Punisher Tattoo Ideas Novels & Stories

Like he wanted me to break him. My brother raises his tattooed arm, rubbing his forehead. "But then... school resumed. And he was different." "How?" "He fights back now. He’s aggressive. Smokes. Doesn’t fear me at all." "And you started getting attracted to this aggressive version?" "Well... it was annoying at first." I look down, trying to avoid his intense gaze. "So, as a punishment, I had him brought to our mansion and force him to give Caden a blow job but he refused"

"Christie. I won't give it to you. You're going to have to tell me what you want, and then you're going to take it." The expression on her face was priceless. Petulant as a child, she tore her eyes from his and began to hastily unbutton his shirt. Artwork appeared contrasted by his fair skin. A raven tattooed above his navel. An ankh on his upper left arm. A character on his stomach. Some sort of Celtic design on his upper right arm. He was covered in ink, and she wasn't all that surprised to see a ring in his left nipple. He caught her looking, and offered a bashful smile that lightened the tense stillness around them. "A gift from a former lover of mine. She did it herself."

The fiery burn lingered in my throat. "Nothing's wrong with being a gentleman, but pretending to be one just to impress women doesn't make you one." I smirked, taking another swig of whiskey. I surveyed his outfit, taking in every detail. He wore a vivid red shirt left open to showcase a muscular chest inked with a roaring lion whose fiery orange mane seemed to reach beyond his skin. Leonardo. Lion-hearted. That tattoo made perfect sense. A golden cross lay nestled atop the lion's mane, glinting in the light like a beacon of faith. It was clear that Leonardo wore his heart on his sleeve. His was a tattooed visual representation of his inner fire.

“So do you have the tattoos?” I can’t help from running my eyes over his chest. I’m not sure why I’m disappointed when he shakes his head. “I have many tattoos but they are all hidden. I need to maintain the bland businessman portrayal. They are also not in the old style of your body being your testimony of deeds. My father would not allow it—too easy for the Feds to take note, then try and pin crimes to us. So I have a lion of our name, the same as my brothers. As well as several I like.” A small, wicked smile. “I was surprised to find your tattoo. Although I guess I should not have been.”

Thor killed his third attacker and stepped back toward me. “How many?” he asked. I did not answer. Because I was counting differently. Not how many remained. But how many were designed to die. That was when I saw it. On the wrist of one of the fallen wolves, partially exposed beneath torn fabric. A mark. A tattoo. Recognizable. I froze for a fraction of a second longer than I should have. Thor noticed immediately. “What is it?” I knelt slowly, pulling the wrist closer. The symbol was burned into skin with deliberate precision.

Nate's hold on my hand tightens into a grip. Gosh, Killer is so massive. The side of his forehead is plastered with a bandage dotted with a large red stain, which is obviously blood. His upper lip is split, the bruise now swollen with a purple colouration. A long straight scar runs from the left side of his mouth up towards his earlobe. He is shirtless, his black tattoos covering every inch of the skin of his neck and chest and shoulders and abdomen. His tattoos make me wonder why Nate doesn't have even one. I thought it is like a formal tradition for all fighters to have at least two or more tattoos on their bodies. But damn, this guy's tattoos are like legions of dark ink crawling all over

It took us so long to get her back, I was dreading losing her, but I wouldn’t keep her in the dark about it. Walk into the room and see Joker with a new tattoo on his forearm; it appears to be a symbol and a pattern of something ancient. Something you would think a warrior would choose for himself for protection. All of his tattoos made no sense to anyone but Joker. I doubt anyone would be brave enough to question him. Glancing over at Queenie, I see her left forearm has black lace starting to connect the empty spaces to complete her sleeve. It looked so real, like you could pick it up off her skin.

Doughy from good living and laziness. Drakon is carved from granite. His chest is a landscape of muscle and violence. A jagged white scar runs from his collarbone to his ribs—a knife wound, old and deep. Another scar, a bullet graze, marks his side. But it’s the ink that holds me. A massive tattoo covers his torso. Wolves. A pack of them, snarling, fighting, running. They wrap around his ribs and disappear onto his back. It’s a masterpiece of shadow and ink.

Then he tossed it onto the boat seat like it was the most normal thing in the world. I didn’t even get the chance to roll my eyes because...yeah. That tattoo. The deep black phoenix stretched across the side of his chest and his left arm. Mix of abstract design, Russian calligraphy, ancient symbols, and fragments of sentences I’d read years ago and still remembered. Max looked at his dad in awe. “Daddy, why’d you take your shirt off?” “So I can move easier,” Pascha said casually. “Like a fish?” Max asked. “Like a shark,” Mischa answered.

chest rising in a calm rhythm like he was meditating, not surrounded by criminals. Speaking of his tattoos, he's got the weirdest tats I have seen on any guy. His back bore the most outrageous tattoos in the history of tattoos. His back looked like someone had lost a wrestling match with a possessed octopus holding a tattoo gun. From shoulder to shoulder, the ink sprawled like a chaotic crime scene—tribal swirls, demonic curls, and angry squiggles that might’ve once meant something, but now just screamed, “I don’t pay taxes and I bite.”