#a ruff day

[drgnflyteabox]

daddy cool ⋆˙⟡

john price x fem!reader summary: “I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.” ↪or the one in which hairy muscle daddy john price asks you to show him your skills disco style tags/warnings: 70s clubbing, body hair is a central theme, scent kink, daddy kink, deepthroating, rough oral (m), cigars, some alcohol, manipulation if you squint,vaginal fingering + sex, a bit of exhibition kink but not really at all (one line), 'little' not used as a size indicator, dom/sub, oral (f), tiny gape mention

“I think he’s interested in you,” Debbie whisper-screams in your ear. It’s hard to hear her over the boom of the drums, over the four on the floor beat and soaring voices. 

“Really?”

“Girl,” she laughs, incredulous. You look over your shoulder and sure enough he’s fixing you with a stare hot enough to burn through steel.

He’s flanked by two others, but you hardly notice them. You’re staring right into the deep V of his open shirt, at the fur peeking out of it, at the pink of his tongue as it swipes his bottom lip under his mustache. Sinful.

The booth he’s sitting in is draped with orange translucent curtains, creating some illusion of privacy. No overhead lights, either, just a soft cave and dark burgundy leather. Perfect for a bear like him.

“Should I go over there?” you whisper-scream back, curling closer to Debbie, “he’s a bonafide stud.”

She laughs, throwing her long hair over her shoulder, “yeah he is, and he’s looking at you, girl.”

You peek again. He’s smiling this time, like someone who knew you’d look twice. Beyond his shirt, his pants are so goddamn tight you can see almost everything. Christ, who let him out of the house looking like that?

“I’m gonna go over,” you say before you can stop yourself.

A saxophone disco beat booms through the club, thrumming right through you down to your toes, which you move to dance your way to him. Debbie laughs behind you, disappearing into the crowd.

Your hips go side to side, your teeth bite your bottom lip, and you fix him with what you hope is a clear message; you’re hot.

He stays exactly where he is. There’s a smugness about him now, the same smugness you saw when you looked twice.

You can’t really blame him for it. Someone that looks like that is bound to expect attention, desire.

God, he’s just your type. A quiet kind of arrogance, one arm slung over the back of the booth as he lifts a cigar up to his mouth and puffs. Lazily, like a big lion that knows he doesn’t have to hunt to get his food.

“Hello, love,” he says slowly when you get close enough. You’re still bouncing to the music, but you lean forward to hear him better.

“Interested in me, are you?” you’re going for a coy, simpering kind of approach. Something about him makes you want to lay it on thick, want to seduce. To preen a little.

His knuckles are dark in the lighting, hairy and tough like he works with his hands, which you catch as he pats the booth beside him. 

You hadn’t even noticed his companions leaving.

“Saw you dancing,” he lifts a glass from the table, dark liquid, his mustache getting wet, “thought you might be interested, too.”

“You thought right,” you slide in beside him, the leather seat cool even through your tight bootcut pants. You tilt your knees towards him, lifting an elbow to match his on the back of the booth.

Reds, yellows, oranges dance on his skin. The occasional sparkle of the disco ball peeks through, but mostly it filters through the orange booth curtains and spreads into an archipelago of little bright spots. This lighting agrees with him, accentuates the best parts, makes them look darker and more defined. You’d feel like a pervert looking down his shirt if he wasn’t also doing the same to you.

“Name’s John, love,” and when you tell him yours he says, “that’s fitting.”

“So, what do you do?” boring, typical– but it’s all you’ve got. You’re surprised you can get words out at all with the drool pooling in your mouth. This close, you can see how his shirt strains where his shoulders move. A little too small, but it’s probably on purpose.

Should be illegal, honestly.

His eyes crinkle in the corners. He’s the kind of guy whose entire face changes when he smiles, who looks disarmingly more approachable that way.

“I’m a producer,” he says, taking a long puff of his cigar, waiting, waiting, “and I scout talent.”

“Talent?” you cross one leg over the other, trilling internally with satisfaction when you see his eyes fall to your thighs.

You know you aren’t being subtle in the least– and you aren’t trying to be. But you won’t say anything outright, not yet, not while the anticipation feels this tasty.

