#which is a true masterpiece

[sugahyeon]

Random Tazercraft appreciation post bc even tho i never watched their pov, you can still feel the life they put into the server

From what i know, they organized most of Festa Junina which was an AWESOME event, with tons of cultural representation and was so fun, for the brazilians and the others. It introduced everyone to a part of Brazil's culture and it was so wholesome and well done?? (+The area was really pretty)

The esconde esconde??? Which some players still go to play at random times bc it's just so fun?? The area is awesome, the eggs got to decorate their statues (which is super cute) for some of them and they decorated the rest according to each eggs' tastes. The main event was SO much fun and they even added a second mini-game with the ''hot-potato'' (even more fun, can you believe that?)

The second area??? For the murder mystery?? It looks so good?? The details are INSANE, they're adding lore to each houses, loads of decorations/secret paths/hidden rooms and we already know this is gonna be such a good event! Their ideas for the roles, having around a dozens so that everyone gets to have one... I legit can't wait to see it!

And you can to that the train (which is so cool) and all the randoms lore discoveries

Like, the clip of them getting into the nether lived in my mind rent free for so long bc it's just so funny?? And they keep on doing that type of stuff

Idk, they just bring so much life to the server and you can feel it through any pov you could watch

[talesfromthebandgeekmafia]

True Detective season 1 is an achievement of storytelling and the medium of television. I can’t even praise it by wishing to see it for the first time again because it’s just as enjoyable on the third watch as it is on the first if not more.

[lovecanbesostrange]

"This is a bad movie, bad show, bad book etc etc." Then you check and the thing is actually fine. Not great or earthshattering, but fine. The word you're looking for is mediocre. And we need mediocre art, lots of it. That is where you'll find the true human experience.

[aeolianblues]

Same, Justin, same

[numetaljackdog]

🎧…?

lol. if i'm completely honest with everyone here i could easily just put the entire song i fucking love the lyrics to this one. ah why not

[bullseyelover]

this is how i spend my time

[britneyshakespeare]

should i start reading russian avant-garde theater

[ozzgin]

Yan!Monster who is a famous author of human fiction. If a monster has a human kink, they’ve heard of him. They’ve read his books.

“The human’s husband”

“The human from the office”

“Human Farm”

“Kidnapping a human”

These are just some examples of his written debauchery. One detail, however, bothers him terribly: he doesn’t actually know much about humans. In fact, he’s never seen one with his own eyes. Hard to believe given the intricate details penned in each of his masterpieces, but it’s a cold, shameful truth.

Now, he’s not entirely to blame. Humans are a rare sight. So rare, in fact, most are considered an urban legend. Which is why his readers don’t mind the potential inaccuracies. A true master of the arts, however, strives for perfection. That’s what he always tells himself, that's his never-ending source of anguish.

Imagine his surprise when, on his most recent hiking trip, he stumbles upon the creature. You. A glitch in the matrix? An error in the grand code? You ask yourself the same question, staring wide-eyed at the enormous, unholy beast before you.

This is the chance of a lifetime. One he might never encounter again. His heart threatens to burst out his chest, pumping with anxiety, anticipation, eagerness. The potential! The research possibilities! No other monster could ever come close to his accurate depictions of a human’s body. Not only that, but unlike everyone else having to rely on printed dreams, he’d have access to the real deal. No more lustful scribbles in the middle of the night. He could have you.

All that’s left is to bring you to his home.

[More monsters]

[ventique18]

Dragon couple 🐉🌸♀️

When their first son was born, Yuu unfortunately resigned to her fate that she would be the mother of children named Malware, Malaria, and Malignant Cancer.

Her husband Malleus had named their firstborn Malleus. Which was not a terrible idea given the boy was his heir and inheriting his name could be symbolic, but she was certain there were not too many words starting with 'Mal' that could pass off as a name. So imagine her surprise when he had suggested that their second child, a lovely girl, be named Agatha.

"You're not insane after all. I was going to rethink our marriage if you tried to name our baby Malnutrition, or something." Her love for him had grown a tad fiercer, if that was at all possible.

When they welcomed their third child to the world, he had named him 'Lilia' and Yuu immediately caught up to his intentions.

"You realized we couldn't possibly give a good name that starts with 'Mal' everytime, so you decided to spell it out chronologically instead? Malleus, Agatha, and Lilia..."

"Oh, but my plan isn't quite as shallow as that." He commented with an eager smile, "We need five more children."

"Five more-- eight children in total?! Are you planning to build an entire Spelldrive team complete with a coach?"

"Perhaps." He replied, his grin both mischievous and secretive.

What ever could this man be planning? Some kind of ancient ritual that required eight of his own flesh and blood? World domination? Of course he wouldn't do something as terrible as that, but why eight in particular?

Seasons passed, years crawled on, yet their love for each other remained just as strong. True to his words, they managed to conceive their eight child after a few decades. They had the most delightful names, you see:

Malleus, Agatha-- the first two letters of her name stood for the element symbol of Silver, Lilia, Laverne, Eleanor, Yuuki, Ubek (he ran out of ideas), and Ulficia. They were his greatest masterpiece, the father would brag, and so he named them after an actual masterpiece that happened to exist before they did. Since their names were variations of the people closest to him, textbooks would then write him down as a king full of love and respect for those who had given his life meaning and became his strength.

... Or so the writeup could have been that respectable, if only he did not frown while reviewing such descriptions of him and personally wrote an edit request to the publishers. For they had omitted a crucial detail from their story:

That the first letters of their children's names, when arranged, spelled 'MALLEYUU.' Their names being variations of the people he care about were merely secondary. His main purpose was to immortalize in books his undying love for his wife, Yuu.

Later on, some would call him the Mad King; not because he was insane or cruel, but because they had never seen a ruler as madly in love with his spouse as he was with his wife. Their love story would then become a classic literary blueprint for centuries to come.

