#i know i paid for them but thank you for making them

[moonstruckme]

hi mae!! may i get a poly marauders x reader where reader just completely becomes quiet and stuff around negatively raised voices? like if two of the others (not necessarily reader) are arguing and suddenly theyre arguing in raised voices and reader has grown up in that kinda household so she js makes herself absolutely scarce in fear of one of them snapping at her or smth? sorry if this is very specific or if its not something ur comfortable with lol have a great day :)

Thank you for requesting <3

cw: implied trauma around shouting/aggression

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

“You didn’t think to look for a sign?” 

“I didn’t see any sign.” 

“There was a sign less than ten feet away.” 

“Okay, I saw that one.” Sirius reaches up into your cupboard, shuffling things around until he gets to the sleeve of biscuits in the back. His attention is noticeably not on Remus. “I thought it was only for the spot it was posted in front of. They ought to make those things more clear.” 

“The rest of us always manage to interpret them fine.” There’s no bite you can find in Remus’ tone. He’s not standing stiffly, or crossing his arms. But deep in your chest, there’s a small coil of tension brought about by something in your boyfriend’s demeanor you can’t identify. It has you lingering at the edge of the room. You think Remus is more upset than he’s letting on. 

Sirius seems to sense this, too. “Oi, it’s nothing to get your knickers in a twist about. It’s being handled, isn’t it?” 

“It is being handled,” Remus says. He rubs his thumb into his temple. “I’m beginning to wonder how many times it’ll have to be handled before you learn how public parking works.” 

“I did think after three tickets we’d be done with it,” James jokes, oblivious to the rising tension. “Surely at some point the towing company must start giving us a discount.” 

Sirius pops a biscuit in his mouth. He folds his arms, speaking around it. “I’m taking care of it, alright? I’ll pay the ticket. I’ve already paid the towing company and gone to the lot to get the car back—which ate up a good chunk of my day, by the way, so I don’t really fancy coming home to be lectured about it.” 

“Sirius.” Remus sighs harshly, eyes closed as if this is all giving him a headache. “Do you really want me to feel bad for you about a mess you got yourself into?” 

“I just don’t see what’s left for you to be pissy about!” 

“Right, well, you’re not the one who’s going to have to go to court for it, are you? This is our fourth parking violation, and the car’s in my name. I’m going to have to use a sick day for it.” 

“Just let me go instead, then.” 

“That’s not how it works, Sirius.” 

You find yourself retreating from the room on silent feet, disappearing down the hall. 

“Would you stop saying my name like that? I can’t bloody well help what’s already happened. I’ve said I’m sorry, what else do you want me to do?”

“I’m not sure you have said that, actually.” 

“I’ve said I’ll go to court for you!” 

“Hold on,” James cuts in, “let’s just—” 

“Doesn’t sound quite like the same fucking thing, does it?” 

You shut the bedroom door with a soft click. It deadens the voices, though the sharp tones seem to pierce the wood. You push out a breath, forcing it around the tension in your chest. 

Everything is fine. Nothing truly bad is going to happen, not with these boys. You feel caught between pressing your ear to the door to hear every word and putting in your earbuds to drown it all out. 

It doesn’t take terribly long for the tones to soften into something safer. Not kind, exactly, but less jagged. James’ voice chimes in more often. You hear more sighs than scoffs. The feeling in your chest stays, primed. 

When Sirius comes to find you, you’re scrolling aimlessly on your laptop. 

“Hi,” he says, giving you a little smile as he slips in the door. 

You smile back. “Hi.” 

“It’s all clear out there, just so you know.” Sirius sits at the end of the bed, a gentleness in his features that makes you feel sheepish. “Safe to come back out if you want to.” 

“Are you okay?” you ask quietly. 

“We’re okay, baby.” 

“And you and Remus…” 

“He’s still a bit miffed with me,” he admits, “but we’re alright. I’m going to see if they’ll let me go to court for him since I was the one using the car.” 

You nod. The inside of your cheek finds its way between your molars. “I’m sorry you got a ticket,” you say. 

Sirius smiles, gray eyes soft with fondness. “Thanks, sweetness. It’s okay. It happens, you know?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Some could argue it might happen less if I was perhaps a bit more cautious.” 

Your lips quirk. “They could.” 

“But it’s all fine. Everything’s really alright, we’ve made up. Do you want to come have dinner?” 

“Oh.” You get up. “Yeah, sorry.” 

Sirius tsks. “What’re you sorry for?” 

“I didn’t mean to hide.” 

He hums, pulling you close to press his lips to the side of your head. “I don’t blame you,” he murmurs. 

James is stirring a pan of vegetables in the kitchen, his arm wound snug around Remus’ neck. They appear to be speaking quietly between kisses. When Sirius pulls out a chair for you at the table, James turns with a smile. 

“Hey, lovie.” His voice shines with affection. 

It’s not a scene you’ve always been used to after an argument. Smiles and a shared meal, all of you in the same room together without a sharp look exchanged. 

“Hi,” you say back, trying to smile in the same way. Your feet come up onto your seat, legs folding into a pretzel. 

Remus leans around James to see you better. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to drive you off.” 

“You didn’t drive me off,” you reply. You both know it’s a lie. Remus’ mouth slants sympathetically. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” you say, honestly. Sirius rubs your thigh like he’s going to make sure of it. “You?” 

Remus smiles softly. “I’m alright. Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“I think we should institute a new system.” The vegetables hiss as James pushes them around in the pan. “Whenever two of us are having a row, the other two get to vote on who’s right, and that’s the end of it.” 

“But,” you hesitate, “there’s four of us? What if it’s a split vote?” 

“Then that’ll be the least of our problems.” You can practically hear the eye roll Remus is holding back. “Taking sides would never work.” 

“Agreed,” says Sirius. “I vote that James doesn’t get to institute new systems.” 

“What?” James sulks. “You always take Remus’ side.” 

“Clearly not.” 

“Well, you always do when it’s against me!” 

“I’m going to leave again,” you joke, gratified when James instantly apologizes and Sirius puts his hands over your ears. 

“You heard her.” Remus smiles, dropping a light kiss to James’ hair. “No more bickering, you two. Honestly, I’ve no idea what possesses you. Can you believe them, dove?” 

“Nope,” you say, smiling. 

Sirius fixes you with a look. “I’m going to start bickering with you next if you’re not careful.” 

[ghostlyferrettarot]

⭐Pick a Picture: 💄💗✨How others describe you and your magnetism 💄💗✨

•Pile 1 •Pile 2 •Pile 3

❗️This is a collective reading, take what resonates and leave the rest❗️

✨️Paid services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings) Open!

If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank you!

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✨️Masterlist✨️

🍨Pile 1:

🍨How those closest to describe see you:

While many describe you as warm and trustworthy, those closest to you also describe you as someone with a big heart and a really beautiful personality. I also see that people tend to complimnet your hair and your fashion/style. You are the kind of person who is always willing to give, without expecting anything in return, and that generosity is what stands out most about you. You may not realize it, but people perceive you as a constant support, a source of stability in their lives. And, although sometimes your kindness can be taken advantage of by those who do not value enough what you do for them, most people who know you feel that they can trust you unconditionally.

🍨 Your magnetism:

Finally, people not only see you as a source of emotional support, but they also sense a calm energy in you. You are that person who, even if you are not looking to be the center of attention, has a way of attracting others effortlessly. Maybe your laugh has that infectious edge that makes everyone relax, or maybe your soft yet confident way of speaking makes what you say get heard with extra attention. In short, people describe you as a mix of serenity, warmth, and confidence. You're like an emotional refuge, someone who offers their light generously, touching the lives of those around you without even thinking about it too much. Your presence is a reminder of how important it is to be authentic, and people feel more fulfilled just by being around you.

🍬Pile 2:

🍬How people close to you describe you:

People who really know you, whether family or close friends, describe as someone who has a lot of strength in their lives. Even though you may be introverted or more reserved, they know that if they ever need you, you'll be the person they can rely on without hesitation. You don't bother making empty promises or saying what people want to hear; you're direct, genuine, and committed to what you say. This level of honesty and authenticity is what makes you deeply respected. Also, those around you often feel like they can learn a lot from you, as you have a unique perspective on life. Maybe you're the type of person who stays calm even in stressful situations, and that makes everyone seek you out when things get tough. Your ability to stay calm in the face of adversity is one of the reasons people trust you: they know that you're not prone to getting carried away by emotion, but always take a step back and consider all options before acting.

🍬 Your magnetism:

People also notice your emotional intelligence, and how your mind can find solutions even when others are caught up in their emotions. You have a way of seeing things that seems beyond the obvious, and that generates great fascination. You are the kind of person who doesn't need to be loud or brash to get what you want, because your magnetism is so strong that things happen simply by your presence. Although you may seem distant at first, people who get to know you feel a deep connection with you, as if they can open up without fear of being judged. You have that special quality of making people feel accepted just as they are. And despite being so strong and so capable, there is something gentle and protective about you, something that makes others feel safe around you.

🧸Pile 3:

🧸 How people close to you describe you:

Those who are closest to you describe you as a trusted person with a great heart (your heart chakra could be powerful <3). They know they can come to you when they need more than just superficial advice. You don't just give answers, but offer perspectives that invite deep reflection. Your ability to see beyond the surface makes others trust you, because they feel that, when talking to you, they are not being judged. You are the kind of person who listens with their heart, offering answers that go beyond what is expected, with a gentle honesty that never hurts. You are often seen as a mother or father figure in their lives, even though you don't necessarily literally fill that role. It's like your heart is open to everyone, and that's something that makes you irreplaceable. You don't care about superficialities, and that's what makes people appreciate you so much: the things that really matter to you are genuine bonds, truth, and deep connection.

🧸Your magnetism:

Your magnetism is quiet, but powerful. You don't need to be loud or demand attention, because your calm and wise presence speaks for itself. People sense that something special is behind your calm, and that's one of the reasons they seek you out when they need guidance or just to feel at peace. Your ability to be an emotional refuge is something that not everyone has, and that makes you exceptional.Some people may see you as someone a little enigmatic or reserved, but those who really know you know that behind that serenity there is a heart full of love and loyalty <3

🩷⋆˚✿˖°ᡣ𐭩🩷Thanks for reading and tell me if it resonated 🩷⋆˚✿˖°ᡣ𐭩🩷

[animeomegas]

Omega!Neji x Alpha!Reader - Altered Mission

Warnings: non-consensual drugging (but the person being drugged is aware), reference to human trafficking.

