Hi all! I'm Phoenix, and if you've found this, you probably already know who I am, and why you're here. But for formality's sake: this is the LOA NSFT sideblog of @curvydave :) Welcome!
PUT AGE IN BIO WHEN FOLLOWING!!!
18+ ONLY
1st offense will a soft block, 2nd offense will be a hard block. I give leniency because some people might not see this, but I am very firm about this boundary.
Masterlist and rules are under construction, but in the meantime, requests are open! Go nuts!
Tagging System below!
Tagging System
To keep from accidentally getting into the main tag, I'll be using an emoji sorting system, for simplicity. For my fellow PC users, all emojis are in the tags on the post for easy movement around the blog <3 Masterlist to come soon!
will you be adding more characters from diff loa campaigns to the list…….
because i have some thoughts on shepherd and the cowboy hat rule and i feel you could write the textual mona lisa abt that…….
GRIPS YOU.
1.) YES, absolutely!! I've been meaning to start a few different campaigns for a while now, and knowing me, I'm gonna have #feelings about them, LOL.
2.) and OUGH, I've been meaning to start CoS for ages now, specifically for Shepherd LMAO. Whenever that happens, you bet your ass I'll be back for the cowboy hat rule <3
something abt gideon getting all “fired up”… it strikes me 👀
also do you think due to his heightened body heat as a fire genasi the cockwarming would be fire asf (yes there is slight pun intended)
ABSOLUTELY I do <3 A little something something about the latter below <3
Full, so perfectly full. Your breath stutters, mind melting into a pleasant fog as the warmth of your lover overwhelms you -- his hands on your hips, the scratch of his beard against your throat, the broad meat of his thighs beneath your own, and the addicting stretch of your walls around his cock. The heat is all-consuming, inside and out, and you find you're very, very quickly regretting your earlier taunting.
Some stupid, teasing comment about how insatiable he is, how easy he is to rile up. Not untrue, but of course, you just had to challenge him.
How much time has passed? 10 minutes? An hour? It feels like a lifetime you've been in his lap, stuffed full, but forced to behave, to stay still, and fuck, if it isn't torture. A whimper claws its way out of your throat, firm hands squeezing around your hips and pulling down, tighter, more commanding, to stop the subtle rocking of your hips.
"Gid, please--"
He scoffs, and you feel your cheeks warm impossibly further at the condescension: "You're the one that started this, ain't 'ya?" He spreads your thighs wider around him, leaning back in the plush chair, and coaxes you into leaning back against him -- your back to his broad chest. The new angle makes his dick shift ever so slightly within you, and after so long of restricted movement, the shift sends fire through your veins.
"Better get comfortable," he says, punctuating his words with words with a single half-hearted thrust that leaves you whining and gripping his forearms. "'Cause that's all you're getting 'till you start acting right."
Hihi pls anything torbek i beg of u 😳 he made me a furry lowkey
Anything? Oh anon, you spoil me. As a warm welcome to the furry fandom, enjoy Torbek whacking it to the thought of you <3 No gender or bits specified for thee, just pure pining and lustful wanting.
Pathetic. He's pathetic, and he knows it, but oh Gods, he can't help it. No normal person would be so easily undone by your sheer presence, but here he is, sequestered away in a locked bathroom stall with his cock painfully hard in his jeans, while you party the night away with the rest of your companions.
He needs to get himself under control, he knows he does. If he were a stronger bugbear he'd be able to stuff that wanting down, to at least have the dignity to wait until he wasn't a single fucking room away from you -- but then one wrong shift of his hips sends electric pleasure coursing through his veins, and suddenly he's slamming his hand over his mouth to stifle a whine. His breathing is ragged, chest stuttering as he tries to will himself back into some sense of composure, but its a futile effort. Every time he closes his eyes, his mind drifts back to you -- the way your thigh brushed against him tonight, the sound of your laughter, the way you smiled at him… Its shameful, how such innocent little things like that can affect him, have been affecting him lately.
He's not sure when the attraction started to blossom: maybe its always been there, simmering quietly in the background. But as it stands now? Its nothing short of a raging inferno, and even a single breath from your lips has been enough to stoke those flames so high, so hot, that it threatens to burn him alive.
