#&. musings ———— the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

[poisonedpowder]

tags.

[biteofcherry]

Gasoline

dark biker!Ari Levinson x female reader x dark biker!Curtis Everett

summary: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It sure was true for you. An attempt at saving someone led to you being taken into the pits of darkness. And the devils own you now.

warnings: dub-con; power imbalance; possessiveness; threats; sex in public; unprotected sex; cockwarming; oral (m receiving); mention of oral (f receiving); fingering; pussy spanking; spit kink; forced tattoo; dark!Ari; dark!Curtis;

word count: 4.5k

Author's Note: So this is a result of a few factors ruining me - @buckets-and-trees tattoo artists Curtis and Ari story making me think of those two combining forces; musings about masked dark biker Curtis with @stargazingfangirl18 ; as well my horny brain creating a very naughty dream 🫣 It's not a story I've been working on for long. I wrote it all today, because I needed to get it out of my head.

Be ready at 9PM. Max will drive you.

The message is blunt and direct. Like most of their commands. 

The upside is that at least you don’t have to figure out what they want, there are no games to be played. Still, you love when they turn a bit more playful - marginally so. When there’s a whisper of softness and fondness in their eyes as they let you tease and poke a bit.

You think it’s because you’ve learned when to do that and how to keep it just a small, acceptable dose. 

You’ve learned quickly that acting a full on brat wouldn’t be tolerated. 

Well, at the very beginning they shouldn’t have been surprised you lashed out. After all, they’ve taken you without your consent, stealing you away from your steady life as a punishment for daring to defend someone who crossed them.

With your fierce, empathetic heart you couldn’t just stand down and watch as they flayed someone open. But that act of humanity cost you your freedom. 

Swept away on a beast of a motorbike, its roar barely covering the thudding of your panicked heart; taken into the depths of the city’s darkness and into the tower that became your new life. 

Because nobody crossed Ari Levinson and Curtis Everett, without facing severe punishment.

It was your luck, or perhaps doom, they sanctioned you with life instead of death. But that life was now theirs. 

You were all theirs. 

So of course you fought at the beginning, which didn’t seem to surprise or faze them much. Your screams and throwing things against the beautiful walls of the two story penthouse were ignored for the most part. So were your tears. They merely wiped them away in an almost tender gesture, then coldly told you to accept that this was your life now. 

“You can make yourself miserable living it, or you can let yourself accept it and find enjoyment in it.” 

The way Ari's thumb brushed along your bottom lip told you exactly what kind of enjoyment they were offering you. Your traitorous body reacted, despite your mind detesting it.

They took away your clothes and when you asked for some Ari simply told you no. So you ripped down the gauzy window curtains and draped them over yourself in a makeshift dress. 

You were very smug about that little victory.

Until Ari ripped them off of you and fucked the rebellion out of you. 

Fucked you hard and long, ‘till you sobbed and begged for mercy. Which was granted only after you promised to follow the rules. 

You were still sore and oversensitive when Curtis slipped into your bed the next morning, waking you up with his mouth devouring you. Pinning you down after wrecking two orgasms out of you, he fed you the mixture of your cum and his spit, ordering you to swallow. 

“Good girls get rewarded,” he left you with that direction. And with a pile of new clothes on the chair. 

Over the next weeks, through trials and tribulations, you’ve learned that as long as you followed the rules and expectations, most of your requests were met. Often they went beyond and before you even asked for something. 

The only thing you would never be granted was your freedom. 

You weren’t allowed outside, unless you were with them. The steel and glass tower they owned was swarmed with guards and all sorts of alarms and traps. The only time you were out without either Ari or Curtis at your side (usually the both of them) was when an appointed guard was taking you to them. 

Just like now. 

You stare at the message on your phone. Which isn’t your connection to the outside world at all. The only contacts in it are to Ari, Curtis and two most trusted men from their inner circle. It’s tracked at all times and you’re sure they are monitoring your browsing history, as well. 

Clubbing is not my thing. You dare to type back.

The fact they told you where they were going when they left the penthouse isn’t much comforting, because it’s a way to force you to have information for which they could easily kill you, if you used it in any way. It’s also a manipulation to make it feel like what the three of you have is some sort of a relationship. 

But isn’t it?

Fucking aside, they spend time with you. If they aren’t away doing bloody business, they always eat breakfast with you. Other meals depending on their workload. They aren’t very talkative, but they engage in conversations with you. Curtis taught you how to properly use the few machines at the home gym, when you were restless and searching for something to do while locked in. Ari will keep you in his lap, playing with your hair and watching movies on the ridiculously huge screen. 

Glimpses of softness, really. You never fool yourself to think of them as truly soft, because even as they provide a certain tenderness, there’s always that brutal darkness lurking behind. 

It shows in the way they fuck you. As well in the way Ari’s gaze glints a murderous warning when you come close to crossing the line, or how Curtis doesn’t bother wiping away enemy’s blood from his face before coming to you. 

Wear a red dress - comes the reply and you know tonight they’re not in the mood to give you room for some brattiness. 

You huff in annoyance, but still get up and go into the bathroom to take a shower and shave. 

Sometimes, when they’re more relaxed and content, they entertain your pushing. Usually it leads to a sinfully hot chuckle, a few spanks and a lot of orgasms. But if they’re in one of their darker moods, you don’t dare to rebel. It doesn’t end well. 

Yes, there’s merciless fucking that leaves you shattered into pieces, but there’s always a higher price to pay too. Like having your childhood friend and her family threatened with death, when you reached out to her via social media. 

Hair and makeup done, clad in a tight, short red dress, you’re ready five minutes before 9PM. Max waits for you in the elevator, greeting you curtly, but not looking up at you. 

No one ever looks directly at you. No one beside Curtis or Ari. 

As you’re being driven through the city, you wistfully watch streets buzzing with life - people freely walking around, friends meeting and going out for drinks, workaholics leaving companies and trailing home. You were never a partying girl and you know you’re being summoned to the club only for Curtis and Ari’s entertainment, but at least you will be out of your beautiful prison for a few hours. 

The club is pulsing with a sensual, enticing beat. There’s enough people filling the space to make it obvious how popular this place is, but there’s also a street long line at the front, because getting in isn’t that easy. 

You don’t know if Ari and Curtis own this place, but you doubt they’d take you anywhere that wasn’t under their strict command. 

Besides, they have their fingers wrapped tightly around so many establishments and people in this city, that it may belong to them whole. 

Many would never assume that their power extended so greatly. They’re nothing like the polished, suit-wearing mafia men, or politicians that people imagine to be at the top. Not with their less classy attire of jeans and leather, their heavy biker boots, tattoos covering their bodies. And yet it’s them who hold the reins and carve up anyone daring to step out of line. 

Max points toward the staircase, leading to the upper floor. VIP section undoubtedly, considering two heavily tatted bouncers guarding the entrance. 

They nod their heads in greeting, but drop their gazes. One of them unhooks the red rope and lets you onto the stairs.

There's a middle floor, filled with velvet couches and chrome accessories, shiny tables set with buckets filled with ice and champagne bottles in each. You notice a few faces you know from the tv screen and social media. 

Ah, so it's a floor for the celebrity kind of VIPs. 

But the real important people are on the top floor. Guarded by another set of bouncers. 

Unlike the lower levels, this one is instantly recognizable as belonging to bikers. Chrome details are kept in darker tones, velvet replaced by leather, a tattoo-style painted skull takes most of the black wall. 

Members of the gang mingle around. Not many of them, just the inner circle, or closest to it. Brutal enforcers, sneaky assassins, remorseless bunch. 

You pass them without glancing at anyone, your gaze searching and settling on the only people you're allowed to give your attention to.

Ari and Curtis are sprawled on the central, U-shaped sofa. Arms braced on the back of it, legs spread wide. Masters of the dark universe. Of your universe, too. 

There's no one beside them, but in front of them, separated by the steel chrome coffee table, is a man. A battered, bleeding man. On his knees. 

Everyone around acts as if there was nothing there to see. As if the man didn't exist at all. You feel that compassionate sadness squeeze your heart. The same instinct that made you act that fatal night and sealed your fate. Now you know not to show it, not to act on it, or it would lead to the man's immediate death. 

Instead, you stand before them. Just a few steps away from the trembling man. 

Ari and Curtis’ eyes instantly move to you. Both slowly drag their gazes up your form.

One thing that you gained from their attention is the huge boost in body confidence. Each pound, each curve, each roll - they desire you all the same.

