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dronekittycuddles · 1 month ago

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First OC post!! Hello!! Intro post coming soon but in the meantime - a little silly something i wrote during classes at uni. Enjoy!!

N patted his lap, an invitation. Uzi didn't waste time, immediately crawling onto the larger drone, burying her head into his shoulder. He chuckled, encompassing them in a gentle hug.

The two robots stayed like that for a while, N rubbing small circles on the other's back. Uzi fully relaxed into him. The disassembler's attention drifted from his girlfriend to the bag he brought with him. Right, snacks! N leaned slightly to his left, reaching for one of the battery packs on top. He pulled out a bundle of zinc-air buttons, Uzi's favourite.

"Uzi, baby." N spoke softly as to not spook his little. "Look what I got, your favourite batteries!" He took one out of the package and held it up to Uzi's face. She looked back, eyeing the snack, before burying her face back into him with a displeased whine. N frowned.

"Hey, buddy. Are you not feeling well?" He's met with another whine, this time much softer. She didn't want to admit it it seems, but to him it was a clear confirmation.

Gently, N pried Uzi away from himself, to check her temperature. The purple drone pouted as the back of N's hand met her upper screen.

"Hm, you're not overheating. I don't see any warnings popping up either..." He met Uzi's discontent glare, seemingly from being separated from her source of warmth and comfort. N thought for a moment before finally asking, "Is it your tummy? Do you have a tummy ache?"

Uzi grimaced and shoved her head back into N's shoulder. Bingo.

"Hey, that's nothing to be embarrassed about, little dude. We'll get you fixed right up." N already had an idea of what could help. He just had to figure out how to get up with an /extremely/ clingy little glued to him. He was pretty certain getting her off of him willingly would be borderline impossible, and the last thing he wants right now is to make her more upset than she already is. So, the tall drone moved his hand to support Uzi from the bottom and tried as best he could to stand up, using a wooden bedframe and his tail as balancing aids. He succeeded, carefully making his way into the kitchen, but not before grabbing a tall baby bottle from one of Uzi's drawers.

Fortunately, her father already left their shared apartment, and wasn't scheduled to return for another few hours. That meant N didn't have to rush or hide with preparing Uzi's little meal. Which was great because, to be quite honest, making anything while only having one hand available was going to take longer, whether he liked it or not. At least he had his tail, too.

N pressed on regardless, rummaging through the fridge until he found what he was looking for - a bottle of power steering fluid. It was much lighter on the stomach than oil, but could still help lubricate some of Uzi's internal mechanisms. Hopefully, that would be enough to solve or, at least, partially quell her problem.

At some point while N was busy doing his very best /not/ to spill the liquid everywhere, the little purple drone slowly readjusted herself on his arm so she could see what he was doing. She gazed at his every move with curious eyes.

N took notice of that, fixing his attention back to his little with a smile, after popping the bottle in a microwave for about a minute.

"What's up, buddy? Wanted to peek what's for dinner tonight?" Uzi didn't respond, but her expression seemed to brighten. She loved when N talked to her, he knew, even despite the fact that tiny Uzi wasn't very keen on speaking herself.

Suddenly, one bitey tail extended from Uzi's rear. Though instead of, well, biting, it only swished happily below her. N chuckled, making the other drone form a blush of embarrassment.

"Oh, what's that? Your friend decided to show up for some food as well?" Uzi's tail stopped wagging and bought its "head" up for N to pet and then promptly went back to swaying happily. It wasn't sentient, not really, but it was fun to pretend it was.

The microwave beeped, an unpleasant sound that N quickly silenced by clicking one of the buttons. He retrieved the warmed bottle, capped it and shook to make sure the liquid was all equally warmed. It wasn't very hot, which was exactly what he wanted.

"Okay." N made his way to the living room. Usually, he would return to Uzi's room, but now that the apartment was empty, he much preferred using the armchair. It provides much better support for both him and Uzi than a cold wall does, plus it's much more comfortable.

He sat down with a grunt and let Uzi adjust herself in his arms. With a bit of help, she laid down across N's lap, head resting on his metal bicep. The disassembler brought the bottle up to her lips. Uzi still hesitated, though, visor displaying a worried look.

"C'mon, buddy. It'll make you feel better." N used his 'trapped' hand to pet the little drone's shoulder. "Promise." He smiled softly.

That seemed to be enough to assure Uzi. Placing her hands on the bottle in a loose grip, she shyly took the silicone nib into her mouth and began drinking.

Almost immediately, N felt her body relax, warmth from the drink spreading through her insides. The purple drone's hold on the bottle tightened, prompting N to let go. He used his now free hand to draw small circles on her stomach, providing further comfort.

"Don't drink too fast." He didn't want her to choke on accident. But Uzi didn't seem to be in a rush, savouring all the pleasant sensations soothing her aching stomach.

After a while, all the liquid was gone. Uzi began chewing on the soft silicone with a content hum. It didn't last long though, with N removing the bottle from her grip shortly after. He was met with a whimper of protest.

"Zi, you know I can't let you chew on the bottle. You'll break it." He knows this, because it already happened. Twice. Neither of them were big fans of venturing out in search of a new one, but it was up to the disassembler to make sure they didn't have to.

In response, Uzi glued herself to the taller drone's chest, and... began nibbling his shirt.

"Hey!" N pried the material out her mouth, which earned him another whine. "My clothes are not for biting either, young lady! You have toys for that!" He scolded his little, but quickly shifted tones. He didn't want Uzi to think he was /actually/ mad at her. "Speaking of, we should probably get you some, huh, ya little shark?" N booped the other drone square in the middle of her display, making her giggle.

He got up, making sure both the bottle and Uzi were secure in his grasp, and made his way back to the bedroom.

This time, Uzi wasn't as opposed to being torn away from N, but still complained with various noises of dissatisfaction once set on the bed. The other drone gave her a quick forehead kiss.

"I'll come back to cuddle in a second, okay? I'm just getting the toys for you."

Soon, he was done rummaging through drawers, picking out two teethers; a blue bird- shaped water one and a hard one, attached to a plush crocodile - and a black pacifier, strapped to a lanyard clip patterned with happy dogs. N really liked that one.

The taller drone smiled as he laid down on the bed, opening his arms. Uzi pressed herself against his side, one hand grabbing for a teether. N let her choose which one she wanted - his little went for the bird.

Uzi released the hoodie sleeve she was mercilessly mauling and slipped the soft plastic between her lips. Now, tightly snuggled against her boyfriend, the purple drone began to feel drowsy.

N took notice of that, and without missing a beat came up with an offer.

"Want me to tell you a story, little buddy?"

Uzi perked up a bit at that, her tail wagging rapidly. N was really good at making up fantasy stories on the fly, or so he's told. But the fact that he isn't reading means that, every single time, the story is different. Which is why Uzi loves them so much.

N chuckled, dragging a fluffy comforter over both of them. He pulled Uzi closer, her brilliantly purple eyes looking straight up at him.

"Okay, so, once upon a time..."

------

It didn't take long for sleepiness to overtake Uzi - they barely made it halfway through the story before [SLEEP MODE] appeared on the girl's screen. N took that as his cue, slowly taking the falling teether out of her mouth and replacing it with a pacifier, which he gingerly clipped to her hoodie.

After turning off the bedside lamp, N enveloped Uzi in a tight hug and closed his eyes.

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

#muder drones #age regression #sfw agere #murder drones agere #murder drones age regression #uzi doorman #uzi doorman murder drones #n murder drones #little uzi doorman #caregiver n #nuzi #murder drones nuzi #n x uzi

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kieranxvalentine · 1 year ago

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Source of Happiness. {Yandere!Idol Oc}

༻♡༺✎ You were his source of Happiness, and you were coming home with him. ༻♡༺✎ Yandere! Idol x Reader ༻♡༺✎ 17+ (Mentions of drugging, delusional thoughts, stalking and other behavior) ༻♡༺✎ 0.7k words ༻♡༺✎ Authors Note: Welcome to my next OC! I hope you enjoy this, and poll will be at the bottom for which one you guys would like next! (This is not proof read!)

