I mainly post art on Bluesky (18+, kink, dead dove), but this blog is where I yap and share whump things sometimes.
Please note that I donāt separate whump from kink, and things are very NSFW.
Things you might find here
Pet whumpāheavy on dehumanization, simplification of the petās mind until they think and act like an animal.
Amputee whumpees. Starved whumpees. If my art or descriptions of how bony characters are is triggering for you, I encourage you to block/mute my pageš
Other warnings: Occasional snuff or implied snuff. Transfem whump and occasional transmasc whump. Noncon/dubcon. Gore. BDSM.
cw: noncon, referenced abuse, violence, aftermath of whump, death mention, nudity, emeto mention
previous // Doom AU Masterlist
Ā§|Ā°|Ā§
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 padā¦
āSurvived again, hm?ā
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 Sirās eyes, couldn't fight the icy, shameful feeling that gripped his heart and made him want to run and hide.
Fuck you, he thought.
āBax was gracious enough to give you a room here,ā Sir said. āLet's see if you can stop cowering long enough to make it there.ā
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.Ā
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.
āGet a move on. Or would you rather I drag you there?ā
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.
āFucking pathetic.ā
āFuck you,ā 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.
āGetting bold now, are we?ā 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.
āI-Iām not pathetic.ā 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.Ā
āYou made me to die and I didn't. I killed, I survived, and I found my way back.ā
āI'm sure you're very pleased with yourself.ā
āAnd I'm sure you're embarrassed,ā 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.
āYour bossāā What was his name? āBaxā Bax knows I belong here. Even if you don't.ā
Sir stopped a few feet away. āBax thought you'd make a good whore.ā
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. āNo.ā
āNo?ā Sir echoed. āYou think you're better than that, I imagine.ā
āBetter than you,ā Kiv retorted. āOr I will be.ā
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.
āHhā!ā Kiv fell to his knees, pinned down by his own traitor arm. āNoāā
āShut up.ā 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.Ā
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.Ā
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. Sirās 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.
āNoā noāā 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.Ā
āKeep begging,ā Sir growled. āSee where it gets you.ā
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 toā
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, pleaseā¦
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.Ā
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 agaiā
The thing suddenly slammed into him. Kiv screamed, back arching with the explosion of pain in his guts. No, noā
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 brutalā¦ fucking. That's what thisā¦ 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 Sirās 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. āGet up.ā He pulled the belt free, and the metal clicked back into place. āYou can find your room on your own, big shot.ā
Kiv didn't get up. Even when Sirās 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.
Andāand 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?Ā
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.
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 satisfactionāthe same he'd felt when he first hit back, the same heād felt when he survivedāpulled at the corner of his mouth, filling his chest with a feeling like laughter.
Hello again.
Sirās 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 Sirās own hand.
You're a decoy.Ā
He was more than a decoy.
Finally, someone in the crowd spoke.Ā
āWhat's it doing here?ā
It. Kiv's skull burned under his skin, making the bruises on his face throb. āI finished my mission,ā he said, letting the word bite. āHe's dead.ā
āThat wasn't your mission,ā 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. āThen I found a better one.ā
A few snickers went up in the crowd, and Sirās mouth tightened.Ā
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. āWhat do you think you're doing?ā
āI did you a service, and now I want a drink,ā Kiv said. Everyone was still looking at him. He told himself that was still a good thing.
āGet out.ā
āNo.ā
More muted snickers.Ā āWhat's wrong Vic, can't control your own clone?ā called someone from the back of the crowd.
Sirās expression remained cool. āWhat you did was nothing. If you really wanted to show off your mettle, you should've been smarter than to come crawling back here.ā
āNothing,ā Kiv said through his teeth. āIt was nothing, but it was enough for you to send a clone to handle it. Coward.ā
The look that flashed in Sirās 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 timeā
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 backā
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.
āStopāā Kiv clawed at the hand in his hair, but nothing would loosen it. His eyes cracked open, catching one final view of the roomāstreaked purple light and silhouettes that all faced himābefore 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.Ā
āStupid. Pathetic. Any other traits you'd like to make a grand showing of?ā 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.
āYou should've kept your mouth shut. Maybe then I would've just shot you in the head.āĀ
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.
āPleaseāā 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 stopā
Sir knelt on his chest, stoking fire in his broken ribs. One hand curled in the collar of Kiv's shirtāborrowed 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 Sirās wrist.