You made sure to wear a dress that's short enough to leave your thighs exposed. They always like when their marks of ownership are visible. 

Getting them was painful. Also against your will. But you stayed in place, gritting your teeth and clenching your fingers into fists. Ari held you down to prevent any squirming as Curtis personally tattooed your skin. 

One thigh presents a scary black&white skull, shrouded in darkness. With a bleeding red rose crunched between its teeth. Drops of blood are painted as dripping into scratched out letters below, forming his name - Curtis.

On your other thigh is a female's head - your portrait. All dark stencil, no color. Two skeleton hands gripping you. One is wrapped around your throat, letters of Ari's name written on each bony knuckle. Two fingers of the other hand are pushed in your tattooed version's mouth.

Ari bounces one of his legs and you know that it's a sign for you. You slip between the table and the couch and sit down in Ari's lap. 

His arm moves from the backrest to curl around your back. You lean into him, resting your side against his chest. With your fingers you play with the chain around his neck, distracting yourself from the scene unfolding.

They ask the man something. Their voices are steady, but deadly serious. The man sounds pitched, stuttering. Others would laugh at him for such “unmanly” reaction, but you understand that core-deep terror and how the scrutiny of the two bikers turns you into a pathetic mess.

You tune out whatever they're saying. You don't want to hear the begging for mercy, because you know it won't come. 

Ari and Curtis share a look. A silent agreement passing between them. 

Some people make the mistake of assuming that Ari is the leader and Curtis his main enforcer. That couldn't be farther from the truth. 

They both rule. Equally. Each decision is unanimous. 

It just so happens that Ari often takes the talking part and Curtis the executioner’s. 

It’s Curtis who moves now, too. Extremely fast for his massive body. His hand curls around the man's throat, squeezing it hard. Not just in warning. He drags the flailing man away, just by holding him by the neck.  

You don't watch where he's being taken, nor who takes over. You don't want to see. Besides, Ari commands your attention.

He grips your hips and in a swift move has you straddling him. One hand moves up, to cup your chin, while he slides the other hand over his tattoo of ownership and under your dress.

He brings your face closer, with a swipe of his tongue coaxing your lips to part wider. When he kisses you, you melt into him all pliant. Your own tongue gives a little kitten lick, which you know Ari really likes. 

He probes further between your thighs, tattooed fingers touching your bare folds.

“No panties, little lamb?” Ari’s breath tickles your lips. His voice is sweet and tempting like molasses, but also deceptive and suffocating like a tar. 

“Is it because you’re a good girl, or a bad girl?” he chuckles, spreading you at the seam.

A moan rolls out on your tongue as his fingers expertly draw out your wetness. It was your doom from the very beginning, how easily both of them played your body, despite your emotional state being far from turned on. But they taught you to crave it. Got you addicted to their touch, to the teasing, as well to the merciless fucking. 

“Both,” you roll your hips against Ari’s hand. 

“Duality of a woman,” he chuckles, nipping your chin. The hand cupping your face drifts lower, his tattooed fingers curling around the front of your neck. “But you’re going to take the good girl route, lamb,” Ari hisses, clenching his fingers tighter.

With his grip around your throat, he pushes you backwards. Your back rests on his legs, head bowed backwards, almost touching the coffee table. 

His fingers keep circling your clit, then dipping lower to gather your slick and rub it all over your folds. When he pushes a single digit in, your walls resist at first. But Ari’s an unyielding beast, forcing you open and making you keen. 

There are people around, you’re aware of them. No protests, however, would stop either Ari or Curtis from taking what they want. When they want. Wherever they want. Humiliation simmers beneath your skin, but it’s buried deeper than arousal that Ari ignites. 

There’s also a certain comfort, because while he displays your body publicly, it’s for his and Curtis’ eyes only. Nobody would dare watch you.  

Your back arches as Ari thrusts a second finger along with his middle one. You stretch your arms above your head, fingers gripping the edge of the coffee table. His hand slides from your throat across your chest and down your belly, until it settles on your hip to help hold you in place. 

He fucks you with his fingers long enough to have you dripping onto his lap, your core clenching as he rubs your swollen nub with his thumb. 

But then he withdraws with an obscene squelch, which thankfully gets lots in the sexy beat filling the club. 

Ari unzips his jeans, giving his thick cock a few strokes, smearing your slick all over. Both hands gripping your hips, he yanks you closer and spears your cunt in one stroke. 

Your scream of his name makes him grin. Lips curling in a triumphant, sinister smirk, Ari moves your body to meet his thrusts. He loves the way your body just gives in to whatever he wants to do to you. And the remnants of resistance taste so delicious when he breaks through them. 

“That’s it, lamb.” He taunts when your pussy tightens around him. 

With you bowed back, your hips arched, his cock gets to ram into that sweet spot that turns you into a messy slut. Over and over again. 

Your nipples poke through the fabric of your dress, your mouth falls open, spluttering incoherent sounds and mewls. You make a beautiful, ruined view. Though no, not yet ruined enough. But they will work on that. 

Ari’s gaze travels from your bouncing breasts, nearly spilling out of your dress, down to where your puffy folds hug his cock. Glistening, pink tightness that stretches around his intrusion. 

Their perfect pussy.

“Go on. Come all over my cock, like a good girl,” he speeds up his pace slightly, thumbs rubbing back and forth along the junctures of your thighs. 

You fall over the edge with a helpless cry, pleasure rolling through you in heated waves. And it goes on as Ari continues to fuck you through it. He starts pulling you to him harder. Hungrier. Burying his cock to the hilt, your wetness smearing over his jeans. Rough edge of the zipper bites into your skin each time your buttocks press into his pelvis.

A silhouette appears above you. A dark, threatening shape against the strobe lights.

Curtis’ head tilts to the side as he looks down at you. He holds a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, which he brings to his lips. He takes a sip, watching you writhe in pleasure. 

He dips two of his fingers in the amber liquid before bending down to slide them between your parted lips. Spicy flavor trickles down your throat. Your tongue struggles against the pressure of digits, which Curtis keeps pressing against it. 

He feels your saliva pooling around his fingers. Though the music in the club drowns out the sound, he feels your gurgling as you’re kept on that edge between choking and freedom. 

After a beat he pulls back and sits on the sofa beside Ari. A part of you wants to look his way and assess what torment he’s brewing for you, but you fear to know. Also the pleasure Ari keeps stoking is too distracting to focus on anything else. 

Until calloused fingers circle your swollen clit with purpose. 

You’re not so out of it yet to not know it’s Curtis' hand. Ari’s are clamped on your hips, moving you like a ragdoll. 

He draws tight circles. Slow ones, then a few faster, then slow again. You whine, jerking in Ari’s iron grip. His low laugh indicates he won’t be coming to your aid; not when your sensitive nub being played with provides him so much pleasure, because your cunt tightens anew. 

Curtis’ touch disappears for a second. Only to come back with heavy torment.

His palm lands a smack on your clit, causing you to cry out. 

Your thighs tremble, muscles tensing as instinct urges you to close them and protect yourself from the torment. But you’re spread open, Ari’s body nestled between your thighs and holding them open. 

Curtis slaps your clit again and your body bows. One of your arms reaches down, trying to shield yourself. Strong fingers cage your wrist. 

“Don’t even try it, lamb.” Curtis leans forward and growls; he clenches his fingers on your wrist. ��Keep your hands away from our pussy.” 

With a whine, you stretch your arm above your head. Your wrist pulses with pain. 

Curtis’ palm pats your mound. His fingers dive back to your clit, drawing wicked eights that contrast with the steady, rough pounding Ari continues. 

“You may squirm and cry, lamb,” Curtis teases, “but you’re going to cum from having your clit spanked. And you’re going to cream all over Ari’s cock, like a good little slut.”

Five more swats deliver his prediction. 

Your whole body seems to lock in a spasm, your very fingertips turn numb. Ari groans a curse as your pussy tightens like a vise, your silky walls clinging to him desperately. Despite the tightness, there’s so much wetness leaking around his cock and onto his lap. 

Your temples are wet, too; tears streaming along with your smudged mascara. 

As your orgasm continues to roll, your cunt finally eases some of the tension. But the aftershocks have your walls rhythmically pulsing, which turns out to be enough to stimulate Ari’s cock. 

It twitches inside of you and your pussy clenches in response. Ari moans, digging his fingers into your skin and jerking his hips. Hot, thick ropes of cum fill you. 

They keep you tipped back until the last drop of his spend pours into you. When they finally pull you up and Ari’s cock slips out, you know to clench as hard as you can, to spill as little of his cum as possible. 

