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thenightcallsme · 7 months

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Dove | Simon "Ghost" Riley

A/N: Hello lovely people, I have a backlog of short stories written for things like Avatar: The Way of Water, MWII, Stranger Things, The Arcana, Outer Banks, and many more that I have never posted and keep to myself. I'm talking hundreds of pages worth of fluff, angst and eventual smut - you've got to get through some plot first, though. HOWEVER, if anyone likes my writing and wants to task me with stuff to write, like straight smut, I'm all ears. Anyway, if anyone is interested in reading stuff I could potentially post, here is a snippet for a little Call of Duty fic.

Synopsis: You're to play the materialistic wife of a rich, well-connected husband during an undercover mission. You're to-be husband is a temporary recruit of the 141, who is to supervise your every move. While getting ready, you have a surprising interaction with your Lieutenant, Ghost, who you swear has made it his mission to treat you like a stranger day after day. Until now.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

Contains: pretty much nothing of importance, just Ghost being as unreadable as ever, causing reader to have their mind blown by the smallest of crumbs

• • • • •

I look in the mirror at the woman who is supposed to be Lyanna Winstead. She’s the partner of Dario Winstead, son of a wealthy businessman. Everything about Lyanna is a carbon copy of myself. Her smile, her hair, her figure, her voice. Only, she presents herself in a way I haven’t in a long time.

Gone is the tactical gear and camouflage colours. Instead, she wears the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. The outline of the dress is simple yet captivating to suits the old Hollywood theme. Silver cascades down her body, creating the illusion of a mercury waterfall. The sweetheart neckline and thin straps compliment her full breasts and soft arms. Adorning the bodice are glistening silver designs that remind me of old, swirling boarders on French mirrors. The designs fall away, melting into plain silver threads that fall to the floor and pool at her feet. The dress hugs her body like a second skin, only melting away at her knees. The silhouette fit her hourglass figure well.

The silver jewellery she wears is modest so as not to take away from the dress’s magnificence. On her neck is a dainty Vivienne Westwood necklace, the inner planet of the pendant a pearl. Matching dangling earrings hang from her lower lobe piercing. The rest of her ear piercings are small diamond studs and silver hoops. One wrist displays a thin diamond tennis bracelet and a Van Cleef one with emerald clovers. On the other is the only ode to myself: the evil eye bracelet I never take off. The thin silver chain and bejewelled eye thankfully blend into the rest of the accessories. Small rings cover her fingers, few in number and easily ignorable. The bands are thin and any jewels are small and clear. However, one stands out; a breathtaking sight on her left index finger.

Glittery diamonds cover the band, giving way to a large, circular moonstone. Rainbow shimmer comes to life in the milky stone when the light hits it just right. Separating the band and the centrepiece are two small flowers with diamond centres. Two separate rings sit beneath and below the main one, shaped in V’s to follow the curve. At each point are flowers similar the the others, with curved leaves flowing from the petals. All three are gold, contrasting against the silver to make a statement.

I’m not just looking back at Dario’s partner. I’m looking at his wife.

I’m Will’s wife.

Fake wife, really. I nearly shake my head in wonder. I still look like myself, but everything about this makes me feel like I’m wearing a second skin. Lyanna’s skin. Every so often I stare at the ring in amazement. If anyone ever proposes to me, I would hope for nothing less than the magnificent that is this ring. All that adorns my body is courtesy of Will. Unbeknownst to me before this mission, he’s filthy rich, and a filthy rich man needs a filthy rich wife. All the designer jewellery, the dress, the shoes, and the engagement ring are authentic and top dollar.

After the last touch-ups of make-up, fragrances, and hair, I’m making my way to the courtyard. I’m to have one last briefing and run over of the plan before getting in Will’s blacked-out Corvette. I have to give it to him: he really knows how to pull off a lavish life with style.

Already am I wishing to rip off the damn stilettos on my feet. While I could live in the dress and jewellery, this is the one day a year I’m willing to wear heels.

The air is cool, the last golden light of day painting the courtyard and walls of Alejandro’s HQ in a luminescent glow. A low rumble fills the air from my 'husband’s car. Will leans against it, speaking with the 141. Ghost lingers back by the front door, arms folded and back leaning against a pillar. Weaving between his fingers with precision is a small dagger. His head turns at the sound of approaching heels.

“Was starting to think you were a no show,” he says gruffly.

I stop beside him to adjust my dress. It doesn’t really need adjust, but suddenly being subjected to his gaze makes me anxious. “Told you it would take a while. Gotta look the part.”

The way his eyes travel over my body almost makes me shrink away. Every curve is on full display. The tight bodice holds up my already full breasts, and somehow my waist-to-hip ratio is even more accentuated. Wearing my uniform doesn’t exactly hide my figure thanks to the tight shirts and cargo pants that aren’t exactly loose from my mid-thigh up. However, a lot of me is lost beneath the vests and belts.

“Stop...inspecting me, or whatever you're doing,” I mumble. “Makes me think I need to fix something.”

I begin taking the skirts in my hand as I survey my descent. It’s not too much, but the steps are steep enough to be an issue. The heels on my feet are no help.

Ghost shakes his head. “Don’t. You look…”

“Important?”

“Pretty.”

I stop in my tracks to look back at him, unsure if I heard him correctly. He doesn’t look away or seem embarrassed to have said so. Then again, when does he ever. No-nonsense and prideful in his emotionless character, Ghost is not one to regret his words. Everything he says is a calculated move. Compliments are certainly something to be calculated in a sense, but I don't think of it to be a compliment, even when a small part of me screams for more. I'm playing my part well; there'd be a problem if I wasn't looking pretty. A slow smile quirks at my lips, teasing in nature as I raise my brows. The teasing turns to surprise, however, when he offers me his arm.

“How chivalrous,” I quip as I lightly take his offered arm. Even the slightest contact sends thrills beneath my skin. “Careful, Lieutenant. I might start to think you actually like me.”

