#Illuminati tattoo

[yourbelovedlucifer]

The eye sees all!! The eye knows...

[hiddenstashart]

[jediaxis101]

[asshole-rebel-psycho]

Even the rednecks are turning illuminati.

We are fucking screwed.

[gaaaaaaaayypr]

Yay for thic thighs. Nay for illuminati eyes.

[edgarallenrich28]

Astrology Observations pt. 3 🤹

- Leo moon/venus natives will often have a fascination with celebrities. They love the idea of being famous or coming from a prominent family so they admire people who have that.

(Side observation ♌️ : Michael Jackson had both Mercury and Venus in Leo, and was the most successful/famous musician of all time. His style was very “royal” and he loved to dress in rhinestone and gold suits. They called him the “King” of Pop which was very fitting for him astrologically)

- Saturn in Scorpio people may find concepts like death and religion extremely uncomfortable. Their relationships are mainly shallow and superficial because they fear getting deep with someone, especially themselves.

- Jupiter in Taurus loves to spend money on food & could manifest as them being a super foodie.

- People with Saturn in the 11th house (especially when harshly aspected) will feel very rejected by their peers, causing them to just avoid engagement all together. They may have negative experiences with aunts, uncles, cousins, older siblings, and step-relatives.

- Venus trine Pluto is a good aspect/transit for someone who wants to make a drastic change to their appearance (such as plastic surgery). Lip fillers, hair dying, brow tattoos, things of this nature could look totally awful on some people, but will flatter a Venus in Pluto very nicely.

- Gemini risings will argue any point even if they don’t personally agree with it, just because they can see the validity in everything. This makes them very polarizing and unable to fit in with one group.

- Women with Scorpio moons are often seen as suspicious, even if they’re well meaning. If moon is poorly aspected, they may have bad interactions with other women. Beyoncé for example has moon in Scorpio, and everyone speculates if she is a witch or in the Illuminati.

- Lilith square/opposition MC, if you have this then the women at your workplace just don’t like you. It’s nothing you did, they’re just jealous. They talk bad either behind your back or to your face, and they are jealous of you. If you work with men, they might say you got the job cuz you slept with the boss or because of your looks/femininity

[0alix0]

Overusage of Lore

a lot of people tend to say that bioware put little to no lore into Veilguard, and i might be on a minority on this to me it's way too much and way too shallow

The entire game feels like writers just scream at you "Look at all the magical thing we have!! So we have Titans! And Evanuris! And Illuminati Those Across the See! And-- are you listening? You better listen cuz there are more! We have Shadow Dragons! We have Griffons! We--"

OMG calm down it's not a fucking Warcraft

the best thing in DA was the way it beautifully showed real life issues through the lens of medieval fantasy world.

The dalish weren't so fascinating because they had an entire language made for them and pretty tattoos. They were fascinating because they were enslaved, fought for freedom, then got their land taken away YET STILL continued to fight for survival, for their cultural identity, their children and their children's children, for freedom. Literally combination of native american's and jewish history. Because despite having one goal they all had different approach and opinion about other of their kin: city elves (those disconnected from their culture) and half-elves ("can they be considered elves?" "should they be allowed to be a part of dalish?").

The city elf origin wasn't so memorable because every npc had a backstory with a length of bible. It was memorable because it was the most obvious analogy on racial oppression, segregation, colonialism and fetishism in the entire franchise. Because it had the guts to actually show in details the horrors of these things.

Broodmothers weren't so horrifying because it's a female mixture of jubba hutt and a fucking pudge from dota with a detailed explanation their anatomy. They were horrifying because they were paralleling a very real misogyny, mistreatment, the way how women in some countries are seen as nothing but a walking uteruses, where the only thing they're good for is to give birth

AND bioware doubled it while doing the same thing with Orzammar, cast system & Rica!

The Circles weren't so interesting because we've got dozens of pages in WoT explaining their hierarchy/fraternities. No, they were interesting because it was literally a bunch of medieval GULAGs with a function of a mental hospital, it showed what mistreatments happen there, the abuse, child abduction and enforcement of religion.... And from the side of templars it was a discussion about professional deformation, addictions and the way high ranking people abuse those to control their underlings.

..... And you know, if we were back in origins, griffons, for example, would've probably been used as a parallel on irl eco terrorism. it might've been about how Wardens despite their good nature unintentionally bonded the general association of the entire animal species to their order and abused this connection to the point when the species was beyond preservation!

and btw, then that decision in davrin's quest would actually had any meaning, instead of throwing wardens into mud (again) and turning isseya into a villain for no fkn reason.

lore is only good as long as it's used for purpose, when it has things to discuss, not just exist

i don't fucking care about titans/evanuris/and other shit because they're just a 30 pages long article in codex and WoT trying to explain magic and write DA timeline almost to a fucking mesozoic era. it's BORING. Get me emotionally invested, then i'll care

[windbreaker-timely]

an incomplete list of yamato endo's tattoos

for anyone who needs for art reference/fic reference/fun! so far i've counted 19 total, but he very likely has more. list of what i think they are under the cut.

infinity

anchor

compass inside a sun

noroshi?

roman numerals i, ii, iv, v , right middle finger = star.

crossed arrows

swallow / sparrow / duck / starling holding a broken? arrow

triangles? all seeing eyes? alchemy symbols? chemistry?

north star present in compasses

illuminati/all seeing eye?

flames

chains?

flames

(on leg) ?

chest flames? phoenix?

flames

arrow through?

flames + pattern

penrose triangle

[phantom-wolf]

Spoilers for the Black Ops 6 Campaign

It seems like the tattoo on Case's arm might be the Advanced Technologies and Applications logo? I know we don't really get a good look at it but Case's wiki describes the tattoo as "illuminati". Which could double as a reference to the Advanced Technologies and Applications logo and also tie into the truth lies through consipracy theories and shit.

Here's the tattoo in game:

And here's the logo

Now obviously it is missing the shield surrounding it, but I'm just saying.

