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Oct 29, 2025

❝ CLOWN BAIT ❞ (ɴꜱꜰᴡ)

──𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘’𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 ‘𝟐𝟓

⤷ 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫!𝐉𝐢𝐧𝐱 𝐱 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ˎˊ˗

summary: You thought nothing at The Hex could surprise you anymore. Still, you weren’t expecting the clown. Or the way she watched you. Or the way she fucked.

#wc. 9.2k

Jinx masterlist ⭑.ᐟ

#cw. dom!Jinx x sub!reader, gp!Jinx, outdoor/public sex, exhibitionism, mirror sex, quiet sex, praise, blowjob, penetration (p in v), unprotected sex, creampie, mutual obsession, aftercare, smut with plot, slight dubcon if you squint. MDNI !!

ᯓ★ author's note: is it my best work? no! but i spent too many sleepless nights on this fic to not post it. sloppy-ish ending. proofread at 5am.

Officially, it's called The Hexcore Frights Experience—a name that sounds like it was brainstormed in a fancy boardroom by a bunch of people with a PowerPoint addiction. Something with bullet points. Something with the word "immersive" tossed in like seasoning. It's a mouthful, over-designed, desperate. Like some guy with a clipboard thought slapping "Experience" at the end would make plywood and fog machines feel like theater.

It doesn't.

Mostly, it just confuses little kids—too many syllables, too many missing baby teeth to pronounce the words right. The name gets lisped into oblivion out of sugar-stained mouths before anyone even makes it past the creaking metal gates. So, it morphed into something else. Simpler, catchier.

The Hex.

Technically, it's just a local scare park that's been popping up for the last ten years. One of those cheap seasonal attractions that comes out of nowhere, runs all month, then vanishes overnight before November even hits. There's a logo, barely legible on the peeling banner outside: a grinning jack-o'-lantern with a monocle and a top hat, for some reason. It's built on the edge of Zaun, on a strip of land no one fought over because there was nothing to win, where the air smells like burnt rubber and rain that never fully rinses the place clean. It's dead ground, simple as that—just cracked concrete, weeds, and abandoned train tracks that split the neighborhood like a stitched scar. Too loud for housing, too ugly for retail.

So, naturally, they filled it with horror.

And cheap lights. And actors in borrowed costumes. And fences that shake when the wind hits just right.

And, at some point, Jinx.

She never did like rules. She isn't wired for systems, for schedules, for managers named Carl with coffee breath and spreadsheets. Work was always a joke to her—clock in, clock out, try not to punch anyone before lunch. She drifts through jobs like they're hand-me-downs: ill-fitting, itchy, clearly designed for someone else's body. Minimum wage makes her mean, fluorescent lighting makes her twitchy, and uniforms make her claustrophobic. And telling her what to do? That's the fastest way to lose an eye.

So no, Jinx doesn't want to be employed. She did try, by applying to cafés and corner stores. She tried standing still behind cash registers with a fake smile and a name tag that wasn't hers. She lasted three weeks at a smoothie chain before dumping a mango-pineapple monstrosity down the front of a customer's hoodie—straw and all—two days at a dog groomer's before shaving a Pomeranian into a lion, and one shift at a library before deciding silence isn't just golden, it's insufferable.

She doesn't plan on working this fall, not even as one last stunt before the frost hits. Planning would mean thinking three hours ahead, and lately she's been lucky enough to keep her skull from spinning. She's good at surviving. Good at being strange in a room full of strangers. Good at blowing things up—metaphorically, these days. But not good at showing up. Or behaving. Or belonging.

She's on the floor again, her back pressed against the coffee table as she tries to get herself off, failing spectacularly. She's got her phone in one hand, a half-watched porn tab open—some grainy POV clip with shitty lighting but better moaning than usual—and her other hand wrapped around herself, sticky and flushed and only getting stiffer out of sheer stubbornness. Her boxers are halfway down her thighs as she jerks lazily, but the fan's making the spit dry up too fast.

And that's when her phone buzzes.

It's Vi. No greeting. No context.

Just a photo of a crooked flyer taped to a stickers-covered pole near the docks—half-ripped, a little blurry, in that cheap orange and black print that screams October job opening. The words NOW HIRING — SEASONAL SCARE STAFF glare at her through the pixels, followed by smaller print in Comic Sans promising "competitive pay" and "no questions". The bottom's lined with those little tear-off tabs that have a number on them, most already gone.

One message beneath it: "you'd scare the fuck outta someone. might as well get paid."

"Cockblockin' even from across the city," Jinx mutters, tossing her phone aside and dragging herself up with a groan.

She's not doing that. No way she's spending her nights covered in fake blood and babysitting Topsiders.

And yet, her fingers itch.

Because it's not about the job, it's about the setup. A haunted park that looks like someone's late-stage caffeine psychosis? It sounds dirty, disorganized, temporary, and just unprofessional enough to tolerate. The kind of thing she could disappear into if it just gave her something to do with her nights.

