#jr scheimpough imagine

[sin-sidejob]

PAGING …..

… CEO JR SCHEIMPOUGH

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

| JR Scheimpough Masterlist / image credit to @outismm / | main masterlist

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

Fanfic / Ficlets

Halloween

$ ࿐ ˚. afab / NSFW / The original ghost JR post

A Haunting Display

$ ࿐ ˚. afab / NSFW / Ghost JR

Oh, Sweet Muse

$ ࿐ ˚. afab / NSFW / JR plays you & the piano

Playtime

$ ࿐ ˚. afab&fem / NSFW / domming JR

Oral Preferences

$ ࿐ ˚. afab / NSFW / how he likes to eat you out

Drabbles

$ Valentine’s

$ New Years

$ Tennis With JR (but no actual tennis)

$ JR + I’m sorry let me eat you out as an apology

$ Jealous

Headcanons

࿐ Shadow Prisoner!JR & his prison wife

࿐ you flash your tits in an argument

࿐ he loves you in tiny skirts and dresses

࿐ what he watches

࿐ fancast for JR

࿐ what is his name?

࿐ his dick

࿐ giving head

࿐ he always pays for your nails

࿐ lactation kink

࿐ part 2

࿐ A reblog of @/outismm's golf sex post

࿐ cockwarming

࿐ ANGST (preggers)

࿐ yelling at Rand

࿐ sub! JR and his mommy kink

︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶

PAGE RECEIVED

…RESPOND NOW?

[busterheadspace]

You guys have a clip of Rand calling you adorable. Have fun

[harkingspot]

lost scene of jrand in shadow prison where they have a heart to heart after their petty fights.

rand: heh maybe i shouldve just married you. it makes the most sense...

jr:

jr: then why didn't you?

[insidereagan]

brett hand x reader - injuries

sorry if this isn’t the best, and has typos i just had a panic attack and am writing this to calm down lol

brett walked through the door, his eyes looking that of a sad puppys, and limping a lot. you could tell he was upset, so you beckoned him to come over to you.

“brett, honey, c’mere,” you whispered softly, picking up a blanket for him, as brett slowly walked to the couch, and snuggled up to you. “baby, are you alright? did something happen?” you asked, and brett rested his head on your shoulder, and nodded, before rolling up his trouser to reveal a large cut on his knee, before he started bawling. “oh, love, shhh, it’s okay. you’re safe now. let’s get you all cleaned up, yea? then we can order takeout and watch tv if you want, or we can just snuggle,” you told him, going off the couch to get the first aid kit. when you came back, he was still crying, but seemed to calm down when you took out a plaster and put it on his knee, and kissed his face gently, and he kissed you back.

“there we are, dear. i’m so proud of you, what would you like to do now?” “c-can we watch the growing years and eat pizza? then maybe cuddle? w-we don’t have t-,” brett began but before he could finish, you were papering by his face with kisses, and telling him of course you could, and that you loved him.

[ilonacho]

It was always you Can't believe I could not see it all this time, all this time It was always you Now I know why my heart wasn't satisfied, satisfied

[cognitosclowns]

Okay hear me out, subby J.R is amazing but what about switch J.R man can be the best submissive but can also turn on his Dom switch real quick should the situation arise. Could I maybe get dominant J.R hc's? Btw I am in love with your writing!

OH OH OH <333

NSFT, MINORS DNI

OKAY BUT <33 UGH <3333

<33 like you can tell when this man has had a day. He wears his emotions on his sleeve and <3 oh boy the way he's glaring down at his desk??? He'll all slumped and glowering??

Obviously he softens up significantly when he notices you because <333 its you, but </3 that tension lingers around his brow.

OHOHO <333 if you want him to put a ring on it then let him fuck you when he's seething about smth <33 he'll literally fall head over heels for you. Goo Goo Eyes <33 even when he's being dominant you're gonna see that sheer adoration radiating off him. <3 sorry he's a sub at heart

This man fucks to survive and he DOUBLE fucks to relieve stress and he TRIPLE FUCKS WHEN HES MAD <333

If he's having employee troubles?? <33 he's gonna love ordering you around - extremely specific instructions, and if you disobey you're getting pinned to his desk <33

When he feels powerless and out of control?? <333 body worship that ends w/ him fucking your face!! <3

If he's upset about having to be away from you?? About plans constantly having to be fucking reworked because the shadow board won't stop pulling things out of their asses?? <33 vv slow, vv rough, plenty of overstimulation!! <3 he wants to prove just how much he loves you <3 he might even start rambling about it under his breath when he feels you getting close

AAA SORRY IM BRINGING UP AFTERCARE BC,, HE HAS SUCH A SPECIFIC ROUTINE

Kiss both of your wrists, then holding your shoulders while giving you a forehead kiss. <3 cradling your head against his chest, his chin on top, and this big deep breath. The sigh sounds like his entire self is being exhaled. <3 you might sit there for anywhere between a few seconds to 5 minutes.

<3 afterwards he'll take care of anything you need!!

He won't directly offer you food or drink, bc what's his is yours and you should know by now that you can phone the kitchen/his assistant for smth at any time <33

AAAAAAAA

[andresacidtab]

my friend mentioned that jr would break his fucking hip during seggs bc he’s old and i’m screeching

[stealsh0e]

Élodie is another inside job oc of mine but her ref isn't ready yet, so have these doodles of her as a kid!! And her cousin may seem to be a familiar face...because he is! It's the PRESIDENT, CALLING INSIDE JOB HQ PLEASE GIVE US MORE OF HIM IN PART 2...they're distant cousins, probably twice removed, but their family has these big get togethers to catch up with everyone. I have a wip of a comic of this first meeting right here for you guyss!

You can see tid bits of their eventual friendship/sibling vibe in my 2nd lil doodle page posted at the top, I really love them,, they don't see each other as much when they start getting into adulthood simply due to distance and having to get on with your own lives, but the time they spent together as kids is something they hold dearly in their hears. Also I am...thinking of a name for the president,, HE NEEDS A NAME FOR THIS COMIC OK...I'm thinking of naming him Paulie bc he looks like one,, giving me some Kevin vibes also. Paulie is the winner so far in my head but IDK!!!! I'll think over it some more.

As a treat, Élodie concept sketches from last month!! She worked as a bartender for the majority of her twenties and thirties, dating and then marrying a man who was a regular at the golf club she worked at and served a few times, JR Scheimpough. I'll be going more into their relationship in a different post 😈😈.

I will say here though that Élodie is UNAWARE of anything Cognito related, JR goes out of his way to make sure his dear Odie is oblivious to his job for her own safety.

Left is present day concept and the right is how I imagine her during her bartending days.

One more bc I rlly like this little interaction between them..

Bisexual power couple being absolute dorks AAAA -MY HEAD EXPLODES and only the lil microwave plate remains and is spinning super fast- they're just...they just wanted to protect each other and be there for one another....ouguugughhuguhwhwh :'''((((

[sin-sidejob]

it’s not regular yearning hours, no it’s special JR hours

it’s Dad Bod™️ JR Scheimpough Hours

[sin-sidejob]

Shadow Prisoner!JR Scheimpough x Prison Wife!Reader

- @mollicutes bullied me and encouraged me so here take this of my pathetic imprisoned baby girl + spoilers for part 2 of Inside Job

- it’s incredibly bittersweet to have had him again, after losing him, and have JR in your life. He was with you at work, with you at home, able to spend your days with him and not have to worry all that much. Until the end of reality comes caving in.

- you can’t catch a break.

- the initial action that landed him in Shadow Prison was stupid, I mean c’mon, invezzlement? But what landed him back wasn’t really all too upsetting, you understood it more than anything. He just broke.

- the final straw out of having to crawl his way back to living, freedom and life and you was how Rand in his efforts to reverse reality to get his family back, wiped out JR’s. The second the tattoo he had done and inked on his skin with your meaning behind it vanished in tandem with his wedding ring, that last thread of morality went with you.

- JR didn’t know and didn’t expect to make it back to you, didn’t think anyone would manage reversing reality back to its original course. But it happens, without him, but he still shoots at Reagan in the process. By the time he’s stepping foot back in Cognito Inc, the company he helped build, you’re there, searching for him and he sees that brief shift in relief at seeing him fine and okay transition into concern, fear, and grief once you see the cuffs he’s locked in. There’s a part of him that wishes he hadn’t seen it and another, bigger part that wishes you hadn’t seen it.

- He’s sent back to Shadow Prison, locked up tight and away from reach and it breaks your heart all over again. The second you get him alone he explains and you understand because you would’ve done the same thing had you lost him, had to see your entire life with him fade and vanish as if it were smoke and mirrors and the years meant nothing. You’d have gone insane. You make sure he knows that you don’t blame him. It helps.

- it’s hard though, having lost him, gained him, only to lose him again. But you make do. Bribing guards for more unmonitored or longer visits, the occasional conjugal visit, and sending packages when you can of things that don’t get swiped for contraband.

- you send in snacks and goods like cookies, he usually has to give a share to the guards monitoring his cell as penance but hey, they like you at least. He gets letters and photos that he can tape to his side of the cell, see you when he gets up and goes to sleep.

- JR tries to hide the death arena from you as something he has to deal with and it goes as well as expected — poorly. You find out and are terrified of losing him fully after having such a small portion of him left. But then again, the man’s incredibly fit, clever, and creative. He handles it each and every time and comes back because he knows he needs to make it out to get back to you.

- the duration of his sentence is something that gets shortened over time, through good behavior and your own work at trying to appease the robes and carrying out tasks JR doesn’t even know are being asked of you. He never will.

