Jesus Crucifixion Tattoo Novels & Stories

I shuddered as I watched Ace slowly rid himself of his shirt. Tattoos I hadn't noticed since seeing him came into view. It was everywhere on his skin, the suit did well in covering it. A dragon was running down his shoulder blade to his torso at his back. Both hands inked with tattoos I didn't quite catch. However, the one that caught my eye was a Bible quote running from his earlobe to the nape of his neck. “I can do all things to Christ who strengthens me.” the quote read. I didn't picture Ace to be a religious person or maybe it was just a daily quote. A mantra or something.

I smiled, though my body trembled slightly with unease. He smirked, his eyes darkening as he sauntered towards me. Slowly, he reached out, invading my space. My gaze drifted to his chest, where intricate tattoos sprawled across his skin, half of his left chest completely inked. There was a large python coiled menacingly, its fangs bared as if ready to strike. Surrounding it were other symbols—a bleeding dagger, an intricate skull wrapped in thorns, and a blood moon rising behind them all. The ink seemed almost alive, dark and haunting, like it held secrets too dangerous to reveal. I had seen something like this before. The imagery was disturbing, almost as if he were part of some secretive c

Or was it the memory of his own pleasure? I stepped closer, moving with a grace, my shadow stretching long behind me like a dark specter. “Come on, Giovanni, show me how it’s done. Be a good priest and teach this poor sinner the proper way to pray. Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you live long enough to finish your lesson.” He seemed to muster every last ounce of courage he had left, and his voice, though shaky, “You… you can mock me, mock this place, even mock the Lord Himself,” he said, “But the cross is sacred. It is a symbol of His sacrifice… of His love.”

It's simple, yet, captivating. It features the Italian flag in colour, a black and white rose, rosary beads entwine with the stem and thorns, and the Esposito name is carved into the rose's shaded knuckle busters that rest beneath the rose with a single petal beside it. "I'm going to cut this from your body," I tap the scalpel against his tattoo, "And I'm going to keep it as a souvenir in my husband's family home." I sneer with a wicked smile playing on my lips.

This could also be called an Upside-down Crucifix or the cross of St Peters. It was traditionally used as a Christian symbol, but in recent times also used as an anti-christian symbol. Some Christian churches still use this to show humility and unworthiness in comparison to Jesus; depicted when Peter requested this form of crucifixion as he felt he was unworthy to be crucified in the same manner that Jesus died. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Don’t drink early in the morning or late at night. Alcohol is bad for your health. Enjoy responsibly. What do you guys think of this chapter? I would like to read your honest opinion

Igor looks at me like I’m crazy for a few beats. I repeat my words. “Let my brother go and I’ll do whatever you want me to do.” “You say that now, after you stabbed me?” I gulp, unsure of what to say to that. He keeps the ball of tissues on his chest and then he turns around to discard them before pulling new ones. His whole back is covered in the not detailed tattoo of a skull I’ve ever seen before. There’s a cross right on its forehead, and I can’t help but wonder what it means.

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.

“Alonzo saw me. And he… changed. Into a cheetah. A white cheetah. Then back. He walked toward me, and I couldn’t move. Couldn’t raise my gun. My body wouldn’t listen.” “Compelled,” Diego murmured. “Something like that. He whispered something in my ear. Then he was gone.” Leonardo’s eyes were distant. “Last I saw him.” Javier brought another beer. “On the house. For San Sebastian’s best liar.” Leonardo took it, then pulled a pen from his pocket. “He had a tattoo. Here.” He tapped his own chest. “A crest. Like a family symbol. And writing.” “What did it say?” Leonardo began to sketch on a napkin. The lines were shaky but clear. A crest—Diego’s crest—and beneath it, script in a language Diego h

Moonlight streamed through the massive stained-glass window above us, painting his tormented face in deep reds and blues, like blood and heaven warring across his skin. “Look up,” he ordered, voice dark and commanding. He shoved my legs wide apart, the lace thong ripped away in one brutal tug. “Look at the crucified Christ while I defile you on His altar.” I tilted my head back, staring at the giant wooden cross suspended above us. Jesus stared down in silent agony as Julian dropped to his knees between my spread thighs. He devoured me.

I asked Lucas crossed his arms tightly. “I think whoever this is has resources.” I walked toward the large windows slowly, my mind already moving through possibilities, the Blackthorne, Rosa, the Valens, business rivals, council factions or something worse and something older. Then suddenly the image flashed through my mind again, the tattoo. The symbol I saw during the ambush. The symbol that was burned into the attacker’s wrist, three crescent moons connected together. My eyes narrowed instantly, it was not identical to the twins’ mark but close enough to disturb me deeply.