And that? That sounds perfect. There's only so much pacing a girl can do before she starts thinking about lighting something on fire just to feel warm.

She's already up and grabbing her boots before she realizes she's moving, her cock not quite cooperating just yet under tight shorts and fishnets. By the time she gets there, the sun's gone down and the sky over Zaun looks like dirty dishwater. There's no security, just a folding table near the entrance, a stack of forms weighted with a rock, and a guy in a vampire cape scrolling through his phone.

"Name?" he asks, barely looking up, pen tucked behind his ear.

"Jinx," she says. "Short and sweet."

He doesn't even flinch, like it's not the craziest thing he's heard today. "You auditioning?"

"Sure." She shrugs, tilting her head. "If that's what we're calling it."

"You into clowns?"

"I mean, not sexually."

He gives her a half-smile and a waiver that definitely wouldn't hold up in court in response. "Alright. Clown maze's short-staffed. Go inside, show 'em what you got."

That's it. Fifteen minutes later, she's hired. Which means she gets handed a key to the costume trailer that smells like armpits, fake leather, and three kinds of expired hairspray, plus a lanyard by a manager who tells her she can "do whatever the fuck she wants" as long as no one sues.

And yeah, she doesn't want a job. But if she gets to dress like a walking nightmare, crawl out of holes, and scare people until they cry? While maybe getting off to it later in the staff bathroom?

That's worth clocking in for.

She breezes through orientation day like a joke—twenty minutes of safety warnings that include tips on how not to get punched in the face, and a bored supervisor telling her the only real rule of her zone is to never break character. No one cares if she ad-libs or climbs shit she's not supposed to, as long as she stays in costume and doesn't traumatize toddlers with face paint into therapy.

No script, just a persona.

And tonight? She finally gets to let it loose.

By the time her shift starts, the park is already buzzing with strobe lights and teenagers screaming like they're actually being murdered.

Somewhere in that chaos?

You.

The first time you went to The Hex, you were thirteen and too cool to scream. Your older cousin dragged you through the haunted house and you pretended to be bored until a ghost puppet swung down from the ceiling and you pissed yourself so hard you had to throw your jeans away.

You've been going back ever since. First with friends, then with dates, and now alone—like it's your own sacred pilgrimage.

It's not even about the adrenaline anymore. That wore off around age sixteen, when you stopped screaming and started noticing how the walls were built: shabby foamcore layered with blacklight paint and duct tape. You don't flinch at jumpscares when you can spot an actor from a mile away by the way their shoes squeak.

There's comfort in it—the tackiness, the loudness, the ritual of it. You know the map by heart. You could run it blindfolded.

Not that you would. Not with how shitty the floor is.

You start at the food court they call Piltover Plaza, which is funny, considering the only thing posh about it is the churros being slightly overpriced. The smell hits you first: deep-fried dough, cinnamon sugar, buttery pretzels, and something aggressively artificial pretending to be cheese. You always get the tropical slurpee that stains your tongue blue, and the caramel popcorn that leaves your fingers sticky well into the first stop: The Enforcers' Quarters, a prison-themed area with bars and torn jumpsuits, where the words "PROTOCOL BREACH" loop and echo throughout the cold cells. This year, they've added body bags to the showers.

Then it's on to The Madman's Lab. You've never been a fan—mostly because it feels claustrophobic and they shove you through the plastic curtains too fast. It's all severed limbs and twitchy actors in lab coats who scream about unstable serums. You respect the effort, but you never quite remember the plot. You're too focused on the woman in a bloody nurse costume pretending to eat someone's heart.

But the real reason you come? The Shimmer Fields. Out near the edge of the property, it's the furthest zone in the park, shoved against the back fence by the dead train tracks, with vines twisting out of the ground like veins. The theme is loose—something about a chemical spill, experimental tests gone wrong, bodies mutating under the purple haze. The set designers took the word "biohazard" and ran with it… or maybe stumbled. The whole thing glows like a UV-lit wet dream with toxic barrels oozing neon slime that definitely isn't edible, but one time you saw a kid lick it anyway.

You know which fog machine hisses too early and which animatronic hasn't worked in years but still gets reset every night. You've memorized the routes through each maze, tracked the themes, watched the decorations get weirder, cheaper, better. Hell, you've even grown used to the fake blood—sickly sweet, like cherry NyQuil—that clings to your nostrils by the end of the loop. You move through it slower than the rest, not because you're scared—God, you wish you could still get scared by this place—but because you like to take your time, study who's giving it their all and who's clearly stoned in a werewolf costume. You notice the improvisations, the missed cues, the moments that almost work. It feels like a fever dream built on high school drama club sets, but it's your favorite kind of horror: a little theatrical, a little pathetic, a little gross.

And The Hex, for all its obvious flaws, commits harder than most. Every year, some new corner gets added or reimagined, and every year, you're here to take it all in. It's the one thing that doesn't change—even when you do.