- on the bright side, you’re reaping the benefits of being a prison wife. People were already terrified of you as is, and after JR went to prison it got found out that you two were married, and now you’re able to do anything you need to, access to whatever’s within hands reach and beyond. The guards love you, you’re the hottest wife of the prisoners on the cell block, and JR wins bets on that every time. You chit chat with the guards and ask about their spouses and kids idly and it makes things much smoother.

- JR gets brownie points for both having and keeping such a great, hot, powerful wife and gets an easier time throughout just for that. And when he gets out? Gets to come home on parole, not allowed to work at all anymore with a non-compete order placed down by the robes, he relishes in how he gets to throw his weight around.

- he’s a tatted criminal who survived and made it through shadow prison, kept maintained his relationship with the love of his life with a bond now that is even stronger, and now he can scare the shit out of people and doesn’t need to be the one on his knees all the time. Only for you though

- in general, it’s not too bad, you get him back eventually and he more than makes up for the long wait. JR shows you just how much he appreciates you and how much your sacrifice means to him

[sin-sidejob]

Prompt: JR Scheimpough would absolutely love yet hate playing pool with you.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🎱 .⋅} ────── ⊰

JR played in college, grew up playing on his fathers table at home and with his family. He could make bank shots and use english on a cue with ease, scamming people into thinking he’s a clueless little rich boy that doesn’t know how to shoot pool then coming back with their entire savings account after betting double and triple wages on his breaks after he flips from shooting in that faux “oh fuck what’s the chalk for? Lines?” manner to sharpshooter, pool hall menace, cracking the cue ball with a shot into the rack and making at least three balls to start, two in the corner pockets and one in the side

It’s so easy for him

Then you come along and hustle him better than he expected, and even before he caught a full glimpse of you.

JR took you out to drinks in a high class bar and thinks about playing a few games to show off and play some poor unsuspecting bastard — but then you pipe up, wanting to play him and saying that whoever loses pays for the next date.

How could he refuse that? And so he plays, letting you break and racking up for you, winking at you from under low hanging pool hall lights dimmed in a yellow hue. When you snap the cue back and send the cue ball hurtling into the rack, making the six ball and the seven ball into the back pockets, his jaws agape and you’re already settling low with a steady elbow to take another, making each and every ball number by number until you get to the nine.

You lean down, and the v-neck of your shirt lowers and allows him a full glimpse down your chest as you sink down to focus on the shot, calling the pocket you’ll make the nine ball in through a breathe then practice your stroke once, twice, and sliding your elbow back before you make contact, chalked tip of the cue sending the cue ball out to the nine, banking it off the rail and into the corner pocket you prophecized.

He’s slack jawed, turned-on, impressed, and frustrated all at once. JR’s hasn’t lost in pool since he finally grew into an adults cue, no longer using an adjustable or shortened one — the kid’s cues.

You’re beaming when you rise, the dip of your button up flattening against your chest and still sharing a glimpse of your chest. But not nearly anything as inviting as what he saw when you took your final shot, winning the first game.

Sauntering around, you dock your cue in the display rack and make a show of wiping off chalk dust on his suit, enjoying the dark gleam that emerges in his eyes. “Wanna’ try again?”

“Oh honey,” he chuckles, shucking off his blazer and rolling his sleeves up before he racks the balls, you sending them from the pockets down to him. He starts sorting the pool balls within the wooden rack with ceramic clicks and little chitters from the wood as his hands move off memory, eyes glinting behind glasses shrouded in the low lights of the pool hall, peering up at you as his glasses catch the light, “I’ll play you all night.”

“Bring it baby boy, let’s see you try and keep up.”

And he eyes you, leaning back up after racking the balls and lifting the wooden rack, hanging it back up at the wall and leaning against the wall, sipping at his drink, he grins, a devious expression on his face. JR watches you lean down once more, feeling his pants pull a bit taut as your neckline lowers and your chest is visible again, watching it shift as you pull your elbow back and forth before rapidly shifting it up, breaking the rack and sending the balls scattering with a proud grin, making the seven ball again.

Expectantly, you look to him and send him a matching grin, chalking the cue with a little block of green chalk, dusting your fingers as you lean down to put the one ball in the corner then move to the two ball, watching behind glasses as you move around the table and narrowly miss the six ball, leaving him an opportunity to finally play.

“Alright, pretty boy, take your best shot.” You simper while walking past him to seat yourself in a raised bar seat of two, a tall table between them where you steal sips of his drink, he eyes you, rolling up from your legs up to your eyes and smiles before he takes his shot, making the six in the side pocket and moving around, passing you on the way.

“Oh, I intend to.” He murmurs to himself, making the next ball in the pocket and spying you finish his drink and settle it back down, sparing him a glance as you recross you legs.

JR’s definitely open to the challenge of beating you — and it seems by the glimmer in your eyes that you’re just as interested in the game between the two of you than the actual one played before the both of you as he is. He sinks the eight ball into the corner and scratches on the rebound, bearing you try not to let a sound out but smile a tad.

“Ball’s in your corner,” he offers, handing you the cue ball from his hand into yours, watching your lips purse to prevent a joke from slipping through. You eye him as you set up your shot, lowering back down within his eyeline and shooting him a glance as you poise your shot, murmuring something beneath your breath just so he can hear it.

“And hopefully in-between my thighs by the end of the night.”

Oh yeah, he’s keeping you.

[sin-sidejob]

JR Scheimpough x fem!reader: ANGST (could be read as afab!reader but they’re pregnant + used gn pronouns)

Warnings: some sad shit, canon typical events, grief, pregnancy, vague mention of nausea/throwing, etc

Content: SAD SAD SHIT GRAB THE TISSUES AND SOME TRANQUILIZERS BABES HERE WE GO

- you found out you were pregnant the day Rand took over Cognito Inc.

- Your gyno/obgyn appointment had been booked for that morning so you could go into work for the rest of the day and not have to call out

- Now after it all, a part of you wishes you had just stayed home

- Because then you wouldn’t have to have seen that fearful last glance JR sent before getting sent away to Shadow Prison, sucked into a tube and vacating your life in milliseconds. Gone.

- Your last moments of him, with him, beyond that glance through a camera was from that morning earlier before you both left.

- Curled up in bed and reluctant to leave, murmured sleepy musings of calling in sick and skipping out on work that were abandoned as you both got dressed and ready for the day, laughter while you helped button his shirt and kisses while adjusting his tie, jokes told while eating a light breakfast before kissing each other goodbye and then leaving for work and the doctors office. It was a routine appointment. He never knew.

- And there you stood in the doorway of what was once JR’s office, leaving Reagan and her father to their own devices as you wandered your way back to your own office subconsciously, acting on muscle memory and instinct alone.

- Closing the door softly and sitting down in your chair, shaking and trying to figure out who to call. Your trembling hands dart through your emergency contacts and you drop your phone once JR’s lingers at the top of the list, the ironic emojis you stuck next to the horribly corny nickname that was on his contact now sitting bitter in your throat and acrid in your fruiting belly. You feel so sick, the pregnancy not helping, but you keep the trashcan close in case. All you want is him and your body craves him like an addict with withdrawals, yearning at a cellular level is all you are reduced to now.

- Sitting there, for a while, your mind rolls in a loop of what you should be doing, trying to get out and get home, get to JR, but the roadblocks cut everything short over and over again. All naive daydreaming, nothing available but crude and crushing reality.

- You get no work done, just staring at the wall until someone checks in on you. I’d like to think it was Gigi or Brett that notes your lack of presence and relating it to JR getting sent away. Words of comfort are offered but it’s muffled, a thick fog swarming you, swallowing you whole. You don’t want to be there. You want to be home. He’s not there.

- And you’re just so tired and all you want is him. But that isn’t possible. No matter how well anyone comforts you, the love of your life, father of your unborn child, is gone and will never come back. And he’ll never know of them, and they’ll never know of him beyond the stories you’ll share with words from you.

- Regaled like folklore of your own making, myths woven in your own tongue, told to your offspring of their father with mystique and grief and love. For he is nothing but an apparition in a grim tale of his own making.

- And it won’t sink in for a while, even as you enter what was once your shared home, silent as a ghost town and equally as cold, and curl up in the dark of the bedroom with an arm over your belly, praying it’ll all be over soon and that you’ll wake up tomorrow and he’ll be there.

- He never is.

[sin-sidejob]

Insidious Inside Job: Halloween pt. 1

Note: Inspired by skoshibuns fanart on instagram + I have songs linked with each segment for the specific portion that goes with the monster, the plot, or both

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Minors DNI, AFAB + GN PRONOUNS, monster-fucking, blood, inhuman creatures, the undead, various Halloween-y phenomena + food mention + cockwarming + literal blatant sex with monsters and creatures of the night + probably more

Content: smut, spooky scary spectral holiday smuttening, monster and inhuman creature fucking, usual debauchery you can expect from me, dicks and puss, inhuman and monster genitalia, reader has AFAB nethers/genitalia and a cunt but I don’t describe about tits so folks are safe, I used gender neutral pronouns all throughout as well. Mentions of underwear and generalized clothing but no bras or gendered articles of clothing except just underwear and general clothing.

! ! ! This is part one, with Gigi + JR + Glenn + a bonus character. Part two, which will be posted and located here, includes Reagan + Brett + Andre + Robotus + Myc! ! !

Gigi Thompson: V A M P I R E

• song: Bloodletting (The Vampire Song) - Concrete Blonde

- She’s quite literally the hottest woman you’ve ever met, even though her body is stone cold forevermore — you and her met by chance, her needing to feed and finding you irresistibly alluring and you thinking you’ve struck the lottery and are about to have the best fuck since — well, ever.

