Badass Irish Tattoos Novels & Stories

I looked from his inked chest, the tattoos on his chest, Caramel was written on his right arm, Roseanna - Momma was written on his other arm. A large Phoenix laid on his chest, I bit my lips harder as I stare at his lower region, Fuck, I think, no, I know I'm gonna die when he ever - fuck - that thing in me, It's fucking huge, Fuck, how on Earth?. . . I don't even know what to think. I walked around him to his back --- partly because I was dying to see his naked fine ass ---, On his back laid. . .nature, there's no other word to describe it other than Nature.

Did I forget to mention that Jake is a giant? Okay that's a bit of an exaggeration but he is at least six four. I'm sure the leather jacket over the tank with the tattoos on his neck and some of the ones on his chest peeping through added to the visage of a badass. People just automatically got out of the way and pretty soon we were in the cool night air. His grip on my hand was tight and sure and gave me strength. I don't know what was coming next but I knew this time I was going to fight. "Let's go baby we'll take my bike and come back for your car later." He pulled me over to this monstrosity of black and chrome. I'm not an expert but I do believe it's what people in the know might call a

He saw Iris’s eyes narrow, and her expression morphed into confusion. “I am not sure why Dame’s tattoo is up for discussion,” she was confused. She had never thought to ask him the story behind his tattoo. As far as she knew, he had always had it, and they never thought much about it. “Because Mrs. Lark, this is a tattoo of a radical underworld group called the “the blood wolves,” he typed something into his system and turned the screen toward Iris. She studiously gazed at the tattoo, but nothing rang a bell in her head.

She bit her bottom lip nervously. He had told her in his text to dress casual but he only half expected her to oblige. She had on black leather pants, black inner and a red leather jacket; black combat boots decorated her feet and her makeup was minimal this time. Her signature red lipstick remained and her short hair was up in a ponytail. She looked... like Rosetta. His cheeks slowly formed in a smile when she stylishly glared daggers at him for his delayed response. "Get in your car, Rosetta, and follow behind me." He said instead and turned around to leave.

We left the area and surely tomorrow will be another day of GREAT news. I am Quinn Amethyst Barclay, a Filipina, twenty and I’m… THE BADASS. First of all, I hate guys second, guys are a freak third, guys are the same. I mean, what’s new with that? Guys are guys and they are cheaters as f*ck! The reason why I became such a hater of guys and romance is because of my dad. He left us when I was fifteen, so basically, I already have senses and I understand what’s happening around me and with my family.

Iris's POV: It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t touched his tattoos, none of this would have happened. I knew the moment my fingers brushed against his skin that I had made a mistake. A deep, gut-twisting kind of mistake. But God— did you see his body? Carved like stone, muscle taut beneath intricate ink. And yet, despite the awe, I was terrified. My mother once told me those marks were a disease. A corruption that spread through the body whenever we sinned, growing darker with age.

She retorted, pointing fingers at Irish. Pack whores were easily recognized because of the symbol of ink engraved on their wrists. The lady's eyes landed on Irish's wrist as she let out a low disgusted grunt. "I shouldn't even be talking to a lowly wench." Sadness seeped into Irish's blood. Not because she was tagged pack whore - No. But because of Jayden. In just a few minutes of being in this school, she had felt marginalized, not to talk of Jayden who spent most of his time in this school.

“This b*tch would do anything to climb up the ladder! Don Corleone, don’t believe her lies!” Don Corleone slowly straightened and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. When he looked up again, only bone-deep authority remained on his face. “A tattoo?” He let out a cold laugh. His voice was quiet but heavy enough to suffocate the entire hall. “This is the ‘Iris Mark’, inherited only by the Corleone family’s direct bloodline. When emotions surge or body temperature rises, it appears red. No tattoo technique in the world can replicate it.”

That night, Henry finally let go of all restraint. The room lay in shadow, and he pressed me against the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Riverton flickering like stars beyond the glass. “Claire…” “Yes?” “I want to get another tattoo.” “Where?” He gripped my hand and pressed it to his lower back, mirroring the spot that corresponded to mine. There, with each of his breaths, a faint outline of a feral totem emerged. “I want to tattoo your image. I want to carve you into my bones forever.”

My fingers itched to touch the knives I could see magnetized to a wall rack. And then I saw him. Armando Denaro. Shirtless. He was standing at the massive island, his back to me, muscles rippling under a tapestry of dark ink that covered his shoulders and snaked down his spine. The tattoos were even more intricate than I’d remembered from our night together—a mix of script, religious icons, and patterns that told a story I couldn’t decipher. The bandage on his right palm was stark white against his olive skin. A little spark of vicious satisfaction shot through me. Good. I hope it hurts.