mairablue

[mairablue]

🖋️ 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.

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🚫 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.

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🧠 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.

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🔄 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.

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📆 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.

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💌 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.

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✨ 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.

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📣 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:

[mairablue]

I need the second part! ASAP! 🙏😭

Thank you!!!! 💓💓💓💓💓

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.

[mairablue]

I can't express in words how happy this story has made me!!!! 😭😭😭😭🤧

There is something so delightful about the way the older lady tells us about her life. Sharing her wisdom with us.

Thank you for continuing the series!!! ❤️

"Two different worlds" Part 8

Genre: angst

Warnings: mentions of death of a spouse

A/N: It's BAAAAAAAACK😉😉😉✨✨✨✨ I hope you guys enjoy it, TDW is reaching the end slowly. Like, we only have a few chapters left. So... LET'S DO IT!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️

The sound of Tauxolouve walking around the room of his art studio accompanied the melodious song of the birds flying past the window you were sitting by, their little brown wings withholding their weight and lifting them high, helping them soar the skies.

You breathed in deeply and then let it out… Slowly.

But the heaviness on your ribcage did not falter. Instead, it remained there and took root, spreading everywhere, like vines clawing their way up the walls of abandoned castles, choking you by squeezing your lungs and heart and crashing them.

Your eyes remained steady upon two birds sitting on a wire across the street. Then, one of them flew away, leaving the other alone… Alone… All alone.

Tears formed in your eyes and you blinked, to stop them from falling, but more and more filled your eyes, blurring your vision and you pursed your lips together, watching the bird sitting there still and alone. Alone alone alone—

“My little lady? Is everything alright?” Tauxolouve had left the paints and the brushes behind, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and peering down at your face, when you lifted it up, your neck craning to gaze up at him. “Are you—… Why are you crying?”

You shook your head. You couldn’t possible tell him that you were a goddess and your time here was running out by the minute, by each brushstroke Tauxolouve dragged across the canvas. “It’s, uh… It’s not—not anything important.” You simply said, choosing to leave it there. He wouldn’t understand. And maybe it was better that way. Telling him would mean going even more against the law of the Heavens than you already had.

Tauxolouve watched you wordlessly for a few minutes and then sighed, standing up straight again. “Alright.” He nodded. “I won’t push it. But, please, know that I’m here for you when and if you need it.”

You forced a smile on your face and nodded. “Okay… Thank you.”

Tauxolouve smiled back in return, a sweet, kind smile, causing his familiar kind wrinkles to form at the corners of his eyes. “No problem, you know I lo—I love your company. And seeing you happy.” He cleared his throat.

Your heart shook, thrown off its hinges and hanging pathetically from its strings, tugging painfully at it. You wiped the tears away with your forearm and breathed in deeply, sniffling and sighing. “We can start.” You said.

“If you’re not ready—”

“No, really, it’s quite alright.” You said, smiling at him, to reassure him.

After a few moments of hesitation, Tauxolouve seemed to believe you and relaxed himself, walking over to where his canvas was propped up and his stool was sitting, his painting tools scattered across the chipped and paint-splattered table beside him.

The sun followed its daily course across the sky, as Tauxolouve remained focused on his piece, his eyes flickered between that and you, his eyes piercing themselves into your own like the thorns of a rose; at once both painful and beautiful.

“How much time do you think you have left, until you finish?” You finally spoke, your voice a little hoarse from the unuse, your vocal cords rusty and stiff.

Tauxolouve responded to you, without looking up from his painting. “I can't tell specifically, but... Not much.”

Not much... We don't have much time left…

“The man at the grocery store seemed really happy that you were creating something. And he spoke about… About... Getting through something…” You said, hesitating, fearing that this would be too much of a sensitive topic for him, but also, you couldn’t help but crave more. You craved his heart, his mind, a place in his life, even if it was foolish. Even if you fell from grace a little more with each question, with each beat of your heart.

Tauxolouve paused, his paintbrush not touching the colourful canvas. “Before I met you... I was in a rut.” He said, his voice low, sending shivers down your spine.

“A rut?”

He nodded, lowering his paintbrush down into a painted ceramic mug of water, with a broken handle. “Let’s just say that… Mentally, I wasn’t in the correct headspace to sit down and paint.”

You leaned to the side, your head resting against the wall, right beside the open window, feeling the cool breeze on your cheek and how your loose strands of hair swayed and danced gently in its throws.

“My creativity was blocked because of that and nothing would excite me anymore. I couldn’t see the potential in anything to be painted, really.” He said, his confession making you understand just how precious this piece was to him.

Meeting you was a single chance amongst hundreds and your eyes were what had brought his creativity back. What had made him want to pick up a paintbrush again. “How long…?”

“What?”

“How long had you… Been unable to paint anything for?”