Ari swallows your ragged breath, taking your mouth in gentler possession than he’s taken your body. Your clasped hands rest against his chest and you lean in sweetly, with a little needy mewl. He gives you that softer kiss you’re pleading for. 

They arrange you, spreading you on both of their laps. Your lower half rests on Ari’s thighs, his big hands slowly rubbing warmth into your calves and up your thighs. Your upper body rests in Curtis’ lap, head tipped on his thigh. 

You look up at him; his cold, blue eyes holding your gaze.

Once again he dips his fingers into whiskey and brings them to your lips. You suckle obediently. 

On the third pass, Curtis presses his fingers deeper and holds them. On the fourth, he not only pushes them against your tongue, but hooks down so that your jaw opens wider. 

He spits into your mouth. 

When he withdraws his fingers, you swallow without prompting. Some responses they have conditioned into you. 

Ari’s hand slides between your thighs and up. His fingers dip into the sticky mess pooling between your folds, despite your attempts at holding it in. You can’t stifle the moan that spills as he pushes two fingers into your aching hole. But that sound cuts short when Curtis’ whiskey-soaked fingers fill your mouth again. 

Three this time. Forced to the back of your throat, making you gag. 

Curtis holds them in, until your eyes tear up. Then starts fucking your mouth slowly, but always deep, always making you choke. 

Ari curls his fingers, but doesn’t move. Just wiggles them slightly, driving you mad with the teasing so close to your g-spot. 

Your saliva coats Curtis’ fingers, strings of spit smearing on your chin each time he withdraws before forcing his hand back in. He pries your mouth open, tugging your tongue out. Rubbing the pads of his fingers against your tongue, he spits into your mouth again. 

You keep your mouth open, tongue sticking out, when Curtis moves his hand away. He didn’t tell you to close your lips and the jangle of the belt buckle suggests he’d be ordering to open it again, anyway. Tip of his cock brushes your cheek when Curtis takes it out. He grips the base in one hand; his other slips to the back of your head. 

You turn your head as he guides you, tongue flicking against the veiny underside of cock that fills your mouth. 

It’s more difficult to take a lot of him in this position, on your side, with your cheek pressed against the harsh fabric of his black jeans. Curtis forces it anyway, careless of the choking sounds you make. 

Using his hold on your hair, he starts moving your head. Steady, but always uncomfortably far; causing your body to tense as gag reflex kicks in too hard.

“Want her to come, while she’s sucking you?” Ari asks, wiggling his fingers in your tight channel. They both laugh when you moan at the stimulation. 

“Not yet.” Curtis shakes his head. His gaze drifts down to you as he holds your head in place. “She’s going to warm my cock while I make some calls. And wait for her reward like a good girl. Right lamb?” He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

Everything is pulsing - from the changing beat reverberating through the walls of the club; the buzz of the gang members going across the VIP floor this and that way; the throbbing of Curtis cock in your mouth; to your clit demanding attention. 

Like he said, Curtis holds two phone calls. Each long and detailed, though you’re sure it’s not because he needed all that information. He wanted you to suffer. Ari’s fingers keep moving. Constantly. But too light, too slow, not deep enough. Yet he has you dripping all over his hand; which he keeps angled in a way that deprives your clit of any stimulation. 

Your whole body rouses to attention, almost giddy, when Curtis finally ends the call and tosses his phone to the side. 

He looks down at you and grins; as beautiful as sinister looking. 

He traces his fingers along your cheek, with deceiving tenderness. It’s gone in a blink of an eye. He fists your hair and pulls you down on him, at the same time thrusting his hips up. 

Along with him, Ari starts fucking you with his fingers. 

You’re gagging each time Curtis makes your nose press against the fabric of his jeans. Sloppy, gurgling noises of your mouth moving along dick match the lewd sound of squelching as Ari’s fingers push in and out of your pussy. 

Though there’s relentless build-up, your orgasm hits unexpectedly, as if forced by one particular thrust. Your body tensens like a string, toes curling. You twist to the side as much as they’ll allow you, digging your fingers into Curtis’ ribs. Your moans vibrate around his cock, making his hips jerk into you sharply. 

He slides even deeper and your lungs constrict from lack of air. Tears stream down your cheeks. Your throat closes around intrusion, causing Curtis to grunt in peak pleasure. 

When salty warmth spills suddenly down your throat, your vision goes black for a few seconds. 

Your breath returns in a sharp intake, a small coughing fit following when Curtis mercifully rolls your head away. His cock is still throbbing, spurting ropes of cum into your mouth and across your face. 

He slides the tip into your mouth again and you close your lips around it, hollow your cheeks and suck the last drops. 

Ari’s hand retreats from between your thighs. He licks his fingers clean, savoring the flavor of your combined spend. When he reaches for his own glass of whiskey it’s not to chase away the taste. 

Curtis downs the rest of his drink, too, before tucking himself back into his pants. He unties the skull-printed bandana from around his neck and uses it to clean your face. 

They help you up into a sitting position, keeping you between them. Ari brings his glass to your lips, giving you a sip. You grimace. You were never a fan of whiskey, but what’s worse is that spicy booze doesn’t help the burning in your mouth and throat. But then Ari’s scooping a half-melted ice cube from the tumbler and slips it between your lips. You hum appreciatively as the cold water soothes your used throat. 

You stay curled between them for a few more minutes. They’re not touchy, definitely not cuddlers; but they remain close to you. Their warmth keeps you anchored. When they put you on your feet some time later, you stumble slightly. It wasn’t the hardest fucking they ever subjected you to, but you’re tired nonetheless. 

You slide your arms into the sleeves of Curtis’ black leather jacket when he offers it to you. It’s soaked in his scent and so warm. 

You bury your nose in the collar of the jacket as you sit in the backseat of the car when Max takes you back to the penthouse. The city may be shiny with lights and neons, but the darkness holding it in its grasp is undeniable. And the grim reapers behind that darkness are gliding the streets with a roar. 

On their motorcycles, Ari and Curtis flank the car you’re in. Escorting you back to your forever prison. 

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 4,776 Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: Alexandria, pre-Negan Warnings: language, gore, violence, descriptions of flashbacks and implied PTSD, fear and anxiety Summary: After seeing Y/N freeze outside the walls a few days earlier during an encounter with walkers, Carol suggest that she needs to learn how to fight. Shortly after, she goes missing.

“Hey. Have ya seen Y/N?” Daryl drawled. “I can’t find her anywhere. I’ve been lookin’ for over an hour. We were s’posed to meet up today but she didn’t show.” Even as he said it, his stomach twisted. That wasn’t like you to miss an agreed on meeting.

Glenn shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since this morning. Maggie?” Maggie shook her head, at a loss.

Carol shifted uncomfortably and Daryl picked up on it immediately, his eyes narrowing and becoming sharp. “Carol?” he prodded her.

She straightened up and met his discerning gaze. “I need some air,” Carol said. “Come on out and—and we’ll talk.” She didn’t give Daryl an option and quickly moved through the kitchen, down the hall, and out onto the porch.

Daryl burst out after her, tense and unsettled. “S’goin’ on?” he growled.

Carol spun and leaned back against the railing, crossing her arms over herself as if it would shield her from the reaction she seemed to know was coming. “I saw her earlier. We… talked.” Daryl’s eyes narrowed even further.

“Ya talked. And now she’s nowhere to be found? What the hell did ya say?”

Carol shifted anxiously again. “I just—I told her that it would be a good idea if she got some lessons on how to fight… I told her she could ask you or Rosita or—”

“Ya what?” he growled, stepping up to her. His face seemed to flare up crimson. “Why the hell didya say anythin’ to her like that?”

Carol gave him dubious look. “Daryl. She’s useless when it comes to—”

He was immediately pointing angrily in her face. “Ya dunno what the hell yer talkin’ about! Ya shouldn’ta said anythin’!” He stalked angrily back and forth across the porch.

Carol was a little taken aback by how angry he was. “Well, am I wrong? She hardly leaves the walls and when we were out last week and those walkers came in, she just froze!”

Daryl paced a tight circle in front of her. “Ya dunno what yer talkin’ about,” he growled again. “And it ain’t none of yer damn business. Why’d ya have to say anythin’ to her? Huh? Can’t ya just worry ‘bout yer damn self?”

Now Carol did scoff. “It’s my business if I want to help her stay alive!” She watched the scowl on Daryl’s face incredulously. “Or are you making that your job now?” she asked him pointedly.