The booth isn’t private, but it is insulated. The music is loud, but not too loud, just enough that it thrums through you, that you can hear him. Anita Ward croons in your ear, encouraging you. He can ring your bell, that’s for sure.

“That’s right,” he puffs again. The smell makes you lightheaded.

“Moviestars, you mean?” you roll your ankle around, watching him watch you, wondering if he likes the polish colour you picked. 

You like that he’s visibly affected; licking his lips, that meaty hand climbing higher up his thigh.

“Something like that, love,” he smiles again, leans back in the booth and launches a counter attack to your leggy flirtations – he spreads those legs, feet pointed out, hunched just so that his belly starts poking out of those sinfully tight pants.

Motherfucker.

Looking back up at him, his eyes are crinkled at you, head tilted forward. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Which movies have you produced?” you lean your head on your hand, looking at him through your lashes, “anything I’ve seen?”

“I hope so,” he hums. His eyes flit down to your feet again, up to your midriff, then back to your eyes– it’s hot, but it’s also not just a flirtation. He’s assessing, “have you seen Swan Lady? The Nun and the Two Vikings?”

You frown, “no, I haven’t heard of either.”

“How about Call of Duty: Servicing the Captain?”

Ah, it clicks. Your eyebrows go up, into your hairline, “you make pornos?”

“Aye, smart girl,” he gruffs.

Pornos, huh. You could laugh– he looks the part. A little sleazy, unabashed. Masculine not to the point of parody but it’s close. The ‘stache is in style, but in combination with everything else is just the cherry on top.

You only have one question, “you don’t star in any?”

“I prefer working behind the scenes,” something about the way he says behind feels filthy.

John tells all. He does scout, finds girls who want to have a good time (like you), and gently (or so he says) nudges them in front of the camera. I can always sniff ‘em out, he says. The ones that’ll do well on film, that have star quality.

“How can you tell?” you ask, lips pulling on your straw. John has ordered you a tequila sunrise.

You can’t help but trace the skin of his neck with your eyes, roving at the bob of his Adam's apple as he explains. Girls who can take the gloves off, so to speak. Says he can tell by the way they move, how free they are with their bodies.

A little dubious, but it’s honestly doing it for you. You wonder what he saw when you danced up to him, if the sway of your body was free, liberated.

Doesn’t take long at all for him to invite you out either way. John puts his hand on your knee and squeezes, gets real close, gruffs that his place is nearby.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” and of course the only answer is yes, please.

Boney M. soars around you as you follow him out, your hand holding his, your fingers stroking the hairs on his knuckles. 

She’s crazy for her daddy!

On the drive over, he keeps that big paw on your thigh, squeezing almost subconsciously. Just the flex of his fingers.

You widen your knees, hoping for that rough palm to slide upwards, glancing at John as he drives one-handed. Not your first rodeo going home with a man from the disco, but it sure is the first time you’ve felt so keyed up about it.

He’s huge, takes up an absurd amount of room in the car, knee knocking into yours. He even drives sexy, so sure and in control.

“You think I could be in one of your movies?” you say, impish, looking to provoke.

John glances at you for just a second too long, too intense. You can tell he’s picturing you in front of the cameras.

“That what you want?”

“Just picturing it,” you simper, shifting your knee to deliberately touch him again. His fingers flex against your thigh again, jaw moving.

The air is warm, breezy, lights passing by like twinkling firebugs. You roll your window down, smiling at the feeling.

“Oh you're picturing it, are you? Is that making you wet, sweetheart?”

Fuck. It certainly is now.

“Only if you can be my co-star.”

“Is that right?” he laughs, low and deep. His hand climbs higher, “‘fraid I’m just the recruiter, but I’ll have to do a quality test.”

“Quality test?”

“Mm,” he hums, “need to make sure you’re ready for the camera, don’t I? You think you’ve got star quality, then prove it.”

Your panties are sticky.

“I can do that,” you breathe.

“Yeah? Can you prove you can show off your star quality for me, sweetheart?” his fingers slide, achingly slow, to the gusset of your pants, “that you can look into that camera and show the world you’re a good girl?”

They press against you, right up against your clit through the fabric. You fight to stay still, to not come across like you’re desperate, but god it’s hard. You ache.

“Mhm,” you breathe, subtly tilting your hips forward as he idly pets your pussy.