Tauxolouve thought silently to himself for a few moments. “Almost a year.” He finally said, his smile sad. “Yes, that must have been it. A year.”

Your eyes widened and reality fell upon you, snapping you in half and sinking into your soul through your torn flesh. This piece wasn’t just a passion project. Not something flitting for Tauxolouve to get some practice in… It was his revival. The flood that broke the gates of his mental blocks.

And at that thought, all you could feel was… Protectiveness. The overwhelming urge to protect and ensure that this piece would be completed with your life, if needed. Because you would do anything for Tauxolouve’s happiness, you really would.

【•••】

That night, when the sun released its last breath and the moon took over the sky in return, you were getting ready to fall into bed yourself, a habit which was not needed, since gods never felt sleepy, but one that you liked copying from the humans. It was fun, in a way. Something that, in the Heavens, they’d question you for, while here it was normal. It was weird and it was fun.

But, just as you stepped out of the bathroom of your hotel room…

You gasped, at the sight of Zyglavis standing there, his ponytail fixed into perfection, as usual, his boots polished and his gloves clean and fitting perfectly against his skin, his uniform not carrying a single wrinkle.

“Zyglavis—”

His dark grey eyes watched you sternly. “That’s where you’ve been.”

“Leon has given me time off.”

“I am aware of that.” He said, irritated at the mere sound of Leon’s name on your lips. “You must return.”

You physically recoiled at the sound of that. “I need more time.”

Zyglavis’ eyebrows furrowed, a crease forming between them and a vein showed in his forehead. “If you're trying to stall for time and not get punished—”

“It's not it—!.... It's not it…”

Zyglavis scoffed, readjusting the white gloves around his wrists. “So that human has corrupted you so thoroughly that you're rejecting your kind.”

“Tauxolouve didn't corrupt me! He showed me the light!” You glared at him, your fingers clenching into tight, trembling fists. “He showed me beauty none of us superficial creatures, that we dare to call ourselves superior, can. All I'm asking of now, is for you to give me time until he finishes his piece. This is important for him, he's put his soul and sweat in it.” You paused, swallowing thickly, the tone of your voice falling slightly, wavering at the thought of Tauxolouve and his painting. “I don't want to ruin it for him..."

Zyglavis’ eyes narrowed on you, his expression still stern and seemingly untouched by your display of feelings. He opened his mouth to speak again, but this time, you didn’t let him.

“I'm not expecting you to understand.” You said. “You're a god, just as I am. We don't usually craft anything using our hands. They're simply there for decorative purposes. We can do anything with a snap of our fingers, but humans are not like that..." You recall your times with Tauxolouve; meeting him, letting him paint you, helping you recover, having breakfast at his house, going to the grocery store with him. "Humans can't summon their meals. They need to go out of their way to buy more, they need to carry it home, until their fingers turn red. They need to practice and devote time out of their short lives in their passions. Tauxolouve devoted time in this as well and I refuse to let it go to waste! May the king punish me even more harshly if he so desires, but that's what I've decided to do!”

You were breathing heavily at this point and Zyglavis remained staring at you, stunned, obviously not expecting you to view all this in such a manner.

“I'll stay here for a little longer.” You said. “I'll make sure Tauxolouve finishes the portrait and then... Then I am willingly going to face every consequence I deserve."

【•••】

Two days went by, ever since that conversation with Zyglavis in your hotel room and, today, you were on your way out of Tauxolouve’s house, after having finished yet another session.

Your footsteps were slow and heavy, as if you were hauling all the pain of the world with your ankles and balancing some of it on your heart too. You were walking mindlessly, lost in thought, eyes blank, barely noticing the water that reached your shoes from the elderly lady’s garden nearby.

“Good evening, my dear.” The familiar soft and shaky voice of the elderly lady that you and Tauxolouve visited a week back, to bring her groceries, reached you, making you halt in your steps.

You looked around you, confused and your eyes unfocused.

“Over here, dear.” She called out again.

“Oh,” You finally noticed her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” You apologized.

The elderly lady smiled a toothless smile at you and twisted the handle of the tap, stopping the incoming water. She approached the white picket fence surrounding the house and separating her garden from Tauxolouve’s. She leaned against it, her knitted blouse getting caught on some untamed edge of the picket fence. “Forgive if I’m meddling where I don’t belong, but… You seem sad.”

“Sad?” Your eyes widened slightly, surprised that she had noticed what many others wouldn’t. A mere mortal human, being more perceptive than many deities up there were. “Why—” You feigned a chuckle. “Why would I be sad?”

“I don’t know, my dear, and I don’t want to assume, or try to pry.” She said, fidgeting with the noose of dark green thread that had gotten tangled in some broken edge of the fence. “Oh, would you look at that? This is my fifth blouse this week that this is happening to.”

