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Some Actually Useful Questions to Get to Know Your OC Part Two
↳ What lie do they tell themselves to sleep at night?
Seriously. What’s the little piece of denial that keeps them functioning? Do they pretend they don’t care what people think? Tell themselves they’re over that one person? Convinced they’re not the villain of someone else’s story? We all lie to ourselves; your OC is no exception.
↳ What’s their emotional kryptonite?
A specific thing that absolutely shatters them, like someone crying? Being ignored? Praise from a parent figure? The sound of an old song? The smell of something nostalgic? Find it and use it against them (lovingly, of course).
↳ When do they feel the most alive?
Is it mid-battle, mid-baking, mid-breakup? Does adrenaline light them up, or do they find joy in the quiet, mundane things, like folding laundry while listening to sad girl music? This can reveal a LOT about what drives them.
↳ What would totally ruin their day?
A bad haircut? Someone touching their stuff? Or is it something deeper, like being reminded of their failures, or seeing someone else succeed where they couldn’t?
↳ Who do they think they should be? And who are they really?
This one’s juicy. Do they think they should be a hero, but keep acting like a villain?
↳ What’s the one thing they’d never admit out loud, even under duress?
The shameful thought. The inappropriate desire. The thing they desperately want but don’t think they deserve. DONT FORGET: Characters are built on what they repress.
↳ What are they petty about?
Don’t pretend your OC is above this, I mean everyone’s petty about something. Do they hold grudges over stolen pens? Get irrationally jealous of someone’s hair? Still mad about a game of Uno from 2007? Petty makes them fucking real.
↳ How do they act when they think no one’s watching?
Do they let their mask slip? Dance around the kitchen? Talk to their cat in baby voice? Cry a little?
↳ What would make them snap?
Where is the breaking point? What line has to be crossed for them to finally say “Enough”? Is it injustice? Betrayal? Feeling powerless? You’ll know you’ve found it when it scares you a little (Or a lot).
↳ If they had a theme song, what would it be?
No, seriously. The vibe of a character’s soundtrack says a lot. Is it Angsty indie rock? Bubblegum pop masking deep pain? Make a playlist. Your OC will tell you who they are... <3
Whumpee who was forced to wear a shock collar during captivity and as a result has permanent neurological complications
Examples include: Seizures, memory loss, brain fog, migraines, stuttering or slurred speech, hand tremors, loss of sensation/pins & needles in extremities and balance issues
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cw: noncon, referenced abuse, violence, aftermath of whump, death mention, nudity, emeto mention
previous // Doom AU Masterlist
§|°|§
Stepping out of the pod felt eerily familiar. He had no real memory of leaving the vat that created him, only of waking up on the floor, but Kiv imagined it had been something like this. He felt new again. The pod had closed all his cuts, mended his bones, pulsed blood through his bruises until they faded. It felt like for the first time, he could move around without any pain.
And wasn't it? Sir had hit him only seconds after he'd first opened his eyes.
Kiv hated him. He thought he'd hated him before, when he pinned him down with ease and called him pathetic. He thought he'd hated the bounty hunter, when he ran Kiv down and tried to tear him apart. But no, this burned in a different way.
Sir thought he was worthless. Sir would rather blow off steam beating Kiv to death than accept his value, accept that Kiv had done the impossible and should be rewarded.
Sir was a petty, jealous bitch.
His legs felt rubbery as he stepped onto the floor, a shiver running through him as the cool air of the room hit his bare skin. Some parts of him still ached, just a little. The ribs, the repaired knee, his nose. Ached enough to occupy a part of his mind, but the feeling was a relief compared to the pain he'd gone under with.
Kiv held onto the side of the pod, trying to blink his eyes into adjusting faster. The room before him was bright and blurry, shapes slowly coming into focus. There were a few other pods around him, and a few metal boxes with small doors attached (cabinets?), and in the far corner, leaning against a control pad…
“Survived again, hm?”