āNo. Go on. Say it again. Beg for your life.ā His voice was softer than it had been, but his hands were tight on Kiv's collar, his knee compressing his lungs.
āPleaseā¦ā Kiv wheezed out. Sir slammed his head into the floor. The room seemed to spin around them both.
āSay it again,ā Sir said.
āStopāāĀ
Kiv's head rocked to the side as Sir punched him, the metallic salt of his own blood filling his mouth.
āSay it again.ā
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 wasā¦ someone was talking.
ā...orders. He said it would be a waste if you just killed it now.ā
āI paid for it myself. I can do what I want with my property.ā
āBax thinks there's a profit to be made.ā
āThat thing is not going to the fucking hosts.ā
āTake it up with Bax then. But he said not to let you kill it. Should probably get it to a healing pod.ā
āTell Bax to arrange that if he wants it so bad. I'm not touching it.ā
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, Sirās silhouette blurring into the darkness beyond.Ā
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.Ā
āHoly shit.ā
āYeah. Don't piss off Shepard.ā
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.
āGet up.ā
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 toā¦ 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.Ā
The familiar figure watches as the body stands, letting out a hmm.Ā
āSpitting image,ā he mutters.
āWe promise the highest quality for our customers,ā says the other figure.
āNo memories?ā
āNone, sir. He'll have similarā¦ instincts to yours. Habits and the like, but that can't be helped when we used your brain as a model.ā
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.
āSimilar instincts, hm? Let's see how close you got.ā 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. āWe don't recommendāā
It's too late. Sirās 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.
āAre you fucking serious?ā Sir says. āIt's crying.ā
āEverything's still new. His senses will be, well, sensitive. I really think you shouldāā
Sir's foot buries itself in the body's abdomen, and he lets out a cry that sounds soā¦ 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.
āGet. Up.ā
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 toā
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.
āLook at you,ā Sir says in a voice that soundsā¦ not angry, not sickā¦ disgusted. āI suppose I shouldn't have expected more than this. A poor imitation.ā He pats the body's cheek, and it doesn't hurt, but it still feels bad. A motion to mark him asā¦ as lesser.
āShould be enough to fool the bots. Good thing that's all I really need it for.ā
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 feelsā¦ 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.
āWhat do you know? Maybe it's not all disappointment.ā
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.
āLook at me.ā
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. āLook at me.ā
He does. There's a heavy taste in his mouth, hot and salty and strange. It makes him want to retch.
āYou have one purpose.ā
His voice won't answer. He just stares, panic rising higher, wetness on his cheeks.
āYou're a decoy. Your job is to run. Run and never get caught. Mhm?āĀ
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'sā¦ 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. āFucking pathetic.āĀ
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 feelingā¦ something. More anger. A need he can't name, the urge to feel that fleeting satisfaction that came with the blow he dealt.
āComplete your task and you may earn the right to die kindly,ā Sir says. āFail it and the pain you're feeling now will seem like a mercy in comparison.ā
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. āI assume Iāll need to fill out paperwork before leaving?ā
āJust a little for our records,ā they reply.
āThen let's get on with it. I have a bounty to get rid of.ā
Their eyes widen some, in an expression that might be fear. Fear, butā¦ lesser. Fear of what? Of Sir? The body might understand that.
āYouā¦ you aren't planning on sending him off right away, are you?ā
Sir scoffs. āI'll give it a better briefing first. And some clothes.ā
āWe recommend you give your clone a two-week acclimation period to adjust to life before sending him on anyāā
āMy clone. This is urgent. I'll handle it how I want to.ā
A breath slips out of the other figure. āIā¦ alright. Let's get the paperwork done. What are you going to call him?ā
Sir scowls. āIt doesn't need a name. Probably be dead within the week anyway.ā He starts to walk away, but the other blocks his path.Ā He doesn't hit them.
āIt's for our records. You need to name him.ā
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 itās 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 donāt ask questions. that name is inspired by the No-Tell Motel from Cyberpunk 2077!!
where it differs from Kit is that Mielās session was a lot of bloodplay and impact play, and heās 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 doesnāt mind.
I love exploring Mielās psychology bc he is often spacey and dissociated to some degree, he canāt 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 :))
ā ļø warning in case this reaches a non-whump audienceā i run an 18+ whump blog so some ideas below may also be along that vein.
