#horus tattoo

[tattoos247]

Anubis & Horus chest tattoo by Shooby, owner of Me Gus Tattoo in Paris, France.

[boop-le-snoot]

debuting my two space marine husbandry ocs. unlikely I will ever write them but I am open to answering asks!! click for better quality c:

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 2]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Jaws - Sleep Token [YouTube] [Spotify] “And I’m not here to be / the savior you long for / Only the one you don’t. / Are you watching me / with eyes of a predator / As you move towards the door?”

Warnings: Violence, cannibalism, explicit and detailed blood and gore, Night Lord things, ownership over reader, accidental voyuerism (sound only), trypanophobia (medical syringe)

Word Count: 3.7k

Author’s Note: 1.6k words of this are just an introduction that I wrote before I even got into the meat of it, completely by accident, because I do not know how to write without adding 30 layers of context and background (4D chess ass writing). Special thank you to @cannibalise for giving me delectable ideas and reading over some of the more graphic parts to help me set the tone!!!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender @historitor-bookshelf

Even weeks later, you struggle to shake the psychological mark the terminator’s gaze left on you. You make yourself busy sweeping one of the main halls, pushing your broom robotically up and down the grand passageway. The other legion serfs around you serve a similar purpose: readying the ship for the return of your Primarch and his elite troops. The Nightfall had been in orbit of this planet for naught but a week, dealing with a cultish tech-society and its oppressive government, yet the Night Lords managed to convince them to join the Imperium in record time. 

Convince is a strong word. You’re intimately aware that the discussion was had in the language of acts of violence and burned cities. Having once been on the receiving end of the Eighth’s hedonistic wrath, the thought sends an unpleasant chill through you, memories of mutilation and dismemberment still so clear in your mind. It had taken months for you to stop having panic attacks at the metallic tang of fresh blood. The whirr of a heavy flamer still got to you.

On one of your passes, you sweep by the alley leading to the armory and stop, staring down the dark hall. The serf no longer hangs from the torch bracket, and the astartes that attacked you no longer sits limply against the wall. His armor had been picked at and ‘recycled’ back into the legion. You have no idea what became of either body.

Another memory involuntarily takes you back to the night you had been so narrowly saved by the terminator.

—No, you could not call him your savior. He had just wanted his armor shined, and there was something in his way so he removed it. Night Lords are selfish, self-interested and sadistic, and he was no different.

You rested the massive helmet in your lap as you worked, scraping at filth that had built up for who knows how long. It amazed you that the astartes it belonged to could even see through the lenses given how much dried blood was crusted on them. It came off in flakes before dissolving into the moisture of the wash rag. You could have called the stained fabric spotless when you started compared to how soiled with grime it was now; at a glance, no one would be able to tell that it was white before.

The terminator’s eyes watched you like final judgement. The weight of his gaze instilled an unease in your heart, stabbing at every opportunity it could: each time you looked up at him, each time you lost focus, each time you caught a glimpse of the mangled Night Lord on the floor. It all hammered at a primal spike of dread that threatened to overwhelm you, consume you entirely, reminding you that you were only alive because you were useful. The tension was just as strong as when you had been pinned to the wall or huddled on the floor.

Your washcloth eventually reached a point where it was only smearing the grime rather than removing it, and you looked up to your silent master. The power of his presence alone made you hesitant to speak, and you found your throat suddenly parched. When you eventually recovered your voice, it left you as a croak, “I-I need to grab my water pail from the other room.”

He simply continued to stare at you, unmoving. As still as the gargoyles adorning the hall. You thought for a second that maybe he hadn’t heard you, and you opened your mouth to try again.

”I need to—“

”Then do it.”

You flinched. A rolling storm, his simple response left no room for questioning. Carefully placing his helmet onto the bench, you scuttled off to retrieve the bucket from the other room. His gaze burnt holes into your back.

The water in your bucket was a rusty brown slop when you returned to it. All of the heavier contaminants had settled to the bottom in a coagulated mass while you were away, gelatinous flesh and tangled hair weaving throughout. You lifted the heavy pail, careful not to spill any of the vile concoction onto yourself. Passing by, you noted that the other serf’s water was substantially less dingy than your own, and you didn’t think twice to grab it instead. It’s not as if it was of any use to her now.

The squelch of meat being torn and defiled echoed suddenly through the otherwise silent armory, instinctually gluing you to your spot on the floor. Cracks and crunches of something solid breaking bounced around you. The abrasive sounds left your heart fluttering and nerves electric, and a panicked tension flowed through your limbs as fight or flight tried its damndest to take over. 

‘It would be safer to hide, hide, retreat to safety,’ it erroneously cried, weighing you down like lead. A comforting lie. 

One you refused to give in to. 

‘There is no safety here,’ you retorted, ‘Only certain death.’ A wolf’s den, and you were the doting lamb. The fear of facing punishment for taking too long far outweighed the hesitation to continue, and you willed yourself to step forward through the icy shackles binding you. 

The sight of the terminator tearing flesh from the body of his former brother froze you as you rounded the corner with your pail. His eyes were glazed in manic pleasure as he ripped off another juicy chunk, sharp teeth effortlessly dissecting muscle fibers from the cooling corpse. Bestial snarling and slurping accompanied every chomp, and growls at a pitch nearly too deep to hear rattled through your bones like a saw. With each gnash of his powerful jaws, blood and spit shot out of the torn hole in his mouth, drooling down his armor in crimson dribbles.

Time itself seemed to stop when his predatory gaze found you. His dilated pupils completely swallowed the outer corners of white— could you even consider them dilated when they took up so much of his eyes already?— and pinned you in place. The ravenous beast swallowed his kill in a silent threat. 

You were about to make a run for it when he lowered the defiled corpse and snarled at you, foreign viscera spewing from his scar.

”Finish.”

You had done exactly as you were told while the terminator continued to make a mess of himself. Once you’d finished his helmet, he made you clean off the rest of his armor as a token of a job well done. 