Okay, okay, so imagine going on a joint mission with Neji. A couple of nearby towns have been getting terrorised by an unknown serial criminal who has been drugging and abducting innocent people, so they've all pooled together for a couple of powerful ninja to find and dispose of the culprit.

You and Neji get chosen for the mission. You're pretending to be newly weds on their honeymoon, hence why a real couple was picked for the realism factor, and you're going to be trying to bait this criminal into showing themself, ideally by getting them to target one of you.

So you play it up. And honestly, it's kind of fun. You and Neji get to stay in a fancy hotel, go out to restaurants and bars, flirt and cuddle in public, all while being paid!

...

"Are you enjoying the market, darling?" you asked, keeping your arm snuggling around Neji's waist to both play up the silly, naïve newly weds, and to keep you both from getting separated in the crowd.

"It's lovely," Neji responded, shooting you a warm smile. For all the performance, you can tell that he's genuinely having a good time. "And it's even lovelier because you are here with me."

You pecked him on the head, "I will follow you everywhere if that brings you joy, my love. Do you see anything that you like? I want to spoil you." Especially because you weren't actually paying for anything; you'd been given an allowance to enjoy yourselves and you'd sooner die than return to Konoha with a single ryo left unspent on cherishing your mate.

Neji hummed, eyes flitting over all the booths. You watched the moment that they landed on a booth full of shiny jewellery. He pulled you with him as he approached it, and you watched as he gently touched a thin silver bracelet with a single lilac coloured precious stone.

"Do you like that one?" you said quietly. Neij looked up at you and you could see the conflict in his eyes for a moment. You had mostly worked through Neji's issue with accepting gifts and pampering, but especially expensive things still gave him pause. Then the moment passed and Neji gently nodded.

The seller was clearly watching you both like a hawk, and quickly jumped to telling you the price and taking your money. You didn't bother with any packaging, and just gently clasped it on Neji's wrist immediately. Neji held it up and it glinted in the sun.

"It's beautiful," Neji said, leaning into your side as you started away to another booth. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, my love. It suits you. And you know the best part?"

"Hmm?"

You leaned in a whispered, "Technically... Naruto paid for it."

Neji snorted and then quickly covered his mouth with his hand.

...

But then on the third night, you notice this guy flitting around you and Neji. You share a significant glance with Neji, but you don't do anything but continue to flirt and talk about meaningless nonsense.

When you're sure that something is up with this guy, Neji excuses himself to 'use the toilet' and you go to 'get another drink', leaving Neji's still half-full drink on your table.

You watch from the corner of your eye as this guy pours some white powder into Neji's drink.

Gotcha.

You go back to the table with your new drink as Neji returns, slipping into the booth beside you. You pull him close.

...

"Make sure to giggle after I've finished talking, but the guy in the blue jacket has drugged your drink." You keep a smile on your face, flirtatiously fiddling with a strand of Neji's hair.

Neji giggled just as you'd suggested, before turning his head into your neck. "He's watching to see me drink it," Neji whispered. "I don't know how to trick him into thinking I've done it without doing it."

"Just... pour it onto your lap or pretend to sip at it."

"Don't you see how intently he's watching? If he notices, he could realise that we're baiting. It will be much harder to find him if he's been spooked. Our mission specifically states that we must be discreet to avoid causing a panic."

You tightened your grip on him, not liking this turn of events. "Just... only have a sip or two then. Please be careful, don't drink too much."

Neji nodded, and taking a deep breath, he picked up his glass and took a sip. "Look after me alpha. Please."

"No one will touch you, I promise. In a few minutes act intoxicated. I'll take you back to the hotel and pretend to leave you alone to get some painkillers and bottled water. When he enters the hotel room, I'll neutralise him without drawing any attention from civilians or hotel staff. I'll keep you safe."

Neji nodded, taking another sip. "I trust you, alpha."

...

Fifteen minutes later and Neji is acting differently. He's clingier, less co-ordinated, slurring his words. But the scary part is that you're not sure if it's really an act, because his skin is very flushed and as far as you can tell with his white eyes, his pupils are dilated.

You make a big show of deciding to take him back to the hotel because he's 'had a bit too much to drink'. Part of the way back you're forced to pick Neji up as he can no longer walk. His head lolls on your shoulder, little whimpers escaping whenever you jostle him too much.

Worry begins to could your mind because how strong were those drugs?? But you try to focus back on the man who is definitely tailing you. Once he's dead, you can focus on Neji.

You get into the hotel and make sure to drop your room number into the conversation before telling Neji that you'll tuck him into bed before going down the road for some supplies for his inevitable hangover tomorrow.

...

You gently removed Neji's shoes and jacket before tucking him bed. He relaxed once he was amongst the soft sheets, but as you pulled away, he made a noise of discontent.

"These drugs... are s-strong," he slurred, hazy eyes staring up at you. "I can't... keep m' thoughtss... strai't. I can't... can't defend m'self, a'pha."

"I know, I know baby," you soothed, running your thumb under his eye. "I'm going to go round the front and up the building to our balcony, okay? You'll only be alone for a few moments, and nothing will happen to you. Just try to rest."

It was only the years of mission conditioning that was allowing you to keep your head. Anxiety clawed at every part of you, but you ignored it. You had to kill the target, then you could look after Neji.

And with that anxiety screaming at you, you walked back out of the hotel room, pretending not to notice the man lurking in a shadowing corner.

...

As soon as this guy is out of sight, you sprint your way out of the hotel and up the side of the building until you get to the balcony for your room, which you unlocked earlier.

You can hear him picking the lock from the other side. You wait with baited breath.

He gets in and quietly shuts the door behind him. You wait for a few moments, to make sure he can't run, and just as he approaches Neji, you spring from the balcony.

You are so angry, furious even, that you shove your kunai through his neck with admittedly more force than necessary. He dies quickly, blood staining the carpet.

...

"A'pha?" Neji called weakly from the bed.

"I'm here, baby, you're safe, I just need to take care of the body, okay?"

"Do't leave 'gain," Neji whined, barely conscious. When you didn't immediately reply, he continued, voice desperate, "A'pha, please, 'm scared."

And fuck, that hurt your heart so much to hear. Because of course he was scared. He was powerless right now, and you knew Neji hated that. You were the only one he allowed to see him like this.

"Okay, okay," your mind raced for a solution. "Okay, let me just put it in the bathroom, I'll be right there, Neji."

As fast as you could, you dragged the body into the bathroom, quickly but thoroughly washed your hands, shut and locked the balcony door and then returned to your omega's side. You didn't even bother to shed any clothes but your shoes and bloodstained jumper.

Neji relaxed as you enshrined him in your arms, protecting him from the outside world.

"I've got you, Neji, I've got you."

"Don't- don' leave."

"I won't, I promise. I won't leave your side for even a moment."

"'kay," he muttered. "I trus' you."

[lsunstreakerl]

had a small burst of inspiration for omegaverse famiglia, so ta-da! 1.8k words, 5 little snapshots. Max POV. completely sfw (in a surprising deviation from everything else I've posted this month).

Max brings the sweater to his nose, taking a deep inhale. It smells like Lance, cashmere and fresh air.

It's also from Mick's bag, so he's going to tease him forever about it. 'Not courting'- bullshit.

He weaves it into the nest anyways. If Mick and Lance are courting, which he knows they are, then he should get used to it anyways.

It settles in nicely with everything else. Max likes his nesting space at Silverstone- no one outside the pack knows about it, so he's been carefully working on it for a few years, filling it with soft lights, hanging up posters on the walls. It fills the room- not near as large as his upstairs nest at home, but still soothing.

He slides his wrist brace off, setting it off to the side with the rest of his bag before snuggling into the middle of the nest. It's soft and warm, miles better than the pouring rain outside.

Max sends off a text in the family chat- a little heads up that he's nesting, if any of them get the chance to join, and also a teasing note that Lance is invited, if he wants.

Mick sends back a keyboard smash.

------

"Max!"

He's momentarily startled by the shout, but then Charles is jogging up to him, weaving through the pitlane as Max tilts his head curiously.

"I saw that none of the Redbull team members made it to the caf, so you probably did not get breakfast-"

Max didn't know Charles paid attention to that kind of thing.

"-so I grabbed you one of the last croissants."

Charles holds out a paper bag, warm in Max's hands when he takes it. It smells like butter and chocolate, which makes him somewhat impressed- those croissants disappear fast in hospitality.

Charles must notice his expression.

"I had to fight Seb for that, if you were wondering."

Max is slightly startled at the soft purr that starts up in his chest, but the way Charles lights up at the noise makes it hard to feel flustered about it.

He tucks the bag under his elbow.

'Thank you Charlie'

Charles' head tilts.

"I don't know that one, but you seem happy, so-"

Max flashes him a grin. He's pretty sure his scent has gone light and sweet, which is embarrassing, but Charles rumbles quietly.

"You are welcome, Max."

------

"Hi! You must be Max!"

There is... a small alpha in front of him. Somewhat newly presented, if Max had to guess- still has a milky pup scent.

He nods.

The small alpha puffs his chest out, grinning at Max.

"I'm Liam! I'm a junior driver- in the lower categories still, but I'll be here in a few years, trust me!"

Liam ducks his head, scent blushing with something shy. He's too young to know how to control it yet.

"I hope maybe you'll still be here as a race engineer? Maybe mine?"

Max smiles, patting him on the shoulder.

'Maybe'

Liam shifts on his feet before pushing his shoulders back, lifting his chin.

"Are you busy later tonight? After the meetings?"

Oh, the baby alpha is asking him on a date. That's cute.

Max raises an eyebrow.

'Can you sign'

Liam's eyebrows furrow, focusing- and then he lifts his hands up, fingers clumsy.

'Y-e-s'

Max's scent softens, fond. He's clearly trying- and Max has to give him credit for that. He moves his hands slowly this time, so Liam can follow.

'Maybe when you are older'

The baby alpha looks dejected for a moment before shifting to determination, nodding at Max.