Kiv's knees turned into water. His free hand flew up to grip the side of the pod and keep him upright, body going rigid even though all he wanted to do was crawl back inside and go back to the peaceful nothing sleep.
No. Weak.
Sir was right. He had survived. He was better than just a decoy, and people more powerful than Sir knew it. But even as he told himself that, Kiv couldn't bring himself to meet Sir’s eyes, couldn't fight the icy, shameful feeling that gripped his heart and made him want to run and hide.
Fuck you, he thought.
“Bax was gracious enough to give you a room here,” Sir said. “Let's see if you can stop cowering long enough to make it there.”
Kiv gritted his teeth together, feeling his face heat up. Fuck you. He was the coward, sending a decoy to do his dirty work instead of facing the bounty hunter himself. He was the weak one. But Kiv couldn't make himself let go, couldn't make himself take a step forward.
It was too similar to the vats. Him naked and shaky and dazed and Sir demanding things of him.
He'll hit me again.
So what? So fucking what? He was stronger than a few punches, he was supposed to be, anyway. He'd killed the bounty hunter, and he could kill Sir.
He couldn't even look at Sir.
“Get a move on. Or would you rather I drag you there?”
Fuck you.
Kiv let go with one hand, locking out his knees and stiffening his spine. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't supposed to be afraid. If he was afraid, he was wrong, a copy of Sir but not good enough, a sad excuse for an imitation. He wouldn't be afraid. He took one step forward, another, and then his legs gave out, sending him to his knees.
“Fucking pathetic.”
“Fuck you,” Kiv spat out, then immediately cringed away from the words, hands coming up to shield his face as if Sir wasn't standing clear on the other side of the room.
Weak.
“Getting bold now, are we?” Sir was getting closer, circling in slow and even, like a predator. Kiv forced his hands to come down, clenched them into tight fists at his sides.
“I-I’m not pathetic.” But fuck, he sounded like it. Heat was rising in his head as ice spread through his chest. He felt like he might start crying, and he couldn't. He grabbed the edge of the pod again, pulling himself to his feet, every muscle in his legs and core flexing to keep him there. Sir was looking at him. Bored. Unimpressed. Kiv looked right back, jaw and fists clenching as he fought the urge to turn away.
“You made me to die and I didn't. I killed, I survived, and I found my way back.”
“I'm sure you're very pleased with yourself.”
“And I'm sure you're embarrassed,” Kiv spit back, his next words dying in his throat at the look Sir gave him. He was closer now, almost close enough to grab him, but Kiv forced himself to stay in place, to hold his stare.
“Your boss—” What was his name? “Bax— Bax knows I belong here. Even if you don't.”
Sir stopped a few feet away. “Bax thought you'd make a good whore.”
The word wasn't immediately familiar, but it buried in Kiv's guts in a bad way, churning his stomach. He forced the feeling away. “No.”
“No?” Sir echoed. “You think you're better than that, I imagine.”
“Better than you,” Kiv retorted. “Or I will be.”
Sir lunged. Kiv managed to duck under the first blow, fists up to launch one of his own, but Sir was too quick for him. A hand locked around his wrist, wrenching his arm until his shoulder felt like it might tear away.
“Hh—!” Kiv fell to his knees, pinned down by his own traitor arm. “No—”
“Shut up.” Sir kneed him in the back, and Kiv fell forward, his free arm darting out to keep his teeth from breaking on the tile floor.
A thick, angry heat threatened to close his throat, bundling in his chest until he wanted to scream. Not in pain, not this time. He wanted to wrap his hands around Sir's throat, he wanted to punch him until his nose was spurting blood, but he couldn't, he couldn't fucking move, and now it was going to happen again. Sir was going to hurt him again, and he couldn't do anything to stop it.
Pleas were already pulling at his tongue, but Kiv swallowed them. No, no, there was nothing he could do, no way to stop this, but he wouldn't do that, he wouldn't sink that low.
