Dark Tower Tattoos Novels & Stories

That night, Henry finally let go of all restraint. The room lay in shadow, and he pressed me against the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Riverton flickering like stars beyond the glass. “Claire…” “Yes?” “I want to get another tattoo.” “Where?” He gripped my hand and pressed it to his lower back, mirroring the spot that corresponded to mine. There, with each of his breaths, a faint outline of a feral totem emerged. “I want to tattoo your image. I want to carve you into my bones forever.”

He could see the scars on her thighs and the ugly scar that marred her left knee. Lolita turned to the side, showing her profile. The first thing that caught his eye was the tattoo on her arm. He was immediately transported to the hospital, where there had been a bandage on her arm. Hayden had known she was seriously injured, but a tattoo? And one as gnarly as that? “What…” he cleared his throat and the emotion that clogged it. “What is that?” Lolita caressed it for a moment. “It was supposed to be the Paris tower, except now it looks like shit. Jarrod drew it. It was the most painful thing I’d ever experienced.”

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.

He was large and bulky and there was a dragon tattoo peeking from his shirt, it stretched out around the back of his neck. Asher had studied whatever he could find about the Dark Wolves, and one of the things he knew about them was that as soon as they came of age, they would get a dragon tattoo. No one was really sure why they did this, since the Dragons were considered their biggest enemy, even more so than the Vampires. It was said that the Dark Wolves hated the Dragons so much due to their incredible strength, they were afraid that the Dragons might be the side to take over the world at one point and they would be too weak to stop them. So they devised a technique of attacking the Dragon