Some crafts Iāve done:
ā¢ Cut out a drawing of an OC and make a cage out of popsicle sticks to imprison them
ā¢ Draw them suspended in shibari to cut out and hang from a lamp or other object. Watch them swing around <3
ā¢ Make shitty plushies with nubby little limbs. And apply blush on them for cuteness! Donāt be afraid of being ābadā 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:
ā¢ 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, Iād put an Eren Jaeger puppy plush in a cage š
ā¢ PHOTOCARDS!!! Super super fun. It just might be a bit of a hassle to get the materials if youāre 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 ā¤ļø
The picture above also shows the wooden chair and cage I mentioned earlier.
Things Iād like to try:
ā¢ Sewing clothes for plushies
ā¢ Different plush types! Like ones you can articulate and pose. Thereās some patterns Iāve seen on Etsy and stuff
ā¢ Paper dolls that you can also add clothing or accessories to
ā¢ Mapping out a day in the life for your OC. Could be the most banal day, or one packed with events
ā¢ Coming up with a favorite meal/snack theyād like to eat for their birthday, then making it irl
ā¢ 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
Warnings: Brief misgendering of a transfem character by a gangster in 1980s NYC, mild(?) but descriptive torture, and implied production of an underground adult film.
Thereās nothing explicit so far but I still donāt want minors reading this. Or looking at my blog at all. Lol.
āāāā
Slam!
The wooden box closed fully with a deep thud, splinters chipping off where the wood scraped together.
Zhen breathed shallowly. Her neck stuck out from one of the holes atop the boxā a sturdy prison that isolated her head from the rest of her body. To her misfortune, the hole wasnāt sanded down.
Each big gulp pressed the skin of her throat deeper against the rough oak fibers. Two smaller holes on either side of her head affixed her wrists in place, not unlike a pillory stock. She could barely feel her torso or lower body anymore in the tight space they were folded and packed into.
Her single eye flicked around the warehouse at the abandoned containers, the harsh lighting, the cameras pointed at her, and whatever else she could make out from her limited view. Sheād hoped that gaining an understanding of her surroundings would calm her down. It didnāt.
She made eye contact with her boss for a brief moment, then quickly lowered her gaze, sweating and panting. Dou, the one who set the very rules she and her brother lived by, the man whose bed she kept warm some nights, said nothing, but his oppressive presence blared alarms into Zhenās deepest instincts. He scanned her expression, the way she struggled to breathe deeply, the damp strands of hair sticking down her foreheadā¦ Assessing her.
Zhen only saw his movement out the corner of her good eye before his hand settled heavily on her scalp and his fingers crept down her forehead. She let out a pathetic, choked sound as Dou pressed his fingers almost to the bone just under her brows and tugged the skin up. He pulled her eyelids taut with a frightening force, making her eye feel like it was going to bulge out with the dread and anticipation. In tandem, her empty socket stretched open like a fleshy, pulsing cave.
For a second, Zhen feared the worst. The swarm of thoughts in her head coiled up tightly, stilling her heart and stealing the moisture from her mouth. She prepared to say goodbye to her remaining eye.
But then Dou let go. Zhen blinked the moisture back into her eye, gasping roughly.
Dou moved on to other parts of her faceāpulling fistfuls of hair nearly off her scalp, pinching her nose shut, using both hands to squeeze both sides of her face together like she was a ball of tough, under-proofed doughā¦ This was absolutely meant to grind her already tenuous self-worth into paste, Zhen thought. She started tearing up at some point. Her hands itched to wipe off the humiliating tears. She held back her protests, anything that would show disrespect to her boss. Stop it! It hurts! No more!
Just when she was about to let out a strangled sob, Dou let go. Her breath came out in a shaky exhale as she tried to work her face back into some semblance of normalcy.
Then her entire body jerked at the abrupt invasion of Douās fingers into her parted mouth, her wrists bruising against the tight confines, her pinned legs thumping against the claustrophobic walls of her box. She gagged as that brutish hand wrenched her tongue out past her lips. Zhenās face contorted in a grimace out of her control. Pain radiated from the tip of her tongue back to the base that anchored the whole thing to the floor of her mouth, just from the sheer force of Douās thumb and forefinger. The muscles in her tongue reflexively strained, pulling in vain against Douās iron grip to retract back into her mouth where it should be. Her vision blurred, and saliva dripped down her chin freely.
With another tug, Dou stretched her wet tongue even farther out than Zhen thought possible, making her garble out something between a groan and a panicked plea for mercy. Her restrained hands jerked fruitlessly in place as her hot breaths sped up against Douās fingers.
