattoo. Not decorative. Not artistic. Sharp lines. Clean angles. A symbol. Her breath stalled. She had seen that mark before, in Damon’s documents. The same emblem next to covert operatives assigned to missions with no civilian disclosure. She didn’t think so. She didn’t breathe. “Kai,” she whispered, her voice thin, “what is that?”

I had always imagined how romantic it was going to be, but right now, it hurts more than it pleases me. He had tattoos on his chest, arms, and hand. The tattoo on his chest had words I couldn't read because it was way too tiny; A lion on his arm with words I still couldn't read because they weren't English; and a rose on his arm with his mother's name tattooed in it.

" Did you remember seeing anything else that day?" She squinted her eyes, rubbing her forehead as she tried to remember what occured that day. " I saw something." She closed her eyes as she spoke. " An A, one of the guys had an A tattooed on their left arm" My blood ran cold. An "A" there was only person who could have done that... My bones shook, a chill rolling up my spine. Arrow.

I’m stronger than this. The tattoo on my thigh peeks out from the slit of my dress. A lioness emerging from the thorns, a symbol of strength, confidence, independence, perseverance, power. A reminder of who I am despite my shortcomings and mistakes. And then the trinket of my bracelet catches my eye. The one my dad gave to me years ago that I pretty much never take off even though one of the charms are very sharp I had even cut myself before, enough to draw blood. My eyes flick up to meet Andreas’ once more as I loosen my grip on Demetrius. Without another word, I move towards Andreas’ extended hand.

It was a testament to his unwavering dedication to all aspects of his physical fitness. One of the most striking features on Logan's left arm was the anchor tattoo, a symbol known to represent strength and stability, perhaps even serving as a connection to his time in the marine. Yet, what made this tattoo particularly intriguing was an unexpected addition. Just below the anchor, a smaller, seemingly incongruous tattoo came into view. This tattoo was a depiction of a little girl holding a toy, a charming but puzzling image etched onto his skin. It seemed to tell a story of its own, one that didn't readily align with the symbolism of the anchor.