Chrysanthemum Tattoo Men Novels & Stories

I inwardly murmured to myself. Ethan had a tattoo on his back. Right across his shoulders were medium- sized horizontal wings. They looked a little Goth and almost Greco-Roman in their black inked starkness. I loved the quote underneath the wings. No more yielding but a dream. I saw it in the shower when he turned to get the soap.

He looked like he was carved out of a stone, so majestic and mythical. I was flabbergasted and speechless. He was also having a tattoo on his left arm. It was a creeper plant with roses and it was intertwined with thorns. There was also a black wolf howling near it and the moon was above the plant. The art was beautiful and the guy himself was a rare piece of art.

I sprang from my bed, adrenaline pumping as I prepared to confront the intruder. My stance quickly relaxed, however, and a frown crossed my face when I saw who it was—Hayes Hawthorne, standing in my room shirtless. My breath caught in my throat. Holy. Fucking. Hell. Every inch of his body was sculpted like a Greek god, with sharp lines and rigid definition. A large tattoo sprawled across his upper chest and onto his left shoulder, dark and bold, forming a series of interconnected shapes that were both intricate and slightly thorny.

My gaze drifted unconsciously to his collarbone. There was a new tattoo there. Red, still swollen from being freshly inked, but unmistakable. It was my name. The characters were rendered in the most ancient, wild cursive form of script, like an old, binding sigil. My fingers trembled as I touched it. “When did you… get this?” Henry caught my hand and rubbed it gently against his palm. “Last night, after you fell asleep.” “Did it hurt?” “It was better that it hurt.” His eyes darkened, and a satisfied smile curved his lips.

The hoodie draped loosely over his head, obscuring his face, but the flicker of city lights occasionally illuminated the sharp lines of his jaw and the hints of a sinister smirk playing on his lips. The wind picked up, a fierce breeze whipping across the rooftop and causing the hood to flutter. As the fabric shifted, it revealed a chiseled, muscular torso adorned with intricate tattoos, each line telling a story of violence, power, and mystery. Prominently displayed on the left side of his chest was a large, bold tattoo—the words *Nosce Hostem* inked in a jagged, menacing script that seemed almost to pulse with life against his skin. The tattoo, a clear message, spoke of a deep connection to

He say but I'm to focused on his tattooed body to care about anything he says right now. My fingers trace the inked skin. He has a huge tattoo of Kali, the goddess of destruction, on his front. Different designs litter his skin but my favourite has to be the flower on his neck. It is the only tattoo that has colour out of them all on his front. He has his nipples pierced and I never thought I would say this but it looks really sexy.

When he saw that the two old men were gone, he approached the one beautiful prey sitting alone in the middle of the small grasses with white flowers everywhere. He released his mocha blue rose pheromones to compliment his cherry blossom black rose pheromones, he gained his attention after doing this, and he touched his chest where he was marked during the knotting, it's burning in awe. The two-small tattoos, in the form of cherry blossom and black rose, he felt proud of it. As he came near him, he also wanted to leave a mark on him, the visible the better, now he knows where to leave his mark, to his scent gland exactly, to that taunting nape, but he will only do it with his permission.

He asked. “I did promise to tell you didn’t I? The chrysanthemum is the flower of death,” she began, pointing to the largest flower, and Chris held his breath. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, but she was actually smiling. “But I found out in Australia, they call it ‘mum’ and give it as a Mother’s Day gift.” “Really?” “Yeah. When I heard about it, the flower became pretty special to me.” “And the other one?” He asked, tracing the smaller flower that composed her black and grey tattoo.

"How many tattoos do I have in total?" "Four." And he goes on to explain what they are. “The Crow tattoo on the back of your left shoulder, the tribal tattoo on your spine, the lotus flower on the back of your neck, and my mark, right here.” He gently caressed his mark on my left collarbone, and immediately, I felt the pull and comfort towards him. I nodded. “Okay, you're Ryan, okay.” He glared at me and I laughed. “Say my name again.”

The fiery burn lingered in my throat. "Nothing's wrong with being a gentleman, but pretending to be one just to impress women doesn't make you one." I smirked, taking another swig of whiskey. I surveyed his outfit, taking in every detail. He wore a vivid red shirt left open to showcase a muscular chest inked with a roaring lion whose fiery orange mane seemed to reach beyond his skin. Leonardo. Lion-hearted. That tattoo made perfect sense. A golden cross lay nestled atop the lion's mane, glinting in the light like a beacon of faith. It was clear that Leonardo wore his heart on his sleeve. His was a tattooed visual representation of his inner fire.