[fan-goddess]

10 things I hate about you

Pairing: Ettore x Female reader

Summary: You hate Ettore. You hate him for so many different reasons. The thing you hate the most though, is that you don’t even hate him at all.

Warnings: Non canon Ettore, heavy smut talk though no real smut is mentioned, reader is female no pronouns, talk of masturbation, the box

Main Masterlist is here

Ewan Mitchell Masterlist here

Other Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five

Series Masterlist here

You hate how Ettore never voluntarily talks to anyone. The only time you’ve heard him is with Dibs. He’s said the odd ‘yes’, ‘no’ even a small ‘scuse me’ when he’s cutting in line again. You’ve tried to imagine what he’d sound like saying normal sentences. Though what even are normal sentences now? Usually it includes asking Dibs about tests or saying thank you for the small amount of food you’re given. Still, you try and make it sound like he’s saying all these things in your head. It never sounds right.

You hate how he somehow gives off an aura. It’s a certain kind, one that somehow screams for you to fuck off. Whenever he’s got that face on he’s not approachable at all. Not that anyone even really tries anymore. You’ve possibly seen people attempt at a conversation, but all it takes is a look and their off. He gives off a certain aura that makes it so you wouldn’t want to go up to him even if he was the most prettiest man on the whole ship.

You hate how he stares. Sometimes when you go to look at him, you find he’s already looking at you to begin with. He’s not even a silent starer. You can sometimes feel his stare on you like a heat radiating rash. He doesn’t even make a face when he’s looking which is near the worst part of it. It’s all in his eyes. The eyes which seem to peace apart any living part of you and decide you of your worth. It’s like they hold no true emotion. Like he’s a robot sent by the earth humans to check up on you all.

You hate his stupid tattoos. There’s three of them that decorate his body, and yet they all look near identical to each other. Each of them are triangles. Ones on his neck and the others are on one of each of his arms. You have no idea why they all look near the same, except for some of the inner detailing of it you spotted when you stood behind him. You’ve tried to think of reasons why someone would get the same tattoo multiple times. Once you pondered if he was part of a cult. Maybe he’s apart of the illuminati? That one made you laugh, but then at least the multiple triangles would actually make sense. You don’t think anyone’s ever asked him about them or if they ever did, he’s never told them.

You hate how he’s cocky. He never talked to confirm it, but you know that he knows he’s good looking. You know this, as you noticed near the beginning of your watching, he never had a shirt on. It’s almost worse how when you’re all forced to run for exercise, he runs shirtless. You’re glad he runs at the back cause otherwise you’ll be forced to bare witness to his bare naked sweaty chest. It’s always rare to see him wear a shirt. He knows he’s got a good body and he’s very prepared to use it for his own needs. The other women ignore him but you think you know him better than anyone. Better than anyone’s tried at least…

You hate how he’s always in that god damn box. You can’t even count on both your hands the amount of times the two of you have bumped into each other coming out of the box. It’s not the fact that he alway seems to be somehow hard and horny which annoys you. It’s the fact that when he goes out he looks so pleased with himself with a smirk decorating his face. Like you said before, ‘cocky’. Even when you walk into him from the box, he gives a small smirk and a small apology, “Sorry princess…” and a lingering touch to your arms as he goes past. Maybe he thinks about you in there? It brings a heat to you that you refuse to let yourself extinguish.

You hate how he’s unintentionally funny. When he cut in line once for food and the person he cut protested, he flung his arms out similarly to what a bellboy in a hotel wouldn’t done. It made you laugh slightly though the laugh quickly died when Ettore made eye contact. He didn’t say anything to you. He didn’t attempt to question why you laughed. All he did was carry on the normal routine, the normal routine for him at least… He sits at his table. He says sarcastic things which sometimes brings a smile to your lips.

You hate how Ettore is actually an attractive person. He has a sharp jawline that looks like it could cut glass. He has piercing blue eye you only ever got to see once. In line for food once he stood behind you. You could nearly feel the body beat coming from him and his stupid pretty shirtless body. When you turned aroung you found him already looking at you. His eyes were dark blue. Similarly to the light that shon through the ship when it was dark. The smirk you see when you see him leave the box. It’s like you’re catching him something he’s not supposed to be doing.

You hate how you know what he did to deserve to be put on this ship. You had a free afternoon and Dibs just so happened to leave her door open and the password to her computer on a piece of paper in her drawer. You didn’t want to initially peek at his file. Your curiosity got the mere better of you when your leg started to twitch and your fingers started picking at your nails. Though when you read his file the disgust and regret hit you like a train. You nearly vomited in Dibs’ little paper bin in her office. After finding that out though, you started making connections to things Ettore does. The way he only seems to stare at women. Late at night when you’re supposed to be asleep, you’ve heard footsteps come to the outside of your room and stay there for a while before seemingly leaving after a while. You don’t know if it’s him or not, but the ever since you knew of his reasons for coming here you’ve been more stricter with yourself in your watching of him. If he’s capable of doing what he did on earth, what’s gonna stop him from doing it on the ship with so little people?

You hate how even after saying how you hated all those things about him you didn’t actually hate him. You hated how actually you fantasise about him saying all these things to you. Calling you his good girl as he pounded into you till you begged him to stop from the overstimulation. You hated how you imagined his piercing gaze staring into your soul as he forced you to pleasure yourself in front of him. You hated how you imagined having your face buried into his neck and just seeing a bead of sweat trailing down his annoying repetitive tattoos and licking it away. You hate imagining how cocky he would be in bed, making you beg for him to allow you to cum while you moan and writhe beneath him. You hated how if you ever did have sex with him, you’d be able to admire his prettiness up close. You hated thinking about how he maybe thinks about you in the box, his cock in his hand thinking of ways to take you and mark you.