You chuckled and reached out, carefully handling the piece of the blouse that was stuck. Once you managed to release it without tearing it, you let go of it and the elderly lady smoothed it out with her hands. And, while she wasn’t looking, you snapped your fingers, fixing this little rusted imperfection on the fence without her noticing or ever knowing.

“Thank you.” She said and you simply smiled. “Now,” She took off her glasses and used the hem of her blouse to wipe them clean, as she spoke, her voice kind and so motherly, part of you forgot you were supposed to be a goddess and you just wanted to fall to your knees right there, lay your head on her lap and ask for her advice. “would you like to listen to the rambling of a woman who’s losing her mind?” She chuckled.

You couldn’t help, but smile and nodded.

She put her glasses back on and looked up at you, her wrinkly smile sweet and so incredibly kind, she carried the true beauty of humanity in it. “Sometimes, life sends our way difficulties.” She said. “And in the process, we might think we lost what is most precious to us. Like, someone we love, for instance.” She paused, watching her golden wedding band around her short, wrinkly finger. “But I don’t think life is genuinely that cruel. It could just be me… But I think life takes stuff from you, just to test your resolve.”

You nodded. “That may be true.” You said, voice solemn, stealing a brief glance at Tauxolouve's house.

“But it’s not forever.” She said. “Something that surrounds all terms in this life is that nothing lasts forever. While that makes us think of how happiness doesn’t last forever, I like to think that sadness doesn’t last forever either.”

You smiled softly down at your feet. “That’s a beautiful way to see it.”

“I speak from experience.”

You looked at her and she continued.

“When I was, what… twenty something? Maybe.” She said, smiling wistfully, as if the image was right in front of her right now. And perhaps it was. Because even if the mind withers with time, the heart is not something anyone can take away from you. Ever. “Well, I was twenty something, when I met my husband for the first time. We were so in love, he and I. But his family was a more wealthy than mine was and when they found out that we were seeing each other, they scheduled for him to move away from France to study in America, hoping that this would tear us apart.”

“His family didn’t want you?” You asked, surprised and erupted by her story.

“No.” She shook her head, chuckling, as if all the hardships were just bad dreams now. Because they were. They had won and defeated them all. “They wanted him to marry someone from his own societal class—old times! Old minds!” She waved a hand dismissively. “Stupid people! Anyway,” She shook her. “my husband came to see me the night before leaving for America. And he promised me that, once he returned… He’d marry me.”

“And…” Your voice was quiet. “He did, I presume?”

The elderly lady smiled sweetly at you. “He remained in America for four entire years. I had started to fret that he had forgotten me. It seemed surreal to me how he could ever remember me, after four years. Me. The poor girl from the little French village.” She paused and then continued again, gazing at the clouds as she did so. “One day… I was at the marketplace—Monday! I remember correctly! I know I do!” She chuckled at herself. “He suddenly appeared, right there, yes… Yes, I can remember it still, like it was yesterday.”

“And then?”

“And then, he followed through with his promise and married me.” She chuckled softly and shook her head. “You’re probably wondering now, why this old crazy woman is telling you all that… Well, perhaps I felt like you should know of the miracles that this life offers us all. You’re a wonderful girl, with a beautiful heart, I could sense it when I noticed how Louie was gazing at you the other day.

Your face warmed and she smiled, continuing.

“I thought I’d never see the man I love again and yet I did. I married him, we had children together, then we saw children…” Her smile turned sad. “And then he passed away.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s just life.” She said, one simple phrase from her harbouring so much wisdom in it. “And like I told you earlier, I don’t believe anything lasts forever… So I’m certain that one day, when my own clock takes it's natural course and fades in time naturally… I’m gonna meet him again.” She said, appearing to be completely at peace with herself as she pointed at the sky. Her heart stored so much peace, than a god’s who had everything ever would. “So don’t worry. If you love him… You will see him again.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple…” You swallowed thickly.

She smiled. Just smiled. “It never is. But life has something for all of us. Especially someone who is as kind as you are. So hold on. Life gets prettier if you hope.”

[mairablue]

Reminders for fanfic writers who think it “doesn’t count”

✦ Your writing counts. like, a lot. If someone felt something because of what you wrote, then it matters. That scene you almost didn’t post? Yeah. Believe me, someone out there bookmarked it for a reason.

✦ Writing existing characters doesn’t make it “less than.” You’re building arcs, crafting dialogue, emotion, pacing. You’re studying character psychology like a scientist. That’s not “just fanfic,” that’s storytelling.

✦ “but it’s just fanfic” ...no. STOP, it’s craft. It’s understanding tone. It’s hitting emotional beats. It’s layering theme and backstory and prose into something people feel. You’re doing the work, you just don’t get graded on it. (Which, honestly is a blessing.)