Sir folded Kiv's arm against his back, elbow and shoulder straining as he tried to brace himself for the first hit, the first kick, the hands that would choke the life out of him. None came. Sir’s weight settled onto Kiv instead, pinning his hips, his free hand fiddling with something until there was a metallic click and a swish. At last, the grip on his wrist loosened, and Kiv pulled his arm in, tucking it under himself and trying frantically to buck Sir off. He was answered with a strike that hit him in the ear, made him yelp even as he resolved not to make any noise.
His belt, Kiv realized as he craned his neck around, ear throbbing. Sir had removed his belt. That knowledge brought on a sickening kind of fear, and he couldn't say why. Because Sir was going to hit him with the metal end of the belt? Because that would hurt worse than his fists? But if that was the case, why couldn't he move? His hands were free. He should be fighting back, he should be proving himself for a second time, but his body stayed stiff. Even his breathing felt stiff. Shallow, like the air didn't reach all of him. Almost numb.
He couldn't look back again. He could hear rustling fabric, could feel a rigid heat on his back, but he couldn't look and he couldn't move and he couldn't understand why.
Sir wasn't hitting him, so why was this fear worse than when he thought he was going to die? Why? Sir shifted. Calloused hands squeezed Kiv's ass and something wet was smeared on his hole and suddenly he wanted to throw up.
“No— no—” Kiv choked out without meaning to. He didn't know what he was saying no to. This didn't hurt, wasn't a beating, so why?
Something hot and hard pressed against his hole.
“Keep begging,” Sir growled. “See where it gets you.”
The thing pushed in, and Kiv suddenly broke free of his trance, bucking against the intrusion. It burned, pressure where pressure shouldn't be. Sir struck him across the shoulders with the belt, but Kiv didn't stop moving. He had to get away, had to—
The belt looped around his neck and cinched tight, closing his throat around the scream that built as the thing pushed in further, pressure overwhelming the ring of muscle there, maybe breaking it, maybe tearing him open, Kiv didn't know.
He clawed at the belt, mouth open in a helpless cry that had no air behind it as he was torn apart from behind.
Stop, stop, please…
Sir's hands locked around his hips, forcing his head back as the belt moved to a steeper angle. Kiv's heart was racing, panic flooding his body, but he had nowhere to go. The thing was still digging deeper into him, hurting in places he didn't know could be hurt, stretching that part of him to the brink, dizzying him from the pain and lack of air.
The belt suddenly loosened, and Kiv sagged forward, choking down air. Miraculously, the thing inside him was retreating too, leaving behind an aching relief of muscles pushed too far. It felt like his shoulder felt, but worse, deeper.
Was it over? Was this just some kind of torture Sir was using to subdue him? If that was the case, it worked, for now. Kiv never wanted to feel like that agai—
The thing suddenly slammed into him. Kiv screamed, back arching with the explosion of pain in his guts. No, no—
It did it again, a split second of almost-relief followed by sudden, stabbing pain. In and out, faster and faster as Kiv clawed at the ground and screamed and screamed. The belt closed around his throat again, but the lack of air did little to distract him from the brutal… fucking. That's what this… fucking. He was being fucked. Just that simple realization was enough to make his eyes burn, the sound that came out of him when the belt next loosened a hoarse sob.
He wasn't even fully sure what it meant, being fucked. It was bad, he could tell it was bad from how much it hurt, but it wasn't bad in the way the beatings had been. It wormed into him, burning parts of him he didn't even know existed, causing pain, but also more than pain, in a way he couldn't name.
Kiv could only lay there and cry as Sir’s violent thrusts finally came to a standstill, not even bothering to try and choke the sounds down. Sir drew out of him for the final time, leaving something warm and viscous in his wake.
He huffed far above Kiv, giving him a light kick in the side. “Get up.” He pulled the belt free, and the metal clicked back into place. “You can find your room on your own, big shot.”
Kiv didn't get up. Even when Sir’s footsteps had long since faded, he couldn't make himself move. His guts felt raw, like he'd been skinned from the inside out, but that wasn't the weight that held him down.