Still, for all your affection, you have your boundaries. And The Funhouse? That's always been a hard no for you. Not because you're scared of clowns. Not in the balloon animal phobia, repressed childhood trauma kind of way. You just never understood the appeal. They're loud, unpredictable, exhausting. They don't operate by logic, or narrative, even. They feel like the cheap punchline of horror—too bright, too much, too desperate for attention. There's something inherently needy about them that suffocates you.

You don't like when it's too much.

You don't like when it's unpredictable.

And you definitely don't like being bait.

Which is why you're mildly horrified when your brains catches up and you realize your feet are already inside.

The gaudy archway is low-lit and pulsing with color like a sideshow on ketamine: deep pinks, oversaturated reds, and lime green lights that flicker at a headache-inducing tempo. The air smells like cotton candy gone stale and a sugary kind of decay. There's fog here, too—a staple, so it seems—but thinner than in the other areas, lower to the ground, more like steam than mist, which only makes everything feel sweaty. The floor is a mess of checkerboard tiles deliberately sloping at weird angles, laid out by someone who apparently hates ankles. You adjust your balance like you're navigating through a sinking ship, and every step suddenly becomes a correction.

The mirror tunnel waits just ahead, spinning slow and nauseating, designed to disorient. You hate that thing. It's a space where nothing looks real, especially you. It makes you feel like you're being watched from inside your own reflection. Like if you look too long, something might blink back. There's a ball pit, too, its colors dulled with grime. You'd bet money it hasn't been cleaned since the season opened. Somewhere deeper inside, you hear mechanical laughter looped on a busted speaker. It skips once, then resets, like a jack-in-the-box trying to kill itself.

Everything is still as unholy and overstimulating as you remember.

You think, distantly, I shouldn't be here. This was a mistake.

But that thought's already rotting at the back of your mind, useless now when your body doesn't agree and keeps you moving.

A pair of actors lurches out of nowhere—one cackling behind a latex mask, the other in a blood-stained romper, dragging a prop axe behind them. You flatten against the nearest wall and hold your breath, waiting for them to vanish back into whatever trapdoor they slithered out of.

And that's when you notice her.

Still. Silent. At the far end of the corridor, standing under a sickly magenta light that pulses just enough to cast shadows up her lean body, one leg kicked lazily against the wall.

You spot the costume first, unmistakably clown-coded. It's a fractured spin on a harlequin, a mix of punk and playhouse: corseted bodice in midnight blue, patterned with diamonds and cinched tight where it matters, boning hugging the dip of her waist. One shoulder is bare, blue clouds swirling and winding up her bicep, the other covered by a sleeve of mesh that ripples with every breath she takes. Her pants are jagged and asymmetrical, reminding you of a half-eaten circus tent held together by mismatched belts and safety pins, combat boots laced with neon ribbons. She looks wild and meticulous all at once, like every messy stitch was chosen. Her hair's in two tousled bubble braids, bright blue and frizzing out where the humidity's caught them. There are tiny bells weaved in, and you hear them chiming softly before you realize she's gotten closer. Her features are feminine—sharp jaw, full lips the color of a bruise, blue eyes made bigger by the contrast of her white base makeup, slightly cracked like old porcelain.

You swallow hard. You don't even mean for your eyes to drop. You're just tracing the slope of her waist, innocently following the curve of her body downward, past the glint of metal at her monkey-shaped buckle…

And that's when you see it.

The strange shape beneath the fabric doesn't register all at once, but it's just enough of a bulge to catch your eye, to interrupt the silhouette you were expecting. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs from the devastating fact that she's packing… and she clearly knows it. Your eyes flick back up to hers without thinking, cheeks heating up, but it's too late. She meets your gaze with a kind of wicked delight, like embarrassment is a present she's just unwrapped, and the corners of her mouth twitch upward into something smug.

She cocks her head, slow and birdlike, her teeth catching her bottom lip like she's holding something back. Then, without a word, she shifts her weight with a soft roll of her hips forward. It's a show-and-tell, disguised as a stretch that only pulls the fabric tighter, framing the outline you'd just tried to unsee, like she's parodying seduction just to check if you'll bite. Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she's resisting the urge to really perform, to run a hand down her stomach, or to say something loud and awful. But she knows she doesn't need to. The power's already in her posture, in the quiet confidence radiating off her.

Because you looked, she noticed, and now she's posing like your attention is the spotlight keeping her warm, and you just happened to pause right where it hits her best.

Her gloved hand lifts, and she spins the small prop knife resting between her manicured fingers. It catches the light once, then disappears into a hidden holster, like a magic trick. "Caught you," she says, voice sing-songy, yet hoarse from too many hours on the job. There's a rasp at the edges, like her throat's been worn down by a dozen screams and a hundred jokes. Still, she sounds so pleased with herself—like she's just won a game you didn't know you were playing, and now she's wondering what you'd do for a better view.

A lot, is the answer.

It's supposed to be part of the act, you think.

Probably.

Maybe.