"It's a deal! And I'll be better at sign by then, just wait- you'll be amazed."

Max is not going to be courted by a baby alpha, but he's endeared all the same, patting Liam gently on the shoulder.

It's not quite scenting, but it's just enough that it'll cling to him- he can go back to the other pups smelling like he's had a genuine conversation with Max. There's probably bragging rights involved somewhere.

------

Max is lounging on the hotel bed, easily eliminating Charles on every single FIFA match.

"Okay, I am quitting- this is ridiculous, how do you even have the time to get this good?"

Max purrs, trying not to laugh as Charles tosses the controller onto the table, sulking.

He reaches for one of the stray notebooks and pens lying around- Charles always seems to have some nearby.

GP is also very good now, although he pretends not to be. Also, one of the baby alphas tried to ask me on a date today.

Charles snorts at the first line, and then his scent sharpens when he reads the rest, eyes narrowing. Max tries not to feel flattered.

He fails.

"Which one? They should know better, honestly- they are barely presented as is, what makes them think they can court you? Did you even get any gifts? The audacity in the newer pups- what happened to traditionalism?"

Definitely flattered.

Max tries not to let it show in his scent.

No gifts- I don't think, anyways. He was very sweet though. Asked if I would be his race engineer when he gets to F1, and then asked me to dinner. He learned some sign as well.

Charles rumbles, low and annoyed.

"It better not have been Oliver- it was not him, yes?"

Max pushes his scent, soothing and lightly amused. As funny as it is to watch Charles get worked up, Max doesn't want his hotel room stinking of territorial alpha.

It was not your grid pup, don't worry. It was Liam, one of our Redbull juniors.

Charles settles at Max's scent. Maybe not intentionally- but it happens all the same, his shoulders relaxing and his gaze softening.

His scent smooths over, back to the reassuring notes that Max is used to. They've been creeping their way into his nest lately as well.

"Presumptuous brat."

Max grins, kicking his foot out to nudge at Charles' ankle.

Relax- it was cute. I told him to try again when he was older.

Charles wrinkles his nose, offended.

"When he's older? Max, you deserve much better than a Redbull driver who cannot even court properly."

Max pushes his scent again, though he's sure the amusement is coming through strong now.

I have not actually been properly courted before, so I would not know haha

Charles bolts upright, staring at him.

"What?"

Max shrugs, a little what-can-you-do gesture. He'd had some puppy love in uni, but that hadn't been the real thing- just the two of them having fun, exploring.

He's never had an alpha seriously court him before- he travels too much, constantly jetting across the world with the traveling circus of F1. No traditional alpha wants an omega like that.

Charlie, I am gone all the time. That's not ideal omega behavior. It's not surprising.

The scent in the room sours, a sharp metallic tang as Charles visibly bristles. Max holds a hand up, trying to stop the incoming rant before it starts.

And that's fine. I wouldn't want to be with an alpha that wanted that from me anyways. There will either be someone for me eventually, or there won't. Until then, I'm not losing sleep over it.

Charles is clearly still bristling, but he's visibly trying to relax, leaning over Max's legs to grab the controller again.

"That is ridiculous, that no one has tried anyways. There must be some very stupid alphas in the UK."

Max snorts, pulling up a new FIFA match. Charles isn't wrong- but there's no need for him to get offended on Max's behalf.

Even if it's sweet.

------

Gianpiero is trying to leave the nest, like he thinks Max won't notice.

Max tosses an arm across his shoulder, pinning him down.

"Max, I need to go make dinner. You're going to need to let go of me."

Gianpiero is clearly underestimating Max's stubbornness, as well as how comfortable Max currently is.

Max turns his head so it's poking out of one of the fluffy duvets, glaring.

"Remember that time I was abused and lived in a van? No nest? No nesting with dad? Yes? Get back here."

GP's face does his emotionally constipation look, and then he's settling back down, squeezing Max into a hug.

"Don't think I can't see your blatant emotional manipulation."

Max purrs, comfortable in the nest. Gianpiero might not be his biological sire, but he's Max's dad in the ways that matter.

He gets a few more minutes of peace before Gianpiero huffs, digging around in the side of the nest wall for something. Max is preparing to be extremely offended at the destruction of his perfectly arranged space-

Oh.

That.

Gianpiero raises an eyebrow at him.

"Did you really think I wasn't going to be able to smell adolescent alpha, seriously?"

Max deliberately doesn't look at the scarf Gianpiero has pulled out of the nest wall- the smell is somewhat faint now, but unmistakably Charles.

"I don't know how that got there."

He tries to suppress his grin, but it seeps through in his scent and his tone- he's still flattered about receiving the scarf, even if it's been a few weeks since he last saw Charles in Monaco.

"Also, he's not really adolescent anymore-"

"You're all still pups to me, don't even try."

Max grabs at the scarf, gently wrapping it around his hands and his arms, snuggling into the fabric. Gianpiero rolls his eyes, but his scent is soft and mellow.

"They grow up so fast- remember when you wouldn't let anyone scent you?"

Max makes a face. He used to bite people that tried to scent him.

Jos had told him scenting was the first step to being claimed, losing his rights and his license and his karting career.

Max knows now that isn't true, but-

It's left a mark.

Gianpiero rubs his wrist across Max's neck, playfully rough as Max swats at him.

"Tell that alpha boy he needs to behave, got it?"

Max grins, scent going disgustingly sweet.

"He is a complete gentleman, dad. Never made a bad decision in his life. Besides signing for Ferrari, I mean."

Gianpiero leans back into the nest, doing his best to reassemble the wall. It's ugly and Max will have to fix it later anyways, but he's trying.

"At least we know he's loyal."

Max winces, nodding. Poor Charles- Ferrari is the ultimate loyalty test. He snuggles under Gianpiero's arm, listening to the steady rumble in his chest.

It reminds him of when he was smaller, curling up in a poorly constructed nest. Max was too afraid to make one, and Gianpiero didn't know how, but he'd tried- Max had desperately needed one.

Sometimes even now, when Max is sulking or frustrated, Gianpiero will start trying to arrange the living room into something soft and circle shaped.

They're still terrible.

Max still loves them.

[jokeringcutio]

Will fanart illustrators then please do the same?

Sorry, we all need to eat. And yes, fanworks should not be paid for, which is why I keep posting works and filling prompts for free. But I can't work a job any longer, haven't been able to the past four years. My kids can't go to any sports, we don't have any luxuries or specials. I need a car with my long covid to bring them and still be able to function but I can't afford that, so I am constantly walking and cycling them and then can't do much for weeks on end. The only thing I still can do, sometimes, is write. And I can't sell original smut as ebooks or printed books anywhere anymore. All pod turn it down since a couple of years. There's no smashwords any longer or lots cave. So I had to turn to writing original tales. Of course I opened up donations. Of course I don't want my readers to come out of it empty handed. Of course I'll write them a tale as a thank you. Of course that tale is a fanwork most of the time

But you know what?

I can spend 3 full days creating a smut fic and I still earn less with it than someone making a fanart drawing in less than 2. AND they can then resell that drawing at events! And everyone accepts it and thinks selling fan art is normal, it boosts the original product, it takes the artist time to create so of course you'll pay for it, and the artists does it in their own style.

Well, big surprise, writers write in their own style too. They put in often more time to finish a work. Their work too pulls in new fans and boosts the original product. Every argument I have heard why paid fanart would be okay can be applied to fanfiction too. But being a writer selling stuff is taboo and being an illustrator it is not?

Stop with the damn double standards. Just like the many illustrators against AI who tell me they don't need an author to write for them any longer cause they are on character.ai or using chatgpt.

This was a rant filled with frustration. But yes, fanworks should be free, but I am not gonna lie, I need a goddamn patreon (not the site, a person to fund me so I can keep creating stuff for free). I need to live. My family needs to live.

For the love of all that you enjoy: DON’T PAYWALL YOUR FANFICTION.

Again, but louder:

DON’T PAYWALL YOUR FANFICTION

It’s getting more and more common. I’ve seen three posts about it in the last 24 hours - patreons where you’ll get “exclusive” fanfiction stories if you’re a subscriber.

Don’t.

Don’t do it.

It’s annoying, but mostly it’s fucking dangerous.

The whole fanfiction community prosper on someone else’s turf under “fair use” laws. In simple terms: we can play with other people’s creations for as long as it’s done for our own amusement, and that of our followers.

Once any kind of financial benefits are made, it becomes another abuse of someone else’s rights.

And look, I get it. It sucks, especially seeing the artists take commissions while the authors get nothing, and it takes hours and hours of our time, and I understand people are looking for a side hustle to make ends meet in this monstrosity of a capitalist society, but if we don’t stop it from happening, the rights owners will stop it.

And they’ll stop it for everyone.

It’s not worth it. Don’t do it.

[cryptidvaquero]

wip wednesday? don't mind if i do

here's an excerpt from a park ranger/bear shifter! john price/waitress! reader fic im writing

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You liked the evening shifts for a few reasons. Usually, the crankier older residents retired at 7 pm when the sun had barely started to set; thank God for that. Things were quieter, more laid back. You didn’t get paid shit, but at least no one would wish death upon you and your lineage for bringing them a plate with eggs over easy instead of garnished with liquid-fucking-gold.

And your final, favorite reason? You hear the jingle of the bell, and here he is.

“Hey John. Rough night?”

Your manager greets the rugged-looking man who walks through the door. Six-foot-something, brown hair and beard, built like a brick shithouse, and dressed like a damned lumberjack. Like clockwork, local park ranger John Price blesses your godforsaken job at 11:00 pm and leaves within the hour.

It’s the best 30-45 minutes of your shift.

John gives a rough grunt, nodding his head in greeting toward your manager before making a beeline to his favorite corner booth. Rough night indeed.

“He’s in your section, hon. Don’t forget he likes his t-”

“-Likes his tea unsweet. Yes, I know.”

He gets the same thing each time. Unsweetened iced tea, two waffles, a batch of scrambled eggs, three pieces of bacon. The guy eats like he’s starving, yet he’s built like he climbs trees and catches fish with his bare hands. Hell, he’s a park ranger, he probably does.

You disappear into the back, pouring an unsweet tea before ushering it out to John’s table.