- Gigi kept getting confused, torn with the need to sink her teeth into your neck and taste that metallic sweetness, like copper pennies bathed in honey, but pulled back during every opportunity and opening she had in the cover of darkness to do it. She had watched you from afar for a while, far longer than you had even known her or had her on your radar. You were so naively oblivious, just a darling little thing in the line of sight from Gigi’s reddened irises.

- but the one night she forced herself to just get it over with, make a meal out of you, she kept acquiescing, changing her plan from luring you out and killing you outright to lingering a little longer, playing with her food. Then it shifted to going out, toying longer, and sharing food in some dark corner of a restaurant, to following you home and getting invited in.

- and here you are, bright-eyed and eager, so dazedly star-eyed that you’ve got no clue what her intentions truly are with you. That she could shred you into ribbons and suck you dry if every precious drop of blood within your thumping, steady veins. But she doesn’t. Oh no, Gigi’s body craves more than just the ambrosial vice seeping through your heart, she wants your touch, to taste the other parts you have to offer. She makes a full meal out of you, long manicured fingernails traipsing across your skin as she sheds you of your clothing, letting it slide off your skin to puddle on the floor in a wrinkly, hazardous mess.

- Gigi leaves little marks of deep burgundy lip prints across your collar, marking you a necklace in her kisses around your oh-so-tempting throat, shedding the last of your clothing sans some drenched underwear she peels off. She urges you into your bed, making an idle comment about the poster bed canopy that shrouds the two of you even more from sight. Gigi pries your thighs apart and settles into her hors d’oeuvre, teeth sunken in and hidden away in order to lap at your pulsing clit, sending her nerves alight. She wants to cut you open and leave you raw, eat everything from you until there’s nothing left. She wants to utterly consume you. To know everything about all of your parts, the intricacies of your thoughts, crack you open like a geode that only her undead eyes get to see. Get to feel the crystalline facets within that no one else could have ever uncovered.

- instead of carving you open, she lets you bestow your own offerings, having her touch shatter you anew and burst you open as you cum on her tongue endlessly. she treats your cunt like a blessed goblet, letting her lips and tongue worship the pooling slick that drips forth onto her awaiting mouth to savor all the facets of your taste. It’s so much better than she could have ever fathomed.

- in her latest sprawl of meals they’ve been mediocre, the equivalent of a microwave dinner in the range of quality of bloodletting. But you, the way your slick feels against her tongue and glosses her already dark, puffy lips, enveloping her heightened senses like a murky fog, you’re nothing short of bewitching. and she doesn’t plan to let you go.

- She eats you out with fervor, the pads of her fingers prying your legs apart and being careful with the digits, knowing the glossy nails are pointed and sharp, making sure her thumb against your clit rolls in circles and shapes in a pressure that drives stars behind your eyes. Humming against your weeping slit, she comes up for the air she doesn't need, lungs as still as fake flowers laid upon a grave. "Don't you taste divine," Gigi purrs in the dark of your room, eyes alight in a manner that had your pried open legs wanting to shut an rub together as you squirmed, more than just hot and bothered. No, you were practically steaming and Gigi felt it, her cold skin soaking up your warmth like the last look at a lover.

- She wishes she could just bite her nails down shorter to play with you even more, slide her hand into the warmth of your cunt and play around, finding your most tender spots and drinking whatever you have to offer her. She could live a hundred undead lifetimes in just what you have offered already in this night alone. Gigi doesn't know how or why, but she gives you her attention and care and hopes that all the words she hasn't said come forth in her lips against your heated, still full-of-life skin.

- She cages you in and has you beneath, bare and only wearing the remnants of a button-down top she tore off of you in order to bite and mark up your chest. "Can I fuck you?" emerges from you, and it's not rushed or hurried as it flies from your puffy, swollen, and kiss-abused lips. It's calculated, and your eyes are lidded low and glimmer in the light and Gigi wants to remember the sight until her final days. It has traces of what home used to feel like to her and stutters a feeling in her heart that lay dormant for decades, centuries even. God, you're so darling, so she will continue to call you as such.

_ "You dont have to ask me twice," Gigi utters with a grin so sweet, you taste the sugar in your mouth just from the sight of it, "Be a doll and help me out of this dress?" Your hands hurry to remove her clothing, practically falling asunder when you go to remove her tights and find stockings in their stead, thick bands for her garter belt, and the thin straps holding them together. She could kill you between her legs and crush your skull like a rotten melon and you'd still be beaming from ear to ear.

- Once she's stripped, clad in a lingerie set that clings to her like it was painted on, thin slivers of silk and velvet cup her breasts and have transparent panels that shimmer, making her body lie behind what looks like erotic slivers of stained glass windows. The panties match, thin bows on the sides tying them together. The garter belt emphasizes the sway of her waist and the curve of her hips and is taut lower at the ties to the stockings that make your mouth both dry and flood with too many yet not enough words. Yeah, you would willingly die at the mercy of her hands without concern.

- You get her settled among the pillows beneath the canopy of your bed, feeling as if she was meant to be there, always with her languid form curled and splayed across your sheets and rubbing her thighs together and reaching a manicured hand out to pull you closer, into a holy hell you'd enjoy ever step into the descent of.

- Paused for a moment, you shake back to reality with a sway of your head and reluctantly move away, looking back as you step away at her and cheekily utter "just stay right there, I'll be just a moment," and smile at her gentle laugh. You sort through a drawer, pulling forth a special little toy you never thought you'd get to use, a little double-ended number you'd love to christen with her cunt. Turning back, you nearly drop the toy and the bottle of lube at the sight of her, hair across her shoulders and bra straps lowering dangerously down her shoulders as she shallowly bucks into her hand that's in her panties, moving lazily. Her eyes open and peer up at you, and she grins something wicked when she reaches her free hand across her thigh and pats her flesh, beckoning you forth.

- You practically hurdled into bed.

- Eager hands pry her thighs apart while you busy yourself in darting kisses across her collar, teeth moving to bite at her bra straps and drag them both down before leaning back, settling between her spread thighs to reach back and flick the clasp off of her bra. Gigi shucks off the garment, tossing it aside in the room and enjoying the way you fall slack and in awe of her partially nude, finding her chest nothing short of exemplary.

- "are you even real?" you marvel aloud, feeling as if you're in the presence of a statue come to life as if some renaissance statue woke and wandered into your life, your heart, and your bed. Lucky you.

- "I could say the same for you. Such a sweet thing you are." Gigi murmurs in response, eyes doting in equal to her caress of your side, feeling the warmth of your ribcage and beating heart beneath, seeing the chills sprawl across your body at her ice touch. Her legs spread and she pulls the ties of her panties, silky bows undone as she removes and tosses her underwear, bare beside her garter and stockings. You wish she could kill you, it would be kinder than this.

- She smirks, leaning back and nestling against the pillows, hair sprawled around her head and shoulders as she grins up at you, "Oh but I think living suits you much more." Gigi shucks off your tattered blouse and you toss it out of the way, lowering down upon her and kissing her body, marveling at her breasts and the peak of her perked nipples with your tongue, practically at home and near creaming when she snakes a hand across your hair.

- You make your way down to her cunt and find her clit, sucking and licking with greedy eagerness, hands sliding beneath her thighs to lift them over your shoulders. She takes it from there, locking them at the ankles while she takes your hands in hers, sliding them up her body until she plants them over her tits, and you oblige, palms cupping handfuls and rolling thumbs across her nipples in flicks while you busy yourself with lowering to her lips and licking through them.

- "oh fuck, a little harder," she asks, pleading in a pitch that lifts, voice airier and lighter now that you've got her at your generous, plentiful mercy. You'd give her the world, everything you could reach and beyond. "You need not ask again." you tease, echoing her words from earlier when you nose her clit briefly through a patch of curls and return back to breach your tongue in her cunt, moaning at the taste and squeezing her chest while you did so, smiling against her cunt as you feel her shudder and draw you in.

- "you taste fucking immaculate," you murmur while breaching for air,, looking up at her from between her thighs, taking a moment to tease. One hand stays on her breast while the other lowers to help you part her lips and then slides into her cunt, two fingers entering without issue and scisssoring in her cunt, spreading and then curling upwards. Gigi jolts and arches, lip tugged between teeth you envy. You almost halt when you spot fangs, pronounced and pointed against her lower lip. A normal reaction would be fear, disgust, maybe even some anxiety or paranoia. Not you - you just fuck her faster, better, and want those teeth buried in your neck.

- "holdin' out on me, huh?" you breath against her clit, grazing teeth against it and soothing with your tongue, suckling between sentences to see her shake and tremble, "should've known you were something unearthly, too pretty to be normal." You fuck your fingers into her, sighing in gratification at the sound her soaked cunt makes when you play with it, pinching her nipple and sending her crying out as you feel her hips lift off the bed occasionally,. grinding into your face and you are savoring every single second.

- You've peaked the moment she became interested in you, but you've surpassed everything and everyone when you managed to get her attracted to you and now, rendered into a bundle of high-strung and coiled nerves, ready to snap.

- She comes with a cry of your name on her lips, mouth gaped and enticing with those sharp canines you wanna' toy with. But that's for later. Now, you clean her up and bide your time with the touch of tongue and fingertips, soothing her and ushering her down from the high of orgasm, murmuring her name like a holy prayer and beaming from between her legs, calling out once her red eyes lock upon your grinning form betwixt her stocking-clad thighs.

- "wheres that toy you had? I'll fuck us with it then suck your veins dry and keep you around, you're never leaving if you can fuck me like that and look at me with all that love in your eyes." Gigi promises, like a god laying across an offering bed, handing you the world in a gesture so soft that it wins over the pillows.

