Multiverse, multifandom OC 18+ Only. Original character and writing are mine and not for reproduction without permission. I do NOT consent to having any of my original writing or artwork used in any way with any form of AI generation.
Multi-fandom OC.
(Fandom based, but with original lore.)
(Full list of fandoms and AUs on the link below.)
This blog is now Mutuals Only (26th Dec 2025)
(Unless we have already been writing together! Sideblogs please message and let me know. I may take a little while to follow back!)
1. Mun is 40+. Victoria, Australia (Australian EST). 21+ partners preferred, selective with 18-21. No Minors.
2. Please read rules before interacting.
On the readmore below.
Last rules update: 23rd April 2026
3. Muse Info, all verses and AUs.
Some AU verses have different versions of the muse.
Marvel, Dune and Tolkien verses are movie/TV based.
4. Policies on this blog.
Not 'rules' but how I do things here.
5. Memes - please don’t reblog from me if you’re not going to send one. Reblog from the source instead.
Memes - Ship Memes - Headcanon Memes - NSFW Memes / NSFW HCs -
Munday Memes - Open Starters
6. Muse Stats
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue-Grey
Age: In AU verses, usually 30+
Place of Birth: In her main verse, Cornwall, England
Gender: Female
Sexuality: Heterosexual
7. Rules under the Readmore below.
Basics
Original character and writing are mine and not for reproduction. (2012-2026). Likewise original graphics on the blog.
I want nothing to do with AI generated content.
These rules may seem harsh, but they're the result of people ignoring them when they've been put 'nicely'. If I've blocked you on your previous blogs please don't refollow on new ones.
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I do NOT RP with:
Minors. No-one under 18 years, selective with under 21. No age mentioned, no follow.
Personal (non-RP) blogs. Please let me know if you have RP sideblogs.
Blogs that don't have rules somewhere, unless I already know the mun.
Blogs that are wholly intended for writing instant/only smut (you do you, but we are not compatible).
Blogs that expect rapid-fire replies all the time (see below).
HARD NOs:
Instant smut/only smut.
Infidelity/cheating plots.
Non-con, dub-con (including A/B/O) or sexual assault.
Incest.
Pregnancy threads.
Animal abuse and cruelty.
Child muses (under 13). NPCs are OK, but not children who are the main muse. Any threads with older teens will be strictly platonic.
Very selective with (basically I need to know and trust you);
‘Unrequited crush’ threads need to be talked about first, and boundaries set.
Manipulation/mind control threads.
‘Fight’ threads where it’s Thera against someone else’s muse. Her vs random NPCs is fine.
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OK, if you're still here ...
Activity I can be slow. The muse is fickle lately and I'm in a different timezone to most of you. I cannot give rapid-fire multiparagraph replies every day. Short replies (up to one paragraph) I might manage sometimes, but anything longer will take time.
Verses Are separate unless otherwise agreed, or for silly shenanigans.
Interaction I give the energy I get back. This is a hobby, but it’s a hobby we should both enjoy and it’s not enjoyable when something’s all one-sided. Busy happens, favourites happen, but if I’m doing all the sending and messaging and you don’t do any, then after a while I’m going to move along.
Post length I’m good with any, as long as we’re putting in roughly equal effort. Longer threads will take longer to reply to.
Memes Please don’t reblog memes from me without sending me one. You don't have to send me something, but if you don’t please reblog them from the source.
Shipping/Smutting Not automatic or guaranteed. Thera is multiship, male-attracted, and we enjoy shipping, but it takes writing together before we decide to ship, to see if we and the muses are compatible. It also needs to be talked about OOC first, to make sure we both want the same things from the ship. Just because Thera is nice to your muse doesn't mean she's romantically interested!
Smut will only happen in the context of an established ship. If your blog is entirely meant for PWP smut writing we are not compatible.
Triggers and Tags I tag potential triggers as '[thing] tw'. If you need anything specific tagged, let me know (if you have a tag already blacklisted, tell me and I’ll use it).
No God-Modding I write my muse, you write yours, and if in doubt, ask. Please don’t decide for me what she does, thinks, says or feels (or did before the events of the thread), that your muse has done something to her, or put her in a certain situation, without asking first.
Ignoring what I’ve just written and continuing as if Thera never said or did something counts as god-modding, too.
Meta-gaming is giving your muse OOC knowledge IC. There are muses out there powerful enough that they could know things, but please talk to me about it first.
On those last two points, I also reserve the right to say no.
