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Donna Tartt, from The Goldfinch (2013)

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in the middle of writing up headcanons, I am only now realizing all my muses have grown up in poverty (Francis, Finitevus) and/or living in poverty currently (Fang, Espio). doom being my most fortunate muse is funny considering where he is now. peepaw has had a rough life, surely, but all things considered, his comet had flourished, numbers were healthy. they lived well. don't worry about the last 50 years, alright?

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hc + 🤕 for All of Them porhaps >:)

hc + 🤕 for a pain-themed headcanon

Highest pain tolerance  →  lowest

𝐈. 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐌 By far the highest pain tolerance out of all my muses. He's gone through open surgery, while awake and without anesthetics, with a clear mind to hold a conversation with the scientist. He's far too proud to give you any indications of pain, holding his head high. You cannot hurt him in a way that matters.

𝐈𝐈. 𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐎 pff... Easy peasy. Espio was literally made to handle pain. Taking damage while keeping focus is what everyone in his clan is trained for. It's day dot sort of training.

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐃𝐑. 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐔𝐒 Uh oh. Pain and Finitevus go hand in hand. Hurting him is easy enough to do, being a doctor type with prosthetics no less, but he won't react the way you'd expect. Without going into too much detail, he's a bit of a masochist. Pain elevates him.

𝐈𝐕. 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒 Perhaps you wouldn't expect it, given his gentle disposition, but Francis' pain tolerance is surprisingly high for a civilian. Francis is the type to suffer in silence, even if it hurts. There's a number of things he tends to worry about before he focuses on himself. Of course, he has very clear limits.

𝐕. 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐆 My clumsiest and most reckless muse, Fang's been in his fair share of fights, taken his fair share of damage -- but he's also very whiny.  Any injury he gets, you're going to hear about it the moment it happens.

[synxis]

hc + 😨 for a fear-themed headcanon -for all.

𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐄 - 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 New guy first! I'll tell you right now it's very hard to scare Vice. Death? I suppose? There isn't a lot that can harm Vice, but fire does a great job. Once Vice's life is threatened, once enough of them has been burned away, once they are cornered, only then fear will grip them. They will lash out, desperation fuelling their clumsy attacks. They want to get away and will go through you if it meant survival. 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐌 - 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 Doom is another toughie! Being an alien and all, his experiences won't align with ~earthlings~ or even those who have lived a mortal life. His entire race being wiped out was PRETTY bad. It was something that he had never thought could happen, but it did, and he's the only one left (that he knows of). In his point of view, they were winning, he fell, and then woke up to nothing. Again, it had already happened, so the fear hadn't had a chance to really blossom into something he couldn't manage. Now it's more like a deep dread whenever he thinks about it (which is often).

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐆 - 𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒 Had a near death experience while being tied up in a boot of a car. He isn't aware there's a name for this, but as a result, he's pretty claustrophobic.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐒 - 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 Whenever he has a nightmare, there's a burning house somewhere. Every universe Francis is in, every version of Francis, there's always a burning house. It's a constant. His canon event, if you will. He tries to take control of this fear by making sure to know where all fire exits are whenever he enters a new building.

𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐎 - 𝐆𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐒 Not just any ghosts! Local spirits. Espio's uncle, while he was raising him, had inadvertently caused this with retelling stories he had heard as a child. While his uncle thought it was harmless fun, it scared him enough for Espio to think about them even as an adult. Of course, if you asked him now, he'd deny being scared of anything.

𝐃𝐑. 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐔𝐒 - 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 It ties in with his fear of having control taken away from him. His mind is his greatest asset, so to have it slowly fail him is harrowing.

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black doom dragging me by my ankles back to this blog

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[ SOMETHING YOU FORGOT, BUT PROMISED NOT TO ]

Selective RP blog for extremely headcanon/AU-heavy Black Arms OC, Black Doom, and Redeemed God Mephiles. OC and doubles friendly!  Muse directory | Art and writing by Sea | 18+ only for heavier themes

[synxis]

