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No way did I just post a SCM Playmobil post and Tumblr told me it needs a mature content label.......... No way that just happened.

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Hi, and welcome to another episode of ✨✨“I'm Losing My Fucking Mind”✨✨

Today, I'll be telling you a "Scorpio × Reader" story, using my Playmobil dolls, which I just found and I'm healing my inner child.

And you'll sit tight and watch it, if you wanna see Tauxolouve again. He's currently lock e d in my bathroom and I'm not letting him out. / J

It all started when (Name) was going to the mansion for a dinner date with her boyfriend, Scorpio. ☺️

(This will be Reader because she's the fanciest doll I have and if it's fancy she's the main character in play date logic)

But... 🤨

When she got there, HE WASN'T THERE!!!🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯

How unusual for Scorpio to not be on time! 😦

(that's supposed to be Hue's wine on the table, because it's the fanciest bottle I have)

(Name) knew she had to investigate...🧐🧐

She RAN through the mansion!!😥😥😥

She came to the gardens, looking everywhere for her sweet, shy, boyfriend 😞

But looking closely... She saw... 😶😶

Oh. MY. GOODNESS. A GOLDEN APPLE?🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯

Then Zyglavis showed up💇‍♀️

(excuse my hair in the picture, I just noticed it 😭😭😭😭)

(Name) asked him frantically if he had seen Scorpio, but Zyglavis....... HADN'T. 😩😩

Then (Name) rushed to Scorpio room, thinking that he was sleeping like a buffalo again 🦬

But... 😨

SHE ONLY FOUND APPLES SCATTERED AROUND THE ROOM. INCLUDING... GOLDEN APPLES?!?!? 🫨🫨🫨🫨🫨🫨🫨

She was IN SHOCK!!!! 😭😭😭😭

Zyglavis rushed in at her echoing scream.😯

And told her... 🤐

That................................................................................................................................................................................................................................ They must go see the king about this 🤯🤯

TBC!!!!! When I buy more man dolls

But on the other hand, I also found my Shopkins collection and it's BIIIIIIG

I could make a Shopkins story.

Now, excuse me. I'll be watching Shopkins, if another needs me. Or Bananas In Pajamas. We'll see.

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favourite book. favourite song. hobby.

favourite quote. favourite movie. my vibes.

favourite character. favourite place. favourite food.

My pictures are not perfect squares like in the reblogs above oof

But thank you for the tag!! I missed tag games!!!😭😭❤️❤️

Tagging ❤️: Anyone who wants to join!!! If you see this, then you're inherently invited!!!

-|✦ Okay so here's the tag game, put the images that resonates with you the most.

favourite book favourite song my hobby

quote for me favourite movie my vibe

my favourite character favourite place favourite food

tags : @purelypretentious-hana @chal-jeete-hai @pyaari-naari @stardustsighs @khwabon-ka-seher

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Leon is my guilty pleasure.

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I assure you: somebody, somewhere, is on the exact same wavelength as you are.

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Here me out, okay? Let's pretend there's a cake in front of us! Okay? Respect the cake!!!

I.................. Had this idea, for a poly ship that I'm interested in writing. I just... Idk if anyone would be interested to see how this plays out. I have no idea what genre the fic would be either. All I know is that I want to try and oh, shit, did a bird just fly into the glass???????? put them into a relationship, to see how this plays out and because I'm so intrigued by this dynamic.

I've NEVER written this before ever in my life! It would be the first time.

It's very niche, okay? Bear with me. I like niche stuff that literally don't make any sense half of the time purely because I want to fit logic in them, like I'm trying to shove thick winter coats into a full closet that just doesn't fit any more.

For anyone voting in a poll for the first time: It's anonymous, I can't see what you guys pick. (Just in case any of you want to remain invisible for whatever reason <333333333333333333)

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🖋️ You Don’t Need to “Write Every Day” to Be a Real Writer (and Other Guilt-Crushing Truths)

Let’s make this one loud: 📣 You are not a failed writer because you didn’t open your Google Doc today.

We’ve all heard the advice, write every day, build the habit, protect the streak, treat it like brushing your teeth or doing crunches or whatever metaphor productivity Twitter is pushing this week.

But here’s the thing: You are not a factory. Your brain is not a faucet. And writing isn’t a moral behavior.