But she doesn't give you time to decide before she moves closer, her corset creaking with the motion.

She's tall—not freakishly so, but taller than you expect, enough to make you tilt your chin up. Maybe it's the boots, maybe it's the way she straightens her spine as she starts circling you. Not like she's sizing you up—more like she already knows your size, your shape, your weight in her hands, and now she's just confirming what she already pictured in her head. Every step is slow and deliberate, predatory in a way that feels personal. She smells like bubblegum and musk, sweat clinging under her costume, but also something spicier, almost warm. The very person leaking through the seams of the act.

You catch yourself staring again.

And she catches you catching yourself.

It's a miracle she doesn't start clapping, really.

"You're not gonna deny it?" she presses, like she's hoping you'll try. "No 'oh my God, what are you talking about?' No pretending you were looking at my belt buckle?"

Your throat goes dry, and your brain empties out like someone hit the reset button. "Would you believe me if I did?" you ask, trying to sound casual. It comes out as a dare wrapped in a cough.

"Nope." Her grin spreads like ink bleeding through paper. She doesn't stop walking—just pivots on her heel, hands in her pockets. "You don't have that kind of poker face."

"Guess I should work on that," you mumble, forcing your gaze down to your sneakers, hoping they'll offer you a dignified exit.

"Guess I should give you more chances to practice," she tosses over her shoulder without missing a beat.

That pulls a snort out of you—short, surprised, just a hint over too genuine,—that makes her eyes light up.

"There it is," she says. "Knew you had that sound in you."

You look up at her again, trying to steel yourself, but she's already closer than before—close enough that her shadow overlaps yours. You swallow hard, heart hammering louder than the distant sound cues in the maze.

"Look," you say quietly, simultaneously exhaling the breath you didn't realize you were holding, "I didn't mean to stare."

"I know."

"I just—”

"I know," she repeats, slower this time, and somehow it passes as permission. Her whole demeanor's shifted—softer and more intimate, but just as charged. She's looking at you like you're the attraction and she's the visitor now. "Relax," she drawls, almost kind, like she's fond of you already. "I like being stared at."

"Yeah," you manage, voice thin as you try to recover. "I'm starting to pick up on that."

She chuckles, a short but bright sound that echoes off the walls. "Good. I'd hate to be subtle."

"You're really confident for someone in clown makeup."

"And you're really mouthy for someone who nearly tripped over herself looking at my dick."

"I didn't—”

"Well don't lie now. You'll hurt my feelings," she cuts in smoothly, smirking like she's two steps ahead of you.

"You always harass the guests like this?" you ask, trying to deflect, but your tone slips somewhere into flustered despite your best efforts, thoughts scattered, akin to glitter across a carpet.

"Only the pretty ones."

"That is… wildly unprofessional."

"But deeply satisfying," she shrugs, like she's made peace with the ethics violations and now she's just doing you a favor. She stretches her arms above her head—trying to reset her shoulders or maybe just giving you something else to look at—and lets out a low, exaggerated sigh, like she's been working too hard at keeping things PG. "Speaking of unprofessional… Got a name?" she finally asks, tilting her head again, like a curious dog sniffing around something it likes and wants to keep.

"Do you?"

"Jinx."

You don't say it, but it fits, like it was stitched into her mouth before birth. It sounds right, sitting there, curled on her tongue—too short, too sharp, a spark that knows exactly where to land. You offer yours in return, out of reflex more than trust, and she grabs it like a toy. She says it back just once, but somehow it sounds obscene coming from her mouth. It's not on purpose—she's not laying it on thick. It's more like she's trying it on, deciding how it'd sound whispered in the dark, gasped into a pillow, moaned until it's all she remembers how to say.

It hits you like a tripwire.

You clear your throat, needing to fill the air with something. "So… what exactly happens now?"

"What do you mean?" she asks, feigning innocence with the grace of someone who knows she's anything but.

"Isn't this the part where you… I don't know, jump at me and scream? Or I scream. Or someone screams." Your voice pitches higher at the end, not sure where to settle, and you wince as soon as you hear yourself.

But Jinx doesn't jump at you. She doesn't scream, either. She simply gives you a once-over, the faintest hint of amusement flickering in her eyes as if she's already seen the ending and is savoring the middle. "You don't seem like a screamer."

"Maybe you're just not that scary," you shoot back, crossing your arms defensively.

She hums at that, low in her throat, not rising to the challenge. Your skin's buzzing under her stare, and your brain's busy replaying every moment of this conversation on a four second delay. You wonder how long she's been pushing boundaries like this. You wonder if she's ever broken character so cleanly before. You wonder what she wants from you, besides the satisfaction of making you squirm.

The silence stretches, but not uncomfortably.

"I like the quiet ones," she says, after a beat. "You watch more, think more. Kinda like prey."

You can't help but swallow, not missing the predatory look she gives you before you ask, dumbly, "And what does that make you?"

"Hungry, obviously."