“KAHN” “KAHN” “KAHN!”

He listened to the crowd yell his name, the loud roar of the screams of his fans never ceased to amaze him.

But none of them mattered.

He only had his eyes on one person, he scanned for his love in the seas of thousands of people before finally landing on them.

Their (h/c) hair done in their favorite style, their e/c eyes looking up to the stage with such excitement, their light stick waving in the air as they recorded with the other.

Oh how he adored you.

Kahn, or Kanato Watanabe, was a popular idol, having been in the idol industry for nearly 6 years now, and before he never felt such joy when he performed.

Kanato was a handsome 5'10 male with natural brown hair and alluring hazel eyes. He had a wonderful voice, he was jokingly called the siren in his group due to his way to swoon people easily with his voice.

Don’t get him wrong, he loved his fans, but when it came to you. Oh his heart just did somersaults, he would start to blush, stutter over the words of the songs he knew so well each time he made eye contact with you.

You made staying in this hellish industry worth it.

He remembers when you became a fan, it was roughly 4 years ago. He met you during a fansign.

Kanato locked eyes with you and felt like it was love at first sight. He remembers stuttering and nearly messing up his signature which his group members relentlessly teased him for.

You were just so perfect, he listened as you rambled off how important he was to you, about how his music saved you when you were in a dark place and that sold him right there.

Various songs of his group STXRLXGHT were based off you and his emotions for you, and his manager and company surely wasn’t complaining. Everytime he wrote a song that was about you, it would do big numbers, charting on the billboard and getting them recognized by big brands who would sponsor STXRLXGHT.

Kanato wasn’t worried about all of that, he wanted you.

He wanted you to know that majority of songs that many other girls thought were about them were solely about you. You were the one who made his heart beat, made his head spin, and made him feel powerless whenever he was in your presence.

When he figured out your name, he would stalk your social media under a burner account.

Oh you said you’d like to see him with a certain hair color? He would change it just so he could see you freak out about it.

You posted an outfit you’d like to see him in? He would buy it and post it to the group instagram, loving the way you would keyboard smash about it.

It would eventually get too much and he would decide that he had to have you.

Messaging you from the burner account he was using, he would message you. He knew you’d be suspicious, after all, many scammers scammed fans by pretending to be their faves all the time.

So when you questioned him, he would respond with.

“Let’s facetime.”

And when you did, he loved seeing the surprise on your face, he enjoyed seeing you freak out and pinch yourself believing it wasn’t real.

He would sing with you, sharing ideas and spoiling you with information that no one was supposed to know yet. It’s not like anyone would believe you anyways…

He would arrange a meeting finally. Roping in one of his managers by threatening his family.

“You are to help me get my beloved or say goodbye to your pitiful excuse of a family.”

Kanato had the power to, he was the leader and main singer of the main money maker of the company, of course they weren’t going to tell him no, nor were his group mates going to question him either, they were just like him.

He would ask to take you out to dinner, he would be in disguise of course as to not draw attention from any wandering or lurking eyes. He would spoil you, treat you like a princess, getting anything you want, he had the money to anyways.

Kanato would offer to have his manager drive you back home after you began to get tired, (he slipped a drug into your food when you got up to use the bathroom).

As you were driver home he would keep an eye on you, watching as you slowly slipped into unconsciousness, he would smile and hold you in his arms as he ordered his manager to drive back to the hotel they were staying at.

You were coming back to Japan with him whether you liked it or not. Its not like you could tell him no either. He had already prepared a nice home in the countryside where the two of you could live together. Oh! How happy it made him!

He could see you welcoming him home after a long day of practice, welcoming him with a kiss and hug.

Oh how he could not wait! Everything had fallen into place just as he had wanted them to~!

So just be a good little beloved and come home to your husband..

Isn’t that what you called him online anyways?

©kieranxvaletine 2023 <3 Hope you all enjoyed! also! vote for which fic you would like tomorrow!

#oc x reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere imagines #yandere insert #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x y/n #fanfiction #original character x reader #original character #writers on tumblr

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animasolaoriginal · 7 months ago

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(1) I n n o c e n c e L o s t

He finds her in a brothel of all places. A chance encounter, but one that will change his life – and hers – forever. – or: A story about a cowboy who falls in love with a prostitute, who happens to be so much more than that.

GENERAL TAGS: NSFW! Explicit! Size difference, age gap, slow burn romance. Cowboys, outlaws, prostitutes. Historical inaccuracy. Horses, guns, violence.

Chapter 1▫️2▫️3▫️4▫️5▫️6▫️7▫️8▫️9▫️10▫️11▫️12▫️13 ...

Chapter 1: The Girl

m!OC x f!OC -- WORDS: 5.9k -- READ ON AO3

when a cowboy meets a prostitute

-- Chapter 2

Bourbon, rum, whiskey, anything that burns on his tongue, spilling liquid fire down his throat. It all blurs in the end. There's laughter, slurs, hands slapping backs, stumbling, murmurs, more laughter. That post-heist-haze sinking into his bones. Everything whirls inside his head as he makes it up the stairs. “Gimme your best...newest,” he hears himself mumble.

Last door on the right. Somehow he makes it there, leans heavy on the door knob, twists it, almost falls as the door swings open. There he stiffens, blinks slowly, his motions so heavy, frozen in time, slow as molasses. The door closes behind him, he stares ahead, blinks again, eyelids almost stuck to his eyeballs.

And yet he sees her.

The room is dark, small, a large bathtub in one corner, a four-poster bed in the other. An old armchair next to a fireplace, the fire roaring within, the only light source. And in front of it, between the flames and the chair, kneels a girl, pale legs illuminated by the orange glow next to her, skin, so much skin, not everywhere though. Her slender torso is covered by a loose blouse, unbuttoned in the front, falling off one slim shoulder, held together by a tight corset that pushes up her small breasts, creating a cleavage that doesn't suit her. Thin arms in wide cotton, or satin, he can't be sure, it doesn't matter.

He's fixated on her bare legs. The blouse barely covers the hint of hair between her legs, peeking out despite her kneeling position, thighs pressed tightly together as she sits on the heels of her feet. Her hands rest folded on her lap, the chest is moving up and down, and his eyes wander again, to her face. Pale. Soft edges on the jaw, high cheekbones, a small straight nose, lips... full lips, pink and shiny, a tongue darting out and wetting the bottom one.

And those eyes. Big eyes, glowing in the dim light, greenish, blue maybe, like the deep sea at midnight, a wave illuminated by the moon. They look both surprised and eager, but the flutter of her nostrils tells him she is more surprised and shocked by his sudden entrance, by the unsteadiness of his large body.

She looks so young.

Something stirs within him, and not just the strain in his pants, but something more like a knot in his stomach. This is wrong. He stumbles further anyway, watching her closely. She flinches when he comes closer, but doesn't move. Somehow he makes it to the armchair, flops down in it with a heavy grunt, his belt tilting even more on his hips. He shifts his holster away. Her eyes follow him.

He stares at the girl in front of him, immobile, waiting, patient and yet anxious. What is she waiting for? Why isn't she moving? Why is she here? When she eventually moves, only slightly, a little shift on her knees to face him, he lets out a groan, and she stops, eyes wide.

“How old are you?” he slurs, tongue heavy in his mouth.

She tilts her head, long brown waves falling over her shoulder, some strands gathering in the cleft between her pushed-up breasts. “Old enough to please you, mister,” she replies, her voice feeble and quiet, but there's a fire behind those words, uttered in confidence as if she's done it before, many times.

“Age,” he grunts again, staring at her. She holds his gaze, jaw clenching slightly.

“Eighteen,” she says quietly, her chin tilted up a bit.