A silkmaker. His hive never had one. They were more of a luxury item, if he recalled correctly, but he could be misremembering. It seemed Moth was a multipurpose worker, which made more sense to Doom. It would have been nice to be given the chance to see Moth's skills in action. He had never met a silkmaker before, after all. His curiosities buzzed dimly at the back of his mind, questions about how Moth's mind worked to be able to create freely. If only they could both afford to meet in better circumstances. There was a newfound strain to Moth's voice which made Doom perk, tugged out of his daydreaming to focus on the now once more. They were speaking of their former leader. Yes, of course, they were. Doom had asked them to, not even a moment before. His gaze follows Moth's, surprised to see Moth had rested their hand on top of his without Doom noticing. He did not mind in this moment, the closest more so focused on the troubled expression of his cellmate. Doom can't say for certain why but he can recognize he had crossed a line with his requests, digging up wounds that were not old enough to be closed in the first place, raw and unprocessed. A small squeeze of their hand, brow furrowed lightly. Titles be damned, he needed to say something - anything. "Moth, I..." Metal and unmistakable sound of pistons announced their presence in the form of a lab drone, interrupting an otherwise intimate moment for the pair. As it opens the cell door, Doom tenses, but otherwise stills himself, even as it draws towards them. It's only when the drone grabs Moth by their arm, pulling them away and out of the cell does his expression tighten with distress. Frozen momentarily as his dread was realized, Doom allows himself to breath again, shuttering back to life. This was inevitable, he tried to reason with himself. They need to find a reason to keep them here. It will be painful, surely, unpleasant and above all, unfair. The demons had no sense of restraint and Black Moth would be no different. Alone once more, Doom leans back, returning to his previous position; sitting upright, leaning back against the wall behind him. There was no use in wasting energy he did not have, worrying about a stranger he had just met - even if they were in similar circumstances, in more ways than they even realized - he just didn't have the luxury to worry. He needed to focus on healing, he needed to focus on himself. — ✦ — The journey through the featureless halls was brief and unremarkable, save for the uncompromising grip of the lab drone, denying even the smallest inklings of resistance. It took a sudden turn into a side room, which, just like the room their cell was held in, was white, overly bright and cold. "... instruments are prepared for ..." "... think that it would be beneficial ..." As Moth is dutifully delivered to the lab employees, a few of them were chatting quietly among themselves to the side, one typing on a terminal. They paid Moth no mind, as if they were nothing but a package they had ordered, motioning for the drone to set them aside on the table while they finished preparations.

By this point, the moth has picked up on what it is he's doing. Though not nearly as obvious about it, they recall with painful fondness how their own leader would often do similar, how he would take solace in their company, their presence, their words. They rarely had anything to speak of that he hadn't already been aware of, and yet he would ask them their opinions regardless, just to have something grounding to listen to, something else to focus on. 

They see that same faraway look in their cellmate's eyes now, and their heart aches. Such a different appearance, and yet so similar. Such a different demeanor, and yet so familiar. They don't so much as flinch when Doom takes their arm to inspect their ring-made-bracelet again. If anything, they're relieved he does, both for his sake and their own.

It dawns on them, then, and they wonder; maybe his questions aren't simply distractions. Maybe they truly do have a purpose. To them, the loss of their comet happened what feels like barely nights ago. But already, down here in this closed-off space, time has begun to lose its meaning.

They wonder how long Doom has been alone. 

"... It was my responsibility to provide our people with clothing and other textiles," they begin tentatively. They bring their free hand up to indicate themself and add softly, "As silkmaker. The only of our hive, in fact."

They wonder if Doom ever had a companion or confidant similar to themself. They wonder if he remembers, or if he's forgotten bits and pieces of himself the same as their leader had, leaving them to pick up the scraps left behind. They wonder, with a pang in their chest, if even the concept of a silkmaker is foreign to him, let alone what they try to convey next.

"But I also played the role of a caretaker, in a sense. The ailing and weary would often retreat to my work quarters. When it wasn't silks I mended, it was hurts. I bore the unique position of being able to lend my company, be that as someone to listen, or to share words with, away from anyone else." A faint, sorrowful smile, and they restrain the habitual urge to bring their hand down atop his, both to relive some now-distant memory, or to comfort them both. "Our leader was one such frequenting patron, himself. Truth be told, we were so low on resources toward the end, little energy could be spared for silk repairs. And yet he visited all the same, always for my company and rarely for my services."

They wonder if they get their point across well enough. If Doom knows they know, that they accept it, that they extend him the same comforts, if he were to want them.

They remember their leader's face in those moments, the unique tenderness of his touch on rare occasions he would welcome their comforts. They remember each precious little moment shared, always quiet, always warm, now painted with such heavy loss they fear they may shatter under the weight.

They wonder if Doom knows the depths of stinging nostalgia such a recent memory can already cause, and when it might begin to ache less. 

"I cared deeply for him, of course. He was..." They find themself staring down at Doom's hand, their bracelet—and their own hand, now atop his anyway despite themself, warm, trembling, grief-stricken. When did they begin referring to him in the past tense without hesitation? When did they become such a hopeless, sorrowful sort? "I..." 

There are no words left, no things left to wonder. Stunned into silence by such a sudden, profound, acute pain, they simply shake and lower their head with a shivering inhale in some feeble attempt to steady themself. They have known the loss of a loved one, but this one, forced to confront it now, hollows them out as much as it fills them with grief. 

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me: perhaps i should give my other muses some attention also me: waiter! waiter! more doom please!!