✦ Writing fanfic means you love stories enough to live inside them. You care, deeply. You care enough to reimagine, to explore, to add something of yourself to a world you didn’t create and somehow still make it feel brand new.

✦ Someone out there rereads your fic like it’s their favorite book. Maybe they’ve saved a line to their notes app,or they quote it to a friend. Maybe they just think about it when they’re having a bad day. That little fic you almost deleted, it’s comfort now.

✦ Your comments section is real. Every “I needed this” and “this made me cry in a good way” is proof, you don’t need a book deal to matter. You don’t need a publisher to have an impact, because you already do.

FANFIC IS WRITING! Fanfic is yours.

You’re not “just” anything. You’re a writer, own it. Be proud of that.

[mairablue]

[mairablue]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[mairablue]

Hello, bestie! ☺️👋💗 Guess who's in town? Me. And I'm sick again. 😭😭

My throat hurts REALLY badly and I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. They won't use needles or anything, but I'm still scared, because I'm really scared of doctors in general.

I wish Scorpio was there with me to help me through it.🥹🥹 Can I have a comfort fic about it, if you're not too busy? NO PRESSURE THOUGH!!! I LOVE YA!!!😭❤️❤️

SCM - Department Of Punishment

Scorpio ♏️- A Touch of Affection

A/N: I tried my best to capture the essence of your request but i think i failed badly. This story did not turn out as i had wanted it to be. Still i hope you like it. ❤️

Taking a sip of water from the glass, i once again felt the terrible pain in my throat. One that indicated i might need to see a doctor soon.

"You got the appointment?" My friend asked as i ended the call and kept my phone inside the bag.

"Yes", i replied, taking in a deep breath.

She gently covered my hand with hers and said, "I would have come with you..."

"That's alright", i said smiling at her, "I will manage."

She looked a bit unsure but returned my smile. Trying to lighten the mood she asked, "How was the movie that you went to see?"

Soon the conversation took many turns, as the theories about why the plot took a certain direction, how it affected the characters and thereby the audience were discussed. And before i knew it, i were standing in front of my house; ringing the door bell.

Mom opened the door and welcomed me inside, swiftly taking the heavy bag from my shoulders and she kept it in its place.

"How was your day, my dear?" She asked, placing her hand on my forehead.

"Good" i replied slowly.

"She can't come with you tomorrow?" She asked; aware of the fact that my outing with my friend had not gone as expected.

"No, but i will be alright."

"I would have come with you."

"But there is a meeting, which was decided in the last minute." I said ruefully.

"I am sorry." She replied, sadness and guilt evident in her voice.

I hugged her gently, "I will be fine, mom. Don't worry."

She looked into my eyes, before placing a soft kiss on my forehead. And hugged me once more.

~

The next morning, i came down to the living room, to find mom and Scorpio waiting for me.

He smiled as our eyes met. Perhaps we were looking at each other far too longer than we realised as mother said sweetly, "Well, i am getting late", smiling at both of us.

"We will be on our way." Scorpio said in an apologetic tone. Stepping out of the house, he held my hand and snapped his fingers, bringing us in front of the clinic.

"Let's go inside." He suggested; waiting for my approval. I nodded my head in agreement.

Walking inside i found an empty spot on the sofa in the waiting area, while Scorpio went to speak with the receptionist.

"We have to wait here for a few minutes. They will call us soon." Scorpio said as he stood beside the sofa.

He placed his hand on my shoulder. A faint smile appeared on my face, at this silent reassurance that, i was not alone.

The lady, who was sitting beside me, stood up and slowly walked off, as she heard her name being called.

Scorpio sat beside me. He intertwined his fingers with mine. Relaxing my shoulders, i leaned against him; resting my head against his shoulder.

Thankfully there were not many people and we did not had to wait far too long.

"Miss (Y/N)."

We walked to the doctor's room. Seeing us, the doctor smiled. "Please, take a seat". He said; closing the file in front of him.

I felt my hands getting colder as he started asking me questions. It seemed like, he realised i was feeling uneasy as he spoke a bit softy and tried to smile in between questions. Unbeknownst to him, that did not help me much.

Scorpio held my hand under the table. He started to softly trace circles on the back of my hand. Which surprisingly had a soothing effect on me.

Once the doctor wrote the prescription, he handed it to Scorpio and instructed me the proper use of the medication. We thanked him and left.

~

"You should take rest", mom said on the phone. "I will, ma." Saying that i hung up the phone and waited.

"I am perfectly capable of doing that, you know." I said softly as Scorpio was done putting the croissants on the plates.

He went to turn on the television. "And that too."

"I know but the doctor said."

'Please take rest miss, otherwise the symptoms might become worse.' Scorpio repeated what the doctor had said earlier as he handed me the remote and took a seat beside me on the sofa.