She doesn't even blink after she says it, just lets it sit there between you like an open invitation. You should walk away. You know that. The moment feels loaded now, off-script in a way that goes well beyond park rules. Her eyes flick to your mouth, like she's trying to memorize the way it moves. Like she's imagining what it would look like wrapped around her fingers… or something else entirely.

Your heartbeat's in your throat now, pulsing behind your ears. You glance over your shoulder, noting the empty hallway behind you and the EXIT sign in flickering red letters just a few feet away. You're almost out. Almost safe. "You know you're breaking like… three park rules right now."

"Only three? Shit. I must be slipping." She steps forward, the toe of her boot nudging yours. She's still smiling, but it dissolves into a small and crooked thing. "Besides… You don't look like you're complaining."

You don't say anything—don't need to. Your body answers for you: still, breathless, waiting. You're standing in the middle of a haunted maze and this is what gets your adrenaline spiking.

She watches your chest rise and fall like she's syncing her own breath to it, studying you for rhythm, cues, and a beat she can follow straight into your undoing. Then, slowly, she leans closer and asks, huskier now, "You want to help me break another one?"

It should sound playful… but she doesn't move like she's joking, doesn't blink like someone teasing a stranger. She leans in instead—close enough that her breath hits your cheek in bursts of artificial sweetness and whatever she had eaten at the food court earlier. Your mouth opens to ask what she means, but the words stall out when her hand moves.

She drags two fingers down your bare arm, slow and warm, pressing just enough to feel the muscle beneath. The contact is invasive in a way that makes your spine tingle and leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake. She keeps going, down to the inside of your wrist, feeling your pulse fluttering like a trapped moth, under the soft pads of her digits.

"Sensitive," she murmurs, half to herself—more observation than tease. You try to breathe, but it catches in your chest instead, like a broken metronome. "That one doesn't count," she adds. "That was just a warm-up."

Then her hand reaches for yours, in a way that assumes you won't fight it. And you don't, because of course you wouldn't. Your mind is too foggy to find a reason to. She guides it down, past the cold buckle of her belt and straight to the front of her pants, like you're walking through a crowd and she's leading you somewhere quiet. You don't even realize where she's taking you at first, until your palm meets something firm and heavy beneath the worn fabric. Your fingers twitch, but your brain's already short-circuiting under the weight of her cock in your grip, the way her hips subtly push forward, chase your warmth, your softness.

"You're blushing," she points out with a pleased grin, forehead nearly pressed to yours now. "That's cute."

"I… I wasn't expecting—"

"Sure you were." She nudges closer. It's disgusting, really, the way she grinds forward just enough to drag the firm shape against your hand again, as if she's rewarding you for having the good sense to touch her back. You feel the ridge of it, the sheer size, the way it throbs under your touch like she's been holding back all night, just for a moment like this. "C'mon, sweet thing. You've already walked into this trap. Might as well enjoy it."

"I–I need—" you stammer, and it sounds like your voice is trying to change shape mid-sentence.

You don't even know what you need. Air? Distance? A full personality reset?

The only thing you do know is that you yank your hand away like you've been burned, nerves flaring as if someone lit a match in your throat. You stumble, retreating instinctively like you can outrun the feeling swelling in your chest. But instead of hitting freedom, you hit velvet curtains, and the funhouse-style mirrors suddenly warp around you like you've just entered some alternate dimension of your own panic. Your reflection fractures across twenty different panels, your wide-eyed stare bouncing back at you from every angle. You turn again, deeper into the tunnel, just to stop looking at the kaleidoscope you've become.

"Where you runnin' off to?" Jinx giggles, already following after you like a shadow. There's no guilt in her voice, just delight, as if guiding your hand to her dick five seconds ago was nothing more but a party trick. "Thought you said I wasn't that scary?"

You freeze like a cornered animal. Not out of fear, exactly, more like sensory overload. You don't mean to look as fragile as you do—backed into a cold mirror, shoulders stiff, legs braced like you're trying to fold yourself smaller than your body will allow. You don't even blink, just exist, stunned and half-turned toward the exit like a deer who hasn't figured out yet which way the headlights are coming from.

Her gaze sharpens, studying you the same way someone might do with a startled creature on the road; curious, patient. She slows when she sees the tension in your jaw, her gait losing that teasing spring and transitioning into something steadier.

"Hey." She lifts her hands—open palms and a gentler voice, as if offering a truce. It's a gesture so non-threatening it almost feels out of place on her now. "Didn't mean to actually freak you out, Bambi."

"Bambi?" you echo, tone caught somewhere between incredulous and breathless as your eyes flick to her face.

"Big eyes, wobbly legs," she murmurs, stepping into your space again. Not pouncing or hunting this time, simply drifting closer. "You look like you can't tell if you're turned on or about to have a moral crisis."

"I… might be doing both." The words come out with a shy, lopsided smile—the kind that tugs up only one corner of your mouth before you duck your head, cheeks warming. You glance up through your lashes, sheepish but curious, like you can't quite decide if you should keep meeting her gaze or hide in the safety of your own flustered laugh.