He froze in his pacing, his shoulders thrown back. “Ya, maybe I am.”

Carol shook her head. “You’re gonna take on that responsibility? Do you have any idea what that—” Past feelings of guilt and grief for Sophia, for Mika and Lizzie welled up inside her. “You have no idea how it feels to shoulder that and fail.”

“Oh, really? I don’t? What ‘bout Beth, huh?”

Carol immediately went silent, her mouth hanging slightly open. She closed her eyes and sighed. “I—I’m sorry. I—”

“Ya forgot?” he growled. “Yeah, tha’s a luxury I ain’t got.”

“No, of course I didn’t forget. I just didn’t—Look, I’m sorry if you feel that I was out of line with Y/N. But I was doing it from a place of good intentions.”

“Yeah. The road to hell is paved with ‘em. Ain’t that what they say?” He shot her another sharp look and shook his head dismissively. “Forget it. I gotta find her. Ya ain’t got no idea what ya—” He broke off, shaking his head, and hurried toward his place to collect his gear.

Glenn and Maggie came out, announced by the creak of the screen door. Carol was staring at Daryl’s figure shrinking down the road. “You okay?” Glenn asked, stopping beside her. “Sounded… bad,” he mused.

“I’m fine,” Carol said. “You know how he can be,” she added with a forced smile. “Mostly bark.”

Maggie came and stood at the railing, looking after Daryl’s retreating figure too. “You have any idea what’s goin’ on? About Y/N, I mean.”

Carol shook her head. “No. Obviously there’s something we don’t know about her. All I said to her was that she should get some lesson to learn to fight. Daryl was furious. I don’t know why…”

“Well,” Maggie sighed, “hopefully he finds her and nothing else comes of it. I’m sure it’ll be alright,” she reassured Carol.

Daryl was soon at the gate and called up to Tobin who was on watch. “Hey. Ya been on watch long?”

He leaned over the railing to look down at Daryl and nodded. “Yeah. Since after the midday meal.”

“Ya know Y/N?” Daryl asked.

Tobin nodded. “Sure. She went out a few hours ago with her pack. Hasn’t come back in yet. I was a bit surprised to be honest. She hasn’t left the walls very often since Aaron brought her in.”

Daryl nodded. “Ya see which way she was headin’?”

“Straight down the road ‘til I couldn’t see her anymore,” Tobin said, straightening up. “Should we be worried?” he asked, his brow furrowing.

Daryl shrugged. “I dunno. Tha’s why ‘m headin’ out. I’ll find her. Thanks,” he called up. Tobin waved him out and another Alexandrian rolled the gate back so he could exit. It clanged shut behind him with a noise that felt strangely ominous. Daryl set off straight down the road, just as Tobin said you had, and he scrutinized it for any sign of you. After several minutes of walking he found a small boot print in the dirt that definitely could have belonged to you. A shot of anxiety ran through him like a white-hot lightning bolt. What the hell was Carol thinking? Telling you to learn to fight… Shit. Another voice in his head answered, She didn’t, couldn’t know. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin as he straightened up and continued walking. His blue eyes were narrowed as he scanned the tree line on either side of the road and the grassy ditch beside him. You had to be alright. You had to be.

He walked for about another twenty minutes, painstakingly scrutinizing the side of the road to make sure he didn’t miss a path you’d veered off on, when he suddenly saw some dark bundle up ahead in the ditch. His heart plummeted into his stomach and his feet faltered. It was still too far ahead and partially obscured in the long grass and weeds. He couldn’t tell what it was. He took off toward it at a quickened pace before breaking into a full out run. After the first couple steps into the grass, he stopped dead. It wasn’t you. Thank God, it wasn’t you. He took a moment and bent forward with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his face from his hairline and he took out his bandana to mop at it, his mouth still open, chest heaving. He straightened up and looked down at the ragged corpse.

There was an obvious knife wound in the side of the head. A trickle of gore had run out of it and dripped down the sunken face and into the grass. It had been killed recently. He lifted his eyes to the trees ahead and squinted into the shadows beneath them. This had to have been you.

His steadiness regained, he searched back toward the road and found another boot print in some soft soil that matched the one he had seen on the road. He returned to the body and easily spotted a narrow, trampled path that led into the woods. He swung his crossbow down off his shoulder, his nerves buzzing.

He’d barely made it under the coolness of the leafy canopy when he came on another walker. This one too had been stabbed in the head with a clean knife wound. There were a few scuffs in the dirt near the body where the confrontation had clearly taken place. He struggled to find your path forward at first. The ground was carpeted in old leaf litter and scattered with patches of herbaceous plants that could easily obscure any marks left by you. But when he finally raised his eyes to look ahead into the distance, he saw more bodies… a string of walkers, unmoving heaps on the ground. He headed straight for them.

What the hell were you doing? You’d come out here after Carol’s obtuse comment to, what? Kill walkers?

Sure enough, these three walkers had also been stabbed in the head, though one must have put up more of a struggle because it had a wound to its abdomen that was spilling a putrid mix of shit and gore onto the ground. Daryl stood and continued deeper into the woods, following your trail on a mere depression here and a broken twig there. The afternoon was wearing away into evening now and he was getting worried. He needed to find you before it got dark. Tracking on this ground by the beam of his light would be far too difficult and he didn’t like the thought of you out here in the dark, alone somewhere. What if you’d gotten hurt and couldn’t get back? What if you couldn’t find a safe place? What if you’d run into trouble you didn’t expect? No. He had to find you.

After a while, Daryl didn’t need to search for the scarce marks you’d left behind anymore. He simply had to follow the trail of bodies. They were becoming more and more frequent and the clusters were varying now from single walkers to six at a time and everything in between, all stabbed. His heart was starting to race with adrenaline. He’d lost count of how many corpses you’d put down and there was still no clear sign of you. Dusk wasn’t far off. He urged himself to move faster.

Suddenly, he came on a walker that hadn’t been completely put down. It was still clawing at the earth, digging its skeletal fingers into the ground as it tried crawl toward him. This was prevented, however, but the upper body being completely separated from the lower. It looked crushed, or perhaps it had just decayed that way and fallen apart.

Daryl stabbed his knife into its skull with a swift and skillful motion and the low growls ceased. He squinted around into the trees. “Y/N?” he called out as loudly as he dared. It seemed to echo in his ears but die only a few feet away from him, stopped as if by some invisible force that swallowed the sound. The air felt suddenly thick and tense.

More growls sounded up ahead and Daryl rushed forward to meet a tall thin walker ambling his way. There was a deep slash to one side of its neck, deep enough that the head was bent at an odd angle in the opposite direction. It staggered and let out a loud snarl as it reached for him but he raised his bow and fired a bolt straight into its forehead. It fell with a thud and laid still among two other bodies.

He didn’t like this. All these bodies and then suddenly two that were left alive? His stomach twisted. “Y/N?” he called again, a little louder this time. He heard nothing in the crushing silence of the woods except for the occasional rustle of leaves overhead or in the understory.

He tried his hardest to swallow the constriction in his throat, but it didn’t seem to do much. Moving forward again, the trees began to open up slightly and the ground became grassier. In the waning daylight he first saw a looming shape that then materialized into a rundown trailer house. He quickened his pace but was soon stopped by the sheer number of scattered walkers in the overgrown yard. There was a tremendous amount, some even piled on top of one another. He felt a rush of panic. “Y/N?!” he called out, making for the house, stepping over one corpse after another. He burst in through the partially open door, which rebounded with a sharp bang.

There was a rising snarl and clattering sound and a couple still upright walkers lunged toward him from one of the rooms, but he put them down with a skillful shot from his crossbow and thrust with his knife. Please don’t let her be in here. Please. The inside of the house was putrid with the telltale signs of a long occupation by the undead. Daryl searched each room, his apprehension somehow growing with every door he opened, but he found no sign of you inside. You weren’t in here. You weren’t.

At least relieved that you weren’t in that nightmarish house, though still on edge, Daryl returned to the yard. “Y/N?!” he called again. He paused to set another bolt in the flight groove of his crossbow. When he looked up again, his eyes landed on something ahead that was entirely out of place among the bodies.

He paced over to it slowly, afraid of what he might find. He felt suddenly shaky and his hands gripped his crossbow too tight.

There on the ground at his feet was your pack.

He knelt beside it and turned it over. It was intact, but splattered with walker blood and gore. At least there was no sign of your blood—no bright, shocking crimson stains.