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It was a rare treat to watch a silkmaker work. The extra limbs were fascinating to Black Doom, watching them work while also putting effort into staying as still as he could, which proved to be a surprisingly difficult task. Whenever the moth grazed over exposed skin, even as gentle as they were, it would cause a shiver to shoot up Doom's spine. There was the urge to blame this new body, but then he wondered if maybe his true form was as sensitive as this as well, it had just been that long since he's felt another's touch; after all, he had no recent memories to compare this experience to. A glance to the leader, brows furrowed. Was he mocking him? "Why? No, that's not— Firstly, they could—" Ah. Dial it back. Immediately getting on the leader's case on how he runs his comet was not the smartest move he could play here, especially after just being granted permission to stay without harm. That offer could easily be revoked whenever the leader wanted. A tactical withdrawal was needed. "I misspoke, I apologize," he says evenly, straightening his posture for the silkmaker's sake. If this is how they wanted to run their comet, it was their right to do so, even if every fiber of Doom's being was itching to do it himself, the proper way. Another angle, then. "It has... been a while since I've had contact with another comet. That and this strange form, this has been overwhelming—" He pauses, taking a moment to properly convey his thoughts this time, parsing through his more reactive emotions while also trying to hold civil conversation. "— there are a lot of unknowns at play here, more than I'd like." Why there were two of them, so similar yet so different, was his main question, the nature of his new body was second. He supposed he would not get answers to these, at least not in a way that would be satisfying, as it was with this sort of thing. "—— but knowing there are still more Black Arms still alive fills me with a relief I have not felt in a while." He places a hand on his chest, the arm that wasn't currently being worked on, directly addressing the leader with a resolute gaze. A proper introduction was needed. "I am Black Doom, leader of the final comet in my platoon. Your hospitality is appreciated."

Content with his answer, the moth continues their work without another word, bowing their head and beginning to spin and weave silk pulled from their collar. To assist them, a previously-hidden second set of arms pull out from their sides, as if the red stripes on either side of their torso had been these extra limbs in disguise.

Tipped with needle-like thin pincers capable of producing their own threads of silk, they use these arms in tandem with their hands to position the robes pooled around him and stitch here and there. Slowly, gradually, one small section at a time, the frayed edges of his silks are mended with patches of the same pinkish off-white like that of their own collar; the default color of the silks of this hive, it would seem. 

The leader, meanwhile, picks back up on the conversation without missing a beat, and without any indication he'd been bothered by their guest's original line of questioning, if he ever had been at all. All the same, he lets Doom's first thought die where it had been interrupted, and does not bother to revisit it with any amount of acknowledgement.

"Why wouldn't they?" He answers this new question coolly, though with an edge of puzzled caution. The notion of his own people lacking autonomy is so foreign it doesn't even register as a possibility for what this almost-lookalike might be suggesting. "Those not in reserve have their tasks and their lives to attend to."

Without fully unclasping it, Aruna tilts his hand slightly off of his knee in the other's direction as if to subtly indicate and remind him of his comparatively weak stature. "You didn't seem to be inclined to attack any of us, much less be in any position to do so. They kept their distance, curious as they were, and only approached at my request. I fail to see what it is you're getting at."

[synxis]

There was a deep sense of loss hidden behind Doom's stoic expression, a mask that was close to shattering, his true feelings seeping out through the cracks; swallowing at a tightening throat, deepening of his frown, fingers clenched. Their question causes him to stiffen, tendrils curling, which he takes care to flatten once more. He wanted to reply, 'Of course, of course we did.', but that would be a lie so blatant, he wouldn't be able to fool even himself. Doom supposes there was a time when his people had such things. The last century of his comet was successful, objectively so, they were well-fed, supplies full— however, his people were... not people, not in the traditional sense. Nearing the end of his hive's life, Doom's growing paranoia fueled every decision, an utterly consuming virus that rot him within, effectively snuffing out any individualism in fear any mistake would lead to his comet being destroyed. Tradition died out. Silence was Doom's constant companion. There wasn't a day that passed where Doom wouldn't think of his people and the series of mistakes that had led him here. "I don't remember." It was a truthful answer, though no less hollow. And he would leave it at that, but he pressed himself on answering further, seeing that Moth was kind enough to entertain him this far. "We—I had rings built for function. Little else." Another swallow at the stubborn pressure building in his throat. He felt it, that familiar sensation burning his eyes once more, so he impulsively reached for Moth's metal, taking it in closer to study. He tries to keep distracted, stubbornly blinking away the tears that well up. It is an exhausting process, holding back alien emotions for an already exhausted alien.   An exhale. "Tell me more." Another selfish request, still holding their arm, gaze distant as he examines their cuff. "Your hive. Your leader. Anything." Please.

