Indie multimuse featuring Ahsoka Tano (Star Wars), Ragnar Lothbrok (Vikings), Kratos (GoW), Arthur Morgan (RDR2), and many more.
“... the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”
Hi! My name is Lee. This is really all you need to know:
I have an updated interest tracker that can be found here. Even if you filled out the previous one, it’d be great if you could fill out this one (as some things have changed), if possible. c: This also serves as permission for me to send you memes and give you random starters from said muse(s).
Carrd | Interest Tracker | Not sure how to interact? Send a meme! Or spin the wheel!
Status: Forever semi-hiatus.
Queue: Posting twice per day.
Promo graphics made by the lovely CALISVERSE!
I can also be found at the following URLs:
@paramounticebound (Khan from Star Trek) Moved to this blog!
@sxbaist (Star Trek OC) Moved to this blog!
@valleyofgolg (SWTOR OC side blog)** Sometimes steal muses to guest on this blog because yolo
***DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT.
List of current (as of 04/28/26*) muses beneath the cut:
Primary Muses-- I have a lot of brain power for the muse and they’re open for anyone.
Ragnar Lodbrok (Vikings)
Kratos (God of War)
Arthur Morgan (RDR2)
Darth Nihilus (Star Wars)
Hilda Ragnarsdottir (Vikings OC)
Arcann Tirall (SWTOR)
Ylvess of the Veilborne (fantasy/original lore)
Niamh the Fae Queen (fantasy/mythos/original lore)
Darth Agonia (SWTOR OC)
Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen (Dune)
Valvera Harkonnen (Dune OC)
Ghanima Atreides (Dune)
Piter de Vries (Dune)
Secondary Muses-- I have some brain power for the muse and they’re open for anyone.
Ahsoka Tano (Star Wars)
Dragonly (The Witcher)
Sindre Ísleifsson (Vikings/Historical OC)
Solveig Ísleifsdottir (Vikings/Historical OC)
Doctor Strange (Marvel 616)
Connor Kenway/Ratonhnhakéton (Assassin's Creed)
Thexan Tirall (SWTOR)
Glossu Rabban (Dune)
Revna of House Nasrai (Dune OC)
Vega (Star Trek OC)
Ilya Harkonnen (Dune OC)
Kavra Ren (Star Wars OC)
Rowan Hale (Southern Gothic/Supernatural OC)
The Vessel (general fantasy OC)
Tertiary-- I can’t always muster up the brain power for the muse, but they’re open for anyone.
Fox Mulder (The X-Files)
Celeste Morne (Star Wars EU)
Gyda Ragnarsdottir (Vikings Alternate Canon)
Max Rockatansky (Mad Max)
Cipher 12 (SWTOR OC)
Paul Atreides (Dune)
Paper Star (Carmen Sandiego)
Jack Delroy (Late Night With the Devil)
Johnny Estrada (Supernatural/Horror OC)
Liza Estrada (Supernatural/Horror OC)
Sirthi al-Karak (Dune OC)
Oda Cadera (Star Wars OC)
A'den Spar (Star Wars OC)
Manadh (LOTR OC)
Lucan Anita Zascem (Dune OC)
Levi (Star Trek OC)
Clara Metulli (Dune: Prophecy OC)
Benny Cross (The Bikeriders)
Request Only-- I’m running on fumes for the muse, and not sure if I do them justice, but they’re open for anyone.
DJ (Star Wars)
Kratos (God of War)
Eli Taylor (Hockey Player OC)
Theron Shan (SWTOR)
Leto I Atreides (Dune)
Vaylin Tiral (SWTOR)
Private-- Usually tied to a canon, so I’ll only throw them at those who ask or show interest.
Khan Noonien Singh (Star Trek)
Katie del Castillo (Red Dead Redemption 2 OC)
Simon "Ghost" Riley (Call of Duty)
Arthur Morgan (Red Dead Redemption 2)
Poe Dameron (Star Wars)
Red Guardian (MCU)
Test-- Just testing the waters, but open to anyone.
thank you to everyone who sent in love from my last ooc post. ❤️ I haven't had the spoons to reach out to anyone directly, but know that I saw it and I appreciate you so much! my spouse is okay-- at the very least, not admitted to the hospital.
and, I know I mentioned it already, but it's busy season for work. that, and with my spouse's health issues, and my own ongoing health issues, things are kinda rough. my queue will be running out this Friday, and I'm not sure when I'll have time to work on drafts, but they'll probably get queued when I do.
Location: Baxter Building | Time: 2:17 AM | Status: “I swear I had a system.”
The lab should’ve been quiet at this hour.
A cathedral of midnight hums, blue screens, and half-finished equations. But Reed had a talent for turning silence into a battlefield, and tonight was no different.
