Novel & Cerita Religious Forearm Tattoos For Guys

He looked so peaceful yet so… I couldn't get a name for it. I traced my fingers over his extravagant tattoos, most of which were a mixture of ravens, artistic guns and bleeding roses. Was he ex-military or mafia? Or both? Because if he was, that'd be cool. The man who chose to hide behind a mask and answer a quirky name — GunsAreCool. The man who gave me the best blowjob of my life.

That night, Henry finally let go of all restraint. The room lay in shadow, and he pressed me against the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Riverton flickering like stars beyond the glass. “Claire…” “Yes?” “I want to get another tattoo.” “Where?” He gripped my hand and pressed it to his lower back, mirroring the spot that corresponded to mine. There, with each of his breaths, a faint outline of a feral totem emerged. “I want to tattoo your image. I want to carve you into my bones forever.”

His dark hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and there was a slight scruff on his jaw that made him look both rugged and dangerous. But it was his arms that really got me. The sleeves of his uniform were rolled up just enough to show the thick, tattooed muscles of his forearms. Black ink twisted across his tan skin, the designs sharp and beautiful. I couldn’t even tell what they were, but I didn’t care. My mouth literally watered. He looked like he belonged on the cover of one of those romance novels I read in secret—except better. Realer. And nothing like Jake. Nothing at all like that cheating loser.

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.

I tried so hard not to flush when I saw his naked torso; it was a sight to behold. Broad wide shoulders with lots of muscles, defined strong abs and on his left pectoral, there was a scary tattoo of a three-headed vicious dog, surrounded by flames. And a lot of scars were all over his abdomen. On his back, there was a full back length tattoo of some sort of grim reaper, angel! His grunts again brought me back from dreamland. I shook my head, clearing it; I gently touched the wounded area on his right, trying to understand what I was dealing with.

The training grounds for the troops were crowded with males that surrounded the entire ring. Elise could not help but feel intrigued as she walked closer, finding a part to squeeze through as she noticed who stood on the ring. Kaide and Taz were both shirtless; Taz's muscles were hard and thick; his left arm was covered with a black band; and he had two striped tattoos. Elise had noticed that it was on all the males' left arm; one band meant you were delta, two bands were beta, and three bands were alpha, like the one she saw on Rygan's body.

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 hoodie draped loosely over his head, obscuring his face, but the flicker of city lights occasionally illuminated the sharp lines of his jaw and the hints of a sinister smirk playing on his lips. The wind picked up, a fierce breeze whipping across the rooftop and causing the hood to flutter. As the fabric shifted, it revealed a chiseled, muscular torso adorned with intricate tattoos, each line telling a story of violence, power, and mystery. Prominently displayed on the left side of his chest was a large, bold tattoo—the words *Nosce Hostem* inked in a jagged, menacing script that seemed almost to pulse with life against his skin. The tattoo, a clear message, spoke of a deep connection to

“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.

They’re all tall, cut, and have the same natural confidence that Justus does. They all have tattoos like Justus, too, the same intricate maze of lines and spirals that wind around the simple outlines of boats or trees or fish, draped over their right shoulder, arm, and torso like a shawl. The older the male, the further their tattoos stretch down their right sides to their thighs. Some have tattoos all the way down the tops of their right foot. Even the oldest males seem willing and able to shred an interloper to pieces. There are so many cocks nestled in such thick pelts.