[not-terezi-pyrope]

The problem with "I could do [X popular modern art piece]" being responded to with "then go ahead and do it!" is that I think the point that a lot of people are making is not so much "this artwork has no value" but rather "modern popular art is a heavily gatekept industry that you cannot enter into without requisite pre-existing social cachet".

So even if someone is technically/artistically able to create something on the level of a gallery piece (and, to be honest, I think substantially more people have that ability than anyone would be likely to admit) they do not exist in an environment where they have the financial freedom or recognition for that to be possible or worthwhile.

I assure you that there are millions of people who absolutely could and would want to make Pollock style abstract paintings or giant time-consuming sculptures made with garbage or whatever, but they're currently stuck in a low wage job and if they quit in order to make their masterpiece then nobody would bat an eye and they would go broke because they wouldn't have the sociocultural weight to impart that special numinous reverence that "high art" is granted, and which makes it financially viable as a thing to spend your time doing.

It is also true that a lot of people who have that cachet are able to spend their time making pretty much whatever, and will still be able to support themselves even if the art itself is fairly mediocre outside of the time dedicated to its creation.

Anyway, I feel that people are perfectly valid in feeling a sense of vague resentment at that when they visit galleries holding paint/canvas combinations that sell for more than they will earn in several years. I mean it speaks to what society is implying about their worth as a person. I don't think that it's as much about arrogance and entitlement as people like to pretend, because a lot of that comes from buying into the mystique of the Worthy Artist anyway.

[kiddotarot]

Your True potential

Pile 1. Pile 2. Pile 3.

Pile 1 .

pile 1 you are the people who can stand again no matter how hard the situation is. You collect yourself and get on the track again and build the legacy and your kingdom again and again without help . You guys are the best motivation for yourself and may inspire people around you . You May face a lot of betrayal , dishonesty and backstabbing from people around you and may people or life throw you many times in a situation where you don't have much option or resources or help . But you know how To make best of any resources you have in life you may start again and get on the top without any help. You have your own creativity and skill. You know what is the process and how it will be done and when an artist knows how to create a masterpiece it can be done any time , anywhere you guys are survivors who can start A new beginning ✨️ now matter what .

Pile 2.

Pile 2 your true potential is that success comes to you by itself no matter what condition luck always be by your side . You know how to work in your favor and how to do a lot of work . This pile is also give me sign of a person or child which is abdomened by society and family may be an elder sibling. You may face financial condition problems in your life or may be lack of sufficient resources but you are the person who don't care about what you have and not you don't care about material , luxuries and life may always hard on you but time teach you a lot and you get to know that you can get whatever you want and materials and things never an issue . There is also a lack of nurturing from a mother figure but still you stand here with the strongest person on earth. These all things make you detached and unaffected. You know the reality of a crucial world and you know how to manage and win after it all.

Pile 3.

Pile 3 your true potential is your strength and your self love and the sense of knowing what you are from your deepest core and your self respect and courage is the important part to reach at the ultimate potential. You are a very spiritual person and you have the clarity of things around you and for the things which are important for you . You may do meditation and some kind of inner healing and self love for yourself. You may Also trust your inner self and be very aligned with the universe, a person which can talk with God and know the sign. You guys never compromise cause you know what is your worth so you never drop your standards and stand high for self respect and for yourself. You are the soul which already have experience of this earth and knows the its important to take easy cause you already experienced it all and an old soul which already know things And enjoying time on earth.

@kiddotarot

[writingforstraykids]

Step by Step

Pairing: Minho x 9th member gn!Reader

Word Count: 2181

Summary: Minho's whole purpose is based on his dancing ability. When an injury slows him down he draws back from everyone until Chan sends you his way to get him back.

Warnings/Tags: 9th member fic, angst, fluff, self doubt

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

Minho was born to dance.

From the moment he first stepped into a studio, it became his second home, the rhythm of music entwined with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Every movement was precise, every routine a masterpiece, crafted with the kind of dedication that only came from true love for the art. And for as long as you had known him, that fire had burned unshakable.

Until the accident.

It happened in an instant, a moment so brief yet devastatingly permanent. One mistimed landing, one sharp cry of pain, and suddenly, the invincible Lee Minho was reduced to someone broken. The doctors assured him he would recover, but the damage had already been done-not just to his body, but to something far more fragile: his confidence.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and though his body healed, his soul remained fractured. He refused to return to the studio, refused to do so much as talk about dancing, leaving Hyunjin and Felix to figure out your newest moves by themselves. He stayed away from the studio, not really seeing the use in recording new songs when he wouldn't be able to perform them on stage - which drove first Changbin and then Jisung crazy, whilst Chan worried too much for his own good. And what was even worse - he pushed everyone away. Even you. You, his fellow dancer who had always admired him the most.

But you weren’t about to let him go so easily. Not when your maknae had asked you to check on Min, not when Chan had told you, you were their last hope.

-

Knocking on Minho’s door has become part of your routine. Every day you found yourself in front of that wooden door, knocking firmly against it.

It always ended the same way. A muffled "go away," sometimes accompanied by the sound of his cats padding across the room, as if they alone were allowed to witness his pain. But today, you didn’t walk away. You could tell the others were beyond worried and you've had enough.

“I know you’re in there,” you said, arms crossed as you leaned against the frame. “You can’t ignore me forever, you know.”

Silence.

You exhaled sharply. "Lee Minho, I swear—"

The door finally cracked open. Just a sliver, enough for his sharp brown eyes to glare at you. His hair was a little messy, and there was an exhaustion about him that had nothing to do with sleep.“What do you want?” he muttered.

You ignored the irritation in his voice. “To see you. To talk to you.”

His grip on the door tightened. “There’s nothing to talk about. You've seen me now.”