He was still trying to wrap his head around the why.
And—and he couldn't just go looking for his room like this. He was naked, and anyone who saw him would be able to tell what happened, wouldn't they? It was like he'd been branded with something invisible, something that would broadcast his weakness, that would change the way eyes fell on him forever.
But he couldn't stay in here either, could he? Sir or someone would find him eventually, and then what? Would it happen again?
It would. He was sure of it. If this was the worst thing, this raw, stupid, naked feeling, then Sir would do it again.
Kiv managed to roll onto his side, whimpering as the motion rippled a new pain through the depths of him. He pulled his knees into his chest, hugging them with one arm and covering his face with the other as if that could hide him from anyone who passed by.
He was the prey again. After that, after everything, maybe that was what he'd always be.
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Kiv still didn't know what to make of it when all eyes were on him.
It felt different every time. When he was dumped on some lightless street the eyes felt heavy, like he was being measured, like he was small enough to be torn apart. When he passed the same street days later, covered in someone else's blood, the eyes were fearful. Respectful. He was measured quicker then, deemed a threat.
He'd learned then that it felt better to be a threat than to be prey.
Now, as he stood in the doorway of some high-ceilinged room, the eyes on him felt different. All the people in here, with their drinks and their perfect, untorn clothes, had gone silent.
They didn't think he'd come back. Kiv's purpose had been made clear the last time he was in this shining purple monolith. He'd been created to die. He was disposable.
But not anymore.
Kiv threw the bloodied cybernetic into the room and it hit the glossy black floor with a clang. Proof that he'd done what they couldn't, that the bounty hunter they'd tried to trick would never be tricked again. The way they all looked at it, horror or disgust as they took in the twisted metal, the bits of tissue still clinging to wire, that felt good. Good enough to keep him on his feet even when everything ached, when the cuts and bruises from the fight still throbbed, when his face still hurt from the beating Sir had given him not long after he'd taken his first breath.
He was stronger than they thought. He'd proven them all wrong and he'd proven himself.
Kiv forced himself to stand straight, shoulders squared, even though his legs were close to shaking. He scanned the room until his own eyes fell on the man he was supposed to die for.
Some deep satisfaction—the same he'd felt when he first hit back, the same he’d felt when he survived—pulled at the corner of his mouth, filling his chest with a feeling like laughter.
Hello again.
Sir’s eyes seemed to burn, and Kiv thought he understood the feeling behind them. That this wasn't supposed to happen, this couldn't happen, something Kiv had felt before under Sir’s own hand.
You're a decoy.
He was more than a decoy.
Finally, someone in the crowd spoke.
“What's it doing here?”
It. Kiv's skull burned under his skin, making the bruises on his face throb. “I finished my mission,” he said, letting the word bite. “He's dead.”
“That wasn't your mission,” Sir said in a cool voice.
Run and don't get caught. Die if you do. That was what he was meant to do, but Kiv had gotten caught, and he'd done better than just survive it. The bounty hunter was dead and all his stalking robots had fallen when Kiv smashed his cyberarm against a wall until its lights died. It had all hurt so bad. Being clawed at, burned, battered. Kiv thought his heart would explode, everything was just a blur, he was so afraid, but then it was over and it was all fucking worth it. He'd crawled out of the alleyway once he could choke down his sobs and he found his way back here against all odds. He'd won.
He bared his teeth at Sir, hoping it all showed on his face. “Then I found a better one.”
A few snickers went up in the crowd, and Sir’s mouth tightened.
That felt good too. Kiv stumbled further into the room, trying to make his halting movements look like a careful swagger. Probably failing, but did it matter? They were all sipping drinks at a party while he just escaped a fight to the death. His clothes were torn, he was filthy, and he stood out like a blood splatter on a white shirt. Good. Right now, he wanted to stand out.
Sir scowled at him as he got closer. “What do you think you're doing?”