Jinx grins at that, the painted curve of her mouth softening into something less wicked, more human. The tension crackles for a moment longer before it fizzles out between you, replaced by the faint hum of embarrassment and something warmer underneath. "I'm sorry, sugar. I got a little carried away back there." She scoffs at herself, pinching the bridge of her nose with a faint grimace. "Kinda forgot you didn't sign up for… that kind of scare."

You let out a small chuckle, bashful but real. "It's okay. I mean, I did run like hell. You just… caught me off guard."

"Caught you good, though," she teases, then winces like she immediately regrets it. "Sorry—bad timing. I just…" She exhales an exaggerated puff of breath, all the fight leaving her posture as she leans back against one of the mirror panels. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Promise."

The confession is awkward and earnest, but something about saying it aloud—owning it—makes you feel lighter already. "I'm still here," you point out, almost like a peace offering, your shame retreating. "And… maybe kind of hoping you'll keep looking at me like that?"

That gets her. Her shoulders roll back in slow ease, and whatever twitchy impulse had been buzzing in her limbs moments ago smooths right out. The predator coils itself quiet, and she watches you like you're something precious she doesn't want to break too soon. She closes the remaining space between you, nosing lazily along your cheekbone, almost catlike but tentative in her affection now.

"Tell me to stop," she murmurs against your skin, "or I'm gonna take that look in your eyes real personally." And then—only after you shiver—does she shift her weight. She presses her hips forward, just enough for you to feel her bulge again, unmistakable as it settles flush against your pelvis. She fits obscenely well there, grinding into the soft spot below your belly with aching hesitation, like she's nudging a boundary, checking how much room you'll allow her to ruin you.

You flinch, but not away this time. It's a soft, involuntary twitch—the ghost of an old instinct that doesn't quite make it all the way through. Your body starts to remember that it doesn't have to defend itself here. That maybe, for once, it can just be. You let yourself breathe, and something deep inside your chest uncoils, like a muscle finally realizing it's allowed to rest.

"Let's try that again," she suggests, nosing lower now, right into the crook of your neck where your scent hits the strongest. Her mouth parts against your skin—warm breath, chapped lips, the barest scrape of teeth. And then her tongue finds the spot just under your ear, tasting salty skin as if it's the best thing she's had all night. You quiver under her with a soft moan, heartbeat fluttering hard enough for her to feel it. One hand skims down your spine, slow and deliberate, fingertips dragging over every vertebra like she's mapping out your bones. She doesn't stop when she reaches the curve of your ass, just grabs a handful and squeezes possessively. "You like that better?"

You nod, biting your lip so hard it stings, as if that'll keep the sounds in—but your hips roll forward without permission, meeting the pressure she's so generously offering. It feels strange at first, this surrender. But it's a good kind of strange—like sunlight after weeks of rain. You let it wash over you. You let yourself melt.

"There we go," she purrs. "You just needed a minute, hm?"

You've always told yourself you're not that kind of girl.

You don't sneak off with strangers. You don't drool over someone you met five minutes ago because they smell like bubblegum and trouble and press a cock against you. You don't get wet from a smirk and a little pressure. That's not who you are.

Except suddenly, it is.

Because you can't stop imagining it. The corrupted sound she'd make when your lips wrap around her, soft at first, then needier. The way she'd grip your hair when she realizes you mean it—every filthy thing you're pretending not to want.

You want to be good for her. Just for her. You want to let her rut against your tongue in the dark while fake screams echo down the maze and some animatronic goes off two rooms over like it's cheering you on. You want to make her shudder, to feel her get twitchy and desperate because of you.

And yeah, maybe it's disgusting. Maybe it's reckless. Maybe you'll hate yourself for it later.

But maybe you'll hate yourself worse if you walk away now.

Because the truth is: you are that kind of girl. Right here, right now, with her? You are. Your mind flatlined the second you spotted her. No more thoughts, just heat, slick need, and that awful, humiliating ache between your legs that says: I want it. I want it. I want it.

"What about the cameras?" you blurt out, almost too fast, like you're still hoping someone will talk you out of this even as you press your chest against hers, chasing more. "We're in a public maze and–"

"They don't work in here," Jinx cuts in, calm and collected. "Dead zone. Security guy gets nauseous from all the reflections. Can't watch the feed without puking. So they just… don't." She leans closer, like she's telling you a secret. "We call it the blackout spot."

You don't know if that's true, but you want it to be. Especially with how her hand presses into your lower back now, keeping you locked tight against her cock.

And maybe you want to be seen, after all.

Even if only by her.

"I can be real sweet on you," she murmurs against your throat, sucking a mark into the tender skin just above your collarbone. "So good. So fucking careful. You want that?"