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It is and isn't her fault. She's getting in his way, she's throwing his already derailed life completely off the deep end, and he hates that, but it's not her fault that he's neurotic, that he's bothering her with this hot and cold act. Steven's always been the level headed one, even if he is anxious to a fault, but Marc's volatile. If she doesn't like it, she should try living a day in his head. There is something coming, something that's already begun, and it frightens him. It's made all the more frightening with the new instability with Steven, which, because he can't yell at him without risking things he's not ready to risk, lands squarely on her shoulders.
It's not fair, and he knows it's not, but life isn't fair. When has life ever been fair? If life was fair, he wouldn't be here right now, arguing with a woman he doesn't know over the mad up man that's living in his head. He would be somewhere else, with someone else, and as much as he does feel some odd affection for Steven, he shouldn't be here. He's an escape, and he's grateful for the chance to rest, but fuck! How is any of this resting, when he has this thing in his head to protect, a god to obey, and this woman thinking all of it should involve her?
Because he is protecting him. He is, he is, he is--
Isn't he?
Whatever. He can't do this right now.
But he has to anyway, because life isn't fucking fair.
He has things he wants to say, though whether any of them are productive is up for debate and likely leans towards a resounding no. He's angry, and he's tired, and he's afraid, and none of those things have a way of coming out productively for him. They never have. And it's hot, too, and there's something after him. She walks off, and he follows her without so much as a second glance back towards the poor clerk. Steven would have looked back, would have done the right thing, but, as has become very clear, he isn't Steven.
He doesn't want to go with her, and he doesn't think they're a team, but he follows her anyway, getting into the car if for no other reason than because he's not done with her. Because he's not done yelling. Because he's not really sure what to do next if he lets her walk away now. Because despite the fact that he always is, he doesn't really like to be alone. And maybe they need to figure this out. And maybe he just needs a ride back.
"This is not your problem," he says, voice a little less angry. "This has nothing to do with you. So if you're going to continue to insist that it does, you at least need to understand that this is my job., and it's one I've been doing for a while. You don't have to trust me, but you do need to let me do my job."
This is and isn't her fault. She didn't expect to meet Steven Grant, the put upon gift-shoppist with a sheepish smile and mind full of knowledge he's mostly too anxious to share. And she certainly didn't expect to discover that he's somehow sharing a body with an American named Marc, who is also the servant of an Egyptian god. Most people confronted with that would have fallen over themselves to run, but for Thera it's just a neon sign that this is where she needs to be. In short, this sort of shit happens to her all the time.
She's doing it for Steven, too. She doesn't know yet exactly how they come to be sharing the body - Marc does but Steven doesn't, and that road has led her in, far enough to find out there's so much more. Dammit, Mother, the thought rolls through even if Gaia is probably not even listening, couldn't you have just sent a memo or something?
A siren can be heard, just the higher notes so far, the ambulance approaching for the injured clerk, and it's time they got out of there. Marc's in the passenger seat, thundercloud in his expression and probably only there because he wants to bitch her out some more. Well, OK, fine. If it makes him feel better. She peels out from the kerb, more getting away before plotting a course, and hopes Cairo traffic will keep it's chaos to a dull roar for the time being.
... One I've been doing for a while ... Thera lets him talk, partly because he needs to but mostly because she's caring less with every tick of the speedometer. On that part, though, her mouth opens, turns into a slight shift of her jaw as she holds back a retort. 'A while'. Right.
"And what exactly is your job, Marc?" She's on the road that will take them across the river before her thoughts catch up; it's doubtful that anywhere in this city is safe, but there's a hotel in Giza she knows incredibly well, and hopefully that's an advantage. "Tell me what you're supposed to be doing, because I've got mine too."
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Thera's Homes #33 - Alexandria, Egypt.
(Not requested by but dedicated to @watcheradampierson, they know why XD!)
Do I really have to mention that she picked something near the Library? The modern Library, of course, though that has been built as close as could be determined to the ancient site.
An upper floor apartment with rustic decor, updated amenities and a terrace with views over the Mediterranean.
[ dance ] — our muses slow dance together [Eight, from here.]
It had been no one's idea really; just the thing to do, a way to fit in. That was crucial for reconnaissance. The people around them had to think they were nothing special. Perhaps if chaos had more obviously arrived it would work to be the expert; but so long as the danger remained under the surface, so must they. Hence the rather unexpected method of masquerade— making precise turns across the floor.