“I did you a service, and now I want a drink,” Kiv said. Everyone was still looking at him. He told himself that was still a good thing.
“Get out.”
“No.”
More muted snickers. “What's wrong Vic, can't control your own clone?” called someone from the back of the crowd.
Sir’s expression remained cool. “What you did was nothing. If you really wanted to show off your mettle, you should've been smarter than to come crawling back here.”
“Nothing,” Kiv said through his teeth. “It was nothing, but it was enough for you to send a clone to handle it. Coward.”
The look that flashed in Sir’s eyes as soon as Kiv spit out the word filled his throat with something icy, threatened to stop his heart.
No, no, he wouldn't take it back, he wasn't afraid, he'd stand his ground this time—
But his breath choked in his throat as Sir strode towards him. His knees nearly buckled, memories of last time flashing behind his eyes, bringing his hands up to shield his face before Sir even had the chance to reach him.
Stupid, stupid, fight back—
His scalp burned as Sir grabbed him by the hair, yanking him off balance. Tears pricked at his eyes, mouth opening as if to scream or yelp, but his own throat choked the sound back. Sir jerked him backwards, back towards the door, and Kiv's feet could barely keep up.
“Stop—” Kiv clawed at the hand in his hair, but nothing would loosen it. His eyes cracked open, catching one final view of the room—streaked purple light and silhouettes that all faced him—before being thrown into darkness.
He landed hard on his back. Same slippery tile, but this room was empty, lightless. Sir's boot came down before Kiv could orient himself, heel driving into his stomach with such force that he retched.
Why? I did what you wanted.
“Stupid. Pathetic. Any other traits you'd like to make a grand showing of?” The boot cracked into Kiv's ribs, sending a burst of fire through his chest that only got worse when he gasped. White flashed behind his eyes when Sir hit the spot a second time. Aimed for it.
“You should've kept your mouth shut. Maybe then I would've just shot you in the head.”
Pain exploded in Kiv's knee as Sir drove his heel into it. Too much pain to think, to do anything other than to cry out, try to writhe away, try to shield his head from the onslaught.
“Please—” he choked out, and the word burned in his mouth but he didn't care, it hurt too much, there was only pain and more pain coming and all thoughts of glory and acceptance were gone, he just wanted it to stop—
Sir knelt on his chest, stoking fire in his broken ribs. One hand curled in the collar of Kiv's shirt—borrowed from Sir himself to make the illusion more true. He couldn't fight it as he was pulled halfway up, hands numb as they tried to tighten around Sir’s wrist.
“No. Go on. Say it again. Beg for your life.” His voice was softer than it had been, but his hands were tight on Kiv's collar, his knee compressing his lungs.
“Please…” Kiv wheezed out. Sir slammed his head into the floor. The room seemed to spin around them both.
“Say it again,” Sir said.
“Stop—”
Kiv's head rocked to the side as Sir punched him, the metallic salt of his own blood filling his mouth.
“Say it again.”
There was no winning. Kiv sobbed the words out, unable to stop himself, no longer caring about the shame as Sir hit him again and again. All the parts of him that hurt bled into each other, his body nothing more than a tangle of burning nerves. He just wanted it to stop, please, stop.
And suddenly, it did.
Every part of him throbbed, hurt too much to try and move, but the blows stopped falling and the pressure left his chest as Sir stood.
Someone was… someone was talking.
“...orders. He said it would be a waste if you just killed it now.”
“I paid for it myself. I can do what I want with my property.”
“Bax thinks there's a profit to be made.”
“That thing is not going to the fucking hosts.”
“Take it up with Bax then. But he said not to let you kill it. Should probably get it to a healing pod.”
“Tell Bax to arrange that if he wants it so bad. I'm not touching it.”
Kiv tried to open his eyes. Even just doing that brought pain, and barely a sliver of vision with it, too blurry to see anything but the faint purple glow from the next room over, Sir’s silhouette blurring into the darkness beyond.