Ghost’s eyes train on the ground. At first, I wonder if he doesn’t want to meet my eyes, only then to realise he’s watching my footing. I barely catch a glimpse of his squint.

“I like you in one piece,” he corrects. “This job will be over the second you sprain your ankle on a flight of stairs.”

I hum. “Ahh, there it is.”

He looks up at me then. “There’s what?”

“Thinking about the job, as always.”

As always, I keep my tone light and teasing, but there's an accusing hint. A subtle jab I let slip that I pray goes unnoticed.

There's no room for emotions in this job, and though I've compromised that with the rest of the 141, Ghost is a difficult case. An impossible riddle, a mind-numbing equation with no real answer. Nothing about him should be likeable. He's painfully honest and dismissive when he bothers to speak, he's angry half the time, his attention is never lingering and his mind is an impenetrable fortress. It would make more sense to give in to Alejandro's shameless flirting or Gaz's sleazy grins. Only, it's Ghost that keeps me up at night. It's Ghost, who sends a pang through my chest when he reminds me any care is from pure investment in performance. I'm useful, nothing more.

I can count on one hand the number of times he's thrown me small morsels of care as if I were a stray dog whining and begging for food. Even then, I wouldn't have made it past three fingers. A greedy piece of me spins those memories into something that serves my desire. See, he's returning your interest, that hopeful voice purrs in my ear while feeding me botched versions of what really happened. I know better than to give in to the delusions. The ending of those memories is what sobers me, and it's no different now. I need you in shape for tomorrow. Keep your head in the game. I'm just making sure this isn't interrupting the job. He's always quick to redirect any concern from me to the job.

Maybe, just maybe...what if he was trying to save face? Does he not want to care?

Ghost remains silent for a moment. In consideration or because he doesn’t care to answer, I can’t tell. But when he does answer, his voice has my full attention. It’s low and rough, each syllable laced with something intoxicating. Something I've never heard before and never thought I would hear. Something I want to hear again and again.

“You have no idea what I think about, dove.”

Dove.

The response catches me so off guard I almost forget to take another step. We’ve reached the bottom of the steps, now. The second both my feet are on the flat expanse of the concrete driveway, he breaks away from our linked arms. There is no follow-up, no hint of a miscommunication, not even a look in my direction before he's gone from my side. All I can do is hesitantly trail behind him, lost in my thoughts.

Ghost has never given me a nickname before. Hell, he barely refers to me as anything other than my callsign. When I do hear my real name, it's never for good reasons.

The nickname that pours from his lips comes in a deep voice curled into a sensual tone, sounding like silk-covered marble, low and intended for my ears only. It's strangely intimate—something a lover would purr with lustful eyes and a seeking touch. Somehow it seems to invoke a phantom touch that glides across my skin. Gooseflesh puckers in its chilling wake. In the span of only a few seconds, I seem to experience every emotion humanly possible. Shock, surprise, a sickening, perverse enjoyment...and irritation that I must now join the rest of the team as if a mind-numbing heat was not boiling in the pits of my stomach

• • • • •

I'll get the formatting of posting these to be prettier btw I promise 🙏🙏 But anyway just interact with this or tell me directly if you want more.

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mylunajewel · 11 months

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Natural Rainbow Moonstone Stud Earrings Solid 925 Silver

My Luna Jewel -Etsy

#etsy #my luna jewel #rainbow moonstone earrings #silver moonstone studs #stud earrings #925 silver jewelry #925 moonstone earrings

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aralezinspace · 1 year

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Masquerade

Combining two requests, both from Anonymous: Morpheus and s/o doing each other's makeup, Morpheus and reader kissing, reader teases him until he's at their mercy

A/N: The inherent eroticism of a masquerade *chef's kiss* partly inspired by All Yours by @roguelov (I love your writing so much!) Enjoy! Tagging @fangirlmary - If you want to be tagged in any of my writing let me know!

~~Requests are open!~~

“Morpheus?” I called from my bathroom, “Are you almost ready for me?” I knew time passed differently in the Dreaming, I still couldn’t help worrying we were going to be late. The Faerie realm was hosting a huge masquerade ball in honor of Cluracan’s birthday, and as rulers of the Dreaming we had both been invited. I had never been to a faerie masquerade, so I was more than a little nervous- even newly immortal, I was still only human, about to be surrounded by beings with more power in their pinkies than I had in my entire body.

I heard Dream’s footsteps pad from our bedroom into the bathroom before I saw his reflection in the mirror. I applied the last touch to my lipstick before turning to get the full effect, and my heart stopped in my chest.

He was dressed in his usual black, but the material seemed to be deeper, darker, a void where even the brightest of stars diminished. Within that void there swirled sparkling lines of blues, greens, purples, and reds, dotted with large silvery sparkles I’d bet were diamonds sewn into the fabric. The shirt and pants seemed painted onto his form they fit him so well, moving with him, not even creasing when he walked or moved his arms. The shirt’s collar covered his neck, and his hands were wrapped in black silk gloves.

The cloak he wore when being Dream of the Endless, Ruler of the Dreaming and Nightmare Realms was attached to his shoulders with silver brooches, each cradling a sapphire the size of a walnut. A silver chain connected the two pieces, swaying gently when he moved. Flames still flickered at the bottom, but this cloak was made of the same living void as his shirt and pants. His hair was only slightly more tamed than usual, which only added to the affect. Black pointed boots with slight heels and soft soles were on his feet.

I needed to stop gaping, before a dream spider crawled into my mouth.

“Holy shit,” I gasped, taking it all in again and again, the words hardly doing my sentiments any justice. He was ancient and beautiful, distant and awe-inspiring. “You look incredible.” He smiled gently at me, and I could have sworn his chest puffed out just a little bit as he approached me.

“As do you, my star,” he replied in a murmur. His eyes roved up and down my body, taking it all in as one would a piece of art. I could feel the slight tremor in his hand as he brushed a stray piece of hair away from my face. “Although there are no words in any language to do justice to your beauty.”