He had worried, but there was no need; she easily made up for any rustiness in his steps. Confident, competent, even with a bit of flair allowed by her base comfort with it all. The Doctor followed her lead at first, reacquainting himself with the dance, then subtly shifted the impression if not the reality. Amongst this crowd, a woman leading would be an anomaly. Draw attention. Silly it might be, but sometimes it was necessary to surrender. He was just glad his current company was willing.
“You’re good,” he commented, not so much surprised as relieved since he felt rusty himself. “Where did you learn? And when? There must be a story behind it.” Yes, he was rooting around for details; but from curiosity, not any ulterior motive.
If the chaos had more obviously arrived, there would almost certainly have been screaming and running about, from the local humans' side at least. Such was the nature of the species, after all, hunters and herd animals all in one. Despite the likelihood, Thera might have preferred it that way - then they'd have an idea of what they were dealing with. For the moment, though, she focused on the steps and turns of the Waltz, muscle memory leaning in even if she didn't let the music put her completely off guard.
"Thank you." A wry half-smile, noting he was settling in and she wasn't having to steady them as often. To herself she always felt that women had an advantage when it came to formal dance; missteps were mostly hidden by their skirts, whereas men's were right out there for everyone to judge.
"No grand story." She assured, chuckling softly, "That's one of the good things about being on the 'slow road'," Walking through history with the course of the years rather than popping in and out whenever he fancied, "I get to learn things when they first come along. Although," Thera moved smoothly with him, no longer guiding but going with the flow, "I did actually learn in Vienna itself."
Another step and turn, smile growing on her face at the memory, "I heard about an absolutely scandalous new dance, and I just had to go and see what all the fuss was about. That was ..." She thought back, clicked her tongue, "Around the mid 1700s! Time flies!"
That had been quite the kerfuffle— foreign visitors to blame when really it was someone else; theatrics it was easy to get caught up in; not to mention a fleeting fame that put him off chasing it deliberately. George hadn’t kept that secret, exactly; he just hadn’t shared it. The whole thing had been embarrassing for him, an artificially inflated importance. He’d much rather earn any attention honestly, not ghoulishly trailing along after some true crime. There was a difference, whether he could explain it or not, between writing the truth and something cobbled together from what you thought the truth should be.
George didn’t feel like getting into all that right now; instead he produced his copy of the book from behind his back. “I haven’t gotten much further. Not because it’s not good, I’ve just been busy. With work.” And a healthy personal life, although some of it crossed a line he didn’t think he should share with a female acquaintance. Thoughts resolutely galloping away from this, he peered from one side of the line to the other. “This could take forever… you don’t have to wait, if you have somewhere better to be. I can get yours signed too,” he offered.
But as seconds stretched on and his curiosity flared, George also thought to ask, “What do you think of the broken hallway lights? Is that just some dull detail to throw us off, or might it mean something?
Somehow, Thera couldn't really imagine George Crabtree coping as a celebrity. Yes he enjoyed a bit of appreciation, but it seemed much more a connection thing; meeting of minds, sharing of perspectives, rather than vapid, dewy-eyed admiration. George as George, not whatever name or image the publicity machine was running with that day.
"Ah of course," She nodded, understanding, at least at face value, "A copper's work is never done." And a copper's personal life was not her business if it didn't involve her, something that hadn't happened in a couple of decades now.
The waiting line shuffled, more from foot-to-foot than forward, apparently because someone at the front was attempting an extended chat with the author, oblivious to the queue behind them. Thera sighed, pushed down the urge to call out 'get a move on' and looked back to George. "I'm fine," A small shrug, at ease despite the delay, "might not get another chance like this one, after all." And besides, they were close enough to the 'new arrivals' shelf to peruse by eye meanwhile.
"Are you asking me to answer that as an investigator, or a potential story-teller?" She considered a moment, then clicked her tongue, "As I recall the rest of the building was written to be in decent nick, so it might be a clue. All in all, though, I'd need more information."
At her correction that it's not for him, he laughs. It's soft, but it's a relief. He feels a heavy weight drop from him, and though it isn't the entirety of his frustration, he thinks it can be enough for now. But she is right. He's getting ahead of himself, throwing himself at her feet in gratitude for this great personal gift when it's nothing of the sort.
"I'm sorry. Of course." He shakes his head, smiles, runs a hand over his face. "You're being very kind, and I think I've been hoping for a miracle for so long that I'm making you into my own personal hero." He looks at her, and there's an awareness in his expression, a knowledge that he's made a fool of himself, and a hope that she won't find it too off-putting. "So let me rephrase. It would be completely understandable if you didn't do anything, but you're helping me, as the person in charge, even though you don't have to. Even though it's probably a waste of time. So thank you."