A strong dissonance contrasted the perfectly shined ceramite and rags of human hide adorning his war gear. You didn’t understand at first why the Night Lords would go through such lengths to clean their armor, only to decorate it with the disgusting tokens of their kills and bathe it in blood again, but over time you began to recognize the mentality. The layers of blood were a byproduct of their work— terrifying in their own right, yes, however ultimately just ‘part of the job’—, but each placement of flesh and bone was deliberate; they chose to wear them. It added terror to their already gruesome countenance.

You figure you must have done well polishing his armor, because the terminator had left you alive in the end. As expected, he gave you no feedback. No thanks or gratitude shown before he simply walked off. For the second time that day, you were left in the armory with a huge mess to clean entirely on your own.

Shaking your head, you return to the present and continue sweeping, pushing the pile of dust around to keep yourself busy. 

Sharp clanks of heavy boots cut through the relative peace. You look down the hall to see other serfs parting ways and scurrying off to make way for a coming company of giants. Their armor dwarfed that of the regular Night Lords, tanks of metal and firepower that razed battlefields in their wake.

The Contekar Elite.

You knew of them from hushed whispers passed between serfs in the chow hall. Units of butchers that sowed despair in the hearts of their foes. Ruthless in how they constantly checked one another, the Contekar took advantage of any perceived weakness to prove their dominance over the rest of the legion. They were notorious for simply killing any commanders they disagreed with, and only the likes of First Captain Sevatarion or the Lord Night Haunter himself could tame them. 

Each colossus carried weapons as long and large as your entire body as they approached: chainblades, flamers, and cavitators, all ready to be used at a moment's notice. You hurried to get out of their way, tucking yourself behind a hallway corner. The monoliths of steel shook the ground with each step, a deafening thunder echoing down the main hall that signaled their arrival. There was no chorus or fanfare amongst them to be found; each marine was as silent as death itself.

They ignored you as they passed by. The Contekar couldn’t care less for the meddlings of a common legion serf, too busy with themselves to notice you, and it brought you shallow comfort.

At least, it would have. 

Preoccupied with watching the marines at your front passing by, you didn’t realize that one of them was headed straight towards you until his footfalls physically rattled the ground beneath you. You whip your head towards him and nearly jump out of your skin, clutching to the corner of the wall as he stares down at you. 

His entire body is marred with blood. Even from where you cower, you can see that he must be at least three meters tall in his armor, if not more. The digits of his power claw have pieces of mangled flesh still caught between their hydraulic pistons, forming webs between them. A mummified head dangles at eye level from a meat hook, and it crosses your mind that it could have been yours. 

You recognize his tusked helmet immediately.

The Contekar studies you. He is a perfect statue: unmoving and silent aside from the faint whirring emanating from the power pack on his back. Behind the scarlet lenses, his eyes scrutinize you down to your very last atom. A lion picking apart its prey.

“Come,” he orders, his gruff voice offering no further explanation. He takes a step away from you with the intent to continue further down the passage, and you suddenly find your limbs leaden and weak, unable to follow. Sensing your trepidation, his head turns back towards you, eyes locking on yours. The faded skull decal isn’t as cute when you’re at the receiving end of its ire.

Pain shoots up your left arm as you’re yanked off of the wall and lifted without another word. The cold metal of the Escaton power claw digs into your bones uncomfortably, sharpened claws at each fingertip poking into your flesh. The terminator grasps you by your forearm and drags you beside him until you can find your footing and walk on your own, stumbling into a jog to keep up. When you retrieve your arm, partially dried pieces of viscera stick to it from where you were grabbed. You brush them off hastily with a grimace; at least the power claw didn’t break skin.

You hug closely to the terminator’s leg as you walk with the group, not wanting to get trampled. The other serfs mostly keep their heads down as you pass them by, but a few give you a sympathetic look. The rest of the Contekar continue to ignore you.

The suites housing the Elite are grander than any part of the ship you have been in thus far. Compared to the regular Night Lord’s dorms, the metal halls leading to their private quarters are pristine. The usual decor of skulls and tanned skins is present, but there is no buildup of filth and grime along the floors and walls. The scent of fresh air is jarring. Most surprising to you is that each of the marines has their own private rooms, which you learn when you are unceremoniously shoved into one. 

The tusked terminator’s room is shockingly comfortable, for a Night Lord. A thin light strip, the same brightness of a full moon on your former world, serves as the only illumination of the dark room. Along the walls are various trophies that you assume are from his time in the field, both of his kills and plunders. A large work table and chair take up the whole of the wall to your right. Instead of a regular astartes-sized cot, there is an actual bed with pillows and a wide plush mattress. In the back corner of the room is a closed door, which you assume leads to a washroom.

Whoever your new charge was, he lives well.

A click catches your attention, and you turn to your left to see him removing the heavy pauldrons of his armor. He places each of them on the sturdy table, then turns his attention to his power claw, his gauntlets, his vambraces— steadily pulling them off one plate at a time. After removing his helmet, shakes out his greasy black hair and turns to look at you with a furrow in his brow. 

You remember your place and jump into action, aiding the marine in removing his sabatons. The plates of ceramite are much too heavy for you to lift on your own, but it’s easier for your smaller hands to get into the creases to release locks and latches. The two of you enter a wordless synergy, pulling off the heavy terminator armor piece by piece and placing each on a designated mantle. You’re extra careful not to get caught on the hooks of his armor. The desiccated head serves as a good reminder.

Even reduced to just his body glove, the astartes is colossal. His height easily dwarfs the majority of his brothers. You have to crane your neck upwards to look at his face, barely coming up to chest level on him. This close, you can see the sprinkling of grey hair within his sideburns and the lines of his face that indicate some arbitrary older age. You never did know how to tell the ages of astartes.

He uses his newfound freedom to stretch his limbs. Each is as broad as a tree trunk, and you figure they’re likely just as immovable. When he catches you staring and waiting, he simply returns the look, quietly raising an eyebrow.

“Would you like your armor shined, my lord?” you try, gesturing vaguely to the table and mantle. His eyes track the movement, looking over his war gear in silence before he gives you a curt nod. He points to a drawer beside his bed, then without further clarification turns his attention to removing his body glove. 