A dozen holographic models flickered around him, orbiting like impatient moons. Reed stood in the center of them barefoot, curls a mess, shirt half-buttoned, looking every bit the man who forgot what sleep was and insisted he’d “catch up later.” His eyes were lit up bright, sharp, hungry with that specific kind of genius that made people worry about him.
He muttered something under his breath, swiped at the air, stretched an arm across the room without even thinking about it, grabbed a notebook from a shelf ten feet away, and kept writing as though this were perfectly normal physics.
Still, something wasn’t clicking.
And it showed.
Reed paused, brow knitting, the equations scattering around him like startled birds.
“…That’s impossible,” he whispered, which usually meant he’d missed something obvious like food or rest or the fact that it was, in fact, 2:17 in the morning on a Tuesday.
His stomach growled loud enough to echo.
Reed blinked at it. Then frowned at it. Then, reluctantly, acknowledged that yes, the human body had needs and he was still technically inside one.
He sighed and straightened up- well, straightened...ish. His spine stretched a little too far before snapping back into shape. He winced. “Okay, that’s new. Great. Love that for me.”
He grabbed his coffee mug, looked inside, made a face that said the contents might legally qualify as a war crime, and set it down.
That’s when he noticed he wasn’t alone.
Reed froze- not out of fear, but because his brain took a full two seconds to process the concept of “another person in room.” His eyes widened a fraction, softening from manic focus to something almost warm.
“Oh. Hey,” he said, voice hoarse and tired in the charming way he never recognized. “You’re… not supposed to be here. But honestly? Neither am I.” A crooked half-smile flickered. Exhausted, brilliant, boyish around the edges.
“Be honest, did you need something, or are you here to stop me from accidentally blowing up the east wing again?”
He gestured vaguely at the glowing models.
“Because I’m… fifty-fifty on which direction this was going.”
He waited: curious, hopeful, and utterly unguarded in the way Reed Richards only ever got when he was too tired to pretend he wasn’t human.
Marc glances at the coffee mug on the table, half empty of something that looks like hydraulic fluid and would probably dissolve his helmet if he let it. Richards’ exhaustion hangs in the air, softened by those strange elastic tics— the way the man’s arm bird-snaps back into place. Moon Knight lets his gaze linger, cataloging the movement, the slack edges of Reed’s body still not used to the new ratios. The way this so-called “Mr. Fantastic” is always on the edge of unraveling, even if he doesn’t see it himself.
White gloves brush past holographic projections that try and fail to read his fingerprints, blue light folding around his limbs like he’s a ghost in the system. Marc never cares for these tech palaces, how everything hums with desperate need to impress. Reminds him of temples in Cairo after a sandstorm, every statue tilting in apology for the worship they’d failed to inspire. This room’s the same: all sacred math hiding the bruised, hungry priest at its center.
Marc keeps his mask on, not out of secrecy—he’s learned that’s a joke in this place—but because every inch of him is tired of being just another exposed nerve in someone else’s nervous system. He steps closer, the sound of his boots wet against the floor. He would bet money the coffee in Reed’s mug has been here longer than the napkin under it.
“Don’t let me stop you,” voice drier than the Atacama, “I just came for the hospitality.” A gesture at the mug. “But I see you’re— rationing resources.”
Quicksilver eyes glint as they search the darkness that he's awoken in to and long, muscled limbs tense and flex as he tests to see if he has been bound. There is no obvious sign of relief when he determines that he is free to move, and save for the initial cautious shifts in his posture, he makes no attempt of yet to move from where he regained consciousness. Though he sees no immediate sign of other life, he has spent long enough in the dark, and under the weighted gaze of others, to know that he is being watched. "You know -- there's some animals you simply shouldn't put into traps." The smirk that teases at his lips coats his words as he speaks, an undertone of something that could be interpreted as either a purr, or a growl, seeping into the warning. "It could be hazardous to your health."
A voice, saturated with a patient smile, answered from the shrouded reaches behind the broken ribs of cooling ductwork.
“You are correct there.”
A more mercenary woman might have been cowed by the simple fact of Riddick's presence here— tall tales about him circulated even through the more depraved corridors, from Harko to Kaitain, and most were not exaggerated.
She held her position in the shadowed exoskeleton of the air duct.
Awww, crap. Was it off-duty time already? For a second, Thera considered just getting up to leave, maybe circling around to avoid the swarm of security cadets rolling through the doors. But only for a second. In the next, she resettled in her seat, back against the padded rest and glass tilted absently in her hand. Screw ‘em. She was here first.
And hey, maybe this would be one of the nights where the older cadets wouldn’t gee-up some of newer ones, get them spiked and punchy and out to prove they were the badassiest on the block. She watched them milling around at the bar, jostling, and snorted under her breath. Show any of ‘em the faintest glimpse of a Klingon or a Rom, and they’d wish their uniforms were shit brown.