There was a depression in the grass beside it, just a small one, and he touched it thoughtfully before raising his eyes and scanning the ground ahead. There. A glint of silver. His breath caught between his lungs.

Your knife.

Daryl rushed over to where it was lying in the grass. It was covered with blood, and some of it on the blade seemed too red to be from the walkers. “Shit,” he said out loud, gripping the handle and turning it over in his hands. He shot up to his feet and nearly whirled around frantically. “Y/N!” Where could you be? You’d lost your gear and your knife. It was almost night. And you might be injured.

He didn’t understand this riddle… the fresh, living blood on your knife. He pressed forward, his eyes darting from one corpse to the next. He wasn’t sure he was even breathing. He was so afraid that one of the figures would be you. “Y/N!” he yelled again, the loudest yet. “Y/N, if ya can hear me—” He stopped short as he rounded the back corner of the house. There was a small garden shed in the corner of the yard. The door was shut tightly. He gulped.

Pushing down the nauseous feeling in his stomach and ignoring the tightness in his chest, he paced toward it. When he reached the door, he stared at it for a long moment. Half of him was telling him not to open that shed—that whatever he was about to find in there wasn’t something he should see. But the other half was screaming all the louder that you were going to be fine and you were in that fucking shed and he was going to get to you and fix whatever the hell this was…

He reached for the handle and popped the latch which resounded with a heavy metallic clunk. The bottom of the door scraped and groaned on the plywood floor but it finally bounced open wide enough for him to peer inside.

His breath caught in his throat and his heart jumped upward, rising, and then sinking again as he fully absorbed what he was seeing.

There you were, sitting in a tight ball on the floor among the dirty, dusty, spider-web draped pots and rusty garden tools. Your arms were wrapped tightly around your legs and your chin almost rested on your knees. Your eyes looked up at him from behind layers and smears of walker blood and dirt, wide and fearful.

Swallowing nervously, he pushed the door open wide to let more of the dimming light in. “Hey…” he said softly, as gently as he could. “Hey, Y/N. I’ve been lookin’ for ya.”

You hardly reacted. Your eyes simply dropped back toward the floor.

Daryl moved slowly and deliberately, immensely worried about the fragile state you seemed to be in. He leaned his crossbow up against the open door and swung his pack down. He crouched low so he was on your level. “Are—are ya hurt?”

You didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge the question.

He chewed anxiously on his bottom lip for a long moment. “Y/N? Can ya look at me?” He edged closer to you, kneeling in front of you. “Jus’ look at me. Please?”

Slowly, your eyes lifted to his face and he saw that they were brimming with tears.

“Hey—s’okay. S’alright. ‘M righ’ here. Yer okay,” he said, nodding. He felt like a bubble had formed in his chest. “Are ya hurt? They didn’t—the walkers—tell me they didn’t—”

You shook your head, blinking to try and clear your eyes. It was then that he noticed a scrap of your shirt was tied around one of your hands.

“Can I see?” he asked, gesturing toward your hand.

You bit your bottom lip thoughtfully a moment before you nodded and held it out to him. Daryl carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage and turned your hand over to see a gash across your lower palm, extending almost to the bottom of your thumb. It was a clean cut, and suddenly the blood on your knife made sense. Perhaps in some struggle, slick with walker blood, your hand had slipped onto the blade and you’d cut yourself. Maybe that was why you’d dropped the knife. The cut started to bleed again as Daryl looked at it, holding your hand flat on his.

“I’ve got some stuff in my bag. I’ll take care’a this.” He reached behind him and tugged his pack forward before digging out the small first aid kit he’d packed. He grabbed his canteen from the side pocket and poured water onto your hand, dabbing at the cut with a clean bit of gauze and flushing it thoroughly. Then he dried it as best he could and applied some ointment before wrapping the whole thing with a fresh gauze pad and bandage. You were still as stone as he tended to you. “Anythin’ else?” he drawled softly when he was satisfied.

You shook your head, looking suddenly exhausted. “No. My shins are pretty banged up but—I’m okay. It’s just that.”

Daryl was relieved to hear you say anything, even if your voice was a little quiet and shaky. He nodded again. His eyes flitted over your figure, still hunched in front of him in a way that made you look smaller than you were. “Can—can ya tell me what happened? I mean, I followed the bodies here but—”

Your eyes dropped again and you pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth again.

Daryl hesitated a moment and then steadily moved to sit beside you in that small space. He didn’t know what to say, turning words over and over in his head, trying to figure out which were the right ones. Finally, he broke the silence. “‘M sorry… ‘bout what Carol said to ya. She doesn’t know what—what happened to ya before, what ya went through outside, ya know?”

You shook your head. “It’s not her fault.”

Daryl glanced at you beside him and hated the filth coating your skin. He shifted and grabbed his canteen again, pulling his bandana from his pocket next and waiting until you met his eyes. “Can I clean ya up a bit?” he asked hesitantly.

You met his eyes for a long moment and for some reason his tension eased. Maybe it was because yours were looking less wild now, less desperate and fearful. You nodded in response to his question and he poured some water onto his bandana and began to mop gently at the splatter on your cheek and forehead. Your eyes closed at the touch of the fabric and a long, quiet exhale escaped from between your lips. His touch was grounding, rooting you back in the present in a way you hadn’t been since—

“Can ya tell me what happened?” he asked again. “ S’alrigh’ if ya can’t.” He poured more clean water onto his bandana and dabbed at a splotch near your jaw.

“Carol said that to me and I thought—she’s right. I just needed to do it. I thought I’d just prove to myself that I could still be—still be out here.”

“Mmm,” Daryl hummed, pausing to study your expression.

“I started killing walkers. And then there were more and more and I just followed the trail. And at first I was just so angry,” you said, ducking Daryl’s gaze and running a hand over the bandage on your palm thoughtfully. “I just wanted to put them all down, you know? I wanted to kill every fucking walker in the whole world. I was just so angry.” Your voice broke slightly and you shook your head, your eyes filling with tears again that stung and blurred your vision. “Then there were more and more and I—stupidly, I just kept following them. Then there were so many.” You looked up at him with wide eyes. “I didn’t know that house was full. And they broke out through the door. And it was like a—a flood of them all closing in around me.” You paused to try and gain control of your breathing again, it had grown rapid and shallow with the swelling anxiety as you remembered.

Daryl’s brow was heavily furrowed over his bright blue eyes, but they were soft. He found a clean area of his bandana and poured a little more water on it, lifting his hand again to smooth away a smear on your chin.

You stared at him during this tender moment and felt some dam break in you, some last wall came crumbling down. He’d come after you. He’d noticed you missing and he’d followed. He’d tracked you all the way here from Alexandria. Your heart swelled for him.

“I was killing as many as I could and then—I—the flashbacks hit me—I think,” you paused and drew in a staggered breath, “I don’t know if it was the blood or the smell or the sounds—but I was seeing it all over again, like it was really happening. I was seeing them ripping apart my family after the outbreak and then—they weren’t walkers anymore all of a sudden, they were those men that—that—”

“S’okay,” Daryl interrupted you. “Ya dun gotta say anymore. I know…”

You leaned your head back and shut your eyes, waiting for your heart and breathing to slow again. Daryl watched you carefully and waited until your eyes opened again and you looked at him. He gulped. “‘M sorry. ‘M sorry that happened to ya, all of it. And ‘m sorry Carol said what she said. She was outta line.”

You shook your head, your posture finally uncurling from that tense, protective ball. “No. She couldn’t know. She doesn’t. It’s not her fault. It was stupid of me to leave the walls alone. I knew this could happen, the flashbacks, you know. But what she said—it triggered something in me…”

Daryl nodded and returned to his canteen and the bandana and his gentle ministrations to clean the blood and dirt from your skin.

“I just don’t want people to think—” you broke off again, biting your bottom lip.

“Think what?” he asked, mopping gently at a smear of walker blood on the side of your neck.

“That I’m… useless. Helpless,” you said, ducking your head. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

Daryl pulled back with the cloth and looked at you for a long moment before he sighed. “It don’t matter what people think, alrigh’? Most of the damn time they’re gonna think what they wanna anyway, with or without proof. But ya aren’t useless and ya sure as shit ain’t helpless. I dunno how many of those walkers ya killed today but it was a lot. Ya know how to fight. But none of that matters, even if ya didn’t. If ya never leave the walls again, it don’t matter. If ya freeze up,” he shrugged, “it don’t matter. Ya got people back there now who will—will protect ya. S’okay.”