"Pick something, miss" he said in an almost teasing tone; his eyes filled with mischief and the boyish smile lighting his face.

"Gladly, monsieur", i replied trying my best to sound annoyed.

We found a comedy movie to watch. Which was a welcoming turn of events. The croissant was delicious, and i was glad Scorpio decided to stop by my favorite bakery down the street.

"Thank you for being there with me." I said earnestly; as he was stroking my scalp.

"Don't ever think you are alone. I will always be there with you." Saying that, he placed a soft kiss on my temple.

The rest of evening, we watched many more movies until, mom came home. Mom had brought one of my favorite dishes, which the three of us shared.

A dreadful day turned into a memorable one, as we shared many stories amongst each other.

[mairablue]

I love Star Crossed Myth.

Because it's a contradiction to: "Go out. The love of your life won't just appear inside your room one day!"

[mairablue]

Thank you for tagging me!!😊

❤️❤️ @imhereforscm and @colourless-hydrangeas ❤️❤️

Tagging: @lamemaster @lady-adaneth @bruabbina @animatorweirdo @fizzyxcustard (No pressure) 💛💖 And anyone who hasn't been tagged feel free to join in!💓

Let's start a tag game!

Who is your ideal type?

Click here!

Tagging: @sh0jun @mynameiskan @just-somehuman @shonenkun309 @oda-princess @rubia8 @imhereforscm @mairablue

[mairablue]

Just Talk to Me Already!

Genre: a sulking Adrian and struggling reader

Summary: All it took was a friends night out, 2 shots of vodka, and fake courage of your friends with your inflated drunk ego.

You woke up with empty arms and a spectacular view of Adrian's back – spectacular but tense. As if he hadn't just pushed himself away from your embrace the moment he felt your dream fading. But you are shameless. Unfazed by his earlier retreat, your arms circled his waist again as you drew closer. However, your attempt to settle comfortably as the big spoon was thwarted as your hands were gently pushed away, and your beloved extricated himself from the bed.

Sighing, you returned to your overheated pillow, its once-cool sides now exhausted. "Well, if this isn't the consequence of your stupid loud mouth," you groaned into your pillow.

It all began with a fateful night out with friends, two shots of vodka, and your inflated, drunken ego. Spilling the steamy details of your past steamy escapades with your ex to Adrian wasn't planned, but it happened, thanks to drunk you. A week had passed since that unfortunate incident, and Adrian was still sulking.

Normally, Adrian was impervious to your drunken antics, but this was different. It had hit a nerve, making him insecure about his own abilities and your genuine affection for him.

As the memories from that intoxicated night resurfaced amid the fog of a confusing hangover, you realized the extent of the damage. Of course, you'd apologized; you might be a wild drunk, but you were a civil person. You even tried to be cute, using the coy voice Adrian adored, but it didn't work.

Undeterred, you bought flowers, sweets, and, just for the heck of it, a dagger because your beloved had a penchant for such things. However, your care package failed to elicit even a faint smile. Instead, you found the dagger stabbed into the garden floor, a display of strength you chose to ignore for your own sanity.

Turning to a more romantic approach, you wrote a poetic letter. Adrian, known for his dramatic flair, should have appreciated it, right? Wrong. Your beautifully scripted words were obscured by grocery lists, budget planning, and reminders of yearly events...he could have used the plain blank side and no you did not pout looking at it.

Not to mention, he wouldn't even share dinner with you or rescue you from the culinary monstrosity you'd created. The desire for a simple meal prepared by Adrian had never been stronger.

In desperation you resorted to your trusted technique of annoyance. "Adrian look at me," you settled next to him, scooting whenever he tried to scoot. "Adrian look at my crooked tooth, does my finger look bent to you," you followed after him the entire day like a puppy.

Until Adrian became a damn bat and flew. Even the puppy eyes failed you.

It was only last night that he tried to slip out of your room, but you caught his wrist, stopping him. "Don't go," you said seriously. "Just sleep here. Give me a chance to make it right. So come here and lie next to me, Adrian. We can't act like a divorced couple; we aren't married, to begin with."

You pulled him back onto the bed, and he, despite his strength, let you. Wrapping your arms around him, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, ignoring the fact that his hair almost made you sneeze during this supposedly romantic moment.

"I won't say I was wrong," your words made him tense under your touch. "I've had my fill of fooling around, of being an untethered kite. It's great, but Adrian," you pulled him closer, preventing him from seeing your blush. "I don't need that with you. I don't need wild fantasies or extreme pleasures, though I can't get enough of you. Just being in the same room as you is more than satisfying."

Your hands traced patterns on his back as you thought through your words, articulating your feelings for the first time in your life. "Don't blame yourself for anything, Adrian. Don't carry that burden. I could never forgive myself if I became the reason for your sorrow. I will gladly be the crux of your resentment. Just stay by my side and let me make it up…" You spoke throughout the night until your words began to slur, and you woke up to the sight of Adrian's back.