“Hey! How are you tonight?” Same song and dance, same fake smile. The life of a food service worker. John glances up at you, drowsy blue eyes sitting under thick eyebrows. The corner of his lips tilts up in a similarly forced smile, and he gives you a nod.

“S’Alright,” he grumbles. His voice is deep and growly - it’s like he’s perpetually stuck in a post-cigarette bedroom voice. Which, of course, you don’t mind in the slightest. He could read off a ransom note and you’d probably swoon. You place the unsweet tea in front of him and he eyes it like water in the middle of a scorching desert.

“Same as usual? Two waffles, scrambled eggs, three-”

“Ah- uhm. No, actually. A bit different tonight.”

Your eye twitches, an instinctual response to being interrupted by a customer. John doesn’t notice, he’s too busy looking out the diner windows toward the treeline. You’d think he’d leave work at work, but apparently, old pines are interesting enough to warrant his lack of conversational engagement. He’s a grown man, you tell yourself, it’s kind of how they are.

You tear off the ticket you were already writing down, stuffing the crumpled yellow sheet in an apron pocket before placing the tip of your pen on the new sheet. “Alright,” you huff. “What’s it gonna be tonight?”

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“Jesus fucking Christ, kid.”

The cook in the back looks at the ticket, his eyes growing as wide as saucers. An hour before closing, and he’s practically cooking a Thanksgiving feast.

“This is John’s order? John Price? The same guy we see almost nightly?”

You throw your hands up in exasperation.

“That’s what I was thinking, Phil! I wrote down his usual and everything, and he interrupts me and proceeds to order half the goddamn menu!”

  Phil hangs up the ticket in front of him, and you can see the chicken scratch you quickly applied to the paper, almost completely covering it. John had ordered… and kept ordering. It’s not like you’ve never dealt with large orders before, but from park ranger John Price? This was completely out of his norm.

The back door opens and shuts, and a younger line cook walks in smelling like cigarettes.

“Hey, Alex, come look at this!” Alex shuffles in, looking over Phil’s shoulder. You watch as his eyes go from indifferent to indignant. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s an hour till closing and

you’re serving a party? Tell them to go the hell ho-”

“No no no- this is John, man. Mr. Price. Can you even believe it?”

Alex looks from the ticket and to you. You watch as his lips move under his mustache, like he’s trying to get some sort of response out. Phil just pats him roughly on the back before hanging the ticket on the line.

“Let’s get started, bud. Mr. Shepherd’ll have our asses handed to us if we don’t close on time.”

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It’s about 11:45 pm. About 25 minutes ago, you had to pull out the old dolly like some sort of dumbass to push out the huge order to John. He owed you for that. He really fucking did. And now, 25 minutes later, the entire fuckass meal is gone. Nowhere to be found. He ate it all.

Perched behind the counter, you pretend to wipe things down while Alex comes out of the back of the house. He perches next to you, shoulders bumping together. He smells a bit like bacon grease and menthol.

“You think we can add gratuity to his check?” He murmurs.

“Do you wanna be the one asking Herschel ‘we-go-way-back’ Shepherd to upcharge our regular?”

Alex purses his lips, head nodding back and forth. Finally, he settles on a comfortable “no,” before stalking back into the kitchen. With a sigh, you toss the rag you were holding to the side and push yourself from the counter. You walk to the back of house to ring John up, emerging shortly thereafter and slipping it on his table. “You gonna need anything to go?” You’re not really sure why you asked - he ate enough to sustain a damned bear for the winter. If he asked for anything to go, you might punch him.

Lucky for you, he shakes his head.

“No ma’am,” he says, his voice gravelly.

You feel a bit guilty, then. All he was trying to do was order a meal, but you’ve been groveling all evening over walking a couple of plates in his direction. For all you knew, he could’ve missed lunch or something, too busy doing… whatever the hell a park ranger does.

He’s not very chatty tonight, either. Usually, you can fish a bit out of him if you bat your eyelashes and don’t look too busy. He doesn’t mind small talk if he doesn’t feel like he’s getting in your way. But this whole night has felt like pulling teeth.

“Alex made a joke about charging you gratuity for that meal of yours,” You laugh.

The joke quickly slips and falls flat when John looks at the check with a blank expression. Lord almighty.

“Sorry for the trouble,” He replies.

You want to tear your hair out. Does he actually think you were trying to guilt-trip him? Jesus Christ, you want to go hide in a hole and quit forever.

“No no!” You raise your hands to wave off his apology. “It was a joke. He was just being a dick, y’know?”

John reaches for his wallet, tucked away safely in a Carhartt jacket that’s seen better days. He slips his card to you, and you know that it’s time to run off before you say another stupid thing.

Alex and Phil are ragging on each other when you scramble to the back of house, and Phil flashes you a grin. However, your mood is soured. You punch in the numbers and get John’s receipt before they can try and drag you into one of their stupid conversations.

“Here you go,” You mumble, handing John his receipt and card back. Your throat itches with the compulsory ‘thank you for coming, have a good night,’ but you hold it back. Putting on another smile might just make you sick to your stomach tonight.

John rises from his seat, stuffing his card back in his wallet and then his jacket. He nods in acknowledgment, stepping from the booth. He’s taller than you by a long shot as he stands, and he’s even hunched over a bit. If he’d stand up straight, he’d practically cast a shadow over you.

“You have a good night, love. Drive safe.” The most words he’s spoken all night, and they’re telling you to be safe. In that growly accent of his. He’s not even making eye contact, practically bristling at the prospect of socialization, but you feel like your knees are about to give out just from his words.

“Yeah,” You breathe. “You too, okay? Watch out for animals in the road.”

Mentally, you compartmentalize a thought that says buying a book on local wildlife to talk about with him next time is a good idea. It might be a bit weird, but he’s a bit weird. He’d probably dig it.

John nods, finally meeting your eyes as that caterpillar of facial hair quirks up in a small smile.

“Bears right now, mainly. Most know better than to run around the roads, though.”

Why the hell is that little fact enough to make you starstruck? You barely muster a nod before he’s out the diner door, the bell ringing behind him and signaling that the last customer of your shift has left.

[papercraneswemade]

I had another thought (I love NPC! User AU so much because there's so many dynamics you can explore) but imagine you're a florist and this purple-haired smooth talked walked inside, flashed a smile and ordered a bouquet, paying it with a black card.

You began to wonder just who this man was before you gasped in realization. This is Rafayel! That one painter you're immensely jealous of because how did someone even become a successful artist at such a young age?!

After he paid, he thanked you and walked out. You looked at the card machine and realized his card was still stuck inside the slot, and quickly ran to catch up with him. Thank goodness he was painting in a local park.

You were about to go give him his card back when you stood frozen in shock, the sight in front of you was enough to send any florist into a cardiac arrest.

Rafayel took the flowers out of the bouquet, crushing them petal by petal before putting them in different jars of warm water, its colors steeping.

'My masterpiece... My beautiful masterpiece...' You thought, covering your mouth in disbelief as if you had witnessed a mass murder (which, in a way, you kinda did). It didn't help that you meticulously arranged these flowers as an appreciative gesture for his artworks that you adored.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you stomped your way over to him, pointing at the crushed flowers in his hands, demanding answers.

He simply shrugged, "I paid for these already, I can feed these to a goat if I wanted to."

You dangled his card in front of him, "oh?"

He quickly put his hands on his pockets and rummaged around before pouting, "hey, give it back!"

Long story short, he sulked as he apologized for using your beautiful flowers to make natural watercolor paint, promising not to do it again.

You huffed, crossing your arms as you asked why he wanted to make paint instead of buying some. Well, he was rich anyway, right?

At first he was hesitant, before he sighed in defeat, explaining that this one particular painting was done to honor someone's memory. You whipped your head aside to look at the sketch, seeing a familiar face.

The Deepspace hunter that died during a rescue mission while protecting injured people from a Wanderer's attack. Her face was all over the news. People called her a hero. Even you couldn't help but feel a slight loss for her.

You turned your gaze back to Rafayel, whose eyes clearly showed the pain he was hiding inside. Without giving much thought, you blurted, offering little comfort for the artist, "you can talk if you want."

He was quiet, rolling his eyes at the ridiculous idea, muttering, "fans wanting to know my business. As usual."

Offended and your pride wounded, you turned around and walked away, not even glancing back for the last time.

The next day, on your shift, you were arranging flowers on a vase, an activity you often do to relax and pass time on a slow day. The door opened, and lo and behold, Rafayel stepped inside, his lips pursed as he looked around.

Your mood soured instantly before you turned your nose up, "hmph. Sorry, we don't serve annoying arrogant brats."

Rafayel's face flashed an annoyed expression before he sighed, rubbing the back of his head, "I came here to apologize. I'm sorry for assuming you just wanted to satisfy your curiosity. But you have to understand that I have to play it safe or I could lose everything. I mean, have you met an average fangirl? The parasocial can be a bit... Yeah..."

You rolled your eyes before relenting, "yeah, I get it." You lied, "but I'm not your fan. I just happen to like your artwork, brat."

Rafayel spluttered, "I said I was sorry!"

Long story short, you and Rafayel slowly became closer, him having the courage to open himself up to you, and you having the courage to tell him your own ultimate dream.

You didn't tell him that you like him, you knew he needed time to heal. He didn't tell you that he likes you, because he was torn. On one hand he still loved his bodyguard dearly, and the memories they shared together.

But you. You gave him something he hadn't felt in a while. Hope. You made him wanted to dream again. Each day he opened his eyes, he did it because he couldn't wait to see you again. And before he knew it, on a tranquil morning, he was standing in front of Miss Bodyguard's gravestone, your handmade bouquet clutched on his hands as he stared down the name of his past love.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment the breeze felt like a parting kiss from her. He whispered, laying the flowers on her grave, "wish me luck."

You did your best to prepare for Rafayel's newest art exhibition. Being friends with him meant getting the VIP benefit for free, an opportunity you will not pass on. Thomas had warned you not to think too much of Rafayel's main exhibition, which he said to be a painting of the Deepspace Hunter, the one with the handmade watercolor.

You didn't mind even the slightest. You knew how suffocating grief can be, and if Rafayel used paint to get over it, who were you to judge?