“Minho, you—”

“I said there’s nothing to talk about.” His voice was hard now, like stone, cold and unyielding. “Just leave me alone.”

He started closing the door, but you pushed against it before he could. “No.”

That made him pause. “No?”

“No,” you repeated stubbornly. “I’m not going to leave you alone just because you decided to shut yourself off from the world.”

His jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Your voice softened, the anger ebbing away into something closer to sadness. “Minho, I know you. You’re not okay. And pretending you don’t care doesn’t make it any less true.”

His gaze flickered. For the briefest moment, something in his expression cracked - but just as quickly, he rebuilt his walls. “I don’t need your pity,” he muttered.

“I’m not here because I pity you,” you shot back. “I’m here because I care.” The words hung in the air between you, heavy and unspoken for far too long.

Minho looked away first. “I don’t need anyone.”

You sighed. “You can keep saying that, but it won’t make it true.”

Silence stretched again. He was staring at the floor now, his fingers curling into fists. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I can’t dance anymore.”

Your heart clenched at the defeat in his voice and you shook your head. “Yes, you can.”

“No,” he said, sharper this time. “I can’t. I’ve tried, and it’s not the same. My body - it doesn’t move the way it used to. I’m slower, weaker. I mess up things that were second nature before. It’s gone.”

Your chest tightened. You had seen him try - alone in the practice room when he thought no one was watching. The frustration, the way he’d stumble and curse under his breath, the way he’d leave without looking back. You took a step closer. “Minho-”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” He turned away, gripping the door as if he wanted to slam it shut again.

But you weren’t done. “Minho.” Something in your voice must have made him pause. “You don’t have to be perfect right now,” you said softly. “You just have to try.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, “You’re exhausting.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, knowing you won. “I know.” And this time, when he closed the door, it wasn’t all the way.

-

The next day, you found Minho sitting in the practice room. Not dancing. Just sitting - back against the mirrors, legs stretched out, watching his reflection like he didn’t recognize the person staring back.

You sat down next to him without a word. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just heavy. Finally, you broke it.

“You know,” you said, hugging your knees, “when I first joined the group, I thought you hated me.”

Minho blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”

You smiled faintly. “You were so intimidating. Always so serious, so good at everything. I was scared to mess up in front of you.”

Minho scoffed. “You? Scared? Yeah, right.”

“I mean it,” you admitted. “But then I realized something - you weren���t actually scary. You were just focused. Because you cared that much.”

He exhaled, looking away. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Yes, it does.” You turned to him fully. “Minho, dancing is you. It’s in your blood, in your bones. An injury doesn’t change that.”

His jaw clenched and he shook his head firmly. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” you pleaded with him. “Make me understand what's keeping you from your passion.”

His hands curled into fists. “What if I’m never as good as before?” The raw honesty in his voice nearly broke you.

“What if you’re better?” you countered and Minho froze. You reached out, your fingers brushing his lightly. “You’re not starting over, Minho. You’re growing. And yeah, it’s going to be hard, and it’s going to hurt. But you’re still you.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you. And then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. It wasn’t a promise but it was a start.

-

The next time you found Minho in the studio, he was standing. Not dancing. Not stretching. Just standing like a soldier preparing for battle, shoulders stiff, fists clenched.

You watched from the doorway, waiting. If you pushed too hard, he’d shut down again.

Slowly, he raised a foot, testing his balance. Then he tried a step - hesitant, uncertain. Another. And another. But the moment he attempted a turn, his body faltered. He caught himself before he could fall, but you saw it. The frustration. The fear.

Before he could storm out, you stepped forward. “It’s okay.”

Minho flinched, shoulders tensing. “Go away.”

“No, Min,” you told him firmly and gently cupped his face.

Minho's eyes grew wide as he swallowed softly, the warmth of your hands oddly calming. He exhaled sharply. “Why do you keep-”

“Because you’re worth it,” you said firmly, thumbs drawing a small pattern against his skin. “Because I know you. And because I refuse to watch you give up on yourself.”

He stared at you, something in his gaze unreadable. Then, finally - finally- he lowered his gaze to the floor and whispered, “I don’t know how to do this.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t have to do it alone, Min. We can work on this together.”

For a moment, he hesitated. And then, without another word, he let you wrap him into a firm hug, enjoying your soothing presence for a moment.

-

The days passed in a rhythm of their own. Some were good. On those days, Minho moved with a shadow of his old self, the precision of his steps slowly returning. You saw glimpses of the dancer he had once been - the fire, the grace, the intensity.

But some days were bad.

On those days, he couldn’t even make it through a routine without stopping, his frustration boiling over. He lashed out - not at you, but at himself. And then one day, everything snapped.

It was late, the studio dimly lit. You had been practicing together for hours, working through a routine, when Minho’s footwork slipped on a turn. It wasn’t a bad fall, but it was enough. Enough for his patience to shatter.

“Damn it!” The sound of his voice - raw, broken - echoed through the room. Before you could react, he slammed his fist against the mirror. Not hard enough to break it, but enough to send a painful thud through the air. “I can’t do this,” he growled out, voice shaking. “It’s not working. I’m-” His breath hitched. “I’m not me anymore, I'm fucking broken.”

Your heart clenched as you hesitantly took a step forward. “Minho-”

But he wasn’t listening. He pressed a hand to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving with the weight of something far deeper than just dance. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear - “I don’t deserve this.”

Your breath caught. “Deserve what?” you whispered.

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Anything. The group. The stage. You. I was already expendable before,” he said, voice hollow. “Now? I don’t even belong here.”

Something in you snapped, eyes burning fiercely. “Don’t you dare say that.” Minho looked up, startled. “You think you don’t belong?” you demanded. “You think we wouldn’t be less without you? Minho, you’re the main dancer of this team. You always have been. You're our friend..And nothing can change that.” His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak. You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you. And that’s enough.”