“Not an answer,” he says firmly. Butterflies dance in your stomach, the air slowly being siphoned out, leaving you hot and bothered. John is barely affected, it seems, driving still, gliding through the night.

“Sorry,” you swallow, “I can do that, daddy.”

“Much better.”

“Still want to prove it to me, love?” he moves to a glass cabinet, pulling out a little box. It opens with a click, revealing a neat row of thick cigars.

“Yes,” you stand in the middle of his living room, appreciating the atmosphere he’s made; low lighting, oranges, reds everywhere. Brown leather and the heady smell of cigar smoke, of leather polish and an incense-y kind of musk.

He walks back towards you, brand new cigar between his fingers, steps heavy on the carpet. You’re made aware of the height difference when he stands right in front of you, looking down not unkindly.

Your skin prickles at his gaze, the same one from the club; that assessment. Like he’s measuring you, testing you, scanning you.

John leans forward, breath puffing lightly across your face. He smells like his house does, only there’s a bit of whiskey mixed in.

You can’t help but squirm just a little, thighs rubbing together, both to relieve the pulsing ache of your pussy and that it’s impossible to stay composed under that gaze.

“Drop down,” he says finally, “to your knees, sweetheart.”

From your knees, you get a good fucking look at those tight pants– at the bulge in them. The hair on his chest sticks out a little, too, peeking at you from above. Hot. So hot.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, daddy,” you bite your lip again.

“Keep those hands down, alright?” he leans to the side and picks up a cigar lighter, watching you as he lights up.

John stands over you, new cigar lit, plumes of smoke drifting from his fingers. His expression is neutral, though he hums in a pleased way as he strokes the softness of your cheek.

“Take me out,” he commands.

You lean forward with your mouth, unable to resist giving him a good long sniff before you pull at his zipper with your teeth. He smells good, musky and strong, a little cologne there but mostly it’s natural.

When your teeth gently take his briefs, pulling, he cups the back of your head with a big hand and strokes your hair.

“Are you going to take it all, sweetheart? Right down your throat?”

You let his cock flop out of his underwear, heavy. The bush surrounding it makes your mouth water. It looks so good, long and a little curved, bouncing as if it’s teasing you.

You nod finally, hands squeezed into fists in your lap just the way he asked, “yes, daddy.”

“That’s my girl. Are you going to give daddy’s cock a little kiss first?”

You lean forward, lips pursed, planting a little kiss on the mushroom head of his cock. Though you ache to lick your lips, to taste him, you wait.

“That’s a good little girl,” he murmurs, “open your mouth.”

You do, holding your tongue out.

He grips the base, holding his cock up, tapping your tongue with the head. You almost whine, before he grips your head firmer and holds you still so he can slide the entire length of that monster right to the back of your throat.

Your nose hits his pubic bone, buried in the coarse hairs there, overwhelmed, hands balling into fists.

“That’s right,” he grunts, “hold it right there, sweetheart, show me you’ve got what it takes.”

God, he’s all the way in, a perfect fit. You try to stay still, anchoring yourself to him, to his palm, to the possibility of hearing good girl.

You gag a little, coughing around him, tears burning at your eyes as drool plip plops onto your chest.

Finally, he pulls out, stroking your hair, “good girl, such a good girl. Ready?”

“Yes,” you garble around the heady of his cock, clit swollen and needy, hands pressing hard into your thighs, “please fuck my face, daddy.”

He does, his pistoning, fucking your mouth like it’s a cunt. His hand cradles the back of your head, pushing you, hips moving, grunting when he’s not taking the occasional puff of his cigar.

You throb in your panties, body scorching hot, gagging every so often around the thick meat of John’s cock. Drool falls in viscous strings, tears following, the world dropping away. 

Nothing else but the slide of his cock in and out of your mouth exists, matters.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he pants raggedly.

You have no idea how long he lasts, only that when he’s finished you're an absolute mess. Wet faced and panting.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, wiping the tears from your cheeks with his rough thumbs. You look up at him through your clumped lashes, mouth open, “did so well for me, hm?”

“Thank you, daddy,” your voice is a little gravelly, but not painful.

John pulls you up with a hand at your bicep, walking you down a hallway off his living room and towards an open door. 

It’s his bedroom– and it’s decorated exactly as you’d imagined it.

