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: Paused until I can fill it a little
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.
like for some memes. pls specify muse (yours or mine) or it'll be whoever i'm feeling-- or not specified at all. ;3 new followers welcome and encouraged.
like for some memes. pls specify muse (yours or mine) or it'll be whoever i'm feeling-- or not specified at all. ;3 new followers welcome and encouraged.
Her face is beet-red from grief. She only cuts the sobbing when his lout fingers rip her into him. She moans in lieu. His art is plucking her where she's most tender and rawing it. Their bare chests kiss. The only way of words that come out of her is the beads of drool from her trembling lip into his steady mouth.
One hand drags her hold over from V-enus shape of his left hip bone and up; her nail makes a line from his navel hole to the one under his first rib. The other hand is tallying his breath by cupping his face. She could never touch him without some possessive sprawl of her fingers. 'Mine' sinks in, easily, with all the silky amniotic wet swimming around their bowl of a place to lay. It doesn't matter where they are. Any shapes past him fade off to the point of nothingness. It's a bleached landscape. Milk glass.
He penetrates and takes her mouth for a halo. Her first instinct to pain is to squirm off of it. All her delicate wet becomes gluey when his fluid gets involved. She's stuck on him. She's, ad verbum, stuck on him. Tucked into his breastplate. Where they both split open, like the flesh of a figs undressing and honest. His mouth falls in line with that.
She scoops the pulp of his words, her finger pets into his mouth and feels them ripe against the velvet walk of his tongue.
❛ You love me? ❜
He wraps around her heart now. Pumps it for her.
It's palingenesis, in soft-brutal steps. She's breathless, to the point of hurt. But the fear of what's happening gets superseded. Everyone thinks it's her that pacifies him ⸺ and she does ⸺ but twin that sediment and he has a strong lulling effect on her.
❛ Tu as enlevé mon cœur. Il bat grâce à toi. I love you, too. ❜
The ribbon at their centers flares, a hot white drag that climbs the column of his throat and settles in the hinge of his jaw. Feels it everywhere: the press of her mouth, the nail-line from navel to rib still burning its slow fuse into him, her palm reading his face in braille, in orthography— total, grieving-and-not. His free hand spans her back. Counts the vertebrae, each notch a small garden for moths and angel-feathers.
Tu as enlevé mon cœur.
He does not speak French. He speaks her. Has since they were two children misfitting their mouths together in a compound corridor, since she laughed and he laughed once, just once— and it’s always been this, the only sum that ever resolved.
The ribbon syncs to her and not to him. He lets it. He lets her. Her mouth maps the corner of his mouth, the center, the corner— methodical, an atlas, and he opens for it the way a wound opens: not wanting to, entirely unable not to. His thumb finds the salt-track at her jaw.
Doesn’t speak the grief on her face because to name it he would have to hold it and he is not built for holding, he is built for trespass, for the
—sick
—violence
—of taking— and she makes him gentle and it is the most dangerous thing she does to him, more than the nail-line, more than the heat of her, more than the ribbon now beating her rhythm instead of his.
He pulls her closer until they are atomic. Until they are only the place where the figs split open.
He sprang the sawdust from his beard, buffed his shirt, and set the scraper aside. The table remained upside down on the bench behind him, four legs kicking toward the ceiling as Ben crossed the studio toward her. One predator snuffing another. Make sure they're still part of the same pack, been the same places. Same kinds of fucked.
Poetic.
Agonia held her ground. Always did. Smelled like heat and hurt. He put that smell there? Rub it off on her, mark her with it?
“Why?” he asked. Voice soft, like wood shavings, curling around her ear. "Owe me what? I can’t fix anything."
Dust clung to the hair on his forearms. He flexed a hand; resin shone in the lines of his palms.
“I can take it. Carry it with you, that's what you want.”
A question mark in that phrase. And that's what he waited for—for her to name it in the sawdust and sunlight. For permission. Waited and watched her. Maybe he’d wait forever.