He narrows his eyes, he's noticed the twitch in her folded hands, the tension in her slim shoulders. “Really?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, tilting her head. “Why does it matter?” she then asks, a little louder, batting those long eyelashes. “You're here to have some fun, aren't you?”

“You're young,” he simply states. Not too young, maybe, but young... young enough to make him think despite his drunken state. This is wrong. She shouldn't be here. “How long have you been here?” Done this?

“All my life, mister,” she answers, and he frowns, deep creases on his forehead that hurt inside his temples. “I was born here.” The ache grows. His head thumps to the beat of his thundering heart, mirroring the throbbing behind stiff fabric.

He leans forwards then, causing her to flinch once more, as he rests his elbows on his thighs and stares at her, scrutinizing her, takes in her young face. Pretty, no, beautiful, in spite (or because) of the rounded edges of her face. She's slender, sharp collarbones visible in the wide opening of her blouse. Those soft mounds tease him, urge him to release them from their unnaturally squished state.

His hand twitches, itches to touch her, but something holds him back. She's young. And... weirdly familiar. His eyes narrow even further as he squints at her, her small frame dark in front of the crackling fire. She shifts under his intense gaze, body stiff, hands wringing in her lap.

“Sir?” she whispers, lips moving slightly, a sweet voice like honey falling from them. Lips... full, shiny, wet, and a sudden image presses into his hazy mind. Lips parted, closed around –

He clears his throat and leans back with a grunt, wiping at his face, the scrape of his beard against his calloused palm a rough noise in the quiet of the room. He sighs deeply, lowering his hand, resting it on his upper thigh as he watches the girl.

“You shouldn't be here,” he huffs out, wetting his dry lips.

“It's my job, mister,” she says, tilting her head to the other side.

He shakes his head. “This shouldn't be a job... not for a young girl like you...”

“I'm eighteen –”

“You're a child!” he grunts, louder, rougher than intended.

She flinches, inhaling sharply, lowering her big eyes. “Do you want somebody else?” she whispers quietly, almost disappointed.

Suddenly he is aware of the noises around them, bleeding through the walls from the other rooms. Moans and cries and squeaking wood and metal. They crawl over his spine like ants, making him shiver as he stares at the small figure in front of him. Why is he here?

She is still sitting on her knees, stiff and immobile, waiting. For what? Her eyes look up at him, chin tilted, the slender column of her neck visible between her silky hair, soft skin, untouched (really?), innocent. Why is she naked below the waist?

He waves a hand at her, his arm stiff, heavy, the alcohol making everything harder to do. “Shouldn't be here,” he growls, tongue twice its size in his mouth. Does he mean her? Or him? Or both? He doesn't know. His mind is fuzzy, spinning out of control. His cock strains against his tight jeans. But his heart is protesting.

“Sir?” she asks again, blinking slowly, dark lashes batting against pale skin.

He leans back into the chair, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes, relaxing. Big mistake. Suddenly there is a warm hand on his knee, a touch like a pistol shot. He jerks awake, stares down at the girl, who has shifted, kneeling between his spread legs now, the same position, just closer, frozen in time with her other hand hanging in mid-air, ready to touch his other knee.

“What are you doing?” he grunts.

“Giving you a good time,” she replies quietly, and a shy smile curves her full lips. Lips around – He groans, rubbing his face again, his tired eyes. “You paid for this, mister. You should get something for your money.”

He shakes his head, hands back on his thighs, staring down at her. She is closer in her new position, backlit by the fire behind her, features blurring. Both hands are on his knees now, warm and small, hesitant but eager. Her pushed-up breasts nearer, the cleft between them deeper. His hands itch.

“Do you like doing this?” he utters, the words spilling without being processed in his muddled brain.

There is a flinch, a wince, a visible reaction in her tense shoulders. She swallows, her throat moves, but the smile on her lips is there, the lie tangible. “Of course, sir,” she whispers. “Let me show you how much...”

She leans up then, lifting from her knees, her hands sliding up his thighs, almost brushing against his. Actress, he thinks. Nothing more. He can't imagine –

But then he does: full lips around a variety of different – He clenches one hand into a fist, presses it to his upper thigh, straining, ignoring the tension in his stomach. The image stays. Lips, a wide mouth, bulging cheeks, closed eyes, tears streaming down a pale face, slurping sounds, helpless gurgles, muffled gasps, rough hands in her hair as her head is pushed deeper onto –

A groan escapes him. “Fuck,” he growls, shaking his head. His eyes find hers, his breath heavy, his body on edge, the strain in his pants almost unbearable, and yet...

She is settled between his legs, shoulders pressed against his thighs, hands inching closer to his belt. “Don't,” he hisses, and his hands grab hers, making her gasp, her lips parting, eyes widening. His long fingers curl around her smaller ones, holding her, inches from the tent in his pants. She looks startled, then confused.

“But mister...” she whispers, letting him hold her hands, her wrists. His hands are large enough to wrap around it all. Lashes flutter, the tip of her tongue sliding over her upper lip. She trembles slightly.

And then he lets go, and his hands grab her face instead, careful, as careful as he can in his dazed state. She lets out a surprised yelp but stays perfectly still as he cups her cheeks with his big hands, his fingers slipping into her soft hair, his thumbs wiping at the corners of her mouth. She holds his gaze, holds her breath.

“You look like...” he starts, quiet, a low rumble in his chest as he stares at her, his mind spinning, new and old images whirling together.

Soft lips, wet, full, strained around –

Green eyes, sparkling in the sun, a smile, a laugh like honey on his scarred soul.

“Her,” he mumbles, tilting his head, leaning closer until his nose brushes against hers. She stiffens, but doesn't move, can't move with how he holds her face. She swallows slightly, lips trembling against his thumbs.

“Who, sir?” she breathes softly, warm and cautious against his dry lips. Her eyes are on his face, taking in every detail with how close he is. Scars, wrinkles, creases, his rough beard stretching along his jaw, up his cheeks, around his lips, fluttering slightly as he breathes through his nose.

“Keira,” he finally utters, the image clear in his dazed mind. The same woman. No, not the same, similar, and a woman, not a girl. The same hair, the same small nose, the same eyes. “You look like Keira.”

And that's why it feels wrong to use her like he wanted to when he first entered the room, to be here, in this house of moans and grunts and creaking wood and metal.

The girl stares at him, lips parted, face warming under his palms. There's recognition in her deep eyes, darkened by the fire glowing behind her, the only light source. “You... knew my mother?” she whispers, barely audible, shifting back onto her knees, bare legs folded beneath her, her hands straining against his thighs.

His heart sinks and swells at the same time. Mother. Her mother. She looks like her. Like Keira. But what is she doing here? I was born here, she has said. Bound to a life of... servitude. Pleasure for others. A slave, a body to use, for money. The moans and grunts of the other rooms flood his ears, louder than before as his mind clears up, as the shock settles in.

“No,” he says apprehensively, a low hum over his dry lips, and his hands tighten around her delicate face. The girl frowns, he notices his mistake. “I mean, yes, I knew her,” he utters quietly, staring at her, gently caressing the corners of her lips with his thumbs. “I didn't know... about you...”

She blinks slowly, watching him, curiosity in her big eyes. Her lips part, a flood of questions ready to spill over them, but he lets go of her face and leans back, shaking his head.

“What happened to her?” he asks, already afraid of the answer as he drives a big hand through his messy hair.

The small figure between his legs shrinks as she sits down further on her knees, her hands leaving his thighs, resting on her lap. She lowers her eyes, inhales sharply. “I don't know,” she whispers. “She... left me here.” There's a hint of resentment in her soft voice, and he can't blame her. Anger rises in his throat like bile.

“She did what?” he hisses, leaning closer again.

She flinches, looks up. “Madam Claire said she worked here, got pregnant from a customer, gave birth to me, and then left, ran away, without me...” Her voice breaks as she retells her story, and his gut clenches.