At least he was still in the bed, which you counted as a small victory. You planned your next grand gesture to win him over, but little did you know that your antics were making a certain dhampir, you resisted to face you, smile uncontrollably.

As he heard you groan into your pillow, he promised himself to savor these moments just a bit longer, practicing his poker face in anticipation of the day filled with your endearing gestures.

[mairablue]

A Face of Past

AN: I haven't written for Adrian in eons, so this is my attempt to get writing again. Not the best but goofy enough to be a motivator. This is for the one anon, who so kindly request me to write Adrian once again.

Genre: fluff

Pairing(s): Alucard x gn Reader

Summary: “You walked into my graveyard, uninvited,” he said, voice low and velvet-dark. “Sat at my gate. Spoke with my dead.”

He found you outside his castle just past midnight, bathed in moonlight and audacity.

You stood before the front gates, in front of the rotting corpses impaled on iron, still fresh with the stench of cruelty. A warning. A promise. A line not meant to be crossed.

And there you were, sitting right in front of them, talking to their bones like they were old friends.

He stepped out, unarmed, not that it mattered. His claws ached beneath his gloves. He would’ve torn out your heart before you could scream.

But you didn’t scream.

You didn’t even flinch.

Instead, you scowled into a rattling satchel of bones and relics at your side. “No. Absolutely not,” you muttered. “I’m not raising you. I told you already. I’m not dragging you across dimensions just so you can stab your cousin again.”

You paused. Sighed. Pulled out a cracked amulet and flicked it like a disappointed teacher.

“No, I will not be bribed.”

He narrowed his eyes. You… were human. Or close enough.

But no human acted like this. No mortal in their right mind sat among his victims and argued with ghosts like they were bickering siblings.

Then you turned, and screeched, hands flailing like you’d just been caught stealing from a god.

“Oh. Oh no. Right. Right, yes, you did tell me someone was watching.” You looked back at one of the corpses. “You could’ve been more specific about the giant vampire lord part.”

Your eyes flicked up to him. Embarrassment bloomed on your face, color blooming across your cheeks like spilled wine. “Hi,” you said, voice strained and breathless. “This is… awkward.”

He didn’t move.

You smiled nervously and tucked a stray bone into your bag. “So, um. These corpses kind of… called me. It happens sometimes. Restless dead, unfinished business, all that. They were asking for revenge and I just… came before they attracted someone who’d actually go through with it.”

You fidgeted with your hands. “I’m a necromancer, by the way.” You offered your hand. Held it out a second too long. Then yanked it back like you’d touched fire. “Oops. Force of habit. People don’t usually like that. The handshake thing, I mean. But, like, I have hands, so sometimes it just...”

"Enough." His voice cut through the night like a blade through fog.

Your mouth shut.

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, eyes glowing like coals beneath the weight of centuries. “You walked into my graveyard, uninvited,” he said, voice low and velvet-dark. “Sat at my gate. Spoke with my dead.”

You swallowed. “...Technically, they spoke first.”

“And yet, here you are. Whole.”

You forced a small smile. “I mean… temporarily.”

He stared at you for a moment too long. Then, unexpectedly, he huffed. Almost a laugh. More breath than sound. “You are either very stupid,” he said, “or very dangerous.”

“Can’t I be both?” you said brightly. Then winced. “Sorry. I get sarcastic when I’m scared.”

He said nothing. Just… watched.

And something in you knew, you weren’t being hunted. You were being considered.

You looked at the dhampir. Surrounded by ghosts of past. It was a wonder, his spirit had not blended with that of the castle, like many others.

Frail yet fierce. You noted the claws, dreadful claws.

The gutted merchant on the spike reached for your robes...or his alteast his bones called for you.

Urging you to raise him in order to avenge himself by killing the dhampir.

Alucard, they call called him. Whined and groaned into the cold mist.

"You should not be living here..." you offer your obligatory free advice. "This place is brimming with resentment that is settling into your soul, my lord."

You gesture toward the wall behind him, where the name Dracul was carved deep and angry into the stone. "It’s clinging to you. Even ghosts know when it’s time to move on."

He doesn’t answer, but his jaw tightens.

You shift your weight, brushing ash from your coat. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

His jaw tenses. Slightly. But enough.

“You presume much,” he says.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, your gaze drifts past him, up toward the dark spires of the castle, to the wind curling through the bones on their pikes. Your voice softens.

“I’ve walked through enough places like this to know when someone’s soul is trying to leave before the body does.”

Silence. He doesn’t blink.

You look back at him. Not afraid. Not amused. Something older than both. “You’re not the first one to wear that face,” you say.

He freezes.