You met his eyes as they searched your face and you felt a jolt of electricity run up your back.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Gabriel called down to Eric at the gate. “It’s Daryl and Y/N! Open up!”

The sun was nearly gone and darkness was falling in the deep shadows beneath the trees, but you’d made it back, walking side by side, to Alexandria. Your pack was on your back again and your knife was in its sheath. Besides being filthy, no one would know what had happened outside the walls.

Carol was suddenly there, having climbed down the ladder and waited for the two of you to step through the gate. She was wringing her hands a little nervously. “Y/N—I’m so glad you’re okay. I’m sorry for what I—”

You gave her a small smile and interrupted. “It’s okay,” you said. “But—you should know that I do know how to fight.”

“She dun need lessons,” Daryl said. “Just ‘cause somebody don’t, doesn’t mean they can’t.”

Carol nodded, a little perplexed, and eyed the blood all over your clothes and noticed the clean bandage on your hand. “Are you alright?”

“Just need a few stitches and a shower,” you said with a nod. “I’m fine.”

“C’mon,” Daryl said, nudging his head in the direction of the clinic. The two of you started off again but Carol stopped Daryl again.

“Are we… okay?” she asked nervously. “I’m sorry that I assumed—”

He put a friendly hand on her shoulder and nodded, giving her that signature little Daryl smile. “We’re good. Forget it.”

Carol breathed a sigh of relief and her eyes flickered back to you waiting for him a short distance away. “What happened?”

Daryl shrugged. “Nothin’. She was just… killin’ walkers. See ya later.”

“Well, I‘m glad you found her. It’s almost dark,” Carol said. Daryl nodded. Carol returned his goodbye and watched the two of you fade down the street. All’s well that ends well, she thought. But she knew now there was much more to this story.

Daryl stayed with you while Denise stitched up your hand and made sure there would be no lasting damage, except maybe a bit of lost sensation on that area of your palm. You were ready to be home when she was finished and Daryl walked with you down the dark sidewalks and stopped alongside you at your front door. You turned and gave him a somewhat abashed, small smile. “Thank you. For coming after me today. I might still be in that shed if you hadn’t.”

He nodded. “‘Course. ‘M just glad that yer okay. I was—worried,” he drawled. That would didn’t even begin to encapsulate his feelings. He shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other, trying hard to ignore the fluttering sensation in his stomach.

Your top teeth dimpled into the softness of your full bottom lip and you considered him for a moment. “Did you, umm, want to come in? I need to grab a shower but then I suspect sleep may be hard to come by tonight.”

Did he want to come in? Fuck yes, he wanted to come in. He managed a nod and followed you inside, the sturdy door shutting out the night behind him.

Could something good really come out of so much fear and anxiety? It seemed, perhaps, that it could.

[mjrtaurus]

Chiffon and Crocodile both having abusive Rocks Pirates Parents 🤝

Probably started with Chiffon musing about how she's trying to break the cycle of bad parenting and speculating if her mother was always such a monster which has Croc pulling out the whiskey like "oh, girl, that twisted tree has ROOTS"

It’s the good bourbon he stole from a tribute ship headed for Mary Geoise a couple years back. Strong stuff, good year, perfect for the heavier conversations.

The rule of thumb, Crocodile points out, is that if you have to ask yourself if your “parent” is a monster more than once in your life, odds are that they probably are.

Rocks D. Xebec and Charlotte Linlin were monsters. They both wanted to rule the world in their own ways, happily sticking their heads in the clouds and letting the ends justify the horrible means. Perhaps at one time their intentions were good, but the road to Hell is so often paved with them…

It’s why Crocodile initially- and eventually once again- admired Dragon’s way of things. He has no desire to rule, only to see people treated fairly. He focuses on the peaceful transfer of power (as peaceful as you can possibly get with the World Nobles) rather than violent revolution that would leave what’s left of the land in shambles. His mind is on the future, not just for himself, but for the generations to come.

The humanity is there, and it’s exactly what Xebec and Big Mom lacked.

Chiffon agrees, and playfully points out that Crocodile sure does like to talk about his husband when the drinks are strong.

[herosplatling-replica]

Internbot Masterpost 💙

so ummmmm i got a lot of questions about Internbot and their entire deal, and i figure it would be a good idea to work on having all of this in one place so i can have it readily accessible for people that are curious about them!

The majority of the info about the intern will be linked below the cut! Please enjoy 🧡

In loose story-chronological order:

An Unofficial First Meeting comic 🎨

Prestissimo (writing) (Tumblr Mirror Coming Soon) 📃

Nice to Finally Meet You comic 🎨

An Involuntary Reflex comic 🎨

The Intern's initial concept, their finalized design, and their future post-RD design 🎨✏️

The Inner Workings of Intern's Monitor 🎨✏️

Helping Out 🎨

Musings of a Machine comic - existentialism included 🎨

The Trio and Non-Verbal Communication 🎨✏️

A Little TLC (writing) (Tumblr mirror) 📃

The Trio Falling in Love 🎨💓

Palpitations (writing) (Tumblr mirror) 📃💓

Attempts at a First Kiss 🎨💓

System Failure (part 1) (part 2) (part 3) comic 🎨

Dreams of a Machine 🎨✏️

Artificial Arrhythmia (writing that goes more in depth into the events of System Failure) 📃💓

Keeping a Close Eye 🎨💓

The What Ifs of Inny's CA ✏️

5-X and the Monitor Crack 🎨

Operation Distract Edega comic 🎨

Winterizing (writing) (Tumblr mirror) 📃💓

Winter Mornings 🎨💓

Kisses Under the Mistletoe (two parter)🎨💓

Their First Christmas Together 🎨💓

Bonfire Song (Happy Holidays) 🎨

Prayers of a Machine for the Future 🎨

Hospital Cafe Music Night 🎨

Rules to Live By comic 🎨

Valentines Practice 🎨

Polyrhythmcule stuff that doesn't really have a set timeline yet:

Accidental Proposal & Wedding Ring Concept 🎨💓✏️

Telling the Patients 🎨

Inny's Best Man comic 🎨

Emm Paige, Intern's child 🎨✏️

Emm as a Doctor 🎨✏️

Some more speculative art posts about the future of Rhythm Doctor, and the things that could happen:

First Shot at an Intern CA moment (replaced by Artificial Arrhythmia) 🎨

Sudden Promotion comic 🎨

New Emotion Discovered comic 🎨

The Locked Path (not posted yet)

and because i'm insatiably self indulgent, the AU corner:

Internbot in @sirwow's CC au of Rhythm Doctor:

User Connection Offline 🎨

A Goofy Alternate Ending 🎨

Last Log: Two Weeks Ago 🎨✏️

Just a Terrible Situation (not posted yet) 🎨

Songs of a Machine 🎨

Why Do We Have Hands? 🎨

Someone Will Die OF FUN 🎨

You're Gonna Be Alright 🎨

Parent Adjacent 🎨

Internbot in @possessable's RDPossession AU:

Original Concept 🎨

The Road to Hell is Paved With Good Intentions 🎨

Artist's Favorite Moment 🎨

BREAK STUFF (not posted yet) 🎨

Internbot in the Lobcorp/Ruina Sephirah AU I made:

Original AU Concept with Chart of the Roles 🎨

Ruina Design 🎨

The Willingness to Stand Up Straight (comic)🎨

The Rationality to Maintain Discretion (comic) 🎨

Internbot in Hanahaki AU:

Intricate Systems 🎨

Flowers of a Machine 🎨

Flowers of a Radiologist (not posted yet) 🎨

Flowers of a Doctor (not posted yet) 🎨

[hexedevolution]

Just to note!

// I'm not only playing JUST Arcane Viktor here.

// I'm also VERY happy to RP his League of Legends version AND the Machine Herald from Arcane. Want to fight God? Bring it on. I love all aspects of Viktor, not just the good part of him - but all his cruelty and 'road to hell is paved in good intentions' aspects too.

// Thanks to season 2 confirming different dimensions exist, I also play around alternate Viktor's. Happy to build an AU with other muses.

// If you want to RP with these different versions of Viktor - please let me know! By Machine Herald, I class that as season 2 part's 2 and 3 - especially his Godlike form.

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Magnus & Musings

Greetings to you all. You may call me the Mysterious Hermit, and I am the human behind the blog. I think I've procrastinated long enough on making a proper pinned post, so allow me to do so now.

If you follow this account, know you will see more than just rp threads. You will most likely see artwork and writing, the occasional lore post, or just some banter. I am a mostly-rp account. Not every post is or will be in character.