The tiny frame in front of him shrinks even more, falls into herself, and he can't stand it. He leans in, brings his hands under her arms and lifts her up, easy, as if she was a doll, her wavy hair bouncing slightly. She struggles in his grip, but then she's sitting sideways on his lap, her very bare bottom warm against the fabric of his jeans. She stiffens when he pulls his arms around her shoulders and her against his broad chest.

“I'm sorry,” he slurs, his tongue heavier than ever.

“What for?” she breathes against his collarbone, where the buttons of his black shirt are open, revealing weathered skin.

He sighs, his hand wide on her back as he holds her, his breath making strands of her hair fly before he presses his dry lips to her warm forehead. She lets out a strangled gasp, tenses in his embrace, her hands squished between his chest and her own. “If I'd known about you – I... wouldn't have left you to this – to endure this fate...” he mutters, his heart as heavy as his tongue.

“Why do you care?” she asks, her voice quiet but curious.

“I loved your mother once, many moons ago, twenty years it must be by now,” he says into her hair, his own voice a deep thrum in her ears. “She left me, one day, and I made the mistake of letting her go. Maybe I pushed her to end up here, maybe she wanted to work like this... she's always been a free spirit, couldn't stay long at one place. I guess... I learned that from her.”

He feels her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as she slowly relaxes on his lap, leaning against him, warm and tiny and frail. “What do you mean?”

“I travel a lot,” he says simply, sudden images of tents and horses and wagons filling his mind. But also of masks and guns and blood and shouts, and comically large bags filled with money, cowering people, screaming women, the rattle of a train, the silent squeak of metal doors, splintering wood. And pictures of him, drawn, some more flattering than others, and his name printed all over them. Dead or alive.

She tilts her chin up, big eyes looking at him, her lips parted slightly, long lashes grazing pale skin. He sees her better now, in the orange glow of the fire. She looks like Keira. But she's alone, left to her own devices, forced to work a profession she was born into, that she didn't choose. “What's your name, mister?”

He frowns at her innocent question, trying to forget the Wanted posters. “Ben,” he growls, a deep thrum in his throat. “And yours?”

“Nebbia,” she replies quietly, her eyes wandering over his face, her small body molded into him, warm on his lap, pointy bones digging into his thigh, pressing on his erection. Nebbia like Neigh-bee-ah, long e, more like ehh, short i, like an e, and the little ah at the end, like a soft moan. Rolls off her tongue like honey.

“Nebbia,” he repeats, her name rumbling out of him as he tries to figure out why Keira would name her daughter this. But then a smile crosses his lips. “Fog in Italian,” he whispers and watches how she nods, the same kind of smile curving her lips. He wonders if Keira has made it over the pond, finally seeing the country she always wanted to visit. But why did she leave her kid?

Free spirits can't have children pulling them down, grounding them to the earth, binding them to one place. The poor girl... If Keira knows what happened to her? What she has to do?

Full lips around –

He clears his throat, his big hands resting on her small waist. She still looks at him, somewhat hopeful, big eyes, there's innocence in them, but also something else. A shadow in her green irises. A stain.

“Why aren't you wearing any bottoms, Nebbia?” he asks quietly, his fingers teasing at the curve of her rear.

He sees her blushing, red spots dancing over her pale cheeks. She looks away, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “I figured it'd be easier for you...”

“Easier for me?”

“I heard you were drunk, very drunk,” she whispers into his neck, her fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt. “And I thought –”

He stares at her. In his mind, he can see her lips straining around a variety of cocks, but he can't see her lying on her back with her legs wide open, taking any of those wretched members into her sweet little – “Have you ever...” he starts, furrowing his eyebrows. “Am I your first? Would I be your first?”

She licks her lips, then chews on them. A nod, short and jerky. Eyes dancing over his chest. The sigh that escapes his throat is both filled with anger and relief. She is young. Inexperienced, has never learned the reason why those women in the other rooms cry out in pleasure. She (her mouth) has only been used for the pleasure of others, and that fact only spurs his anger, makes the vein on his forehead pulse.

Why did they choose her to satisfy him? Gimme your best...newest, he hears himself mumble. Newest. Freshly eighteen, huh? Just come of age, open for business. (To think this filthy little brothel has actual rules and has given her time to develop is almost absurd.) He closes his eyes for a moment, relieved it was him who found her without bottoms.

Because he knows he will not soil her innocence.

“I'm gonna take you with me,” he mutters as he closes his arms a little tighter around her, holding her safely on his lap.

“What?” she breathes, trying to look up despite his bear hug.

“I can give you a better life,” he says softly, tilting his head to meet her gaze.

“Why?” Despite her innocent tone, there's doubt in her voice. Disbelief. Why would anyone want to be nice to her?

He laughs darkly. “Because you deserve it?” One of his hands moves up, caresses her warm cheek. “Unless you actually want to keep sucking dicks.”

His lewd words make her flinch, her face flushed as she looks away, takes a sharp breath, her fingers clawing at his shirt. She shifts on his thigh, her body tense. “I... don't...” she mutters under her breath.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks, pressing his thumb under her chin to make her look up. Her eyes are wet, glistening, her lips trembling.

“Can I?” she whispers, a tiny flicker of hope in the green pools that stare at him.

He smiles, a genuine smile that lights up his rough face, deepening the dimple on his cheek. “If you want to. I can get you out of here, no one will notice anything...” he tells her quietly, watching her closely.

There's turmoil behind her eyes, shivers running down her body, her throat moves when she swallows hard. “They'll be angry with me,” she breathes, blinking, looking away, her eyebrows furrowed. “The women...”

“You don't owe them anything,” he says, the hand on her lower back applying soft pressure, fingers playing with the laces of her corset. “They may have raised you here, but they made you do heinous things that no girl your age should do! No respectable woman without her consent...”

“And the men? Some of them come here only for me...” He stiffens at her words, imagining those sleazy men, salivating at the thought of shoving their cocks down this poor girl's throat. “I bring good money...” He scoffs at that, shaking his head.

“And how much of that do you see, hm?” he asks her, tilting her chin back up so she looks at him. She inhales deeply, avoiding his gaze once more. “Yeah, that's what I thought...”

“I have a comfortable life –”

His hand closes around her throat, long fingers pressing into her skin. She stares at him, gasps, eyes wide. “Sweetheart, you're eighteen now, you're fair game. Men will do anything to you now, fill every single hole you have!” She gasps again, cheeks flushing at his blunt words. “You might have gotten used to sucking dick, but believe me, opening your legs will be a whole other ordeal.”

She frowns at that. “Is sex really that bad?” she whispers, voice feeble, bashful, he's surprised she is able to get these words out at all.

A laugh rumbles through him as he eases his grip on her neck. “No, sex can be amazing, but with the wrong person, there can be a lot of pain and discomfort, and the consequences...” He looks at her, holds her nervous gaze. “You're so young, you deserve better than a drunken guy forcing his cock into your hole, leaving you either completely soiled and sore, or sick, or pregnant...”

She cringes and pulls a breath through her teeth, averting her eyes once more. “You talk so obscenely, mister,” she mumbles.

He breathes out another deep laugh. “It's the harsh truth, darling. That's how the world works, get used to it,” he says matter-of-factly.

“And you want me to go out into that world?” she whispers quietly.

“Trust me, out there you'll be better off than here, if you stay with the right people. I'd worry about your current world,” he mutters, listening to the noises from the other rooms, remembering, despite his haze, how run-down this building is, its clientele, and the state of the whole town.

She can't stay here. He won't leave her, now that he knows of her existence. She's Keira's kid, and unlike her mother, he will never abandon her.

Sighing deeply, he moves his hands along her body, encircling her waist, gripping her gently, before he picks her up and puts her on her feet next to the armchair. She stares at him startled, her hands immediately going down to cover her modesty. He grunts and stands up too, towering over her. She takes a cautious step back as he starts swaying, the alcohol still buzzing inside his head.