What did that mean? Kiv was alive, so they were keeping him on, right? Wasn't that what he wanted?
He shifted as the room's lights flickered on, and the movement spurred a wave of pain so strong he cried out, not even caring about the weakness his voice carried, not right now.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. Don't piss off Shepard.”
New hands wrapped around Kiv's arms, hauling him up, wracking him with fresh pain. He broke out into a cry, the sound fading to whimpering sobs as the men dragged him off to somewhere.
Was this what you wanted? A voice asked beneath every layer of agony, and somehow the question was almost worse than the grating of his broken bones, the deep ache in his head.
Yes, he told himself. I win. I won.
The men dragged him through the hall by his arms, ignoring his screams when they pulled him down a flight of stairs. The words stayed in his head all the while; Kiv insisting them to himself through the tears and the pain he couldn't hope to escape. Every ache, every throb, every bump that rang up like lightning through his skeleton.
I won, I won, I won.
He could almost make himself believe them.
But he still wasn't sure he knew what winning meant.
vibrations in the air, sound above, shifting in intensity and length and pitch, starting and stopping and gapping as it lays on the floor, curled in on itself, shivering. (Arms wrapped around curled legs. A body, it is a body. Is it more?)
sight sharpens, and it can see the noises are coming from other bodies (people). Some of the sounds they make are shaped like the things in its head, bouncing around, known, but too new to make sense of (words).
one of the forms above it is familiar in a way that dizzies, spinning what's already spinning in its head. echoes of something unnamed. things clawing at its gut, dark and tangling and churning (recognition, recollection, fear). This familiar figure gives it a kick, and the body on the floor cringes and curls in tighter, impact radiating through it unpleasantly, lingering.
Its (his) face curls in a way that is different from the cowering body, the seam near the bottom (mouth) twisting (sneering). He (is the body a he too?) rests his foot on the body's hip, and their eyes meet. The mouth opens.
“Get up.”
It (he?) takes some time to understand the words, to connect them with the shadows of knowledge that drift through its (his) head. Get up. The body needs to… to do what the other bodies are doing, to stand, if he can figure out how.
He tests fingers, rolls shoulders, pushes on the ground to move torso and hips over knees. The flesh shivers as he moves, and the body can't tell if it's because it's all too open, exposed (cold, the other figures are covered in things that look soft and clinging, things the body doesn't have), or if there's something under skin that shakes with weakness as he tries to get his legs under him.
The struggle to his feet feels like the kick, but different. A pressure in the body's chest, a burning agitation. He knows he's supposed to be stronger.
The familiar figure watches as the body stands, letting out a hmm.
“Spitting image,” he mutters.
“We promise the highest quality for our customers,” says the other figure.
“No memories?”
“None, sir. He'll have similar… instincts to yours. Habits and the like, but that can't be helped when we used your brain as a model.”
The familiar figure (sir? the body can recognize it as a sort of name, though something about it rings unpleasant) curls his mouth up on one end.
“Similar instincts, hm? Let's see how close you got.” He takes a half step back, his form shifting in a way the body senses as a threat.
The other figure puts their hands up. “We don't recommend—”
It's too late. Sir’s arm reels back, hand curling into a denser shape, rocketing forward to slam into the body's jaw before he even has time to make sense of it.
His legs give out, heat exploding in his mouth, blurring, burning, a sharpness echoing through his skull. This is pain, he realizes as he hits the ground. It sparks another feeling in his chest, a fire that rivals how it hurts, an anger. His face burns. His eyes sting.
“Are you fucking serious?” Sir says. “It's crying.”
“Everything's still new. His senses will be, well, sensitive. I really think you should—”
Sir's foot buries itself in the body's abdomen, and he lets out a cry that sounds so… so nauseating to his ears, sickened to know he's the one making it, but he can't stop himself, he can't help it, it hurts.
“Get. Up.”