He shudders, letting loose a shaky exhale -- he's already been in here too long. The guys, they might not notice his absence, but you, oh you-- you always notice. You always notice when he's down, when he's not feeling well, you notice all the little things about him that everybody always seems to overlook, and--
His cock twitches in his jeans, and just like that, he's shoving down the fabric with a deep, sinful groan. That massive weight springs free as he's released from his confines, and a single bead of precum drips down the flushed head, down his shaft… twisting just as it reaches the middle, just to trail along the prominent vein that runs on the underside. He tries not to think about how he's most certainly left a spot on his jeans, with how worked up he's already gotten -- that's a problem for later, because he's sure he's going to go fucking mad if he doesn't take care of this problem now.
There's no fanfare to the action as he licks a stripe up his palm and wraps his hand around the base of himself. There's no sweetness in his movements as he sets a quick pace, panting from exertion, trying to to shove himself towards the finish line as fast as possible. Up and down and back again, hand clasped tightly over his mouth to stifle any noises, and absolutely desperate to rid himself of his shameful, perverted thoughts of you so he can enter your presence again. There's no kindness in any of it… it's not like you'd do it.
Because oh, he knows you'd be so sweet to him. Perfect you, carding your fingers through his fur as you stroke up and down his aching length, whispering those sweet words you always have reserved for him… he'd give anything to feel your gentle touch, for more than just a platonic brushing of skin. His movements slow as those thoughts overtake him, captivating him just as they always do -- he knows he really doesn't have the time to spare right now, and indulging himself in the thoughts of you will only make this worse, but…
Oh, he'd be so good for you, if only you'd let him. Dropping to his knees before you, your hand guiding him to the heaven between your thighs, allowing him to indulge in the pleasure of pleasing you. He can practically taste you on his tongue, as addictive as euphoria of sex itself. He can feel the way your hands would tighten in his fur as he licks and sucks at you just as you command, and he can't help but reach a hand upwards to tug at his own fur, just to drive himself deeper into fantasy.
His motions speed up, become frantic, as he starts to lose himself in the moment. Whimpers fall freely from his lips as he hurtles towards the precipice, edging closer and closer by the second. He swears beneath his breath at the realization of it all, but a tug to his fur -- this time more accidental, and Gods, it feels like you. It sends his hips bucking into his own fist, and suddenly he's not thinking about how fucked-out he sounds -- it's just you, all you.
Your own whines, would they pitch up? Down? Oh he'd give anything, anything to hear his name fall from your lips in such a way, he'd kill to hear your praise turn sultry, he'd give anything, anything at all-- Gods, he needs to taste you, he needs to feel the way your hand wraps around his dick, needs to hear how much you love--
The breath is ripped from his lungs as his hips buck one last time, and thick, white ropes splatter against the walls. His head hits the opposing wall with a dull thud, a pleasant numbness washing over his limbs as his heart, once pounding, starts to slow in his chest.
But then he hears your laughter outside the door, and suddenly, he's very, very aware of where he is.
He heaves a heavy sigh, ears flattening against his skull in shame as he cleans himself up and tucks his softening cock back into his jeans. At least now he'll be clearheaded enough to enjoy your company for the rest of the night.
A voice in the back of his mind laughs and calls him pathetic, but he doesn't need It to tell him that -- he's already well aware.
Hihi pls anything torbek i beg of u 😳 he made me a furry lowkey
Anything? Oh anon, you spoil me. As a warm welcome to the furry fandom, enjoy Torbek whacking it to the thought of you <3 No gender or bits specified for thee, just pure pining and lustful wanting.
Pathetic. He's pathetic, and he knows it, but oh Gods, he can't help it. No normal person would be so easily undone by your sheer presence, but here he is, sequestered away in a locked bathroom stall with his cock painfully hard in his jeans, while you party the night away with the rest of your companions.
He needs to get himself under control, he knows he does. If he were a stronger bugbear he'd be able to stuff that wanting down, to at least have the dignity to wait until he wasn't a single fucking room away from you -- but then one wrong shift of his hips sends electric pleasure coursing through his veins, and suddenly he's slamming his hand over his mouth to stifle a whine. His breathing is ragged, chest stuttering as he tries to will himself back into some sense of composure, but its a futile effort. Every time he closes his eyes, his mind drifts back to you -- the way your thigh brushed against him tonight, the sound of your laughter, the way you smiled at him… Its shameful, how such innocent little things like that can affect him, have been affecting him lately.
He's not sure when the attraction started to blossom: maybe its always been there, simmering quietly in the background. But as it stands now? Its nothing short of a raging inferno, and even a single breath from your lips has been enough to stoke those flames so high, so hot, that it threatens to burn him alive.