Within the drawer you discover a stack of folded shop towels. Why they’re there is a mystery to you. Judging by the size of the terminator armor, you decide three is enough for now, grabbing them and sliding the drawer shut. You look up to ask if the Contekar has any armor oil around, only to see him half-naked walking through the door in the corner. It swings shut behind him, leaving you once again to solve your problems on your own.

You wonder what force in this universe blessed you with such a communicative master.

It took him three entire days to tell you, “you live here,” instead of simply denying you the ability to leave and making you sleep on the floor. You swore he was going to turn your rib cage into a new trophy when you eventually did get out, trying to navigate your way back to the serfs’ dormitory for much needed food. He had hunted down like a rabbit, snatched you up from behind, and thrown you back into his quarters with a growl to, “stay put.” What the terminator lacked in words, he greatly made up for with his intimidating presence.

He did get you food, though, and an abundance of it. You hadn't seen so much variety since you were still living on your home planet. Delicacies like meat were rare to you, and you eagerly scarfed everything down. In your hunger, you did not ask where the meat came from.

It’s not as if he would have told you anyway, given how scantily he spoke. You haven’t even gotten his name out of him yet.

The only times you were permitted to leave the suite were when you could accompany him. Trips to the armory gave you vital chances to hoard cleaning supplies, having gotten accustomed to the lesser atmosphere of decay around the Elites’ quarters. On top of the standard armor oils, you managed to snag an expensive looking jar of polish, which you hoped would gain you some favor. Your master doesn’t particularly show you signs of care, but he also hasn’t killed you yet, and that has to be worth something.

On your way back to his quarters, a discordant howling rings out from one of the rooms adjacent to his. You flinch at the sound, assuming the worst: that somebody nearby was in the midst of being tortured and flayed alive, and that you would have to hear their slow untimely demise throughout the night. It wouldn’t be the first time you had to fall asleep to the sounds of screams and cries. The Contekar, however, scoffs. His nose scrunches up in annoyance, teeth bared in a disgusted snarl. 

“Don’t understand the appeal,” he grunts, shaking his head and continuing forward. 

Glancing over in confusion, you start to pay more attention to the sound. The rhythmic pattern of each holler and whine. The sound of skin on skin. The quiet pleas of, “more, please, more!” 

Your eyes widen when you put two and two together, ducking your head down to hide the blush steadily rising on your cheeks. That was not the type of torture you were expecting to hear. You pick up the pace and hope the terminator doesn’t recognize your sudden newfound urgency.

He allows you to store your armory stash in his bedside drawer alongside the rags. It nearly knocks you over when he throws an arm out to keep you from closing it, sending you staggering back with a huff. He removes one of the towels, then abruptly drops it over the top of your head. You don’t even get the chance to remove it before you’re being pushed in a direction, blindly stumbling along. A transition strip between some passageway causes you to trip and fall to the floor. Pulling the towel off of your head, your vision clears to the sight of the bathroom. 

You shoot the terminator a bewildered look before he lifts you by the back of your shirt and throws you underneath a showerhead, giving you no warning before turning it on. The cold jet hits you like a hose spray, causing you to yipe at the sudden temperature shock. Freezing water saturates your clothes. 

He breathily laughs at your agonized shiver.

Despite the rude beginning, you return from the washroom refreshed, feeling for the first time like your skin isn’t permanently encrusted with the gunk lining nearly every surface of the ship. It had been weeks since you could last bathe in any capacity. The water did warm up eventually– not warm, but not frigid– and allow you to scrub the filth off.

When you exited the shower, your master was nowhere to be seen, and there was a new uniform on the oversized counter. It wasn’t difficult to tell that it was intended for you, given the vast size difference between you and the Elite. The navy blue outfit bears an embroidery of the Eighth’s winged skull over each shoulder and lines of Nostraman text that you are unable to translate. You’re just happy the new garbs aren’t tattered and fraying like the last, which you gleefully toss. They land in the bucket with a wet squish.

As you approach the door to the main room of the quarters, you’re alerted to the sound of quiet conversation, not expecting there to be anyone but the terminator about. The tonal register is too low and quiet for you to make out any spoken words. 

You enter the space in time to watch your master sit at the table and place his arm out flat upon it. An apothecary stands beside him unpackaging a syringe. He stabilizes the terminator’s arm in the crux of his shoulder, turning his palm upwards and pressing the bevel of the needle into a prominent vein running distally from the elbow. Crimson liquid slowly fills the barrel as he pulls the plunger back.

The apothecary’s cart bears instruments uncharacteristic of typical medicae. Replacing scalpels and suturing utensils are various packaged needles and pigment bottles. A large battery pack wires into a small rectangular box, the screen and dials illegible to you from your current distance, with a strange metal stylus connected to it. Sitting atop a stack of disposable napkins is a tall wash bottle containing a clear substance. The apothecary flicks the syringe until the bubbles have all risen to the top, slowly venting the air until only blood remains, and he carefully ejects a drop into each of the waiting ink cups.

Your gaze falls back on the Contekar in time to see him rising from his chair and walking towards you. You cower back on instinct, anxiety creeping up from your chest. 

He wipes a stray drop of blood from his arm with a thumb, and when you move to question what’s going on, he jams the digit into your mouth. The coppery taste spreads over your tongue as you gag from the intrusion, unable to pull away due to the unyielding grip he has on your jaw. He jerks your head upwards, forcing you to look at him, and the abyss of his black eyes swallows you whole.

“Strip.”

Not everyone saw the art the first time around, so here's your Mans

[Part 3]

[girlesotericism]

[chelsea-heller-tattoo]

Both color and a version that's just black. Like to give options. I am looking to do some Ancient Egypt themed tattoos. :)

[mxswell]

if Venom guilty gear had a tattoo would it be the eye of horus as a tramp stamp or as a womb tattoo

[karmicstar]

Spiritual Portals: The Magical Significance of Tattoos

Discover the enchanting world of tattoos and their magical significance in this captivating video, "Spiritual Portals: The Magical Significance of Tattoos." We delve into how tattoos have been revered as spiritual conduits across cultures, bringing protection, connection, and even vulnerability. From name tattoos that symbolize personal bonds to ancient symbols like the Eye of Horus and the Ankh, we explore their positive and negative energies. Learn about memorial tattoos that honor lost loved ones and the powerful implications of tattooing deities. Uncover how placement affects energy flow and how mindful tattoo choices can act as gateways to spiritual realms. Like and share this video to spread the magic!