The body struggles to obey, unable to shake a sense of wrong. It shouldn't hurt this much, he should be better, he should be able to—
Sir's fist shoots out again, and the body doesn't move quick enough to dodge it, takes a dizzying hit to the cheekbone. Sir follows him to the floor, hands on his shoulders, holding him down, and he struggles against it, knows to hate it, knows he doesn't belong on the ground like this, doesn't belong beneath.
“Look at you,” Sir says in a voice that sounds… not angry, not sick… disgusted. “I suppose I shouldn't have expected more than this. A poor imitation.” He pats the body's cheek, and it doesn't hurt, but it still feels bad. A motion to mark him as… as lesser.
“Should be enough to fool the bots. Good thing that's all I really need it for.”
Something in his tone, his dismissal, sets the anger in the body's chest to boiling. He lashes out with a cry, curling his own hand, connecting with Sir's face in a way that widens his eyes and snaps his head.
It feels… good. The burning in his ribcage, on his skin, running together to create something physical, something satisfying.
The feeling doesn't last long.
The body tries to throw Sir off, but his muscles are weak and shaking and protesting the effort.
Sir, a little rumbling sound pouring from his mouth (laughing, laughing at you), pins his wrists.
“What do you know? Maybe it's not all disappointment.”
The body struggles against the hands, the restraint, the frustration at being held down with such ease building into a wordless cry. It's answered with a blow. Sir balls up his hand and strikes the body in the face, again and again until the room is blurring around him and his head hurts so bad and his eyes burn. This is pain, and it's covering him, drowning him. He doesn't know what to do with so much of it.
A hand closes around his throat, rough on skin, pressure on muscle. And it hurts, but more than that, it squeezes a new fear through him. A sharp and terrible panic as he's suddenly stopped from inhaling, an instinct he didn't even realize was present until it was unable to be acted on.
“Look at me.”
His eyes don't want to open, don't want to focus. He doesn't want to obey.
The hand on his throat squeezes tighter. “Look at me.”
He does. There's a heavy taste in his mouth, hot and salty and strange. It makes him want to retch.
“You have one purpose.”
His voice won't answer. He just stares, panic rising higher, wetness on his cheeks.
“You're a decoy. Your job is to run. Run and never get caught. Mhm?”
Mhm. Yes. Affirmative. The answer Sir is looking for is plain to understand, but it's a different word that's rising in the body's throat.
Please.
He's not sure he understands that one. It's not a proper answer, not a demand, it's… it's something weak. Something he feels he shouldn't say, but his lips won't stop forming it, no sound escaping his closed-off airway.
Sir's lip curls up. “Fucking pathetic.”
The hand releases and air returns to the body in a rush of relief. For a moment, all he can do is breathe, quick and desperate, like his lungs are afraid the privilege will be stolen again.
Sir's weight lifts, leaving the body feeling… something. More anger. A need he can't name, the urge to feel that fleeting satisfaction that came with the blow he dealt.
“Complete your task and you may earn the right to die kindly,” Sir says. “Fail it and the pain you're feeling now will seem like a mercy in comparison.”
Run. His task to run. If failing to run gets him a hurt that's worse, he can't fail. He can't picture worse. Worse is a vague and terrifying shadow in his head. He'll succeed to outrun it. He'll succeed because he knows he's better than pathetic, better than anything he's shown today.
Sir turns his back on the body then, addressing the other figure. “I assume I’ll need to fill out paperwork before leaving?”
“Just a little for our records,” they reply.
“Then let's get on with it. I have a bounty to get rid of.”
Their eyes widen some, in an expression that might be fear. Fear, but… lesser. Fear of what? Of Sir? The body might understand that.
“You… you aren't planning on sending him off right away, are you?”
Sir scoffs. “I'll give it a better briefing first. And some clothes.”
“We recommend you give your clone a two-week acclimation period to adjust to life before sending him on any—”
“My clone. This is urgent. I'll handle it how I want to.”
A breath slips out of the other figure. “I… alright. Let's get the paperwork done. What are you going to call him?”