The bed is huge, kingsized with a radio inlay and a thick, padded headboard that extends all around the mattress in a kind of cradle. His sheets are silk, dark, and dark orange.

“Nice digs,” you laugh, “you sure you aren’t a pornstar?”

He laughs behind you, setting his lit cigar into the ashtray on the bedside table. He slowly strips out of his clothes, getting totally naked. Then he slides in, and leans back.

“Give me a show, sweetheart.”

You hum, swaying again. You aren’t a pro at this kind of stuff, but it’s fun regardless to pull your shirt up and over your head like you’re a dirty dancer.

“Like this, daddy?”

John hums.

You slowly slide your pants down, turning so he can watch your ass move, kicking them away. You hear the slick sounds of him jerking his cock as you do.

“Should I take my panties off?” you ask, thumbs slipping into the elastic.

“Yes, take them off,” he grunts, “turn around.”

You do, then slowly slip your panties off. He licks his bottom lip again, quick.

“Come here.”

You slide onto the bed, on your knees, then crawl forward until you’re beside him, where he pushes you to lay on your side.

His heavy palm finds the naked skin of your hip, squeezing, “still want to show me your star power, sweetheart?”

“Yes, daddy,” you’re back in it, eyes half lidded. Your pussy is making a wet spot on your thighs, “I wanna show you.”

He pushes you to your back, slaps your thighs until you open your legs and hold them out. Then he pauses, hand at the junction of your thigh and hip, thumb inching towards your pussy.

“Look how wet you are, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

You clench, tilting your hips up. Your clit throbs.

“Ah ah, get back down,” he tuts.

Your ass touches the bed again, hips forced down by sheer willpower. His thumb finally reaches you, pulling aside your pussylip to gaze at your wetness.

It gushes out of you, and you’re sure he can see the way your hole clenches.

“Desperate little cunt, isn't she?” he uses his other hand, two two fingers coming to pull the hood of your clit up and just watch as it jumps needily, “awe, poor thing.”

“Please, daddy,” you could cry, “please, touch me.”

“Touch where, love? Touch this needy little clit?”

“Yes, please!”

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” he abandons holding you open to bring his thumb to your exposed clit, rubbing in circles. You shout, a tremor immediately beginning. It’s too much and not enough at once, electric and icy-hot.

Then he slips those fingers inside you, slow and testing at first, but when he realizes just how wet and soft you are he curls them inside you deeply and oh, fuck, your eyes roll back into your head.

“That’s the spot, that’s it,” he grunts, shaking you, taking you apart.

John only fingers you long enough to let your wetness spill out of you, wetting your thighs, soaking his fingers– until you’re ready for his cock.

“You’re ready,” he lays the length of it against your pussy for a moment, letting your swollen lips hug his length, before he shifts back and nudges the head at your hole, “yeah, you’re ready for it.”

He stuffs you fucking full. You’ve never been so stuffed in your life, thankful for his diligent attention earlier or you might be really feeling the weight of him.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, back arching, nipples rubbing against his chest hair. It sparks pleasure from your tits right down your cunt, body aflame, hands scratching through the hair at his back.

It’s like fucking a bear, or a werewolf. He’s relentless, too, without mercy. Plows into you hard and long, thrusts measured, never faltering.

John fucks like a pornstar, there’s no doubt about it. He takes up so much space on top of you that without his arms holding him up you worry about being crushed– you crave it, too.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls, lip curling, mustache going with it, “want to be on camera, do ya? Let me hear you.”

You let loose, mouth open in one long drawn out sound, interposed only by the gasps you let out each time he hits you deep.

You tilt your head back, bearing your throat, taking each heavy thrust and crying out with them, squeezing around him.

“I’m gonna give it all to you, sweetheart, fuck,” he snaps his hips faster now, “and you’re gonna take it all like a star.”

You nod desperately, feeling his pubes each time he thrusts to the hilt, wet with your juices. You’re so fucking close, one breath to your clit and you’d lose your mind.

He straightens, hands going to your hips, tightening, as he snaps one, two, three times and tenses–

His head snaps back, neck bulging with veins as he comes, teeth bared in a growl as he curses, “fuck, good girl, that’s right– good fucking pussy–”

Hot come shoots inside, heating you up further, making you whine with frustration and satisfaction both.