You arrived early, and due to your VIP status, you got the chance to look around with Rafayel as he made sure every painting is spot on. He stopped in front of a painting, overlooking it.

You approached him, and your eyes were focused on Rafayel's satisfied expression rather than the painting itself. You grinned teasingly, "uh oh, I can smell that arrogance seeping through your pores."

He chuckled, "hey! A guy can be proud of his work, you know."

You joined in on the chuckling, "yeah, well, I guess having your own exhibition will make yo–"

Your eyes widened as you finally realized who was in the painting.

It was your portrait. A smiling you, holding your favorite flowers on one hand as you held a clipper on the other. He even got the details right, the bandage on your right pinky finger and the bunny apron you always use during your shift, even the sparkly pink hairclip.

You couldn't keep your eyes away, still in awe, not noticing Rafayel had stood behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. He whispered, "go out with me?"

You spluttered, "excuse me?!"

He smugly replied, "go out with me."

Turning to face him, you mumbled, "what about her?"

His expression softened, "I loved her. That's true. But now I love you. As in, present tense. Get it?"

Your shoulders shook before you burst into laughter, "present tense? You're killing the mood."

He smiled, pressing his lips to the top of your head, "well?"

You wore a matching smile, "okay. I'll go out with you, brat."

He huffed out in amusement, checking his watch. He pulled away and took your hand, "come on. The expo's about to start. I gotta show my girl to the world."

--

A/N: ahshahshshahhahsha this was so rushed but I just needed to get this idea out of my head cause it's been haunting me a lot,,, anyway sassy user x sassy raf will always be my fav rafayel trope 😋😋😋 hope y'all enjoyed this little read

[onthesandsofdreams]

The Note Trail

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe Pairing: Loki x Reader Prompt: Note from @fluffbruary

Read @ AO3

You find the first note tucked inside your favorite book, it reads: Interesting choice in literature.

You frown, wondering who could have possibly left it behind as it carries no signature. You debate for a moment to toss it away, but something nags you in the back of the head, something's off; so you put it in your notebook and carry on reading.

~

You would have forgotten the note, had the second not been found on your favorite cereal box. A post-it, with a simple: It is a tasty treat.

It leaves you puzzled, you had bought this box of cereal and none of the avengers had - to your knowledge - ate from it. Because you know that Tony would have bought several boxes had he done so. Still, it's… not unnerving, but curious.

~

The third note appears stuck to your favorite vinyl. It reads: She really has a great voice.

Now, you cannot help but to wonder who could possibly be leaving these behind. Jarvis is entirely unhelpful, he knows, but refuses to say. He claims that someone wishes to surprise you.

Okay fine, as long as the surprise is not too terrible, you're game.

~

The fourth note appears alongside a new book of poetry. It's not an author who you have read before, but you like poetry well enough.

The note reads: I hope it pleases you.

That night, as you practically devour the love poetry collection, you find yourself thankful to your mysterious note leaver. You might as well have found a new favorite book.

~

The fifth note comes accompanied with your favorite kind of coffee and a cupcake. It reads: Something sweet, for someone sweet.

You had had a bad day at work. Not that working the finances for the avengers was bad work, honestly, they were dream clients, but your coworkers could be annoying and someone had stolen your lunch. Bless Tony Stark for hiring a team of cooks and having the place well stocked. But damn it, you really had wanted that burrito bowl.

Anyway, you dig into your coffee and cupcake. The note goes into the envelop you moved them, rising your coffee as a silent salute to whomever sent it.

~

The sixth note, you find in your coat pocket, there is a new pair of cashmere gloves in your favorite color to go with it. It reads: Your hands are lovely, may they always be warm.

It brings a smile to your face.

~

The seventh note, comes along with a bouquet of flowers. Oh, not your typical roses or daisies. No, this one is very clearly well thought out, it is a burst of colors that brings to mind the rainbow.

The note reads: May they make you smile.

And yes, they do. Because as they sit in your office desk, they break the monotony of the professional gray, chrome and black. Oh, sure, you have some personal effects that helps that your office doesn't look bleak, but still. The flowers are fragrant and beautiful and you find yourself distracted all day just by looking at them.

~

The eight note comes to your doorstep. You are sick, nursing a cold and miserable. When there is a knock at your door.

You grudgingly get up from the warm comfort of your bed and open it, finding no one. But when you look down, you find two baskets: One with cold remedies, the other, with two kinds of soup: matzo and chicken noodle, along with two kinds of tea, orange juice, and the chocolate you love so much.

The note simply reads: Get better soon.

It makes your heart skip a beat.

~

You find the ninth note on your office upon your return to work. It's there with a box of chocolates and a bottle of champagne (Tony denies having anything to do with it. You believe him.), it is a nice way to welcome you back into work.

The note reads: You were dearly missed.

And now, you are almost twitching to know who is been sending all these notes to you, the gifts are lovely too, because they speak of someone who clearly has paid attention to you.

But no one comes to mind. You are friendly with coworkers - except that bastard who stole your burrito bowl - and even the avengers. But try as it might, you cannot think of anyone who would send you all this.

~

The tenth notes comes from the hand of Natasha.

She arrives with a tiny, knowing smile. It should concern you. Natasha only smiles like that with Clint. You raise a brow at her, her grin widens and offers the note.

It reads: Meet me Serendipity after work.

You read once, twice and then turn to ask Natasha, but she is already gone. Silent as only she can be.

You spend your day at work twitching. Hardly believing that finally, finally, you'll meet the responsible one.

So, when the clock hits five, you gather your things and make your way to Serendipity.

When you arrive there, you come to an abrupt halt. There, in all of his glory, is Loki. He's watching you and then offers you a smile. Not the usual smirk, nor the smile after a successful mischief, but one of calm assurance and contentment.

You approach, and before you can say anything, he offers another note, it reads: Have dessert with me?

Your heart is beating so loudly, you fear he might be able to hear it. You look up from the note, "I'd love to have dessert with you."

The tension around his shoulders vanishes. "Good, good. I was worried." He offers his arm and you take it. "Let's have dessert before dinner."

You allow him to take the lead. You do not mind, this could be the start of something sweet.

[drzootsuit]

part of the issue is a certain level of capitalism-brain that means people are fixated on the value of finished art as polished content, and not as artwork that they made in the pursuit of self expression. because we are all poisoned by big C, it means that it's all too easy to view artwork in terms of its trade value. its view numbers, its paychecks, its social and literal trade value.

Those who value art purely on this level (and I say purely, for even a lot of us true-blue artist types are victim to this value scheme to some degree) have long terrorized artists with complaints about how artists are charging too much for labor. At the core of all of these complaints is always one core sentiment: "It's just art".

the generative AI theft market empowers these people, because it allows you to push a button and recieve 'content'. there is a strong sentiment among many in generative AI spaces that they are democratizing access to art. This is of course, patently ludicrous, as art is intrinsic to human experience. you can open mspaint right now and draw literally anything you desire, limited only by your creativity.

What they mean, truly, wether they know it or not, is that AI democratizes access to what they view as the privilege to make content. "why should those lazy artist bums get paid money for doodling? how dare they make patronizing statements like "drawing like this is actually hard" and "I need money in exchange for that 17 page hentai comic sir"? I'll show them!" they are concerned not with art as a means of self expression or as a means of connection with others, but purely as content. as money. as all the capitalistic benefits they associate with polished artwork, but in a way that betrays that they hold zero value for the work itself, how its made, or who makes it.

slop for the mill. You can see this in the way that, for instance, AI generated music channels on youtube will use chat gpt even to write the most basic video descriptions and fucking responses to their comments. they cannot bear the weight of even typing "thanks, glad you liked it" themselves, because such a thing is pride, and they have no true pride. for all their barking and baying and whining and anger, they are incapable of being proud of their work, as even a child with a box of crayons can be.

the point of art is to make it. Even if its bad. Even if its sloppy or short or poorly spelled or discordant or amateur or crappy, what matters in art is YOU the artist, and the bond you make with the audience. AI is the purest form of reducing what we all do to a nebulous idea of profit on a graph. it is the wet dream of suit-wearing cigar munchers who have long prayed to the stars to send them a perfect math equation that could replace all of those annoying artists and make their entertainment companies into the stock-market firms they all dream of heading.

so no, literally anything is better than AI. make bad music with default instruments. record bad voice acting on shitty mics. take photos of colored pencil drawings of comically bad fetish porn.

You aren't making content, you're making art.

Hey, you reblogged that AI post and I was surprised to see something so mean on your blog. "If you cant write unassisted, fuck you, youre a disgrace to the community." Is that really something you want on your blog?

Just in case this isn't a spam message:

Posting AI-generated content to a platform intended to be an archive for writers is not appropriate use of the platform. On a platform intended for human creation, it is rude and inappropriate to clog search results with AI-produced content which often plagiarizes the work of human authors.

Use of generative AI is also horrible for our environment, leading to massive waste of fossil fuel energy and water. We should not be doing damage to our planet for the sake of generating (robot-produced, often plagiarized) fiction, especially when the joy of fiction comes from the creation and emotion of real people.

Rather than giving a prompt to a generative AI, people should consider attempting to write their own work, or asking another writer from the fandom if they would be interested in writing it. Anyone who is capable of typing a prompt into ChatGPT is capable of writing a story. The first attempts may not be amazing, but that is true of any skill, and anyone can improve with time and practice - and while ChatGPT may give you big returns in your time, it doesn't give you practice, growth, or creativity, which is where the joy of writing should come from.

[crushribbons]

thanks, peg J

summary: Dr. Michael Robinavitch needs help building a shelf.

cw: 2.7k words, flluff, my actual husband is an actual doctor i should probably know more/anything about how hospitals work, vague age gap (reader/oc is in her 30's), vague to graphic depictions of injury/illness, fem!OC/reader.

a/n: paging dr. daddy :) <3

(gif cred)

She pulled her stethoscope off her neck. “Oof. Sounds like a ball of a Friday night. Is it from Ikea?”

“The Ivar,” Robby specified with a nod and shrug. He looked back down at the patient list from their shift, which couldn’t have been ending at a more merciful time. The last man she had examined had spat on her. And what else should she expect?; she’d diagnosed his pain as a small kidney stone passing through his urethra and written a prescription that would all but eliminate the discomfort. If that wasn’t deserving of a loogie to the face, she didn’t know what else would be. Robby let out a sigh that sounded exactly like the exhaustion tugging her eyelids down. 