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks and bashfully glanced at the floor. “Flatterer,” I teased, but did a little twirl anyway before going back to the mirror.

He was right though, I looked just as otherworldly as him in the clothes he fashioned me. If he was attending as a galaxy, then I was the star at the very center. The whole ensemble was silver-blue and shimmering, made of countless layers of a light, floaty material that swirled around me like mist when I moved. The gown had a sweetheart neckline, and sleeves of fine silver mesh covered my arms, making them appear longer and more graceful. Moonstones and diamonds dotted the dress and sleeves, catching the light and reflecting it back. Small diamond earrings went in my ears, and a strand of silver and moonstone was around my neck, with a large opal pendant hanging just below my collarbones.

I had a cape of my own, made of the same shimmering material and dotted with flecks of gold, flowing out behind me from my shoulders. My makeup had the same slight rainbow and silver shimmer, my eyes outlined in pale blue liner. I looked every inch a monarch.

“Just have to do your eyeliner,” I said as I gestured for Morpheus to sit on the stool in front of my vanity. He swept across the bathroom and sat on the stool as if it were a throne while I gathered my liquid and pencil eyeliners, along with a few shades of eyeshadow. “Close your eyes and hold still?”

Morpheus smiled and did as I asked. His lashes were long and dark and utterly gorgeous against his pale cheeks. He was holding still as he could for me, which was the equivalent of a marble statue. Leaning over him, I carefully lined his upper lash lines in black ink before buffing it out with a brush. “Open and look up?”

Tongue between my teeth as I concentrated, I did his lower lash line as well. The black liner made the blue of his eyes even more startling, and I just knew that his eyes would appear even more like bottomless pits if they shifted to their usual black and silver over the course of the night.

“Okay, look ahead?” Rather than look straight ahead, Dream decided to look up at me, stopping the breath in my lungs with his gaze. With slightly clumsy fingers, I put the eyeliner back in my makeup drawer and grabbed the two eye shadows I had picked for him: a slightly sparkling red, and a shimmering silver. Using my fingertip, I gently pressed some of the red into the outer corners of his eyes, and some of the silver into the inner corners.

If I thought he looked incredibly beautiful and powerful before, I was wrong. Just adding the eyeliner and colors around his eyes had made him arrestingly gorgeous, and I couldn’t look away. My eyes widened at the being before me, heat flooding my entire body. That hint of red and silver was the most beautiful mistake I had ever made. It added more than a hint of mischief to the blue of his eyes, gave the power of dreams the attitude of the devil.

Oh, I was going to have a very hard time keeping my hands off him for however long we stayed at this party.

The fae had truly gone all out for Cluracan’s celebration in a dazzling display of magic, wealth, and the otherworldly beauty of nature. The giant ballroom hummed with life, my skin tingled from the strength of the collective vibes. Even as my eyes absorbed the vibrant colors and wondered at them until they burned, I felt distinctly out of place. Just a tiny human at the side of an Endless, almost like a pet. I wanted to shrink into a gilt corner and hope that none of these beings paid me any mind. But, I was a monarch of the Dreaming. If Morpheus couldn’t hide in a corner, neither could I.

I could tell from his slightly tense grip on my hand that he’d rather be anywhere else. Even with our masks covering the top halves of our faces, it was easy to see how much he detested being here. There were too many people, and wearing the face of a monarch for all of them was taxing. I gently rubbed circles into the back of his hand with my thumb as we waited in line to pay our respects to the king and queen, taking in the sights and sounds and smells.

A beautifully haunting waltz came from the musicians on the modest stage at the back of the room. Fae and gods and other creatures of myth mingled and danced, their movements flickering like mirages. A shiver went down my spine.

The fae herald announced us to the waiting monarchs, and Cluracan sitting beside them: “Dream of the Endless and Lady Y/N, monarchs of the Dreaming, rulers of the Nightmare Realms.” I plastered a smile on my face as we approached the thrones. Morpheus gave a slight, respectful bow, and I dipped my knees in a little curtsy.

“Lord Morpheus!” Cluracan yelled with a beaming grin, extending his hand for Dream to shake. “I am so pleased you were able to attend! Both you and your beautiful wife.” Morpheus shook his hand with a strained smile. “Thank you for the invitation, we are honored to be here.”

Cluracan then extended his hand to me. I did what was expected of me, and placed my fingers in his waiting grasp. “Your visage this night is a true blessing,” he murmured against the skin before brushing his lips over my knuckles with a flirtatious smirk. I could feel Morpheus tense beside me.

Dream exchanged the necessary pleasantries with the king and queen, something I was content to let him handle. After the fae monarchs wished us well with the encouragement to enjoy their hospitality for as long as we wished, we were finally free from royal obligations to enjoy the party.

Morpheus was a wallflower at social engagements on the best of days, but I could tell that being in a ballroom surrounded by fae and magical creatures of every kind made him especially uneasy. His hand never left my lower back as we mingled with the other guests, sipping on sweet wine to take the edge off.

After we took our leave of some forest spirits, the orchestra struck up a tune I recognized as old Dreaming folk music. I gave Morpheus’ hand a squeeze and whispered excitedly in his ear, “I’ll bet you anything Cluracan asked them to play this for us. It’d be rude not to dance.” I gave him my best sparkling puppy dog eyes. “Please? May I have this dance?”

Dream sighed, but agreed with a small, loving smile. The image of a perfectly refined and dignified ruler, he led me to the dance floor, holding my one hand aloft while the other rested at my waist. We swept around the dance floor in time with the music, our garments flowing out behind and around us- a supernova and a black hole, swirling around each other in perfect harmony.

“They’re all staring,” I breathed, my eyes darting quickly to the assembled crowd.