Minho exhaled, something crumbling in his expression. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he admitted, so quiet it was almost a plea.

You reached for his hand. “Then let me believe for you until you can.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. But then - slowly - his fingers curled around yours. And for the first time, he truly didn’t push you away.

-

Things changed after that night. Minho still struggled, but he let you see it now. He let himself lean on you, even if only a little. And somewhere along the way, between long hours in the studio and late-night conversations, you realized.

The pain he carried wasn’t just from the injury. It was older. Deeper.

One evening, as you sat side by side in the practice room, Minho finally spoke the words you never expected. “I was ten the first time someone told me I wasn’t good enough.” You turned to him, heart pounding. “My teacher,” he continued, voice eerily calm. “She said I had talent but not drive. That I’d never make it unless I proved I deserve it.” He let out a breath. “She wasn’t wrong.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Minho, you can't be serious.”

“I’ve spent my whole life proving I belong here,” he murmured. “And now? Now, I don’t even know who I am without dance.”

Your chest ached. “You’re our Minnie,” you whispered. “That’s enough.”

He looked at you then - really looked at you. And for the first time, you saw something fragile beneath the confidence he always wore like armor. Something scared. Something hopeful. And that was when you knew he was healing. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not even soon.

But he would.

-

The day of the showcase arrived faster than either of you expected. Minho hadn’t performed in months. This wasn’t an official stage - just a small even for fans. But it was the first step. And he was terrified.

You found him backstage, pacing. “You okay?” you asked gently.

He exhaled sharply, his hands trembling slightly as he looked at you. “No.”

You smiled fondly and nodded gently. “Good. That means it matters.”

He scoffed. “You and your stupid optimism.”

You took his hands, feeling the soft tremor in them and squeezed them. “Minho, you can do this.” He hesitated. “You don’t have to be perfect,” you reminded him. “Just dance. I'll be right there with you.”

Minho swallowed harshly. Then, slowly, he nodded. When you two stepped onto the stage, the music began.

And when he moved - hesitant at first, then stronger - something changed. The fire returned. Not the same as before, but something new.

And as you caught the beaming faces of the others at the side of your stage, you realized that Minho was back on track.

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

Taglist (Please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the taglist):

@jinnie-ret @atinyniki @galaxycatdrawz @silverstarburst @aaa-sia @lilmisssona @kthstrawberryshortcake @channieaddict @soullostinspaceandtime @rebecca-johnson-28 @lixie-phoria @kibs-and-bits @xxstrayland @ihrtlix @pheonixfire777 @justawetsock @mellhwang @palindrome969 @theo4eve @harshaaaaa @rylea08 @heeyboooo @manuosorioh @gisaerlleri @andassortedkpop @lailac13 @bbokari711 @kazuuuaaa @rssamj @wolfyychan @stellasays45 @chrizzztopherbang @ionlyeverwantedtobeyourequal @silentreadersthings @myforevermelody143 @sapphirewaves @minh0scat @dis-trict9 @queer-possum @james-is-here

[dumb-ster-fire]

Inner Circle Banter x fem! reader - Part 2

Azriel x mate!reader

a/n: I saw how people loved the first one so I made another.Here is more unhinged Y/N 🫶🏻

warnings: NSFW language

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Inner Circle was a mess. A hilarious, drunken mess.

Y/N lounged on the couch, her head thrown back in laughter as Cassian dramatically slurred his way through a story that had long since lost any coherent plot. Mor was draped over Amren—who, despite being the smallest among them, was somehow holding her liquor the best—while Rhys was slumped back in his chair, lazily swirling the wine in his glass as if he were still trying to uphold some dignity. Feyre was giggling into her own drink, her cheeks flushed, while Nesta sat beside her, eyes glassy but still managing to look unimpressed.

Azriel? Oh, Azriel was leaning against Y/N, his usually composed self utterly gone as he pressed his face into her shoulder, murmuring something unintelligible. His shadows were sluggish, barely responding to him, as if even they were drunk.

“I love you,” he mumbled against her skin, voice thick with alcohol.

Y/N grinned, poking his cheek. “I know, Az. You told me five times already. And then you tried to fight Cassian because he ‘breathed too close to me.’”

Cassian, still dramatically sprawled over the arm of the couch, scoffed. “I was breathing! What was I supposed to do? Stop??”

Azriel lifted his head slightly, his hazel eyes narrowing. “Maybe.”

Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing, her fingers brushing through his hair as he huffed and nuzzled closer again, clearly deciding he was too drunk to keep arguing.

Rhys, ever the instigator, lazily gestured between them. “You two are disgustingly cute. It’s offensive.”

“Bold words from a man who practically worships the ground Feyre walks on,” Y/N shot back, smirking.

Feyre laughed, elbowing her mate. “She’s got you there.”

Meanwhile, Mor had somehow convinced Amren to take another shot, which resulted in Amren standing on the table, proclaiming in her small but fierce voice, “I was a GOD before any of you existed!” before promptly sitting back down like nothing happened.

Nesta, watching all of this unfold, slowly took another sip of her drink. “I hate all of you.”

Cassian slung an arm around her shoulders, grinning sloppily. “You love us.”

Y/N, still cuddling a very tipsy Azriel, raised her glass. “To being an absolute disaster!”

The Inner Circle cheered—or, in Azriel’s case, just hummed sleepily against her shoulder—as they all drank, fully embracing the chaos of the night.

Mor, absolutely hammered, slumped against the couch with a lazy smirk as she eyed Y/N and Azriel. “So, Y/N,” she slurred, twirling the last bit of wine in her glass, “is Azriel your type?”

Y/N, equally drunk but ever the menace, grinned wickedly, barely missing a beat. “Ah, yes,” she said dramatically, lifting her hands like she was painting a masterpiece. “Gentle and loving but also will choke and spit on me… chef’s kiss.”