Nurse Dana swept by them, her fleece jacket already three-quarters of the way on. “Don’t take too long on those autographs, kids, or night shift will just let you keep right on rolling.” 

A raspy little laugh slipped past Dr. Robby’s lips and the corners of his eyes crinkled the way they always did on the rare occasions someone could tug a genuine smile out of him. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure if the lack of breakfast and the bag of Ritz crackers she’d scarfed down for lunch were the only things making her light-headed. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he called after Dana. The charge nurse raised her hand without turning around and wiggled her fingers at them while darting out the double doors that led to the waiting room and exit before anyone could stop her. Robby turned back to the doctor next to him and handed her the clipboard he’d just finished signing about two hundred times. 

Her hand grazed his, and the level of attention she paid to how warm and rough his fingers felt made her grit her jaw in frustration. It was her first year as an attending, how could she be letting something as ridiculous as a workplace crush get to her? She realized it had been a while since she’d spoken, and that Robby was pulling his own coat and backpack from underneath his desk. 

“Need any help chasing down the million nuts and bolts that are guaranteed to burst out of the little bag when you open it?” she offered jokingly. Robby’s eyes flicked to her too fast. She felt her hairline heat up, worried she’d overstepped. 

None of the attendings did anything outside of work together; the work hours were long enough to get their fill of each other without feeling the need to add alcohol or food to the mix. Some of the students and residents would occasionally hit bars after their shifts, and though she had no desire to join them, it made her miss the relative lack of responsibility of med school. Dr. Robinavitch, in particular, never broached the topic of his personal life at work, so she tried to do the same. There were too many patients to see and too much to accomplish to bother checking if the attractive ER chief with the puppy-dog eyes had plans for the weekend. No matter how much she wanted to.

He let out another chuckle, though this one was without humor. "Don't tell me you got nothing better to do than that," he said. "On a Friday night."

"I'm, uh, still finding my way around Pittsburgh." It was true. Her residency in California had spoiled her, and she found the stark greyness of Pennsylvania off-putting. She rarely ventured from her apartment for anything other than work and necessary grocery shopping.

He regarded her for a few seconds. His gaze felt heavier than it should have, as if she had some symptom that didn't line up with her lab results. She remembered what Dr. Santos had muttered to her on her first day at the Pitt when she'd caught the new doctor staring a little too long at Robby typing his notes.

"I know. He's crazy hot, right?" Trinity had pinched her elbow and embarrassment had made her stutter nonsensically. Then, to top off the humiliation, Trinity had started swaying her shoulders side to side and singing under her breath, "I will be your father figure, put your tiny hand in mine..." The younger woman was known for being abrasive, but, shit, she was a perceptive little fucker, too.

"I'd be a fool to turn down help wrangling Ivar. Ikea furniture is my Achilles heel," Robby was saying when she snapped back to the present. He seemed hesitant. He couldn't tell whether she'd been joking or not, and, frankly, she couldn't either. "But I couldn't ask you to–"

"You'd be doing me a favor," she cut in quickly. He would, in more ways than one. "If I sit on my couch with my cat for one more weekend, I think they're gonna start letting me collect Social Security."

A genuine laugh! Her stomach flipped upside down at the sight and the sound. Both were warm and inviting and made her want to kiss each of the individual lines on his weathered face. "Then by all means, please."

Oh, wait. Was this happening? Was it, actually? Nerves gnawed at her while she finished handing off the patient list to the night shift. What was it? A date? A friend helping another friend put a shelf together? A coworker helping another, older and more senior coworker who intimidated the hell out of her put a shelf together?

As Robby departed through the same double doors Dana had dashed through, he turned and pointed significantly at his phone, and she pulled hers from her pocket to see that he had texted her his address. Nothing else, just the address, dashed out in Robby’s usual efficient and minimalistic tone. He hadn’t even included the city and zip, but he didn’t need to. Living further than 15 minutes away from the hospital seemed like something a less dedicated physician might consider, but she knew that Robby didn’t really live at the address he’d sent her, anyway. He lived in all the exam rooms and hallways surrounding her, their sanitized scent pricking at her nose one last time before she stepped into the waiting room and the few remaining rays of sunlight waiting to greet her outside.

The door opened on her second knock, or, more accurately, before she could even finish it. Goddammit. She should have taken more time to consider what an off-duty Dr. Robby might look like. 

“Hey,” he said, a genial smile lighting up his tired face.

“H–mm, hi,” she replied. She tried to hide a swallow.

Robby stood aside and let her pass through the front door of the aged but charming brownstone. The long hallway was lined with dark wooden panels that creaked when she walked over them. She tried not to feel him following behind her, the scent of some musky shampoo or body wash drifting off him. She also showered directly after a shift. Too much hospital.

A line of hooks held various jackets and sling bags, and a haphazard pile of worn sneakers sat beneath them. “I gotta get a rack for those, or something,” Robby muttered from behind her, noticing her sightline.

“You should see mine. The floor of my closet is a nightmare.”

She walked into the living room and couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face. It was sparsely but cozily finished, an overstuffed couch and matching loveseat positioned atop a plush rug that hugged her feet taking up most of the space. And, of course, a veritable disaster of boards, planks, plastic bags, and ripped cardboard in the middle of all of it.

“Yikes.”

“Thank you, again, for helping me with this,” he said, and came to stand beside her. “Why is it that I can perform a trach in my sleep, but the assembly of Swedish furniture is my downfall?” He scratched the back of his neck, the white t-shirt he was wearing showing off far too much of what was usually hidden beneath a few layers of thermals, scrubs, and hoodies. Her hairline started to feel hot again. 

She cleared her throat and made her way over to the pile of shelf. “For what med school costs, they really should be teaching us the essentials like this stuff, too!” He didn’t respond, making her look up at him. He was watching her again, with that sort-of-absent-but-always-thoughtful x-ray vision. She wished he’d stop.

“You really got none of the cynicism and all of the optimism out of your residency, didn’t you?”

She flushed and looked back down at the ground, unsure if he was making fun of her. “It being basically on the ocean didn’t hurt. Lots to be optimistic about in northern Cali, it’s so beautiful.”

Robby shook his Midwest-born-and-bred head. “Damn hippy.” His voice was gruff, but his dark eyes were sparkling and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders dissipate in a giggle. He crossed the room and through an arch that led to the kitchen. “I ordered some Chinese for dinner, hope that’s alright,” he called back to her.

The tension returned tenfold and her heart began doing somersaults in her chest. Dinner? This included dinner now? Sure, it was time for dinner, but she hadn’t wanted to be so presumptuous as to suggest adding food to this friendly favor she was performing. Robby returned laden with white paper takeout boxes and a handful of napkins and chopsticks. “Like lo mein?” he asked. She nodded.

“Yes, but you really didn’t have to get anything for me! That’s so nice,” she gushed, trying to reign in the attraction to this man and behave as if he was just any other rugged, kind, intelligent guy she might come in contact with. She was so screwed. 

He pressed the box of lo mein into her hand with a pair of chopsticks. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for helping with this,” he shrugged. “Hopefully, you still have an appetite after that bike accident from this morning.” The memory of the young man’s torso torn open and spilling out onto the operating table sent a nauseous wave from her head to her stomach, but she quickly compartmentalized it, as she’d learned to do long ago.

“Why do people even buy motorcycles,” she muttered rhetorically.

“Uh, because they love visiting you so very much,” he returned with a wink that made her miss her mouth with the chopsticks.

Two hours later, the shelf was only two-feet tall and missing three of the nine screws it had required so far.

“Peg L, peg L, peg L,” Robby said through gritted teeth, “where the fuck is peg L?”

She held the instructions centimeters away from her face, hoping the proximity would illuminate its solutions somehow. “Peg L goes into plank K. We just placed plank H.” He stopped running his hands along the carpet to search for the missing peg L and looked up at her with a speck of encroaching insanity peeking through. 

“I’m out of order?”

“Miiiike,” she laugh-groaned. “Did you already use peg G? We need J right now!” When he didn’t answer, she glanced up from the “simple” instruction packet. A sleepy kind of flush appeared on his face, and he pulled the reading glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose and–hide it? Then, he sighed.

“God, no one’s called me just…Mike in forever.” It was a complete sentence, a complete statement, a complete story, and he was done talking about it, but it made a million questions bubble up in the back of her throat. She ignored them.

“You’re at work too much,” she almost whispered. Why she was no longer scared of stepping over some professional, coworker boundary, she wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the way he had accepted her help with such a domestic task, or the fact that they were seeing each other in something other than scrubs for the first time (the loose, perfectly worn-in jeans he was wearing would surely be appearing in her dreams that night), or maybe it was because their legs had been pressed together for the last half hour as they tried to decipher the mysteries of Ivar. Whatever it was, Robby–Mike, felt it, too. He stared into her eyes before averting them to the floor and mumbling,

“Yeah. I know.” He put the glasses back on. “So, peg J.”

“C’mere, ya little Swedish asshole,” she agreed, and they resumed pawing around the rug to try and find the screws that, as predicted, had spilled from the package as soon as Robby had ripped it. She tried to avoid brushing against his hand as well as she could, until her fingers bumped into a tiny piece of metal, and she snatched the screw from the ground. Carefully consulting the instructions, she looked from the page, to the screw, to the page, before shouting, “Oh my God, I found it!” 

His hands were cradling either side of her face in a second, and then he was kissing her. The part of her brain that handled compartmentalization clocked in at lightning speed and swept all her confusion into the bin so she could focus on nothing except his beard scratching her, his warm hands cupping her jaw. Well, well before she had gotten her fill of him, he pulled back and blurted, “Awesome! Good job, let’s put it in.” He plucked the screw out of her hand like the conversation had just been on pause, scooting over on his knees to the feeble half-shelf.

She sat in complete shock until Robby, without turning to face her, said, “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“Mike.”

“You just looked–and I, it’s been…I’m really sorry.”

“Mike.”

He was attempting to twist the screw into place with his fingers so he didn’t have to come get the screwdriver from beside her. “I overstepped. It won’t happen again. If you want to take it to HR…”

That was enough to jumpstart her brain again, and she burst into laughter, forcing him to finally spin around.