Honestly, that's just fine. He doesn't need it to be don for him. He's not all that sure why she would have done it for him in the first place, and it would have left him with an uncomfortable debt to someone he doesn't know very well. If anything, it makes him more motivated. They're on the same page--which isn't to say that he ever thought they weren't, or that any part of this would make him uncomfortable, but when he's kicked out on the street either way, he'll feel better about her involvement.
He laughs again, more of a huff this time, and with much less humor. "It's disappointing, isn't it? When you're in the field, or when you're here, somewhere you've spent your whole life trying to get to, and you really understand just how much of it is about money." At the end of the day, it's all just about money. Grants, attendance, performance, and the amount of money lining the pockets of the men in charge. He doesn't imagine she's any stranger to it, but if there's a downside to living his dream, it's that things are always a lot less shiny than how he'd imagined them as a kid.
His lips purse. He's not ashamed of his work with Parker-Genix, not with what they're doing, but it still feels like working for the enemy. At the end of this, there's going to be something that can help people, but the red tape of business is certainly weighing on him. He's not sure he wants to tell Thera about it, though. For one thing, there's an NDA, and for another, he's not certain she'll approve. He barely does himself. "I wouldn't be surprised if it is," he answers honestly. Not at all. "I'll keep an eye out for logos on my way out."
He nods, smiling faintly, feeling a small amount of hope. (He doesn't mind the small specks of grey that are starting to color his facial hair, the flecks in his temples, but he's in no rush to make them come in any faster.) He rubs his hands over the thighs of his pants, "Okay. Let me know if there's anything I can do." His attention perks as she asks him whether he's eaten, his eyebrows raising, and it takes him far longer than it should to be able to answer, but lunch has been something of a foreign concept since grad school. At least he makes sure to eat breakfast. "No." A pause, and his smile widens. "You're a little higher up in the food chain than I am, aren't you? Are you saying you start thinking about lunch again?"
"Oh, please!" Laughter, skipping unbidden to echo in the hall, "Don't put me on a pedestal, my balance is awful!" Perhaps she could be seen as a bit of a hero, or maybe crusader would be a better word; and stubborn another, used by museum faculties over matters well before this one. It's nice that Dr Loomis appreciates her intent, that he's more than open to exploring options, but, yes ... Thera's not doing this for accolades.
More she's just putting her foot down. There's no point being a roadblock because the traffic will just roll over and around, but a 'detour' sign? That's an angle they might be able to win.
"It's often the people who haven't actually done the work who make the decisions." All the years, all the advances, and that one sad fact still remains. "Plus it's not just the work, it's ... the erasure." She waves vaguely, to the skeleton above them and the halls that are far more empty than they were, "By taking all this away they're discarding the history, all the centuries of digging and discovering ... " A wry huff and a shrug, "I'm a bit of a stickler for history, in case you hadn't guessed!"
There's a rumbling sensation under her ribs, the faint gnaw of hunger that's gone unnoticed while her thoughts have been very firmly elsewhere, but with their business settled is making its presence known.
"I'm sorry," She jokes, shaking her head as if appalled by herself, "I'm just one of those hedonistic types who spoils herself with regular meals! Or ... regular vending machine visits, you know how it is!" As much as a Twinkie or packet of crisps could pad the sides for a while, that wasn't her first choice. The offer she makes has no real weight, only the polite motivation that she's going and may as well invite Henry too.
"I gonna go sample the high life in the staff cafeteria, if you want to come along?"
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He heard her footsteps following him, but didn't turn around. They were both keeping up appearances, but it didn't seem that either of them was really fooled.
Dustfinger allowed his pace to pick up slightly, just to see if she would match his urgency or fall behind.
They would be together in the room, assuming her intention was what he believed it to be. Neither of them would be able to get the close look they wanted unobserved. Or they would have to actually admit about what they were each here for. Was that kind of trust possible, or prudent?
Their accidental acquaintance was building layers. That wasn't something unusual for Thera, who had resigned herself long ago to never being completely sure if any 'random meeting' was simply as it seemed.
The fire-juggler - it occurred to her briefly that they hadn't exchanged names - had reached layer two outside the museum and had just broached three, an apparent interest in common. The next would be confirming that interest, then deciding where it left them; she hoped it would be an accord rather than a fight.