“They cannot help but be entranced by you, my darling,” he purred back, “And neither can I.” My eyes flickered up to his, my heart stopping in my chest and lips tugging up into a smirk when I caught the expression on his face. There was no way he hadn’t noticed the hitch in my breath, or the flush in my cheeks, and his tiny smile became unbearably smug. Oh, so that’s how he wanted to entertain himself tonight. Well then, two could play at that game.

“They’re staring at you too, you know,” I breathed against his lips just before he twirled me out and then back in to his waiting arms. “You’re easily the most powerful being here, I bet they’re trying to decide whether they want to be your ally, or stab you in the back. Not that I’d let them.” The hand that was resting on his shoulder slid up, up, so that I was caressing his neck. “And I bet the women are just burning inside, aroused by your demeanor and aggravated their husbands could never hope to measure up.”

It was soft, but I could hear the growl that rumbled low in Dream’s chest. I could feel the way his fingers tensed into the flesh at my waist. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly- he now knew I had caught on to his game, and was not only willing to play, but playing to win.

When the song was over, I pulled away to bow to him, low and slow and graceful with a smile that was anything but submissive. Dream returned the gesture, a perfect gentleman, one who knew exactly what effect he was having on his partner. Rather than take his hand to leave the dance floor, I turned away from him, throwing a flirtatious smirk over my shoulder as I walked towards the buffet. I could feel his eyes burning into my back as he watched, intending to follow, but stopped by a fae lord wishing to speak with him.

I could sense Dream’s growing tension as the night wore on and I refused to stay by his side, rather flitting just out of reach. I made small talk with the other guests, even exchanged a few more words with Cluracan- that really got him going. It was only a matter of time before he came to sweep me away. I intended to beat him to it.

It was hard to evade the stare of an Endless, but I managed well enough. Just enough to catch Dream’s eye before leaving the ballroom and disappearing around a corner into a quieter hall. I could hear his footsteps following me, letting him catch the occasional glimpse of my skirt fluttering around a corner. Almost there…

I turned the next corner and hid in the darkened space between two stone columns encircled with vines. My heart pounded as Dream drew closer. When he was about to pass my hiding place, I reached out and snatched his arm, pulling him into the shadows with me and pressing him against the wall. The air left his lungs on impact in a breathy moan. I stepped in closer, pressing my nose into the hollow just below his ear and taking a deep breath. I was already warm and fuzzy from the wine and fae magic in the air; breathing Morpheus in only made it more so.

With a soft hum, I gently pressed my lips to his, moving them slowly, carefully, testing just how far I could push him. I teasingly ran my tongue over the seam of his sweet lips, and he immediately parted them for me. I flitted in for the slightest taste, the sweetness of the wine still lingering in the corners of his mouth. I pulled away the moment he tried to deepen the kiss, letting him lick beggingly at my closed lips.

One hand cradled his chin while the other slipped under the edge of his mask, mussing his hair slightly as I lifted it over his head and let it fall to the floor. He gasped against my lips and his breath immediately hitched, like he had been caught in the act of showing just how much I was affecting him.

His hands found their way to my hips, fingers digging in to soft fabric as he tugged me closer. My fingers threaded into his silky hair, gently caressing for a few moments before tightening around the strands and giving a gentle yank to expose his neck. Another gasp left him, his eyes fluttering.

I attached my lips to his jawline, kissing and nipping, just hard enough to sting. His fingers bit into my hips, holding me closer. I chuckled low in his ear, more than a little proud of how little it had taken to tease him into a gasping, trembling mess. “I think we’ve stayed long enough,” I cooed, “Unless you’d rather have another dance, or talk with Cluracan some more…”

Dream’s eyes flashed open, no longer ice blue, but deep black, and somehow still burning and sparkling. I had been right before: the eyeliner and colors at the corners of his eyes made me want to sink into those bottomless pits that looked as though they wanted to devour me whole. A breath shuddered out of my lungs and heat flooded my body. Dream smirked, smug and feral.

A hand left my waist to rip off my mask and cast it aside. Dream’s eyes raked over my face, eyes burning with desire. “My little star…” his low growl rumbled through me like thunder. “You are making it incredibly difficult to keep my composure.”

I slowly licked my lips, smooth and sultry. Dream’s eyes tracked every movement of my tongue. I stepped in even closer: “Then let it go.”

When I felt the vortex of sand carry us back to the Dreaming, I knew I had won this round, and also that Dream was more than alright with losing.

#The Sandman #The Sandman fanfic #Morpheus x reader #Dream of the endless x reader #Morpheus fanfic

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dove-da-birb · 7 months

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What I Use in My Practice

I don't really classify my practice under a specific kind, it's pretty eclectic but I do focus more on divination and the home.

As a note, please do your research before practicing anything, since some practices are closed to outsiders, and you don't want to be messing with stuff that can backfire royally (mainly baneful and love magic; also applies to practicing closed practices).

I personally say baneful magic and not 'dark' or 'black' magic, as that equates darkness with bad, and lightness with good, which tends to go hand-in-hand with certain societal beliefs.

Books

The Green Witch (Arin Murphy-Hiscock)

The House Witch (Arin Murphy-Hiscock)

The Witch's Guide to Self-Care (Arin Murphy-Hiscock)

1001 Spells (Cassandra Easton)

Witchcraft (Greywolf & West) <- I personally don't use this book, but it was gifted to me)

The Herbal Apothecary (JJ Pursell)

Home Remedies (Bruton-Seal)

Divination

4 versions of the Rider-Waite Deck

2 oracle decks

5 pendulums

Pendulum mat (I typically don't use it though)

Clear quartz runes

Palmistry guide

Supplies

Silver cup

Wand

So many jars & candles

Mortar & pestle

Bell (for cleansing)

Himalayan singing bowl (cleansing)

Incense

Ingredients

(as a disclaimer, I primarily use universal ingredients and just use different intent, since I am not buying a certain herb that I won't use again) -> the grocery store is your best friend

Basil

Black salt (just sea salt, charcoal, and ashes)

Bay leaves

Charcoal

Cinnamon

Egg shells (crushed)

Himalayan pink salt

Marjoram

Oregano

Pine cones

Rosemary

Rose petals

Rose pistols

Sea salt

Crystals (I also have fossils, but those are just because I like fossils)

Amethyst

Black moonstone

Bloodstone

Cat's eye

Clear quartz

Citrine

Goldstone

Green aventurine

Green calcite

Green witch's finger

Howlite tower

Jet

Labradorite (earrings & stone)

Obsidian

Purple agate

Rainbow moonstone tower

Rainbow moonstone worry stone

Red jasper tower

Red aventurine

Rose quartz

Rose quartz tower

Selenite (10 cm & 30 cm)

Smokey quartz

Sunstone

Tigerseye

Yeah, that's what I have!

