Death Moth Throat Tattoo Novels & Stories

Thor killed his third attacker and stepped back toward me. “How many?” he asked. I did not answer. Because I was counting differently. Not how many remained. But how many were designed to die. That was when I saw it. On the wrist of one of the fallen wolves, partially exposed beneath torn fabric. A mark. A tattoo. Recognizable. I froze for a fraction of a second longer than I should have. Thor noticed immediately. “What is it?” I knelt slowly, pulling the wrist closer. The symbol was burned into skin with deliberate precision.

She screams as the buring sensation worsens, and she has no idea when she passes out. Sebestian hisses as he walks into the kitchen, his half-moon tattoo burning like a shit since the morning. He doesn't know what is going on. It only happens once when the tattoo appears ; he still remembers that day. He passed out and didn't wake up for the whole day. And then one month later, during the full moon, his tattoo was appeared 'My butterfly is already dead, look like Moongodness mocking me this moon tatoo,' Sebestian said to himself.

Good, and I thought of that back. "Don't you think I am just a simple woman? Really, Deathwish?" I acted with a cherry laughed. "How could you be sure I am Deathwish?" He stared, challenging looks at me, giving me his menacing smile. "Oh, how could I? Your tattoo with a Grecian snake style, only Deathwish has that tattoo. And the swiss knife you used with Deathwish Latin words," I said, stressing every word; I gave him a big smile showing my teeth.

“You’ll be okay soon. Try to relax. It’s okay.” In a daze, I trace my fingertips over the tattoos on his chest, studying them with hazy curiosity. My breathing slows, and my heart rate calming. The sound of the hotel room’s ventilation is a distant hum in my ear, a white noise that helps my mind settle. I tap Thor’s chest tattoo, the one in the shape of a dove over his heart. “What’s this one supposed to mean?” I ask, barely above a whisper. “To honor my mother,” he says. I’m surprised by his honesty.

Flesh hung loose around the torn trachea, and every breath came out as a wet, choking gasp. There was no saving him. “Ugh… cough!” He spat out a mouthful of blood, his entire body shaking as life rapidly drained away. For the first time since the battle began, uncertainty flashed across the faces of the surrounding rogues. Carlisle didn’t spare the dying man another glance. His attention had already settled elsewhere. Right above the rogue’s heart, partly hidden beneath blood, was a tattoo. A spider lily. Wrapped around a crescent moon. Carlisle’s eyes narrowed.

he mouthed. The tattoo on my throat warmed like a small sun. I sang, not loud, not long, just enough to wake the names the house knew. Harper, Jacob, Hazel, Joel and Lily. Home, sun and pancakes. Sable’s page curled a second, then flattened like a cat turning its face from your hand. Behind her smile, hunger prowled. Boots and breath. The old scent that sat like dust in my throat. Joel stepped into the light at my left and didn’t look away from our parents. The moon painted his new tattoo like it had been waiting to meet it.

It was the kind of sound that makes your body move before your brain catches up. He was on the ground by the dumpster. Black suit. White shirt. Both ruined. The shirt was open, soaked through. Too dark to be water. Too much to be anything but blood. He was still alive. His chest moved. Barely. Then I saw the tattoo. _Memento mori_ across his ribs in black script. Remember you die. Under it, fresh blood. The wound was right under the letters. Like someone had punctuation to make.

Doughy from good living and laziness. Drakon is carved from granite. His chest is a landscape of muscle and violence. A jagged white scar runs from his collarbone to his ribs—a knife wound, old and deep. Another scar, a bullet graze, marks his side. But it’s the ink that holds me. A massive tattoo covers his torso. Wolves. A pack of them, snarling, fighting, running. They wrap around his ribs and disappear onto his back. It’s a masterpiece of shadow and ink.

He wasn’t what I expected. Dressed in a sleek, though slightly rumpled black suit, he walked like he owned the room. His hair was black, tousled like he’d been in a fight or bed or both. Even disheveled, he looked powerful. Lethal. Breathtaking. Then I saw the tattoo peeking through the open buttons of his shirt. Donno Della Morte. It sent a chill down my spine. I had no idea what it meant… but it felt like something final. Like a warning.

My throat is hurting, did i shout more ? I can do this. Breath Cara, breath. You overcame this before, you survived. You can do it again. But who said i want to survive this time ? Who said i want to continue from here ? I have nothing left. I just want to die. I want his child to die. I want him to die. ~~~~~~ Alex's POV A Loud voice coming from outside the room pulled me out of my thoughts. I cleared my throat and shook whatever happened away as i made my way out to check it.