#Tattoos #Spirituality #MagicalSignificance #TattooSymbolism #EnergyPortals

[asshole-rebel-psycho]

Even the rednecks are turning illuminati.

We are fucking screwed.

[gaaaaaaaayypr]

Yay for thic thighs. Nay for illuminati eyes.

[thethronezone]

How do you think the Primarchs would react to their kid going through that rebellious teen phase and doing something like getting a piercing or tattoo or dying their hair an out there colour?

Supportive, even if they don't understand it: Sanguinius, Vulkan, Corvus, Horus, Roboute

Whatever, it's just a phase: Mortarion, Rogal, Konrad, Ferrus, Angron

"NOT IN THIS HOUSE": Perturabo, Lion

Makes fun of them for the bad hairdo: Leman, Jaghatai, Fulgrim, Alpharius

Prays to god to help their child in these trying times: Lorgar

Edit: Magnus is on team "Supportive, even if they don't understand it".

[spaceprincess04]

Just a lil sun from my drafts… this is like a year and a half old, but enjoy!

It’s day three of the press tour and you’re learning more and more about your co-workers, outside of what you’d usually chat about on set. You’re now at the Vanity Fair interview where you literally have to play a guessing game with two of your co-stars about their personal lives.

“What’s a fun fact about me? I guess there’s not just one answer to this, so answer this one freely?” Michael reads the card he pulled aloud.

“Oh, easy. You love basketball.” Jonathan eagerly answers.

Michael nods, “very true. More so when I was younger, cause I liked to play a lot. I still love to watch though.”

“You only have one tattoo. Makeup crew always covers it for films, of course, but it’s hella cool.” I answer when my turn comes around.

“Yep. I have the outline of Africa and the eye of Horus tatted on my left shoulder.” He Winked, which was very unnecessary if you ask me.

“Of course she would know that.” Jonathan gave me a pointed look. This man always accuses Michael and I of having a crush on each other.

“Well I find it to be a form of method acting, staring at Michael's shoulders. It’s very crucial part of playing Bianca.” It’s my turn to wink at the camera. The fans are going to have a field day with that clip, I can just see the edits already.

“Anywassss! If I were a drink, what would I be? Wait, regular drink or spirits?” You look past the camera, asking the interviewer.

“Either or” she answers.

“Let’s do spirits.” Your costar Jonathan helps you decide.

“Cool, okay. I’ll write my answer now so you guys can guess..”You finish dragging your sharpee along the piece of paper the crew provided you with.

“Coffee martini? I don’t know, Just kinda seems like your vibe.” Jonathan answers with uncertainty.

“You know, I’ve never had one. It’s crazy because i loooovvveee coffee, which Jonathan knows. I’ve just never been brave enough to mix coffee and alcohol.” You shrug. “So, no. That’s not the answer I wrote.” You laugh, patting Jonathan on the arm.

“Awe, man.” He replies and puts his head down in mock shame.

“She grew up around southern folks, so i’ma go with whiskey.” Michael answers.

“You, you are correct. I’d be a glass of Maker’s, neat.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mike responds.

I smirk at the camera before bursting into laughter. “Please don’t take me seriously, y’all. I cannot be serious for very long. Who’s turn is it next?”

“That would be me. This one’s easy, what do I take with me everywhere?” Jonathan takes a couple seconds to write.

“Your cute little cup, of course.” You make a tea drinking jester with your pinky out.

“I do not drink like that, but yes I always have a mug with me. I have about.. three? in rotation.”

“You definitely do drink like that.” You pretend to whisper to him.

“Yeah your mug and your speaker for sure.” Mike nods.

“Yes, the speaker was second on the list.” Jonathan reveals his paper.

“Alright, last one.” Michael pulls the last card. “Aside from acting, what is my other talent?”

“Trick question? Directing?” Jonathan questions.

“Tap dancing? No, I’m kidding.” I ponder over what his hidden talent could be.

“Oh wait, are you gonna say basketball?” Jonathan slaps his knee, clapping and laughing as he looks away.

“You’re a piece of shit.” Michael responds in between laughs.

“Ummmm” you drag out my response, trying to create more time to think.

“Damn, do y’all know me?” He turns his card around and it reads ‘cooking��

“I don’t, I need you to make a meal for us to refresh our memories.” You point in between Jonathan and yourself.

“Ooooh, yeah. No, no, I knew that.” Jonathan rubs his eyebrow.

“What? Yes guys, I cook all my food. When I’m bulking, I get the meal plan from the nutritionist and do the cooking.” He speaks into the camera.

“No way. What can you cook? Chicken and Broccoli?” you cracked yourself up, squeezing your sides from laughter and everything.

“Wow, I really am going to have to cook for you now. You’re doubting me?”

“I believe my brother. If he says he can cook, he can probably cook.” Jonathan joins in the banter.

“Alright. Y’all name it, I’ll cook it at the crib TONIGHT! Y’all not gone play with me like this.” He’s dead ass serious right now.

“Okay then, do a seafood boil.” You raise a brow at him to see if he’s bluffing or not.

“Bet.”

“Okay, we’ll see. That shit better not be nasty, Mike.” I’m still laughing when I tap Jonathan. “Watch us pull up and his chef is leaving at the same time.”

“You can watch me cook it if you want to stay that long. I’ll even film it for y’all.”

“No, you’re good. We believe you, bro.” Jonathan straightens his face into a more serious expression.

“What time will I see y’all then?”

“You’ll see y/n whenever she’s free.” Jonathan pats your shoulder.

“What? Why can’t you be there? I’m not going through this alone. I’m scared, guys.” Your eyes widened in the lense of the camera, as if the fans could see me live and come to your rescue.

“I have a thing.” Jonathan tucks his lips, trying to hide the taunting expression.

“That’s bull. what thing do you have?”

“I already made the commitment to myself. I gotta do my post press-tour self care routine. Self care is very important, to all my fellas out there. Bubble baths, face masks, and whatnot.”

