Edgar Allan Poe Tattoo Novels & Stories

he asked. “My name is Lil—” I glimpsed a tattoo right above his sleeve line, “This is going to sound weird, but— Is it ok if I touch you?” I nervously asked him. “Yea, sure... I guess that's fine,” he mumbled. Slowly I shifted his t-shirt sleeve, revealing the rest of the tattoo to me. It was a tattoo of a crescent moon, with what seems to be a hidden message or an ancient language written on the inside of it. I swiftly pulled away in fear, because I recognized this strange symbol, I have dreamt of this crescent, night after night as a child watching over my dreams in a third person's perspective.

It made me want to reach out and trace the hard lines as well as the tattoos on it. He turned slightly and I caught sight of the rest of his body. The tattoo also covered the left side of his chest, black ink used to drag large wings. It was a raven, it was so detailed down to the sharp talons and the glint of its beady eyes. There were other drawings like a rose with the letter “E”. What does that mean? Family? Or perhaps..a lover? For some reason that thought made me bitter. Beneath it was a phrase written in Latin that flowed into his ribs.

The once beautiful canvas of his phoenix tattoo is now topped with another set of prints that aren’t part of the art I admired. With blurry eyes, I tumbled out of bed and kneeled between his legs. There, a heartbreaking sight of bullet and knife scars met my gaze. On his right chest, the Outlaws’ insignia was marked with an X. I’m sure a knife did it from the smooth edge of the scar. And on his left side were two bullet wounds, barely missing his liver. But below his left breast, the words ‘corazón para la muñeca’ were written in cursive writing. [heart for the doll]

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.

I could still feel their eyes on me as we moved across the floor to the stairs. "They all have the same tattoo" Dante mind-linked me. I had failed to notice many details on our tour, focusing too much on a certain Alpha. Luckily Dante was doing his job "a Cresent Moon with a star" he continued in the link. I looked around and sure enough, I saw a lot of tattoos like Dante described, the design seemed familiar but I couldn't place it. "It was the symbol carved into the fountain." He linked again. Thank the goddess Dante had his act together.

He walked over to where the men gathered and cleared his throat, getting their attention. They all raised their head to stare at him, one by one, a look he had gotten familiar with in their eyes. A look of admiration. He wasn't dressed in a shirt so his heavily tattoed chest and abdominal area were exposed. He had gotten another tattoo after Angelo's death. An eagle on his back and Angelo's name written under it, in Angelo's memory. ***

said Tucker, his black plaits hanging down his rippling back. “I will,” offered the tattooed Hayden. Removing his jacket, the delicate inking down his arms was on full display. His forearms were a menagerie of every animal and bird, all gently entwined in delicate ivy and branches. “Oh thank you so much!” Naomi simpered before putting her fists up and bouncing so her tits jiggled. /Unfair advantage right there/ Rush complained remembering how easily we were fooled as teens. Repeatedly.

Then it became worth my attention. I leaned in. The figure moved fast—too fast to spot anything in the first frame. The second frame was where I caught almost everything I wanted. First a flash, then a forearm exposed as the man pivoted to fire. And then I saw a mark, the undeniable prove that the man was indeed the guy I’ve suspected he was. He had a tattoo. This wasn’t the kind of fancy snake tattoos you got on a dare or during a midlife crisis. This mark had a meaning that was too familiar to ignore. An ouroboros curled around a caduceus—medicine’s polite way of saying “We hold your life by the throat.”

“is just for fun.” Heat climbed up my neck. “And what’s the fun one supposed to mean?” “You’d have to find out for yourself.” His voice dipped low again, and I swore my heart skipped. One of his friends Ryan grin leaned in then, resting an elbow on the table. “You’re not the only one with ink worth showing off,” he said, tugging up his own sleeve. The tattoo was intricate, swirling with roses and blades, like beauty tangled with danger. The other two joined in, each showing me their designs a phoenix across one’s back that peeked over his collar, a serpent winding down another’s arm in precise, dangerous curves.

An artist from the wrong side of the river who didn't belong here. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> "A tattoo artist," he said. "That explains the ink. May I?" _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> He gestured to my arm, and I extended it without thinking. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> His fingers wrapped around my wrist, cool and precise, turning my arm to examine the tattoos. A geometric mandala on my inner forearm. Script in Sanskrit along the outer edge. A phoenix rising from ashes near my elbow.