Dark Tower Tattoos Novels & Stories

I’ll never be able to drink tequila again without thinking of him, that’s for sure. I see Erik still watching me. I hand him his shirts. “Five black belts? That’s incredible. All this time you never mentioned it.” “That was a long time ago, I’m not that person anymore.” I can’t help but ogle him and he catches me checking out his Nordic styled tattoos. There’s a chariot on each pec, one pulling the sun, one pulling the moon, each being chased by a wolf. “This is Sköll,” he points to one of the wolves, “and this one Hati. They chase the sun and moon.”

“Right there. Your name and music notes on either side. Maybe some little butterflies.” “Are you serious, Reb? That’s permanent, you know.” “I know. You don’t want me to?” She traced a tattoo on his forearm with one finger. It showed a dagger through a skull. It was a beautiful piece of art, but masculine. “Would you rather I get one that matches yours?” “I would love my name permanently etched on your sexy little back. I could stare at it while…” He lifted her shirt and took a peek at the area in question. “Damn…” he said breathlessly and gave himself a little shake. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

As I’m sliding them on, Jack walks into the backyard and I freeze when I see the snake tattoo up his side, the skull on his left peck and the scorpion on the other one. Individually these tattoos are fairly common, but how many people have all three in those same spots? Because JackDaddy21, my highest paying client, does. And his name is Jack. There’s no fucking way that’s a coincidence. No no no no no no. This is not happening. I’m gonna vomit.

Drake said to no one in particular. Drake looked at the tattoo of two wings in the shape of a human heart permanently etched on the left side of his chest, just above his heart. "I never heard about this Drake. If a dragon has a human Mate, they never leave a tattoo. Are you sure that your mate is a human? Only creatures of equal power will be able to leave a mark like this. If she left her mark on your heart, that means you liked that girl before the drug took over. If she is a human, then she would have died with the way you lost control over yourself" his friend Mason's words ring in his head.

He saw Iris’s eyes narrow, and her expression morphed into confusion. “I am not sure why Dame’s tattoo is up for discussion,” she was confused. She had never thought to ask him the story behind his tattoo. As far as she knew, he had always had it, and they never thought much about it. “Because Mrs. Lark, this is a tattoo of a radical underworld group called the “the blood wolves,” he typed something into his system and turned the screen toward Iris. She studiously gazed at the tattoo, but nothing rang a bell in her head.

Dark. "Come on Claus, cover me…" I say to my best friend and right-hand man. Before I go out behind the car and shoot the motherfuckers who decided to come attack me. "Just do the Dark shots," he replies, looking at me with annoyance. He smiled when he noticed how much it overwhelms him to have to shoot, he's not that good with weapons, at least not like the rest or Max. I look over my shoulder through the window of the armored van in which we came to have a clearer idea of ​​the location of the men attacking us.

It was the ink. A dragon, winding up from his chest, the tail curling along his ribs, the head climbing over his collarbone and stretching up the length of his left arm, almost entirely sleeved in intricate black and gray tattoo work. Scales, smoke, fire—details that felt as much like armor as art. This wasn't some impulsive drunken mistake. This was deliberate, meaningful. A story etched upon his skin. His throat, too, was fully covered in inked. And then—

someone mutters from the shadows. I force my head up, willing my vision to clear. The room swims into focus gradually, like a photograph developing. A bar stretches along one wall, bottles glinting in the low light. Motorcycles — massive, gleaming machines — stand like sentinels against the far wall, their chrome catching the glow from Edison bulbs hanging low from exposed beams. The air hangs thick with cigarette smoke, motor oil, and something else — something that smells like ozone and desert sage. My dragon tattoo burns between my shoulder blades, no longer painful but alive in a way I can't explain. It pulses in time with my racing heart, as if awakening to something in this place.

"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.

The icy blast would’ve made anyone else recoil, but Dante stood there, solid and unmoving, like he was made of stone. His back was a canvas of ink, just like his front. The artwork was nothing short of breathtaking. Spanning across his entire back was a massive, detailed tattoo—an angel, powerful and divine, standing within the ruins of an ancient temple. The wings spread wide across his shoulder blades, reaching toward his arms, while crumbling pillars surrounded the figure in dramatic grayscale contrast. It wasn’t just a tattoo; it was a story, a testament, a work of devotion etched forever into his flesh. It was absolutely beautiful—mesmerizing, even.