“I could really use a bath,” he growls, wiping at his eyes, trying to dispel the dizziness. The girl stands next to him, so tiny and frail, the gentle curves of her legs backlit by the fire, her soft face tilted up to look at him, her long hair cascading down her shoulders. For a moment he is mesmerized by the sight, by how naturally beautiful she is – how out of place she feels.

When he feels the strain in his jeans, he sighs again and turns away, stumbling past her towards the tub in the corner. There's already water in it, a thick layer of soapy foam even, and when he dips a few fingers into it, he notices that it's still a little warm. He can't remember it, but he must have left a good penny in this establishment, for booze, a hot bath, and the best...newest –

He turns back to her. She is still watching him, standing behind the armchair, her hands on the backrest, biting her lip. “Hey kid, you wanna join me?” he calls to her, his fingers already at the buttons of his shirt.

She inhales sharply, then walks around the armchair, her naked legs catching his eye for a moment. “I'm not a kid, mister.”

“Ben,” he corrects with a smirk, now working on undoing his belt. It creates a thud when it falls to the wooden floor, his holster and the heavy pistol pulling it down. Her eyes follow his movements as he undresses, kicks off his boots, steps out of his jeans, shrugs off his shirt. Then her feet tap over the ground as she rounds the tub and stands on the other side.

“Not a kid, Ben,” she whispers, chewing on her lips, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her blouse as she drags it lower to cover the hint of hair between her legs.

She doesn't look away once he is completely naked in front of her, his clothes, gun and bags discarded on a chair, but he can see the red in her cheeks when her eyes flick down to his hard cock, bouncing slightly when he raises a leg and steps into the tub. The semi-warm water lulls his muscles as he sinks into it with a groan, stretching his long legs, leaning back, placing his arms on the edge, before he looks up at her.

“I meant it, Nebbia,” he says softly, tilting his head. “Come join me. I promise you don't have to do anything but sit with me.”

“I... shouldn't...” she whispers, her eyes trailing over his naked chest, half-submerged in the tub, before she looks towards the door. “We're not allowed...”

“I paid for you, didn't I?” She looks back, meeting his gaze, and he smiles at her. “Technically I can do anything to you. But I just want you to enjoy a semi-hot bath. There's still enough room,” he adds and spreads his legs, creating a space between them on the other side of the tub.

She hesitates, and he wonders why. Moments ago she seemed content to give him a good time, as she has called it, but now she is strangely coy for a prostitute who's had her throat fucked countless times before. The image of her lips strained around a cock – his cock maybe? – comes back into his mind, and he has to clench his jaw tightly to fight the urge to grab her and pull her close, do all those things to her that he has warned her about. That he's promised not to do to her.

Eventually she turns around, presenting her well-formed rear to him, those plump little cheeks, well-rounded, squeezable, the cleft between them guiding his eyes between her legs, but when her hands move up to the string holding her corset, he sighs, nodding to himself when he sees her predicament. He reaches out and tugs on the bow with one finger, loosening the tight laces slowly, carefully, and she lets him do so.

The stiff thing falls down her hips once it's loose enough, and she steps out of it, slowly turning back to him as she unbuttons the rest of her blouse and shrugs it off her slender shoulders. He can't help himself, he stares at her naked form.

Keira's kid. Half his age. He's promised her a better life.

And still he can't look away, taking in every detail of her body. How her small breasts perk, nipples hard already, the gentle slope of those mounds he wants to weigh in his big hands. How her hair falls over her shoulders, soft springy waves, silky, the same color as her mother's. His eyes trail down her chest, over the shimmer of ribs under thin skin, the flat stomach and little indent of her belly button. And that small waist, the swell of her hips, soft pale legs, cushioned thighs, and between them, the hint of hair above her sex.

Her skin is pristine, pale like alabaster, unmarked, pure.

There's a blush on her face that slowly spreads down her shoulders and between her breasts, and he has to force himself to close his eyes as she steps closer and lifts a leg to step into the tub – even though he wants nothing more than to take a peek at her sweet little cunt. Unused and innocent. He has to keep it that way.

Water splashes against his stomach when she sits down opposite him, knees bent and pulled against her chest as she settles between his outstretched legs. He looks at her with a gentle smile, and she smiles back, her eyelids fluttering.

“Not bad, eh?” he laughs quietly, moving a fluff of foam towards him with his big hands, then lathers his arms with it. She just sits there on the other side of the tub, watching him.

“Do you really mean it?” she whispers after a moment of both of them just soaking in the water.

“What?” he grunts, leaning his head against the edge of the tub as he slides a little lower, using the space she's left to fully stretch his body.

“That you're going to take me with you,” she replies, her eyes scanning his face.

He sighs, his breath blowing a tuft of foam towards her. “Yes, I mean it. I won't let you stay here, objected to all these... things,” he says. “You're Keira's daughter, and even if she might not have wanted you, I will take care of you.”

She frowns, trying to ignore the sting in her heart, the flinch of her tense shoulders at his words. “But why? You don't know me! And I don't know you! Why should I go with you?”

“You wanna stay here? Rot away and die in ten years or sooner?” His voice is harsh, his eyes dark, his jaw tense. “There's no money to be made if you stay under your Madam's thumb. You'll just be another body with a bunch of holes, destined to take it all, if you want to or not. How is this a life you'd want to continue?”

She licks her lips, her arms hugging her knees tighter. “I have food and a roof above my head...” she says quietly, averting her eyes.

He scoffs. “If that's your standard, then I can assure you that you will never go hungry, always have a comfortable bed, be safe from the elements, when you come with me.”

“But why?” she asks again, finally looking back at him. “Why are you so... nice to me?” She takes a shuddering breath. “Just because I'm the kid of a love lost?”

“I thought you weren't a kid,” he teases, and she groans with a slightly exasperated smirk. “I know it's a rare thing for people to just be nice nowadays, but you can trust me. I'm a good guy,” he lies through his teeth, a glint in his eyes.

“And you expect me to believe that?” she says, shifting in the tub, extending her legs slightly, her feet brushing against his inner thighs. “I might not know how the world works, but I see the men coming here. I've seen all types. And you look like the type I might encounter on a Wanted poster.”

He raises his eyebrows, his lips twitching. “Interesting assessment, missy. And you can tell by just looking at a man's cock?”

She grunts in indignation and splashes water towards him. He laughs and shields his face with one arm. “A fine gentleman would never talk like that...” she mumbles.

His laughter gets even louder. “And you expect a fine gentleman to walk into this establishment? Do you know where you are?” She scoffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest, slowly stretching out her legs until he can feel the soles of her feet pressing right against his groin. “Careful now,” he warns.

Her cheeks are flushed, but that doesn't stop her from rubbing her foot upwards and along his hard shaft, pressing it into his lower stomach. He watches her closely, holding in a groan. And she looks right back, green eyes hard and a dark smile on her full lips. Lips around his cock. He leans back and lets out the noise he has been suppressing. Her toes curl around his tip, his breath hitches in his throat.

And he savors the moment, just a moment, a few seconds, because it feels good. She is good, doing what she does. Would be a shame to stop her now, hm? But then he leans in and lowers his hands into the water, grabbing her ankle, stopping her after all. She yelps quietly as he pulls her leg towards him, causing her to slip. Her hands squeak along the edge of the tub as she tries to hold onto it, but before her head submerges, he lets go of her, letting her leg rest on top of his thigh.

She scrambles back into a sitting position, her eyes on him, her lips parted. “I don't have a choice, do I?” she then whispers, allowing him to put his big hand on her shin, holding her there.

He smiles at her, his eyes twinkling. “Correct, sweetheart. I will force you to have a better life, no matter what,” he says quietly, rubbing his hand up her leg.

