Tattoos Are Cliche Novels & Stories

It is at this moment that I realize, I did not know he had tattoos. I mean, we have made out, but he was always in his clothes, I have never seen beyond his wrist. My eyes are drawn to the intricate artwork etched across his chest and arms. They are beautiful. I don’t hesitate to move my fingers gently over the ink. I can spot about three tattoos, but I can already tell there’s more. I think I should just admit that a man with tattoos makes everything sexier. I love tattoos. I love them even more on him. I find myself drawn to the artistry, the way the tattoos accentuate the contours of his muscles, making him even more enticing. There’s an edge to a man with tattoos; rawness, and a hint of

"You know Cass has killed people, right? He probably hasn't in a while, but he's definitely tortured and killed quite a few. A serial killer, as you normal people would say. He was good at it too. It's how he was able to come to Chicago and clean it up so quickly. He was sent here because the Chicago territory was rife with traitors and needed a complete overhaul. In our world that means a lot of death. We don't fire people, we kill people." "Will I be getting killed?" I ask. She smiles at me with a sweet, psychopathic smile and says, "Now why would I be treating you to such nice tattoos if I was just going to kill you." Her shrill laugh confirms that she saw the panic in my eyes. She said t

Their sleeves are rolled up, a smirk on their identical faces. And on their arms are fresh ink. Full-sleeve tattoos. I blink twice. "...what," I say slowly, "am I looking at?" They exchange a glance. "We wanted to express ourselves," Talon says. His voice always has a slight rasp. "Artistically," Tyrone adds. My eye twitches. "...artistically," I repeat. "Yes." "With permanent ink." "...yes." I inch closer. "...tell me," I say, my voice low, "that those are fake."

There is no point in doing anything right now so I keep quiet. The whole place is filled with scary-looking tattoed dudes. Bored, I started noticing the scary guy's tattoos. It's a skull, a red skull with wings and a cross. The tattoo is bright and dull at the same time. The cross it clutches seems more like a trophy than a symbol of hope, stained with a history whispered only in faded scars. Bright and dull, a paradox mirroring the struggle between survival and surrender. Art sure is fascinating. Someone walked up to him just then. He looks me up and down, "who is this, chick."

“The Henchmen have been a big part of your life. As long as you stay committed to the Valkyrie, I don’t have a problem with it.” He looked shocked. “Babe, choice is a big thing around here. I don’t expect people to hide their past, and we’re all accepting of what people have done to get to where they are. I especially don’t make everyone get exactly the same tattoo. If you look around, only Karma and Fishnet have exactly the same tattoo as I do, and that was because they wanted to do it. Everyone else’s is considerably smaller.” “You really do run a unique outfit here, don’t you, my Duchess,” he smiled.

I watched the tantalizing flex of his back muscles, emphasized as they shift under the dizzying black ink of all his tattoos. "You got those done, didn't you?" I said, suspecting. "The tattoos, I mean. You didn't fashion that body with them all in place?" "Of course I got them done," Sy gave me a sideways look that had just a touch of its old derision in it, as if I'd asked a truly absurd question. "It's the easiest form of art to commission in this age. And do you know how many Unseelie creators on this plane are tattoo artists?"

Don't make me feel jealous again," I looked at him in confusion when he said the next sentence. Did he just compliment me? Seems he did this to lighten the tensed up situation between us. and I must admit this worked. I couldn't take my gaze away from him. Why he is so weirdly cute?! The foreign feelings returning to the pit of my core make me fall for him once again. "What?" He asked me while I noticed the flushness made it's way to his face. Yet his face was blank enough for me not to comprehend what was going on in his mind. The question arose in my mind when I saw the tattoo peeking through the collar of his shirt. "Is having tattoos necessary to be into mafia?" I queried being curious.

Some dude standing near fake texting while taking too long a look. Whatever. “I just want it fixed,” he’d yelled. His body was a canvas, you know? It was art. Fuckin’ tats were his life. Everything was inked. Legs, arms, head, neck, back, thighs, whatever. Everything had something on him. And when he added some new shit, it had to look right. Blend in. Make sense. Be the right size. Right dimensions. Sit on the skin right. Be the right fuckin’ colors.

She imagined other ways inside her head on how to look manly. Tracy pouted her lips while she squinted her eyes at Blair. Although she didn’t agree to her plans at all, she wouldn’t stop her, and the least she could do was to support her as a friend. “Oh well, your figure may be slim, but it’s the trend nowadays. It’s painful to have a tattoo, and you know, it’s permanent. Won’t you regret it later?” She asked while eyeing Blair’s blemished-free skin.

Royals were forbidden to have them back when his kingdom stood tall. "Tell me more about the Fahara. " Sao asks eyes glued to it interrupting the tattooist speech about another tattoo. "...it uh... It ... Look kid, I've already said the... " "Tattoo is cursed or whatever. Why and how? " Sao pushes. The man looks at the others as if asking them to help him out but is only met by curious stares. He sighs then dramatically sits back where he was seated before the four walked in. And the four realize it may be a long story. They make themselves comfortable around him.