“Oh booo! Forget you and your pink bathrobe.” You scoff.

“How do you know what color his robe is?” Michael’s eyebrows knit together followed by the straightening of his spine. You can hear some of the camera crew snickering in the back.

“I don’t, I was made the joke from that one magazine cover he did.” You shrug, not quite noticing the change in the man’s body language.

“I’m appalled. My bathrobe is actually red. My favorite color, in case y’all were wondering. Sorry bro, I can’t make it tonight. You’ll have to let me know in the group chat how it was, y/n.”

“Yeah yeah whatever, sassy man. I’ll be there sometime after 7, Mike. Oh, and another fun fact about me is,” you turn your attention back to the camera “ I can’t eat seafood in nice clothes. I will be pulling up in my non-interview clothes.”

When it’s time to close out the video everyone does their outro. “Welp, looks like I don’t know Michael B Jordan very well. Thanks for tuning in, be sure to check out Creed III in theaters.”

…

You finished your interviews for the day that you had with other cast members and went home to shower, relax and reset. Then, you remembered you had one more thing to do.

It’s half past seven when you pull up to Michael's place

in a ‘I heart dilfs’ baby tee, comfy shorts, and some pink hello kitty bling flip flops.

No later than ten seconds after the doorbell rang, your handsome co-star himself opens the door to greet you with a smile. “Y/n” he steps to the side, allowing you to walk in and closing the door behind you.

“You look cozy.” You comment, pointing to his basketball shorts and wife beater. “Nice shoes” you knew he was a sneakerhead, those retro ones are dope and hard to get.

“Ah, thanks. I was just tryna keep up with you.” He refers to your earlier comment made at the interview about how you dress when eating seafood. “‘I love Dilfs’, huh?” He smirks at your shirt.

“Yup, that includes Amara’s dad.” You wink in his direction

A hand meets the small of your back as he guides you to the kitchen. “Aight, this is what I got. I’m finishing up right now, so don’t try and say I ain’t cook this shit.” He warns.

“Ouuu, it smells good in here. I’m not gone lie, I’m kinda excited.” Your mouth is in the verge of salivating.

Michael takes the last of what he’s frying off of the stove and turns the fire off. “Okay, so we got crab of course, with the potatoes, corn, and sausage in it. We also got garlic noodles and fried butterfly shrimp on the side.”

He fixes a big hefty ass plate and walks over to the table. “This is for me or you?” You quirk your brows.

“Girl, sit down.” He laughs, scooting your chair out for you to sit at this huge glass table.

“What do you want to drink?” He asks walking back to the kitchen.

“Water is good, thank you.”

“Oh, I got some of those food gloves and bibs. I know you got your nails done and shit.” He chuckles, handing them to you.

“Oh, thank you!”

When he’s brought drinks for the two of you, y’all settle at the table and you prepare to eat your words as well as his food because it smells good. You just know you won’t be able to trash it.

“Damn man, I don’t think I’m gonna be able to shit talk you anymore. Let me just get into it. You, Jonathan, and the whole vanity fair crew are anticipating my reaction.” You crack open a crab leg, dip the meat into the sauce and pop it in your mouth.

His gaze is fixated on you. He hasn’t moved his fork not once, too excited to know what you think.

“It’s fire, sheesh.” You smile, cracking your next piece and dipping into the sauce.

“You and Jonathan had me messed up, I had to come correct.”

“Your place is nice. This is very Aquarian male of you. Modern as fuck, cool art but not so many momentos.”

“Yeah, when my parents moved out I kinda just re-did the decorating myself.” He shrugs. “Are you busy after dinner?”

“I was just gonna go back home. Why, what’d you have in mind?”

“Maybe a movie?” He leaves space in the air for you to answer, not completely sure if you were down to stick around for longer than what you’d agreed to earlier in the day.

“That sounds good, what do you have in mind? I’m only staying if it’s Sci-fi or Anime. I can’t do that rom com shit tonight.”

“So you didn’t watch ‘A Journal To Jordan?’ I thought we supported each other.” He pretends to be hurt. “But nah. I definitely was thinking the same thing to be honest.”

“You know I did.” You side eye him. “Ouu, should we watch those old ass reruns of Star Trek?”

“Hell yeah.”

We clean up the table and do the dishes together, he washes and you put them on the drying rack because he says that’s all you’re allowed to do. You like that he doesn’t have maids and cleaners at all times to do every single thing for him. Yes, he’s a well paid celebrity and can do that now but it’s refreshing to be around people who don’t move like that. You’re the same way, you do your own shit when I’m home and have the time.

“I’m not a huge wine drinker, but someone gifted me this Pinot Grigio. If you want, we can crack it open. My mom gave me this wine rack when she moved, she said it makes the kitchen look classier. As you can see there’s only one bottle in here.”He playfully shakes his head, grabbing a bottle.

“Oh wow, Mr. Jordan. Are you encouraging me to drink and drive?” You falsely gasp.

“My fault, I didn’t even think about that. Most people don’t drive themselves in LA.”

“No, you’re good. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

“I can take you home, or call a driver, or you can stay here if you want.. there’s guest rooms for you to choose from if you.” He clears his throat after the last sentence, realizing how it might have sounded and not wanting to insinuate something.

“It’s cool, we’ll figure it out. I will have a drink with you, though.. or a few. You know, wine goes fast.”

He smiles, your joke lightening the air. He’s focused on getting the cork out of the bottle, his muscles flexing ever so slightly and you can’t help but to look. “Ah, there we go.” He reaches into his cabinets to grab two glasses, pours yours and hands it to you before pouring his own and leading you a living room area with his glass and the bottle in hand.

The two of you are a whole glass in, and have completely forgotten about the show playing on the tv as it’s just become background noise to your conversation. Michael sitting on the other side of you. You’re so comfortable. You're against the arm of the sofa, legs crossed and laid out over the pillowy cushions.

“Why did you have to be such an overachiever? Not only is the item I requested perfect, you had to go and make some good ass sides too? Sick. It’s that damn Virgo rising.”