She didn't walk faster when he did, keeping her pace even. He'd reveal himself more readily if he thought he had a moment alone before she got there. Instead she followed, footsteps steady, until she reached the exhibition hall and glanced around to see where he'd gone ...
“K-9 is my friend!” Leela was happy to answer, her fondness for the robot a smile in her eyes. “He is a metal dog. He usually stays with me, but Romana has need of him elsewhere. He is…” Leela hesitated, bringing to mind the specific words that had been used when the president requisitioned her K-9. “… decoding enemy signals.”
A light frown, as she pushed a piece of green around her plate. K-9 was needed, but she was showing a stranger around Gallifrey. “He is more useful than me,” she grumbled. “I wish the enemy would attack, so I could do battle. But Romana says it’s not a war, so we have to pretend we are not enemies. It is… politics.” Nose wrinkled in disdain. Years and years of life on Gallifrey, she would never adjust to the necessity for constant deception. Not that she had wanted to stay, but her world of origin had been so much simpler.
Until the Doctor. And here she had to laugh. The face she knew was one that was known to her tribe for centuries. “The Doctor was very tall. His hair was dark curls, his nose was hooked, he had a wide smile and wild eyes. It was the face of mischief. Your Doctor is much older, you can see it in his eyes.”
A metal dog. Alright, so the 'K-9' was exactly as it sounded. Thera nodded understanding, continuing to eat, though her brow creased just a little at the mention of 'enemy signals'. That settled in her thoughts in a way that might have been familiar to Leela if mentioned aloud. Somehow it hadn't occurred to her that the Time Lords might have enemies, at least not any so serious that they'd need to decode the transmissions.
"I prefer my fights straightforward, too." She poked her fork absently on her plate, metal tines tapping. "Unfortunately a lot of wars are as much about appearances as battle." How to stir things up without being obvious, how to present your side as the offended party rather than the aggressor ... Thera had only seen it happening on her one small planet, but she'd lived long enough to see it often. "But there's advantage in it, as well," The line on her brow deepened in thought, "If you know an enemy's plans, you can better prepare for when they do come."
She licked a trace of gravy from her lip, eyes lowered as that thought dove-tailed, slightly uncomfortably, with the other subject. "Is he older?" Amusement leaked through, the lilt of a joke, "He doesn't act like it!" Not that that was entirely true. He didn't always act like it, but sometimes ... "I wonder if this 'enemy' is the 'errand' he's run off to? The reason he left me here?"
The guards at his flanks— majestically useless, ceremonial in their dress, not a one of them good enough to take the ring in his stead— shifted as if by nervous reflex. Leto could sense their discomfort, but this was only their own projection: nobody here truly expected the Duke of House Atreides to step into the ring himself. Except—
The herald's voice, artificially amplified, rolled through the amphitheater—
"—and representing the honor of House Atreides, His Grace, Duke Leto Atreides!"
The amphitheater inhaled. Then it broke.
Leto! Leto! Leto!
The chant rose from the stone benches like a wave lifting off the coast, that same terrible inevitability, the way the sea drew itself up and crashed and drew itself up again. He could feel it in his sternum, in his teeth. The amphitheater had become a single living thing— throat, lungs, voice— and it was calling his name.
The arena opened before him like the palm of an outstretched hand, the transparent dome catching the pale Caladan sun and scattering it into prisms that danced across the dirt. He could see the other competitors arranged in their starting positions— a dozen fighters, some of his own men, some from visiting Houses, all of them watching him with expressions ranging from awe to naked determination.
Yet, he found her without trying.
Leto felt the corner of his mouth lift. Just a fraction; a private thing, a small concession to the warmth that lived behind his ribs whenever she caught his eye. He nodded to her— once, deliberate, the kind of nod that carried more weight than a handshake or a salute, the kind of nod that said I see you and I know you and let's see what happens next.
Lips drew back from her teeth, a tilted gleam of white that blended amusement, anticipation and pleasure; mostly at the thought of a challenge, but also another, quiet, that licked at her insides.
So he was actually doing this. The intent had been stated, but Gurney Halleck's keen eye had immediately locked in, and if he hadn't felt the Duke was ready ...
Gurney felt the Duke was ready. That thought settled behind her eyes, betrayed only by a small narrowing of her eyes and the absent brush of her thumb over the hilt of her sword. Leto, Leto, Leto ... a pounding in the air, a drum, a match to her own heartbeat in ribs and neck. Thera watched him - everyone was - but only she caught his look, the meeting of eyes, the nod ...