─────── ✦ ───────

🚫 Daily Writing is Not a Badge of Legitimacy

The "write every day" rule? It wasn’t invented for you. It came from a very specific kind of writer.... usually full-time, no kids, no chronic illness, no 60-hour day job, no executive dysfunction, that lives in a world made of schedules and uninterrupted mornings.

You? You’re probably doing your best between classes, during night shifts, after crying, before therapy, while microwaving pizza rolls.

If you’re writing at all, you’re already in the game. No daily streak required. No blood oath to the Scrivener gods. You don’t need to bleed ink to prove you’re real.

─────── ✦ ───────

🧠 Writing is Mental, Even When It’s Invisible

Plotting in the shower. Thinking about your character’s tragic backstory at red lights. Whispering fake arguments into your Notes app at 3am. Staring at the ceiling replaying one scene until it rots.

It all counts.

Writing is thinking, not just typing. That mental compost pile? That’s how the good stuff grows. You don’t owe your worth to a word count. Some days, the work looks like a blank page and a brain on fire.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔄 Rest Is Part of the Process, Not a Detour From It

Let me say this plainly: Burnout is not proof of effort.

You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to stop mid-project. You are allowed to write in bursts. You are allowed to write for a week and disappear for a month.

Writing is a relationship. It has seasons. It expands and contracts. You are not a robot with a daily quota, you’re a person carrying a whole fictional world inside you. Let yourself be human.

─────── ✦ ───────

📆 Consistency Helps--But Define It For Yourself

Do some writers thrive with routines? Sure. But routine =/= daily.

Try this: → “I write every weekend morning when I can.” → “I jot down notes during my commute.” → “I commit to one hour a week, guilt-free.” → “I take two weeks off after every chapter.” → “I only write during November and spiral gloriously.”

Build a rhythm that actually matches your energy, not one that shames you for not vibing like a full-time author in a lakeside cabin with nothing to do but word vomit and sip tea.

─────── ✦ ───────

💌 You’re Still a Real Writer (Even When You’re Not Producing)

You don’t need:

a finished draft

a daily goal

a growing WIP

a thriving project

a clever new idea

…to be a writer.

You only need:

the drive to tell a story

the will to try again

the love of the craft, even when it doesn’t love you back

You’re a real writer if you write sometimes. You’re a real writer if you write badly. You’re a real writer if you wrote once and it changed you.

─────── ✦ ───────

✨ Guilt Kills Stories Faster Than “Laziness” Ever Will

You’re not lazy. You’re probably: → Overwhelmed → Tired → Burnt out → Depressed → Distracted by survival → Caught in perfectionism’s death grip

And the guilt? It doesn’t make you more productive. It just sinks its teeth into your confidence until you start to believe you’ve “fallen behind” on something that’s supposed to be yours.

The best thing you can do for your writing life? Protect your joy. That spark. That curiosity. That itch to build something from nothing.

That matters more than any streak.

─────── ✦ ───────

📣 Final Truths (Pin These to Your Soul):

Missing writing days is not failure.

Your process is not wrong just because it’s not loud.

You are not in a race.

You are not a fraud.

You are allowed to come back whenever.

Writing is not a productivity metric. It’s a craft. It’s a calling. It’s a weird little ritual.

And it’ll still be there when you’re ready.

See you on the page, whether that’s tomorrow, or next week, or next season.

—rin t. // thewriteadviceforwriters // chaotic writing realist. anti-guilt gremlin. your local plot ghost.

📜 prompts for gothic girlies, literary lads, and cursed creatives

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

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Fanfiction is so silly. I am playing with my dolls and people are coming over to watch. Some of them even clap and give me compliments. And when I'm done playing, I can go and watch other people play with their dolls.

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Writing a book is just arguing with fictional people in your head until one of you cries—and it’s usually you.

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Ichthys, emotional, opening up: "Before you, I was afraid to sleep."

Me, sleep deprived: "Is it because fish have no eyelids and so you'd have to sleep with your eyes open?"