Silence. Then absolute chaos.

Cassian howled with laughter, nearly falling off the couch, pounding his fist against the armrest. Rhysand actually choked on his drink, eyes wide in stunned amusement. Feyre’s face turned a deep shade of red, trying so hard not to spit out her wine. Even Nesta looked momentarily stunned before she smirked behind her glass.

Mor gasped, covering her mouth before dissolving into uncontrollable giggles. “Oh my gods, I love you,” she wheezed, slapping Y/N’s thigh.

Azriel? Poor, poor Azriel.

The male had been lazily leaning against Y/N, all content and warm in his drunken haze—until that. His entire body tensed, and his head snapped toward her, his hazel eyes wide as if she had just announced their sex life to the entire continent.

“Y/N,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, his ears tinged red.

“What?” she giggled, batting her lashes at him. “It’s true.”

Cassian, still cackling, wiped a tear from his eye. “Brother, you are so screwed.”

“Literally,” Mor added between snickers.

Rhys, who had finally recovered, grinned like a cat who had just been given the juiciest piece of gossip. “So, Az, anything you’d like to confirm or deny?”

Azriel glared daggers at him, but before he could even attempt to salvage his dignity, Y/N leaned in, her drunk mischief on full display, whispering against his ear, “Don’t worry, babe, I didn’t tell them about the rope this time.”

Azriel let out a long sigh, leaning fully back against the couch, clearly accepting his fate.

Meanwhile, Mor lifted her glass. “To Azriel being the perfect balance of soft and filthy!”

The Inner Circle cheered, and Y/N—still smug and delightfully tipsy—leaned back against her mate, smirking like the absolute menace she was.

Azriel was suffering.

Not in the way he had suffered on battlefields, or through centuries of pain and shadowy burdens. No, this was an entirely new kind of torture—one that involved his mate being an absolute menace, his so-called family reveling in his humiliation, and him being too drunk to properly shut any of it down.

Y/N, meanwhile, was thriving.

She was still perched in his lap, looking far too pleased with herself, while the Inner Circle continued their drunken revelry. Cassian, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, still wasn’t over it. “Choke and spit on me,” he wheezed, practically collapsing into Nesta, who rolled her eyes but was biting back a smirk. “That was legendary.”

“I mean, it’s good to know he meets expectations,” Mor teased, swirling her drink.

Rhys, ever the opportunist, lounged back with a smirk that screamed trouble. “You know, I always suspected Az had a secret wild side. But this?” He exhaled, shaking his head. “This is delightful confirmation.”

Azriel groaned, dropping his head against the back of the couch. He’d faced wars with more dignity than this.

Y/N, full of unholy glee, kissed his cheek again. “You love me,” she sing-songed, absolutely insufferable.

Azriel lifted his head, fixing her with a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated. “…I do.”

Cassian let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh shit, he admitted it. In front of witnesses. It’s over for him.”

Feyre, shaking with silent laughter, raised a brow at Az. “Honestly, I didn’t expect this side of you.”

“I hate this side of me,” Azriel muttered, reaching for his drink as if that would somehow erase the conversation.

Y/N, with the biggest shit-eating grin, leaned in again, whispering just for him, “Liar. You love that I’m saying this in front of them.”

Azriel, deadpan, took a very long sip of his drink.

Mor smirked at Y/N. “So, when are you teaching me how to get a mate to be the perfect mix of sweet and depraved?”

Y/N, without hesitation, threw an arm around Azriel’s shoulders, smirking. “Step one: Find a stoic, broody male with a secret filthy side. Step two: Break him.”

Cassian actually howled at that, nearly falling off the couch. Rhys was howling too, wiping at his eyes. “Oh fuck, she got you so good, brother.”

Azriel just sat there, silently suffering, as Y/N nuzzled into him, smug and victorious.

And, gods help him—he did love her for it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night only spiraled further into chaos.

Cassian, still wheezing from laughter, slammed a hand down on the table. “Alright, alright—we have to make this official.”

Y/N perked up in Azriel’s lap. “Make what official?”

“The breaking of Azriel,” Cassian declared grandly, gesturing wildly with his half-empty glass of whiskey. “For centuries, he was the untouchable, brooding mystery. Silent, deadly, repressed.” He pointed at Y/N with the authority of a drunk philosopher. “And then you showed up and turned him into a man who admits his feelings, growls at people who look at you too long, and—” He paused dramatically. “—is apparently a choking enthusiast.”

Azriel groaned and buried his face in Y/N’s shoulder, while Mor cackled, Nesta snorted into her wine, and Rhysand grinned like the bastard he was.

“You make it sound like I did witchcraft on him,” Y/N teased, idly playing with Azriel’s hair.

Cassian pointed again. “I knew there was something supernatural about you.” He turned to Feyre, suddenly serious. “Feyre, paint a picture of Az’s descent into sin.”

“Please don’t,” Azriel muttered into Y/N’s shoulder.

Feyre, biting back a smirk, tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I could capture his internal struggle—the battle between his old, broody self and the broken man who now worships at the altar of his mate’s chaos.”

Rhys beamed. “That’s art.”

Azriel groaned louder.

Y/N, full of mischief and absolutely loving this, turned and whispered against his ear, “You do worship at my altar, don’t you?”

Azriel lifted his head just enough to give her a look—one that promised payback. But she only grinned wider, completely unrepentant.

“Alright, final proof that Az has been fully corrupted,” Mor said, raising her glass. “Y/N, what’s the filthiest thing he’s ever said to you?”

Azriel straightened immediately. “Nope.”

Y/N tapped a finger against her lips, pretending to think. “Hmm… Oh! There was that one time—”

“Y/N,” Az warned, voice low and dark.