Her smile curved wider, tone different but warmth the same. The nod was returned, blue-grey gaze steady, glinting under the twitch of a brow.
@therapardalis asked ❛ you don’t seem surprised to see me. ❜
Rain pattered against the nautolan’s dark cloak as she waited in front of the old holovid store, abandoned years ago due to bankruptcy. Puddles reflected neon greens, pinks, and purples, and the smell of wet asphalt hung in the air, which washed away the usual scent of garbage that hung in the alleyways. Vi inhaled and hummed.
A voice spoke, and Vi’s pink lips curled into a smirk. “Of course not. I’m the one who called you here.” She pulled her hood down. “Hello, Thera. It’s been a while. I have a job for you.”
A hint of pink lekku was her first clue. All-covering cloaks and hoods were pretty much a fashion item down here, away from the lights and slightly-less-danger of the main entertainment strip, but the rain was an added incentive. Serendipity, in a way.
Thera's own covering gathered droplets along the fabric's edge, smaller ones lingering as she observed for a moment, taking in the extra rise of the hood that only added to the other being's height. Alone and waiting, that was expected - not so much the immediate, instinctive impression of familiarity. Then the figure turned, the tip of one tendril slipping into view before a face and dark Nautolan eyes.
"Vi!" An unbidden smile, rare crack in the armor when Thera was in 'work mode', then a pause; Good to see you, been an age, how are you - ? All ran through but went unspoken, followed the same way by a more serious lilt of what's going on?
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Just supervise the set-up, they said. It'll be fun, they said. Well alright, those hadn't been the actual words, but the result was the same; Thera walking the paneled floor of the Special Exhibits Gallery, low heels clicking. A small group of workers stood by the entrance, waiting for her final 'OK' that meant the job was finished and they could go home.
She let her gaze wander over the display cases, the signage, the lights, the security cameras set high in the corners. Weeks of planning, the combined efforts of tradesmen setting things up, curators arranging the items for exhibit, and now the after-hours janitors sweeping up the last of the sawdust and the marks of work boots left on the tiles.
"Thank you, everyone," She said at last, turning to offer them a smile, "I think we're good." Murmurs came back to her as they departed, leaving her among the cases and the quiet, alone except for the casual swish of the cleaner's broom.
the be honest meme. aka things you lowkey want to talk about but don’t because you don’t know how to bring it up. send me a number and i’ll tell you the honest truth. either a simple yes or no answer or a detailed response.
What would prevent you from following someone?
Are aesthetics important to you? If they are, why?
What current rp trend do you hate?
How do you explain rp to someone in the real world?
Do you prefer interacting with male muses or female more? Why?
Do you prefer writing male muses or female more? Why?
What’s your opinion on call out posts?
Name any three things about the rpc that bother you.
What is your opinion on exclusivity? Do you practice it? Why / why not?
Have you ever had a bad experience with commissions? As either someone who makes them or as someone who buys them?
What do you know now about rp that you wish you knew when you first started?
Have you been involved in drama? Do you regret it?
Have you ever thought about leaving rp? What caused it? What changed your mind?
Do you think rp has had a positive or negative affect on your life or you as a person?
How has rp changed you personally?
If you could change one thing about rp on tumblr, what would it be? Why?
Have you ever sent a message to yourself on anon? Why?
Have you ever sent hate to yourself on anon? Why?
Do you delete anon hate or post and address it? Why?
Have you ever felt pressured to write something you weren’t comfortable with?
Have you ever followed someone because you felt like you had to, not because you wanted to?
What would make you block someone?
Have you ever stolen something from someone else?
Have you ever had something stolen from you? If so, how did you handle it?
Are you open to duplicates? Why / why not?
How do you feel about vague posting?
Do you follow people even if they don’t follow you back?
Do you read people’s rules before following or interacting?
What is your opinion on “reblog karma” and do you practice it?
How have you responded to popular slang used on tumblr? Do you use it in every day life? Do you use it at all?
Is there something you don’t know the meaning of but you haven’t asked anyone because you think it’s supposed to be general knowledge? Was there ever something you had to ask someone to explain?
Have you ever experienced discrimination?
How do you feel about personal blogs following your rp blog?
Have you ever cried while writing a reply?
Do you read other people’s threads or do you only read your own?
What’s one thing that other people seem to hate that doesn’t bother you?
How do you feel about tagging triggers? Do you tag them? How do you determine what is triggering content and what isn’t?
