Shoulder Blade Tattoos Male Novels & Stories

Watching. He was practicing with a sword. Not a real one—a wooden training blade. But he swung it like it weighed nothing, like it was an extension of his own arm. His muscles rippled with every movement. His back was broad, his shoulders were wide, his waist was narrow. Tattoos covered his left shoulder—dark ink, intricate patterns, something tribal and ancient that I wanted to trace with my tongue. I had never seen him without his uniform I had imagined it. Late at night, with my hand between my legs. I had pictured his chest, his arms, his stomach. But the reality was so much better than anything my imagination had conjured.

My breath catches in my throat. The dragon tattoo between my shoulder blades pulses once, hard, as if responding to his presence. He rises from his stool in one fluid motion, and my mouth goes dry. He's tall — six-three at least — with the kind of build that speaks of disciplined strength rather than vanity. His black t-shirt stretches across broad shoulders, the sleeves tight around biceps marked with intricate tattoos. Not random ink, but scales — dragon scales — flowing from wrist to shoulder in patterns that seem to shift in the low light.

“Dolly, this...how did he get this tattoo and scar?” “He...he was a stubborn man. Really strange person. He sliced his own shoulder with a silver knife. And after he managed to heal up, he went ahead and got a tattoo. He said it was to tell him that sometimes, the best way to stop violence was through violence. That man,” she shook her head and exhaled. The way Dolly described him, Olive knew that he didn't change in character at all. He was still the same. Stubborn, hot-headed and too daring. Were all Balendin Pack men always like that?”

His chest is broad and solid, defined without looking forced. His other arm rests lazily against the pillow, veins faintly visible beneath tan skin, muscles shifting subtly when he moves. There is a tiger tattoo curved over his shoulder and down part of his upper arm, bold and detailed, the ink dark against his skin. His hair looks slightly damp, curling at the ends and falling messily over his forehead, and those thighs. Strong. Thick. Confidently masculine beneath the low-slung boxers that sit just right on his hips. He does look unfairly good in the morning.

She crossed her arms over her chest and stood glaring at him. She wanted to play it this way, did she? Fine. He dumped the clothes on the pallet and glared back. Removing his sage green Henly, he bared his broad, well-muscled chest and arms. He let her take in his clan's distinctive wolf tattoo covering his left shoulder. Runes of protection adorned his impressive torso, climbing up from the flat plains of his stomach to the slabs of hardened muscle covering his ribs. As he dropped the shirt to the ground, he saw the hint of her pink tongue come out to moisten her lips.

I froze. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who had seen a hundred battles and walked away from all of them. His arms were bare, thick with muscle, marked with black ink that twisted into strange patterns across his skin. The tattoos climbed his neck and curled along his jaw.

Completely naked and with a weak smile on his whitish lips, he pulls the last spl of the plastic sweater and exposes all the rest of the tattooed skin above the bandage on his waist. The drawings engraved on your shapely arms begin in the pectoral muscles with a fusion of messages in different languages, spirals and lines, flowing in a connection with musical notes, stars and rays through your right shoulder to your wrist. On the other side, the head of an open-mouthed Chinese dragon has its syrup outlined on its left shoulder. Among the pigmentation of drawings, there is a skin band with shy black curls separating them.

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.

Ironically that was exactly what he was drawing out from his opponent, blood. Sweat glistened down his body and I found myself licking my lip involuntarily. I knew he worked out a lot and that explained his sculpted muscles. But what I didn't know was the dragon tattoo that was carved on his shoulder. It made him more attractive than he already was.He threw a punch at the guy's face, hitting him square on the jaw. Blood splatters out on the mat and he stumbles back at the blow. My skin is prickling with anxiety as I watch Blake send another jab that hits his opponent on the side of his head. The way Blake moved with so much elegance, confidence it was mesmerizing.

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.