He shudders, letting loose a shaky exhale -- he's already been in here too long. The guys, they might not notice his absence, but you, oh you-- you always notice. You always notice when he's down, when he's not feeling well, you notice all the little things about him that everybody always seems to overlook, and--
His cock twitches in his jeans, and just like that, he's shoving down the fabric with a deep, sinful groan. That massive weight springs free as he's released from his confines, and a single bead of precum drips down the flushed head, down his shaft… twisting just as it reaches the middle, just to trail along the prominent vein that runs on the underside. He tries not to think about how he's most certainly left a spot on his jeans, with how worked up he's already gotten -- that's a problem for later, because he's sure he's going to go fucking mad if he doesn't take care of this problem now.
There's no fanfare to the action as he licks a stripe up his palm and wraps his hand around the base of himself. There's no sweetness in his movements as he sets a quick pace, panting from exertion, trying to to shove himself towards the finish line as fast as possible. Up and down and back again, hand clasped tightly over his mouth to stifle any noises, and absolutely desperate to rid himself of his shameful, perverted thoughts of you so he can enter your presence again. There's no kindness in any of it… it's not like you'd do it.
Because oh, he knows you'd be so sweet to him. Perfect you, carding your fingers through his fur as you stroke up and down his aching length, whispering those sweet words you always have reserved for him… he'd give anything to feel your gentle touch, for more than just a platonic brushing of skin. His movements slow as those thoughts overtake him, captivating him just as they always do -- he knows he really doesn't have the time to spare right now, and indulging himself in the thoughts of you will only make this worse, but…
Oh, he'd be so good for you, if only you'd let him. Dropping to his knees before you, your hand guiding him to the heaven between your thighs, allowing him to indulge in the pleasure of pleasing you. He can practically taste you on his tongue, as addictive as euphoria of sex itself. He can feel the way your hands would tighten in his fur as he licks and sucks at you just as you command, and he can't help but reach a hand upwards to tug at his own fur, just to drive himself deeper into fantasy.
His motions speed up, become frantic, as he starts to lose himself in the moment. Whimpers fall freely from his lips as he hurtles towards the precipice, edging closer and closer by the second. He swears beneath his breath at the realization of it all, but a tug to his fur -- this time more accidental, and Gods, it feels like you. It sends his hips bucking into his own fist, and suddenly he's not thinking about how fucked-out he sounds -- it's just you, all you.
Your own whines, would they pitch up? Down? Oh he'd give anything, anything to hear his name fall from your lips in such a way, he'd kill to hear your praise turn sultry, he'd give anything, anything at all-- Gods, he needs to taste you, he needs to feel the way your hand wraps around his dick, needs to hear how much you love--
The breath is ripped from his lungs as his hips buck one last time, and thick, white ropes splatter against the walls. His head hits the opposing wall with a dull thud, a pleasant numbness washing over his limbs as his heart, once pounding, starts to slow in his chest.
But then he hears your laughter outside the door, and suddenly, he's very, very aware of where he is.
He heaves a heavy sigh, ears flattening against his skull in shame as he cleans himself up and tucks his softening cock back into his jeans. At least now he'll be clearheaded enough to enjoy your company for the rest of the night.
A voice in the back of his mind laughs and calls him pathetic, but he doesn't need It to tell him that -- he's already well aware.
I offer ×1 Scheming Cackle and maybe a blood sacrifice or two in exchange for goblin content, mayhaps?
Consider: Goblins have sharp teeths for biting and they should maybe bite and be possessive. Or bite and be possessive to them. Either way works, Either goblin works. (or both? both is good.)
Feel free to ignore <3
Blood sacrifice, you say? Tempting as it is to accept... such offers might be better suited for the goblins below the cut <3 Had a LOT of fun with this one -- maybe next time we'll turn the tables?
AGAB & Gender of our lovely reader is completely ambiguous, for reading pleasure. Mentions of hair pulling, biting, marking, and drawing blood <3 Established relationship for both (separate). Enjoy!! <3
Skrimm
Small. It's hard not to think of the word when you look at Skrimm, no matter how much he protests otherwise. Even now, the differences are clear as day -- the hands encircling your wrists are just barely able to connect skin to bed, and his smaller frame only covers maybe half of your form as he presses his chest to your back; by all accounts, he's not a man of great physical power.
