Stroke Survivor Tattoo Ideas Novels & Stories

The weight of the moment was palpable, heightened by the realization that the priest standing beside me was none other than Krystallo, the infamous mafia priest known for his merciless acts. My eyes inadvertently drifted towards the cross-shaped tattoo, intertwined with a viper, adorning Krystallo's neck. The intricate design served as a chilling reminder of the countless lives he had taken and the blood that stained his hands. It was a symbol of power and ruthlessness, one that sent shivers down the spines of even the most hardened criminals.

Relief settles for a heartbeat—my pack is safe. “Rhett,” Laura sighs. “Tell me already, what the hell is going on with you?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” I glare at her. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone.” I turn and head for my apartment. Inside, I strip off my clothes. I’ve been holding back from checking the stabbing pain in my chest. I turn to the mirror— And freeze. A tattoo runs across my back, down into my chest. A river of blue light twists into a crescent moon. Inside the glow, faint outlines of wolves howl and run, their forms made of mist and stars. The whole thing pulses like a living vein under my skin.

Scar kissed her neck softly as she traced every line of the ink as if she was re-inking them herself. A large skull was surrounded by an array of roses. A Christian cross in the back, behind the skull, stuck out to Lani because of the dove perched on it so innocently. Scar's tattoos were a mixture of dark and light, they described him perfectly. The same happened on his arms, one was decorated with the ideas of Satan, the other those of holy angels.

A sigh left my lips. “You still have the scar,” he murmured against my skin. I blinked, glancing over my shoulder where the faint crescent from his bite had never quite faded. I wore an off-shoulder top, something loose and soft, and the mark was just visible. “Models cover scars,” I said. “But I don’t want to cover this one.” He pressed another kiss there. “Why not?” “I’m thinking of getting a tattoo.” He paused. “Of what?” I smiled. “Something to mark the storm we survived.”

He seemed to be in an unnaturally deep sleep, almost as if something had knocked him out. Was he drugged? I had no clue, but the fact that he hadn’t stirred even with my presence in his room was unsettling. And then my eyes drifted to his body—beautiful and imperfect. There was a scar on his right rib cage, the kind that only came from a blade. Though faint, I could tell it was an old wound, healed over time. Another one ran along his collarbone, slightly darker, as if the wound had been deeper, perhaps more brutal. But it was the tattoo over his heart that caught my attention the most—a sword, inked deep into his skin, standing tall, like a symbol of war, power, and destruction.

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.

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

I’m like a walking Drake advertisement. I licked my lips, I was about eye level with his pecks. His abs. Whatever. This wall, mountain of a man. He was so wide and thick I doubted I could get my arms around him. He had a massive thick scar that started in his cheek and ran straight down to the base of his penis. That had to hurt like hell. It seemed as though he’d been ripped right open. How did he even survive it? Otherwise the only tattoo he had was the one marking him as a member of Black Cove. The one everyone had. The one I would get after I have my shift and formally join the pack. If I’m still here.

She fills these shoes with an iron fist, vocal cords that bring the roof down, and more love then most of the club has ever experienced. Before Savannah died, I was having artwork tattooed on my back to show my love for my wife and son. It remained unfinished and I had the tat put on my chest to honor my wife and son when I got out of prison. After Sofia married me, I had the club’s emblem tattooed over the work on my back. Sofia, my babies, and the Crows are my family. It’s a beautiful morning. The wind is at our backs and sun on our faces. Desert Crows forever, forever Desert Crows.

She propped him up on a chair and rushed to the bathroom to get a bowl of water and napkin to clean his wounds and the blood all over his face. Kimmy had to remove his shirt in order to clean the wound,she was shocked by what she saw. his body was covered with a lot of tattoo drawings and the one that stood out the most was the tattoo of a dragon on his neck. She got back to clean his injuries and tied a piece of clothe on his arm to stop the bleeding from the gunshot.