Small Female Forearm Quote Tattoos Novels & Stories

One that was like the sun, but it was a full stop surrounded by apostrophes. "It has the same drawing on my wrist." Maris chewed her bottom lip and held her wrist out to her mother. "The nice boy that offered me an apple asked me if it was a tattoo." "He did?" Her mother paid attention to every word she said. "Yes. Now I'm curious, what's this mark for? Did you actually give me a tattoo when I was born?" Her innocent face softened her mother's heart. She pulled her close and sat her on her laps.

* I was cursing each of the people who invented the idea of tattoos until it was done and I looked at my wrist. Jacob was great and funny, not at all like the way he looks. Samuel will have a hard time believing that though. I got a small camera on my wrist. And I love it. You'll definitely love your passion printed on you. And it gave me enough courage to get another one I had thought of. I asked Jacob if any female artist was available so I can get a tattoo on my upper breast and it took me another twenty minutes to get it done. * When I come out, I find Samuel sitting in the lounge. He springs up from the couch as soon as he sees me.

Names tattooed in small, detailed cursive. "My mother's name. Tobi. Josie. Pascal. Frances. Abe. Chantelle," He ticked off his middle finger wherever he mentioned a new name. "Amanda—" "Wait. Wait, wait. Slow down," i snigger "Why would you want to tattoo our names on your body?".

The bell above the tattoo shop door jingled as I pushed it open, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’d been thinking about this for months — finally getting ink on my breasts, something delicate and feminine to reclaim my body after a shitty breakup. The shop was called Ink & Skin, tucked into a quiet corner of the city with blacked-out windows and neon signs that hummed faintly. It was late afternoon, and the place was empty except for the artist behind the counter.

She raised an eyebrow when she saw the sterile tools. “What’s that?” she asked. “Something permanent.” “A tattoo?” I nodded. “Yours?” “No. Yours. Only if you want it.” She stared for a second, then smiled. “Where?” “Here.” I pointed just under her breast. “Small and discreet.” She took a breath. “What does it say?” I showed her the design. It was my symbol, my signature mark. Only people who knew would understand what it meant. She held the paper in her hands then nodded.

It all blends together. A hand is stretched out towards her. No it's reaching out to her. He's mostly wearing a white shirt and the veins on his arms indicate the amount of strength used to reach out to her. The female is gentle and ethereal while his hand crashes into the water like a storm. " It must be from the same painter." I think out loud. I step closer when I notice small writing on his arms. It looks incomplete. A tattoo? " Little M....." What does the rest say?

Hilda The needle buzzed against my skin. Each prick sent tiny bursts of pain through my hand, but I'd felt worse. So much worse. "Kind of intense for someone your age," the tattoo artist said, wiping away excess ink. I kept my left arm extended on the padded rest. "That's where I want it." "Most people hide the meaningful ones." "I need to see it every time I reach for something," I replied, watching as the letters took shape across my knuckles. "A reminder of what I am."

I wasn't sure whether it was cooking or spell-casting, but she seemed fairly busy with it. I pulled my right sleeve back and exposed my inner forearm. I already had two other marks there, one a circle, the other a square with runes and other symbols in them. I cleaned a bare area with rubbing alcohol then applied a bit of ointment. I twisted off the lid to the ink. I could smell the musky metallic scent of it. It was some creature's blood mixed with metal to help the tattoo settle. I dipped the needles in the ink then stabbed myself in the arm repeatedly.

A tattoo—small but intricate—etched just below my skin. The infinity symbol, its delicate lines looping and intertwining seamlessly, radiated a sense of endless continuity. It was beautiful but haunting. A chill ran down my spine as I lightly traced the design with my fingers. My skin tingled at the touch, as if the mark carried some latent energy.

“Your tattoos are beautiful.” I look at the tattoo of a skull surrounded by black flames. My whole right arm is decorated with tattoos from shoulder to wrist. My skin prickles with every caress of her fingers, but I don’t stop her from touching me. The tattoo sleeve has several tribal symbols, and there are a seal trident and a frogman tattoo on my shoulder. Each tattoo represents something in my life. The skull represents my status as an Assassin, and the cross is a play on my name. Her finger moves down the line of my intricate cross, then to the inside of my rib cage, where I have an inscription. Qui velit, ut vivat in aeternum.