Roy Mustang Tattoo Novels & Stories

That night, Henry finally let go of all restraint. The room lay in shadow, and he pressed me against the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Riverton flickering like stars beyond the glass. “Claire…” “Yes?” “I want to get another tattoo.” “Where?” He gripped my hand and pressed it to his lower back, mirroring the spot that corresponded to mine. There, with each of his breaths, a faint outline of a feral totem emerged. “I want to tattoo your image. I want to carve you into my bones forever.”

Zach Romano. Leaning against the kitchen doorway like it belonged to him. His black hair was a mess, his blue eyes flat, unreadable, and his bare chest on full display, carved with muscle and shadow. On his ribs, a tattoo stretched over olive skin, an Italian cross with Latin scrawled underneath. Mors tua, vita mea. Your death, my life. I stared at the tattoo. Then, slowly, my eyes dropped to his torso. Abs, tight and low, vanishing into a pair of dark gray sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips.

“Nah, not really…I just don’t want them to know about your father, it makes their types nervous.” Cory laughed. “Yeah, I get it, sorry I should have messaged you first.” He looked Reese over, his eyes narrowing at the tattoos on Reese’s shoulders and upper arms. “Did you get more work done?” Reese looked at one arm and grinned. “Yeah…looks good, eh? I said I was going to get it all to join into one…just need to finish the back now and then do some breast plates…” He sat up and pulled his singlet up to reveal the large tiger tattoo taking up his whole back.

“And didn’t I tell you to drop the formalities when we’re alone, darling?” I have heard of the Dread Moon pack wolves being tattooed, but I have never seen one in person before. His right arm and pectoral are adorned with black ink, and I spy his pack crest amidst some rose designs. It is actually quite a beautiful tapestry and something inside of me seems to pull me toward him.

I gently pulled my hand away, admiring my handiwork, and drinking in the sight of Roxy, now forever bearing my mark. The silver infinity symbol, now emblazoned on Roxy's skin, shone with a radiant light, as if infused with an inner luminescence. The mark stretched vertically from her temple to the curve of her lower jaw, its delicate filigree and vines spilling down onto her neck like a tender caress.

Making me look more like an hopeless miserable person. But it's true. My life alone is a mess. My Father was tagged a traitor and I the son of a traitor who had a premature transformation. The once respected Manchester family were now tagged a stain to Greenville Pack. My palms curled into a fist at that thought. At the same time, my eyes fixated to the mirror again. Reflecting a black Wolf face tattoo on the right side of my chest. And my black royal family tattoo inscribed on my forearms. Roses.

Mark was slightly taller than I and was a hundred and ninety pounds of rock solid muscle, his shoulders were wide and his waist narrow, he was not muscle bound, but there was not a damn thing on him that was not exactly where it should be including a set of abs that would make a twenty year old jealous. Mark, like me in a sleeveless shirt caught a bit of attention. Both of his arms shoulder to elbow were covered in enormous tattoo's, on the right was Pan the Celtic devil; horns, hooves and red eyes glaring, on the left was an incredibly detailed image of the Pale rider of revelations fame. With his build, the tats and his five o clock shadow Mark was flaunting the "Bad Boy" look and carried

I couldn’t focus on what he was saying at all, my attention completely stolen by his bare chest. I couldn’t help but notice the armband tattoo on his left arm. The word “Moretti” was inked in a beautiful Old English font, with detailed lines making it look even cooler. His tattoos just added to that tough, masculine vibe he had going on. Then I saw the tattoo on his back. A raven, placed right in the middle of his back, near his shoulders and neck. It was so well done, I couldn’t stop staring at it, totally impressed.

The hoodie draped loosely over his head, obscuring his face, but the flicker of city lights occasionally illuminated the sharp lines of his jaw and the hints of a sinister smirk playing on his lips. The wind picked up, a fierce breeze whipping across the rooftop and causing the hood to flutter. As the fabric shifted, it revealed a chiseled, muscular torso adorned with intricate tattoos, each line telling a story of violence, power, and mystery. Prominently displayed on the left side of his chest was a large, bold tattoo—the words *Nosce Hostem* inked in a jagged, menacing script that seemed almost to pulse with life against his skin. The tattoo, a clear message, spoke of a deep connection to

The Roscoe Reagan Originals emblem was chrome. Evie knelt and was looking at the tribal design. Buried in it were the words DEVIL’S SAINTS and TEXAS RENEGADES. She turned and looked at Tank’s bike and saw the small black on black words around the emblem. “Papi…” She said as the first tears fell. “You think I’m going to let one of my girls ride without a Renegade?” he asked as two of his men handed her men Texas Renegades cuts. “Down here you two ride as Renegades.”