At first, the silkmaker is caught off guard. They wonder why the thread of their previous conversation had been dropped so suddenly, for surely he had had more warnings to give, more heavy information to share. 

Perhaps, in a sense, watching his hand retract back to his lap, they understand why it was. They wish for not the first time almost to reach back out and take it, bring it back toward them, hold it in their own. For assurance, for their own comfort. The topic truly is a heavy one; surely he has said his piece, and that is all that needs be said. The rest will be learned in time.

And so they leave it be, ignoring the tug of grief and anguish the new question and its associated answer brings them. They try to smile; a frail, somewhat shaky thing, ignoring the pain his apparent ignorance brings them. So he doesn't know. Of course he wouldn't know. How silly of them to forget. They aren't from the same hive, after all.

"... That is a shame," they whisper aloud, almost against their will, following their own train of thought. They find themself staring up at the blinking light of a surveillance camera, unable to quite come to terms with the jarring reminder, the illusion of familiarity broken. It had been such a massive part of their own culture. If he isn't simply looking to confirm what he already knows and expects to hear, then they can barely even begin to fathom a version of their kind without it. 

Maybe in some effort to soften the pain of it all, they extend their arm anyway, allowing Doom an unspoken excuse to hold it, if not another chance for him to inspect the dark, well-cared-for metal while they speak. "It used to be a ring. They are—were—" the word stings their throat, and they draw in a slow breath before they can continue, "customary for each member of our hive to receive. A tradition made to forever tie us to our roots. Each has a personalized sigil engraved on the inside."

Finally they bring themself to lower their gaze back down and look to their cellmate with something like pleading—no longer hope. For hope, they have learned, is only destined to die down here. "Did your people not have such a thing?"

[synxis]

Black Doom had to admit, he felt a little out of place in this moment, being touched like this. The moth excuses themselves politely before beginning their assessment of his garments, his measurements, all with utmost care. He couldn't help but watch them work, both fascinated and curious by their attention to detail. They focused on specific areas of his silks that, in Doom's opinion, meant nothing. Such was the intelligence of a silkmaker, he supposed, viewing things in a completely different light to him. Though, he found himself fighting the urge to squirm when more sensitive areas were brushed along. This body was much more responsive than what he was used to, compared to his true form. It didn't matter. He wouldn't allow himself to look any less dignified than he already had, so he stands tall and turns back to the leader to continue their conversation. He wasn't sure why, but there was an immediate rush of relief upon hearing there were others. It was a strange reaction to have. Most would interpret this new information as a thinly veiled threat -- most would be correct, Black Doom was anything but naive. But the thick tension he had expected never came. "I see," he says slowly, expression pensive. Energy conservation wasn't completely unheard of; a method he wouldn't personally use. Perhaps it was just his deep-rooted need for control, but he wanted to see these platoons for himself, most likely to insert some unwarranted advice. "Are you in a period of peace? If a surprise attack were to befall your comet, it could—" Tonal whiplash from the diplomatic talk to the soft-spoken silkmaker causes Black Doom to pause, turning their gaze to them. He hated being interrupted, but he couldn't bring himself to feel even mildly irritated. Their voice was almost like a soothing balm, something he was not quite used to. Their keen eyes were impressive, for Black Doom couldn't even remember the last time he was able to have his silks cared for. Such luxuries he didn't think twice about neglecting. His eyes meet the hand that rests on his arm, making no move to remove it from his person. "—— Yes," he replies in a softer tone. "You may." A glance back at the leader, deciding to venture into different waters. "Why do your people walking around so freely?"

As he approaches, the silkmaker leans forward and extends an expectant hand as though to welcome and guide him the rest of the way. It doesn't seem to be that they see him as weak or likely to still stumble. Merely second nature, warm, attentive; their way of moving reflecting their air of serenity and calm, almost ethereal in their grace. Should he accept their arm as a brace, their touch is feather-light, guiding him the rest of the way to them, to exactly where they want him to stand to begin their work. Even should he not, they still take gentle hold of his arm just above his elbow when he nears enough, still gently pull him the rest of the way in.

"Excuse me," they whisper with a faint smile as they turn their new guest to face his back to them. Though they apologize, it is only a courtesy and warning, for they unabashedly begin to turn and position him this way and that to better assess his measurements, the state of his silks, and what might be done about it all. They are never abrupt, never rough. Each movement is slow, precise; each touch delicate, lingering. 

The hive's leader pays the process no mind, though he does wait until their guest is slightly more settled in before beginning to respond. "We are," he confirms with an almost-nod, "and we have not. But I can't claim to know why the change occurred." The story of their comet's unexpected detour and his ten years in hell is not for this stranger to know, not yet. He leaves it vague. "That was already some time ago now. I'd imagine I once looked similar to what you did, before you took up this form."