@krenenbaker @wordycheeseblob

#dove rambles #i personally do sound cleansing and not smoke cleansing #idk what to tag this as so here you go

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dent-de-leon · 2 years

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I like the thought of the rest of the Nein wanting to buy King Molly some new horn ornaments and jewelry after the resurrection, since he lost all of his favorite little charms and trinkets.

Veth giving him some shiny things from her collection, Jester sharing her favorite horn charms. Beau lending him a pair of jade earrings, telling him they’re supposed to be good luck.

Caleb stopping by little shops to look for something that will make King smile. A gift as golden and stunning as Summer's Dance, reminiscent of royalty. He remembers the way Molly preened in the mirror admiring his Periapt of Wound Closure, both beautiful and practical. How its power wasn't enough, Molly lying lifeless and still bleeding, the pendant of a delicately cradled heart gleaming at his throat--

Caleb starts to gravitate towards the items with arcane enchantments, the pieces that promise protection from evil and good fortune--something to keep his Circus Man safe. Bites his lip and worries at the lucky stone in his pocket, desperately trying not to think of the light fading from Molly's body as the last Transmuter stone shattered on his corpse.

Yasha offers the quiet, gentle suggestion that, "He likes rings." Caleb remembers that a bit, little things, Molly and Jester delightfully plucking stolen rings from Nott's fingers. Tarnished gold chains and costume jewelry, pieces scavenged and "borrowed" from the circus, claws glinting with rings of silver in the moonlight.

Molly never could resist the allure of shiny trinkets, the promise of gold and treasure. He cloaked himself in a rainbow of color, in gems and jewels and meaningless ornaments. Swords a brilliant, dazzling carnival glass. Molly's charming voice faltering, falling strangely quiet when he admits, “Literally decorated a pair of swords to make them look special. Thought maybe it’d make it less likely they’d think there’s something special about me...”

Coat adorned in painstakingly delicate embroidery and tinkling crystals and tasseled trimmings--taking pride in the ostentatious and ridiculous, radiant and gaudy in his deceptively calculated peacock display. Finding comfort in the riot of color and light, in the safety of his rich, vibrant new life.

Caleb brushes his fingertips over a delicate golden band encrusted with sapphires and cradling a moonstone, gleaming in lucent opalescence. A ring carrying an abjuration enchantment, imbued with magic that could save Kingsley from his own recklessness, that foolhardy self-sacrificing streak that makes Caleb's heart sink. It's decadent and precious and a bit too flashy, and Caleb instantly knows King will love it.

Caleb has the inside of the ring engraved with phases of the moon, a little secret for King Molly's eyes only, a hidden away tribute to his beloved goddess. Knowing full well that Tealeaf favors the god of forbidden love and clandestine trysts, that he may as well have slipped it on his hand with an exchange of vows.

When King holds his new prize up to catch the light and spies the Moonweaver’s mark with a fanged grin, he immediately puts it on, and it feels like a promise.

King thanks him with a kiss.

#mollymauk #widomauk #caleb widogast #kingsley tealeaf #i think king deserves a little token of caleb's love as a treat

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metalicious-jewelry · 9 months

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Embrace the Beauty of Water Dream Jewelry at Metalicious

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embitea-official · 7 months

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Commission Showcase 2022: Seraphina the Traveling Liger Shaman *** Commissioner & Trademarker: SeraphinaVT *** [VT Card] [Twitch] [Twitter] ***

I was recently given permission to publish this on my blog, so here it is! The original reference sheets for VTuber Seraphina's design! Everything was designed from scratch (no references outside jewelry recommendations and some conceptual ideas/themes thrown in the air), which took it some weeks in the making at the time, so it's very uplifting to hear how the design was able to hit it off well.

Themes:

Liger

Sun/Solar Affinity

Shaman

Warm & Friendly

Arabic(???) Dancer Fit i honestly don't know what this kind of wear is called

I've also noticed that, lore-wise, Seraphina has an alternate, "lunar" form, so obviously I had to include my own rendition of what this form looks like. Details (& image) are under the cut:

Some Additional Notes:

The gems referenced replace their respective "solar" counterparts as such:

Angelite → Spessarite Garnet Labradorite → Sonora Sunrise Rainbow Moonstone → Sunstone

Golds are switched with Silvers, and Reds are switched with Blue-Violet hues for garments & jewelry.

The black tiger tips on the ears and tail are still technically there if you zoom in and squint really hard enough, but it is generally very hard to tell.

#embitea arts #commission showcase #commission showcase 2022 #seraphinavt #pngtuber

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rotworld · 2 years

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1: Decadence

each year, the kingdom of ilcordia commemorates the death of a tyrannical king with a day of feasts and festivals. you see nothing to celebrate about.

->explicit. contains dubcon/noncon, gore, graphic depiction of corpses, various methods of public execution, angst, threesome (kind of), necrophilia (kind of).

The finest dyes of dawn adorn Lynzveth, City of Beauty. Light shimmers prismic through twisting crystal spires and gilds the gentle waves of the Divinitas River. Flowering trees scatter starburst petals like dots of paint across the Moonstone Promenade. There are only the softest wisps of gossamer clouds drifting across the sky and the warm winds of spring. It is splendid weather for the Day of the Tyrant’s Demise.