When the taut line of his body relaxes and he pulls out, a flood of come following him, he slides to his stomach and spreads you open with his thumbs.

“Let daddy make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs to your pussy, “he’s not usually so selfish.”

John looks down first. Your pussy is swollen, well-fucked, and you can feel a slight gape.

“Poor little pussy,” he murmurs, then seals his mouth over your clit until you fall apart.

“You sure you aren’t a pornstar?” your cheek is pressed to his chest, basking in the furriness, arm and leg thrown over his body.

He laughs, “I’m sure, sweetheart. But I will say–” he pauses to lean down and kiss the corner of your mouth, mustache still damp, “you’ve definitely got star quality.”

[tanasha-not-yet]

how to train

[coquettefrancaise]

rock 'n' roll star

by Oasis

pair: Azriel x reader ~ 1.9k

warnings: excessive drinking, nothing else really

summary: tall, dark, and, handsome, Azriel was a wet dream incarnate… which is only intensified when you notice his newest accessory

author's note: why, yes, Drew Starkey was on my mind the entire time I wrote this. also, I'm considering whipping up a small continuation that's a little less fluffy 😋

"You're drunk, baby."

"No I'm not Azzy. You are."

Azriel reeled as your breath hit him. "You smell flammable.”

Normally, your girls nights consisted of going out to dinner and gossiping. Only on occasion would you and the other females from the inner circle decide to hit Rita’s and club. And tonight was one of those occasions… with a whole bunch of alcohol.

“What in the Mother do they put in those drinks?” Azriel snorted as he carried you into your shared bedroom.

“First rule of the secret menu: don’t ask questions.” You giggled, body heavy in Azriel’s arms as exhaustion pulled at your limbs.

He had been enjoying a glass of wine with his brothers when Feyre had reached out to Rhys that backup was needed. At least the high lady had the decency to drink under her weight.

You weren't the type who knocked back drinks on a whim- you weren't even a casual drinker! So it came as a surprise when Azriel felt your inhibitions dull through the bond.

When the three Illyrian’s arrived, it had been like trying to wrangle sugar-induced toddlers. You and Nesta attempted to return to the bar for ‘one more drink’ and then Mor was grinding against the nearest fae as they practically dragged her out.

Azriel set you down on the bed, running a hand through his hair as you snuggled into yourself and closed your eyes. “Don’t you want to get ready for bed?”

You grunted.

"Come along, my little drunkard, I just cleaned your favorite night-shirt this morning."

That had your eyes blinking open, fingers inching across the duvet, near where he was standing. After years of dating, he understood what you were asking. So he picked you up once more and began undressing you.

With every layer taken off, you swayed, his shadows supporting your torso to help keep you upright. They had been taken with you from the get-go, racing to greet you first, or be the one to make sure you got inside your apartment safely.

"Azzy," you mumbled as he fitted the raggedy, old t-shirt he'd had crumpled in the bottom of his drawer, over your head. You had found it after your first night spent together and hadn't let go since. Even though he'd attempted to throw it away time and again.

"Hmm?"

You looked up at him, adorably bleary-eyed. "D'you know what would be sooooo sexy?"

He chuckled softly as he leaned you back against the pillows. "What, baby?"

"An earring!"

That made him pause in wetting a rag. An earring? What kind of nonsense was Mor whispering in your ear all night? He sat beside you and began wiping the makeup off your face. "Why do you say that?"

You shrugged.

He patted your cheek softly to wake you up. How much did you have to drink tonight exactly?

An annoyed sound rumbled deep in your chest. "You can't just tell me to pierce my ears and then drift off into sleep."

"Dunno. Thought it'd be-"

"Sexy," he huffed amusedly.

You eyed him suspiciously. "What are you laughing at? You're like the sexiest man in all of Prythian."

He pulled you into his chest, smoothing a hand over your hair, committing the silkiness of it to memory. "Oh no. I would never dare make fun of your sexy mate. Not when I know what those claws of yours are capable of. I was only laughing because I was remembering something that happened earlier."

No response came from you, only a soft snore and Azriel knew you hadn't even heard him. And when you woke up in the morning, annoyed that he let you go to bed without having completed your skincare, he would only hug you tighter to him and smother you with kisses until you couldn't think over your giggles.