The question of stronger forces earns a wry smirk. He lets it simmer a moment, considering how best to answer it, and laces his hands back together in front of his crossed-again knee. The last thing he wants to do is come back in swinging with what might sound like more threats, much less make his hive look like an easy target once this mirror image of him is back in power. Careful, careful. The multiverse is filled with liars, and he will be one of them if he must. 

"Those who greeted you were among a curious few. We have platoons in reserve. They conserve their energy for more important matters." He deems partial truths remain the best course of action for now. No outright lies, not yet, but simple omission of damning details. Their hopefully-neutral guest does not need to know why his people need to conserve their strength, does not need to know the extent of their forces (or lack of) and extrapolate how difficult (or easy) it would be to overthrow them. The multiverse is filled with betrayers, and should this doppelganger be one of them, Aruna will crush him before he even has the chance.

Almost as it to break the unspoken tension, or even to throw their leader off his internal grim train of thought, the moth interrupts. "Your silks are rather worn," they observe with sympathy lacking any accusation. "I see signs of repairs, now just as old and faded. Places so worn they're beginning to fray... Prone to unraveling if I were to try to add any tension to them."

With pleasant calmness, they lift their head to regard their guest, having turned him back around to face them. Their assessment paused for the moment, they leave a hand on the outer portion of his upper arm, near one of these discovered weak areas. "May I have your permission to patch what you have, in addition to fashioning it into something more presently suitable?"

[synxis]

Doom misliked the tone the leader held a great deal — perhaps in his true form, his internal feelings would have gone unnoticed, but in this body, he didn't realize just how plain his body language was — tendrils coiling and twisting, expression tightening as they looked down at him. He wasn't used to being spoken to like this. His reputation alone was enough for even strangers to cower at the sight of him — but now? Now he was no more threatening than an imp. He couldn't help but retrace a previous conversation between him and his Prophet. An off-hand comment about transformation had begun to finally make sense. So, they did know. Wonderful. He was going to kill that wretched worm if he ever made it back. A growl escapes him, but he stills himself. The other's unspoken request for neutrality softens his expression, at least enough to put his mind at relative ease. It was... appreciated, he supposed, that his temporarily weakened state wouldn't be taken advantage of. Still, he would hold a healthy level of wariness during his time here. After all, he couldn't afford to die here. His flock would surely starve without him — and what would he be without his people? "I will do no harm to your hive," he relents, as if he could do any in this form. "Their slaughter would do me no favors. My goal is to return to my own. That is all." He listens to the other speak, though his eyes wander around the room, studying and unable to help himself in comparing this place to his own home. Surely, there were more capable members among the hive? In this body, everything looked larger than it was, including the brutes that brought him here, but they weren't at all large in actuality. Thinking back to before, he couldn't remember a single solider that stood out to him as particularly strong. Black Doom perks as the other finally acknowledges him, glancing down to his silks and then back to them. A silkmaker? They were exceedingly rare. Quite the luxury this leader possessed — a sharp contrast to the paltry accommodations of this comet. Not even Black Doom had one on his comet. Gathering his robes, cautiously, Black Doom takes his first steps in this new body, figuring it should be relatively easy. Even the lowest ranked foot soldier could walk without stumbling, so he wouldn't either. He takes care to keep his silks close to his form, staring at the ground as he puts one foot in front of the other. There was the occasional stumble, but by the time Black Doom approached them properly, he had gotten the gist of this walking concept rather well. He watched the moth work before turning to the leader, his mirrored other. "You are Black Arms, yes?" Most certainly, though the hive's physical forms gave enough doubt to ask. He had questions, they had answers, surely. "Have you always been so small and feeble? Surely you have stronger forces nearby?"

Despite the somewhat forceful, unceremonious way in which he was brought to them, the pair are surprisingly patient as he struggles to collect himself before them. Even if the moth still doesn't bother to look up, the apparent one in charge regards their guest with an unreadable tolerance—understanding, perhaps—and says nothing, remains perfectly still, until the other is ready. Though the angle at which he sits makes it seem as if he's looking down on him, there is a troubled, almost pitying crease in his brow and crinkle in his muzzle, seeing his lookalike instinctively try to keep himself covered. 

"The last thing I would want is a doppelganger disturbing our peace," he says at last, dismissive and contemptuous despite his calm all the same. It's disturbing enough, seeing this. Even if he were more capable of regulating his tone to better match his intentions, it would be hard not to show it. "So no. I did not summon you here, in this form or otherwise."

Pausing a moment, the leader adjusts his posture to sit facing properly toward him instead, lacing his hands together palm-up and resting them neatly in his lap. An unspoken, neutral, nonthreatening gesture, he waits to see if their guest will return it, or at least recognizes its intention.

