Realistic Stitches Tattoo Novels & Stories

I lie nervously on the chair in the tattoo shop, my jeans pushed low and my top on the chair underneath me. I grip Shane's hand as the guy, Marcus, traces the tattoo onto my skin. "Hey, you'll be fine." Shane whispers, kissing my fingers. The gesture is confusing and distracts me momentarily from my fear, but then the machine starts in the corner and I jump. Marcus comes towards me with the needle, buzzing like a thousand angry bees and I squeeze my eyes shut, crushing Shane's hand with mine. He whispers something in my ear, but I'm too stressed to take it in. Marcus's fingertips press into my skin and it's a matter of seconds before the needles touch me.

grip and dragged me elsewhere instead. "Do the tattoo and get over with it," he said, like I was nothing more than an item on a checklist. Staci crouched beside me, glancing at my restrained hands. "There’s no anesthesia," he muttered casually. "Guess we’ll have to do it the hard way." I tried again to pull away, but my arms were locked tight in their grip. Every time I moved, the rope burned against my skin. My heart pounded so loud I could barely hear the buzzing sound that started just seconds later.

You’re remembering now for a reason. I swallowed. “He does. I think I’ve caught a glimpse once or twice. He’s just private.” Chris wiggled her brows. “You sound defensive.” “I’m not.” “Mm-hm.” The artist returned with our stencils. I rolled up my sleeve and let him position the rose over the scar, petals blooming perfectly along the healed skin. When the needle buzzed to life, I bit my lip and braced myself. Chris reached over and squeezed my hand. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s kinda cool that he came here. Makes him less… carved from stone.”

I was too scared to touch him. I had never been this close to him before. My gaze moved to his arm, where I noticed a gaping wound partially covering a tattoo, a tattoo that looked like a map. His chest had been stitched up, with dried blood on them but the job was rough, uneven, like it had been done in a hurry. Did he stitch himself up? “Adrian. Adrian.” I called his name frantically. No reply. I hesitated, then reached out, my fingers hovering over his hand. It felt wrong somehow like I was crossing some invisible line. So instead, I poked his hand lightly.

Harder. I set the rhythm. Slow at first. Long, deep strokes that made the tattoo slide in and out of her mouth, wet and shiny. Then faster. Shallow. Just the head, popping in and out, making her lips smack. Then deep again, brutal. Until her throat bulged and her gag reflex kicked every time.

She asked and I nodded. “Can I get down a note with your specialist so I remember? I am not entirely familiar with the different kinds.” I muttered. “Why not,” she bent down to a drawer and pulled out a little pocket sized notebook and pen. “We all do transition and neo-traditional styles. Chase is abstract like I said and realism. I also do abstract but I do stencil work too, you will meet Kate, she does a lot of illustrative tattoos. James does line contour and line sketching. Am I overwhelming you?” She laughed when she saw me jot things down at a mile a minute.

His mates came to stand by the bed as he opened the kit and pulled on a pair of gloves. “Are you going to tattoo me?” Aislen demanded and then yelped when he applied the clamp to her nipple. “Rhett! I don’t give you permission to… Don’t you do this!” The last was a shriek as he tore open the sterile packaging. She began to fight against the restraints, her body arching off the mattress. F-k, he thought with a grimace. This wasn’t going to be at all easy. He was glad that he’d led with the piercings and not the tattoo. Once he had the piercings in place and she realized that it wasn’t that bad after all, she’d calm down. He’d had clients with the same response – they were all keen until they

“Is this wrapped?” “Yeah. We spent the day by the pool. Maddox wanted some air to get to it, so we let it go for some time before I started getting sweaty. He put some gauze and that tape you put over a tattoo… so it is waterproof in case I was to sweat or get wet.” “After this, put a t-shirt on so I can look at it. I assume the stitches are dissolving?” He asked as he stood up.

I add like a Catholic nun standing over a misbehaving student. Rack shakes his head. “No, Beth. I’ll shower and put some antiseptic on it. It’s nothing for you to worry about.” My fingers go to the hem of his T-shirt. He watches when I lift it slightly away from his side before moving it up. He has stitches. They start just above his hip. I count them; the T-shirt is stuck to his side at the ninth stitch. The edges of the wound are puffy and red. He should be in bed and not battling my demons.

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.