- Lucky you indeed.

JR Scheimpough: G H O S T

• song: Ghost Of A Texas Ladies Man - Concrete Blonde

- you weren’t going to let a gossipy rumor of ghosts hold you back from owning a fucking perfect Victorian mansion — listed reasonably and in your price range — in the country, just thirty minutes or so commute from your work.

- it had a goddamn greenhouse, fuck them ghosts.

- you adjusted well, reapplied polish after re-gritting the checkerboard tiles in the main walkway, weeding the garden and scattering oyster shell fragments and slate for the landscape, running gas and electrical through the house to turn on the sconces with those scalloped, filigree light fixtures now aglow. You made that house your home and even that kitchen was amazing. You loved every minute of it.

- until the house began to turn on you. Lights flickering at odd hours, almost seeming to be talking, flickering in response to words or actions. The trees whistling during overcast days in a manner that seemed too ominous for outdoors. Movements in the corner of your eye. Fuck all that.

- you were this close until the breaking point, the crux within the ordeal, to calling in someone to cleanse the house or bless it.

- the master bathroom was nothing short of lavish, marble tiles in ornate patterns littering the floor with cornflower blue ceilings and ornate wallpaper, littered with filigree and ornamental flowers and imagery, pastel greens and blues only further enamoring you with the room. It had a walk in shower, updated with an overhead shower head with a rainfall spout and jets, a bench, and one of those glass window panes. The double sink with the decorative brass faucets, resting below a giant mirror. And the pièce de résistance was the tub.

- a gorgeous oversized claw foot bathtub lay apart, seated in the center of a tri-paned window overlooking the backyard landscape and garden, drenched in sunlight. It was only furthered by the crystals you hung in the windows, fragments of prismal glow dotted around the room, twinkling like a rainbow broke and scattered it’s pieces in your home.

- you’d been taking a break from working on the house this weekend, wanting to just relish in it and let your aching bones recuperate. Bath soak makes the water almost thick, a thin gloss of it sticking to your limbs that peak out from the water. Bubbles are spread throughout the water surface, glimmering with minuscule reflections of the noon-day light from the windows that send them towards your shiny skin.

- your neck is perched on the raised lip of the tub, arched perfectly for your posture and just so that it allows you to rest your eyes. Until the crystals on the window begin to sway and spin, and the large vanity mirror above the sink fogs over with a chill that you don’t feel near you just yet. It fogs over partially, a murky space where one would sit on the sink counter makes you realize those rumors were real.

- stark naked, tub-bound is an unfortunate state to realize you did have spectral housemates.

- “if you’re going to stare, at least let me see what you look like. Even the playing field here fucko.” You’ve got no clue where you found your voice, nor why it spoke of its own accord, but you know you should not have said that but it’s too late now.

- in a shimmer, the form appears, perched in a manner that drips with cheeky and smarmy bravado, displaying an older man who seems all too glad to see a human in the flesh - yet you kinda like his spirit.

- he’s donned in glasses, framing colorless eyes drenched in a void sans the ice-blue irises gazing at you. He’s got on a pinstripe suit, a few decades too old to mean he’s died recently, looking like a Halloween advert for a Mad Men episode.

- “well, isn’t that a warm welcome.” His voice chitters, almost otherworldly with how it seems to phase in and out of your ears, hovering like even sound is trying to decide whether to believe in him. “Hello babydoll, pleasure to finally speak with you. I’d shake your hand but, Y’know.” He feigns nonchalance, gesturing vaguely and you’re not sure if he’s alluding to the fact you’re buckass nude or that he’s unable to touch things – only phasing through them in that spectral nature.

- “didn’t stop’ya from waltzing into my bathroom and watching me.” You pause for a moment, eyeing him warily and sinking lower in the tub before the curiosity creeps inwards, twisting and invading like ivy crawling up brick, “what’s your name?”

- the ghoul’s head tilts, smiling in an amused way that’s both endearing and mocking, eyes shining like ice cubes twinkling in a water glass, “JR –“ he cuts you off as your mouth opens, “No not junior, just J-R.” He trails, eyes locking on you briefly from where they would pretend to find the wallpaper interesting, “yours?”

- and so you utter your name aloud, watching him almost relish in it as if your name was a secret that he’d been searching for. He repeats it, pronouncing it correctly and seems almost casual before he grins, “pretty name for such a cute little thing such as yourself.”

- you’d strangle him is he wasn’t already dead.

- he laughs, and you realize with horror you said that aloud. “Didn’t think you were that kinky, aren’t you full of suprises!” You toss a soap bar in his direction, not expecting the thud nor the sound of it hitting the floor after it landed off his - apparently solid - chest.

- You catch a glimmer in the dead eyes of JR, they flash red — for a millisecond only, just enough to show he’s not just the pretty charmer sitting on your sink. And unfortunately for you, that unnerving danger is just your thing. He notices.

- dark eyes glint and that Cheshire grin returns, JR busying himself with rolling up his sleeves as he notes the dilation in your pupils and the way your legs rub together, water rippling and sending barely-there glimpses of what lies beneath the soapy water of your body.

- “Oh, a mighty kinky thing you are. All hot and bothered for a ghost — pity. But why leave you all to your lonesome here?” He drawls, winking as he steps off the counter and his shoes click at the tile floor, black loafers so shiny they look freshly polished in the midday light. “Why not, keep your lively, darling self company? Hmm?” JR hums a note, nearing the tub and sitting on his haunches, forearms resting on the lip of the tub and teasingly pretending to peek downwards but keeping his attention on you.

- “that —“ you pause, caught up in ice cube eyes that you cannot seem to pry away from, struggling to find the weight of your tongue and get it to work, “that may work.” And he smiles, always smiling, this specter, “what a wonderful answer. Now — how about we get you out of that tub.”

- Y’know what, you would go along with your previous advice. Fuck them ghosts.

- Sitting up, slow enough to let the water adjust and not slosh over the side of the tub and ruin the fluffy bathmat nearby, you maintain eye contact while the suds drip down your chest and expose your torso. You lean up to hover near him, not feeling any chill but just a presence, a wave, that emanates. The closer you are, the stronger it feels, and when you run a sudsy hand over his temple, brushing a stray hair back, you feel him. he’s real. and he’s determined to show you just how much.

- JR’s about to move, most likely kiss you, but you lean back. Completely pull away. And he looks dejected and it’s a dreadful sight on an already dead man. You stand, stepping out the tub and move to grab your towel. It’s gone.

- “missing something?”

- you turn, an eyebrow raised in what is currently the longest moment of you having a complete absence of self consciousness or shame, and fix him with a look and glance around for your bathrobe and towel that you knew you had in there.

- “this is a bit ridiculous,” you roll your eyes at his expectant look, muttering to yourself that this is the most ob-fucking-scene moment of your life, “towel please.”

- “nope. quite like how it’s going without one personally.” JR muses, pursing his lips to avoid smiling while standing and rocking back and forth on his heels.

- “oh sweet fucking christ—“ “I thought I told you my name” you’re this close to abandoning the plan of fucking the ghost but you turn and see he’s got your robe, which was on the other side of the room, in his hands outstretched and ready for you to step into.

- you do, bare feet against tile now sending a shudder than sprawls through you, settling goosebumps across your skin and for you to visibly squirm, only to get enveloped in your plush bathrobe and have him usher you into the sleeves. It’s quite domestic as he loosely ties the robe, large bow barely closing the fabric, still revealing the entirety of your legs and barely covering your pelvis.

- His head hovers around your shoulder, him standing behind you still with hands perched at the tie-belt of your robe, “still want company?” and with his voice, the eerily charming timbre of it, how could you deny yourself the opportunity?

- you murmur your answer before you yourself even process it, nodding and saying a soft absolutely just before you turn around, stepping backwards and grabbing onto cold hands and leading him into your bedroom. You thumb the knuckles and realize they’re very soft and that the chill isn’t so terrible, not overly cold. Warming him up wouldn’t take much if anything at all.

- “darling place you’ve got here,” he jokes, brows raising as he watches you walk then seat yourself on the edge of your bed, “just love what you’ve done with it.” JR continues to stand, fiddling with his tie and buttons before he halts his movements, hiding the hesitation by feigning the intention to move them to his pants pockets. you’re about to ask why, but then you see the glimmer of indentions near his Adam’s apple, pearlescent skin dusky mauve and periwinkle, understanding sinking into your features that he cannot miss. He chuckles, the dark and bitter kind and that red glint almost appears but instead that ice blue turns white then back to the clearish hue.

- “Guess I stuck my neck out for the wrong guy.” And you swallow, knowing that’s certainly a story for another time but you move on seeing that he wants to as well, rising to smooth your palms across his shirt vest and to begin undoing his tie. In a normal circumstance, it’s quite sweet, the image of you wrapped up in a bathrobe and undressing him from the remnants of a suit as if getting ready for bed. But this is no normal circumstance, and you two are far from a normal pair.

- And as you feel at the skin of his neck, bared of his starched shirt collar and tie, you look beyond and thumb at his jaw and lean to kiss at the juncture near his ear. “Well, I’m here now,” you trail off, feeling barely-there hands hover at your waist, “if that helps?” He barely moves and already has you splayed on the bed, peering up at him and seeing him slowly shift from being semi-transparent to completely opaque. Solid. Still ghostly but physically there and it’s a relief, not wanting to voice your concerns of spectral sex and how that really would work.

- “It does.” JR grins, chilled hands shucking off the bathrobe and leaving it beneath your frame until your bare hips lift up and he tugs it out from under, tosses it, then pauses. He leans back, hands flexing and his teeth biting into his bottom lip as he gazes up and down at all of you, admiring blatantly. “Oh honey, it really does.”