You make a sound—high and pathetic, caught somewhere between a whimper and a disbelieving laugh. You nod so fast you get dizzy, and you barely have time to blink before your mouth claims hers. It's not rough, but it burns. Hot, deep, filthy in a way that pulls the air out of your lungs and replaces it with her. She groans, reciprocating just as eagerly. Her tongue slips in without asking, slick and shameless, licking into you like she wants to memorize the shape of your throat from the inside out. You don't even realize you're gripping onto her forearms until she shifts—pressing in, teeth nipping your lower lip—and you dig in like you're clinging to gravity itself. There's more spit than you expect, stringing between your lips when she pulls back, only for you to come right back in like you can't be away from her for more than a second.

And that makeup you were admiring on her earlier? It's yours now.

The heavy white cream from her foundation clings to your cheeks in thick, uneven patches. Her lipstick has bled into a dark, glossy halo around your mouth, trasferring from her painted-on smile. You can feel it melting into your skin, every touch blurring the lines between you until you can't tell who the color belongs to anymore. She pulls away just enough to admire you like you're her personal canvas. Her thumb grazes your chin before dragging it down, smearing the mess even more. Your knees buckle slightly—not enough to fall, just enough for her to notice.

"Wanna get on them for me?" she asks softly, holding you in place as her breath brushes your swollen lips. "Bet I'd look real pretty in your mouth."

The words aren't an actual request. They're a command wrapped in a coo, sticky-sweet like a candy apple, and you're already sinking to the cold floor before your brain catches up. Jinx looms above you, the weight of her presence blotting everything else.

"Good girl,” she purrs, unbuckling her belt with intent, as if the game's finally paying off.

The words hit you low. You don't even know if you've earned them yet, but the way she says it makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your mouth goes dry. Or maybe wetter. It's hard to tell because your body's already two steps ahead, tipping forward, greedy and off-balance. You brace your hands on her hips, keeping yourself from swaying, from reaching up and taking it out yourself. She tugs down the waistband of her striped pants just enough, thumbs hooking under the elastic, and her cock springs free like it's just as eager to perform, balls tight and heavy.

It's… a lot.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't expecting it, but seeing it up close, thick and flushed? It's a whole different experience. She fists herself once, dragging her palm over the curved and veined length with a low hiss through her teeth. Her cock jumps in her grip, twitching when she looks down and catches your wide-eyed stare. She guides it toward you, letting the pink tip slide across your lips, smearing salty precum like gloss. She taps your cheek with it—mocking, almost playful. You can smell her now, too: skin, sweat, the tang of arousal.

Her breath is shaky as she watches you open up for her, warm and obedient, tongue flattening under the head like you're starving. She presses in slow, feeding you more inch by inch, letting you get used to the size. Your mouth stretches around her, and you moan as she slides deeper.

"That's it," she coaxes, voice low and hoarse. Her hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just resting. "Take it for me."

You gag once she hits the back of your throat, but she coos immediately, petting your hair soothingly.

"Breathe through it. You're doin' so good," she pants, thrusting again just a little rougher to test your limits. "You're perfect, y'know that? Knew you'd have a mouth on you."

You nod, or try to—mouth still full of cock, throat raw, spit bubbling at the corners of your lips as you look up at her, teary-eyed. She pulls out halfway just to fuck it back in smoother, making you feel every drag as you hollow your cheeks, hand wrapping around what you can't take and working in tandem. You whine around her, sucking harder, head bobbing now—sloppier, more desperate. You feel drunk on her, and it shows in the way your thighs keep shifting and rubbing together for any sort of friction. You feel so empty it hurts, soaking through your underwear, every part of you aching for something to take and grind against. Your cunt throbs with every push of her hips, like your body's confused why she's not inside instead.

You love it.

You love her.

Or at least, you're in love with her dick—because how else do you explain this? The fluttering in your stomach, the way you could cry if she stopped now…

Which is exactly what she does.

Jinx lets out a shaky breath and pulls out with a wet pop, watching you chase after her, whiny and dazed.

"What are you doing?" you ask, throat slick with her taste. Your lips are swollen, your breath is gone, but you still crawl forward, knees sore from the hard floor as you lean in impatiently, taking her again without waiting for a reply.

"F-fuck, wait—" She groans, her grip on your hair faltering, like she can't decide whether to pull you closer or drag you off. You hum around her, swallow even deeper. She curses once more, eyes fluttering for a second too long, before jerking her hips back with finality. You gasp, brows pinching in frustration as your mouth empties again. "I know, greedy girl," she coos, cupping your face gently, stilling you. "But I'm not gonna waste it. Not when that sweet pussy's clearly begging for it."

She helps you up, and you barely find your balance before she grabs your hips and spins you around, pressing your tits against the cool glass, your quick breaths fogging up your own reflection. She tugs your pants and underwear down to your knees, one swift move. The cold air hits your dripping cunt and you flinch, shivering as she cups your ass and spreads you open just enough to look.

She whistles, low and impressed. "Fuck, baby, I knew it. Look at that."

And you do. She makes sure of it—her fingers curl tight under your jaw, tilting your head forward until you're eye-to-eye with yourself, blinking through the haze. You look wrecked and untouched all at once, like a horror movie virgin five minutes before the kill.