Sir scowls. “It doesn't need a name. Probably be dead within the week anyway.” He starts to walk away, but the other blocks his path. He doesn't hit them.
“It's for our records. You need to name him.”
Sir pauses, staring at the figure for a moment. He doesn't once look back at the body.
Can I hear more about your no-tell miel comic wip? :3
YESSSS omg! looking at it again it’s similar in premise to the current Again comic featuring Kit? Stan arranged a session with a sadist in one of the motels he rotates for Miel, the ones who don’t ask questions. that name is inspired by the No-Tell Motel from Cyberpunk 2077!!
where it differs from Kit is that Miel’s session was a lot of bloodplay and impact play, and he’s tied to the bed until Stan arrives, entering to see Miel bloody and bruised on the bed. both are totally unconcerned. this is just another night where Stan made a lot of money and Miel made him proud.
and Stan being the carewhumper that he is cleans Miel really tenderly, and Miel, without any frame of outside reference + conditioned masochism, knows Stan loves him and this is just part of making him happy, so he doesn’t mind.
I love exploring Miel’s psychology bc he is often spacey and dissociated to some degree, he can’t really speak much and he never sees anything bad about it bc this is all he knows!
EVERYBODY WITH OCS!!! I WOULD LIKE TO PROPOSE A TRADE :D
i give you: a list of fun crafts/diy/etc to do with your OCs
you give me (if you want, not pressuring): a reblog with a list of your own craft/diy ideas for OCs :D
my list:
missing posters
print out their face claims/drawings and put them in a locket
crochet or sew dolls
make their family tree
get tokens of them (i have a friendship necklace that's supposed to belong to my OCs)
this isn't a craft but like. pretend to be them :0
use one of those fake texts/social media posts websites to make their texts/social media posts
write a song about them (can be with words or just instrumental--i have mostly songs with lyrics, but i've also made a piano song for one of them!!)
write letters/diary/scrapbook entries from their perspective
where to get pictures: so you can go onto pinterest, search the general appearance, and then save any pictures or art that you think look like them :> or you can use any art of the OC that you or a friend have drawn/commissioned, or you can go onto picrew.me and make a picrew of them :))
⚠️ warning in case this reaches a non-whump audience— i run an 18+ whump blog so some ideas below may also be along that vein.
Some crafts I’ve done:
• Cut out a drawing of an OC and make a cage out of popsicle sticks to imprison them
• Draw them suspended in shibari to cut out and hang from a lamp or other object. Watch them swing around <3
• Make shitty plushies with nubby little limbs. And apply blush on them for cuteness! Don’t be afraid of being “bad” at it. One of mine just has a bald spot because I fucked up the hair lmao. Bonus: Make them a little collar with a bell:
• Check out thrift/secondhand stores for little furniture! I have a tiny wooden chair and metal cage that I put plushies of my OCs in lmao. When I used to table at art markets, I’d put an Eren Jaeger puppy plush in a cage 😭
• PHOTOCARDS!!! Super super fun. It just might be a bit of a hassle to get the materials if you’re starting from the beginning or have never made photocards before. My process is to draw the OC portrait -> Print it out (+cut it into the right size) -> Put in plastic sleeve -> Put in toploader -> Decorate toploader with stickers -> Take it outside for enrichment ❤️
The picture above also shows the wooden chair and cage I mentioned earlier.
Things I’d like to try:
• Sewing clothes for plushies
• Different plush types! Like ones you can articulate and pose. There’s some patterns I’ve seen on Etsy and stuff
• Paper dolls that you can also add clothing or accessories to
• Mapping out a day in the life for your OC. Could be the most banal day, or one packed with events
• Coming up with a favorite meal/snack they’d like to eat for their birthday, then making it irl
• Making a potpourri with scents you associate with your OC
electrocute a whumpee via shock collar so much that one day you run out of batteries but can still make that clicking noise on the remote, and whumpee convulses in place anyway
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