He chuckles and refills your glasses. “Well, thank you. I remember you telling me about my chart and how you’re into astrology, but I don’t really know much else about it. Can you tell me?” He picks up your legs, settles them onto his lap and starts working on massaging one of your feet. “This is a cute color.” He rubs your sparkly peridot painted toes. You never try anything outside of white, he must’ve noticed the difference.

You could moan, right now. This is the most orgasmic feeling you’ve had all month. With the stressful ass press tour, working all day and barely having the time to fucking chill. For you, this felt like heaven. It didn’t hurt that your fine ass, hubby material co-worker was the cause of it all.

“Awe, thank you. I- I um, found your chart online that day we were talking about it in your trailer and I remembered your big three. You’re an Aquarius sun, Virgo rising, cancer moon. I think that you being an Aquarius sun makes you inclined to live and do shit in more of an unconventional way that fits you perfectly, and it makes you iconic, to be honest. Virgos are like the perfectionists of the zodiac, the true performers and artists, they have such a meticulous eye for perfection in regards to what they do. Part of why you and Jonathan are some damn good actors, attention to detail n allat. That could also be why you both get along so well, but that’s a whole other thing called synastry where you'd compare your chart to other peoples and see how your relationship with them could be. As far as your moon, Cancer moon people can tend to be super tender, caring and comforting people. y’all lowkey some homebodies, all about comfort.”

“Wow” his eyes slightly widen, it’s a lot to take in. You love to run your mouth about the things you’re passionate about, he just loves that you’re sharing this passion with him.

“I went off on a whole tangent there, but it’s honestly way more complex than that. I love it. I think depending on how people use it, it could be a great tool for life. It’s like my version of ethics class… and wine makes me run my mouth extra.” a giggle seeps from your mouth after you take another sip.

“That’s dope, to think there’s a whole ass science behind people’s lives and personalities. I never would’ve thought it could be accurate.” He replied.

“Yeahh, I know! I was never really into it when I was younger, but moving to LA and all these other new experiences that I got going on made me want to open up to it and give it a honest try.”

“I'd pay you for a chart reading, I never trusted those little magic booths at Malibu.” He smiles, kissing the arch of your foot before moving on to massage the other.

You hide your noise of satisfaction with a yawn. “Mmm, I’d do it free of charge if you can cook like that again. I shouldn’t have doubted you, Mr. Jordan. My apologies.”

“It’s all good, now you know I can cook for you whenever you’d like.”

…

“So, what about you? You’re so good with kids. It’s adorable seeing you with them online, when we had the babies on set, and even with sweet little mila. Do you plan on having any? Or are you just like the cool uncle figure to other people’s kids. Cause’ I’m not at all judging. As the oldest sister, I once upon a time swore I wouldn’t ever have em.” Your hands go up in a mixture of shrug and surrender.

He’s amused by this. “I don’t buy that for a second, kids love you. I definitely want some. I love kids, I hope to have them one day. I just haven’t had a point in my career yet where I’ve slowed down enough to truly be the ideal dad that I’d like to be.I don’t know though, are you still holding yourself to that promise?” His dimples adorably peer through his smile.

“Ha! You know, I don’t know if I ever did, really. I mostly said it because I saw the stress that parenthood brought to people's lives, especially when they weren’t truly ready for it. I guess it's more me swearing not to be a parent if I didn’t have the resources to do it how I deemed proper, or not being at a place of stability for my child. You know? I can’t truly say that I wouldn’t want to bring that type of joy into this world. My heart ain’t cut like that.” You shake your head.

“No, I definitely get it. Being at the right capacity mentally, physically, and financially before I have a child is super crucial. I also want them to have parents who can be role models to what love should truly look like, like I had. I know everybody didn’t get to grow up seeing that. You know, that strong and unconditional, healthy, in love-love shit.”

“Definitely, that’s vital. I wish I had that growing up. It’s beautiful that you got to have that and can recognize the impact it has on people who don’t. Everything from childhood molds you into who you are, I believe. I would just want to give my baby the best childhood possible.” Your lips curl upwards. “It’s weird, I’ve never gone much into depth about this topic. But yeah, you pretty much filled in the gaps that I couldn’t put my thumb on.”

“Same” he points to my shirt. “Somebody gotta get that ‘I love milfs’ shirt to match you one day.”

“You’ve been teasing me about this shirt since I came in.” You jokingly swat his hand away.

“You started it, tryna clown on my fit as soon as you walked in the door.”

“Nah, I like the color gray on you.” You unintentionally stare at his shorts, the outline of him softly speaking to you.

“Yeah? You look pretty in everything.” He pulls you onto his lap. His hands explore your sides, traveling upwards for his thumbs to meet the peaks that hardened through your shirt. “You cold?” The pads of his fingers ran over your clothed nipples.

How do you tell him that your skin is burning up and freezing at the same time? That you don’t know how far of a line has been crossed with your coworker and friend? Who knows, but tonight wouldn’t be when you figured it out.

“You keep the ac on blast.” You shyly nod.

He picks up a fuzzy white blanket from the other side of him and throws it over your bodies, even though he’s naturally radiating warmth. Michael lays back on the couch, neither of you talk. Just feeling each other’s hearts beating, the movement of your chests as breath comes and goes from your bodies when you you inhale and exhale. His large hand gently rubs your back, in a manner that you almost fall asleep to.

“You want to stay with me tonight?” He whispers, lips brushing along the shell of your ear.

You nod “can we watch Innuyasha?”

“Of course, princess.” You feel the vibrations of his deep voice travel through your skin, scratching your brain in a way that feels so good. Your body gets heavy, you feel comfortable enough to let it relax. He smiles as your face rests in the crook of his neck and your breathing becomes deeper.

[relax-and-read-on]

Rhaaaaa the URGE to write a deep fantasy au!!! Where every primarch is a faction/race and the monarch of their faction!!!

Here is the primarch list pls take it and write it I don't need more WIP

Primarch, in a Fantasy AU

Mortarion: Fairy. But im the slightly mean, might steal your bones and eat your eyeballs way. Very close to nature and secretive, hard to see and talk too. Soft moth wings that can produce a dust that either heal or poison you.