He didn't mind having to take care of you. In fact, it solidified the notion that someone needed him. That he was someone's first choice. And what better way to show you how much he loved you than to give into your dreamy desires. After all, words spoken under the influence were words of truth, weren't they?

So he pulled the comforter over you both and turned off the faelights, thinking more about your suggestion.

There had been too many behaviors today. First the kid who threw a tantrum when his friend claimed the only blue crayon first, and then the little girl who threw a box of blocks when told to put them away. It seemed that those two incidents set the rest of the day up for disaster.

Not to mention that you spaced the dinner with the inner circle you had tonight.

When you had walked into your apartment, a shadow awaited you, pulling you along to the calendar on the wall. And then you had to walk yourself because Azriel had closed the bond well over a couple hours before for whatever reason. You hadn't been able to concern over it when you had been hit in the back by a toy.

So you sped over to the restaurant, the dark wisp trailing behind you as your companion. A small comfort in itself.

As soon as the hostess showed you to the reserved table, you were pulled into hug after hug, before being able to sit and decompress, the tightness of your shoulders still present.

Cassian slung and arm over the back of your chair, sighing as if he'd been the one who'd dealt with a dozen four-year-old's. "Where's your bodyguard?"

"I was under the impression he was with you or Rhys. He hasn't answered any of my calls down the bond."

"The bastard is probably brooding somewhere," he clicked his tongue. "And you know something? You don't have to put up with that guy. You're young, hot, brilliant; you deserve someone far better. I can always ask Nes if she'd be willing to share our bed."

You snorted out a laugh, Nesta peering around her mate. "I wouldn't wish Cassian upon anyone."

His face pulled down in a hurt frown. "What's that mean?"

Before Nesta could answer, a chair scraped along the tiled ground, and Mor sat down across from you. And behind her-

Your own chair clattered to the ground before your face was smashed into Azriel's firm chest, inhaling the deep, intoxicating scent of night you believed was the closest thing to heaven.

Long fingers slip to the nape of your neck, thumbs urging your chin up so your gaze could connect with hazel ones. "Long day?"

You let your forehead fall onto his pec in answer.

You could feel the low vibrations of his quiet chuckle and then he was moving you backwards, sitting in the chair you left behind- now upright thanks to a disgruntled Cassian -and set you on his lap as his hands ran soothingly over your arms and back.

"I didn't realize my offer would upset her that bad," Cassian defended.

The both of you ignored him, the rest of the room blurring into insignificance as you had the only thing that mattered holding, and waiting patiently for you to give him the spiel.

"Later," you promised. "For now: why'd you close the bond? Is everything alright? Are you alright?"

He only ever closed the bond whenever he was sent away on some secret spy errands or after a particularly rough tumble in the training ring that ended with him in the infirmary.

Guilt creased his brow, his thumb pressing into your chin. "It's nothing concerning. I was just..." his eyes flickered behind you, "Nothing bad."

You peered over your shoulder to find Mor, who was smirking feline-like into the rim of her drink. You'd never seen the resemblance between her and Rhys so clearly until then.

You turned back to Azriel, confused.

His face softened, reassurance flowing down the string that bound your souls together. "I'm serious, baby. I only feel bad because it probably worried you to not be able to reach me and you've obviously had a shit day already. If anything, the reason for why I went MIA will, hopefully, excite you. Promise."

Long ago, when you were in the unfortunate habit of dating douche bags and lowlifes, you believed that you would never find a man worthy of you. Now, after having met Azriel, you hardly believed you deserved him.

You leaned in to kiss him when you saw a silver glint at his ear. Curious, you brushed back his midnight hair and your eyes widened.

The corner of Azriel's lip quirked and you could hear a snicker from Mor.

Pierced through his earlobe sat a thin silver hoop. You cupped his jaw, turning his face from side to side, taking in every angle with hungry eyes.

"When? How? Where?"

His eyes glinted with proud male satisfaction. "After training this morning and by Mor at the House of Wind. Do you like it?"

Did you like it? Does Cassian admire himself in the mirror? "Y-yes!" you stammered, fighting off the abrupt desire to nip at it, when realization dawned. "You didn't want me to feel the pain of the piercing."

He shook his head, knocking his hair back over his newest improvement. You were quick to push it back.

"I take it you like it?"