Though with all this supposed hate going through your head, you have no real idea that he’s thinking the same thing. How he hates that you are the only one who truly excites him anymore. And how he’s this close to truly marking you…

[man-i-just-really-like-plants]

🚩Witchcraft Red Flags🚩

🚩In Witches

🚩Believes only women can be witches, gatekeeping practices, worship, tools, etc 🚩Believes that magic/spirituality/energy/crystals can cure mental illness, physical illness, chronic illness, and disorders 🚩Doesn’t respect closed paths or practices 🚩Tells others how their paths should be 🚩Won’t stop telling witches they need to protect themselves from deities 🚩Thinks they are more powerful than anyone else, won’t stop talking about how powerful they are 🚩Judges all witches with Wiccan rules 🚩Treats baby witches like they are idiots and don’t deserve respect 🚩Calls themselves a fancy title without being able to back it up 🚩Thinks hereditary witches are more powerful/better than first generation witches 🚩Dianic Wicca [heavily infested with terfs/radfems and lesbian separatists] 🚩References Silver Ravenwolf, Raymond Buckland or any of these authors 🚩“G*psy witch” 🚩Tells you they can help you be more powerful or you NEED them in particular 🚩Anything that would go on a cult warning list 🚩Tells you to go off your meds 🚩Claiming natural is better for you than man-made 🚩Gives lists of herbal remedies without providing any safety information 🚩Acting like Science is evil, or unfeeling, or inferior to magic 🚩“Only white people can follow the Norse pantheon” 🚩Claiming witch-hunters were targeting secret pagans instead of just heretics and self-sufficient women 🚩Acting like Wicca is “ancient” or calling it “the Old Religion” or tracking it back further than Gerald Gardner [the guy who invented it] 🚩“Wicca and Witchcraft are the same thing” 🚩Claiming St. Peter's cross is Satanic, or that Ankh is Christian 🚩Anything new age [Illuminati, New world order, talks about Atlantis like it's real, aliens, ect] 🚩Claiming they'll provide you forbidden knowledge 🚩Tribal tattoos from a tribe they aren't apart of 🚩"You were meant to see this video" 🚩Recommending any work from scammers 🚩Discouraging learning the history of a practice 🚩Claiming deities from different pantheons are the exact same 🚩 AI art

Toxic Mentors

Quick note: Never trust your mentor as a end all be all source of knowledge, always do other research

🚩Discourages you from learning on your own 🚩Belittles your experiences and undermines your knowledge 🚩Refuses to allow you to have your own beliefs and or opinions 🚩Tries to change your practice and/or push you around 🚩Gaslighting 🚩Berating you when you get information or talk to other witches 🚩Do things that upset/hurt you in the name of ‘keeping you safe’ 🚩Warping your experiences so they fall in line with their own 🚩Telling you that they are the chosen one, or a prophet of god in order to keep you in line by fear mongering 🚩Attempt to build relationships with your spirit companions as an attempt to steal them from you and control you further 🚩Tries to or insists to preform magic on you that is supposed to be connected to your aura, your energy, or your soul 🚩Everything that happens to you seems to magically line up with what is going on with them or something that only they can help you with

🚩In books:

Note: Any extremely old book will have red flags, mostly due to Christianization to when reading books from like 200 years ago keep that in mind and take it with a grain of salt

🚩Anything new age 🚩Uses “Witchcraft” and “Wicca” interchangeably 🚩Black v white magic, Light v Dark 🚩No bibliography 🚩No academic or historical sources sited 🚩Saying baneful magic is evil 🚩Saying baneful magic will always backfire 🚩If you don't cast a circle the spell won't work 🚩The G slur 🚩Using deities or spirits as tools 🚩Westernized Chakras 🚩Suggests that “witch” is a gendered term or refers to witches (and possibly the reader) exclusively with she/her pronouns 🚩It sets hard timelines on length of study before you can call yourself a witch or learn certain skills or try certain activities 🚩It says anything about youth being inherently magical 🚩Law of attraction 🚩Suggests or even hints that witchcraft, magic, whatever can replace medicine or therapy

🚩In Covens

🚩Intimidation, fear, and isolation [key factors to running a cult] 🚩Egotistical leader, they are “always right”, ect 🚩Pay to join 🚩Gender identity/sexuality requirements 🚩Puts their leader on a pedestal 🚩Leader claims they have special abilities/claims they are more powerful or special than the other members, self deification 🚩Any signs of abuse 🚩Instant initiation 🚩Hazardous/puts you, others or animals in harms way 🚩 No age restrictions 🚩Tells you to stop taking your meds, going to the doctors, ect 🚩Forcing beliefs and/or traditions onto you 🚩Forced sexual practices, alcohol use or drugs 🚩Unnecessary security 🚩Lost touch with the physical and mundane world 🚩Distance you from others 🚩Being told by friends and family that your changing (not in a good way) and/or spending too much time with them 🚩Illegal activities 🚩Religious lies 🚩Overly sexual 🚩Make you make changes in your life to be more like them or their standards 🚩Lead by inexperienced members 🚩Tries to get you to rely on them 🚩New members are belittled and treated as inferior to established members 🚩Leaders demand unreasonable amounts of time dedicated to the coven 🚩Coven limits the type of witchcraft that members can practice 🚩Leaders place more importance on serving them than on practicing your craft 🚩Anything that would go on a cult warning list that I haven't already mentioned

[jediaxis101]

Thing just seem more simple when learning about the illuminati

Like, all the wars and money and gods just is not worth worrying about when you are illuminati

[flufflecat]

at work today i complimented a customers gravity falls shirt and showed them my illuminati necklace and they instantly turned and showed me the bill tattoo they have behind their ear

[rfxiii]

Wade Hebert Headcanons-

(TW: drug abuse, physical abuse, ablism)

He’s really not as stupid as everyone treats him- but between the meth usage affecting his thoughts, and just being genuinely trusting and naive in general, everyone just assumes he’s dumb.

