Damian Priest Tattoos Novels & Stories

He looked down at her, his golden amber eyes shining with a raw, unvarnished devotion that made Valerie’s heart hammer against her ribs. "I'm no poet, Queen," Damian rasped hoarsely, his deep, rough voice laced with profound feeling. "I'm the blade that cuts down anything that threatens what's ours. But from the second I saw you stand up to Alistair, I knew I'd follow you into hell and burn it down if you asked me to." Damian reached into his pocket, pulling out a matching titanium band, textured with raw, hammered iron edges.

Pastor Damien didn’t miss a beat. His deep preaching voice rolled out steady and commanding over the speakers, all fire and brimstone about resisting sin, while his thick tattooed fingers shoved my soaked panties to the side and dragged rough along my slippery pussy lips. “That’s right, brothers and sisters,” he growled into his own mic, “the flesh is weak… but the Lord gives us strength.” His fingers circled my swollen clit slow and mean, pressing hard enough to make my knees buckle. I kept singing, my voice cracking on the high notes, “Guide me, O thou great… ah… Redeemer…”

“Proof. Read it when your pride allows.” Damian shifted, his gaze flicking briefly to Sofia’s side where her shirt had torn in the fight, exposing the edge of the tattoo etched into her skin. His breath hitched almost imperceptibly. That mark—he had seen it once before, inked into his mother’s flesh. A serpent coiled in a circle, fangs biting its tail. The symbol of the Black Vipers. His heart pounded, though his face betrayed nothing. He couldn’t ask, not here. Not with Russo watching. But the seed of recognition that had nagged him since their first fight was no longer just instinct. It was truth clawing its way into light.

The same look that once destroyed me… now fed me. I walked toward him slowly, every step measured, my spine straight, my chin lifted. I didn’t look for Valerio. I didn’t look for Elara. I didn’t need to. Damien took my hands when I reached him. They trembled slightly. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. I smiled. “So they say.” The priest began, voice calm, practiced. Words about love. Commitment. Redemption. I listened with half an ear, letting the familiar rhythm wash over me.

Damian stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that if she turned her head, her lips would brush his jaw. The doors slid open directly into his living room, the city sprawled out beyond the glass like a glittering promise. Sarah barely had time to take it in before Damian was moving, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the back of the couch. His fingers went to his tie, loosening it with a sharp tug before he pulled it free and draped it over the jacket. Sarah’s breath hitched as he unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, exposing the dark ink of a tattoo snaking up his forearm—something in Latin, the letters

The weight of the moment was palpable, heightened by the realization that the priest standing beside me was none other than Krystallo, the infamous mafia priest known for his merciless acts. My eyes inadvertently drifted towards the cross-shaped tattoo, intertwined with a viper, adorning Krystallo's neck. The intricate design served as a chilling reminder of the countless lives he had taken and the blood that stained his hands. It was a symbol of power and ruthlessness, one that sent shivers down the spines of even the most hardened criminals.

Lennon wished he could return it. “You’re early,” Damian said, his voice low and a bit amused, his eyes trying to read Lennon like a notebook. Lennon crossed the space in three strides, stood directly in front of Damian, and leaned in until he could feel the heat coming off Damian’s skin. “Hi, baby,” Damian said. “I can literally hear you thinking from here.” Lennon bit the inside of his cheek. He was already here—he might as well just spit it out. “The tattoos,” Lennon said. “Someone said they’re from the mafia. Is… is that true?”

The Queen turned to the King, her mouth opening to argue, but his raised hand silenced her. Damien’s shadow fell over me as he crouched slightly, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “Don’t look, little flame,” he murmured, the words gentle despite the tension in his tone. “You don’t need to see this.” The trapdoors fell with a sickening thud. My father, my mother, my brother—gone. A scream tore from my throat, raw and uncontrollable. I collapsed to the ground, my legs giving out beneath me. I didn’t need to see it; the sound alone was enough to shatter what was left of my heart.

I wasn’t to gather any information, just pick up any red flags during my interview. Oh, what else? Right Damien is left-handed. He had a sweet tooth, he loved watching football. He even played in high school, until a knee injury. His knee pains when it’s raining or cold. Damien makes a mean sandwich but can’t cook to save his life. He loved eating Mia’s food the most. I’ve also learnt Mia isn’t the help, more like the protector of all the Priest secrets. Damien has degrees in business, finance, and sports administration. He’s lifelong goal is to buy a football team. He’s looking into Phili or the Chief’s.

Damien replied, his voice filled with disdain. "Is that not what you wanted in the first place?" the priest inquired, taking a sip of his coffee and maintaining his calm demeanor. Damien averted his gaze, lost in his thoughts. "He is living the life you wanted for him, so please visit him, praise and congratulate that ominous lunatic yourself," the priest remarked, continuing to sip his coffee while fixing a slight grin on his face as he observed Damien intently. Damien let out a sigh and stared out the window, absentmindedly twirling his fingers in mid-air, deep in contemplation.