She inhales deeply and leans back, her arms resting on the edge, hands hanging off, as she relaxes in the water, under his touch, with her bare chest exposed to him. Trusting. “You're a strange man, mister... Ben,” she whispers, smiling softly as she watches him.

He grips her thigh gently, winking at her. The buzz from the alcohol is as good as gone, replaced with a different kind of vertigo. Ignoring the twitching of his cock under the water surface, he keeps his eyes on the girl in front of him, taking in her features, a strange warmth gathering in his stomach.

He came here to celebrate the successful heist, drink himself stupid and have a good fuck afterwards. He hasn't expected to meet Keira's kid here, to be this attracted to her, to tell her he wants to take her with him. But he has, is, does, all of it, he wants her by his side, wants to give her a chance at a different life, away from pleasuring strangers every night of the week.

Does he want her for himself? Maybe. But he still also genuinely wants her to be happier, be herself, have the freedom that he has. She deserves it. And he does too, selfishly so, to have her.

-- Chapter 2

END NOTES: Hello and welcome to my first original work (that I share with you)! Thank you for reading!

Please note that I am no expert on anything wild west/western/horses/cowboys/brothels/etc. - I write silly little love/smut stories. This story, even though it's not mentioned, is set at the end of the 1800s somewhere in the west, I'm keeping it vague on purpose, this is about Ben and Nebbia.

Picture credits to their respective owners. I don't own anything. I gathered these from all around the Internet. If you see your picture and would like to have it removed, please tell me!

AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS

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a-small-writer-in-a-big-world · 6 months ago

Text

Secrets: simon ghost riley x f!reader

Warnings: mentions of past torture, angst, implied past toxic relationship, OC mentions

@thedevillovesflowers 's OC Vitally shows up as he's woven into this story, please go check out her art of him! It's very good.

This is part of the Quiet series

You understand now why Laswell had been a little nervous to let Price take you on this mission. Kostovia wasn’t Russia but it was close enough that you couldn’t help but a little more on edge as the helo got closer to the target location.

It had only been two years since you'd been in Russia and you hadn't been close since.

"From the last intel we got, Konni Group has been finding ways to fly under the radar," Laswell had explained. "We believe that they'e using an outpost in Kostovia to do so..."

"Nothing like hitting them at their source." Ghost grunted and softly nudged you.

You pushed away your worries and looked to him across the helo. When you made eye contact, you gave him a quick smile and he nodded.

There was very little chance you'd fall back into the enemy's hands, especially when Ghost was taking overwatch. He'd fight tooth and nail to keep you with the team.

He gave you a pat on the shoulder, lingering just a couple seconds, before he was dropped off as his location.

You hid the way that warmth spread across your chest from the action and licked your lips to stop another smile from creeping across your face before the helo touched down.

"Quiet and Soap take the top floors." Price ordered and you nodded. "Gaz and I will take the bottom. Any visuals, Ghost?"

"Negative." Ghost's voice crackled in the comms.

"Stay on guard. Watch your six."

The outpost, surrounded by dense forest, looked completely empty from the outside. There were signs of life, a couple trucks and supplies scattered around the dirt, but otherwise there was no movement. There didn't even seem to be movement inside, there were no lights on despite it being the middle of the night.

You frowned but followed behind the others, keeping your sights up.

It was possible they had been tipped off, you wouldn't be surprised. Konni Group had eyes and ears everywhere, they were like rotted roots and yet thrived. The intel to get here had been gotten relatively recently, almost a little too recent for them to have packed up and left however.

You followed behind Soap as he stepped inside. Your steps were quiet as you moved towards the stairs of the building before you heard clattering behind you.

You barely had a moment to shut your eyes before the flash grenade went off with a loud bang. Your ears rang and you heard shouting before Soap pulled you to behind cover as bullets ricocheted around you.

"It's a fucking ambush." He yelled before he returned fire.

You joined him, gunning down as many of the enemies as you could see while avoiding any of the bullets. it was hard to tell how many of them their were and you hoped that you were dwindling their numbers.

"Reinforcements are coming from the north!" Ghost called in and you clenched your jaw.

They were trying to box all of you in.

"Quiet, find a way up and help Ghost." Price ordered and you signaled to him that you heard.

You fought your way through the catwalk, moving up a few more stairs and eliminating any hostiles you came across. You quickly found a room with windows facing north before you shot open one of them and grabbed your rifle to signal to Ghost.

"Got you in my sights." He said and you smiled.

You began to open fire and picked off the reinforcements with his help. Both of you moved with efficiency and as the gunfire within the building lessened and the reinforcements were dead, you signaled to Ghost in an attempt to tell him good job.

"Quiet!"

You were grabbed from behind too quick for you to react. You grunted when a fist landed against your vest right on your ribs and you struggled against your assailant. You slammed your elbow back as hard as you could and remembered all of the techniques Ghost went through when sparring with you.

However the man tighten his hold on you and slammed you on the ground, knocking the window out of you before he pinned you down.

"I know you." He laughed as a sneer pulled at his lips. "You're Vitally's girl."

You're eyes widened. Your heart dropped and began to pound against your chest as you struggled harder against him to no avail. Your mouth went dry and for a moment the man on top of you was not a stranger but Vitally.

His eyes were dark and you could see the scars across his face. He stared down at you with a fierce look of malice, a look you were forced to see for an entire year before he you finally escaped. You could taste his blood in your mouth from when you finally managed to fight back against his torture, you were finally able to harm him in same way.

The man above you chuckled darkly and you were brought back to the present.

"I've got a message for you." He taunted as he leaned close to your ear despite your best efforts. "Vitally is happy to know you're alive, he wishes you the best. He want me to tell you he'll see you again, little mysh."

You screamed and put all of your strength into pushing him off. You grabbed your knife and shoved it into his abdomen repeatedly. You knocked him to the floor and straddled him as you continued on pure survival instinct.

You only stopped when he didn't gurgle on his blood and you pushed off of him quickly. Your chest hurt and you couldn't breathe as you got tunnel vision, only focusing on the mass amounts of blood covering you.

"Quiet?" Ghost asked urgently. "How copy?"

You shut your eyes and choked back a whimper.

Vitally was back.

He had disappeared the day you escaped but struck you with fear with just the thought of him. He was a tangible threat now, using his looming presence to taunt you and he knew you were alive. You had hoped he had thought you were dead, having frozen to death in the snow but you should've known better.

He was the eyes and ears that were everywhere.

He was the key to everything. If he was caught, if he was interrogated, he would have all of the answers the 141 needed to take down Makarov but it would look suspicious.

No one knew about him, not even Laswell, and the other's who did were dead. It would put you as suspect if you told anyone about him now, especially when you had so many chances to do it, when you knew this crucial information for two years now. It would be unlikely if anyone would believe you if you told them the entire truth.

If you did you could only imagine what would happen. They might dishonorably discharge you or throw you in prison. You'd be left alone, isolated and you would suffer.

And he knew that.

This was just another way to torture you. He wanted you to live in constant fear for the day everyone would turn against you because then he would be there to pick you back up. To make himself the only one you could "rely" on if he didn't kill you first.

"Quiet." Ghost demanded and snapped you out of it.

Ghost...you could trust him with anything but this? A secret this big that would end this long war against a mass terrorist? You couldn't help but wonder if he'd see you as a traitor.

You just had to stay quiet. Do as you were told and to not "say anything." You were good at that.

You signaled to him that you were okay and stood up on shaky legs. You kept your face as neutral as possible when you walked to the window and waved at him.

The gunfire had stopped and you were left completely numb.

Tags: @buckysjuicyplums I don't think i can tag twice but @thedevillovesflowers @sleepyycatt

#quiet series #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #call of duty #simon ghost riley #mw2 ghost #ghost mw2

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the-hydroxian-artblog · 8 months ago

Note

I love your animatronic toy OC guys so much, they have so much personality to them and their colours are really good (especially umbra)

Thank you! The funny thing about Umbra's design was that while I was developing it about two years ago and had some colors in mind, I described in text what I already came up with to an image generator for fun (shitty unconvincing old kind, vs now where it looks like shit but in a somewhat more convincing way) and it produced something so silly that I made her design better than what I would've settled with out of spite.