- you’re already soaked, which is a relief to you because you didn’t want to navigate foreplay or delve overly so into exploring each other’s bodies. You wanted him, wanted to know how he felt, how he’d feel filling you. JR delivers.

- cold, dead, dextrous hands lift your thighs up and rest the underside notch of your knees on his forearms. His appears shifts, like a ripple rolling over a still waters surface, appearing and disappearing all at once. His shirts unbuttoned and partially tucked into the back of his slacks, belt gone and pants undone. JR almost looks like he’s wearing a thick choker or a necklace and you pointedly avoid looking at it, knowing it’s not the place or time to call attention to a death mark.

- instead you grab onto clothing that feels like it’ll flutter away in your hold, unreal, not there, and tug him closer so he’s looming overhead — and if it wasn’t for the spectral visage, he’d look completely normal. As completely normal as a businessman from the 60’s could look. “Eager little thing, all neglected and alone in this big ol’ house.” JR croons, cheeky and feather light, feeling like a stuffed down pillow yet like a switchblade all the same, “not anymore, you’ve got me, dont’cha honey?”

- that’s the moment he removes his cock, blue tinged and with a weepy, bulbous tip, and slides it through your folds with emphasis. Snake oil salesman. Con man. You never want him to leave. You let out a thick “ungh-huh,” grunting response, squirming at the feel and wanting him in already, petty and petulant and wound up like a turn-dial toy, ceased in your puttering about.

- “Aw kitten, I’ve got you,” he murmurs once more, unnervingly genuine smile on his face. It’s crooked, imperfect. Good. “Easy for me, breathe — I’d demonstrate, but that’s just one thing I can’t do.” And just as your lips part to comment, he slides in, fat cockhead breaching your walls and nestling deep inside. It’s cold, foreign feeling, practically glasslike within you but it sends you clenching and grinding weakly back onto it, feeling your bare hips brush against wool-blend slacks and the weight of his gaze on you.

- “what a perfect, snug little fit this cunt has,” he muses, almost more intrigued than turned on. But he falters as the shift of your hips, eyes flickering like they’re phasing in and out, there one second the next they’re gone. “Fuck, do that again,” he orders after an angled grind while you clench your walls around him, sending his ragged and eyes aglow.

- you do, you clench and he bends you like a pretzel in response. Thighs to your chest, dick now kissing at your cervix which’ll end up bruised by the end of the day, and him even closer now. He’s not as cold, almost as if he’s warmed up. Did you do that?—

- “oohh yes, yes — you feel fantastic, so good to me,” JR babbles, hands splaying across your belly flat while the other is near your head, “so, so good to me.” He whines a bit in his thrusts, overwhelmed with pleasure as you feel the same. The foreign sensation fades as your hot cunt warms him, welcomes him, and stretches to accommodate. His pelvis and slacks brush against your clit, sending nerves alight and twinkling behind your eyes like the fractals from the prisms in the bathroom, rainbow shards scatter behind your eyes as JR steadily fucks into you. it takes you turning your head in an attempt to bury it in the sheets and comforter for you to realize you’re not actually on your bed. Oh, no. In fact, you’re several feet in the air above it.

- That’s hot.

- weeding a hand through his hair, you tug and bring him closer to your frame to press against you, thighs sandwiched between your body and his as his face looms above, eyes now half lidded and sapphire blue. his kiss is so cold it’s warm, tingly up to your toes, almost like spearmint threaded through your bones and body like a puppeteer’s strings. it doesn’t take many more thrusts, many more shifts of his incorporeal form to send you shuddering and gasping, clawing at him and crying out silently in an open mouthed cry as you cum.

- JR follows, unable to not fall under the same petite mort as you do, finding it much sweeter than the actual thing with the view he finds himself surrounded by. Pretty little breather, so eager to take him. He supposes having a housemate won’t be so bad.

Glenn Dolphman: SWAMP CREATURE

• song: It Will Come Back - Hozier

- you shouldn’t have gone this far out onto the boardwalks alone. Should’ve packed extra AA batteries for your flashlight, grabbed the stun gun from the glovebox of your car, sitting stagnant and useless in the National Park’s car lot.

- but now, now you’re alone and the suns starting the creep and inch downwards in the horizon, setting brackish and green water inky blue and drenched in oranges and yellows. It would be gorgeous and ethereal is you weren’t alone, and surrounded by open water and more threats than friends. You’d been there all day testing water and recording data for water pollution, making sure the water clarity was still as high as it was last month. The internship in the park’s department was new, testing your limnology skills and knowledge of freshwater ecosystems. But this place blended just likes it’s water, fresh and salt, murky and clear. And with the sun setting, that line got crossed. You’re in no man’s land, where the gators swim free.

- you won’t see morning.

- shutting off the flashlight allows you to conserve what you can for the night, same with your phone as you pace and try to figure out how far from the entrance you are and how much daylight you have left, gauging about 45 minutes to maybe 2 hours of light. Then, darkness. You feel like crying.

- there’s a tree, thick and stable with roots deep within the mud settled next to the wooden walk you’re on, and you settle against it, back rested on the wood and your legs sprawled on the walks planks, fiddling through your bag and wishing you’d brought more than your your water testing kit and supplies. Like a fucking knife, flare gun, something actually useful. What’s the goddamned chapstick gonna help with, making you look good for the gators?

- moving water unnerves you, the sound heavy and laden with weight, something slow moving underneath you and the thin, wooden slats. It has you getting on your feet in milliseconds and rushing in the opposite direction, knowing it’s at least closer to the beginning of the park. You run until you can’t and it’s already too late, suns gone down and abandoned you in the horizon, the light begins to fade with it. There’s the lurking after light, still hazy and silky in the clouds and it’s clouded the air. And you sit back down, curled in on yourself and trembling, eyes darting around yourself for any flicker of movement in the water.

- you hadn’t heard the water move beneath you as you ran earlier, hadn’t counted the shadows in the depths. Fatal mistakes.

- shadows lengthen then dissipate as they blend with the darkness that surrounds you, and you lean back and groan, practically whimpering as you hold in a cry. The water ripples around you, your form a little dot within a giant circle of ripples resting on the thin plank board walkway of the park.

- chest rattles are all that you feel, shaking like a leaf on a tree is all you can do as you worry about what we’re the last things you said to your loved ones, the last texts you sent, fuck you weren’t going to catch the show premiere for next month. Then the water ripples still, completely unnoticed by you. Again.

- you’ve turned away, looking at the horizon when it emerges, watching wistfully as the light fades and the darkness creeps in around you finally. Webbed digits spread against the wood supporting beams from underneath, it’s head precariously perched beneath the surface and slowly edging forwards and upwards until the eyes are the only lifted feature above the Spanish moss and algae-coated water surface. Golden brown eyes stare ahead, almost hazel if not for the unnaturally shaped pupils and too-glittery irises, reflective and almost iridescent as they flicker light in shades of gold leaf, chestnut, moss, and phthalo. You turn back and lock with them immediately in your line of vision, and your body seizes. You want to cry, want to scream and run, fucking beg. What the fuck is that thing. You want your friends and a blanket and to be woken up from this nightmare.

- but you’re frozen, and this is real.

- the form inches forward, so slowly you almost didn’t notice in your panicked state, creeping in the water in a way that couldn’t remind you of anything human. No alligator moves that way, no snapping turtle shifts like that. It’s too far up for a shark to make it in this brackish water, too fresh for that. Hell, catfish don’t get that big. This ain’t River Monsters. This is your reality. Hell.

- and the hell before you gets bigger until the arms splay across the wooden slats, water dripping down to soak the beams and lifting the body up and out, knees from bulky legs notched at one edge. It looms above you, dark eyes staring down into the very depth and well of your soul, practically toying with the dregs of whatever’s down in the bottom. Your eyes are wide, scream silent and stagnant in the bottom of your throat, tears welling in the corner of your saucer plate eyes while you lean down against the surface of the boardwalk and think of your loved ones and shut your eyes tight.

- It grunts then lumbers forth, head peering down at you with eyes unyielding and unrelenting, as harsh as staring directly into sunlight. It does not move after a few moments, just staying put. When your eyes open and warily look upwards, staring at what you expected to be death in the face, your mind goes blank.

- it still is a beast, a creature of proportions unknown to mankind or otherwise, something for the pages of nautical maps in the old ages to have painted alongside sea serpents and sirens. This, this is unfathomable.

- Whatever it is, looming overhead like death's scythe mid-swing sits still. Bulky arms and legs support the weight, and arms on both sides of your torso with legs kneeling outside of your own. The face is narrow, blunt nuzzle protruding with a murky green appearance all over. There are scars and gashes, all paler pinks and greys with the gouges healed and appearing old. Faded and worn, leathery.

- your attention is drawn back to reality once you hear a deep-pitched chitter, sounding more like a rattle, emanate from its chest and throat. It's almost playful, and then you catch the eyes and they've changed. They look human.

- Before you can say anything or voice a concern, the blunt nose of the beast leans down near your neck, and you freeze, wondering what it's doing. Instead of its mouth opening and teeth sinking into your flesh, tearing your throat and life out, it bumps at your pulse. The softened feel of its nose nudges at your neck, once, twice, and huffs a breath of warm air.

- It leans down on what would be the equivalent of shins and forearms, water dripping from its form and soaking your khaki shorts and your work shirt, underwear growing damp with how drenched the articles of clothing become. Your hands are at your sides, cheek pressed to the wooden board beneath you as you feel its breath and puffs of hot air at your neck. There's barely anything you can see around his form, its size so massive it blocks your peripheral.

