Small Inner Bicep Tattoo Novels & Stories

She forgot about the silver flash drive. But as she pulled back, her hand brushed against Silas’s forearm. His sleeve was pushed up, revealing his skin. There was a mark. It was a small, tattoo on the inside of his wrist. It looked like a black line passing through a broken circle. Iris froze. Her blood went cold again, but not from the nitrogen.

Diana sat in the lounge chair, hugging her knees close to her chest. A small, hitching sigh wracked throughout her. She inspected her hand for the thousandth time, peering at those crescent-shaped marks that Hecate's touch had left on her skin. They looked like tiny tattoos, drawn with black lines and resembling little moons. She had one on the inside of her wrist, another on that soft part beneath her thumb, and another right in the middle of her palm.

Then he gestured his hand towards our back. "I'm Thunder." Then she leaned on the wall. "I'm Boston." I took a glance at the guy who talked to Rhyme earlier. A tattooed man. He shifted his position, then he pointed his shoulder. He shoved his black shirt to show me his BRIT tattoo, the fifth that I saw in his skin based on my quick count as I scanned his arms. I was stunned after realizing that Rhyme also had that on his wrist. But the guy named Boston had it in his right arm and it was bigger. I nodded to myself.

CINNAMON He stood shirtless in the cabin's warm light, and I couldn't stop staring. There was a freaking tattoo of my face, inked slightly left, centered over his heart. Not some generic artistic interpretation, my actual face. The artist had captured the slope of my nose, the curve of my lips, even my thin eyebrows. Below it, my name was written in my own handwriting. The looping C, the way my n's always tilted slightly right, the flourish on the final n that I'd developed in high school and never lost, all accurately inked.

The face stayed hidden under the hood the whole time, but when the person reached out to place something, a clear tattoo became visible on the inside of their wrist. It was a small, familiar design. One we had all seen before. Everyone standing there went completely still.

She was playing with a small wooden toy, her giggles filling the space. “Good morning, little one,” I said, crouching down in front of her. Her big eyes lit up, and she let out a delighted squeal, reaching out to grab my finger with her tiny hand. I chuckled softly, but the moment was short-lived. A sharp sting shot through my hand. “Ow,” I muttered, pulling back slightly. My eyes fell on my wrist. A half-moon tattoo had appeared, faint but distinct, as if burned into my skin. I froze, my mind racing.

Her reason had already evaporated. That was when Belle’s half-lidded gaze caught something on Bastian’s left hip. The skin there was still red and irritated, where the tattoo artist had just injected fresh black ink. A small silhouette was etched there. A sparrow with its wings spread. Belle’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened as she stared at the new tattoo, then lifted her gaze back to Bastian with stunned disbelief. “You… tattooed that?” she whispered. Her finger trembled as she pointed toward Bastian’s hip without daring to touch it. “On your body?”

His face never once flinching. After a few more hours, they were finally done and we left. As we walked toward his car, I looked down at his arm and smiled as I saw the tattoo through the plastic. I drew a cute doodle of a muffin and below it, I wrote in cursive: In your heart, I'll live forever. Love, Bella.

One glove had been removed, and as they bent over the desk, their sleeve had slipped back for the briefest moment. Jackson's voice became quiet. "Zoom in." The image became grainy, but something dark appeared on the inside of the visitor's wrist. I squinted. "Is that..." "A tattoo," Jackson finished. The room became silent. The technician sharpened the picture as much as possible. The image was blurry, but the design was still visible enough to recognize. It looked like a black compass. Mikhail stepped closer. "I didn't notice that before." "Neither did I," the manager admitted, shaking his head.

“This is completely new territory for me.” My eyes betray me. They drag over his bare chest, his abs, the way his pants sit low on his hips. And I feel my stomach tighten at the sight of his tattoos — ink and meaning and temptation. A yin-yang with hearts instead of dots and the number thirteen at its center, about the size of a big coin, is on his left side underneath his arm. Curling above it is the Peter Pan lettering — Sniff pixie dust and soar — in a cursive font. And on his bicep — the Reaper logo stamped on like a warning label.