Only then did Dou deign to say something to her. āAre you already begging for your life?ā His expression subtly shifted into something wry, his thick brows furrowing and his mouth curling into the ghost of a sneer. This was amusing to him. The overhead glow coming from behind his bald scalp almost made his face too shadowy for Zhen to see. āSave that for something more appropriate. Iām only messing with your tongue.ā
He let go, feeling Zhenās wet tongue quickly slip from his fingers as it recoiled back into her mouth. She slumped forward as much as she should onto the wooden surface, her drool-covered chin banging against the top of her box-shaped prison. Zhen took in all the deep breaths she couldnāt manage with her tongue held captive. The tightness around her neck forced a few small, guttural noises out from her throat. Her mouth moved sluggishly to form speech.
āIām sorryā¦ Iām sorryā¦ Let me outā¦ Please, Iām sorry bossā¦ā Her Cantonese came out wobbly and clumsy, thick with tears.
Dou simply patted the top of her head like one would soothe a distressed animal. He gave a light push, and Zhenās head tilted back pliantly with the movement of his hand, her defeated expression lining up perfectly to meet his own composed smile face-to-face. He could see her jaw tightening to hold back more noises of pain.
āYou donāt have anything to be sorry about. Just take it like a real man for onceā youāve got your debt to worry about, after all,ā Dou lectured her as though she was being unreasonable.
Zhen pressed her lips together firmly, holding in any backtalk that would surely make it all worse for her. The comment stung. The reminder of her indeterminate submission to Dou stung even worse. Her debt would take much more than just a few years licking his boot to pay off, and she knew it.
Dou stepped away and retrieved his jacket from a chair just out the way of the idle cameras. Before leaving Zhen alone with the professionals, he looked over his shoulder dismissively. āOh, and get back to the office when youāre done. This little affair isnāt a vacation.ā
Then, he muttered something to a stout man smoking a cigarette. Zhen could only surmise it was a verbal go-ahead to start filming. The man, whose name she could only recall as Kwong something, blew out his last puff of smoke. Before stepping into the scene, he covered his stoic, bullish face with a theater mask that ironically looked more expressive than what he had underneath. Only Zhen was not afforded the dignity of hiding her identity.
As the cameras began rolling, Kwong approached her with a hint of boredom, like a salaryman heading into work. Zhen instinctively cowered under him. The box encasing her body was propped up on a small, sturdy table one foot off the ground to bring her head up to a convenient height. Easy to get on film. She would be lower than any average man, forced to look up submissively.
The red, black, and white curves on Kwongās mask twisted together to form the face of an intense, intimidating warrior, even with the paint looking visibly faded. Zhen felt his eyes boring into her like she was an insignificant bug. They never did get along very well.
Lost in the flashy visage of Kwongās mask, she didnāt realize that he hadnāt actually discarded his cigarette earlier until he stubbed it out on her open palm.
love going to the hospital for an appointment and thinking about med whump.
walking up to the hospital, post-rescue whumpee on their feet but permanently plagued by medical issues, potentially scars - no one stares at a hospital but the occasional ones they happen to see sometimes have a look in their eyes, the briefest glimpse of shock or curiosity before they quickly look away. it's something whumpee is never really free of at such a big facility.
passing by the nurse's station while walking through the hall, turning your head a little too quickly, you're the one person whumpee can count on, only to be lost and terrified trying to find their room.
or you're the whumper, blending into the crowd, scanning the halls with a hawk's eye to find your whumpee after they managed to slip your grasp, if wounded.
the PHQ-9 and GAD-7 assessments. whumpee knowing if they were honest, every answer would be "nearly every day." but they don't want to get locked up after a regular appointment, do they?
vitals? terminally ill whumpee just staring at their heart rate and blood pressure and oxygen saturation, defeated. their body just *won't work* in its most basic functions.
waiting in the exam room, whumpee being medically examined for the first time in years, or ever. the terror they'd feel in this enclosed space; if they already come from a clinical setting, the horror is tenfold.
the sheer amount of reactions for a whumpee to have at different points of a medical examination. hands on their neck make them stop breathing, having to get used to reflex tests, struggling to breathe with cold metal on their chest and back. a neurological exam where whumpee can't walk in a straight line.
even checking out, imagining a caretaker with a tired, dissociated whumpee beside them, the looks of the reception staff who are familiar with whumpee by now. it never gets easier to see them.
whumpee waiting on a test result, dread mounting every second or so beyond caring that they wish the doctor would forget to call back.