- you hear it growl out near your ear, limbs brushing yours, and it repeats the noise then you realize with a shock that it’s speaking, the garbled, drowned tone emerging through its throat like reaching through muck and mud.

- “pretty.”

- your freezing and cold, firghtened and expecting death to soon take you, and yet the sound of the backroad gravel and unearthly, rough voice pulled you forth. Almost like a sirens song, luring the sailors directing the course of your consciousness into the sea to sink to the bottom in ribbons of flesh and tissue.

- you think, until you don’t, when a leg notches between yours and this thing, this behemoth above you, grinds against you. There’s a small, still present logical part of yourself but even that braincell jumped ship the second the thick, pulsing muscle of its thigh hit between your clothed, soaked legs.

- growls and animal-like chitters and coos go unheard as your mind blanks over and you’re lifting hands to feel across its arms, his arms from what you could understand, and dart across jagged tissue scars and roughened, thick skin as you lift your hips up and grind you hips into its groin, rewarded with a hot huff against your sticky collarbone and a thickening fleshy weight growing against you.

- “smell r’good.” Comes out slow and jumbled, but sweet for a horny swamp monster that’s about to fuck you stupid. You almost laugh, smoothing a hand up a shoulder in disbelief and wondering just how truly main character you were until you get your clothes quite literally torn off of you into ribbons upon the boardwalk planks and slats, clad barely in underwear and your shoes that stayed on your feet, your ankles hitched over his thighs. Your legs couldn’t even touch his back let alone lock over them.

- “thank you,” you murmur, grinding against him again and keening when his teeth graze, the creature pressing more weight against you once his dick unsheathes. You don’t see it, can’t with the closeness but you feel it. It’s hot, and a spare hand wanders to toy and find with wonder that it dwarfs your hand. Good for you. “Gonna’ take care of me?”

- where did the real you go and what monsterfucker took your place, fucking a swamp monster in a National Park — and no dinner? Damn.

- it huffs an approving groan, nodding a blunt nose against the slope of your neck and at your mercy as your hand plays with his dick, feeling it move and twitch wildly in your lax grip. You carry on, grazing fingertips over a blooming cockhead and weeping slit, running over ridges and veins until he grows tired and tears your underwear in half down the central seam, prying your legs open and grinding his dick through your slick, the sound echoing almost.

- with a lip tugged between your teeth, hands scramble for purchase as enormous arms and sides, digging in your nails a tad once that blunt, flared cockhead drags across your clit then slinks in, breaching your cunt slowly and stretching it. You take inch after inch in an achingly slow pace, whining and twisting in this things hold and wanting to get fucked already, but it knows better. Cant break a new fuck toy on the first go.

- it’s tedious but rewarding in the end once you get nearly three quarters of its dick in you, pulsing hot and twitching against taut walls, feeling full and warm in contrast to your icy skin from the cold, warming up slowly but surely.

- the creature edges forth in a small thrust, testing the shift then picks the pace up rapidly, hips snapping as a hand lifts your ass up from beneath in order to sink in more of his dick and see it disappear into the warmth of your cunt.

- pressure builds, making your toes curl first and your nails dig a bit into the bicep muscles of the arm your holding onto, another flattened across the back of a shoulder blade and rocking softly back in forth to meet thrusts, voice too broken to scream out, whimpering and moaning out for this monster above thats both the softest and most impressive sex partner you’ve had in a while.

- God Bless National Parks.

- after a while the pace steadies and the continuous brush of his giant dick, making a mess of your pretty cunt and sending slick dripping down your thighs, gets you close to cumming, feeling that warmth spread up the back of your legs and in your belly, blossoming forth in your rib cage and chest, curling around your heart like silken ribbon.

- the steady pat patt patting of his balls against your ass also sends you into a hormonal frenzy, loving how warm and treasured you were in the moment. The pressure builds and you start muttering and crying out, legs shaking around his thighs once it builds closer, a litany of “gonna’ cum gonna’ cum, gonna’ cum please lemme’ cum f’you.” That sends the pace to perk up as well as the behemoth, a shift lifting your ass in the palms of his webbed hands and thrusting you back and forth on its cock, using you with as much ease as one would fuck a sex toy.

- a few bruising knocks of that mushroomy, blunt tip against your cervix sends you creaming around his cock, just in time for him to cum and fill your greedy cunt while you’re agape and shut-eyed as the tremors wrack your body, falling victim to the power of orgasm, wracking your brain like a fog that slowly fades into a haze.

-The once rapid thrusts stutter and fade, continuing until you’re both fully spent and dated and you’re weighted down with a heavy beast that’s the warmest weighted blanket you’ve ever tried, feeling content all plugged up and held. Felt great, fan-fucking-tastic.

- the giant hands holding you tight splay over your heated, damp and sweat-slicked skin and shift, you press a kiss to its cheek and dart more down his neck, nosing it so sweetly he draws you even impossibly closer.

- later on, when you’ll go to work and be unafraid in the dark and cheery and bright in the day, it’ll be due to the rippling force hiding in your shadow as you make your rounds and tend to your tasks, biding the time until nightfall.

- and you feel it’s eyes on you always, but instead of a weight clutching at your throat or coiled between your ankles, it rather lies across your shoulders like a well-beloved overcoat. Warm and powerful and strong. Roughened. Uniquely yours in the best of ways. Especially when swamp creatures are concerned.

— Bonus —

Delaney Whitmore: T H E D E V I L

• song: Personal Jesus - Depeche Mode

- Waking up in the same day, over and over, endlessly for what has been a week now is already getting old. You’ve been shot, run over, electrocuted, and even gutted. Dumped into a ravine. Drowned in the lake with weights and chains, got hit by a train, even got your throat slit. You want it to be over and you’ve got no clue what’s going on. There’s only so much one can learn from Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, and it seems that even he ain’t doing you no favors. You're tired, traumatized, reeling day in and out, and facing death with a chagrin belonging to even the most exhausted reluctant heroes. But you are no hero, no, you are a stranger, a normal person, trapped in an endless loop and feel as if the eyes of ouroboros are gazing down in mocking, chiding laughter. You feel doomed.

- You find answers, or more accurately, a cause to your cruelly violent cycle. She’s been present the most out of all the passersby, with different clothes and different styles of hair, always a bystander and stranger, nearby to watch the fallout behind tinted brown sunglass lenses and a burgundy-lipped grin. God, what a bitch.

- You finally see her up close, spotting and cornering her in the back booth of a dark bistro in town, a flute of something dark and bubbly tucked between her hand and her manicured nails. They match her lipstick. “Having fun? How’s the loop treating you, I’ve tried to make at least the dying random,” she coos, stirring around the decorative garnish that rims her cocktail before turning her body to face yours, “wouldn’t want it to be overly repetitive. That just becomes so redundant, but enough about my little spoils. Introduce yourself, go on, I’ve just been dying to meet you.”

- faltering, you eye her outstretched hand warily, noting the several rings on her fingers and the watch, the gloss of her nail polish in the low light of the room. You shake her hand, noting the firm grip and authenticity behind it, and sit down across from her, shifting against the worn faux leather booth seats and hating the sound.

- “sorry about the surroundings, can’t really alter this stuff unless I wanted to immediately call attention and ruin the game. No fun in that.” She noted the visible discomfort on your face, showing interest and care that seems ingenuine with how real it felt, “now go on, introduce yourself. Treat a lady.” She all but purrs, sipping at her drink and smiling with something wicked and dark in her teeth. Her pointed, sharp teeth. Just the canines.

- and so you do, blurting out your name and watching her process it, and you take her in. Deep brown waves settle down and rest in curls upon her shoulders. She’s got big, Jackie O-style glasses on again, paired with the deep red lip. There’s twinkling gold jewelry dotted around her body, across the collar, several across the ears, her rings, and the watch.

- “what a darling name,” is what pulls you forth from the stupor you found yourself in while staring, seeing her settle her chin in her palm and her elbow upon the table, “usually it takes months or even years for someone to find me, let alone single me out. Clever.” She chimes, sipping once more at something you can’t decipher, maybe champagne with a mixer. “Would you like something to eat, or drink perhaps? They’ve got great appetizers.” Before you can answer she snaps her fingers, the thwick of the sound much louder than you’d expect it, like when hearing someone whistle for a taxi.

- a waiter appears, scattering two menus and place settings quickly before the two of you and topping off her flute with something from a corked bottle, scrawled in looping cursive and definitely champagne, then adds a bit of a syrup that smells like pomegranates. The drops sink like dye does, blooming forth in swirls that resemble the Rorschach inkblots. She catches your inquiring gaze. “I love the taste on its own, but there’s just something about the little dash of syrup I’ve come to love.” She drawls, and you finally catch the locale of it, southern. Not too deep, not too slow to be truly at the southernmost part of the United States, but lulling along enough to be southern. Drips forth like the syrup does.

- “reminds me of those myths and tales of Persephone, those pomegranates that locked her to the underworld for part of the year and to Hades’ realm. Those Grecian tales, so full of woe and death.” She rolls her eyes behind the glasses, unable to see but still noted in the movement of her brows in addition to the gesture of her hand. She asks about what you plan on eating and you’re unsure, not just about the food but about the overall situation. Trapped in a hellish loop, sitting down with the one who’s caused it all, with no clear motive, and yet you can’t feel mad. It’s like sedation, sitting with her, numbing the raw and angry parts of yourself.

- you force yourself to come up with what you’ll eat, getting urged by her for an appetizer too, saying you deserve it. Who is this woman? After giving your answer she calls back over the waiter and prattles off your meal choices and her own, kindly and hands back one of the menus but keeps the other and sidles it against the wall of the table, “in case there’s dessert,” she winks.