Then, regardless of the result, he continues. "... As long as you don't bring harm to my people, I see no reason to immediately excise you. It's clear to me what you are. But don't expect me to coddle you. Until we find a way to return you to your comet, you are here by my allowance only. There are eyes around every corner, and I will be alerted at the first signs of trouble. You have one chance."

And yet, despite the thinly-veiled threat, he inclines his head in an almost-nod to indicate toward the stranger's robes and jewelry. He lowers his tone, tries to sound slightly less calmly hostile. "But neither will I force you to go without your things. Unless you give us reason, you are no prisoner here."

"Bring your silks here," the moth finally says, in a voice next to a serene whisper contrasting greatly with their leader, "and I will tailor them to fit for now."

[synxis]

He liked to think himself the rational, logical type, preferring to look at things objectively and solve problems based on that. But the labs had changed him, warped him into someone he didn't recognize anymore. Things didn't make sense down here. Demons who play with their food under the guise of science. Olive branch extended, Doom waits quietly, watching as Black Moth seemed to be absorbing how dire their situation really was. Their expressions were subtle enough, perhaps negligible to anyone that wasn't actively looking — a soft furrow of their brow, a tilt of their head — he wondered what was going through their mind. Black Doom waits and waits, even after they reply verbally. He temporarily meets their gaze with half-lidded eyes as they speak, listening but not absorbing what they were saying. All this, and yet Black Doom's message had fallen on deaf ears. He had to accept the grim reality, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise. I see, he thinks, clasped hands tightening ever so slightly. I understand now. A tired exhalation, closing his eyes once more as a new kind of exhaustion festered within him. He hadn't heard anything after all. It was absurd to think he would have. Moth hadn't reached out to him. Black Doom would laugh at how pathetic he had become, but he didn't have the energy to muster even that. He felt numb.

"... What will they take from you the next day? What will they take from me?"

That was the question of the hour, wasn't it? Black Doom had nothing left in him to give, and yet they took anyway. He watches Moth, almost feeling a tug of sympathy for them, knowing what hell awaits the other. Perhaps it was cruel of Black Doom to explain their situation so bluntly, but it was better this way. Black Doom was only snuffing out any chance of hope Black Moth might have now. Better now than later. The familiar sensation was beginning to well up in his eyes despite them being closed, his throat tightening. He didn't have a word for why his body would do this, but he refused the urge, swallowing thickly. Finally, he speaks. "Tell me about this." A gentle tap to Black Moth's bracelet, faintly tracing along the cool metal before retracting his touch from them. It was an odd thing to say, but not without purpose. It was an unspoken request, Black Doom selfishly asks for a distraction and an excuse to listen to their voice.

Others. Moth isn't sure what to make of the word. It stands out to them as uncomfortably meaningful, something heavy, something double-edged. The more they linger on the thought, the more uneasy they become, until they've turned their head away to stare at the floor instead to process. It could simply be other prisoners, it could mean others of their own kind, and they don't like the implications of the word store, either. They wonder if this, too, is better left as some nagging unknown, something they can pretend they don't dread, something they instead can assume, with deliberate naivety, must surely be referring to anything else. 

Either way, Doom must speak from experience. He must know, with a half-missing tendril and surely countless other healed-over "surgeries" by now, what it means to be used until nothing is left, or he would have fought and protested this one. Wouldn't he have? A chill overcomes the silkmaker, ruffling the scales of their wings, making the fur of their collar stand on end. Even with the reality of their own situation sinking in, it's too dreadful to think. Whatever fate has already befallen Doom to make him so resigned is sure to be their own, some day soon, if not today. 

"Escape isn't an option," they say aloud, quieter than usual. It isn't a question; merely a weary observation as their mind runs through all the information, the implications. "Bargaining isn't an option. Mercy isn't an option. Die now, or become a plaything and die later." If they were one to believe in karma, they suppose this might be it. A wretched fate come to drag them down with it for the lives their kind had taken just for the chance to drag out their own desperate lives one more day.

Was it worth it? Had it amounted to nothing? Was it worth another day, if those days would now be filled with nothing but an even worse pain?

They take a deep, steadying breath. It's too much to take in at once, leaving them feeling almost nothing. Nothing except for a faint tug at the back of their mind, an almost-there signal, but lost in transit; a hand almost extended, but lost in a dense haze. Not even their expression changes to indicate they had heard or almost-heard. 

"I admit the future frightens me," they whisper instead. Despite the honesty in their words, they still sit straight, still speak with clarity and unwavering tone. "It always did. But I think I might have preferred to simply starve. Today, a piece of your tendril. Tomorrow, something else. What will they take from you the next day? What will they take from me?"