Y/N, completely ignoring the danger, continued, “—where he told me exactly how he planned to—”

Azriel moved.

One second, Y/N was sitting in his lap, the next, he had her thrown over his shoulder like she weighed nothing. She let out a surprised yelp, then laughed, pounding a playful fist against his back. “Az! Put me down!”

“Nope,” he said simply, standing up. “Goodnight, everyone.”

“BOOOOOO,” Cassian and Mor jeered in unison.

“Coward!” Rhys added.

“At least let her finish the story!” Nesta called after them.

But Azriel was already carrying Y/N out of the room, ignoring every taunt, Y/N still giggling and squirming in his hold.

“Azriel, you love me!” she sing-songed again, clinging onto him as he walked.

He gave her a firm smack on the ass, making her yelp. “Oh, I know.”

And then, to the Inner Circle’s absolute delight, Y/N’s laughter echoed down the hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Azriel had barely taken three steps down the hall, Y/N still slung over his shoulder, when she purred, "You know I love it when you spank me."

He froze.

The Inner Circle-who had definitely not left yet

-erupted.

Cassian nearly fell out of his chair. "OH MY GODS!"

Mor howled. "| KNEW IT!"

Rhysand, the absolute bastard, actually clapped.

"Confirmed!"

Nesta just rolled her eyes, sipping her wine. "Of course she does."

Azriel, who had thought he was saving himself from further embarrassment, had severely underestimated Y/N.

Y/N, still hanging over his shoulder, giggled and wiggled her hips just to tease him. "Mmm, and you do it so well, Shadowsinger."

Azriel gripped her thighs harder, his shadows curling around them in warning. "Y/N," he growled lowly.

But she just smirked. "Are you blushing, love?"

Cassian lost it. "OH MY GODS, HE TOTALLY IS!"

Azriel let out a slow breath, then, very calmly— very deliberately-adjusted his grip and smacked Y/N's ass again.

The sharp gasp she let out made the room go dead silent.

Then she let out a little pleased hum, wiggling again. "See? Told you I loved it."

Azriel vanished them in shadows before anyone could scream again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[apricot-blossomss]

would it be okay to ask for maybe A dionysus/hermes/Apollo x Reader?

The gods just love giving reader multiple praises to the point it completely overwhelms them/pos

(seperate please!)

the greek gods showering mortal!f!reader in praise [apollo, hermes, dionysus x reader]

sfw, cw: mentions of a praise kink, not proofread

feels good to finally upload again, I hope I'll find more time to write next week!

APOLLO

There was perhaps no greater blessing for you personally than listening to Apollo sing, and once one witnessed him, they would find themselves aggreing with you. Which was why you had no objection when Apollo interrupted your little make out session on his settee to ask you wether he could play a song for you. Quite the opposite, actually. But now, you almost regretted it, because you felt like your head was about to explode.

His golden eyes were locked to yours, making you unable to turn your head and hide from the might of his words. Endless praise and adoration fell from his lips in the most beautiful melody. You suddenly realized you were crying, but you made no attempt to wipe the tears away as you were frozen in place, growing hotter by the minute. With newfound intensity, Apollo recited the next verses, lips pulled into a little smile as he flooded your poor helpless mind with words of devotion.

You couldn't do this any longer, you buried your burning face in your hands, overwhelmed by his divine love. The way each word sounded so genuine you began to doubt the very existence of the lie. Nearly shaking, you pulled your legs to your chest and whined. "Oh gods, please stop, it's too much!"

A soft coo made you look back up at him as Apollo played some closing strings and put the lyre aside to pull you into his lap, right were the lyre had sat. Hiding your face in your chest, you attempted to conceal the deep red of your cheeks. "You can't just say stuff like that," you muffled into his tunic and a soft rumble made his chest vibrate.

"Like what?" he asked, caressing your hidden face with his index finger before placing it underneath your chin, guiding your face up to look at him. "It's all true. Every time I look at you, my sunshine, I am lifted, gazing upon a masterpiece that must've been sculpted by a god. Or perhaps, you are your own artist?" Apollo allowed himself a little grin when you let out a loud whine and slapped his chest. Gently, his fingers closed around your wrist as he guided it to his lips to trail kisses up your arm.

"Your smile could rival the warmth of spring itself—it awakens my heart as surely as the season revives the earth." His words were blooming as always, masterfully crafted sentences praising you, as his lips, hushed into a soft whisper, trailed up your arm. "No lyre could ever match the harmony of your laughter. My music is a mere attempt to echo your perfection. You are as brilliant as all the stars of the night sky. Every word you speak is a melody to my ears, every thought of yours a revelation."

His lips reached your shoulder, making their way to your throat that was taken over by a bright pink tone, it felt like your whole body blushed, like the pink blossoms in spring. "You're going to be the death of me," you said breathlessly, burying your hands in his hair and keeping his head in place in the crook of your neck, so he couldn't talk any more of his charming words.

Apollo laughed into your neck, it muffled the sound but couldn't lessen the melody of it. A shuddering breath left your lips as you pulled him closer, and though they flustered you, you savored his words, remembering every little phrase to keep in your heart forever.

HERMES

Gods curse the day Hermes found out you had a praise kink. Because ever since he had realized how much his compliments flustered you, he exploited it maliciously. Humming sweet praises into your ear when you were going about your day and doing the most mundane things, leaving you blushing and spluttering as he retracted with a cackle. Giving you the sweetest compliments anytime he would find you unsuspecting, with your guard down, and utterly humiliating you as your heart would start to race and all you could muster up were weak stutters of embarrassment.

So, when he plopped down on the couch next to you, stretching his limbs after a long day of godly duties and regarding you with that cheeky, mischievous smile, you knew what ideas formed in his head, as if you were able to read his thoughts. Immediately, your flight instinct kicked in as you retreated into the kitchen as quickly as possible- though not fast enough. In the blink of an eye, the sneaky god had caught up to you and dragged you back into the couch with him, pulling you into his lap.