Vulkan: Dragonborn from the montains! Very noble and adventurous, quite likely to go around and visit his friends. Less of a king and more of a "designated leader because he's so nice (and big)". Imvulnerable to fire damage.

Fulgrim: here me out- Drow. A beautiful dark elf, who helped save his world from starvation and ruin, and is slowly pushing to open up his kingdom to trades and diplomacy.

Ferrus: Orc! They qoek by a clan syathem, byt are actually skilled engineer, as rhey are nomadic and try to get all the info/knowledge they can before moving on. Some of the obly marksmen of the setting. Surprisingly friendly, they know they are strong and that messing with them would be UNBELEIVABLY stupid.

Magnus: spirit/energy being. King of Prospero, a desert city where everyone kinda became lowkey immortal, in a metapgysical way. People have shed their flesh body a long time ago and now mostly either wander the city around as spirits, kr by possesing objects like armours. Genies legend were based on them due to magical power, but no, they are NOT forced the grant wishes.

Leman: I mean. Wolfperson. He literally keep changing into a wolf half the time. Nomadic in nature, him and his people are the best hunters of the land, and often employed as mercenary.

Horus: Human. Just... regular ass human. Normal as hell. King of them, and very good at making alliance, very stable and prosperous Kingdom. Also very cosmopolitan, with all the races and factions bwing welcomed to walk through.

Sanguinius: I mean........... Vampire. In the noble, aristocratic way. He has a very impressive and spooky castle that people get invited too for fancy bit vaguely spooky dinner. Very polite, doesn't hide his nature here, but is constantly trying to maintain a tight control on his vampires subordinate.

Lion: He is TOTALLY a Normal Human of a Normal Human Kingdom. Not a Changeling from the magical forest at all. What's that? Watchers? Totally normal people too, not at all gnomes and kobolt and korrigan who also consider him their king...

Roboute: Prince of a human kingdom... But he's actually an adopted half elf!! Constantly at war in his soul between the two part of his being. His kingdom is the largest human kingdom, but constantly has to deal with difficult political intrigue and threat of invasion.

Lorgar: Naga. His tattoo are actually gold scales glittering all across his body in an hypnotic patern. His people are semi nomadic, they have multiple rock city across the desert that they migrate between every 10 to 20 years.

Jaghatai: ....... Centaur. Like. I just couldn't. Nomadic step people, smart, amazing archer, they often also run huge trade carravan between the various kingdom and are, honnestly, filthy rich. Having a centaur offer you to ride on his back to a non-centaur person is basically a marriage proposal.

Rogal: Dwarf! But from nordic, snowy montains. Very good craftsman and engineer, very used to nordic winter with 3 months long night. Best friend with Roboute, travel in giant steam ship.

Angron: Elves! But he was captured as a child and almost turned into... Something else. However, he led a rebellion, and went back to his kingdom. They are very warry of outsiders, and his kingdom is composed of a notable portion of those "changed elves". Yes, I mean Uruk-Hai

Konrad: Vampire but in like. The creepy way. They are kimda more goulish, cannibalistic, who live in creepy osolated town and scare away travelers. Terrible assassins hired by other kingdoms In reality, while him and his people ARE some kind of creepy blood sucker, they just want to live their isolayed life.

Corvus: the BIRDY people. Probably a race that get a variety of avian features, some have bird heads, some wings, some feets, some are fully antro... Corvus can fully shift between giant murder raven and human.

Alpharius and Omegon: Shapeshifter. Less of a tribe/kingdom than a secret society of shapeshifter who infiltrated more or less succesfully all the other kingdoms. They have a good time of it.

Perturabo: Minotaur of a distant montainous kingdom. His Kingdom is actually a mix between minotaur and humans, living in a tense mixed society. He rule with his sister/totally not wife Calliphone, who is a human. Yes, he is gigantic at her side. Yes, she is smug about it.

[mysticode54]

This iceberg chart serves as a table of contents for the ICO encyclopedia I've long been building up in my brain. Feel free to reach out and ask me about any of these entries (but don't anticipate a quick response, especially when I need to gather a lot of sources to fully explain the entry). Transcription of the image under the cut. Higher resolution image

Tip of the Iceberg

Connections to Shadow of the Colossus

US vs Japanese Box Art

Watermelon Ending

You Fight the Sacrificed Children as Shadows

Design by Subtraction

"Mono is the Queen" Theory

Inspired the Gaming Industry

Below the Surface

(a.k.a "What you might learn in a video essay about the game")

Inspired Hidetaka Miyazaki's Career

Hidden Weapons

Originally Developed on PlayStation 1

The ICO Novelization

Amiga Game Inspirations

Scrapped Human Enemies

Yorda's Language is Japanese with Each Word Spoken Backwards

Yorda's Tattoos (PS1)

The Cut Dialogue

Regional Version Differences

i-c-o.net

Yorda's Hints

Ueda's "Pilot Movie" for ICO

Bottom of the Iceberg

(a.k.a "What you might learn from a speedrunner about the game")

50 Hertz Super Jump

Shouting Makes Ico Faster

The Shadow's Names

The US Version Released First

Shadow Phasing

The Unseen Commercial that Inspired Ueda

Shadows are Weak to Water

Ico Can Block Attacks

Below the Ice

(a.k.a "What you might learn from research and repeat playthroughs")

The Pipe Between Upper and Lower Cogwheel

E3 2000 Articles Claim Yorda is Magically Cursed with Blindness

The Staff Exclusive ICO Merch

The Queen's Sword Has a Missing Scabbard

Ico's Handcuffs

Scrapped Shadow Types

R1 to Find Queen's Sword

Dark Water

(a.k.a "What you might learn through translation and sharp eyes")

The Horsemen are Priests

Scrapped Bats and Geckos

Yorda's Name Comes from Hilda (from "Horus, Prince of the Sun")

UEQ Website

The Castle Has Some Electric Lightbulbs

Kabutomushi

The Graves Have Horns

The Deep

(a.k.a "What you might learn over the course of many years")

Scrapped Backstep Maneuver

Idol Statue Children are Based on Yorda's Pilot Design

GPL Violation

The Queen and Yorda Share Face Textures and Body Proportions

The Queen's Concept Design is Still in the Game

Yorda's Dress is Partially Inspired by Cicadas

Midnight Zone

(No clever title. You're too deep for clean categories.)

