Narcissist Survivor Tattoo Novels & Stories

Her fingers trembled as she undid the last button, pushing the fabric aside to reveal my skin. "Greedy little virgin," I teased, but I shrugged off my shirt, exposing my tattooed chest—rippling muscles, scars from my rough past, all symbols of the darkness she was embracing. The ink swirled in intricate patterns: a snarling wolf on my pec, vines of thorns wrapping around my abs, each one a story of conquest and pain. Her eyes widened, fingers tracing the ink, sending shivers down my spine as her nails scraped lightly over a scar. "Touch all you want. But remember, this body is your master now. Every ridge, every scar—it's yours to worship, but only because I allow it."

“Your beautiful Ellie, everything about you is so fucking beautiful. These scars show me how brave and how strong you are, baby. Have you ever thought about getting it covered?” I frown, raising my eyebrows as I ask him. “What do you mean, getting it covered how?” He sighs, still kissing my scarred skin as he whispers. “My Sister is a tattoo artist. She has her own studio. I know she's covered the scars of people who self-harm. Maybe she could do something for you. we could go and see her if you want to?” I smile as I think about it. Could I really hide it with a tattoo? Finally, be free of his cruel branding. I turn to Zac with a glimmer of hope in my eyes as I say.

I try to explain, “No, I just wanted to—” “Then fuck off,” she says. I feel humiliated. The maidens laugh at me but cover their mouths when I turn. I walk off slowly. But she desperately stops me. “My lady, I am so sorry. Where did you get that tattoo from?” She holds onto my hands like a treasure. I withdraw my hands in annoyance, but she begs desperately. “I am a member of the deviant splinters. My father put that tattoo on me when I was twelve.” “It's the same tattoo my brother came home with, the tattoo he had the night before he left the night walker pack, please can you—”

Hatch, who came every Tuesday with three garbage bags of laundry and always fell asleep in the plastic chair had one eye open. "Fine," Sera said. "Muscle cramp." He closed his eye again. She waited until his breathing went slow and even. Then she pulled the collar of her long-sleeve shirt aside and looked. The mark was already there. Fully formed, like it had always been under her skin and the burning had just been it waking up. A rune … angular at the edges but curved at the center, like all the others. It sat directly below her collarbone and glowed faintly silver in the bad fluorescent light.

Weird. He rarely sends messages, let alone attachments. Probably a mistake, I thought until I opened it. It wasn’t a mistake. A full HD picture of the nymph tattoo above his groin filled my screen. The image was still loading, but I didn’t rush. My gaze lingered on the tattoo, it looked healed now, perfect, meant for my eyes only. “Nymph,” in red italics, a small peach beside it. I zoomed in, ignoring the rest of the class, every nerve in my body lighting up. Then I scrolled lower.

I slid out, the cool night air biting through my jacket, and crossed the street to peer through a sliver of uncovered glass at the corner of the window. The interior was a dungeon of shadows and hard light. Nicholas sat shirtless on a leather chair, his back to me, talking to a hulking artist covered in ink. My breath hitched. The muscular lines of his back, the scars I knew by touch—one from a knife fight in Jersey, another from a bullet that grazed him protecting me… no, protecting his access. The artist transferred a stencil onto his skin, high on the left side, over his heart. The buzz of the needle started, a relentless, angry drone.

His tattooed hands, those large fingers… Yeah, I didn’t even want to imagine. “He’s stable,” Nik murmured. “Doctors say he’ll recover.” I just nodded. Let’s see how they talk when Mark suddenly dies in a few days. After dinner, while the staff began clearing the plates, I stood to leave. But Nik caught my hand,firmly. “Wait.” He handed me a small notebook. Black cover. A symbol stamped on it in silver foil,the Kontrivsin crest. “What’s this, Nik?” I asked, eyes narrowing.

“But if you want a romantic setup, I could do that. Now, what did you want to ask me?” “What’s your tattoo all about, what does it mean or was it just a spontaneous one?” He grew quiet for a bit, and I got worried, I probably shouldn’t have said anything. My curiosity would be the death of me. “The tattoo stands for a rebirth, my rebirth from drugs and addiction. I almost died from an overdose but I survived, so I decided to get it,” “Oh…. that’s fine,” I said in a lowly voice. “I wanna take a shower,” He said, as he pulled away from me to stand up.

“I’m not giving you a ordinary tattoo…I’m marking you as mine because I’d definitely kill any guy who tries to hurt you” “Lucien…” “There’s no refusal to this tattoo Natalie” “Where’s it going to be?” “On your thigh”

The eyes of the wolf glow with white ink, glowing faintly under the overhead light. Scars…deep, long and old–slash through parts of it, like he earned both the ink and the pain layered underneath. I am staring too much and I force myself to look away. And immediately regret it. Because my eyes land on Nico. He's lifting weight, tattoos on full display, biceps bulging with each curl. His sweatpants ride low on his hips, teasing the dangerous V-line. His tattoo is sprawled across the left side of his chest, creeping down his ribs and disappearing into his pants. And another, a burning rose, thorns curling into flames that occupied his left arm and hand is rendered in dark, smoky ink.