And yet, pinned beneath him like this, you can hardly find the strength to do anything other than take what he has to give.
Your skin dimples beneath his sinfully sharp teeth, forming perfect rounded moons as he bites again, and again, and again. Shoulder, neck, just behind your jaw -- Dark bruises form just seconds after every bite, aching dull, aching sweet, before he moves onto the next spot, somehow even more heavenly than the last.
Memories of flirty patrons occasionally dance through the recesses of your mind to remind you of how exactly you got into this position, but truthfully, its difficult to think about anyone else when Skrimm's presence is just so overwhelming. Held down like this, it's hard to catch more than a fleeting glimpse of his form, but he makes his presence known in other ways. His hot breath fanning against your skin; the scratch of his beard ghosting along those precious, newly-formed bruises; his cock hardening against your lower back, painfully hard even beneath his slacks; the ever-present threat of spilled blood, should he press those fangs in just a fraction deeper -- it's an addictive combination, and it makes your head spin pleasantly.
Every now and again he'll pause, huffing against your skin for a second as though deep in thought, and its only once you let your guard down that he lunges back in to take another bite of you. It draws a startled gasp from your lips every single time, lashes fluttering with a hazy lust, and you have to make a conscious effort to keep still.
You're not sure how much time passes, minutes stretching into hours in your mind, until suddenly, you notice his breath fade from your flushed skin. You can feel his eyes boring into you as he releases your wrists, fingertips lifting slowly with the weight of reluctance. You feel the urge to look back at him, and you're just about to turn your head to do so when he lifts his chest up off your back, and places a single hand on your shoulder -- an unspoken command to stay. And despite the longing you feel, the urge to feel his warmth press into you again, you can't help but listen. Just this once.
His breaths are strained above you, presumably looking down at your form as one hand, now free, brushes gently along the new marks -- the pads of his fingertips press experimentally against your pulse, counting for a breath, before tapping experimentally against a particularly garish bruise. You hiss, more in shock than anything else, and in response he leans down to press a single, lingering kiss against the wound. A moment of sweetness before he leans back up and allows himself to explore his pretty, painted canvas once more. Is it in reverence? In admiration? You wonder, is he as much of a wreck as you are? You can practically see the vision in your mind -- his pretty red eyes, pupils blown wide with want; hair mussed, undoubtedly tangled from all the times he's haphazardly tossed it out of the way to gnaw at you better. The soft growls he's been letting loose are good, sure, but there's a piece of you that wants more. Needs more.
And so, you taunt.
"Gods, you're fucking mean when you're jealous." Your tone is light, airy, playful. Mischievous. You keep your chest to the bed, but fold your arms beneath your head, finally looking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the goblin; and oh, its a beautiful sight.
You were right -- his cheeks are darkened in that beautiful forest green you've come to love, making a perfect compliment to his glazed-over, blown-out pupils. Those same eyes darken further at your words, at your nonchalant disobedience, and his brow furrows in tandem. You can't help but smile teasingly at his frustration, doubly so as his tail flicks wildly behind him, and for a moment you feel like you've got the upper hand. You consider bending a leg back for a moment to see if you can nudge him at all in this position, just to see if you can set him off again, but a single bead of sweat rolling down the column of his throat catches your eye and sends you back into a lustful, captivated trance. It rolls down, down, moving just to the side of his Adam's apple, highlighting the way he swallows thickly, before disappearing beneath his rumpled shirt. Maybe it continues its path further, catching in that pretty patch of hair just above his belt, or maybe it moves just far enough to the side to run against the arched bones of his hips. His hair falls down his face in messy strands, sticking to his flushed and damp skin, and--
You don't have much longer to take in the view before his hand tangles itself in your hair, holding you firmly in place, and feel the sharp prick of teeth on flesh once again. Only this time, you're granted the painful bliss of your skin finally popping beneath his fangs -- the junction where neck and shoulder meet stings as blood pools to the surface, only to be soothed by a quick drag of his tongue against the wound. There's a pathetic, desperate noise that rings through the room, and it's only after you hear it that you realize it's you. The feeling is electric, your body moving of its own accord to card your hand through his hair, to bring those sharp fangs closer to your fragile skin. To bring him closer.
It seems to press all the right buttons in the man above you, goading him into drawing blood again, like you've sparked some latent prey drive within him. Pierce, lick, repeat. The hand not holding you in place eagerly roams across your body, grabbing and squeezing possessively as he marks you up further, groaning at your own involuntary, wanton display of desperation.