“HR? Really?” She made a phone out of her pinky, fist, and thumb and held it to her ear. “Hello, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center Department of Human Resources? Yes, I’d like to file a report against one of your doctors.” She was having a hard time stifling her laughter. “Dr. Michael Robinavitch. Yes, the hottie from the ER, that’s correct. He really laid one on me—"

It was Robby's turn to cut her off, and he did so by rolling his eyes and snatching the instructions out of her other hand. "Hey!" She dove after them but decided instead to drag him in by the collar of his shirt for another kiss. They both held each other tightly, Robby's hands wandering, respectfully, under the hem of her shirt. When she tugged a handful of his hair, he grunted in annoyance.

"Watch it. Don't have much of that left."

"You've got a lot for an old man." She regretted it as soon as she said it, even though he had already alluded to it. His head dropped and apologies bubbled up and out of her lips, assurances that that's not how she'd meant it, that he was the most attractive man she'd met at the Pitt, but he waved them off.

His glasses were sliding down his nose again. He cleared his throat and pushed them back up. "Are you okay with it, then? I mean, I know I'm not..." Her heart ached when he trailed off, nervously scratching the back of his neck again.

"Very ok," she whispered. She reached for his hand and took it. He was fiddling with a screw that she plucked out and tossed to the side. "I'm 31, you know, Senior Elder Doctor Robinavitch."

Robby smiled, clearly in spite of himself. He tucked a piece of hair that had fallen into her eyes behind her ear. For a minute, they just sat and looked at each other, matching each other's lazy smiles. "That's it. Didn't want to have to do this, but you're fired."

"Okay now I want to take this to HR."

masterlist

[traincat]

do you have any new spideytorch fics in current progress? of course no worries if not but i just wanted to ask. i’m absolutely obsessed with your writing and your fics!!

Thank you!

I sort of have two things I started, but haven't made a ton of progress on. I'm a little busy between work and a big bang in a different fandom, so these have been put to the side for now, but looking at them does make me want to finish them.

Fic 1 is a Just Married installment set in the future because I thought amnesia would be a fun trope to play with in the context of that universe. Basically, Peter gets whammied, forgets he ever fake-but-for-real married Johnny, and has to work out his feelings, which is horrible for him.

Peter picked up the framed photo, tilting it towards the light. He and Johnny stood at the center, splattered in -- he hoped it was paint. There was a gaggle of kids surrounding them, including two young brunet boys. One was clinging to Johnny's legs. The other was holding a water gun to Peter's head. “Our twin boys,” Johnny said, his hand pressed to his heart. “Threaderick and Weavon.” Peter nearly dropped the photo. “I’m just messing with you,” Johnny said. “That was from the day Bentley temporarily cloned himself. Which is pretty funny because he’s already a clone.” “It’s impossible to tell if any word coming out of your mouth is serious,” Peter said. “Johnny, I need you to be serious with me. Do we – do we have kids?” “No,” Johnny said, his mouth pressed into an unhappy line. He looked away from Peter. “We don’t have kids.”

Fic 2 is not even remotely presenting itself as serious. Like less so than the spider attracting body butter fic. I don't for a single second believe Peter would let Johnny's mustache from the North run go without comment.

Peter had been accused, by various people in his life, of being a variety of less than flattering things. Neurotic. Overprotective. Mildly overbearing. (“Stalkeresque,” Betty drawled from her desk, shooting him a nasty look. “Not a word, Betts,” Peter said, and kissed her on the top of her head as he dropped off her brown sugar latte. “Parker!” Jonah shouted from his office. “Do you even work here anymore?!” “Adios!” Peter said, and beat it before Jonah could call security.) (the FF come back from idk. space or whatever. I'm not pretending this canon compliant with North's run, I just want to make mustache jokes.) “I’m warning you, Bug,” Ben said. “You’re not going to like what you see.” (what he sees is the mustache. he does not like it.) -- “I don’t get what the problem is,” Harry said, waving a lofty hand in the air. “So he wants to grow a mustache. Let him grow a mustache.” “The problem is it’s hideous,” Peter said. “It’s like looking a dead, blond weasel on his upper lip.” “You liked the mustache I had back in college,” Harry said, stroking the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger. He shrugged. “I guess not everyone can pull it off.” Peter decided to break it to him easy. “You know I love you, right, Har?” he said. “You’re my best friend. I’ll always be there for you.” “Aw,” Harry said. Then suspicion dawned on his face. “Wait. What are you getting at?” “I hated the mustache, Harry,” Peter said. (blah blah blah) “Gwen liked the mustache, though, right?” Harry said. “Gwen said she liked it. She said it made me look like a malfeasant.” Peter didn’t bother to ask if Harry knew what that meant. “Gwen paid MJ fifty bucks to shave it off while you were sleeping.” “Huh,” Harry said. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Wow. I haven’t had the urge to get Dad’s Green Goblin gear out of storage in a long time.” “Good talk, Harry,” Peter said. -- Johnny had his waxer on speed dial and a biweekly appointment at New York’s most exclusive salon. There was no way the mustache was going to last. Peter gave it a week. A week and a half, tops. (blah blah blah) “Johnny,” Peter said, taking him by the shoulders. “Sunshine. Firefly. Light of my life.” His gaze dropped to the mustache and then back up to Johnny’s eyes. “Is this war?” “I have no idea what you mean,” Johnny said, but he reached up and twirled one end of the mustache. Sparks danced in his eyes. Peter’s jaw clenched. War it was.

I'm titling this one Mustache You a Question, obviously.

[everlastingday]

thank you @tellmegoodbye, @heartstringsduet, @annoyingcloudearthquake, @henrygrass, @whatsintheboxmh, @paperstorm, and @emsprovisions for the tags! 💜

another scene from the orchestra AU, which i've been having fun with! not sure yet if this one will make it out of wip hell but we shall see...

--

“TK, Carlos, can you two stay behind?” Owen asks as he dismisses everyone else.

Carlos is caught off guard by the request, but he supposes it isn’t inconceivable for there to be some extra information that Owen might need to go over with his two principal violinists. 

“So, as you know, we are trying to build the brand for the ASO,” Owen starts. “Keep this between us, but we did see a slight drop in subscribers from last season to the upcoming one.”

“Oh geez, I wonder why,” TK says sarcastically, clearly making a jab at the fact that their audience mostly consists of people over the age of 70, and look like they may be in their last years. Carlos scowls at this; he doesn’t disagree that it’s the likely reason they’re seeing a drop in subscribers, but the way that TK just so callously says it puts a bad taste in his mouth;

“TK,” Owen warns, and TK raises his hand in a half-apology. “But, you’re not wrong, necessarily, and the board thinks so too. We need to broaden our audience.”

“How?” Carlos asks. “For as long as I’ve been here, that’s just been our demographic. No offence, but a night at the symphony is not how the young people of Austin like to spend their Friday nights.”

“Well, yes, that’s true,” Owen says. “Which is why we have a new marketing manager starting next week, who is going to help us build our social media presence.”

“So, why are we here?” TK asks.

“I was getting to that. Part of the initiative is to do more outreach, and part of that outreach is going to be a chamber ensemble performance series. Which the two of you,” Owen points one index finger at each of them, “are going to be leading.”

“What?!” TK and Carlos yell at the same time. They turn to look at each other, before looking back at Owen.

“Dad, I don’t have time for this,” TK complains, crossing his arms. 

“You’re the concertmaster — it’s quite literally your job,” Owen points out. “And Carlos, you’re the principal second. Can’t really have a chamber ensemble without the violins, can we?”

“Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but the off-season is typically when a lot of us have to work other jobs,” Carlos says. On the one hand, it is true, but that isn’t really the main reason why Carlos’s entire body wants to reject this endeavour.

“Oh, you’ll be paid for this, of course,” Owen adds quickly. 

“And when exactly does this performance series start?” TK asks, his voice sharp and hostile.

“Two performances in August and September, in the lead up to the season opener at the end of September. And then one for the holidays, and then we’ll go from there.”

Carlos sighs, knowing that he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. “Alright.”

“Wonderful!” Owen exclaims, not bothering to wait for TK’s response. “You’ll both meet with Marjan next week, she’ll get you up to speed and help you plan the programs.”

“Great, I can’t wait,” TK says sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

As he leaves the building and into the scorching heat of the summer sun, Carlos can’t help but think he’s in way over his head. He also can’t think of anyone he wants to spend less time with than TK Strand, so there’s also that.

--

open tag & no-pressure tagging a few people under the cut!

@nancys-braids @welcometololaland @reyesstrand @thisbuildinghasfeelings @captain-gillian @lemonlyman-dotcom @bonheur-cafe @carlossreaders @lightningboltreader @eclectic-sassycoweyes @firstprince-history-huh @carlos-in-glasses @nisbanisba @futures-tense @herefortarlos

let me know if you want to be added/removed, and please feel free to tag me as well, i love seeing what everyone else is working on! 💜

[bitchesgetriches]

Hello! I was recently offered a promotion at work, and I don't know how to navigate the negotiation. For context, I am currently considered a "temp" working in a customer service role, but I've been with the same staffing agency in the same role with the same client for over 4 years now. I am paid fairly at an hourly rate, but I have virtually zero benefits. I've been open about pursuing work in another field for about two years now, and the owner has mentioned more than once that he would like to try to convince me to stay.

My responsibilities and workload have evolved greatly since I started, and this year especially I covered a lot of new ground with the release of a new product line. The owner has suggested bringing me on for a long term commitment in an elevated role. I would be managing vendor accounts, enforcing price listings, onboarding new vendors and providing them product training, working with our factories overseas on product development and technical resources, in addition to continuing providing support for my current customer service role.

I have no idea how to approach this conversation or what to ask for. I recognize I'm in a great bargaining position; this role doesn't currently exist within this company, and the owner plainly said the ball is in my court and to let him know what he can do to convince me to stay.

Do you have any words of wisdom?

Three cheers and a tiger! This is fantastic! Fucking congratulations, my dear!

