Doom Slayer Tattoo Novels & Stories

He beckoned me over. I walked to the corpse of the assassin, the one with the poison spear. Drax was holding the rogue's arm up. He had ripped the tattered sleeve away to reveal the forearm. There, branded into the greyish skin, was a tattoo. It was a black circle with a jagged red lightning bolt cutting through it. "I know this mark," Drax said, his voice grim. "It’s the sigil of the Iron Hounds. Malakar’s elite guard from the old wars."

Scars crisscrossed his torso, each one a story of violence I wasn't sure I wanted to know. But it was the tattoo over his heart that drew my attention. Dark ink etched into his skin, forming words I couldn't quite make out. I squinted, trying to decipher the script. "Bound by blood, sealed in blood." The words sent a chill down my spine, a stark reminder of the dangerous world I had been thrust into.

Then, I saw him standing by a door to a room, or somewhere. He had taken off his shirt. His upper body appeared bigger. They were tattoos all over his back, his trousers hung low on his waist, dangerously low. I could run my hands through this type of body all day without getting tired. He was receiving a phone call. He was immensely focused. I stood still, waiting for him to finish. His words didn’t make sense at first, until it got to the part where he said: “She doesn’t know a thing. I have it all under control… In the end everything will be mine.” His words made me tremble.

’ I doubted, my hand trembled as it found itself touching it. “Do you like my tattoo?” Damon muttered, with his eyes closed. Was he awake all along? “Y…yes... It looks nice.” “I’ve had it since I was dating Sharon. We got it together.” He let out, now opening his eyes. “This design. It looks familiar. Like I've…” I was saying, but he cut me off. “The design represents our Club's aim.” “Club?” “Yes. Sharon and I used to belong to a Lovers’ Club. This tattoo is known as ‘King and Queen Crowns’. Every member of the club shares the same tattoo as a symbol of love and devotion for their partners.”

“No.” He attacked. Not with a wild lunge, but with a swift, controlled strike meant to disarm, not kill. I ducked, the shard in my satchel thumping against my ribs. The movement brought me closer to him than I intended. As I twisted away, the collar of the rough leather vest he wore shifted. There, on the side of his neck, just above the thick muscle, was a tattoo. Small, intricate, but unmistakable. A black raven in flight, its wings spread—the exact symbol on the bloodied badge in my pocket. The mark of Damon’s pack.

She pressed herself against the wall, peeking through the gap. Father Zerus stood with his back to her, his cassock already on the floor, his broad shoulders bare. He was reaching for a clean shirt when she saw it—the tattoo that covered his left shoulder blade. It is a serpent, coiled around a dagger, its scales , its eyes burning with an inner fire. The dagger was stained with drops of blood, and beneath it, a single word was etched in elegant script: Sosa. Krystal's blood turned to ice. The club. The night she had been so drunk she could barely stand. The man she had walked into, the man whose hand she had grabbed, dragging him through the crowd. The man she had kissed before he had pushe

I suddenly found myself intrigued by this too. “The answer lies right here,” Senor Ramirez said, zooming into the picture with the remote control. It was a tattoo on the forearm of one of the hooded members, in the shape of a diamond with knives coming out of each of the four corners. Inside the diamond-shaped tattoo were the initials ‘NP’, presumably standing for the ‘Night Prowlers’. “Now, if we look at this too,” Senor Ramirez zoomed out and zoomed back in to a photograph of Sir Cornelius Slater shaking hands with the current Prime Minister of the UK, David Peterson.

Dojo reeked slaughter, copper-thick, tatami slick crimson pools, our chests heaving thunder-sync, indigo hakamas spattered gore. "You fight like you're born to it," he growled, scarred jaw inches, porcelain fingers banding my wrist pull-close, obsidian devouring mahogany flush. Blood smeared his cheek war-paint, dragon tattoo pulsing throat wild. No fear in his stillness—predator sated, but gaze burned deeper hunger.

I climbed onto the platform while Amber stared in complete disbelief, her mouth hanging open. "I'm here today to expose something horrific that's been happening in our shelter. Even in the apocalypse, we can't abandon our humanity. "We're not animals. We have ethics, we can think, we can choose to be better. That's why Jared and his team built this place." The moment I'd taken the stage, Amber's expression had turned to shock. Now, as my words sank in, horror replaced the shock. She started screaming and thrashing. "No! Please! Don't!"

I look at my reflection in the mirror and feel worse than Samara in "The Call" The dark circles under my eyes are darker than if I had had a full and tiring week of work, my face is pale, and my lips are parched. A sure sign of a hangover. After brushing my teeth, I take a shower and return to the bedroom with a red towel covering my body. I go to my closet to choose something presentable to wear. I pick up a pair of dark jeans, a black button-down sports blouse with sleeves that go to the elbows, a wide belt with a flower-shaped buckle and, last but not least, a pair of black scarpin shoes.