Slowly, you reach into your satchel. Deliberate. Careful. No sudden movements. You pull out a pendant. Blackened, broken, humming softly with something old and unfinished. It pulses faintly in the dark, as if recognizing the air it was forged to die in.

You don’t offer it. You simply hold it between your fingers, like you’re reminding the night of its own memory. When you speak, your voice is quiet. Not angry. Not accusing. “You left this in me last time.”

His eyes lock on the charm. Unmoving.

You tilt your head. Your lips quirk in something too soft to be a smile. “Right before you killed me.”

[mairablue]

Tauxolouve held your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing your trembling knuckles. "It's alright. We all need to explode once in a while. And scream and rage and cry if we need..." He smiled sweetly at you. "What matters is that we get back up. Because although it may seem pointless and too stressful to bother with now, one day, you'll be looking back at all the distance you've walked and you'll feel... Proud of yourself."

Thank you ❤️ Love the way you put these feelings into words, breathing life in them. These aren't just simple words.😭😭😭🤧

He pulled you along, bringing you to your bedroom. "Lay in bed, my little lady." He said softly, not commanding you, but gently guiding you.

His gentle words 😭🤧 I didn't think it was possible for me to love him more than i already did.

"Hardships are a part of nature too." He said softly. "I believe you can do this too." He looked down at your face and smiled. You had fallen asleep, your lips parted slightly as you breathed in a slow peaceful rhythm. Tauxolouve kissed your hair softly. "I love you. Sweet dreams."

I would re-read this story again and again. ❤️❤️❤️

Sorry to bother you at this hour. Can you please write a comfort fic, for a reader who is stressed and needs some comfort, hugs and lullaby from Louie?

"Heavy rainclouds"

Genre: fluff/comfort

Warnings: stress

A/N: Hey, sweetie!!!! 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹 I hope what I wrote is satisfactory enough 💌💌💌 If not, tell me and I will try to rewrite this to the best of my abilities!!🌹🌹🌹❤️❤️❤️ I'm also INCREDIBLY stressed these past few months, so I wrote this from personal experience too. All I have to say for now, is have courage!!! I LOVE YOU!!! HERE'S YOUR LOUIE!!🌹🌹🌹 And I'm so sorry for the delay!!! The days have been difficult 😞

You turned the doorknob and sunlight invaded the room, as if searching manically for something, surpassing you and warming up the hallway of the front door with morning sunlight.

"My little lady." Tauxolouve stood there with a smile, warm as the sunlight and hair a little tousled after he had apparently tried to fix them on his way here.

"You walked here?" You asked, noticing his straight lined beige pants and his white button up shirt, which was tucked loosely into the waistline of his pants, held in place by a brown belt.

He nodded, stepping into the house and leaning in to kiss your cheek, his lips soft and warm and so, oh, so comforting. "I want to get familiar with the human side of my heritage too." He chuckled.

You chuckled too, though the sound was weak and fragile, as if your heart was not meant to make that sound. As if it couldn't bear that 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

Tauxolouve pulled back slightly and eyed you, his deep gaze noticing your lack of color, the exhaustion and how tense and on edge you seemed, as if expecting something to happen again. As if your fingers were twitching to fend off something 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. He cupped your cheeks in his two big palms and his eyebrows formed downturns. "Something's wrong. I can tell."

You sighed and leaned into his gentle and tender touch. "Yes." You admitted, closing your eyes, not quite wanting to look at him while you were this vulnerable. "I'm..." You breathed in deeply and sighed, reaching out and holding onto his forearm perhaps a little too tightly. "I'm so stressed, Louie."

Tauxolouve brought your face to his and kissed you on the forehead. "Rough week?"

"More than just ‘rough’. It feel like there's no end in sight." You said. "Every single time I finish something, something else starts 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 after!" Your fingers trembled and you swallowed thickly, as you ran a hand through your hair, a nervous habit that proved of just how badly you craved to just... Crawl out of your skin.

Because maybe 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 you'll stop the stress, the racing heartbeats, the suffocation.

"I can't sleep..." You said, your hands dropping at your sides. "I can't eat. Either I don't have an appetite, or I want to puke them out afterwards, or... Or I have indigestion problems!" You threw your hands in the air. "I feel pressured from all sides! And I just 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 to keep going and keep working on things, when deep down, what I really wish to do is simply explode and 𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘭! And 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 and 𝘩𝘪𝘵 something—...!" You hushed abruptly and breathed in deeply.

Tauxolouve was listening patiently this whole time, his ears a willing sponge to soak up all the dirt from your thoughts, all that's been plaguing your mind and tainting your pillowcase, as if filled with thorns instead of cotton and thus you could seem to rest.