- you stare, questions rattling about in your head and overloading you, making you just blurt out what was pressing you the most of all the queries you had. And she laughs. It’s a twinkling, delightful sound. It’s laced with something that warns you to not trust completely. “Who am I? Oh darlin’ I was wondering when you’d get around to askin’ that,” she sips her drink then sets it aside, drumming her nails against the hardwood of the table before grinning with pointed teeth that indent at her lip. She takes off the glasses, thick lashes dusting her cheeks before opening to reveal her irises. Gold, just like her rings. Then she speaks.

- “Babydoll, I’m the devil.”

- there’s the one half of you that’s been expecting that sort of answer, relishing in a way that’s akin to an “I’m right! Suck it!” internal celebration. The other half is in a myriad of what the fucks, wondering what is going on and why you’re talking to the devil and why is she hot?? Confused, bewildered, and utterly at a loss. “Why are you doing this to me?” Is what flies from your lips next, still confused as to why you’re even here and why you’re talking with devil as you discuss your looped-in-hell situation.

- “it’s actually quite interesting, y’see, you’re the offspring of someone that owes me. Big time. The resolution was made, through crossroads bargains — Y’know the black magic, Anne Rice novel typa’ shit — and I’m sorry to break the news Sugar, but you’re the price that got paid. The loop was something I’m fiddling with to perfect it, just unfortunate luck that you were the next contestant. In summary short, your heart, soul, and ass are mine.” The devil answers, in sprawling words that sound like signatures spoken aloud as if the personality of someone’s handwriting was flung into the air to be heard.

- you stammer, words failing again, and then the food gets plated before you along with a glass poured with one of your favorite drinks. “Dig in, food won’t bite. I do on the other hand,” she teases, chiding and amused, “ask any questions you’ve got and I’m happy to answer them. I’m rarely in the company of such gorgeous creatures anyhow.”

- Blinking, you’re reeling from everything, and take a fork full of whatever food is in front of you and chew before you say another stupid thing. You watch her, and she goes about her actions as if this is any other day — and you suppose it is, her being Satan and all. She’s tall, taller than yourself you suppose, with a body that’s curved in ways that must’ve written the rules of temptation and sin, especially lust you think as you glance at cleavage that’s just too alluring. All of her is, it’s unfair. Cruel. It’s fitting. She’s the devil, Satan, the big bad, queen of darkness, etcetera.

- “is it the appearance? Sometimes people expect me to have the whole monstrous look, wings and the tail and hooves,” she prompts, eying you with a curious gaze as she sticks a fork into a piece of fried calamari, “I can slip into something hornier if you’d like.” And you almost choke on what you’re chewing before you realize it was a joke, and you see her laugh. She snorts. Imperfect. “Sorry, sorry — i just love that joke so much, it’s funnier when I make the horns show up. At least sometimes it is.”

- “do you not naturally look like that?” Is how you respond, eating another forkful afterward to stop you from rambling or commenting on her appearance, and how yes, you would like to see her step into something hornier. “I do, there’s just degrees and a range in which I look, this being the original form I was made in. The extra stuff is flair from being the devil I’d assume, and the embodiment of all that is evil,” she trails off, chewing then moving on, “it’s not like I was born and immediately formed into lady of all unholiness, what, do you think my name is just The Devil?”

- “is it?” You expect her to laugh, but she just smiles and sips her drink, eying you while she does before setting the glass back down. “It’s not. My name’s Delaney, but I haven’t heard anyone call me that in a long, long time.” And you think about that last segment, wondering how far back it was since she was seen as a person or a thing rather than just the devil.

- “it’s a lovely name,” you comment, turning back to your food only to glance up and see a subtle flush on her olive-skinned features. “Thank you.”

- you note the reaction for later, but soon enough you feel the time of your meal blurring by you, the time more fleeting than wisps of snow in winter's blanketing season. It’s the end of the meal, and conversation flows while the devil escorts you home, elbow crooked in hers as she walks nearest the road and you’re nestled between her and the buildings as the sidewalk takes you home.

- “soul for your thoughts?” She chimes, sunglasses back on her head but she glances over at you from the lens's rim, smiling impishly and turning once you arrive at the steps to your house. “No, no, just wondering about something.”

“Oh? Do tell, love t’hear what’s rattling around in that skull of yours.”

“Feels like a first date.”

- she blinks, and you watch the processing moment before she grins wicked and lazy-like, eyes half-lidded as she extends a hand in proposition. “Would you like to skip to after the third?”

- you say yes, you’re not a fool, and it’s not as if she walks you inside and fucks you silly. No, within a whirlwind you see hours go by and get your consciousness inserted back until when the third date would be. And you’re in the middle of getting eaten out when this gift of consciousness is bestowed. The timing is nothing short of absolutely glorious.

- she’s got you perched on a marble top vanity in a lavish bedroom, a blend of Victorian or Rococo with the scrollwork and filigree in the wood craftsmanship you garner while trying to prevent your orgasm so you can make it last, staring at the ceiling and an ornate tulip-shaped glass light fixture and thinking of other things to not literally black out just yet.

- “There’s my little one, back to me now, okay?” She breaks up from her assault on your pussy, thumb idly rolling circles and smoothing shapes into your puffy clit, “Let go for me so mommy can make a meal out of you.” She smooths your thighs back open and coos when she blows air upon your cunt, laughing when you shudder. She laps at your cunt and peers up at you from beneath dark bangs and even darker lashes, a knife's point of winged eyeliner making the golden hazel eyes shine. You’ve got the devil on her knees eating you out. Casually. Life unwarrantedly signed away sucks but hey, there’s at least cumming on the tongue of the most powerful demon since ever?

- soon you’re crying out and tugging at her hair and coming against her mouth, gushing around her cheeks and chin. She works you through your orgasm and the over sensitivity. And another venture through orgasm. And two additional upon that, her claiming that oral is just foreplay while she sucks your skin clean as she licks up all the aftermath of you squirting from between your thighs, nipping occasionally with tender teeth.

- she hushes your whines with hands that smooth over your belly and heated skin, calming you down until she rises and her tall form cages you in where you sit perched on the vanity.

- “calm down, angel,” she starts, tucking stray hair back into place and cupping your warm cheeks in her palms, smoothing thumbs across your cheekbones with care. She shifts, reaching to grasp your chin between your fingers as her hand wraps at an angle around your neck, “now, can I play with you for a little longer?”

- Regret was not something you had a lot of, but there was not any present in your response. Especially since you had never said yes so fast in your life. The demon laughs before pressing her lips to yours, murmuring beneath her breath in airy huffs of air that grace your teeth and tongue as hers meet yours in the middle, "welcome then, my little Persephone."

— Happy Halloween —

Tags: @mrsbretthand @mollicutes @radioactivebowtie @cognitosclowns @bluebaronness @carnalcringe

[insidereagan]

i ship them

[insidereagan]

hello im bored so here are my misc. inside job headcanons

brett loves to wear dresses, but poor baby is so scared :’(

brett and andre love to make, swap and collab on spotify playlists together.

gigi has a kid!

y’know reagan canonically liked nsync? i feel like rand would like,, ban reagan from listening to it as a kid, so she listened to it at orrins house.

speaking of orrin, them holding a funeral for the turtles :,( reagan getting really sad then orrin giving her a lot of comfort. i might do a fanfic about this tbh altho im working on a jrand one atm

robotus and brett binging 80s/90s sitcoms together

speaking of, I feel like if you ever got robotus into american dad, he’d really enjoy it, because it’s a sitcom about a government worker? hell yea.

i think glenn would enjoy american dad too tbh.

brett’s sister is a lesbian, who works for the shadow board, and lives in a small cottage in the woods. as soon as she gets home from work, she gives her wife/gf/partner a big kiss on the cheek, then they snuggle with their cats on the sofa.

brett collects a shit ton of fidget toys.

i can’t think of anything else rn lol

[sin-sidejob]

JR Scheimpough x AFAB + GN reader:

Oh, Sweet Muse

Warnings: NSFW content with fluff up front and slow progression to smut. Degradation, misuse of a musical instrument, JR uses a term of endearment once or twice, JR domming for once?? Wild?? P-in-V smut, finger fucking, subtle dom and sub dynamic. Mild cockwarming I guess? Unprotected sex, yall better wrap that fucking rascal Minors DNI. AFAB + GN pronouns.

Contents: Inspired by a scene in Pretty Woman + I’m still convinced JR Scheimpough’s live casting would be Richard Gere. Everyone go say thanks to Finn for barely making it through that movie with me and giving me writing ideas @radioactivebowtie but basically, I am convinced JR is able to play the piano. Length: 2.2k ALSO recommend Beyonce's Cuff It to listen to while reading, it's what I listened to while writing the majority of this

Okay, after watching roughly half of the movie with Finn, we decided JR absolutely plays piano. It makes sense, look at the bastard. It fits.

Anyways, he doesn’t play often nor for others, moreso something personal. Something his. He doesn’t compose, maybe drumming his finger pads across the keys and humming notes, idly playing. It never sticks. But he has entire melodies memorized and he can play them at a moments notice. A musician’s repertoire at the ready from muscle memory and residual instinct. Something intimately his and no one else’s, songs he loves and can play backwards and forwards, finger pads against ivory, chilled keys with the poise of a diligent artisan.

The only one he lets around him while he plays, is you. You’d sit further away, giving him space in order to not distract him. He just raises a brow and lets out a soft, light laugh before waving or beckoning you over to sit beside him or on his lap on the bench.

