Dark Gothic Finger Tattoos Novels & Stories

But Dominic, ever composed, showed no sign of it, as though he refused to let weakness surface. When the blood had been collected, Petra stepped forward, her movements deliberate. She dipped her thumb into the thick, dark red liquid, letting it coat her skin before reaching for my wrist. Her grip was firm yet gentle as she pressed her blood-soaked thumb against the vein that ran beneath my skin. I gasped as warmth spread from her touch. The blood rippled unnaturally, moving as though alive. It began to take shape, curling and twisting until it formed a symbol—a circle with an anchor at its center—engraved into my skin like a tattoo.

Even asleep, his arm was wrapped around my waist with a firmness that said *you’re not going anywhere. Then I saw my wrist. Where the silver arrow had pierced me, where the wound should have left a scar, there was something else. A symbol. Small, the size of a coin, as if someone had engraved it with invisible ink that only showed under certain light. Angular lines curving into themselves, forming a pattern I recognized instantly. Dark Tongue. I had a demonic symbol tattooed on my wrist. *“Pretty, isn’t it?”* The inner voice. Soft, purring — like a cat stretching after a long nap.

My canines and claws retracted, satisfied with their slaughter. I dipped my fingers into the warm blood that cascaded in a stream from his neck as he bled out. I inhaled deeply the metallic fragrance. I held my hand up in the moonlight as the blood trickled down my fingers. I devoured every bead off of my fingers, savoring the flavor of death. I crouched as I dipped my index finger back into his warm neck before dragging it through the dirt by the corpse. I internally chuckled to myself, I channeled my inner child finger painting. Once I was satisfied with my message I stretched before taking to the trees once again.

Summer’s fingers shook as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt from the top by his throat. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck and knew that he was fighting the urge to bite her. He remained motionless, waiting for her to move further. She could feel the tension increase as she slowly made her way down, gradually releasing each button to display his muscular chest. Her eyes were transfixed by an emerging tattoo. On his sternum was tired tree branches that spread off in every direction. As she pushed her hand to open more of his shirt the patterns changed towards his arms which took a haunted vein and shattered glass appearance. On the end of some of the branches had numerous nam

A dark shawl rested over her shoulders while two of her guards stood respectfully farther back near the pathway, giving her space while remaining alert. Dominic slowed slightly when he noticed her hands. More specifically on what she is doing. Seraphina’s thumb traced slowly over her ring finger. Back and forth. Careful. Absentminded. When Dominic moved closer, he realized there was something there. It was faint, almost invisible beneath the light. A single tattooed line around her ring finger, thin black ink circling the skin like a permanent ring. His chest tightened unexpectedly. Seraphina noticed him approaching but didn’t look surprised.

GRAVES, carved on it's back flesh, and second picture is of Saint's two fingers stuck up with black bloodstains on them. His caption: New body arrivals at my family bloody business. More people need to die. We treat corpses well. "Fûck, My muse is so unhinged. No wonder they say he's more ruthless than Dean." Dora smiled, saving the picture of his bloody finger. She used it as her wallpaper. "But if Saint isn't as unhinged as Tobias, then how insanely unhinged would that Tobias be? I can only imagine..." She laughed. "And he's a Priest? He's gonna be so interesting."

Something like amusement crossed his gaze. His lips moved slightly, but I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing. “F++k…” he cursed under his breath, his deep voice echoing through the tension in the air. He roughly removed his wet black gloves, dropping the gun onto his thigh and exposing a tattoo of a skull and guns on his left hand, while on his right, a casket and skeleton were inked across his knuckles. Alarm bells exploded inside my head. My lungs suddenly stopped functioning well; my stomach tightened as I acted on instinct, reaching for the door and forcefully twisting the lock.

Still, the admiration in his voice, that respect, was totally unexpected and caught her off guard. “Take my blood. You are very pale. I can feel your hunger beating at me.” She was so used to being hungry she barely noticed anymore if she’d gone weeks without blood. He pressed the back of her head very gently, urging her face toward his bare chest. She transferred her gaze there. He had a thick chest, with heavy, defined muscles. He wore ancient ink, the kind etched into his skin. It was difficult to tattoo an ancient. Ink didn’t stay. They rarely scarred. Fero had ink pressed into scarring on his chest, arms, shoulders and, she was certain, his back.

In black, grey and blue ink, beautiful, intricate patterns of floral and wing designs mar my skin, but at its centre, Zefiro name sits majestically in stunning calligraphy. The bastard tattooed his name into my skin.