She flicked her hand toward a passing waiter, ordering another round. Maybe tonight, they’d leave everyone the hell alone.
The room’s noise dropped, not by decibels but by a density, as if the air simply thickened around his presence. The cadets hadn’t seemed to notice— they never did. These bite-size security pups, too busy posturing over their Romulan brandy and microbrews. It nearly amused him, as usual, this mongrel assembly line of would-be enforcers: self-sure in their regulation outfits, jaws too soft, hands too clean, hearts not even close to big enough for the rest of the universe.
Khan walked a line between tables, every step measured to avoid the superfluous. Even his shadow seemed arranged: clean, severe, stitched with tension from boot to shoulder. The path to Thera’s table was direct, though he let himself veer slightly, a polite detour around the most oblivious of the drinking herd. He’d spotted her across the room before the cadets know to raise their hackles.
He threaded the last of the crowd, not a shoulder brushing his, and settled into the seat opposite her. No wasted movement. No show of greeting.
“Security is displeased,” each syllable flat, “That I vacated their perimeter unaccompanied. They suggest you file an incident report.”
@deficd // agonia asked for: [agonia] kisses [max] to shut them up.
HE RARELY ALLOWS HIMSELF TO GET SO WORKED UP.
But would it really be so wrong to admit that this once, just this once, having someone interested in his work has made him the teensiest bit horny?
The blood still flows to his cock as it would on any other planet, subject to any other atmosphere. It can't be stopped. In this way, Max Theyer is as inevitable as death itself.
Agonia can resent him for getting hard at the sound of his own voice all she wants. She's not exactly condemning the conduct or re-training him to behave less egotistically, is he? A kiss like this is as encouragement as clearly as encouragement gets.
Max has Agonia backed up against a brutal metallic slab, his hands all over her like he's just heard the buzzer go off before a race. He's in competition only with himself, here, to see how much of her he can touch before she hits him.
Her second is quieter, more insistent, and arrives thrumming along the lines where her nerves haven’t quite died. It's a fucked-up kind of brave.
She kisses him back. Harder the second time, teeth scoring his bottom lip— not in defiance, not in baroque flirtation, but out of a need to make purchase, to anchor herself inside her own body for a precious second.
Leans back against the slab, feels the full chill, the slow transfer of heat, molecular and inexorable.
Snaps a powerful thigh forward, just enough to remind him she could break his hand if that's what was wanted— but that's as much protest as she can muster. Agonia wants to see where this goes, for reasons that don't feel entirely her own.
Star Trek!Feyd asked "i'm going to fill you with load after load"
↳ @deficd
she has to wonder what her location was worth. planet had been chosen carefully - out of federation space, out of the way of anywhere he'd ever have reason to go. quiet and simple, mostly focused on agriculture and arts, the perfect place to rest and bide her time before surely having to move again.
if feyd found her, there's no doubt section 31 got whatever they wanted. thirteen silver pieces: or just the right secrets to bring governments down. it's likely brunette will never quite know what her worth was in negotiation, just left to reap the consequences of her peace being shattered, at any hope of relying on own absence washed down the drain. his weight, his voice, there's no denying he's here.
he's here and knows about sleeping infant daughter in next room, another thing he's surely never going to let pass.
fabric she'd been wearing is more easily torn than removed, the normal simple style of a planet she's now dragged into his attention. gasping when he shifts, wrists still pinned with just one of his hands. (she feels like a butterfly being prepped for preservation, running out of time before she's returned to pretty frame on a mantle.)
"you tracked me down to fuck me?" it's meant... maeve isn't sure how she meant it. provocation, mockery, something to help her feel less exposed and vulnerable. but it's tinged with too much messy emotion to be described as any one thing. fuck.
It’s too dark, but he can make out every fragile tension in her frame, the way she’s fighting to keep even her shivering internal, and it’s all he can do not to dig his teeth into the side of her throat to see if she’ll shake, to see if she’ll break. The temptation is almost religious— a cruel, hot spark that’s followed him his entire life, the need to reduce beautiful things until there’s nothing but nerve and need left.
She’s softer than he remembers, fuller everywhere, her limbs banded with the fresh musculature of something that’s survived a siege and refused to perish. He wants to break it open and taste the marrow.
He can’t stop fucking smiling, even as he pulls her thighs open and spittle drips down his jaw.
“You know better than that,” he whispers, running a thumb along the seam, then pressing until she tenses. His mouth drags over her nipple, tongue tracing the tension until her breathing changes from resistance to something that’s more like mourning, and it is grief, in the shape of a gasp. He grinds himself against the trembling line of her, damp and impossibly hot, and he mutters into the darkness, “You never should have left me. Never should have kept her from me.”