He’d experimented with drugs long before he ended up with Trevor- but never with things as hardcore as meth. He’d taken shrooms and acid, smoked weed, taken ecstasy, and even snorted coke a few times. But once Trevor killed his friends and sunk his claws into him, he started pushing for Wade to take their product with him; knowing full well he would get addicted, making it easier to control him and keep him around.

Wade is scared of Trevor lashing out with his mood swings, but he does genuinely really like and look up to him. He’s almost like a dog with an abusive owner- he doesn’t quite understand why Trevor hurts him but it always makes him feel bad and he keeps trailing behind him hoping to make it up to him and make him happy again.

Most of his piercings and a good portion of his tattoos are home done and have gotten infected at one point or another. A few of his facial piercings got infected at once one time, so Trevor held him down and poured some home brewed moonshine all over his face- practically waterboarding him, as he said the alcohol content would sterilize the infection.

He pierced his own tongue, with Chef’s help, in the bathroom at the lab in Liquor Ace.

He gets horribly embarrassed and sad when people make fun of his lisp. It doesn’t bother him in general, and he doesn’t normally even think about it. But occasionally, some asshole will mock him and it makes him feel absolutely terrible as he doesn’t understand why someone would be so awful about something he can’t fix. Trevor has, unbeknownst to him, killed a few people over it before.

Trevor got him on about government conspiracies, “lizard people”, and Illuminati plots to disconnect him more from mainstream civilization and to dissuade him from leaving the remote safety of Sandy Shores. With the help of the added paranoia the meth instills, Trevor’s conspiracies were easy to convince Wade of.

Genuinely still thinks Floyd and Debra are alive. He sees Trevor as a good boss and a good friend, and while they do kill people together and he’s aware of how vicious Trevor can be, he doesn’t think Trevor would have honestly hurt his cousin because that’s his family and “Trevor wouldn’t do something like that.” And Trevor being covered in blood isn’t an out of the ordinary occurrence in general so he simply didn’t connect the pieces.

He asks Trevor to go get ice cream with him frequently. He does really like ice cream, but there is an honest reason behind why he asks. When his friends first “abandoned” him in Sandy Shores, Trevor was extremely nice to him in order to convince him to stay- he talked to him, told him how awful it was to have his friends leave him like that, and then took him to get ice cream to “cheer him up”, before offering him to stay in town and work from him at TPI. It was the nicest Trevor has ever been to him and he still desperately seeks that sort of kindness from him.

He likes Chef better than Ron. Ron is ok, but he’s very high strung and, well, nervous. He gets riled up and antsy, he starts shouting when he gets really high, and yells at Wade when he doesn’t understand things the first time. Whereas, Chef is calmer, nicer, has a more friendly demeanor, and is just better company to keep as he’ll work in moderate silence in the lab and let Wade chatter on to him about music and little stories he has.

He absolutely hates flying. He’s had to go with Trevor several times; and while Trevor is an excellent pilot, he knows Wade doesn’t like to fly so he does erratic maneuvers and flies close to mountains and even buildings before pulling off near misses.

He likes going to the beach in Sandy Shores alone sometimes. He likes to sit on the rocks (the sand gets broken glass and dirty needles in it) and just watch the waves. It’s calm and quiet, he can put on some music and enjoy some time alone without Ron’s ramblings and Trevor shouting at him. It feels safe alone on the beach.

[theprettynosferatu]

I - Perfection

Usually when someone says “not everyone is created equally”, they follow the sentiment with a declaration of their own intelligence, their superior genes, their inherent right to all their heart might desire. Jean, however, never uttered the phrase, even if she knew it to be true deep in her bones. No, being special was not a gift. It brought a solemn duty to do right by those that couldn’t defend themselves. The world was a cruel and unfeeling machine– the least she could do was to try and balance the scales a little.

She knew there were others like her; only a handful, she guessed, although she could be wrong. Most chose to hide, to adjust, to only use their gifts in small, measured ways, if ever. Jean couldn’t understand that, even if she felt jealous sometimes. To her it was blindingly obvious: she couldn’t sit back and watch things go to Hell step by step when she could do something about it. Maybe she was a naive girl, but she’d rather be naive than heartless.

It felt heavy in so many ways. It was lonely. Perfection was lonely.

She pulled herself back from that thought. She wasn’t perfect, no one was… no matter how many times others used the term to describe her, some with envy, some with desire, a few with admiration. She never got sick, never got hurt. Her face never showed any signs of tiredness, was never anything other than flawless. Her body was toned and tight, despite the fact she had never worked out outside of the old P.E. classes. She didn’t gain weight, no matter what she ate, a fact she was beyond grateful for given her love of burgers and fries. One small downside was that she couldn’t get piercings or tattoos, as many a busted machine and mystified tattoo artist could attest. She was doomed to be her perfect, beautiful, blonde self.

She felt guilty sometimes, especially when she saw how hard her few friends struggled. They talked about skin creams and restorative shampoos and strict diets and grueling workout routines. Jean nodded along, sensing the gulf between her and her friends. Her and everyone else. 

She shook the feeling off. To mope about being who she was would serve no purpose, and it was gross to her. She had no right to whine, no real reason to feel miserable. What she had was a job to do.

Tracking them down had been easy. They had been making a lot of noise in the underground circles for a while, and the rumors in the Dark Web had quickly turned to bragging, then into full-on sales pitches. New weapons, better than anything ever seen before, powerful enough to blast holes into concrete, to get through any body armor… powerful enough to take down that Chick. 

That’s how they called her. That Chick, or That Bitch, or That Fucking Cunt. But mostly she was just “She.” They didn’t need to clarify: everyone in the scene knew what they were talking about. She’s gonna fuck you up. She better not show or I’ll make her a new hole. They say she looks like she needs a good dicking. And on and on it went. Some didn’t even believe “she” existed, which tickled Jean to no end. Hell, there were full conspiracy theories, from claiming that “she” was in fact multiple people trained by the CIA and given identical faces through plastic surgery all the way up to the oddly well-developed theory that “she” was a genetically engineered agent of the Illuminati. It was amusing that the last one was closer to the truth, in a sad way. Her genes were indeed different from normal people.

