Pec Tattoo Quotes

Everywhere Gage looked, his fingers itched to touch and his brain raced to keep up. A snake coiled beneath his right pec, an eagle took flight over his left. Stars, numbers, and Celtic symbols fought for real estate. Gage would need weeks to explore the storied terrain of Brady’s body. Better put in for some vacation time now.

...She froze in the doorway of her kitchen. And nearly swallowed her tongue. Ivan leaned against the counter, wearing nothing but dark jogging pants and holding a cup of coffee. His blond hair was spiked adorably, as if he hadn't combed it yet. the sculpted muscles of his chest and shoulders stood out as he raised the cup to his mouth, a bright tattoo of intricate artwork wrapping around one shoulder and over one pec. What she'd imagined he might look like was nothing compared to the reality of the Viking god in her kitchen. Her gaze trained on that ridiculously muscular chest and it was like she'd lost the ability to speak. Or breathe. Or, you know, think.

She was pretty in a way I wasn’t used to. Not like most you girls bowing to the latest beauty trends, indulging in temporary body modifications from reshaping their noses to plumping their lips, or hips, or rears, depending on what was in. You boys kept pace with pec implants and by buying new, chiseled jawlines. But fads came and went, and the yous altered their looks as often as the seasons. The meis, lacking the funds for such drastic changes, resorted to painting their faces in bright colors, using semipermanent tattoos, and dyeing their hair.

Oh, you wanna see something?” he asks me, wiggling his eyebrows. “I don’t know… do I? If it’s your cock, babe, I’ve seen it, and as nice as it is, I would rather just eat the sausage on my plate,” I quip. “No… that will be later. Once you see this, you are bound to jump me.” He laughs as he gets to his feet. I look over just in time to see him rip off his shirt. “D, your abs are nice—” I start, but freeze at the new ink on his chest. I don’t even get distracted by the muscular torso of the crazy man like normal. He stands there proudly, puffing up, with that insane smile on his lips, while all I can do is gawk. There, on his chest, right over his heart, is a bird. The bird sits on his pec, perched on a coiled viper. They both look so lifelike, I ache to touch them to see if they’re real. The bird is standing there, so brave and unafraid of the snake, its beak held high, and the snake? It’s wrapped around it, not restraining it… keeping it. Me and him. The crazy bastard got a tattoo of us over his heart. “Like it, Little Bird?” he asks, and he suddenly seems nervous. “I’m guessing that’s me… and you?” “Course.” He grins. “My little bird, right over my heart.” “I-“ I swallow again. “I love it.

Tattoos stretch one arm and pec, with a few others scattered throughout. But I can’t focus on what they are because his hard cock juts out toward me, and the sight alone makes me nearly black out.

We emerge from prison bearing agonies that would crush a stone. How do we survive these? We transform them. We get a tattoo. We ink an entire sleeve. We cover our chest and back with swastikas, death’s-heads, and quotes in bogus Mandarin from Kill Bill, Volume Two. We blast our pecs. We pierce our flesh. We customize Harleys. We shave our skull. We craft an image of ourselves, even if it’s one—especially if it’s one—as predictable as low-ride jeans and chrome-link wallet chains. That’s art. That’s our novel. This is what the writer wrestles with. This is the passage. You pound keyboards until you wear the sonsofbitches out. Each page is trash. Unreadable. Unpublishable.