Black Panther Party Tattoo Novels & Stories

I admire the tattoo taking up most of his back, it's similar to Storms. It's a pair of evil snake eyes in red, with a green and yellow snake wrapped around the pistol facing the red eyes of the evil snake. The words The Satan Sniper’s Motorcycle Club are written under the pistol. But what has me at a standstill is the shading that's done around the entire picture, it's a light shading but unmistakable. It's wings, Angel wings. I don't say anything. I want to but I'm tongue tied. I scan his back and stop at the blue bruises around his sides.

Thirty minutes slipped by and Alpha Baron who was sitting on my left, commented. "Looks like he's running late" he said, but no one said anything. Just then, we heard the sound of footsteps. Everyone looked up and the tension doubled. Killian Black had just arrived with his Beta and Gamma. They all had a circular tattoo on the side of their necks which was half covered by the collar of their shirts. There was nothing abnormal about Killian. His aura radiated no darkness of any sort. He was just as tall and muscular as I was. Dark brown hair in a quiff, brown eyes and a moustache. He had a smile on his face. For reasons unknown to me, that smile of his, made my skin crawl. A tall blonde walke

I ask. “Because you’re beautiful,” he says. I frown. “So if I weren’t, you wouldn’t?” “Maybe, maybe not.” A psycho? “Stop standing there,” he says. "Come sit down." I stay silent. Throat burning, stomach tight. “I don’t bite.” He rises, unbuttons his black shirt, tossing it aside. Tattoos crawl across his skin—dragons, serpents, burning skulls. My eyes widen. Who is this man? Mafia? Criminal? Mobster?

Immediately, I jerked my eyes upward. Too late. Those butt cheeks can’t leave my head, not for a very long time. I hated that my face was getting hot. Then I noticed the tattoos. A black raven stretched across his back, its wings half-spread on the back of his shoulders as though caught between flight and stillness. On his right shoulder was a black serpent curled over his left pec, glaring at the raven with so much intensity while the raven looked lonely and, worse, sad. More ink trailed across his back. Script. Symbols. Lines disappearing beneath fabric.

I know we’ve had sex several times already, yet I still feel a deep ravenous need for him. Rising from the stool, I wrap my arms around his waist and place kisses on his back. His stomach clenches under my hands as I run them down his textured abs. “Tell me about your tattoos,” I whisper in his ear. He looks at me from the corner of his eyes, then pulls me in front of him, places my hand over his left pec, and moves it down his tight stomach. The tattoo is a large, red, and black dragon. The dragon’s head starts at his shoulder, and the tail ends at his bellybutton. The wings stretch over his right pec, and his claws extend over his ribcage.

Oh, goodness me, no. He pulled away from my dad, and the movement was fluid, predatory, like a lethal panther stretching its muscles after a kill. He was tall—towering over my father—with broad, powerful shoulders that strained against the fabric of his tight black t-shirt. And oh my God, the tattoos. Intricate, dark ink sleeves crawled down both of his muscular arms, disappearing under his expensive watch and weaving onto the back of his large, veiny hands. They screamed danger. They screamed "Mafia." They screamed that he was a bad, bad man.

"I'll be enjoying every moment of it." My cheeks are steaming red and glancing over at Galina, she is also blushing with her gaze downcast. She proffers me her hand and I wordlessly take it as I'm burning with fury inside over the dastard. My eyes catch sight of the tattoo on his muscled upper arm. The black ink of the Christian Cross encircled by a fierce Dragon, made a dramatic striking contrast against his fair skin. Some girls would think it was bad of a guy, however, to me it was bad news about a guy.

I smiled, though my body trembled slightly with unease. He smirked, his eyes darkening as he sauntered towards me. Slowly, he reached out, invading my space. My gaze drifted to his chest, where intricate tattoos sprawled across his skin, half of his left chest completely inked. There was a large python coiled menacingly, its fangs bared as if ready to strike. Surrounding it were other symbols—a bleeding dagger, an intricate skull wrapped in thorns, and a blood moon rising behind them all. The ink seemed almost alive, dark and haunting, like it held secrets too dangerous to reveal. I had seen something like this before. The imagery was disturbing, almost as if he were part of some secretive c

The beast who almost managed to entice me into a lap dance that would have been appropriate for a Turkish Nights fantasy. The one with eyes that are as dark as the night sky and as blue as midnight. The black, bleeding ink of his tattoos is almost as stunning as the tattoos themselves. These vivid fever eyes of his are closed, and I wish that they remain closed for the foreseeable future. It is not necessary for them to question me in order for me to comprehend the full and terrifying significance of what has occurred here. His tattoos are quite effective. I immediately identify the American flag that is tattooed on his arm, as well as the fierce eagle that is tattooed on his breast.

he asks in a low growl. "Michela Cruz." He makes no response and glares quietly, leaning on his elbows. His knitted eyebrows and broad, bulky shoulders only accentuate his already predatory air. I had known these very eyes when they were a lanky 15-year-old's, though, they now belong to a dangerously gorgeous panther of a man. So unless they are jetting out flaming bullets, I will still comfortably return the stare. It is a full minute, I'm sure, before he finally leans back in his seat and speaks.