Jean watched the truck pull up, the men unloading boxes of cargo. The weapons, presumably. The rumor about a demonstration for buyers had been right on the money. Well, it would be rude of her not to let them demonstrate the miracle guns properly, wouldn’t it? She waited until everyone was inside the warehouse. Easier to round them up.

It felt like cheating. If the miracle guns were fake or just the victims of overzealous sellers, she couldn’t say. They felt like any other gunshot: a bit of a tickle, not entirely unpleasant. The screams were annoying, however. As if yelling “shoot her!” would do any good. She wasn’t a criminal mastermind, but she found it hard to believe any of the men with weapons would choose not to shoot her. Good thing she was, as usual, wearing cheap clothes: a lesson she had learned early on when she had designed something of a uniform for herself. Turns out she might be invulnerable, but coth wasn’t. So many wasted hours drawing up designs, sewing, getting the fit right…

Better to snap out of it, do it quickly. Last thing she needed was to go home in a completely torn t-shirt.

Less than a minute later, the men were either unconscious or had surrendered. She bound them to a pillar (always bring rope: another early lesson learned) and tipped the cops off. She did a final check just to be sure none of the thugs needed immediate medical attention, and like a blur she sped out.

She was doing good, she told herself. She had to, because the affair had been dreadfully boring. Surely it meant something that these new guns wouldn’t flood the streets, even if too many people died because of regular guns every single day. She couldn’t save everyone, she reminded herself. It still hurt.

II - Dreams of Freedom

She’s not sure exactly where she is, and yet she knows it doesn’t matter. The vast, empty city stretches under her and for a moment she feels as if it’s all hers, all there for the taking. She knows, without any reason to, that someone down there is waiting for her. She smiles and lets herself fall. The rush of wind is exhilarating, a blast of freedom as she drops deeper and deeper: the ground never rises to meet her, never stops her fall. She could fall forever.

The basement is cold. She can hear muffled groans coming from somewhere deeper inside. The basement stretches to infinity. She takes one step, then another, then another. She’s vaguely aware that the more she walks, the harder it is for her to focus, to remember exactly who she is. Still, she walks. Why? She can’t tell.

The girl is bound to a chair, her legs wide open, a ballgag in her mouth. Beside her stands the shadow. It has no features and yet her movements, her silhouette, the emerald eyes that burn through the darkness are entrancing, alluring; she’s a predator and a dancer, a kind mother and a stern teacher. Jean knows the shadow is dangerous. The girl looks at her, pleading for her help. Still, Jean does not move.

The shadow caresses the girl, almost seeming to take in her scent, delighting in what is to come. Jean should stop her. She doesn't. The shadow takes a large device, and Jean needs a moment to fully understand what it is. Once she does, the duty to rescue the poor victim becomes undeniable, yet she doesn’t. Why? Why isn’t she helping?

Well, why should she? She never signed up for anything. She didn’t choose her genes. She didn’t ask to be special. Her entire life revolves around others. Fuck them. They don’t deserve her fucking help, they’re not entitled to her time, her effort, her life. Are those thoughts hers or the shadow’s? She doesn’t know, nor does she care. The shadow turns on the vibrator and teases the girl’s vulnerable pussy with it. The poor thing tries not to move, not to squirm, not to moan. She fails. The shadow knows what she’s doing, skillfully changing pressure, location, now and then caressing the girl’s neck…

It’s fucking hot. Jean knows she can stop this violation whenever she chooses to. Instead, she feels those green eyes staring at her as she lets herself fall to the ground, her hand pushing her panties to the side… Fuck, she’s soaked. It’s not just the sweet whimpers and moans reaching her, almost seeping inside her. It’s the eyes. The girl’s eyes, full of confusion, desperation and a sense of betrayal seeing the hero enjoy her suffering… the shadow’s eyes, amused, beckoning, almost encouraging her complicity… 

Suddenly, the basement is a white room. Jean is alone, surrounded by cameras. They’re watching. They’re all watching. Her family is watching. The shadow is watching. They all want her. They all want to see the hero, the beautiful blonde, the paragon of strength and beauty. What do they want to see her do? What they always want to see when someone is put on a pedestal: to see them fall. They want to see the broken beauty, the despair of hope turned into base instinct. Fine, if that’s what they want, that’s what they’ll get. After all, Jean always does what others need her to do, want her to do. Fucking parasites. She tears off her t-shirt and it feels as if she has cast away a shroud, a heavy, stifling straightjacket. Do they want perversion? Debauchery? They want her to act like they do, like a degenerate pig? She can do that. Oh, she can do that and she intends to enjoy every goddamn second of it…

The alarm tore Jean awake. What the fuck? That had been one messed up dream. Jean was sweating, and it took her a moment to fully come out of it. Already the memory of it was fading. Good. She felt dirty, and wrong and… Oh God. She was so wet! A wave of shame hit her, even as the dream receded further away. She couldn’t remember a lot, but… Okay, just, just a quick one. Just to get it out of her. Then she could leave it behind and go about her day. A moan escaped her lips as soon as she grazed her clit. Oh shit. It would be a quick one indeed. She rubbed to fragmented remains of memories. A chair? A camera? 

And those eyes… so green, so powerful…

III - …Over matter 

If there was one thing Morgana couldn’t tolerate, it was hypocrisy. Almost nothing else could faze her, not even the darkest of fantasies, the most twisted of thoughts. After all, she had been exposed to the inner lives of those around her since she was twelve years old. It had been scary at first, those voices that weren’t her own, those words never said out loud. It had been upsetting to hear the way her mother loathed her father, saw him only as a flabby source of income. It had been gross to hear what her father thought of when Morgana’s friends came over. But most of all, it was infuriating that they acted as if such heinous thoughts were beneath them and delivered sermons to their daughter.