He’ll take your hands in his and teach you simple tunes, like the theme from The Sting, or the beginning classic pink panther theme notes. He’s even open to teaching you if you’d like, but he understands if you’d rather just listen. JR feels the same about you, anything about you, he’d rather just listen to you. Or watch. Whether if it’s cooking or drawing, or something entirely different, there’s always a warmer appreciation from afar or observing. Your rambling was always going to sound so pretty to him, just your voice and how it suits you so well, how it fluctuates and shifts with pressure. The rise and fall of pitch, the gentle sway. Just like the keys.

JR will have you sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, or on his lap as he fully plays. It’s softer, and some of your favorite moments are when it’s late, the night sky dark as it glows against the sleek, glossy surface of the grand piano from the lavish floor to ceiling glass window panes. He’s tried to play, but gotten distracted by you. He falters notes, not that you’d know, too enamored with watching, feeling his forearms fluctuate around you and the tendons visibly ripple with the way his hands move through the ministrations. He gets enveloped in the way you smell, the shift of your skin against his as he plays. Eventually he caves, unable to focus on whatever song it was and decides to tug on the cords of another instrument entirely. He lifts you onto the top of the piano and cages you in, initially bending you over ass up before laughing along with you in between kisses as your calves brush the keys in an atrocious tune of their own, clamor filling the silence of the house, your home, alongside your shared laughter and kisses.

He sidles in front of you, eyes soft and adoring behind clear glass lenses, as he smooths his mildly calloused hands across your body, feeling the chills roll over your body for himself. You’re seated on the cold, glossy surface of the grand piano, terrycloth shorts baring your thighs and allowing the icy feel to sink in, shuddering while you distract yourself with his attention. JR mouths at your neck, quiet and contentedly calm. His hands ruck up and remove your shirt, his weathered hands raise shudders across your bared chest in his wake, nipples perking taut in the cold air as he takes a second to give them attention, plucking and flicking at them teasingly while he sucks a mark into the crook of your neck, sending a mewling moan beyond your lips as you writhe against him and the piano, uncaring for the sound your calves make as they hit the keys.

"Sound better than the goddamn piano, honey," comes forth in a dark drawl, thickened just like the bulge behind tailored trousers that you feel press against your sleep shorts, the air too cold yet too overwhelmingly, potently hot. "Wanna' hear you a bit louder, can you do that for me?"

The nod you give him isn't enough, obviously made clear by how his teeth immediately start nicking your collarbone sufficient to feel the pinch of your blood draw and begin to bead at the surface, "If you want me to play you, pluck those pretty sounds forth, I need you to obey."

To better illustrate his point, he leans away, forearms caging you in against the surface but his chest is not tethered to yours any longer. He looks solely upon your face, flushed cheeks filled with warmth and eyes lidded with pupils blown wide along with lips abused from your teeth tugging on them absentmindedly while he toyed with you. "Do you understand?"

There was no part of you that could hinder your immediate, instinctual yes. After voicing your answer aloud, seeing the approvement wash over his expression vaguely and in a thin layer, like a morning fog that's on the cusp of dissipating. "Much better," JR croons, leaning forward as a hand smooths over your jaw to grasp your neck from the side, half on your cheek and the other pressed to your thudding pulse.

"Now, let me play."

How could you say no to that?

JR's hands busy themselves with undoing the tied drawstring from your shorts, appreciating the feel of the plush cloth as he shucks it from your heated skin in tandem with your underwear. There's a rule of thumb with instruments, to not dirty them, not to stain or spoil them in concern of ruining the instrument and the quality of how it plays.

But there is no ruination with your arousal and slick pooling forth upon the glossy black surface of the piano top, no. This is not a damning and fatal mistake but rather a christening. The piano a now blessed instrument.

Every time he would play this piano - or any piano really - he would never shake the brief image of you bared and flustered heavily as you drip for him steadily against the edge, threatening to flow beyond the lip of the top lid to drop upon the keys. Not like he would mind in any way. Hell, he'd lick it up like a spilled dessert. Just as sweet, and twice as savored.

You keen, wriggling your hips impatiently as the air pricks you all over, shoulders rolling as if curling yourself back and forth snakelike would do you any favors, give you any relief. No, relief came the second he swiftly slid the middle two digits of his hand into your aching, dripping cunt. He curls upward, making even more of a mess of yourself as his eyes focus on the way his digits seem to just get drawn inwards and how you're drenched. There are rivulets passing his wrist down to the leather band of his Patek Philippe watch. He hopes they stain.

"Oh, oh my fucking - god, yes."

JR chuckles, wrist now moving with fervor, as if spurned and enticed by your broken, moaning pleas, pressing at those spongy spots against tensing, pulsating walls he'll be buried in soon enough.

"You damn well know my name, and you fucking know there's no god here."

His thumb flicks at your clit, sending a shot up your spine and making your toes curl instantly, the electric heat flicking almost malevolently in your bones as he fucks you with his fingers. The best and almost worst part of it all is that he seems so casual.

As if it takes him no effort to do this to you, render you into a puddle of arousal and shaking limbs, nothing but broken, pathetic moaning and begging. JR's neutral, almost cold gaze looked with fascination at your puffy and needy pussy, practically sending you over the edge. Fucking using you, actually playing you and doing it better than anyone - including yourself - ever could.

"Look at you, just fuckin' pathetic," he says almost sweetly if not for the demeaning tone and blatant degradation, getting you hotter for him even if you wouldn't willingly admit it, "let me guess, you're about to cum?"

"Fu-uhhck yes, so fuckin' close, wanna' cum s'bad."

"Aw," he clicks his tongue, deftly removing his hand from your cunt and spotting the way it gapes and clenches around nothing, feeling his absence, "that's too bad. You're going to cum on my cock or not at all, and if you cum a fuckin' second before, I'll leave you high and dry for the rest of the week."

You both know damn well that's the emptiest threat, just like his left testicle, all for show, just for appearances. You're too pretty for him to not fuck, and he's too bratty to not get plowed on the regular.

He pushes your shoulder down with his free hand before he makes a show of sucking his fingers clean, a lewd and wet pop emerging as his fingers did past his lips.

Whining, you watch as he undoes the hook on his pants, then the button and zipper, dragging down his pants and boxers to mid-thigh, just enough to be out of the way and to be quick, the splotchy stain of pre-cum and how heavy his dick hung while erect indicating how close he himself was too.

JR knocks into keys once more while he hooks your legs over his forearms, spreading you wide as the crook of your knees rests against the inner side of his arms. He fists his cock, lining it up with your cunt after nudging his swollen, drooling head against your clit to hear the petulant, weak whine spill forth.

He is fully focused on fucking you and hearing every single, possibly sound that he could elicit forth, abandoning a softer melody for a more raw and carnal one in the form of you rather than some antiquated and tinny cadence. You are his motivation, his vibrancy while he's drenched in dull hues. You are his muse, the way his heart swells and meets the tempo whenever he plays accompanied only by his lonesome. There is always you in every key he ever plays, every note he sends forth.

And you always will be with how you gush around him, slick and precum pooling forth and dripping down the edge of the piano top once he thrusts up into your wet, greedy cunt, cockhead kissing at your cervix with its mushroom, drooling tip.

"ah, f-fuck,"

You can't even think, only feeling stuffed and surrounded by nothing but him. JR noses at your jaw, chuckling in an almost gravelly pitch at just how fucked out you are and he's barely done anything. "Pretty thing, all mine, hmm?"

He thrusts while you try and answer, stuttering as you brokenly cry out like you were supposed to, "Yes! Oh, sweet fuck, all y-yours."

"That's right," he grunts, thighs slapping against yours, ballsack patting at your ass as he thrusts again and again, "all mine."

A few strands of dark black hair fall into his forehead, product failing to hold through the sweat dotting his brow and clinging to his skin, disarray falling over him like a well-worn jacket. He tugs his lip between his teeth, taut, as he peers down at you from glasses barely staying on his face, grinning darkly as he pants.

You were fucked out, chest heaving and hips weakly trying to match his thrusts, grinding back to keep pace and whining intelligibly every time his pelvis brushes your tender, overworked yet understimulated clit as he thrusts. One of your hands grips the lip of the piano surface, a lighter hue blooming upon knuckles tensing. The other grips, if not paws, at his arm, clutching to the fabric of the button-down he still wore, gripping at his bicep above where the fabric of his sleeve was rolled up.

JR feels his orgasm nearing, the way he becomes more frantic in his thrusts making it even more apparent, the sensations blooming from his lower abdomen threatening to vacate with a vengeance.

"Gonna' cum for me? Let me pump you full until it leaks and let you cum?"

Nodding, hair shifting rapidly with the movement as you affirm his query verbally, practically speaking gibberish with how far you were gone and how badly you wanted to cum even after holding it together.

He coos cruelly while he lowers a hand down to your clit, thumbing it idly in slow, swirling ministrations while he thrusts with force behind his hips, once, twice, then buries himself deep just as he cums. The warmth of it, heat flooding your lower belly and the pressure of his touch on your clit practically sending you to space.

You scream out his name in a broken, weak cry with puffy and spit-glossed lips as you cum around his cock, sending him caving around you as his legs hit the keys in an almost humorous manner as his forearms rest on the spaces beside your head and shoulders. His head hands low while he pants, chest heaving as if his lungs are weighted down and he's just breached for air.

Meanwhile, you are trembling and still feeling far-away, practically floating as the white begins to fade and you feel the tingly electric pops of your orgasm fluttering through you and how good it feels, how good he feels.

A few moments beat pass, his hands smoothing up and down your sides while yours play with his hair, idly humming as you toy with the fallen strands upon his forehead as his cheek presses to your bare chest. You grin, peering down at him with a beaming and sated post-fuck smile.

"Wanna' play me again?"