Spine Tattoos Quotes Novels & Stories

the tattoo artist said as he smiled down at Ashley as she seemed to calm down at the sight of his smile. "Uh, I wanted," she paused as she remembered a quote that her father had told her which she would never forget, "If the ocean can calm itself, so can you. We are both salt water mixed with air," she said as everyone in the room smiled, "That was deep," the tattoo artist said as Ashely shrugged her shoulders," My dad loves the water and air so," she said as the tattoo artist smiled.

he agrees, and eyes then drop to where my hand is, “It says whatever it takes. It’s in Latin, and that’s why you can’t read it.” “Oh.” “The second one on my rib is in French, for under the sun there is a way.” He touches the one on his abdomen then speak, “The third is Italian, ‘Live, love, learn’.” “Maybe someday I would get a tattoo as well.” “Really?” I nod and bite down on my lower lips and a smile appears on his face as he stepped towards me, closing the space between us so that our bodies touch.

I asked “Oh Yes! The one I wish I could have but getting a Tattoo is pretty Painful. But yeah, that Tattoo looks so mad fine on you. Do you know that people are talking about how good the Tattoo looked on you from the picture taken at ShawnLama’s unveiling? Of course, some people thought otherwise but who fucking cares? Fuck the trolls, I say that Tattoo is fire! And please remind me to give my child a tattoo when I birth one? If it’s a girl it would be a butterfly tattoo and if it’s a guy it would be a dragon tattoo. Some Dope ass kids I would have, don’t you think?” Betty rambled and I just chuckled, I missed this girl’s unending talks. “Yeah, I think so “

“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.

she murmured. “Yeah?” “Why do you have, like... seven tattoos and none of them are food-related? You own a restaurant, Mr. Velluto Rosso. Where’s the little pasta noodle?” I grinned, “You want me to get a tattoo of spaghetti?” “Obviously. A single meatball with, like, storm clouds behind it.” I barked a laugh. “Or a fancy cursive quote. ‘Live. Laugh. Lasagna.’” “Oh my fucking God.”

"For my final question, I'll ask you which of your tattoos is your favorite." "As you mentioned earlier with the song question, I can't choose just one. But, one of my favorites is this," he lifts the top of his shirt to reveal a quote tattooed in French on the left side of his outer collarbone. I'd seen it before but never knew its meaning. "Qui vivra terra," he pronounces, emphasizing the accent, "it means 'he who lives, shall see.'" I lean in to inspect his tattoo, despite having explored his body many times before. My hand rises on its own and gently brushes over the inked text, as if applying any pressure could erase it.

“I’m here for a tattoo.” He leaned back, arms folding across his broad chest. The motion made the fabric of his shirt strain. “You? A tattoo?” He laughed, low and cruel. “Let me guess. Tiny heart on your wrist? Or maybe a quote about ‘strength’ in some flowery script so everyone knows how deep you are.” I pulled out my phone and showed him the design. “Lower back. Crescent moon with vines. I have the reference.”

I shuddered as I watched Ace slowly rid himself of his shirt. Tattoos I hadn't noticed since seeing him came into view. It was everywhere on his skin, the suit did well in covering it. A dragon was running down his shoulder blade to his torso at his back. Both hands inked with tattoos I didn't quite catch. However, the one that caught my eye was a Bible quote running from his earlobe to the nape of his neck. “I can do all things to Christ who strengthens me.” the quote read. I didn't picture Ace to be a religious person or maybe it was just a daily quote. A mantra or something.

What we’ll do, I don’t know. I kneel upright, eyes glossing over the neat and intentional tattoos on his back. I take in his muscles and toned back. I have a feeling nothing’s going to feel soft. But back to the tattoos. There’s something written in a foreign language right in the middle of his back—the spinous whatever. Above it is a maze. A figure walks in the path, but there seems to be no way out of the maze. On the side of his ribs: ‘The way to the heart is a path full of thorns’

The sword and pen still hover above me, steady, waiting. In the polished blade’s reflection, I catch my own face—ruined with tears, bruised, broken—but my eyes are still green. Not corrupted. Not black. Still me. But something on my back itches, burns, reshapes. I feel it before I see it—a tattoo forming, alive with magic, stretching across my shoulders and down my spine. A phoenix. Wings spread wide, head thrown back, flames curling around its body like a crown. Ashes to flame. Darkness to light.