She got used to it. Teachers despised their students and doctors could only think about how tired they were, and prim and proper women trembled in fear of people with dark skin, no matter what their bumper stickers proclaimed. People were inherently fucked up, the world was beyond any form of salvation. For a while, she watched.

Then she started pushing a bit. Leading a thought here, suppressing a desire there. It was just too easy. Sure, some people were harder to crack, but they all did eventually. Dreams were a great doorway in, she found. People accepted a lot of things in dreams, and the seeds planted deep grew and grew…

The seeds planted in her parents sure had grown and exploded all over the news. It had been simple to twist the minds of policemen and coroners, who dutifully recorded one extra victim when analyzing the tragedy. Just one additional name, a dead name, her old name. She had no use for it. She had baptized herself as Morgana, in blood.

And now some blonde bimbo pretended to be a hero. The world had no heroes, and she had begun to teach the delusional savior that harsh lesson. She had to admit, this one felt particularly enjoyable.

IV - Awake

Jean was awake, which sent her somewhere near a state of panic. 

Every night, she dreamed. She only remembered fragments, flashes, sensations. She couldn’t quite place them, and they drove her mad. That she woke up feeling as if she needed her pussy pounded by a savage beast in heat didn’t help matters, and neither did the fact that sleep provided her with no rest, no mental renewal. She was in a daze, blindly searching for something, something right there, outside her consciousness and yet spurring her on, urging her to recall her nightly escapades. She had few clues to use as a starting point, recurring images or situations. She had to get to the bottom of it, Jean told herself. That was why she looked at those videos every morning, the ones with leather and whips and women bound, leashed, serving masters and mistresses. That she would get a tad… stimulated was inevitable, wasn’t it? And not finding answers, anything to unlock her dreams in the more mainstream sites, who could blame her for digging deeper into less savory parts of the web?

And who could fault her for being thorough? Whatever was happening to her was clearly a serious matter, one that demanded her time and energy. After all, if she couldn’t rest, she couldn’t save others. Yes, there were crimes being committed out there while she drooled and panted with her fingers inside herself, but all she was doing was thinking long term. Surely nobody could begrudge her not stopping a robbery or five, or deriving a cruel kind of pleasure knowing that while she humped her pillow someone else cried for her help. She was human, after all. Kind of. Jean had to admit she… saw herself less and less like that, but it was probably just the restless sleep talking. 

And having watched model after model, porn star after porn star, amateur after amateur… who wouldn’t feel like their wardrobe was a tad too drab? Would anyone that looked like Jean looked, a picture of perfect sensuality, with golden hair and pillowy lips and tits that seemed to defy gravity not get new clothes to better show off her superiority? And who, in that position, could resist staring at the mirror or going on anonymous camsites to receive the worship she deserved?

Jean had moments of lucidity, of shame and fear and self-flagellation. They often happened after she came, so she did her best to postpone that moment as much as she could. She hated that she loved the being she was slowly becoming. In those moments she promised herself she would stop, before a new dream tore that resolution down. Still, she wasn’t entirely gone, and when the news of a missing person came up on her laptop, she decided she needed to spring into action. She couldn’t spend her life half asleep.

And so, she was awake. Aware. Fully in control of herself. And still, the images, the words kept popping inside her head. She needed to do something to get outside her own mind, and fast. Good thing she had found the dilapidated country house quickly. Criminals should really keep their voices down when they know there’s someone out there with special hearing.

There certainly was something to going in prepared, taking the methodical approach, analyzing the situation. Then again, there also was a virtue in desperation. She took in the kidnapper’s shocked faces as the front door exploded. Yes, take good look you fucking worms. No, no, that wasn’t her. Just the dreams talking. Focus, Jean. Find the girl, get the hell out…

She was tied to the bed, naked, spread-eagled, covered in dry cum. She needed to… The words appeared out of nowhere. She could see them as clearly as she could see every dusty inch of the room. The words just hovered above the pleading beauty on the bed. Slut. Cumdump. Fucktoy. Hours upon hours of porn flashed inside her head in a second and she fell on her knees, screaming. No more. No more. She was awake! Awake, damn it! She didn’t want to… Didn’t want…

No. Not want. Need. She needed it. She could feel herself slipping, the room around her melting into a dreamlike space that was anywhere and nowhere, and she was herself, but less and less so by the second. She was being drained, to be replaced by… what? And somewhere outside sight, she could sense a beautiful pair of green eyes… 

She slammed the floor in a final act of defiance, even as she could feel the men surrounding her. Her enhanced senses were overwhelmed. Heat. Scent. They wormed their way past her mind and right into the pleasure centers in her brain, fogging whatever resistance remained. Cock. That was all she could think of. Cockslave. Cunt. Cumdump. Her heart raced and her pussy felt on fire. Purpose. Duty. Obedience. Yes, obedience. It felt so good. It felt so natural, so simple… Her hand darted between her legs, took in how warm she was, how fucking wet… A small whimper escaped her lips. No, this was so wrong…

It was wrong for her to rub like this, curled up on the floor. Her pleasure was to stimulate cocks. They deserved to see, to see it all. She went on her back and spread her legs. Yes, exposure. Let them see what she really was, what she really needed. Smile. She needed to smile. To be inviting, attractive, lustful. Leave no room for doubt, no way to turn back. And so, a devilish smile that few could hope to resist adorned her beautiful face.

She knew the eyes would approve. That made it so much better…

The men were shocked, their faces a tableau of disbelief, confusion and arousal. Jean realized they might need a push. Fine, the worms needed her to spell things out? She would fucking do so.