“What you call fucked up...” he shrugged, shoulder rising and falling like a drill press, gaze drifting to the gnarled tissue along her jaw. Soft-eyed, like. Like he was admiring the lace-like grain in a Sycamore.
She didn’t move at first. The quiet was so bright she almost flinched from it— a lucent, white-hot thing like metal scored with sunlight. Ben made offers like that and didn’t know what they meant, or maybe he did, but wouldn’t say it unless someone else put the words in his mouth.
That’s how Agonia saw it, anyway. She moved closer despite the way it set every marrow-deep alarm howling in her body, and she stood there letting the anger and shame and relief settle into a single, sour warmth in her gut.
Looked at him sharp, like she was taking a measurement. The space between them was a hairline crack down a windshield, always ready to spider out.
Can’t fix anything, he’d said, but the truth was worse: you can’t want to fix something if you don’t want to touch it, and there was nothing Agonia wanted more than to press herself against the broken edge of their twin famishment and see what would hemorrhage.
“My fucked up is you.” She let the syllables hit the floor and roll in the dust. “It’s always been you. Even when I was halfway across the world with nothing but an air mattress and a space heater, it was this. This little town. The fucking wind. You.”
Yet is a bus that never comes. Yet is standing frozen at the edge of a road under a dark bowl of sky. Yet is boiling rabbits for a god who won’t save you.
But all right: yet.
“All right. Come on, then.”
They sort through metals and silent implements, silently deciding what to salvage and what to scrap, their own limbs clacking and hollow. The dolls chatter against the fence while Ben loads his truck. He leans against the tailgate and watches Agonia, studs in her jacket catching the sun and burning it back.
He doesn’t think an 1863 Emerson means anything to her, but it is a hell of a thing to find here. It’s a little like finding treasure—with a scuffed handle and a slight wobble, and a blade measuring twenty-eight inches from tip to guard.
It’s stupid.
It’s stupid, but he watches her handle it and wonders if she sees potential or hubris, whether she's looking at the corrosion or beyond it.
The realness of a thing, the way it resists her, answers her.
It’s why she trusts metal more than men, why she turns her back on every living thing but never on the bare honesty of a steel edge. This sword— old, battered, uneven in its temper but still every inch a weapon— sits on her palm with a slow, wicked thrill.
She swings it once, inert but not dead, and relishes the familiar bone shock up her arm. Old world brutality. Purpose handed down in blood.
Wonders how many people— child soldiers, officers, farmhands— have swung this exact blade with the same poor wrists and the same better intentions.
“If I fix it, you’re not selling it.” Agonia glances back, catching his eye just to make it clear she’s not joking. “You’ll keep it or you’ll use it.”
How brutally aware she is of her own wrist-shakes, the way violence wants to move in her and how it always feels like lightning trapped in a bone-like coffin.
“Where’d you even find this?” she says, and only after does she realize it’s not really about the sword. It’s about this place, and the people, and how the worst things always surface like oil slicks, wanting air.
The waitress was avoiding their table. She'd topped off the mugs of three other people around them, but didn't even stop once to check on Vera and her cup. Not that she needed a top-up as she added sugar and cream. It gave Fox something to focus on, something to look at that wasn't her friend with her knowing eyes and understanding expression.
She hated that someone else knew the same emotions she had. Hated that she had experienced enough of the same or similar things to recognize. All her life, Fox thought she wanted to be seen, to be noticed, to be understood, but having it now...It made her want to turn her own face away. To hide. To disappear.
I can read a weather map.
But like with weather maps, she couldn't see the full story. No one could. Things were complicated with Alexei in a way she still couldn't talk about. Didn't know how to talk about. To those that knew her, he was in prison for murder, or manslaughter, whichever the courts had decided on. Unlikely to ever get out, unless they made good on good behavior due to over-crowding or if his medical issues worsened. Then he might get moved to a different facility or released altogether. She never read his letters to know how likely that may or may not be.