"I'm sorry, I..." You choked out, the words struggling, as if tangled in webs that kept forming and forming and not stopping, no matter how hard you tiered them apart and—

Tauxolouve held your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing your trembling knuckles. "It's alright. We all need to explode once in a while. And scream and rage and cry if we need..." He smiled sweetly at you. "What matters is that we get back up. Because although it may seem pointless and too stressful to bother with now, one day, you'll be looking back at all the distance you've walked and you'll feel... Proud of yourself."

You sighed.

He pulled you along, bringing you to your bedroom. "Lay in bed, my little lady." He said softly, not commanding you, but gently guiding you.

You slipped into bed and tugged on the covers, so that they were draped over your legs, up to your hips.

"Should I close the curtains?" He asked.

You shook your head. "No. I think... I think a little sunlight might help my mood." You said quietly.

"Alright." He said and approached the bed, laying down beside you and slipping beneath the covers. "Beautiful morning today, isn't it?" He said, as he fixed the pillows, so that they were propped up against the headboard and he leaned back into them.

"Yeah." You agreed. "It's the sunniest morning so far."

"See?" He said softly, pulling you into his arms and you instinctively laid your head on his chest, his heartbeat echoing in your ear like a melody coming from a music box, whose key hasn't even been turned yet. A melody so alive, nothing can stop it from beating nor hushing. "Even the sky has its difficult days..." His voice was a hushed whisper, the only noise within your quiet bedroom. "Some days, it has to carry heavy dark clouds everywhere and water fields and gardens and refill lakes, rivers and oceans."

You hummed in response, lifting your leg and draping it over his thigh, anchoring yourself against his warmth and his caramel scent, that seemed to signify peace and a shore long anticipated after weeks of sea storms.

"Some days it too needs to cry." He whispered, lips against your soft hair, his voice like a melody that tucked itself into your heart like a handkerchief with his initials. "And then the clouds turn white again and they disappear and... The sky clears..."

You hummed sleepily, your breaths slowing down, your heart beating in a steady, calm pace.

"Hardships are a part of nature too." He said softly. "I believe you can do this too." He looked down at your face and smiled. You had fallen asleep, your lips parted slightly as you breathed in a slow peaceful rhythm. Tauxolouve kissed your hair softly. "I love you. Sweet dreams."

[mairablue]

Karno! 💖💖💖😭🤧

Karno's done it! AGAIN!

Results of the Kiss till Dawn event:

That means we are now guaranteed at least two more SCM stories this year:

Karno's Leading Man Award story for coming first last year in June

Another Karno story in 'summer' for him coming first in this

And in case anyone is curious where the other Gods came in this short voting event:

17th. Zyglavis (4,322 votes)

19th. Aigonorus (3,684 votes)

20th. Dui (3,665 votes)

21st. Scorpio (3,273 votes)

23rd. Ichthys (2,723 votes)

26th. Huedhaut (2,448 votes)

47th. Tauxolouve (1,297 votes)

67th. Leon (612 votes)

90th. Krioff (374 votes)

124th. Partheno (167 votes)

=124th. Teorus (167 votes)

[mairablue]

Bilbo is so adorable. 💓 Please write more!

Hi (*^^*) Can i request Mr. Bilbo x desi reader?

Hello! I see Bilbo as aroace, but I'll try to imagine him as demisexual.

Here goes nothing!

Most hobbits are very warm and welcoming, so are most desi people. He would be more than happy to welcome you to his hole, when he first meets you.

As you two begin to get closer, he composes poetry for you, and shares his tales with you.

He would make you tea and biscuits every evening, once you two are in a relationship.

Bilbo loves learning about other folks, so he would be very interested in desi culture.

He would be so baffled. How do you keep track of so many festivals???

Hobbits do not use too many spices in their food, so spicy food might be a cultural shock for him.

Also, the first time you wore mehendi, he would be so enchanted. He would be so in love with the smell of mehendi.

When he meets your relatives for the first time, he would be, again, baffled. Do all humans have this many relatives?

He would definitely prefer a desi style wedding for you two.

He would love to learn the languages you know.

Bilbo finds it lovely when you speak in your native language.

When you two have kids, he would definitely prefer to teach them your native language first, than his.

He would definitely have you name them all.

He's very supportive of you and loves you.

He would be a great father, teaching his children all about life in Middle Earth and beyond.

This is my first time writing for LOTR. Thank you so much for reading! Orz

[mairablue]

A patron came in to the library a few weeks ago looking for a copy of "The Tale of Peter Rabbit". She said she wanted to replicate Peter's coat for her daughter's rabbit. Library staff found her the book thinking she meant a stuffed rabbit. But, lo and behold, it was a real rabbit! Introducing... Melvin Rabbit!

[mairablue]

say what you will about the reserve bank of india these are some cracking coins

[mairablue]

friend ?????!?

fr iend!! !!!

im coming friend

im here i love u