I should have died with the comet, they think to supposedly-empty air. I failed to protect who mattered most. Why was I allowed to live if this is all that awaits me? Could this fate be considered living? Can I say I ever lived at all? They don't remember a time they were ever truly comfortable. Needed, content in the moment, loved, certainly. But unafraid, filled with anything less than a nagging dread, ever able to have confidence in what tomorrow might bring? Never.

How dreadful. How unfair. How fitting an end for a creature the very universe seemed to hate. 

[synxis]

Dulled eyes flit around the growing crowd, his grip on the hem of his robes tightening as they drew close. What was he looking at? These are black arms, he thinks, but certainly not his — their differences were immediately obvious by sight alone — far smaller than what Black Doom would deem even remotely acceptable. Far too curious, approaching him as if he wasn't a threat. Why weren't their weapons drawn at the very least? Was their leader simply stupid? Black Doom strains where he sits, tendrils twisting as his mind fills with the voices of these strangers, their chatter incessant and all-encompassing. By instinct, Black Doom tries to order silence psionically, but they don't even indicate they have even heard him. They weren't his to control. It was when two larger brutes approached him did he finally begin to speak out loud. "NO—  Release me!"  He had attempted to swat at the closest, the contact was enough to make a pitiful sound and nothing else. His aggression hadn't bothered them, finding his arms restrained despite his (numerous) objections. They travel together, Black Doom taking note of the smaller transporting his chains, his distaste plain. His face burned with indignation, attempting to wrench himself free but met with no reactions. How dare they touch him! How dare they touch his possessions! He's killed stronger for less! Finally, he was brought into a room with two new strangers, his gaze instantly trained onto one in particular — Black Doom was quick to note how similar one of them looked to himself. It was uncanny. The moment he was returned to the floor, his temper flared anew, eager to voice every single grievance he had in extreme detail, along with his list of demands. He opens his mouth before he falters strangely, breath hitching in his throat as his legs gave out from underneath him. There was a puzzled look, eyes peeking down at his own body, as if silently asking why it chose to do that. Legs. He has legs. Had he ever had these before? Surely not. He functioned fine without them for so long. Was this a physical indication of his newly diminished form? A stubborn huff. Black Doom's hands press against the ground, hoisting himself upwards little by little, finally standing upright with the help of his tail (another new addition). Then he took care to readjust his robes around his lithe frame as best he could, refusing to speak until he was fully covered. A glance back at the pile of chains waiting for him at the door, considering collecting them to regain some semblance of dignity, but decides against it. Fussing with his ill-fitting silks seemed to help calm his frazzled nerves at the very least. "My case?" He speaks out loud, its misuse obvious with the brittle timbre. Reaching out through his mind had proven fruitless thus far. His hard expression was betrayed by the fact his legs trembled like a newborn doe. "I have been displaced from my comet. I was warned—" Vaguely. Hardly. "—this would happen, but the details hadn't..." He allows the thought to trail off, deciding to set aside his irritation towards his Prophet. One issue at a time. "Have you summoned me? Into this wretched form?"

Dim, reddish walls, a faint bioluminescent glow. Surroundings that may look familiar, but foreign; surely a hive, but not his own. 

The place buzzes with activity the moment the stranger is deposited into it. Creatures unseen gather to look, assessing from afar. One pair of eyes becomes three becomes twelve, information compounding and transmitted through the hivemind like a network. They murmur in hushed whispers through their link about the stranger's sudden arrival and how it is familiar to them, of his familiar appearance, of his familiar robes and jewelry now spilled in a heap around him, and report it to their leader.

The one in charge here misses no detail even without being physically present. In seconds, they have their answer and permission to act on his behalf. At the front of the pack, two comparatively hulking mobian figures step out of the shadowed corners and approach with purpose. One, notably larger than the other, carries with him a grim atmosphere and weary frown, scars branching down a trunk-like arm and into a hand much too large even by mobian standards. The other, sharper and clearly battle-worn with his own myriad scars, is similarly no-nonsense and moves with less lumbering steps. 

They give the intruder little time to react when they bend to seize either of his arms and haul him up—without depriving him of the robes still clinging to him, at their leader's remote request. A third creature retrieves any jewelry left behind and trails after the trio in silence. None of them pay heed to any protest, and though the largest of the three has a comparatively gentler grip, they do not allow this familiar-looking stranger to escape their grasp or ever quite let his feet touch the floor. 

Instead, they carry him all the way to a quiet, back corner of the comet. They bring him past an open threshold, into something of an office decorated with harmless tools and dyes and cloth samples kept in tidy order amongst the shelves and racks molded from the very walls of the place. The two who had kept an iron grip on his arms set him down with surprising care. The third deposits what remains of his outfit just inside the doorway, before it closes behind them as they all promptly see themselves out.