She grew up a girl with a dad who was and had nothing. Vera grew up with a dad who was and had everything. Yet, here they were. Both multi-colored bruises across the radar.
"Doesn't matter anyway," Fox shrugged it off. Breaking the overwhelming silence suffocating their booth. The wrongness of it in the atmosphere of the Waffle House. Like the eye passing over, the silence never quite sat right. "Not like we can stop the rain, just gotta wait for it to pass." Unless the theories about weather machines turned out to be actually true.
"You gonna stick around after the seasons passed or go back home?" She was deflecting again, but it'd be good to know. Perhaps even soften the blow when she decided on her own plans for the winter.
Home. The word sat in her chest like fission bomb, and she was simply waiting for the fallout to collect.
She thought of the house on Delacroix— the one with the iron gate and the magnolias that shed their petals in fat white coins across the drive, the kind of house that looked like it had always been there and always would be, like a geological feature, like a fact. Feyd had never sold it. Not after her mother. Not after the lawsuits or the settlement or any of the other things that had tried to unmoor it. It stood because men like her father needed something to stand inside of, to justify the radius of ruin.
Home was the gallery porch, the way the summer storms rolled in off the water and soaked the boards and left everything smelling like copper and wet earth. Home was the way the magnolias rotted if they weren’t tended to, how beautiful and how rank they could become in the same breath. Home was also, she supposed, a casket she kept climbing out of, shaking the dirt off her hands, taking the long road back to the highway.
"I don't know," honest for once, almost alarming herself with it. The words tasted like the sugar she'd poured into the dark— grainy, unrefined, dissolving before she could name the flavor. "I keep thinking I will. Go back. Every time the season ends I think, okay, that's enough now. Go home. Sleep in your own bed."
She turned the split creamer cup in her fingers, end over end, nervous habit. "And then something pulls through and I follow it and another six weeks go by."
The boys in the next booth were louder now, pushing back their plates, fishing for car keys. One of them laughed at something on his phone, the kind of laugh that had no bottom to it, just noise. Vera watched them until she didn't, until the laugh guttered out and she was left staring at the rain-slicked window and what was beyond it.
"What if we just didn't,” quiet enough that the words barely cleared the table, "Go back, I mean. What if we just kept going? Past the season. Past whatever comes next." Her thumb pressed into the torn edge of the creamer cup hard enough to leave a white crescent in her flesh. “What if we just stayed on the road together?”
he knows to wake her when he gets back: to show her he's okay, unharmed, even though there's no real logical reason to worry. yet still, she does, and the nights he drops by her apartment... it's an unspoken agreement that it's best to wake her over letting her stay restless. (and, usually, she knows his moods after a night of god-knows what. she knows how to read him by something as little as how he says her name.)
this is different, though.
it wasn't a good night, that much is obvious. she doesn't need to be a genius to know it. but his weight is grounding for them both, kisses to the back of her neck marked with a touch of too much teeth. later, she'll be able to ask more. yet she gasps when his rocking pushes against her - when tips pushes between folds enough to make intent very clear. his body, still cold from outside air, her own much warmer, contrast stealing another little whine.
There’s nothing to say, not yet— the words are locked somewhere behind his teeth and he has no interest in prying them loose. Later. Later, maybe.
Right now there is only this.
He rocks forward, slow and deliberate, and feels the heat of her drag against him. She’s warm. Absurdly warm. The contrast pulls something low and taut in his gut, and he does it again, just to feel it— the glide, the give, the way her breath stutters out against the pillow. He’s not inside her yet. He’s making himself wait. Making her wait.