"I'm not jealous," he scoffs.
"You so are--"
"Shut up," and just like that you get the reaction you want, a thin trickle of warm blood pooling in your collarbone in the moments after.
Part of you wants to keep pushing, just to see how far you can drive him up the wall in the sweet little game you two play -- the rocking of his hips grows more insistent by the second, and despite the irritation in his voice, you know he craves it just as much. But you know better than to think you'll win.
Because tonight, despite it all, there's nothing you can do but to receive the gift that is Skrimm. And in the morning, you'll wear the marks with pride.
Gricko
"You know he does it to get a rise out of you, right?" Your voice comes out as a sigh, pretty blond locks curling around your fingers as you tangle your hand in the hair of your lover. One hand supports his weight above you (as though he could ever crush you,) with the other interlaced with your own free one. Its a tender gesture, and a welcome compliment to the sharp teeth that graze against the column of your throat -- never enough to pierce, but just enough to thrill.
If there's one thing Gricko isn't, it's subtle. Its a blessing and a curse, really -- there's been plenty of times where his earnestness, intentional or not, has gotten you out of some horrid situations. Its a trait you've come to find endearing as time has gone on, but in the face of an enemy, it's usually a problem… and in the face of a friend, it's catastrophic. A drink and a half-decent compliment to you, and a well-timed "Little Green" is all it took, really -- you know Gideon doesn't mean anything by it. You've seen how the man flirts, and how he goes about ragging on his friends, and everything you've seen tonight clearly falls into the latter. But clearly, one of you disagrees.
"'s just not right." His ministrations become more insistent, and he shifts his weight to tug your shirt down just enough to attack the crown of your collar. His teeth catch more firmly against your skin this time, sucking dark marks that will be just barely visible to the world. You're no stranger to a bite or two from the goblin -- if anything, you're surprised that he's bitten back the urge to truly clamp down thus far. But to leave such a visible mark is a little out of the norm for him, and perhaps its rarity has made those areas just a fraction more sensitive. Your hand tightens in his hair reflexively as you let out a quiet sigh, drawing a stuttering roll of his hips against your lower abdomen where he rests, and you find yourself quickly getting lost in the sensations of it all. His eyelashes fluttering against your skin; the growing, gentle ache of forming bruises; the tender scratch of sharpened teeth against your pulse -- it's a siren's call to pleasure, sweet and thick against the mind, and you struggle to put together any sort of coherence. But somehow, you do.
"He's just trying to piss you off hun, don't let it get to you," you murmur.
Only this time, you don't get a response -- instead he just hums low, and presses a kiss to your cheek.
His hand disentangles itself from your own, instead coming to cradle your jawline, only to tilt your head to the side for better access to your throat. Another dark mark blooms, and then another, much higher than before. Completely impossible to mistake for what it is. All the while his teeth grow more impatient, less wary -- gentle grazes turn into pointed nips, and you're sure he can feel your pulse kick beneath his tongue with each and every threat.
"Grick--" you don't get to finish your sentence, your voice pitching into a high whine, vowels turning to broken melody as his fangs finally pierce the skin. Blood pools at the surface in a neat, concentric ring of crimson, only to be eagerly lapped up by his attentive tongue. He groans low at your whine, at the taste of you, before smiling against your skin and pressing a kiss to the puncture.
To the lovely anon who requested some particularly bitey goblins... I am delighted to inform you that you have struck a wonderful chord of inspiration, and I am fucking cooking like never before. Holy shit.
And with that, the goblins have been released unto the world. Beware the fangs... or you know, offer yourself willingly unto them. The choice is yours <3
I offer ×1 Scheming Cackle and maybe a blood sacrifice or two in exchange for goblin content, mayhaps?
Consider: Goblins have sharp teeths for biting and they should maybe bite and be possessive. Or bite and be possessive to them. Either way works, Either goblin works. (or both? both is good.)
Feel free to ignore <3
Blood sacrifice, you say? Tempting as it is to accept... such offers might be better suited for the goblins below the cut <3 Had a LOT of fun with this one -- maybe next time we'll turn the tables?
AGAB & Gender of our lovely reader is completely ambiguous, for reading pleasure. Mentions of hair pulling, biting, marking, and drawing blood <3 Established relationship for both (separate). Enjoy!! <3
Skrimm
Small. It's hard not to think of the word when you look at Skrimm, no matter how much he protests otherwise. Even now, the differences are clear as day -- the hands encircling your wrists are just barely able to connect skin to bed, and his smaller frame only covers maybe half of your form as he presses his chest to your back; by all accounts, he's not a man of great physical power.