Inside this new room sits a different, more refined pair. One, perched on the equivalent of a stool with prim posture, looks strikingly similar to their unexpected guest, and regards him with a sharp, expectant look. The other, mothlike and exceptionally calm as if this were just another average occurrence, continues their toil with threading silk from their collar of fur, and does not bother to glance up. 

"State your case," the mirror-image of this stranger begins flatly. "You may look like me, but you're in my domain. I can extend you tolerance, or crush you where you stand. Make your choice."

[synxis]

what is your core theme?

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑

you mourn your losses. it is as if something has been torn from your soul and you are forever a lost fragment seeking what you have lost. it will take you time to accept some things are better floating through the universe, taken from us with vice and leaving us incomplete. your corners will drift through the ocean and each grain of sand you brush by will sand you down. you will reach the beaches healed, and your sharp corners will become dull and smooth to the touch. your painting is "anguish" by august friedrich schenck.

[synxis]

Oc/Muse ask game, slightly dark and fucked up edition! This is intended for more horror focused muses/OCs, but they can be used generally as well.

There is also an accompanying M!A post which you can find here

🫀: Does your muse have any injuries, and if so, what severity?

🫁: Does your muse have any health problems, and if so, what severity?

🦷: What texture is your muse? (Can be literal or based on vibes)

🕳️: What would startle your muse?

👁️: How firm is your character's grasp on reality?

🍄: How willing is your muse to eat odd/inedible things, on a scale of "I'd rather starve" to Craving it?

🌑: How well does your muse sleep? Do they have problems such as nightmares/sleep paralysis/insomnia/etc.

🪰: How hygienic are your muse's living conditions?

🍭: how easily manipulated is your muse?

🧸: does your muse have any comfort items? What reaction would they have to it being taken away from them?

❄️: Does your muse do well with temperature changes?

🗯️: how would your muse react to being yelled at?

[synxis]

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐔𝐏  to the other, his third eye narrowing. Towering over Doom, nearly twice his size, was the comet's own kill worm, the Prophet. It had its uses, more valuable than not. They saw branching paths into the future, able to predict potential failed battles and compensate for diverting outcomes as a result. Their advice was invaluable, essential to the comet's thriving existence. However, they had a talent for getting under Doom's skin, which was reason enough for Doom to constantly consider their worth.

"You mustn't get caught up with details, m'lord, you'll age faster."

"Details are exactly why I even bother keeping you alive at all," He reminds, irritation worn plainly. "Are you going to answer me or are you going to waste my time further?"

The kill worm laughed lightly, a nearby tendril waving the other off. "You will leave the comet for a while. Temporarily, of course. Nothing to fuss about, truly ✦ !" The enormity and dignified appearance of the prophet clashed terribly with its causal manner of speaking, especially while addressing Black Doom. It was a grievance the overlord had brought up more than once, but it always had a fondness for doing as it pleased. Black Doom had many reasons why his comet was kept so tightly under his control at all times, the Prophet given free will was nearly at the top of his list.

"Have you considered that—"

Black Doom felt it before it ever appeared — a bright portal, almost blindingly so — manifesting itself beside the pair. The leader tenses, attempting to close it himself, destroy it, nullify, anything. The more he resisted, the faster he was drawn to its maw. The Prophet watches Doom, seeing him struggle and strain against its pull, while the Prophet remains comfortably where it was. The portal's insistence was ironclad, only interested in the overlord and ignoring all else, not giving Black Doom a chance to refuse its will. There was one last frustrated roar before the leader of the black arms was swallowed up entirely — and then there was nothing at all.

"Have fun, m'lord." — ✦ — Transference via portal was nothing new. Entirely normal, especially when invading unsuspecting planets. Which was why this one felt so different. Besides the fact that whatever caused this was powerful enough to catch Black Doom off guard (even with the vague warning of the Prophet), it was shaping him strangely, as if he were freshly born clay ready to be thrown into something new. Control was taken from him, thrown around until he met its end. The portal flashes open, unceremoniously spitting out a smaller being, and then leaving as quickly as it arrived. He was momentarily shocked to hit the ground, not from pain, but having expected his form to float as always. For a moment, he stays where he is, buried underneath his chains and silks, before shooting upright. He sat on the floor, his robes pooled around him — bleary vision clearing, it was immediately obvious his large robes no longer fit him. They hardly clung to his body, which was nearly a fraction of his original size. Dull eyes slowly traveled up his small (mobian) arm, dread ebbing its way into his chest as he could only stare blankly at it. A flex of his hand, testing to see if it was indeed his own, which it was. He wraps his robes around him in an attempt to cover his new, strange form. He puts a pin in the exploration for now, calling out to his hive for assistance — only to be met with nothing. A silence he'd never felt before. They were alive, but he was unable to reach them.

Where was he? @oblivisscaris