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Can we get more vampy reader and human Louie baby? Please 🥺🥺

"The vampire and the traveler"

Genre: Mystery/Romance

Warnings: none

A/N: Have a little something, while I'm writing the last two chapters of Two Different Worlds. (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠) I already have the continuation of this story (the vampy story) in mind. Idk how many chapters this is going to take. Probably around......... 3-4???? It's a small series. Gothic, a bit?? Sooo, sit back and watch the series unfold (⁠ʃ⁠ƪ⁠＾⁠3⁠＾⁠） I HOPE YOU'LL ENJOY THIS ONE!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ (Also, I've never been to Boston, or Bristol, or Bath. I just picked those places purely on vibes by looking at the map. And they're all starting with B....... Huh....... Interesting......)

(Tauxolouve’s pov)

I hopped off the carriage and hauled my suitcase down with me, the horses neighing loudly, as another lightning came down from the sky, stabbing the clouds and making them bleed and weep above our heads, their grief and pain turning into cold rain.

“You’ll catch a cold, boy!” The coachman shouted at me from his seat, manhandling the reins of the horses, so they couldn’t run away from their fright, smoke swaying upwards from the tip of his smoking pipe, the scent of it foul and intense even with the scent of wet earth all around us.

“Yeah,” I huffed to myself, pushing my soaked hair back. I looked down at my legs, my boots soaked and dirty, since I had accidentally jumped straight into a pool of wet mud. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I held my heavy suitcase off the ground, not wanting it to get dirty too and soak my clothes and belongings inside.

The horses neighed louder and one stood on its hind legs, while the other two huffed and shook their heads, as if trying to free themselves from their bridles. “Hey!” The coachman tugged on the reins again, trying to calm them down, the smoke pipe almost falling from his lips, burned tobacco sprinkling itself on his old tattered clothes. “What’s with you boys?!”

“Maybe they’re scared of the thunder.” I suggested, recalling how serene those same three horses had been an hour ago, when I first boarded the carriage at Bristol to Bath.

“No.” The coachman shook his head, his wrinkled face twisted into a frown, turning his eyes to the small inn behind me. “It’s that damned inn.” It looked far older than the rest, the pathway to the entrance illuminated by two lanterns hung overhead, the extension of the roof covering them from the rain that would’ve snuffed them out otherwise.

“The… Inn?” I didn’t understand. It looked normal. And it was affordable for a few nights—enough for me to finish my painting and return to Boston.

The coachman remained hushed, glaring at the inn.

I shook my head, and despite the cold feeling that spread across my spine, like a hand trying to snatch it and twist it, I tightened my hold on my suitcase’s handle, with my slippery fingers and turned my back to the carriage, an action that felt more significant than it should’ve.

“Be careful.” I heard the man say from behind me.

I halted. “What?” I asked, peering over my shoulder, my neck craned to stare at the old man. “Careful of what?”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure, boy,” He said. “But rumour has it that weird things happen in that inn.”

My eyebrows furrowed, a cold droplet streaming between them and down the slope of my nose and over the curve of my upper lip. “What sort of weird things?”

The coachman jerked the reins and the fussing horses galloped off immediately, the sound of their hooves desperate, each clank of their horseshoes against the cobblestone path past the inn forcing my heartbeat to follow in the same rhythm.

“What in the world…?” I muttered and forced myself to walk forward, to ignore the heaviness of the water soaking my boots, my hair and coat and probably my shirt underneath as well.

The flames of the lanterns flickered weakly, their orange light fading and strengthening again, when I passed beneath them and I pushed open the door of the entrance on my way inside.

My wet boots sunk into a carpet in faded red colour and the golden trimming at the sides proved to me that it had seen far more glorious days; perhaps of married couples who admired it, of kids who dropped their toy horses on it.

Of days where the inn was bustling with more… Life. Something that wasn’t happening now.

Now, the reception looked abandoned, the carpet old and frayed at the corners, the sofas and the table for those—who could’ve been—waiting, covered in dust. The windows creaked, as if they had not been used in years and by the scent in the air, I assumed they really hadn’t.

At the far corner, a fireplace was nestled inside the brick wall, but it was empty and cold, half burnt logs that didn’t even emit smoke anymore abandoned at the hearth.

I shivered, my locks clinging to my temples and my cheekbones, droplets dripping from the tips and streaming down the column of my throat and sliding beneath my coat and shirt, which clinged to me uncomfortably.