He’s inside her before she can shape a retort, and her cunt— oh, her cunt is as hot and furious as he remembers, tighter, if possible, from whatever hell she’s suffered alone. Maybe from the child. Maybe from missing him.
Feyd-Rautha wants to ruin her. Wants to weld himself into her body so she can never forget him for a single fucking day, no matter how far, no matter what planet, what disguise, what name she tries next.
Grinds into her, deeper, until her bones make protest-song against the wall. Somewhere nearby— not near enough— is the faint, irregular breath of their spawn. Not a mistake, not an inconvenience; the living proof of his possession. The thought is a fever, making his thrusts sharper, and when he says,
@deficd || Ilya x Relta ;; Medieval Fantasy || Birthday Girl Time!
“Lord Harkonnen, it’s a pleasure to see you here! I, admittedly, did not know you’d be here for the festivities! I will say I’m delighted to have been wrong — words I hope to never say again,” Relta jested with the last part as she curtseyed to Ilya, then outright hugged him tightly. She wore heels, advancing her five feet and ten inches of height to nearly Ilya’s incredible six feet and three inches of height.
“I do insist you spend time exploring the gardens with me, there’s a sculptor now that I do believe you’d appreciate,” she said, a bit giddy with excitement to see her long time friend and almost as long time crush — sans her short time with her late husband — in her realm once more. “How have you been?” she inquired, taking one of his hands in both of her smaller, slender ones.
“I’d be remiss to let your birthday pass without seeing you.”
Ilya let himself be pulled into the orbit of her laugh, the warmth of her palms a tonic against the cold ferment that had been building in him since he’d arrived— since, in truth, his earliest memory of her realm. Of all the daughters strung like constellations from her namesake, Relta was the most radiant, and her laughter tasted of star-root and just-out-of-reach roselips. He returned the hug, careful with the heavy, ceremonial velvet of his sash— he’d been made to wear the full, absurd kit for the occasion, a visual apology for being a Harkonnen in polite company.
“If you keep growing upwards, I’ll be forced to bring a stepladder just to keep up,” voice slid into the melody of their usual banter as his fingers tangled with hers. He allowed her to lead him, amusement, unguarded, etched into the usual stoic lines of his face. “I’ve been fine. Just enduring the endless scroll of missives and mediations in the Court. My father’s decided that, as I’m unwed, I ought to shadow the functionaries and learn the art of boredom firsthand.”
The pull in his hair sends a sharp warmth down his spine, not fear exactly—something worse, something embarrassingly close to relief. Like being handled saves him from having to decide what he wants. The thought irritates him on contact. So does the fact that he doesn't pull away.
Instead, his body yields to it with infuriating ease.
Eyes lift to Feyd's, dark and steady beneath the pressure on his scalp, mouth parting around a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. Almost. "You already are," he murmurs. "Biting down."
The words come softer than intended, stripped of the camera's lacquered confidence. No audience to perform resilience for. No flood of strangers calling him pretty enough to drown out the quieter truth underneath: this matters because Feyd matters, and that gives him entirely too much power.
Awareness crawls under his skin like static. Artificial light still stains the edges of everything blue. Minutes ago, hundreds of people wanted pieces of him. Tips. Sounds. Fantasies. But none of that left him feeling this exposed.
One hand crawls over to his crotch, broad hand spreading possessively despite the irony of it, palming at what lies beneath. As if claiming something back might even the scales.
"You say things like that," he whispers, "and then look at me like you're waiting to see whether I'll run." A faint smile ghosts across his face—wry, knowing. "You'd hate it if I did."
He considers it, the image of Zach shucking free with a flourish, taking all his unspokenness with him into the shadows of the unfinished and never-should-have-started. The thought doesn't sting so much as it flares, sharp, metallic— a wire yanked clean— replaced immediately by a surge of black amusement and some subcutaneous, unlovable fear.
Feyd knows how to be abandoned before he's even held. It's a bone-level expertise; he's never gone more than a city block without the itch for the next new disaster, the next body to prove him worthy or the next exit to prove him right.
The possessive hand cupping him makes his insides go hot-cold and then just hot, and he wonders, with the idle cruelty of a cat, whether Zach can feel the pulse of him all the way down to the root.
"You're the only fucking person who calls me out on my shit," and he grins at that. They always circle each other in this sideways dance, a partnership defined by centrifugal force. He makes himself hold Zach’s gaze; he wants to look away but refuses, superstitious about what might break if he blinks at the wrong time. It’s not like he’s never lost before. It’s just that he’s never wanted not to lose.
“I’d probably burn some buildings down. At least yours. And then probably mine.” What is there to lose? What is there to keep? His smile trickles down to an honesty that cuts his mouth on the way out: “I’d loathe it.”