Tranaud, the King’s Ear, catches you slinking out of the royal servant’s quarters long after the day’s festivities has begun. He seizes you by the arm before you can slip past him. “Your mask,” he hisses. You can hardly see him through all the silk and finery, ruffles and scarves and pearls lining the seams of his robes. His mask holds a tranquil expression, emerald blush dusting the sculpted cheeks. “You cannot leave the palace like that. Do not dawdle. His Eternal Eminence will be displeased.” He hears your sigh before you exhale it, snapping, “Now, Eye.”

You would drag your feet just to spite him, but you’re already running late. When you return, your face covered, Tranaud nods in approval and lets you pass. Merchants gather just beyond the palace bridge, selling silks, pigments and alcoran flowers, their opal blossoms in full, glittering bloom. Children play with toy swords, shrieking and laughing. Their small masks are tipped with horns and flowers, little cherub wings. The one playing the part of the Tyrant is cornered at the edge of a fountain, teetering on the stone edge. “Kill him!” the others cry out in glee, closing in with their paper lances and daggers. “Stab him! Drown him! Slit his throat! As many times as it takes!”

The glassy, crystal path of the Moonstone Promenade sparkles beneath the noon sun. Rainbows of light arc across a makeshift stage, tasseled velvet curtains and elaborate costumes speckled with kaleidoscopic splendor. The crowd is enormous, gathered on all sides of the elevated stage platform. You spot King Leolis in his ornate robes easily, enormously tall and surrounded by dignitaries. It’s easy to reach him. The crowd parts for you, native Ilcordians bowing in deference, outsiders shrinking back with unease and suspicion. Unnerved the smooth strangeness of your mask, the inhuman shapes, the lack of holes for eyes.

“A Blessed Day of the Tyrant’s Demise to you, Eye,” King Leolis murmurs. His twin masks are opposites, one of jagged gold and ivory, one of smooth silver and obsidian, sun and moon. The sun mask gazes up at the stage while the other is downturned, scrutinizing you. A noblewoman hangs on his arm—a foreigner, her face bare. She has powdered her face, rouged her lips, painted her eyes in an imitation of the local style with shimmering inks. She makes herself smile brightly, intent on holding this single expression without the slightest twitch. She has tried, meticulously, to make herself resemble a Lynzvethian mask, an effort you find both amusing and pitiable.

“Which one are you?” she asks. “I’ve met the Ear and the Tongue already. What a delightfully strange practice!”

“The Eye, my lady,” you say. She hesitates to offer her hand, flinching when you press your porcelain mask against her fingers in an imitation of a kiss.

The reenactment is half over. You’ve arrived just in time for the Tyrant’s death by disembowelment. The executioner’s black robes flutter behind her like a crow’s wings as she crosses the stage, ceremonial dagger clutched in one gloved hand. Her beaked mask is scarlet, wreathed with blood red feathers and a veil of black lace. “How unsightly, this beast that once ruled!” she recites. “He has defied the noose and scorned the flame. Shall he face my blade with the same impenitence?”

The Tyrant, bound to a wooden beam, struggles against his bindings. There is a crack in the facade of his weeping mask, tears of sapphire dotting the golden cheeks. “Please don’t do this,” he begs. “Please, I—there’s been a mistake. I’ve been loyal all my life.”

The noblewoman’s discomfort is obvious. She shifts, the beads and baubles along her dress clinking together. “What is it that you do, exactly? Eyes and Ears and whatnot,” she asks.

“Ilcordian monarchs are blessed by the heavens,” King Leolis says. He strokes her arm through one velvet sleeve, drawing her gaze to the serene expression of his sun mask. “We manifest our will through these appendages. An Ear and Eye to learn all that happens in the realm, a Tongue to speak what is decreed…”

“Peculiar,” she says. “We have a royal spymaster for such things.”

“A spymaster can’t do what I can,” you say.

On stage, the executioner unsheathes the ceremonial dagger. The blade glints in the golden light, sharpened to a razor point. She begins the Butcher’s Lament, long, poetic verse about duty, honor and the cleansing of sin, drowned out by the Tyrant’s shrieks. “King Leolis!” he screams. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I’ve done nothing—!”

“This death I give with pleasure!” the executioner declares. She glides forward, dagger in hand. With vengeful purpose, she drives the blade into the Tyrant’s chest. The sound is a dull, wet thunk. The executioner must always be an actor of great strength and dexterity to strike through flesh, and sinew, to saw through layer upon layer of sacrificial garment and expose the flesh beneath, and to do it all with style. This one is perhaps the best you’ve ever seen. She works with artful precision and wild ecstasy all at once, soft giggles turning to raucous laughter as she begins to gut the Tyrant like a fresh kill. Ilcordians cheer and applaud, chanting, “The Tyrant’s Demise! The Tyrant’s Demise!” Foreigners shift and murmur, hesitantly excited. They were warned, surely, heard stories at the very least, but to see it is another thing, you suppose.

“I’ve always admired the Ilcordian flair for spectacle,” the noblewoman says. “You make an art of everything.” Blood spatters across the stage and wets the executioner’s gloves. She plunges her fist into the gaping wound, wrenching a length of pulsating intestine from the Tyrant’s stomach. He makes a gurgling, weeping sound, sagging in his bindings. You watch. A dull heat ignites in the pit of your stomach, a quiet rage.

This is a farce. A disappointing imitation. The Ilcordians who were here that day know it as well as you do, but they’re willing to swallow this uninspired forgery. The real thing, you recall, was indescribably beautiful.

“Is it true you had to kill him six times?” the noblewoman asks.

“Eleven, actually,” King Leolis says. He chuckles at her wide eyes and soft gasp. “A dreadful business, but it’s behind us now.”