And yet, pinned beneath him like this, you can hardly find the strength to do anything other than take what he has to give.
Your skin dimples beneath his sinfully sharp teeth, forming perfect rounded moons as he bites again, and again, and again. Shoulder, neck, just behind your jaw -- Dark bruises form just seconds after every bite, aching dull, aching sweet, before he moves onto the next spot, somehow even more heavenly than the last.
Memories of flirty patrons occasionally dance through the recesses of your mind to remind you of how exactly you got into this position, but truthfully, its difficult to think about anyone else when Skrimm's presence is just so overwhelming. Held down like this, it's hard to catch more than a fleeting glimpse of his form, but he makes his presence known in other ways. His hot breath fanning against your skin; the scratch of his beard ghosting along those precious, newly-formed bruises; his cock hardening against your lower back, painfully hard even beneath his slacks; the ever-present threat of spilled blood, should he press those fangs in just a fraction deeper -- it's an addictive combination, and it makes your head spin pleasantly.
Every now and again he'll pause, huffing against your skin for a second as though deep in thought, and its only once you let your guard down that he lunges back in to take another bite of you. It draws a startled gasp from your lips every single time, lashes fluttering with a hazy lust, and you have to make a conscious effort to keep still.
You're not sure how much time passes, minutes stretching into hours in your mind, until suddenly, you notice his breath fade from your flushed skin. You can feel his eyes boring into you as he releases your wrists, fingertips lifting slowly with the weight of reluctance. You feel the urge to look back at him, and you're just about to turn your head to do so when he lifts his chest up off your back, and places a single hand on your shoulder -- an unspoken command to stay. And despite the longing you feel, the urge to feel his warmth press into you again, you can't help but listen. Just this once.
His breaths are strained above you, presumably looking down at your form as one hand, now free, brushes gently along the new marks -- the pads of his fingertips press experimentally against your pulse, counting for a breath, before tapping experimentally against a particularly garish bruise. You hiss, more in shock than anything else, and in response he leans down to press a single, lingering kiss against the wound. A moment of sweetness before he leans back up and allows himself to explore his pretty, painted canvas once more. Is it in reverence? In admiration? You wonder, is he as much of a wreck as you are? You can practically see the vision in your mind -- his pretty red eyes, pupils blown wide with want; hair mussed, undoubtedly tangled from all the times he's haphazardly tossed it out of the way to gnaw at you better. The soft growls he's been letting loose are good, sure, but there's a piece of you that wants more. Needs more.
And so, you taunt.
"Gods, you're fucking mean when you're jealous." Your tone is light, airy, playful. Mischievous. You keep your chest to the bed, but fold your arms beneath your head, finally looking over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of the goblin; and oh, its a beautiful sight.
You were right -- his cheeks are darkened in that beautiful forest green you've come to love, making a perfect compliment to his glazed-over, blown-out pupils. Those same eyes darken further at your words, at your nonchalant disobedience, and his brow furrows in tandem. You can't help but smile teasingly at his frustration, doubly so as his tail flicks wildly behind him, and for a moment you feel like you've got the upper hand. You consider bending a leg back for a moment to see if you can nudge him at all in this position, just to see if you can set him off again, but a single bead of sweat rolling down the column of his throat catches your eye and sends you back into a lustful, captivated trance. It rolls down, down, moving just to the side of his Adam's apple, highlighting the way he swallows thickly, before disappearing beneath his rumpled shirt. Maybe it continues its path further, catching in that pretty patch of hair just above his belt, or maybe it moves just far enough to the side to run against the arched bones of his hips. His hair falls down his face in messy strands, sticking to his flushed and damp skin, and--
You don't have much longer to take in the view before his hand tangles itself in your hair, holding you firmly in place, and feel the sharp prick of teeth on flesh once again. Only this time, you're granted the painful bliss of your skin finally popping beneath his fangs -- the junction where neck and shoulder meet stings as blood pools to the surface, only to be soothed by a quick drag of his tongue against the wound. There's a pathetic, desperate noise that rings through the room, and it's only after you hear it that you realize it's you. The feeling is electric, your body moving of its own accord to card your hand through his hair, to bring those sharp fangs closer to your fragile skin. To bring him closer.
