Tortured Soul Tattoo Novels & Stories

He turned to the girl in front of him with a soulless expression. "I just followed the gunshot. Watching you? I had no business and I'm going to watch you? As for who I am, it's none of your business." The girl's eyes filled with anger as she smiled sarcastically and looked at the person in front of her from head to toe. He looked at her face and raised an eyebrow. She tied her hands to her chest. "As for who you are, I took my word back. There are thousands of workers working here. Anyway. I don't want to see you here again, let this be the last time. It's the first time I see someone who is afraid of gunfire."

Ruined. The tattoo on the base of my spine weighs heavy and I want the skin ripped clean off. It wasn’t any different. Zefiro isn’t any different. If anything, he’s the worst. I’ve been taken by many, but none of them, at least, wrote their name into my skin permanently. I’m trembling, breaking inside, piece apart from piece, and nothing I say to myself sinks in. The sob that rips from my throat is guttural, the tight leash I’ve kept on my heart snapped.

It was the movement of a shadow detached from its source, a predator that had forgotten the limitations of bone and muscle. As he stood, the mud didn't cling to him; it seemed to recoil, as if the very earth was afraid of the cold that now radiated from his skin. The violet light in his eyes wasn't a flicker of life; it was a steady, lethal glow that seemed to eat the surrounding dimness. The new Void-Wolf mark on his chest was pulsing with a black, oily ink that writhed under his skin, seeking something to consume. It looked less like a tattoo and more like a wound that refused to heal. "Dante?" I whispered. My voice was a shredded thread, barely audible over the hum of the dying refinery.

The tattoo burned, dragging the plague's corruption inwards, trapping it inside my body. My body shook hard. My soul felt like it was splitting. But somewhere beneath the agony, I thought of Solana's laugh. Her hands on my face. "I'm sorry," I gasped into the storm. "But this ends with me." The chant rose, and the demon cackled. … Rainwater clung to my skin, my hair plastered to my face, the earth beneath me damp. I blinked. The whole place swam, then steadied just enough for a face to come into focus.

The three marks on Wren’s inner forearm itched with a low, persistent thrum, a living tattoo of longing etched into her skin by a ritual gone beautifully, catastrophically wrong. They weren't scars, but claims waiting to be made. One for tender worship, one for rude praise, one for slow dominance. Tonight, the first of them, a silvery crescent like a wolf’s gentle bite, burned with a need that was becoming a torment.

“It's either you tap into your inner rage and turn into a wolf, or you watch Trevor receive continuous blows to the base of his skull until he dies.” “Please, just let him go,” she cried out. “I don’t know how to tap into my inner rage. I don’t know how to turn into a wolf, but I would go with you back to your base. Just let him go.” “I’m sorry, Abby,” he said. “But what I need is for you to turn into a wolf right now, or I’ll kill your little boyfriend and still take you to the base.” “I don’t know how to do it. I don’t bloody know. Please leave him alone,” she said. Her voice fluctuated from rage to soberness.

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."

Sachem Nadura said and gazed at the cloud of strength that was clearly visible to all directions of these Eternal Prisons. His eyes concentrated and punctured through the camouflage of power upon the vortex of its origins. At the center was a boy. A marred being coupled with his list of sickness. His broken body may have been spectacularly pitiful but what called Sachem Nadura’s attention most was the tattooed symbols on the forehead of the boy. It was the mark of the Cursed. Someone who has done an unforgivable sin in his past life. And not just one but a whole lifetime of evil and immorality.

She had reached her goal and was now the Bellator champion. An arm encircled her waist with a familiar hand pulling her into his side. Instinctively, Taz reached down and touched the tattoo on his outer wrist. A small bill of sale declaring that his body, heart and soul had been sold to the Devil herself. Linking her fingers with his, she played with his titanium wedding band. Running through the center was a rainbow in support of his daughter. Beneath the ring, in the style of her trademark rainbow braids, TAZ was tattooed on his ring finger.

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.