“For that, I’m grateful. The old king—the Tyrant,” she quickly corrects as King Leolis’ cold, moon mask turns towards her, “his war against the northern provinces came dangerously close to our borders. I woke each morning to smoke on the horizon, fearing the worst.”

“Never again,” King Leolis vows. He touches her openly, shamelessly, his hand sliding from her arm to the small of her back as he draws her in. “War is not my way. You will see that, in time.” The noblewoman’s facade nearly crumbles, the corner of her lips twitching, her eyes half-lidded with desire. You wonder what she, and all foreigners, think is beneath an Ilcordian’s mask. Ear has told you all manner of bizarre rumors he overhears, that your masks magically change themselves to suit your soul, that you die if they break, that the masks are your faces. She must believe the latter. Unfortunate, you think. If King Leolis manages to lure her to his bedchambers tonight, she’s unlikely to survive the night.

“Could you send your Eye away?” she asks quietly.

King Leolis’ masks both turn towards you, lingering behind her. He says nothing. You stare back at those mismatched faces, both gentle and stern. He is, to the outsiders, austere and imposing, towering over mere mortals. To you, he is no better than the reenactment, the impotent squelch of flesh unraveling around a blade, a shadow cast by a greater being. You say, with a sweeping bow, “If that is what the lady wishes.” You know that King Leolis lets out the breath he was holding only when you have crossed the Moonstone Promenade and gone far, far away.

Veyette, the King’s Tongue, stands in the town square, drowning in an extravagant gown. The lips of her black mask are stretched in a wide, golden smile, a crescent moon and stars painted across her features. She stands straight-backed, hands clasped together, as motionless as stone. “His Eternal Eminence welcomes you to the City of Beauty,” she says, her voice smooth and pleasing. “Partake in all that intrigues you. Indulge in all that pleases you. That is the Ilcordian way.”

You’re restless. It’s hard to sit still for long. Another, more grand production of the reenactment is staged at the amphitheater, a venue of greenery and marble columns with the scent of flowers wafting through the air. You drift through during the infamous scene where a mob of Lynzvethians storm the palace, disinterested even as the Tyrant is dragged across the stage in chains, sobbing, “Don’t just stand there! Help me! Do something! You really think Leolis is any better? You think it won’t be you up here next year?”

Courtesans in lavender masks travel in search of the lonely and unoccupied, alcorans and their winding stems painted beside their eyes. They whisper to starstruck outsiders about the coming celebrations, a performance of movement and pleasure held in the royal gardens beneath the moon. Gossip is everywhere. A horde of nobles corner you in the marketplace, fishing for secrets. “King Leolis is refreshing, isn’t he? More fond of the pen than the sword,” one says.

“He is what he is,” you say, amused. Outsiders are fun to look at with their expressive, fearful eyes and quivering lips.

“Do you think he’s interested in increasing trade with the western realms?” another presses.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I suppose you haven’t been his Eye for long. He only ascended to the throne four years ago. How does that work, anyway? It sounds like sorcery. You simply came into existence when he became king?”

“I’m not his,” you say. The nobles make even more interesting faces. You watch their skin stretch and furrow, their mouths twisting into worried frowns.

“That mouth will get you into trouble one of these days.” Oanick, the King’s Hand, drapes his spidery fingers over your shoulder. Swirls of silver are embossed across his mask, a colorful diamond pattern adorning the edges. “Honored guests,” he addresses the outsiders, tilting his tricorn hat, “don’t mind this one. The Eye is a creature of riddles. We are the appendages of His Eternal Eminence. King is such an uninspired title in comparison.” His grip slides down to your wrist and he drags you away, heels clicking across the stone path.

“Are you upset with me for telling the truth?” you ask.

“You forget yourself. You are to watch. Nothing more.” He doesn’t look quite as absurd as the rest of you, permitted sleeker, more subdued garments, embroidered sleeves hugging his long, slender arms. Together, you make your way back to the palace. You pass the marketplace, Veyette still speaking words that are not her own, “His Eternal Eminence asks only that you enjoy yourself to the fullest. Take what you wish and do as you desire.” The reenactment has ended at the Moonstone Promenade, the crowd dispersing. King Leolis and his conquest are already gone, onto the next spectacle.

“I’m tired of this,” you say. “Tired of all of this.”

“He does not want to see you like this, Eye.”

“He’s dead,” you say.

“Even so.”

One must pass through the palace gates, the gardens, and the servant’s quarters before finally reaching the royal cemetery. The air is cold here. The grass is gray and brittle, the sky swirling with clouds. There is sunlight beyond the trees but it doesn’t reach here. They call this strangeness “Ilcordian gloom,” and it was once everywhere. It shrouded Lynzveth in its smothering embrace. It followed the royal army into battle. It crept through the earth and menaced the frail realms on the borders of Ilocrdia, threatening to overtake them. Now, it can only be found here.

Oanick leads you to a mausoleum, the eclipsing sun and moon of the royal crest adorning the heavy, stone doors. He splays one of his long-fingered hands against the stone and pushes. You see it, and he must feel it—how all of Ilcordia trembles when that first wisp of accursed air seeps out. The darkness within is deeper than night. A set of stairs spirals into the abyss.

You don’t speak to Oanick for the entire descent, and he doesn’t speak to you. It takes everything you have to keep walking, to keep yourself from turning around. That heat in your chest burns hotter, fires of anger licking the inside of your lungs. You long for this, year after year. You dread this more than anything. Deep in the earth, covered in cobwebs, cave moss and ancient dust, lies the tomb of the old king. There is no casket. No headstone. No surviving monument that bears his name. There is only an old throne and his corpse seated upon it, still bearing the wounds of his executions.

