Dark Gothic Finger Tattoos Novels & Stories

Marcus continued slowly. “He said when she handed him candy, her wrist was exposed for a moment. On it was a very unusual tattoo.” Marcus took out another photo. It was a child’s drawing. A twisted pumpkin face, its mouth split all the way to the ears, its eyes hollow spirals. “This kind of gothic-style tattoo… a lot of people have them…” My voice grew quieter and quieter. Marcus said nothing. He simply placed a third photo in the center of the table. The background was a beach and the open sea.

My fingers ached to explore the sculpted lines, the subtle indentations, to trace the hidden contours of his body, to delve into the unspoken depths of his soul. I reached out, my hand drawn as if by an invisible force, my fingertips lightly tracing the intricate tattoo that adorned his right bicep. The inked design, a complex tapestry of swirling lines and ancient symbols, stood out in stark relief against the rich, bronze tone of his skin. He shivered slightly at the delicate touch, a subtle, involuntary response that sent a thrilling jolt of awareness coursing through me, a tangible sign of the power I held over him. I lingered on the intricate pattern, following the sweeping lines and in

I push away all the thoughts as the darkness leads me to the inside bar, the shelves lined up with vintage alcohol and wine gleams against my eye I sit on the bar stool, watching with gleam as the darkness mixes my alcohol, he’s wearing a button down shirt with the sleeves up to reveal those sexy tattoos, my heart seems to quicken anytime I see them. “A glass, angel?” He asks, setting the glass on the table. There’s this way that the darkness talks, calm and steady, like he doesn’t give a fuck of what world thinks. I wish I could talk like that. However, when he stretches his fingers, I see something that almost makes me want to drop dead, on his left fingers written in shimmering dark ink i

I said while fiddling my fingers. "You do not have to thank me. I'd happily eliminate every last one of those cowards from the entire region," he said tightly. I noticed his jaw was set and couldn't help but take in his features. His black hair feathered across his eyebrows and I watched as he ran his hand through it to brush it away from his eyes. His full lips were set in a frown as if he was picturing eliminating the witch hunters in his mind. I also noticed the tattoo that ran from his neck and down to his shoulder. The abstract design framed a triple goddess moon symbol with a dagger that impaled the inner circle. This brought my thoughts back to the night before and Tor's magnificent p

Like a neon flash light, he’d gone from frowning to relaxed face. His brown leather jacket is gone, tossed somewhere inside, leaving his arms bare in the short sleeved shirt, covered in black ink. In the low light of the garage, the tattoos look foreign, like a mess of Chinese characters I can’t make sense of. They aren’t pretty. They look dangerous. He looks dangerous. The ink runs down his forearms, disappearing into the skin of his knuckles, where veins flex and shift with every move. Layers of silver ring line his fingers.

"Yeah, have it?" Skoteinó chuckled and removed his white smiley mask that revealed the tattoos on his face. The tattoo that attracts Raverine the most is the official insignia of Die Dark — a smiling skull with a bloody fang. The tattoos were all over his dark-toned face. He also had piercings on his nose and lip — a typical look of an outlaw.

It wasn't the mark of a guardian. It was a diagram of a lock. And every line was moving, rotating, like a combination being dialed from the inside. "Almost..." the voice whispered, full of longing and hunger. "Almost open." Siron’s apartment door didn't shatter outward; it was sucked into the darkness. From behind the missing door, a long, pale hand with too many joints in its fingers reached out toward him. And on that wrist sat a tattooed Aethelford bloodline symbol, identical to Siron's own.

The title suited him too well. His long coat lay draped over a stone pedestal. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing lines of ancient script recently burned faint gold into his skin, Inferno’s seal, still settling into flesh like smoldering starlight. His fingers hovered over a sigil circle carved directly into the obsidian floor.

It was a dragon over a vampire cross and a wolf in the yin yang shape. I looked at my father who told me to go over to the still water and look at my chest. I walked to the water he pointed to and looked down. My chest held a yin yang the same as Jax's. He really is my true mate. I was staring at the water when I felt this goddess awful pain in my finger. I looked at my finger and saw a tattoo forming. Confused and worried I looked to my father, for answers, he was smiling and shaking his head. I looked back to my finger and it was a band like a ring but it was on my middle finger.

“Saturday?” The doctor made a hmm noise, apparently not impressed with this man helping me. No surprise. Doctors were no fun. “How many fingers amI holding up?” Ronan translated. I stared at his other hand resting on his knee, at the tattoos on his fingers in between the first and second knuckles. One was a cross, another a raven. The third, a king of hearts playing card. Ink and déjà vu. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I couldn’t stop myself from touching him, from drawing an index finger down the tattooed raven. The whispered words were pushed from my depths by an irresistible force.