It seems to press all the right buttons in the man above you, goading him into drawing blood again, like you've sparked some latent prey drive within him. Pierce, lick, repeat. The hand not holding you in place eagerly roams across your body, grabbing and squeezing possessively as he marks you up further, groaning at your own involuntary, wanton display of desperation.
"I'm not jealous," he scoffs.
"You so are--"
"Shut up," and just like that you get the reaction you want, a thin trickle of warm blood pooling in your collarbone in the moments after.
Part of you wants to keep pushing, just to see how far you can drive him up the wall in the sweet little game you two play -- the rocking of his hips grows more insistent by the second, and despite the irritation in his voice, you know he craves it just as much. But you know better than to think you'll win.
Because tonight, despite it all, there's nothing you can do but to receive the gift that is Skrimm. And in the morning, you'll wear the marks with pride.
Gricko
"You know he does it to get a rise out of you, right?" Your voice comes out as a sigh, pretty blond locks curling around your fingers as you tangle your hand in the hair of your lover. One hand supports his weight above you (as though he could ever crush you,) with the other interlaced with your own free one. Its a tender gesture, and a welcome compliment to the sharp teeth that graze against the column of your throat -- never enough to pierce, but just enough to thrill.
If there's one thing Gricko isn't, it's subtle. Its a blessing and a curse, really -- there's been plenty of times where his earnestness, intentional or not, has gotten you out of some horrid situations. Its a trait you've come to find endearing as time has gone on, but in the face of an enemy, it's usually a problem… and in the face of a friend, it's catastrophic. A drink and a half-decent compliment to you, and a well-timed "Little Green" is all it took, really -- you know Gideon doesn't mean anything by it. You've seen how the man flirts, and how he goes about ragging on his friends, and everything you've seen tonight clearly falls into the latter. But clearly, one of you disagrees.
"'s just not right." His ministrations become more insistent, and he shifts his weight to tug your shirt down just enough to attack the crown of your collar. His teeth catch more firmly against your skin this time, sucking dark marks that will be just barely visible to the world. You're no stranger to a bite or two from the goblin -- if anything, you're surprised that he's bitten back the urge to truly clamp down thus far. But to leave such a visible mark is a little out of the norm for him, and perhaps its rarity has made those areas just a fraction more sensitive. Your hand tightens in his hair reflexively as you let out a quiet sigh, drawing a stuttering roll of his hips against your lower abdomen where he rests, and you find yourself quickly getting lost in the sensations of it all. His eyelashes fluttering against your skin; the growing, gentle ache of forming bruises; the tender scratch of sharpened teeth against your pulse -- it's a siren's call to pleasure, sweet and thick against the mind, and you struggle to put together any sort of coherence. But somehow, you do.
"He's just trying to piss you off hun, don't let it get to you," you murmur.
Only this time, you don't get a response -- instead he just hums low, and presses a kiss to your cheek.
His hand disentangles itself from your own, instead coming to cradle your jawline, only to tilt your head to the side for better access to your throat. Another dark mark blooms, and then another, much higher than before. Completely impossible to mistake for what it is. All the while his teeth grow more impatient, less wary -- gentle grazes turn into pointed nips, and you're sure he can feel your pulse kick beneath his tongue with each and every threat.
"Grick--" you don't get to finish your sentence, your voice pitching into a high whine, vowels turning to broken melody as his fangs finally pierce the skin. Blood pools at the surface in a neat, concentric ring of crimson, only to be eagerly lapped up by his attentive tongue. He groans low at your whine, at the taste of you, before smiling against your skin and pressing a kiss to the puncture.
Doing another height comparison for Logistics and me + The Goblins are literally just the inverse of me + Jornir. Having a size kink that operates in both directions is so beautiful, I'm on cloud nine
To the lovely anon who requested some particularly bitey goblins... I am delighted to inform you that you have struck a wonderful chord of inspiration, and I am fucking cooking like never before. Holy shit.
Absolutely!! Gonna be uploading these in parts, since I'm prone to getting... a little carried away with some folks. GN, bottom reader -- no bits or bobs specified this time.
Jornir up first!
Jornir is a lover, first and foremost. Sex with Jornir is so unbelievably intimate that the first time you have sex with him, you walk out of it healed in ways that you didn't even know were possible.