Your first step will be to research similar roles at other companies. How much do they pay? What sort of benefits do they offer? You can use Glassdoor.com for this. Make sure to filter by region, as the cost of living in an area will affect pay range. When you have an idea of a salary range for this type of position, pick a number within that range and present it to your boss.

Also, ask for a written job description. That way you're both clear on the scope of your new role and you won't fall victim to responsibility inflation.

Good luck, dear! Let us know how it goes. Here's more advice on negotiating:

When It Comes to Salary Negotiations, Are You Asking for Enough? 

If Your Employer Refuses To Negotiate Salary, Try These 11 Creative Counteroffers

Stop Undervaluing Your Freelance Work, You Darling Fool 

Did we just help you out? Say thanks on Patreon!

[jordanswitches]

are you ticklish?

good.

[iniziare]

do you write?

Mel semi-dared me to type: “No, leave me alone.” So I have to include it. But in all seriousness, I'll respond this once, because it does allow me to update people a little bit. Though please know that your notification did have me pause mid-writing. Now, I want to politely, and respectfully direct you to my description on both dash-only and on my blog's theme, I also want to point your attention to my pinned post, and I believe that it's even in my rules, but I could be wrong. Though let me repeat it here:

The depictions you'll find here are canon-strict, and so you can expect many analyses of all kinds here, as dissecting the characters that I write is what I'm passionate about, and what I'm here for (and to write, of course!)

I admit, usually I aim to write more threads/asks consistently even if I'm excessively slow, and though I haven't updated the dash about my circumstances for a while (as I'm decently private about my life), know that writing meta has simply come a lot easier lately when time has permitted me to be on Tumblr. Now, that doesn't mean I don't value people's interest in writing with me, and I will live up to the promises that I've made that I will get to that (as I have occasionally done lately, and was in process of doing again)— but when meta comes easier to me, then I prioritize that as of late, simply because stress' best counter is the distraction that comes the easiest. Now this isn't by any means a waste of time, as it plays into what I quoted above. Because ultimately, here's my thing: I make it exceptionally clear everywhere on my blog that I am canon-strict (or as Tumblr, sadly, disrespectfully seems to call it nowadays: a 'lore purist'), and that this leads me to write a lot of analyses left and right on the characters that I write, but these are fundamental to understanding my portrayals of them. If that isn't your cup of tea, sir, or ma'am, then maybe this isn't the blog for you, and I don't mean that with malice, or in disrespect, but simply as a simple rebuke. In that, I greatly appreciate you checking in on behalf of my writing partners, but I'm also quite certain that they have the capacity to approach me themselves if they have any concerns. Have a nice day or night, wherever you are!

[soulreader05]

@ladywynne thanks for inviting me yet again.

My blorbo : this motherf*cker.

This guy keeps popping in my dreams, so why not?

1. Was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made them your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you? Like always, my brother dragged me to the movie theaters to watch Dune with him, I barely paid attention like I was half asleep at the start, that was until the loud a$$ soundtrack played during the Harkonnens attack, then I saw him, and then I was interested for a bit. I had to watch it a second time with my brother by that time I was already obsessed with Oscar Isaac.

2. What’s the thing you love the most about your Blorbo? He’s a loving protective dad.

3. What’s the thing you dislike the most about your blorbo? He’s part of a monarchy.

4. if you could talk to your Blorbo, what would you say to them? I’m too introverted, so instead I’m just gonna put flowers in his beard. (It’s what Tokala would do.)

5. What’s the one thing your fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

6. Is your Blorbo an introvert or Extrovert? The way he interacts with Gurney, and his other military staff tells me that this guy in the modern world would definitely be a golden retriever Extrovert.

7. Describe your Blorbo in 3 words? Rich Space Beard.

8. If your Blorbo were real, would you trust them with your life? Maybe.

9. Do you talk to your family or in real life friends about your Blorbo? I tell my brother about my weird dune dreams including my oc.

10. is there any crime, any wrongdoing your Blorbo could commit that would make you stop loving them and remove them from your hyperfixation entirely? Uh…Colonization, maybe?

11. do you like seeing your Blorbo suffer? Mental and Psychological torture maybe. Dying, not so much. Annoying him would be fun.

12. do you ship your Blorbo with any character? Y/Ns, Canon Characters, Original Characters, Lady Jessica of course.

13. if your Blorbo is from a live-action media, are you also a fan of the actor who plays them? Yes.

14. would you still love your Blorbo if they were real? He’s a monarch, so I doubt it. Eat the rich.

15. is your Blorbo a victim of badly written script / bad plot / character assassination in the hands of canon? …

…Does this answer your question?

16. if you could change one canonical thing about your Blorbo, what would it be? My take if they kept him alive, would be giving him, Lucy Maclean treatment in the wasteland. If you guys watched Fallout, then you know what I’m talking about, by the end, he’s no longer a Duke, he’s now a pilot helping the Fremen.

17. when you first discovered your Blorbo, did you realize from that moment that they would become your Blorbo? No, I did not see that rich prick, this man just randomly showed up in my dreams with my OC.

18. do you gatekeep your Blorbo? / would you want more people to know about your Blorbo? Gatekeeping is for losers…unless it involves AI.

19. has a fanfic about your Blorbo ever made you cry? Yep, I’ve made myself cry plenty of times as I imagine a scenario where my kid OC Tokala gets really upset at Leto for his son, Paul’s actions, his family bringing more war and bloodshed to her people, her home. She hits his chest again and again but it doesn’t really hurt him, Leto just takes her hits and lets her anger out, he pulls into her a tight embrace as she breaks down crying.

20. do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now on? I have no clue, Oscar Isaac please save me.

Tags : Anybody who see this. @ominoose @sillymarillly @hoedamn-eron @howaboutcastiel @xxjust-a-kidxx @gingersforeverbox @libblesdoodles

20 Questions

BLORBO ASKS GAME

reblog if you’d like people to send you asks about your Blorbo

was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made them your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you?

It was immediate. Watching Steven flounder then discovering the tragedy that is Marc. I started on the show, then began collecting the comics.

what’s the thing you love the most about your Blorbo?

I loved the representation of DID, autism and childhood trauma.

what’s the thing you dislike the most about your Blorbo?

We barely got any Jake in the show, and he’s such a fantastic character in the comics. Comic Jake is the only way I can imagine him. Moustache and all.

if you could talk to your Blorbo, what would you say to them?

Not a thing. He’d get a damn hug.

what’s the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

I think every adaptation is unique to that person and they’re wonderful for sharing. I’m a hoe for every crumb I’m not even sorry.

is your Blorbo an introvert or extrovert?

Depends who’s fronting. Steven’s an ambivert: extroverted to avoid the feeling of loneliness, introverted in his hobbies and day-to-day. Marc’s a huge introvert and doesn’t like many people, how Frenchie puts up with him I don’t know. Jake is a natural extrovert, it comes easy to him to find a friend in anyone.

describe your Blorbo in 3 words

Damaged hot mess

if your Blorbo were real, would you trust them with your life?

Most likely… kinda. Squinting real hard at you, Khonshu.

do you talk to your family or in-real-life friends about your Blorbo?

My partner can’t get away from my obsession. My brother brought me the same MK action figure Marc's holding in the asylum. It was really unexpected and touching. They let me drag them all over the city stopping in as many comic stores as I could visit.

is there any crime, any wrongdoing your Blorbo could commit that would make you stop loving them and remove them from your hyperfixation entirely?

Mean to animals would make me very sad.

do you like seeing your Blorbo suffer?

Every damn day of the week.

do you ship your Blorbo with any character?

I ship him with anyone and everyone, it’s such a problem. I love all ships in all shapes and sizes. All the new ships coming out of Marvel Rivals has sustained me well lately.

if your Blorbo is from a live-action media, are you also a fan of the actor who plays them?

Oscar Isaac is one of the best humans alive. I love his face, his personality—everything. He made it easy to love the characters he plays.

would you still love your Blorbo if they were real?

Probably. I’d always be rooting for him that’s for sure.

is your Blorbo a victim of badly written script / bad plot / character assassination in the hands of canon?

Kind of. How they handled Jake suucked.

if you could change one canonical thing about your Blorbo, what would it be?

Make comics Jake canon!

when you first discovered your Blorbo, did you realize from that moment that they would become your Blorbo?

I didn’t expect to go down as bad as I did. It wasn’t until I started writing him in 1x1 & group roleplays was where I truly fell down the hole.

do you gatekeep your Blorbo? / would you want more people to know about your Blorbo?

No gatekeeping allowed in this house! I am thrilled anytime more people discover MK by any means. It’s so much fun seeing new people arrive and interact with the fandom.

has a fanfic about your Blorbo ever made you cry?

Not a fanfic, but episode 5 made me ball. Hit close to home. I’m not one to cry easily so have yet to find a fanfic that will.

do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now on?

Probably, I still have a lot more to write and explore.

Questions posted below empty for easy copy paste:

was there any specific point / any specific moment that suddenly made them your Blorbo, or did you slowly grow to love them more and more until they became a Blorbo to you?

what’s the thing you love the most about your Blorbo?

what’s the thing you dislike the most about your Blorbo?

if you could talk to your Blorbo, what would you say to them?

what’s the one thing the fandom gets wrong about your Blorbo?

is your Blorbo an introvert or extrovert?

describe your Blorbo in 3 words

if your Blorbo were real, would you trust them with your life?

do you talk to your family or in-real-life friends about your Blorbo?

is there any crime, any wrongdoing your Blorbo could commit that would make you stop loving them and remove them from your hyperfixation entirely?

do you like seeing your Blorbo suffer?

do you ship your Blorbo with any character?

if your Blorbo is from a live-action media, are you also a fan of the actor who plays them?

would you still love your Blorbo if they were real?

is your Blorbo a victim of badly written script / bad plot / character assassination in the hands of canon?

if you could change one canonical thing about your Blorbo, what would it be?

when you first discovered your Blorbo, did you realize from that moment that they would become your Blorbo?

do you gatekeep your Blorbo? / would you want more people to know about your Blorbo?

has a fanfic about your Blorbo ever made you cry?

do you think this character will still be your Blorbo three years from now on?

Inspired by the wonderful @psycheetamore Hitting a few others I'd love to see do this! @mystra-midnight @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @faretheeoscar @moonbeammist @therapardalis @weheartchrisevans @silvermoon343