His nose nudged your chin and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "How's my beautiful girlfriend doing today?" Ignoring your petty kicking, he giggled. "You know I'm faster than you, you know I know my way around you- though, you know, you’ve got this spark about you—like you could talk your way out of anything. It’s kind of my thing, but I think you do it better."

"You're insufferable," you sighed, though you felt your cheeks heat up embarrassingly. When his fingers trailed over your stomach, you squeaked and pushed them away, making Hermes throw back his head in a loud laugh. For a moment, you were mesmerized by him- the sound of his laugh, the bounce of his curly hair, the way his face lit up, eyes squeezed shut and cheeks pink. Then, he started talking once more.

"I used to think of myself as the best of thieves," Hermes sighed, drawing circles on your thigh. "But you outdo my trickery, love, as you have stolen my heart away from right under my nose." Don't blush, don't blush, don't blush, you thought to yourself, but you knew you were as red as a tomato by now. Stuttering out protests, you felt your stomach constrict in the best way and tried to wiggle out of his arms, a fruitless attempt.

Turning your head, you glared at him, but only got a cheeky smile in return. Hermes tipped his hat and chuckled. "Gods, you're so hot when you're mad." You gave him a deadpan stare and his smile only widened. "And so cute when you're blushing like this. Honestly, sweetheart, I think you could make everything more sexy."

In a final attempt to cut him off before you could make a complete fool of yourself (even more so than you'd already done), you crashed your lips into his. And of course, Hermes would never deny you, so his eager hand shot up to cup your face and tilt it in order to get a better angle to kiss you completely senseless on his lap.

Little did he know, you had been waiting for this moment of weakness. With his hands busying themselves with cradling your face, you jumped out of his lap, evaded his reaching arms and ran upstairs, laughing breathlessly. Of course, he could've caught up with you in an instance, but Hermes seemed determined to give you a fair chase, because when you reached the highest stair, you could hear his voice, still from downstairs.

"Baby, I think that was just about the hottest thing I ever saw."

DIONYSUS

"No cuddles with that breath" you protested, dismissing your lover's drunken attempts to wrap his arms around you. Whining, Dionysus forced himself halfway into your lap, in spite of your slapping at his chest and arms, looking up at you with dreamy eyes, glazed over by the effect of whatever alcohol emitted its odeurs from his mouth. Rolling your eyes, you attempted to shove him off. "If you want to bother someone, go and hang out with your brothers."

"Nooo," Dioynsus gave a long, drawn out protest and you found yourself lamenting how he could be a thousand years old and this childish at the same time. "You are more fun," the god pouted, squinting up at you. You complimented yourself on showing no reaction whatsoever on the outside, but your insides secretly did somersaults.

"If you want fun, why don't you throw a party?" you said dismissively, flicking his temple to which he responded with another whine. At your words, a drunken little smile creeped onto his face. "You make everything more fun, even doing nothing. I swear, you’re better than wine… and that’s saying something."

"If I'm better than wine, how come that's what you have been drinking for the last hours?" you asked with a raised brow. With a genuinely shocked expression, Dionyuss shot up and stared at you wide-eyed. "You're right. I should have been drinking you, you are so much sweeter-"

Groaning, you buried your face in a pillow, considering to suffocate yourself before he could see the blush on your cheeks. Then again, how receptive could he be, in his state? Turns out, very receptive. When you discarded the pillow, his eyes hushed over the pink on your cheeks and he cooed. "Aw, baby, do you like it when I tell you how sweet you are?"

Ignoring your stubborn but whispered 'no thank you', Dionysus threw an arm around your shoulder, continuing to brabble compliments and praises into your ear. Embarrassingly, your cheeks burned even more and the god laughed joyfully.

"Baby, the way you blush... I’ve seen people lose their minds over less."

[earthtooz]

dr. ratio yearning for gn!reader is so enthralling to me | or, in which dr. ratio carves a statue of you because the feelings he harbours might eat him alive.

the repetitive click of chisel hitting stone reverberates around the confines of dr. ratio's office.

it sounds like the dextrous hands of a professional sculptor are at work, diligently carving their next masterpiece. his love and passion for sculpting has been something he's bred and perfected now, every hit on the slab precise and purposeful. he has mastered the dimensions of the human body, creating pieces with astounding similarity to their living counterpiece, as if he had taken the muse themself and covered them in plaster, never to move again.

sat on a small box and hunched over, faint drops of sweat creep down his skin from his hard work as he carves something resembling a face. 

your face. 

is it strange? perhaps, but what is he to do when you've infected his mind like a parasite? what is he to do when you've then clung to his heart and devoured it too before sitting in the crevices of his ribs, refusing to leave? 

these reverent thoughts of his, how else is he to cope with the overwhelming feeling of you other than by honouring it? 

finally, when the curvature of your neck is complete, creating a complete bust from the slope of the forehead to the lines of your jaw, he sighs. admires his hard work for a moment before the onslaught of moral questions begins- if you had seen this, how would you react? what would you say? would you be disturbed by the devotion he has kept so secretly to himself, locked under heavy chains and kept under wraps for the sake of saving face?

it's too much, too loud, his mind hasn't been this hectic since the time he was writing fifteen articles for academic journals at the same time. the only thing he knows is that he wants you, so much so that it drove him to the point of carving a statue for you from his precious, very expensive materials.

with another heavy breath through his nose, ratio hesitates as a hand comes up to cup 'your' jaw, the feeling almost like a cooling balm against his flustered skin. 'you're' unmoving underneath his touch, 'you're' hardly even in 'your' true self, and you still have him weak in the knees, touch faltering as he detaches himself from 'you'. 

he dares not lean in close, for how grave of a stain that would be on your name.

a heavy, shaky breath shudders through him as he looks into your closed eyes and neutral face. tomorrow, he’ll face you- the real, living version that he yearns to cherish and hold, unlike the mere replica before him now, and you will be none the wiser of this little project of his. tomorrow, he will ask you about the progress of your research, and you’ll answer with a passionate ramble, and he will be none the wiser, too blissfully immersed in your presence and liveliness to listen. 

tomorrow, and every day after that, he will continue to be a fool at your feet, and you will be none the wiser of the hold you have over this genius scholar.

© EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[soov]

RUMOUR HAS iT。 park sunghoon

princess fem reader & prince sunghoon ᗢ 1OOO words ━━ fluff ꕀ royal!au, arranged marriage, repost ⌗ WARNiNGS pet names, kissing.

“I suppose you know about the rumours by now?”

The prince’s deep voice tugged you back to reality, making his presence known by leaning onto the same balustrade as you.

“Why do you think I would’ve called you here if I didn’t?” You asked back, to which he responded with a smile, looking at the scenery in front of him.

Sunghoon appeared somewhat unkempt. His hair dismissed the usual slicked-back style, soft black bangs falling on his eyes. He had a white linen puffed-sleeve shirt on, with the first three buttons undone. Once, he had admitted that he owned twelve of the shirts, them being his favorite piece of clothing.

As your stare lowered, his high-waisted black pants and boots piqued your curiosity, “What is the reason behind the informal clothes?”

“Why the question?” He turned his head in your direction. “You also have an informal attire on, my love.” Sunghoon still had a cheeky beam plastered across his face, attentive eyes observing the way you toyed with his sleeves.

“My maids said that this color and dress would look good on me.” You reasoned and pushed one of the puffy sleeves slightly up his arm, tracing the delicate veins enmeshed beneath his flesh. “I asked because I only see you wearing this outfit when it’s your birthday or a commemoration.”

“They were right; you do look good.” He seemed to be enjoying how you were caressing his arm. His muscles flexed and relaxed every time you touched him, making him feel like you were painting a masterpiece across his bare, pale skin. “And well, it is a happy day for me.”

“Even with the rumours?”

Right. The rumours. The gossip that spread around the castle like wildfire about the soon-to-be King and Queen that didn’t truly love each other, only keeping up their looks because of diplomatic problems. That, and the supposed cheating accusations, claiming that you were seeing a close friend behind the prince’s back.

In part, it would’ve been true if the false talk started a few months ago — though only the comment about real love being absent in your relationship. You used to think that the boy was a spoiled little brat who leeched off his parents’ high status. Yet, you fell right into his trap when your arranged marriage was announced.

With his eyebrows tied together and the smallest pout, Sunghoon gave you his trademark confused face. “Why would they matter? We love each other and will get married soon, isn’t it? Let them say whatever.”

The raw and honest responses from Sunghoon were one of the many factors that brought him to the center of your heart. His unfiltered remarks, reminding you of your infinite worth (his words, not yours), slowly guided you to the path without return that is loving him.

You huffed out a breath. There were a bunch of servants whispering and stroddling through the garden close to the bandstand where the both of you were. If Sunghoon wasn’t right next to you, you would have cussed them out, even knowing that you couldn’t. They were your fiancé’s people, and briefly, they would be yours too.

“I don’t appreciate how they talk so lowly about us…” You mumbled, chin on your palm. Neither of you were big on PDA, that was a fact, but you wondered if it was that bad to make the word even more convincing. “I just wanted to shut their mouths and show them that we long for each other.”

“Do you, now?” Sunghoon grinned, embracing you from behind as his pointy nose went to your neck. “We could give them a little sample of our love.” He muttered, the low timbre of his voice being more than enough proof of your effect on him.

You nearly choked on your own breath, a lump closing your throat. “I thought you were uncomfortable with showing affection in public?” The words left your mouth in a nervous whisper when he gently turned you in his hold to face you.

“Princess,” he began, the pet name almost sounding sardonic due to your title, “that was seven months ago. I hated you at the time, you know it. But I only want to kiss you right now.”

There was something in his eyes, blended with the dark brown hues and the sparkly melted stars that captivated and hypnotized you. Sunghoon was so intense that you could never bring yourself to break eye contact, or reply coherently, when you were drowning in his gaze. A nod was all that came out of you.

The prince chuckled, the act so genuine and lovesick that your knees threatened to falter, “You’re so annoyingly beautiful.” He voiced, and leaning in, his lips parted to taste the sweetness of your mouth.

With a gasp, you carded your fingers through his raven hair. It had gotten so long in such a short time. The only place that your hands went to during your kisses was in between his locks.

A soft rumble escaped his chest, body beginning to relax when you played with his hair. In a second, Sunghoon cupped a side of your face in his palm, still being smug enough to slide the other to the small of your back, gripping that part. A smirk curled his lips up as he felt the low cut back of the dress, tracing your skin like you did to his arm earlier.

His actions induced a shiver to run down your spine, and you couldn’t do much except feel yourself covered in goosebumps. Softly, gently, slowly — that was how your fiancé enjoyed kissing you.

“Sunghoon…” Tugging at the loose collar of his shirt, you tried to regain your composure after the scandalous scene. “Did they go yet?”

Your breathy voice calling out his name only fueled the pure adoration the man felt. “Not yet.” He hummed, glancing at the flustered maids that giggled amongst themselves. “Seems like they’re slow walkers.”

“At least that will make them stop talking.” You grumbled.

He squeezed you tighter in his arms, almost trying to express the extent of his feelings in the way he held you. “It surely will.”

And it didn’t, since, now, rumour has it that the prince is too greedy to go for only a single kiss.

𔓕　LETTERS FROM REi ━━ i wish prince sunghoon was real (work inspired by mr. queen!)

2024 © SOOV