"Like it? I love it. It's so-"

"Sexy?" he supplied.

That word sparked a vague memory; one with drinking, being carried home...

"How did you-"

"That night you got drunk off your ass at Rita's-" your cheeks burned as you recalled- somewhat -of what had happened a little over a week ago. "-you told me in your drunken haze that I would look 'sexy' with an earring."

Embarrassment colored your cheeks but he was quick to say, "It was adorable."

You rolled your eyes. "Calling a female who is over two centuries old 'adorable' isn't comforting when she, tipsily!, spilled a lifelong secret!"

"And yet, it resulted in me learning about your lifelong secret and making it come true. Which will then be beneficial for us both." His eyes darkened with the implication and you had to stop yourself from begging him to take you home right then and there.

But he did have a valid point. For some strange reason, you had always been attracted to males with piercings. And even though Azriel was a practical sex god without one, it only intensified his appeal.

You gingerly thumbed over the hoop, knowing how sensitive it must be. "Do you like it?"

"I would do anything to make your dreams come true." He captured your wrist, smoothing a kiss over your fluttering pulse. Somehow, he knew how to make you feel like a young, naive fae in love.

“I have to admit, it makes my bad day a whole lot better.”

“Oh?”

“I previously thought that just being smashed by your muscles would be enough to get me over my stress but this has proved to work tenfold.”

A teasing nip at the heel of your palm. “I’m at your service, always.”

"Azzy?" you peered up at him beneath your lashes.

He didn't need you to say the words out loud as he stood abruptly, you in his arms, and said to the family, "We'll see you all next week." And began out of the restaurant.

You heard Mor explain amongst all the confused chatter, "Let's just say Azriel's become even hotter." Which was followed with Cassian's and Rhys' groans.

[hocooart]

Birds of Week 11

[luckyshinyhunter]

🫂Happy International Siblings Day🫂

[vintage-tigre]

I AM a good boy: affurmations for a ruff day

[lupi-usque-ad-finem]

LYCAN LIFE UPDATE! ✨🌕🐺

I’ve started testosterone permanently guys! on a SUPER MOON no less!!! it’s fate!!! the glow of our wife in the night sky will surely aid in my werewolf transformation <3

I’m so grateful for all of you and your support, a simple thank you isn’t enough. i love and adore you cubs eternally. I can’t wait to see where we all run, fly, skitter, and swim from here :)

🐺🏔️🍂

[chic-a-gigot]

Journal des Dames et des Modes, Costume Parisien, 20 mars 1821, (1971): Chapeau de velours plein, orné de plumes plates. Robe de velours simulé, garnie de rouleaux et liserés de satin. Fichu de dentelle. Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Netherlands

Standing woman dressed in a dress of 'velours simulé', decorated with a rouleaux and satin trim. On her head a hat of plain velvet, decorated with ostrich feathers. Other accessories: earring in the right ear, fichu of lace, flat shoes with bows. The print is part of the fashion magazine Journal des Dames et des Modes, published by Pierre de la Mésangère, Paris, 1797-1839.

[tmt-sketch-a-day]

Sketch a Day 2974 - Ozzie Paper Work - 5/1/24

Sketch a Day 2975 - Nuzzling - 5/2/24

Original ruff sketches for one of my fan comics "Snuggles"

[sergle]

say a prayer for this dress I couldn't keep for cheek-adjacent reasons

[duffsmckagan]

[theangrypomeranian]

sorry for not being active I'm trying to stay alive 👍

[rozuizhere]

we all collectively agreed in ppg x rrb fanfictions that they end up growing human fingers and toes and actual eye shapes and nose shapes and lips as if that’s not the most disturbing thing ever lol

[unfaes]

love seeing my mutuals be obviously obsessed with their own oc's / characters ♥️ like HELL YEAH fam you made that person from your own brain !! be loud &. proud , show them off !! mean anons r like "who asked" – MEEE ! i want to hear everything about them !

[luckyshinyhunter]

💖🥰💖More comfort characters that clouded my braincells!💖🥰💖

[mossterious]

Went to craft fair:

Got 5 stickers of animals dressed as clowns!

Got 4 stickers of puppets!

Got 3 compliments on my necklace (it’s got dragons AND a sword!)

Got 2 things for my siblings!

And 1 punk cat sticker!