Tortured Soul Tattoo Novels & Stories

He couldn't die just like that! "Spare me, spare my life. I'm willing to be your slave and serve you..." The Golden-scale Blood Crocodile's soul roared in the throes of death. In the sky, the beautiful girl's hand controlling the God-suppressing Seal stopped. She stretched out her delicate hand and bent her fair tender fingers, which were like freshly peeled spring onions. A strange dark tattoo emerged from her fair palm, releasing a kind of strange power to capture the Golden-scale Blood Crocodile's soul. At last, the soul was refined into a crimson light, sinking into the tattoo.

“As I did before.” The white puppets from outside hurtled toward Stringmaster, gathering around her. Footsteps echoed outside, as if the inmates all stepped toward the cell at once. “Do not test me, sylph.” “I’ll fight back,” she said, holding her ground. “I won’t feel guilty hurting your current human shields.” Her eyes swept over the big man beside her, noticing the tattoos covering his skin. At first glance, the inkwork seemed chaotic—a mishmash of poorly shaded lines and jagged outlines. Sloppy work, she thought. But the more she looked, the more deliberate it seemed. Hidden within the mess were grotesque images—women in chains, women with animals…

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.

I cannot reveal my nature and intentions so quickly, not with eyes everywhere and danger breathing through every corner. The hateful glare from the bodybuilders makes my skin crawl, their stares like judgment and scorn personified, heavy and suffocating, their tattoos telling stories of horror, blood spilled and purple patches marking survival and brutality as their watchword, but my scars hold something deeper—redemption and liberty, a hope of getting out of here alive. One minute later, I am sent into the torturous bath of the cursed prison waters, the force of it shocking, the cold biting through my skin like claws, its grip relentless as it strips away whatever is left of comfort.

nightmares. Many times, it is easy to push the gory images blurring my vision by focusing on the bird tattoo etched on my wrist, other times, the bird does nothing but aggravates the demons. Demons fighting for my soul, the only thing I have left. They feed on my fears and tears, leaving me a shaken mess. I would do anything to bury my memories.

I sighed, realizing my tattoos were more important to her at the moment than my cock. “Paralyzed will,” I explained, my hands running up and down her thighs. I could never get enough of touching this woman. Ever. “The ability to act is stripped away, leaving us a mere witness to the horrors of this world. For me, it also embodies the anguish of those who are aware of suffering around them but are rendered incapable of providing the help they are meant to offer. Maybe because we can’t see exactly where the true evil causing the chaos lurks,” I ended decidedly, my hand now perilously close to her beautiful pussy. “That’s…so poetic,” Evelina murmured, her eyes on me with admiration. “I don’t th

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.

I whispered in Trevor's ear. “They’ll make me kill Blake if we fight each other. That's what they've been training me for. Xavier said he wanted me to connect with my inner wolf, but what they want to do is to make the wolf take control. I can't have another person's blood on my hands… I just can't. Tiffany's death still haunts me.” Trevor held my hands and looked into my eyes. “Don't worry,” he whispered. “We can leave at night when they all fall asleep.”

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."