Or well, you would have, if you were capable of walking after. Its no secret that Jornir is a very, very big man. And while he makes it abundantly clear that there's no expectation to take him all, there's something so addicting about the combo of being completely, utterly, stuffed full, and the absolutely wrecked and lustful look that overtakes him when you manage to take it all. His eyes wide, swallowing thickly as he takes in the view -- hundreds of times beneath the sheets, and it still shocks him that you're so... determined. Not that he's complaining, of course.
He's so patient, too. No matter how confident you are, how eager you are to take him, he's going to make sure you're ready first. But as much as you beg and whine, you can't ever find yourself truly upset with his carefulness -- or as you prefer to call it, teasing.
Of course, he is doing the proper thing, making sure you're fully prepared to take him. He's not lying about that persay, but you also know better. The smug bastard absolutely gets off on watching you get desperate while he's still clear-headed enough to really take in the sight. You know it too, because he gets the most subtle little smirk about it just before he throws his other forearm over your hips to keep you still.
He'll never say it, but he is absolutely obsessed with the size difference between you two. Its a rather all-consuming fascination, one that's bled into your relationship for longer than he'd care to admit, but it really manifests in the bedroom -- he just can't escape it. He's always a little at odds with positions in this way, because while he'd love to have you in his lap, pressed chest to chest to savor every possible millimeter of skin-to-skin contact… there's something about the view you both get in missionary that drives you both up a wall.
His hair falls around you like a curtain as his hips meet yours again and again: pinned like this, he's truly your entire world, but that bouncing haze of red truly blocks out everything beyond your lover. You have to crane your neck up to look him in the eye, and God, there's just so much of him. He's so beautiful, and he's all yours, and you've never felt more full in your life, and--
Your mind quickly melts into a pleasurable haze of nothing but Jornir -- your Jornir, all yours.
And you, precious you -- taking him so well, despite it all. So eager to be close to him, smaller hands grabbing desperately for some semblance of stability as he takes you apart so expertly.
Even the view of one of his massive hands brushing against your ribcage is enough to make his hips stutter for a breath.
Yeah, he likes the size difference a lot.
No matter what though, one of his hands will always find yours when you have sex -- he's sweet like that. He's not really the type to just fuck for fun -- a lot of it comes down to connection and intimacy for him. Taking you apart is a very personal and intimate thing for him, and while he loves to reduce you to a babbling mess... he always wants you to know that he is also here because he loves you.
Unsurprisingly, very vanilla. If there's anything you'd like to try, it's unlikely he'd ever be opposed to giving it a shot, but he just won't really think about trying anything himself. Asking him if there's anything he's ever considered himself, any fantasies he'd like to try out, gets a moment of thoughtful silence… followed by a confident, but content, "no." But again, he's down for anything. Chances are, he'll actually end up liking some of it! If you ever did get him into the beautiful world of kink, he'd make a lovely switch; but otherwise, he's happy just marveling in your size difference… and in letting you tug on his hair every now and again.
On that note: He's not a very vocal man outside of the bedroom, and that doesn't really change under the covers, either. He makes the most gorgeous sighs of course, and the occasional gasp, but beyond that? He's fairly silent. But scratch your nails against his scalp while you're riding him, grab a handful of those pretty red locks, and pull. Go slow, but firm -- make him move with you, follow you, and feel that dull ache -- and you'll be rewarded with the most depraved, tight-lipped groan you've ever heard in your life.
His breathing gets deeper, broad chest heaving with the weight of his own arousal, and he affixes you with a very specific stare that tells you that you're playing with fire. I hesitate to say he'd ever be mean to you… but this certainly comes close. If you want to be mean, to try and pull a reaction out of him... well, you really only have yourself to blame for what comes next. Because he knows all of the right buttons to press to have you whining and completely fucked out.
Whenever you ride him, he's liable to let you take the lead. You get to control the pace, the depth -- after all, you're the one taking him, and that's no small task. But pulling his hair is a one way ticket to losing that control for the night. Wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let him take care of you -- it's not like there's anything left to do as he holds your hips in place and bucks up into you again, and again, and again. He expects an apology by the end of the night. He also expects you to do it again next time you're in his lap.
For a man of such control, it's almost surprising how often his orgasm catches him off guard. His hips buck, unable to resist the impulse to bury himself just that extra fraction deeper as he gasps, then gives out the prettiest groan from deep, deep in his chest. His head falls forward, lashes fluttering as his grip on your hand tightens, and Gods, aren't you just the luckiest person this side of Avantris?