He wears the thin, ashy remains of his once splendid robes, his head concealed behind crude burlap, the hood of the executed. Chains bind him and long, iron rods nail him to the throne. His throat is slit and gaping, his bones prominent through stretched, emaciated skin. A rope of intestine dangles from the grotesque woud in his chest, a flayed display of flesh peeled back and held open by insect pins. A snapped noose hangs around his neck. And yet, when you set foot in this old, forgotten place, you see the corpse move. His fingers flex and curl. His chest heaves with rattling breaths. He lifts his head and you feel his gaze.

Oanick shoves you so hard you stumble. You catch yourself on the armrests of the throne, face-to-face with the grotesque husk of the old king. You look back and he shakes his head. An apology. The action wasn’t his.

“Your Eternal Eminence,” you murmur, stroking the mangled, pale hand of the corpse. “You see what I see. But do you see it the way I do? I wonder what you think of all this sometimes.” It’s with some difficulty that you climb into his lap, straddling his bony hips. The chains and sharpened stakes dig into you, catching on your extravagant clothing. You push yourself closer, leaning against his chest. You hear lace tearing. You don’t care. He’s so vast compared to you, even bigger than King Leolis. He towers over you, even seated. “I don’t get it,” you admit. “He’s not much different than you. He does all the same, awful things, but more carefully. He dresses them up, gilds them. There was never any pretension to your cruelty.”

The old king sucks in a low, rumbling breath through his dead lungs. One finger twitches like a dying spider’s limb.

“What do you think of that? Do you think anything anymore?” you ask him, running your hands across his chest, feeling the unraveling silk turn to ash beneath your fingers. It’s maddening. Dead eleven times over, gray as the stone around him, and still so regal. Long, unkempt hair trickles out of the burlap hood and spills down his shoulders, the same immaculate color as the stone path of the Moonstone Promenade. You lean into him, rest your head against his cold chest. His heart beats a faint, stuttered rhythm, once with each breath. “I have always hated being your Eye,” you say. “But I hate this even more.”

You hear the click of Oanick’s heels and then his hands are on you, curling over your shoulders. They’re the same as the old king’s. Smaller, more delicate, but the same spindly fingers, the same firm, confident grasp. You can hear him panting as the old king’s arousal overtakes him, his breath warming the nape of your neck. He took his mask off. A shiver runs through you.

“I have nightmares where you take your vengeance,” you tell the corpse. “You reclaim everything. Your kingdom. Your palace. You take us, and we are whole again.” You hear your clothing coming apart, seams ripping on Oanick’s sharpened nails. The chill of the mausoleum hits your bare skin, shoulders first and then the expanse of your back. Your hands rise to the hood of the executed, feeling for the shape of the old king’s jaw. You touch him through the burlap, frame his face against your palms. “And when I wake up, I feel the Ilcordian gloom on my skin and in my lungs. And I’m hateful and afraid.”

Oanick’s lips caress the shell of your ear. His fingers hook into the strings holding your mask in place and you feel indignation. He doesn’t deserve to see you. It’s his fault that Leolin took power, his fault that this new age of masks and make believe began. “Don’t,” you whimper.

Oanick hesitates. The old king does not. The string snaps and you hear the porcelain shatter on the mausoleum floor. Oanick feels you with the king’s hands, tracing your jaw, your lips, the shape of your eyes. All of them, along your cheeks and bared forearms, wiping away the tears gathering like pearls on your collarbones. It’s the old king who grabs your hips with careless, sharp fingers, the old king who blankets himself against your back as his hands roam your body. Oanick whispers apologies and kisses your neck, and he is just as lost and broken, a disembodied appendage.

“Let us go,” you beg him. Oanick inhales sharply behind you. Your insolence is rewarded with a hand twisting in your hair and pulling hard on your scalp. The old king takes you both.

Oanick gasps and shivers as he buries his cock inside of you, his lower half moving against his will. It’s misery, shivering in the lap of a dead thing that will not die. He is cruel through Oanick, making his hands pinch and scratch you, leaving marks in your skin. Every thrust pushes you harder against his cold body. You feel his malevolence like a fog in the air, a burning smog in your lungs. You understand, without words, without anything but how frantically Oanick begins to fuck you and his teeth sink into your neck, that he still wants with the same terrifying ferocity he held in life, he still desires.

Oanick bounces you on his lap. His nails sink into your hip like knives in your skin and every thrust makes them cut deeper. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but his kisses have turned harsh and biting. The flesh of your shoulder crunches between his teeth and you shiver at the hot press of his tongue against the wound. The pain is not as terrible as the yearning in your chest, the knowledge that this, too, is a pale imitation. A theatrical performance of something greater. The old king watches you shiver and cry as his stand-in fucks you harder, the slap of his hips against yours echoing in the emptiness of the mausoleum.

You cry out when Oanick’s hands wrap around your abdomen and you’re pulled into the rhythm of his thrusts like a toy. He slams into you and holds you still, stammering more useless apologies as you writhe. Oanick's hand wraps around your throat and starts to squeeze. Your fingers scrape at his wrist, tearing the delicate fabric of his sleeve. He rolls his hips and your eyes roll back in your head.

“He wants you to beg,” Oanick says.

“I won’t,” you mutter, and he starts to choke you again.

There is no time in the abyssal darkness of this tomb, no way of knowing how long you’re there, lungs burning, shivering between Oanick and the old king. You are broken and put back together, granted just a glimpse of wholeness. Oanick grasps your hips as he starts to move again, pounding into you faster than before. You find yourself with your arms over the old king’s bony shoulders, your fingers tangled in his hair. Your lips move mindlessly against burlap, kissing something you can only remember. His mouth doesn’t move. He does not speak, does not return your devotion. But there is rigidity in the old king that wasn’t there before, intention that does not belong to the dead. You feel, distinctly, that you are seen, beheld by hidden eyes. You feel him like a fist around your heart, squeezing until you burst.

Far above in the streets of Lynzveth, the King’s Tongue cannot help the satisfied smirk that crosses her lips. “The King is dead,” she says in a voice not her own, “long live the King.”

#rotpeach writes #goretober #starting the month off with a weird one lmfao #original

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