I approached the front desk, mostly for the sake of creating some heat with my movements, because otherwise, there was no one sitting there. I looked around, I was alone. I was starting to suspect that, perhaps, this wasn’t even a usable building anymore. Just a crumbling dream of someone once, that died with him.

The coachman’s words echoed inside my cranium again, my jaw and fingers trembling, my teeth scraping against each other as the cold settled into my bones more and more with each passing second, like a soul settling inside its tomb.

“Perhaps he was right.” I whispered to myself and began walking towards the door again, to leave, preferring to try my luck out there, in the midnight rain, then in here, in this ghost inn. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have—”

“Excuse me, sir,” A voice belonging to a man spoke, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “Are you here for a room?”

I halted, standing in the middle of the frayed and dusted carpet and looked up, as the man was descending from the staircase, his footsteps making every wooden step creak as if it might break at any moment. “I… Was here for a room, yes.”

The man had white hair and was wearing glasses, his suit perfectly clean despite the dust covering our surroundings. He stood behind the front desk and brought out a brown, leather bound book, it’s pages yellowed and so fragile to the eye, I was wondering what would happen if I were to simply graze them with my finger.

The man flipped the leather bound book open, turning to… The first page. Odd. The book seemed incredibly old. And it was unused?

I looked the man in the face and I felt several needles piercing my stomach from the inside, as if they were trying to tear me apart and leave the confines of my flesh and bones. The man’s eyes were empty and lifeless and as lightning lit up the cloudy sky from outside, the white light streaming in through the dirty and blurry windows did not reach his eyes, leaving them empty, like before.

It was as if the light itself was wary of approaching this man, defiantly refusing him. “Name?” He asked, his voice unfeeling, monotonous and sounding as if it was coming straight from my core.

Maybe I was having a headache from the exhaustion and the cold…

“Name?”

“Tauxolouve.” I said, clearing my throat. “Tauxolouve Monet.”

I watched as the man picked up a quill, the black ink dripping from the tip and streaming down the page like onyx blood, as he pressed it down on the thin, yellowed papers, until it stained the desk as well. As the tip of the quill scratched the paper in agonizing slowness, I thought I was losing my sanity. I wasn’t sure why… But something in all of this—my decision to tell him my name, mostly—felt wrong. So terribly wrong. Like something that would crumble into regret soon enough.

I was snatched out of my trance by the same noise of the creaking staircase as before. I looked up. A woman was coming down, appearing to be around the same age as me, or a little younger—or a little older. But surely, not too far apart in age from me.

She was gorgeous, beautiful—no… No no no, none of those words were… Enough.

Her mere presence felt ️otherworldly. And when—if—you dared to look her in the face, you felt like looking at death itself, but only because her features where so ethereal, you felt like someone was stealing your breath greedily, drinking your soul and sucking your blood straight from your veins.

Frankly, I don’t think I’ve ever beheld a woman like her before and I was willing to swear on that belief. I knew it wouldn’t go to waste.

“(Name),” The man, who was still writing down my name and my room number, addressed her without looking up from the book. “Show our guest to his room.”

She nodded and then turned to me. “Follow me?”

I nodded, as if I didn’t know how to speak to a woman, despite having done it countless of times, to many women in life, women of all sorts of personalities; some shier than others, some more assertive than others.

I followed the woman, my suitcase clenched tightly in my hand, as she led me up the staircase and into the upper floor.

Melting candles were burning on the walls, our footsteps silenced by yet another old and frayed carpet draped across the floor.

I didn’t like the silence here of all places. “Excuse me, miss?” I smiled, pushing my wet hair out of my eyes, causing them to resemble bangs at the side of my face, the locks weighted down by the rainwater.

She looked up at me, the details of her face so beautiful, I wanted to beg her to let me paint her, as if she was what I’ve been searching for, here in England, all the way from America. “Yes?” Her voice was quiet, but it sounded loud amidst the restless and eerie silence of the hallway.

“This seems like…” I paused, thinking over my words and organizing them into a neat order, which seemed more than needed, when she looked at me with that faint smile of hers, as if she knew me better than I would ever know her. “Like an old building.”

“It is,” She agreed. “Very old, indeed.”

“Odd.” I said, chuckling softly. “The prices are reasonable. One would think they’re a blessing and yet it’s so… Empty.”