More details of my process and anti-AI ranting below the cut, so the examples given won't show up on search results. Google Images is getting polluted too much with slop to begin with.

Let's begin.

In 2022 I was drafting up Umbra's design with mostly concrete details. At this time image generators were newer and much less convincing, and I was a bit less aware of just how unethical they were, so I fed one a text description of what I had drafted for her design out of curiosity. Something along the lines of, "doll of an anthropomorphic owl librarian in glasses, blazer/suit jacket, skirt, corset, high heels, sitting on a bookshelf" and probably a few more terms. Really specific, lengthy prompt.

I try to be open-minded and give new things a shot, but the results were Not Great. Ideally, I'd want to not share the AI pictures at all on-principle, but I feel like it's useful, transparent, and necessary to show them. Both as a means of not hiding anything, but also just to appreciate where the design is at in spite of it.

Outside of this particular collage of Weird Owls, no other pictures on this blog are AI-generated. AI Image Generation is harmful, and I am against its usage.

But hey, two of the generated pictures look close, right? The top left is the closest, and bottom right is second.

That's because they started out worse, and I had to actually erase chunks of them and have the generator fill in the blanks to get anything remotely close to what I wanted. Misshapen limbs, unrecognizable anatomy, fever-dream clothing details, etc. They didn't even have a corset or proper legs until I slapped the generator in the face enough times to make it produce them. I was just using it to photobash, which was such an annoying process, I just went "this is dumb" and stopped. They're literally posed like that because I kept erasing and regnerating their limbs until they looked vaguely in-character. It literally only looks passable thanks to STRANGLING it with human input.

Before I used the image generator, I already drafted her to be night-themed with yellow eyes and something like purple, dark blue, or sky-blue as her main color; the generator making one owl yellow-eyed and purple was a happy coincidence, and the only thing the generative AI "came up with" that I didn't already have in mind or included in the prompt was the light blue shirt, which I did adapt into her cyan shirt and stockings/socks as well. That was a good call. You get One Point, Mr. AI.

...Which still meant that at its absolute best, it was a largely redundant step in the creative process if its contribution was worse than what a randomized palette generator or character creator could come up with.

That's already putting the ethics of it aside, like carbon emissions, data pollution, using artists' and photographers' work without credit or permission, the incentive to plagiarize, flooding sites like deviantart with slop, Willy Wonka Shit, etc etc etc. When people say "you can use AI as a tool though", this ordeal was enough to convince me that it's more trouble than its worth, even in its most ethical usage. I feel gross for having even tried. I wish I knew what sources went into the creation of those Weird Owls. It'd be better for research if the right people could be credited.

Nothing else on this blog is AI-generated or ever will be. The art below is purely my own (2022 vs a few weeks ago)):

Actually drawing Umbra and solidifying her design was far more rewarding than having an image generator vaguely approximate my own ideas. I wanted her to look really special, so I used a black cape and pants, gold highlights and buttons, and blue undertones to make something more distinct. Also, neck floof. Very important. I wanted the head in particular to look distinct and original, going with bold black streaks to really help her look distinguished.

I also have certain inevitable Hydroisms for Fancy characters like her; most apparent in these designs for Chasey and Kaita from even longer ago, which were more of an influence than anything else. (Old art of mine from like 2021, Kaita ref looks wonky but Chasey still holds up nicely):

Most of Umbra's other design elements were already commonly used with established ocs like Kaita, like her shape language, corset, skirt, heels, etc. It was my previous work with Chasey that inspired the use of gold buttons and highlights.

Umbra is also now a bluer shade of purple partly to distance the current design from that ordeal. All things considered, I'll probably make her more indigo next time. I already wanted her to have a wide color range from the get-go (Featured below is, again, purely my art from 2022:)

I may use a different colored shirt and stockings in the future. I like to think she has many different shirts and clothes based on the different stages of the night sky, from dusk to dawn, and the painting I made in the top right there was an exploration of her range in different lighting.

All in all, it's frustrating. I'm proud of her design, but explaining all of this is annoying, because it's technically all relevant to showing how her colors were picked and how the design was made. I still technically have AI to """Thank""", in the way you thank a bad experience for encouraging you to make things better out of spite.

#Umbra Beatrix

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 8 months ago

Text

Bonded Pair. - OCxGhost Backstory.

|| [Part Two ->] ||

pairing: COD OC!Victoria "Whiskey" Callahan x Simon "Ghost" Riley bonus: Moot!OC (Meabh "Pirate" O'Malley) x Johnny "Soap" MacTavish words: 2K~ cw: injury (nothing major or too explicit)

May 2020

“How long until the American comes?” Soap asks to Ghost’s right as the lieutenant is halfway through assembling their camp/nest for the foreseeable future.

“Laswell said he’d come before sundown.” Ghost muttered.

“What do you think he’s going to be like?” Soap asked.

“I think you should start heading to your spot and setting up camp, instead of yapping. It’s gonna get dark soon. You don’t want to spend the night lying on a pile of sticks, do you?”

“Jeez, L.T., calm down.” The Scot quipped with a chuckle. “I have plenty of time!”

“You really don’t. Sun’s setting soon.” A voice called out from behind them, causing them both to turn sharply, already pawing at their guns. The southern american accent was the only reason they didn’t draw them or shoot at the source.

Whiskey stepped out from behind the treeline, setting her hands on her hips after slinging her rifle onto her shoulder. She was on the tall side for a woman, standing at 5ft8, and had broad shoulders and strong arms. Her dark brown hair was tied back into the usual military-standard low bun, though a few loose strands of damp hair were glued to her forehead, and the lower half of her face was concealed by an Army green neck gaiter that was pulled up to her nose.

Ghost wasn’t particularly keen on working with her. But at least she looked more capable than some of what he’d seen come from the US.

She wore the standard combat uniform he had grown used to seeing on the Americans: camouflage cargos trousers, jacket, and Kevlar with the American flag. To keep her warm from the unforgivingly rainy and cold weather, she wore a brown fleece jacket under her camo, which was zipped up all the way, covering her neck and the bottom of her gaiter. She had on tan fingerless gloves, tan combat boots, and a camo backpack over her shoulders, from which hung her helmet.

“You’re the Navy SEAL?” Ghost asked in greeting as he approached her.

“That’d be me.” Whiskey replied evenly as she reached forward to shake hands with Ghost.

“I’m Ghost, this is Soap.” He explained as they shook hands, eyes locked into a strong, unyielding eye contact.

“Whiskey.” She replied as she let go of his hand and turned to shake Soap’s. Only for her eyebrows to knit together and then set dangerously low, darkening her hazel-brown eyes. “You.” She said as she pulled her hand back before he could shake it.

“Me?” Soap asked, his own eyebrows rising up to his hairline.

“You’re screwing my best friend!” Whiskey said bluntly as she pointed at him.

“Am no! I have a girlfriend!” Soap said while shaking his head, entirely convinced of

“Yeah, my best friend!” Whiskey replied with a nod.

“No? My girlfriend’s name is Meabh and her best friend is Victoria.”

“Right. Victoria, who’s American and part of the SEALs?”

“Oh shit!” Soap said in surprise as he looked at her. “You’re her?”

“Yeah I am. And you’re the piece of crap that-” Whiskey stopped herself, biting her tongue and pointing a finger at him.

“Woah, you’re nothing like Meabh said you would be.” Soap said with a dropped jaw. “What’s with the aggression? I dinnae do nothing to ye-”

“You did enough.” Whiskey hissed at him through gritted teeth, her hand shaking as she wagged her finger in his face. She seemed so pissed off at Soap, Ghost couldn’t help but wonder what the sergeant did.