The contents of this post will be as follows: > RP Expectations/Rules >My Portrayal of Magnus the Red >Side Muses Bios

RP Expectations/Rules What I do not rp/answer to:

I do not do NSFW rp of any kind, nor do I entertain NSFW asks of any kind.

I prefer mostly-serious threads. I do not mind the occasional banter, but PLEASE do not come spamming old TTS memes/recycled grimdank memes in my ask box.

What I would like as a thread/expectations you should have when starting a thread with me:

I do not mind doing crossovers! If I am not familiar with the original property/your OCs backstory/etc., I may ask about it.

I am willing to do threads during the Crusade/Heresy and the modern 40k era. If you do not specify which you would like, I'll most likely assume 40k.

I am sometimes very, very slow to respond. Please be patient, or hit me up if it's been a while and you want to continue a thread I might've dropped.

I try to match length in responses as best I can, but please do not feel pressured to do the same. All that I ask is multi-para replies do not get one singular sentence.

The Portrayal of Magnus the Red:

I try to stay as close to canon as I can, though occasionally I may deviate. I enjoy playing him as a complicated "road to hell paved with good intentions" kind of character, with all the hallmarks of his famous arrogance and gigantamax-brain-ness on display.

In the modern day, I have him currently focusing on his New Kingdom project, where he is trying to terramorph Prospero so that it is decently inhabitable again while training the human psykers who are being drawn to Sortiarius in droves. Instead of Prospero being a gunshop, I am instead running it as the future home of the human population, while Sortiarius stays for the Legion. There will still be industry on Prospero's surface, but to a lesser extent than to what has been described, since I just find it way more interesting.

Side Muses:

Kazakh, Daemon of Tzeentch

Kazakh is a small, brightly-colored daemonic bird who has been given the order of keeping an eye on Magnus. He generally acts as his small daemonic messenger and sometimes emotional support daemon if the time requires. He has a penchant for hoarding shiny objects within the fluff of his chest, and usually takes shiny things as payment for being a messenger or to get him to screw off. Though sometimes in response to the latter, he'll show off his very shiny knives. He has once tried to cut Fulgrim himself for not coughing up a shiny bauble for him.

Zikar-Sin, Master of Possession

Zikar-Sin is a former Thousand Son returning to the Legion for the first time in millennia. He still considers himself a Word Bearer, having been attached to a Host for these past few thousand years, but is happy to be returning to his parent Legion. His role in the creation of the New Kingdom has largely involved him aiding in the reconstruction of a viable biosphere, or helping to integrate the inbound humans to the teachings of the Legion. His sorcerous mastery mostly lies within diabolism, but he was an Athaenean in the ages long since past, and his telekinetic mastery has also improved. He can also be found accompanied by his tutelary, Sepa, who joins him in the form of small twin screamers.

[amischiefofmuses]

Some more than others. How sweet. Like you'd give anyone else half as many chances. Hell, maybe that's the opposite of the problem, actually. You'll let anyone run around killing so long as you get to feel holier-than-thou when they pretend to get on party line. Best of both worlds, right? Us pitiful humans remember how much we need you, you don't get your hands dirty--and you get to keep playing house with a mass murderer.

Talk shit about someone my Muse knows. || Accepting

His lips press to a thin line, brows furrowing and sorrow lingering in his expression. Despite what others like to think of him, he isn't perfect, not INFALLIBLE. He is taking on the weight of the world and trying his utmost to keep falling debris from those who would otherwise be crushed by it. -- ❝I had meant that I am not without wrongs, I would not pretend otherwise- but it seems you have it in hand to remind me of that fact.❞ He sighs, exhaustion etched into his features, his thumb brushing back and forth atop the other hand in his lap in a self soothing motion. His failures haunt him, there is not a night spent without wondering what more he could do, what he could have done differently but hindsight offers only lessons to learn from, it gives him no opportunity to go back and rectify mistakes. He's just a man, one full of faith for change but faced with opposition regardless of where he turns, taking near-blind steps forward and hoping he's not on unsteady ground. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, is it not? -- ❝Would you have me kill? Is that what is expected of me, to be a good person? Do you truly think dirtied hands truly the only way forward?❞ Ever a pacifist, he struggles with the idea of killing, always has and that isn't about to change. ❝What you may call best of both worlds, I call manning the line- stepping into no-mans-land between those who wish us dead because we are mutants and those who wish us dead because our care extends to humanity. It's a delicate line. One only strengthened in having Magnus at my side, willing to defend it. What would you rather I do?❞

[chiropterx]

I forgot just how much fun it was to have Kirk for a muse! Man-Bat might be the star of the blog so far but Kirk is such a tragic villain in his own way, too caught up in his ideals and pursuit to cure deafness. He's adamant he's doing the right thing, pouring his heart and soul into curing his condition and that maybe after he's done curing deafness, he can look into other disabilities such as blindness. It really is a cautionary tale about how the road to hell is paved with good intentions and that maybe with just one more tweak to his formula, he'll finally get it right and everything he's done has been worthwhile.

[melissak2802]

Musings on the central themes in Miss Marple novels.

A Murder Is Announced:

Like it's with Murder of Roger Ackroyd, fall of a person. Like there, here a kind person starts with smaller deals with conscience and ends up falling off the deep end.

Focusing on self-pity often only makes things worse and can lead to deceiving yourself into justifying doing bad stuff.

4:50 from Paddington:

Strength in unity and trust in a family. The villain attempting to destroy people in a family uses divide and conquer tactics.

Generally support between people across generation and social status.

The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side:

Good intentions that pave the road to hell. Pause and think whether what you are doing will really make that person happy or screw their life.

Responsibility (or fatal lack thereof), especially related to children.

They Do It with Mirrors:

Fanatic idealism and "the end justify the means" can make the things you do the opposite of your initial goal and values.

Someone gentle and "out of this world" voicing unpopular opinions may prove to be right after all.

The Caribbean Mystery:

Beware of manipulative relationships and gaslighting.

Sleeping Murder:

Righting wrongs of the past. But also don't forget that reawakening problematic things can have backfires.

Subconscious and mental health issues. (On several levels.)

Diverse romantic feelings/relationships, some healthy, some less so.

[countlessrealities]

11. Is there an unpopular character you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why?

Salty Ask List

Damn, this is a hard one because most of the characters I like aren't hated by the fandoms my muses are from x'D I couldn't find one for every fandom, so here's what I got:

Rick and Morty: Unity. For some reason a lot of people tend to dislike her. As most of the supporting characters, she isn't developed almost at all, but I honestly find her interesting. Both when ti comes to the concept of a hive mind and the character arc she has off screen between when she and Rick broke up to when they meet again

Arcane: I might be wrong about this, but according to what I've seen, it seems that a lot of people dislike Jayce. I wasn't a fan of him either while watching the series, but looking back once I finished season 1 you can see that all he's trying to do is bringing peace and advancement for everyone. So equality. He does let his ambition and ego get in the way a lot, but at the end of the day he is a classic case of "good intentions pave the road to hell".

Helluva Boss: This fandom is the kind of fandom people can't agree on anything xD If I had to pick a character it would be either Loona or Stolas. I get why people might not like them (I won't delve into it because I don't wanna start any sort of discourse), but I personally enjoy them also because they have unlikable sides that can seem stereotyped, but that, at least for what I think, are not when put in context.

[ofvixensandwolves]

Artists use lies to tell the truth.

an independent, private, selective & low activity mixed multimuse, featuring muses from Willow, Gen V / The Boys, Fourth Wing, Sons of Anarchy, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, and more. this blog is not spoiler free. crossover and au friendly. themes explored include the toxicity of repression, sacrifices for the kingdom, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the path to redemption, and the blurred lines of revolution. heavily affiliated with @tanthalos / @eternaldark / @heroethics, and @burygods.

penned by dj. she/her. 32. PST. carrd. dutyxbound. madefreak.

[red-made-the-choice]

What does kindness look like, to your muse? (Shadow Man) | Does your muse think an action has to be intentional and malicious, to be cruel? (Crash Man) | Can they leave their work at the door (disconnect from ‘work mode’ and enter ‘home mode’) or do they carry it with them wherever they go? (Magnet Man)

Headcanon/Development Questions (still accepting!!) 

What does kindness look like, to your muse? 

