Edgar Allan Poe Tattoo Novels & Stories

Alexa I have to say, it's a damn good tattoo. The artist did a great job and if the circumstances were different I'd be thanking him. Since they aren't all I do is scowl. He wraps my arm and goes on about how to take care of the tattoo. Since this isn't my first rodeo I zone out. I feel like a cow who's ears been marked so people can know who to return them too if they run away. They've branded me as theirs. Looking down at the ink, my urge to find the treasure and leave grows stronger. This tattoo will serve as a reminder for what they did and have now done to me. Each time my heart softens toward them, this will harden it once more. I will get my revenge, but first I have to survive long e

On the side of his ribs: ‘The way to the heart is a path full of thorns’ Why? I pour some oil on him, then set the jar down. After a long inhale, I touch him. Warmth blossoms in my chest. Slowly, I spread the oil with my palms. I was wrong. His skin is soft. Every other thing is hard and strong. “Is that all you’ve got?” He teases. Squeezing my mouth, I apply pressure with my fists. Another tattoo: ‘Darkness is real, and it’s the best place to be’

The tattoo artist, with experience and skill, prepared his tools, ready to capture the Leo constellation behind the young woman's ear. The rays of the studio's dim light highlighted Athena's delicate porcelain skin, creating a subtle contrast with the dark ink that would soon adorn her skin. The tattoo artist, with secure and precise hands, began to carefully trace the points that would form the celestial figure. Athena closed her eyes, feeling the slight vibration of the tattoo machine on her skin. A sensation of itching and warmth took hold of her, but it was pleasant; rather, it was as if the stars themselves were dancing on her skin. The tattoo artist, immersed in his art, glided the nee

The sword and pen still hover above me, steady, waiting. In the polished blade’s reflection, I catch my own face—ruined with tears, bruised, broken—but my eyes are still green. Not corrupted. Not black. Still me. But something on my back itches, burns, reshapes. I feel it before I see it—a tattoo forming, alive with magic, stretching across my shoulders and down my spine. A phoenix. Wings spread wide, head thrown back, flames curling around its body like a crown. Ashes to flame. Darkness to light.

Didn't even draw the curtains. He tore his robe open, revealing a body forged in violence and power. There were no ugly scars like the rumors said. Just perfect lines of muscle, and… A tattoo, right over his heart. It was an intricate design—a black mamba coiled around a thorny rose. And in the center of the rose, two letters were tattooed in elegant script: O.R. Odessa Rossi. My name. My breath hitched. "This is…" My fingers trembled as I reached out. The skin was still raised, the ink barely set.

I was sitting alone at the empty dining table when my phone buzzed. It was an anonymous text. No name, just a picture and a message. The picture was of Albert’s hand, a hand I knew better than my own. But the laurel wreath tattoo symbolizing our mate bond had been altered—a tiny letter ‘M’ was now etched into the design. The message read: All I had to do was ask, and he let me leave my mark on him. Another message came through. So what if the ceremony is fake? He told me that in his heart, I’m his chosen one.

Caruso’s POV “What else have you found about the shooter?” I asked Oscar as we walked into Zelda’s cafe. “He has a tattoo, an amateurishly drawn scorpion on his nape,” He said, holding out his phone. Looking at the screen, I saw a zoomed blurry image of the fucker on the dispatch bike he’d ridden to Kingston, the tattoo blotchy like it was made by a five year old. “Keep looking.” I replied, before walking ahead of him to the counter, which was being manned by a young lad, “Where is the manager?”

I left his lips and moved my lips to his throat while my hands felt his sculpted abs,like he was carved out of the finest marble. I grazed my finger on his tattoo he had just below his right nipple. "It's a symbol from Roman mythology which signifies bravery and readiness for sacrifice for a good cause."He explained me about the beautiful tattoo.There were many on his back and biceps,most of them inked to hide his scars from old fights.I dropped a wet kiss on it and then trailed downwarda whereas my hand moved to his awakening member.

The tattoo, an indelible mark on his skin, became a symbol of our enduring connection, a visual anchor that soothed his mind in the midst of challenges. The evening breeze carried with it the echoes of our shared history, and in Logan's gaze, I found a reflection of a love that had weathered the tests of time and distance. The tattoo on his arm became not just an image but a testament to the resilience of our connection, a love story etched in ink and whispered confessions beneath the vast expanse of the night sky.

“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.”