Her smile widened a beat and her beauty nearly made me take a step back. “I do hope you will enjoy your stay here, Mr…”

“Monet.” I said. “But why use my last name? We’re the same age, aren’t we? Just call me Tauxolouve. Or Lou, since the full one can be confusing to say at times.”

“Yes, we are the same age.” She nodded, gazing off to the side. Her smile faded, but the moment of that happening was so flitting I wondered if I had imagined it. “And where are you coming from, Lou?”

“Boston.” I said, her presence oddly comforting in this unsettling environment. “Well, I’m French, actually, but I have lived in Boston for the last three years. I’m here to paint.”

Her eyes widened, the light in there so blinding, I could’ve sworn that the candles would kill their flames in shame at the comparison to hers. “A painter!”

I smiled. “You’re a lover of art?”

She nodded eagerly, her fingers clutching at the front of her dress’s skirt. “What do you paint?”

“Anything. Whatever inspires me.”

“Could you…” She hesitated, looking around the hallway, to make sure we were alone—I’m not sure why—and then leaned in and whispered to me. “Show me some of your paintings?”

I found myself smiling brighter at her genuine interest and eagerness. “Of course. Tomorrow, I could show you all of those I’ve brought with me.”

“Thank you!” She said and then winced, having realized that, perhaps, she had been too loud. I don’t know who she was trying to hide from, since there was no one else beside me in this inn, but I didn’t ask. “Goodnight.” She said and turned her back to me, walking down the hallway.

“Goodnight.” I told back and I slid the key into the lock of my bedroom door.

“Oh, and,” She suddenly stopped and called out to me. “Lou!”

I paused as well. “Yes, little lady?”

She breathed in deeply and then told me. “Tomorrow at breakfast… Whatever you do, do not drink the tea that will be served.”

“What? Why—”

“Do not!” She said firmly, almost sternly and then rushed off, to… I’m not sure where in this eerie inn, where the shadows seemed to move against the laws of the lights and eyes seemed to be hiding behind the curtains of my bedroom.

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reblog if vampires are valid and your blog is a vampire safe zone

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reblog to remind prev they're not a bother and their presence is wanted <3

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(shitposting, until I'm done with some of the fics I'm currently working on, because I don't want my blog to go into a coma again, thank you (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)(⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)(⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠) )

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That scene you reblogged where Hue talks about lending MC Romeo and Juliet is in his own 'Divine Youth: Wishes' story 😊

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!🤧🤧❤️❤️🙏🙏

MAY BOTH SIDES OF YOUR PILLOW BE YOUR PREFERRED TEMPERATURE!!!❤️❤️

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This is how I think Dui would sound like actually, voice wise.

(original sound)

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Thank you for writing all the comfort fics that i and others have ever requested. You have helped me through difficult times.

Thank you 🩷🩵💜

Did I almost cry reading this? Kinda. In a good way.❤️❤️❤️❤️

My love for you all is infinite, I hope you know that ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ Do I know you specifically or what you look like or whatever extra details? No. Are we ever going to meet irl??? No, most likely not. But that's not needed for me. I still adore you a bunch and each one of you is someone I consider a friend, even if we're not mutuals and even if we don't talk on a daily basis.❤️❤️❤️❤️

I've been extremely absent this year due to mental health problems, but I swear, I never forgot about any of you guys and I'm so thankful for all of you!!❤️❤️❤️

I'm so incredibly happy to be able to offer a virtual hug to whoever needs it. Really. And I'll continue doing so to the best of my abilities.❤️❤️

Right now, I still have some comfort fics in my inbox, that I'm currently working on—I'm extremely sorry for the delay!!!!!!!!!!! I'm ashamed of that, no joke!!!!!!!!

P.S. For some anons in my inbox asking me if I remember them (ex: little demon), of course I do!!! You guys have made me the happiest I've ever been! So long as I live, I won't ever forget about any of you!!!❤️❤️❤️ You guys are here supporting the little voices in my head that I turn into stories and my obscure headcanons and my DUMB AF memes and you put up with me being—I admit—extremely annoying, at time.

(Sappy of me? Yeah. But I am sappy and I'm stating it proudly. It feels nice to be vulnerable in a safe space with people you feel comfortable with. It's like I'm stretching out on your sofa.)

Anyway... Thank you. And I love you.❤️❤️❤️