His hand moves before the thought is fully formed— slides down the flat of her stomach, past the jut of her hip, and finds her. Works slow circles against her clit and feels her hips stutter back, press into him, and there it is— that warmth again, that maddening warmth--
Despite himself, he keeps the pressure even, unhurried, even as his own breath has gone a little ragged at the base of his throat. The cold is still leaving him in increments— her skin pulls it out, wicks it away, and all that’s left is warmth and friction and the sound of her.
Then he pushes in. All the way. One long, unbroken slide until there’s nothing left to give, until he’s flush against her and the air punches out of her in a sound that isn’t quite a word. He holds there. Breathes. Feels the tight heat of her settle around him and does absolutely nothing for a moment because he needs it— needs to, for a moment, just—
Metal shops these days were different the blacksmiths of her era. It should still serve a purpose, should the one dwelling within be cooperative. She had slipped into the shop and perched herself on one of the tables, observing the woman currently welding with her back to the witch.
It was only when she had ceased and lifted her mask that Mortem chimed in, "Do you take commissions?"
The arc-glow fades into a red shroud behind Agonia’s eyelids. The world tastes like burnt copper, petrichor the sweat already crawling down her back. The city’s cracked skin and her own: both furrowed, both scabbed, both refusing to bleed out. She lowers the mask and gives a look like a tired knife— sharp but not hunting for trouble yet.
“Depends on the job,” voice rasped from last night’s show, her jaw aching from screaming, “I don’t do horseshoes or fences, if that’s what you’re after.”
Whatever souls were made of, he had swallowed that stuff whole. Brunnhilde blinked, nictitating membrane making her opaque - making her see the thing in the man's esophagus. The thing that spread in his lungs like the branches of a tree. Like a fork of lightning. Like a snake, coiled in his belly, waiting to feast on beetles.
She grinned, eyes blue. "Whatever is in there doesn't have to die." She was no evangelist. She wasn't here for soapboxes or souls. "Whatever is in there could run and run and run until the sun itself bites it. You can pick your favourite sun. You can choose your burning."
He is royalty, this Feyd Rutha. Even with the cage of his ribcage. "I could pluck it from you right now. I've never seen anyone walk away from that, but you seem different. Determined."
The suggestion makes Feyd's blood start a low, rolling boil in his arteries. He leans in, the two of them conspiratorial, and grins the way a predator might, all lipless teeth and ill intent. Gods but he's into it— whatever it is, whatever she means to pluck with those Valkyrie hands. The thought is so sharp and intimate and unexpected, he wants her to reach in right now and see if she can even get her fingers around it.
“Try it.” His tongue clicks sick, sick, sicker yet against his teeth, voice gone hoarse at the edges. Imagines her wrist deep inside him, rooting around for his core like a woman fishing for a knife in a bucket of venomous serpents. He wonders how her hand would look painted in his biology. All appetite and incisor.
“But don’t fuck it up. I want to see how far it gets.”
@stxincd / Khan whispered, ❝ i don’t need anyone else. just…you. you’re all i need. ❞
Words, for all their lithe and lovely power, sometimes land like shrapnel on the tongue. This one— this confession— Vega feels it anchor in her chest, snagging on the cartilage and the threads that hold her ribcage together. He says it simply. Just you. She hears the rest, the parts he can’t or won’t allow past the gate of his teeth, and it is a gift more damning than any pencil sketch or piece of song.
Her lips press together, a seam stitched in haste. There is so much unsaid. Too much, maybe. She doesn’t want to be wanted like this. Or maybe she does, which is worse. There’s a cruelty in being someone’s only star; she could collapse under the gravity.
Some small piece of her feels the need to make a joke. To twist something lighthearted out of his earnestness, to slice its exposed jugular with an offhanded quip— keep herself safe, keep her tongue busy so her traitorous heart doesn’t do something grotesque like a leap. But Khan’s words strip her down to the thin, raw membrane of herself.
And-- her hands have already given her away, trembling a little in the artificial chill of the medbay, one of them unconsciously tracing along his forearm, coaxing heat from the skin.