Shadow

((Kindness is... perplexing for Shadow. He understands it as a motivation of sorts, but he does not exactly understand its origin, nor why people perform it. He realizes it as a sort of selflessness and thinking of others. But really, for him, kindness looks like doing something good without any rhyme or reason at all. His brothers are kind to him, including him and respecting him. He believes Red to be kind to him and his brothers, reviving them like he does. He's very grateful for that. However, he sees very clearly that Red fails to do the same for himself, even at his own detriment. Shadow fails to understand this discrepancy, but that is beside the point.))

Does your muse think an action has to be intentional and malicious, to be cruel? 

Crash

((No. He’s experienced and seen much of both kinds of cruelty, and knows that both an intentional act, and an unintentional act can both be cruel, and oftentimes inaction can be crueler. Doctor Wily meant well with his actions, meaning for his programming to be ultimately temporary, but Crash saw and felt the way it trapped he and his brothers in the very way Wily fought against. And Mega Man’s actions, fighting for peace, showed little mercy. Crash knew it was the only way forward, but he couldn't deny his brothers’ suffering as well, their deafening silence the only thing in his head in the end. Even Crash’s own actions, ones taken to help their enemy, were made with good intentions. But they are nonetheless cruel in their own right, betraying his brothers and the very cause they fought for. Perhaps if he had done nothing, things would be different. Neither Mega Man nor his brothers deserve to die, but still, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.))

Can they leave their work at the door (disconnect from ‘work mode’ and enter ‘home mode’) or do they carry it with them wherever they go? 

Magnet

((There’s always a small presence at the back of his mind that keeps checking for that signal to do his job that does stay with him. It’s a small cycling reminder that he still remains a war machine, even without Wily’s programming within him. It still is his job, whether he’s truly part of it anymore or not. Despite this, he is able to separate himself from both this and any other work mode as he desires. He frequently does so to indulge in his frequent curiosity, and also does so to entertain his brothers’ antics.))

[dinrelsanddragons]

What does love feel like to you?

tagged by: @topaz-adorned again, this time suggested Vair and I said fuck it let's do a few more!

tagging: actually let's tag @reginalucem >:3

readmore'd for more muses.

VAIR:

lightning

you feel like you're on top of the world. like you've been struck by lightning -- you hope that they feel the same. it's all electricity, those metaphorical sparks; all adrenaline and the rush you get when you're near them. they're magnetic, they have some sort of pull over you, and you live off of the high they give you. watch it; lightning never strikes the same place twice.

SHANZ:

a memory

do you know what love is? you think you did, once upon a time. maybe you never did. you hold onto what you think love is; how you felt when you thought you had it. it's fleeting, and maybe you'll never feel that way again. but wasn't it great? how long will you stay here, lost in this world of fantasy and memory? when will you move on?

LAMBDA:

lightning

you feel like you're on top of the world. like you've been struck by lightning -- you hope that they feel the same. it's all electricity, those metaphorical sparks; all adrenaline and the rush you get when you're near them. they're magnetic, they have some sort of pull over you, and you live off of the high they give you. watch it; lightning never strikes the same place twice.

HUBERT:

religion

faith. a funny thing, isn't it? some higher purpose. if there is no higher purpose for you than to be at your lover's side, you are fine with that. this is where you've found your god; and there is no sweeter sin than the one you've found with each other. watch your step, darling; the road to hell is often paved with good intentions.

And for shits and giggles,

RHOAM:

fear

the tap of a nervous foot against the floor. those butterflies in the pit of your stomach. a dry throat. heavy limbs. you want them so badly that it hurts, but fear keeps you frozen to the floor; what ifs and hypotheticals run rampant through your head. it's a chain around your neck, love, and it's your choice to let it choke you or break it.

[shewholovedthem]

Find the treasure within yourself.

Ind. Selective low activity rp blog for a very headcanon based canondivergent Terapagos.

Please do not impose your own headcanons on my Terapagos.

Muse | Mun | Lore

Exploration of: Alien psychology, trying to understand that which is fundamentally different from you, being an endling, believing in the best within other lifeforms, trauma of an alien mind, connection across species and dimensions.

Read the rules underneath, please. Thank you.

My name is Nayen. You might know me from @exnusquam or @prmafrost, as well as a number of others.

This blog is very heavily headcanon based and I ask that you respect that. If your muse operates under their own lore in relation to Terapagos, that's fine, but don't oocly assume that my Terapagos will adhere to YOUR lore. - If you do that I'm not inclined to continue interacting with you.

Terapagos will, if ever even in the first place, only be shipped with other legendary pokemon, or with grown adults, should I ever decide to go the same Greek God allegory route I do for my legendary pokemon usually. This is however not that likely, as shipping is not what this muse is for.

Terapagos is inherently a very overpowered muse, which leads to the fact that battling it will be very unbalanced. Within her lore, she is almost as powerful as Arceus, even if she doesn't use that power actively, let alone has full control over it. - For this reason, you should be absolutely certain that you want your muse to battle her, and if you do, you will be expected to plot it with me oocly and to accept that I will not artificially nerf Terapagos just so your muse can come out of it unscathed. - Terapagos is not naturally evil. She is however very alien in nature and psychology, and while most of the time with good intention, the road to hell is paved with those, and she will inevitably end up hurting someone.

I will not interact with anyone under the age of 18 for reasons of my own comfort.

Your muse cannot inherently know all there is to know about my rendition of Terapagos. They are, however, free to make assumptions based on their own canon for Terapagos. It just will likely be at least mostly incorrect.

I'm fully OC and crossover friendly! I am however still selective with whom I follow and interact with. Please respect that. I have my biases, we all do. - I'm only going to be interacting with people who I follow back. - Do not hound me for replies.

I do not touch anti/proship discourse. I'm here to write a hobby, and not to fight. Roleplay is my escapism. - That said, if you have proof someone is engaging in outright ooc abusive and illegal behaviour, do let me know and show me the evidence, so I can make my own judgement. - If you believe I'm an abuser or anything like that because I simply do not want to touch this sort of shitty discussion, I dearly invite you to please go outside and touch grass, and also would like to inform you that you're calling a survivor these sort of names. Fuck off. I shouldn't have to wear my trauma like a fucking ID badge just to not get harassed, and yet, here we are.

Generally, ooc drama is not tolerated here. - Rule 7 does not go hand in hand with Rule 8. Ooc drama is not the same as straight up abuse, illegal shit or anti/proship discourse.

On this blog we endorse the Harkness test, but not with any pokemon that aren't legendary pokemon (i.e. literally gods with ability to communicate and consent). - Pokephil/i/a blogs and pokemon IRL will be hardblocked.

About censorship: while I do believe that all art has some level of merit to it for different reasons, I also do believe that certain art has lesser value than others for subjective reasons. While I myself do not engage in certain types of fiction, that doesn't mean I believe that those type of fiction deserve to be banned outright. That's called bookbanning, and the n/a/zis did similar shit to what they called "degenerate art". - This is an online space in which we curate our own social circles. Be sure to curate your own according to your needs, and don't police how others curate theirs so long as they aren't literally hurting anyone else.

Thank you for reading. I know it's a lot, but I've grown up on tumblr rp and made a lot of exeriences and trauma here that I want to avoid experiencing again here.

I know inevitably I cannot please everybody. If you don't want me to follow you, please HARDBLOCK ME. Softblocking will not work as my bad memory issues will make me believe I either haven't followed yet or that tumblr made a mistake and unfollowed me unintentionally.

I promise I'm much friendlier than I sound like here. I just have anxiety and trauma.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask!

CREDIT: Header art by agentc0rn on tumblr.

[miercolaes]

if u wanna know how it's going, i went to the dentist today with only a slice of bread eaten bc my body rejects food before 4pm. i slept like 3h maybe and apparently if it's not that head from courage the cowardly dog haunting me, it's my oc psychopath i used to write him like 5-6 years ago. he really had the audacity to kill me, his master. lowkey tempted to add him on my multi. all u gotta know is that (1) he kills for funsies and (2) fc is ross lynch bc he did a frighteningly great job in my friend dahmer. and i was never sane, but that shouldn't surprise u.

i found my old account and i want everyone to know these lil poem from skyler : ╱ what is more unfair than having to choose between being a monster or being a hero? ️️️️️️️️️️️️️ ️️️️️️️ ️️️️️️️️️️️️️ ️️️️️️️️️️️️️ ️️️️( ─when you have to be both.) when you learn that the road to hell is paved with more than just good intentions. ️ you're not head or tails; you are the coin. idk that screams wednesday. and damn i used to enjoy writing many muses from elite down to tvd and supernatural. cas was a favorite bc we're both oblivious af lmao.