Ghost was watching the whole scene go down, the entire situation sending some alarm bells ringing in his head, not because of the animosity… But because Whiskey was loud and feisty. And he already had Soap to deal with, and now there was another one?

He didn’t even want to imagine what comms would look like between them, how they’d talk his ear off.

Whiskey turned away with a huff, shaking her head. “I’m gonna go set up shop. I suggest you do the same.” She told the lads.

“Wait!” Soap said as he stepped forward toward her. “What’d I do? Why do you hate me so much?”

Whiskey looked back over her shoulder, eyes locking onto Soap’s. Then, she looked up at Ghost and, for a moment, Simon swore he was seeing right into her soul and her right into his. Whatever reason she was pissed at Soap, it was bad, and he could tell.

“Just get to work and don’t piss me off. Gonna have to deal with you for three weeks…” Whiskey grumbled about Soap as she turned and walked off, heading downrange to her own overwatch coordinates.

Soap exchanged a glance with Ghost as she walked off, before softly murmuring. “What was that about?”

Ghost shook his head. “Fuck if I know. Just do as she said and get to your campsite.”

“Yeah…” Soap trailed off and waved a goodbye at Ghost before he headed out to his camp, following after Whiskey’s trail.

Night 1: 2000 hours

“I was thinking we take turns sleeping. 24 hours in a day, we could trade and do 4 hour straight of sleep.” Ghost suggested over the radio as he snacked on a protein bar.

“Copy that, L.T.” Soap replied, his voice chewed up, a clear sign that he was also eating.

“Sounds good to me.” Whiskey replied from her camp, her voice clipped and curt, even through the radio. “You can take first shift, Ghost.”

“I’d rather take last.” Ghost replied.

“Alright. Soap. Take first shift.” She demanded.

“Nae? I wanna stay up and speak to you about something.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Victoria, c’mon, I don’t even know what I did.”

“It’s ‘Whiskey’, Soap. I still outrank you and we’re still at work. Haven’t given you permission to call me by my name.” Her voice was so blunt and strong, Ghost found himself almost impressed.

“I’m sorry.” Soap ended up saying with a sigh.

“Save your sorries. Go to sleep.” She demanded.

“Aye, ma’am.”

It took a good half an hour or so, but soon, Johnny’s PTT was turned off, so, Ghost spoke up.

“Switch to 3, Whiskey.”

“Copy that.”

After switching frequencies, he finally spoke. “What’d he do?”

“Something he shouldn’t.”

“Cheated on your friend?”

“No. He’s stupidly devoted to her. At least from what she says.”

“Sounds about right. He talks about her a lot. Tires me.”

“Bet it does.”

“Then what?”

“Can’t talk about it.”

“Hm…” Ghost murmured. “Okay.”

Ghost was supposed to be sleeping. He really was. But with a new team member alongside them, he knew he wouldn’t be able to.

Besides, he wouldn’t risk missing the shitshow of the other two bickering.

“So, how long have you and Meabh known each other?”

“Longer than she’s known you.”

“How’d you meet?”

“On a ship.”

“Her ship?”

“No.”

“So how is it, being a Navy SEAL?”

“Fine.”

“So, how old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“Where are you from?”

“America.”

“Yeah, but which state? You’re obviously from the south.”

“None of your business.”

“You and Meabh ever work together?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Classified.”

At one point, Ghost couldn’t help but start to smirk at the way the conversation was going. All throughout Days 1, 2 and 3 of their watch mission, she answered Johnny’s incessant questions with nothing but nonchalant dryness.

He could almost guess what answer she’d give and what tone she’d use whenever Johnny asked another question.

While she had been sleeping, the Scot had confessed he had wracked his brain thinking of reasons why she didn’t like him and had come up short… And that he wanted to make friends with her, for his bird’s sake.

But he wasn't succeeding. She was cold and stubborn and curt with her answers, not giving him more than a few words at a time.

Even as the questions got more probe-y and personal… She gave him nothing. In a way, Ghost saw himself in her answers.

“What do you and Meabh usually do when you’re together?”

“Hang out.”

“Yeah, but what do you do? Go out for drinks? Go on holiday?”

“We hang out.”

“So what does Meabh tell you about me?”

“The usual.”

“Elaborate?”

“No.”

“How come Meabh has never shown me a picture of you?”

“I don't do pictures.”

“Why the mask?”

“To hide my face.”

It’s as the sun sets on Day 4 that she finally gets tired of playing nice:

“You know, Meabh described you as really cheerful and funny… But I don't see it.”

“Meabh sees the best in people. Don’t take it personal. She lies about you a lot too.”

“I’m not that bad, you know? I don’t know what your problem is with me but… I’m just trying to befriend ye.” Ghost can pick up on Soap’s annoyance in his tone of voice.

“I wish you wouldn’t.” Whiskey replied.

There’s a long, long moment of silence before Johnny tries again.

“How often do you and Meabh talk?”

“Often enough.”

“I miss her a lot when I’m on missions… Can’t talk to her steadily…” Soap admits, this time a lot more sincere. “Do you miss her too?

“No.” She replies.

“No? Do you not like her the same as she does you?’

“I do.” Whiskey tells him. “But I’ve got ways of communicating with her.” She announces.

“How’s that? Sending a letter and waiting weeks for a reply? I’m not satisfied with just that. Need to hear her voice… and she doesn’t have signal out there in the ocean…”

There’s a sound from the radio, which Ghost can swear is a snort from Whiskey laughing. Then, she speaks again.

“Can you see my camp from where you are?”

“Yeah?”

“Alright well, take a look at this.”

Out of curiosity, Ghost decides to turn his binoculars toward Whiskey’s nest too, and adjust the focus until she comes into view.

“It’s a real shame that you can’t talk with your girlfriend.” Whiskey said while waving a black radiotelephone in the air for them to see. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Ghost smirks at the sound of her sarcasm, shaking his head, already anticipating the dramatics that Soap would engage in.

“Wait, you’ve got a phone to talk to Meabh WITH?!” Soap’s voice is so loud and high-pitched one would think he just suffered the greatest betrayal.

“Oh yeah, I’ve been speaking pretty consistently with her the past 4 days.”

“No?!”

“Oh yes.”

“That’s it! I’m going down there, I want to talk to Meabh!”

“No you’re not, don’t you desert your post!”

“I’m not deserting! I’m going to you!”

Ghost has to turn off his PTT so he can laugh without them noticing. Soap had been talking about Meabh for forever, talking the ear off anyone who’d listen, raving about the girl and how much he loves her. At this point Simon feels he himself is dating her with how much he knows about her…

And now, here was her best friend, showing him just how much higher she ‘ranks’ in the girl’s consideration.

Turning his binoculars toward Soap’s nest, he watched the younger sergeant slip out and, under the shadows of the rapidly approaching night, rush out behind the treeline, dashing toward Whiskey’s nest about 2 kilometers out.

“He’s really going over.” Ghost murmured into the PTT.

“I know he is. Meabh is laughing over it.”

“YOU’RE TALKING WITH HER RIGHT NOW?!” Soap shrieked into his own PTT. “Tell her to hold on!!! I want to hear her voice!!!!”

Ridiculous, Ghost thought as he heard Soap’s desperation. How ridiculous it was to be so obsessed with a woman. Girlfriend or not.

By the time he reached Whiskey’s station, after a few minutes, Ghost got to watch a flurry of limbs happening.

And, after a moment, Whiskey came back onto the PTT. “Ghost contact Laswell, Soap needs to be sent on medical.”

“What happened?”

“He tried to get the radiophone off me, so I broke a couple of his fingers… And his wrist. And kicked him in the balls.”

Ghost pressed his lips together to stifle a smile. He shouldn’t be as amused as he is… But God, is the situation hilarious.

“Rog.”

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