“You fucking pigs… look at what you did to that woman… how many times did you fuck her? Did you use her tight pussy? Her mouth? Her little asshole? Did you like that she couldn’t move, that she was just there for you to take over and over again? Did she feel good? Did her body make your cocks happy? Did she cry as you coated her in warm cum? Well I won’t cry. I don’t need to be bound to be a good fucking whore. And I bet I can make your cocks feel so�� much… better than she ever could. So, what are you waiting for? Whip them out! Show me what you got… show me what I need…”

No human being on Earth, man or woman, wicked or virtuous, could avoid being affected by the blonde bombshell on the ground, her tantalizing lips, her devious and teasing eyes, the overwhelming lust in her voice. As if to drive the point home, Jean tore off her t-shirt, letting her perfect breasts accentuate her heavy, ragged breathing. 

What happened was as inevitable as the tide, as total as gravity. 

To Jean it was a series of flashes, sensations, words echoing in her head, and the sense of being performing… for who? She couldn’t tell. The feeling of being turned around, put on all fours. A cock spreading her lips open and ramming inside her with no tenderness, no care about her. The way the blood flowed in the cock she sucked eagerly. Her own voice, demanding over and over: “harder.” Her moans mixing with the men’s grunting. Hands, squeezing her tits without mercy. Wave after wave of pleasure coursing through her body, making her shake. Whore. Filthy fucking slut. Slave. Did she think that? Say it out loud? Did someone else think it for her? Her anal virginity taken with a violent thrust. The delight of feeling she was being conquered, used, treated like a living sex doll. The knowledge that such an act would hurt other women, but not her. Her body was made to take a pounding. She was superior. The superior cumslave. Both more and less than any normal cunt. Obey. Please. Worship. The delight of being the center of a circle of cocks, all hard for her, all ready to give her a reward, give her what she had earned, give her purpose and joy and…

She only recovered something close to full consciousness once she was back at her apartment, still breathing hard. Fuck. What had she done? She tried to focus. She hadn’t captured the men, that much was certain. They remained free, free to do to someone else what they had done to the girl… or to her. She could smell their cum on her naked body. There was something terribly wrong with her. She knew it. She knew she had to do something about it. The memories came in flashes, the cum on her skin drove her mad. She would do something to fix it. She just needed to do something else first.

She fell on the floor, and let her hands take over.

V - Myth

Jean hated the server for “special” people. She seldom logged in, mainly because most of it was people whining about being different. Sure, not everyone had gotten as lucky in the genetic lottery as she had, but to her it was pointless to complain. She felt that was before, and she felt even less inclined to charity now. Even among the “special” crowd, she knew she was objectively better; to hear the bleating of sheep was not something that interested her. That she needed their help was nothing short of embarrassing.

It had taken a tremendous amount of willpower to pry herself away from her pussy and her porn, and especially from the memories of that amazing night a week before. But a part of her was still aware that what was happening to her wasn’t normal. Perhaps one of the little people in the server would know more.

She kept the details vague, of course. Just weird dreams, very vivid, flashing even when she was awake. They didn’t need to know what the dreams were, even though her pussy twitched at the idea of telling everyone exactly what she had done…

What she didn’t expect was to start an online argument, although she probably should have. Everything and anything could become the battlefield where small people with big egos seeked to validate their own existence.

“I’m sorry J. but maybe it’s the woman in black”

“lol you believe in the woman in black”

“shes real tho a friend of mine had dreams and then disappeared and I was talking to J not you”

“bro she’s a myth. Are you afraid of the boogieman too lmao”

“Whatever all im saying is that shes like super powerful and fucks with your head and then you vanish”

“hahahaha sexy Slenderman”

Well, that had been useless. Either she was going mad, or she was being attacked by some mythical super psychic woman who most probably didn’t even exist. Very helpful. Fuck it, she didn’t have time for losers. There were men online waiting to worship her perfect body.

VI - Truth

“Jean, what are you looking at?”

Wait. Something was off. Jean had been alone in her apartment when she had gone online. She was sure of it. And she was more than certain that she’d remember the pale, almost marble-like skin, the raven-black hair, the tight leather the woman was wearing. And those eyes… those green eyes that sunk into her chest and pinned her to her seat, struggling to form a coherent sentence. Those eyes…

“Who… what are you…?”

“Jean, babygirl, are you okay? Should I call a doctor? We were hanging out and you just went off to the computer to do Lord knows what! That’s kinda rude, you know”

“Hanging out…?”

“Well, yeah. Hanging out. You know, like friends do? Morgana to Jean, please come in, Jean! Seriously, what’s gotten into you? We hang out all the time!”

Of course. Yes, obviously, Morgana was her friend! Why else would she be in her apartment if she wasn’t her friend? Such a silly thought. And Jean had been so rude to forget that! So dumb! A wave of warmth caressed her skin. So dumb… 

“Anyway, what was it that you wanted to tell me?”

“Right… I… I was going to tell you something, wasn’t I?”

“Well, yeah. You called me all like ‘you’re my best friend and you’re the only one I can tell this to, please come to the apartment’ and then just when you were about to spill the beans your brain drifted off to outer space. Well honey, Morgana is here and all ears for you. So, tell me everything”  

Everything. Yes, she had to tell her friend everything. That was what friends were for, right? She could trust Morgana. She knew that the way she knew the sun would rise in the morning. It was an absolute truth. Jean could trust Morgana. Jean would tell her everything. Morgana would know best.

“I… I think I’m not really… me… anymore”

“Now that’s some heavy stuff. How did it start?”

Dreams. It had started in her dreams, that much she remembered, so she told her best friend. She told her every detail she recalled about every dream, and before she knew it she was telling her about the porn, and the showing off for people online, and the gangbang, and her need to rub her needy cunt all the time and how she felt dirty and slutty and mean and weak all at the same time, how good it felt and how scary it was that it felt so good…

Morgana looked at Jean with a raised eyebrow, her green eyes fixed on the blonde’s baby blues even as Jean tried to hide the fact that she was rubbing herself over her yoga pants as she recounted the events of the last few weeks. Finally, the hero pleaded:

“What is wrong with me?”

“Jean, babe… I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!”

“What? I mean, I’m…”

“From what I hear you are the same Jean I’ve known forever! Seriously, you’re scaring me! Since when do you get crises of consciousness and full on identity drama for rubbing your silly pussy and sucking a few cocks? Bitch, that’s like, a light week for you!”