The Pattern is Everywhere, Even the Sofas

Scrapped Mid-Boss Fight

Yorda's Shadow Form Briefly Has a Forcefield in the Storyboards

Luz y Sombra

Ramsès Younan's "Tropique du Cancer" is the True JP Cover Art Inspiration

Prototype "Nostalgia of the Infinite" Cover

Abyssal Zone

Yorda's Cage Neighbors the Throne Room

Wireframe Office Fans

Insect Net

November 5th, 2001 at Shibuya's "Museum 1999 L’eau à la bouche"

Subtle Alterations to End Credits' Flashbacks

Yorda Sings in Early Concepts

Below The Abyss

Ico Calls Out Yorda's Name (8/06/01 Prototype Build)

Scrapped Queen Statue

Scrapped Heroine "Reaction" Mask

イand コ Buildings

Scrapped ICO Numerals

Hadal Zone

Throne Room Bloodstains

The Saddle Blankets

Scrapped "Torture Chamber" and Other Stages

PS1 Ico Operating a Mounted Gatling Gun

[she-who-paints-with-fire]

OVER DRINKS

Ship-watching was always an interesting experience, because it always brought so many more questions than it did answers.

Despite all their years of experience watching ship after ship dock in Eris V's bays, though, nobody—not a single soul, from the oldest and best-travelled to the youngest and most-rooted—could make heads or tails of the ship currently slipping into the docking bay.

Living in a port meant familiarity with certain types of ships. That was just a fact of life. Sure, each one had its little quirks, but deep-space haulers all more or less followed the same design philosophy; large fuel tanks, plenty of cargo space, and some guns for self-defense. The same was true of port cargo tugs, starliners, the rare corporate-flagged pleasurecraft, and almost anything else. Older souls, the ones around when Harrison Armory first started sniffing around Eris V, remembered the designs of pirate ships—cannons on gimballed turrets, fearsome decals painted onto heavy armor plating, and oversized thrusters to chase down fleeing traders—and in the modern day most knew that this was generally true of military vessels, too.

She was small, as ships went; barely half the length of the docking bay. She had no obvious windows or airlocks and was painted almost completely matte black. Cowling covered her engines, which still seemed to hum with more power than they should've been able to harness, given their size—but they didn't cause heat distortion. She didn't fly a flag where anyone could see. Her silhouette seemed to flicker like a hologram as people watched.

The only people in the galaxy that loved rumors more than sailors were dockworkers, so whispers quickly began to fly from mouth-to-mouth. Was the new arrival a ghost ship? The oversized casket of a rogue NHP? A mobile base of operations for a HORUS cell, or some coherent nanite cloud created by the Maw? Was her appearance even real? Every type of theory, from "secret Harrison stealthship" to "personal ride of an Eidolon" began to circulate, becoming ever more ridiculous as people began to exaggerate, bit by bit drawing further away from the truth.

And, in all the confusion and rumor-mongering, nobody noticed a short woman with tan skin and a panther tattoo slip out of one of the hidden airlocks.

Sasha "Jadwiga" Bonifacia took a deep breath of recycled station air and began making her way out of the docking bay. Her dyed hair was hidden behind the hood of an inconspicuous grey jacket, stripped clean of any identifying marks; a knife was hidden at the small of her back, and a more obvious pistol rode her hip. In almost every respect she looked like just another tired spacer as she made her way into the tight hallways of the station, occasionally overhearing a bit of idle chatter from the dockworkers.

"I heard it's the black horse of RA itself! That moon is probably on its way here already, to make us all into NHPs!" Sasha shook her head at the idea and laughed to herself.

Sailors and their stories...

The sound of her boots clicking against the scuffed metal deckplates was lost in the hubbub of ambient noise. Beneath her hood, Sasha's eyes flicked back and forth, assessing threats and finding paths, trying to find her way towards the bar that Pinkerton had said they would meet up in.

Terminal, terminal, terminal... ah, there. Map terminal... oh, that's actually pretty close by. Just a brief step out onto the Concourse.

The crowds had, so far, been thinner than Sasha had expected. There had been people, sure, and a lot of them, but she had been able to maintain personal space. Not so on the Concourse. The crowd was thick—Sasha had a bare few millimetres to herself as she followed the tide of people along. The conversation was deafening. Above the tide of people, dozens of bright neon signs advertised pleasures that you could not afford, and should not rent; tables at high-class casinos, racing ships that could touch significant fractions of lightspeed. Open-front restaurants and bars let the scent of a half dozen cultures mingle in the air. Spice, heat, alcohol, berries... the list went on, and on, and on. And the temperature; the heat from too many bodies pressed into the Concourse. It felt like the room was at least five degrees hotter than the dock.

Someone jostled Sasha as they passed, dressed in all-white robes. A trio of Volador gave her a small wave, and she returned it. For a place that could've so easily been lifeless, Eris V felt... almost homely. Packed, bustling, and chaotic, but homely.

There we go. The LosMech.

She slipped out of the crowd like a fish leaving a river for a tributary, and pushed past the heavy wooden door. A pleasant chill ran over her skin—the bar must've had an air conditioning system. The bartender gave her a nod as she walked in, so she gave her a friendly wave and slid into a seat at the bar.

"Have not seen you before," the bartender noted. A jade-green bird was tattooed on her collarbone, just barely visible beneath a black leather jacket, which she wore open.

"I'm new here, meeting a friend," Sasha replied.

"I see," the bartender nodded. "You might wanna grab a booth. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey sour, if you'd please," Sasha answered, settling in for the wait.

( @shot-glass-speedloader )

[cursed-40k-thoughts]

What piece of scripture does Lorgar have tattooed on his taint? Who did the tattooing?

2 Kings 2:23-2:24. Horus did it, because both he and Lorgar felt very strongly on the matter

[angronsjewelbeetle]

Been doing some doodles lately that I'm rather proud of, under the cut bc they're shirtless/a little suggestive?

Particularly proud of Lorgar and how his tattoos turned out tbh,,

Horus was a request and Magnus...is just fun to draw lol