“No, no, I’m not… or I wasn’t…”

“Yes you were, dummy. Honestly, I doubt we would be friends if you weren’t a fucking derpaved slut that collects kinks like they’re goddamn pokemon! I mean, you’re pretty much the only bitch I know that’s as fucked in the head as I am, if not more. That’s why I like you, and why you love me so much. We help each other get worse and worse”

“I’m… no, that can’t be…”

“Come on, where did this come from? You know I’m right. You know I’m always right”

“Always… right?”

“Damn right I’m always right. And you’ve always been a depraved little whore. Want me to prove it? I mean, aside from the fact that you’re soaking through your pants as we speak? Fine, I’ll prove it to you. Get on all fours, dummy”

Jean felt the carpet on her hands and knees before she knew what she was doing. The space between the command and obedience had been zero, in time and mental process. A soft whimper. She didn’t know why it felt so good to obey her friend, or why it felt so right. She didn’t care, not really, not anymore. She wasn’t sure she should care. All that mattered was to please. To please the goddess with silken skin and emerald eyes. All else was just water, running and running without affecting her in the slightest. The world was simple. Her role was clear.

“See how easy that was? How natural? And you know why, don’t you? Because we’ve done this a thousand times! Because you’re, among other things, my little trained pet, aren’t you?”

She was. Of course she was. How could she have ever thought she was anything else? Morgana had shown her what she needed to be, her real nature, her place in the world. Morgana had helped her escape her antiquated notions of duty, of responsibility, of principle. Morgana was teacher and mistress, friend and sister, her one guiding light and the one person worthy of her surrender. That she had forgotten such a basic fact filled her with shame, with the need to make it up to the slender, leather-clad woman. Jean crawled to her owner with pleading eyes and a soaked pussy. 

“Oh, look at you. So needy and cute! You were just confused for a moment. That’s okay. That’s why you need me here. I’ll always remind you of who and what you are. But after scaring me like that, do you think you deserve to lick my pussy? Do you feel worthy of feeling its warmth?”

“No… I’m… but I want it! I need to… need to please you… please! Let me… just let me be your toy, just use me to get off Mistress, please let me be of use to you! I’m so sorry I’m such a dumb cunt… let me make it up to you… let me be worthy again… please…”

“Sounds to me like you need to bring out your toy, don’t you?”

“My toy?”

“The one you keep on the top drawer, silly”

Top drawer. Toy. She needed to get it. She was desperate for it. She crawled to her nightstand like a drowning woman gasping for air. It was large and purple, double-sided and thick. She didn’t remember it, but Morgana had said it was hers, so it must have been hers all along. She brought it to her owner as she should, in her mouth.

Morgana slid off her leather trousers in a smooth, fluid, hypnotic motion motion. She nodded at Jean, who tore her own clothes off with supernatural, rather less gracious, speed. She opened her legs, displaying herself for her mistress. Morgana owned every inch of her. Deserved everything she could offer and more. Jean was held in place, expectant, paralyzed by Morgana’s eyes. She knew deep down she would do whatever she was told, and she would enjoy it. Even as she remained still, it felt as if her pussy was being tortured with delicious dexterity. It was a storm of phantom sensations in her brain, synapses firing wildly in an orchestra of madness and pleasure that made Jean tear up, unmoving, almost shaking as the green eyes pinned her, toyed with her, played with her brain and sensory receptors. Morgana eased a little, just to give her pet the ability to hand her the toy.

“Now, here’s how the game will go. You will put this big rubber cock inside your obedient pussy. And I’ll just slide the other end in. You want to please me, don’t you? Of course you do. But to do so you’ll be fucking your own cunt, knowing that the more you do it, the more you become mine. Every bit of pleasure you get is a little bit of your soul you give to me. Your enjoyment is only an act of worship to me, and I do deserve to be worshiped, don’t I?”

“You do. You do, Morgana… I’m just…”

“What did you just call me? That wasn’t very… adoring of you��

No. No. Jean felt so desperate, so ashamed… She needed to please Morgana, needed it more than she needed air, needed it on a primal, animal level. She had to fix it. She had to obey.

“Sorry… Goddess”

“Better. Now stick that cock in and let your body tell you what to do”

Jean didn’t stand a chance. She had to give pleasure to her superior, even if it meant destroying herself one hip thrust at a time. Their eyes locked to one another, Jean losing control, humping and drooling and impaling herself just so some of the pleasure would go to her Goddess… it was a sight to behold, felt Morgana. Oh, Jean. So strong, so special. Moans echoed throughout the apartment as Morgana watched the blonde hero act like the bitch in heat she had become. Her view had the additional benefit of showing her exactly how much the slut’s mind was breaking, one moan, one thrust at a time. It was like watching old paint flake off to reveal something beautiful, something truly marvelous underneath. 

A blank slate. Whatever remained of whoever Jean had been, the girl was gleefully fucking away. She wasn’t even aware of it anymore, gripped by instinct and mentally overstimulated to the point of madness. It was delicious.

Morgana let herself feel some of the pleasure that came not from the dildo -she was far too evolved for such things- but from the mental spectacle of submission and self destruction before her. She would make Jean happy, in a manner of speaking. Less conflicted, at least. A perfect, strong, nigh invincible slave to her pussy… and her pussy a slave to Morgana herself. It would be beautiful. They would be unstoppable. 

But that was in the future. Right then, Jean only needed one final push, one tiny word to send her world crumbling down.

“Cum” ordered Morgana.

And Jean did.

She came herself away, forever.

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[roo-bastmoon]

For the conspiracy to work...

...everyone around Jikook has to be in on it. The staff. The members. Their families. Their friends. Their collaborating artists. Jewelry designers. Their tattoo artist. Their stylists. Their boxing coach.

Gosh who knew Jikookery could rival the Illuminati? They're everywhere!!