"This what you look like when you're about to get fucked?" she hums into your ear. "Eager and filthy?"

The fat head of her cock nudges your entrance and your whole body tightens, forehead hitting the flat surface before you. She slides it down your slit once, twice—coating herself in your slick—and then presses in slowly until your cunt starts to give. She's thick, and it's tight, and you're so wet it should slide easily, but it still burns.

"Shit—" you gasp, voice high and broken.

"Shhh." Her hand covers your mouth before the rest of the sound escapes, muffling it. "Gotta be quiet for me now, pretty girl. You don't want anyone hearing, do ya?"

She keeps pushing in, letting you feel every ridge, every twitch, and you whimper brokenly when she bottoms out. Her hips are flush to your ass, and she's buried so deep it feels like she's poking behind your ribs. She stays there for a second, allowing you to adjust, your legs already shaking from the stretch.

She pulls out halfway. Pushes back in.

Again.

And again.

You bite back a moan with each stroke, the slick sound of your cunt taking her bouncing off the mirrors like echoes from a porn set. She builds a rhythm, working you open, cock pulling out coated and sliding back in easier each time, like you're sucking her back in. Her free hand settles over your lower stomach, right above where she's pressing in, feeling the bulge from the outside.

She picks up the pace—a little faster, harder—just enough to make your body bounce with every thrust and tears brim at your lashes. "Look," she pants into your ear, her breath hitting the back of your neck in hot and sticky puffs, blue hari damp at her nape. "Look at yourself. Look how pretty you are while takin' me. How full."

The sight ruins you.

Your reflection is a pornographic mess, and you can't help but groan right into her palm, eyes rolling to the back of your head as her cock disappears into you over and over again. You try to keep quiet, but it's getting harder to control when she keeps punching that sweet spot deep inside you that makes your knees lock and your voice rise in pitch. You fumble for purchase, leaving streaks and handprints on the mirror, and she pulls her hand away just enough for you catch a proper breath.

"Jinx—fuck, s’too much! I can't—"

"You can. You already are," she whispers into your neck, lips grazing the sweat building up there. "Don't go floatin' away on me now. Stay right there."

Her arms wind around your waist, locking you tight against her, using you as leverage just to fuck deeper into you. The wet slap of skin on skin is indecent, and you can feel her twitching every time you pulse around her, nearing your release.

"Can you be good for me? Can you come without screaming?"

You moan something unintelligible in response, eyes glossy and barely able to stay open. Your cunt grips around her like it's trying to keep her there, suck her in deeper, milk her dry. She's relentless now, each thrust perfectly aimed at a cruel angle, her pace bordering on overwhelming. One of her hands drops lower, fingers brushing your clit with a featherlight stroke, yet you jolt like you've been shocked nonetheless. She adds more pressure, circling it with practiced ease, knowing exactly which buttons to push to make your knees go weak.

The sudden extra stimulation makes your whole body seize up, and your orgasm hits too abruptly. You clench around her hard, heat flooding your limbs in a wave so intense it nearly knocks you off your feet. Your moan—sharp, ragged, impossible to hide—bubbles up before you can stop it.

Jinx is faster.

She slaps her palm back over your mouth just as you cry out, your release ripping through you like a live wire. Her grip only tightens, holding you upright and steady through the quake while you soak her. "Easy," she murmurs into your ear, thrusts going lazy. "Ride it out f'me."

You're still twitching from the aftershocks when you hear it.

Footsteps—a group, from the sound of it—sneakers dragging, giggles ringing, someone muttering "this part's lame" like they're trying to be tough.

You panic.

She doesn't.

"Don't. Move," she simply whispers, voice barely audible yet thrilled. You freeze, trembling in her hold, trying to melt into her chest like that'll make you disappear. Her hand stays over your mouth, fingers pressing gently at the corners, keeping you muffled. You can feel her deep inside you, cock throbbing with how hard she still is, keeping you full, like she doesn't intend on pulling out until you've taken everything she's planned on giving you. "They won't see. They'll be gone in a second," she promises, even as her own hips rock forward once, grinding the head into the spot that just ruined you.

You squeal against her hand, the overstimulation making your toes curl so hard inside your shoes they almost cramp. The footsteps pass, the voices fade, and once silence settles again—if you can call the frantic panting between you silence—Jinx takes it as her cue. She pulls back an inch, testing just enough to break the messy seal, then pushes back in slowly, like she's feeling you all over again.

"God, you feel… You feel unreal," she gasps, her forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder. "Warm little cunt milking it like she knows me already." Her pace picks up, sloppier now, and she starts to pulse inside you, her body winding tight with that final edge. "Gonna pull out, I swear. Just… Just gimme a second—"

But the words splinter something in you. Your hand shoots back blindly, gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. A whimper tears from your throat as you shove yourself back onto her, keeping her fully sheathed. "Don't!" you sob in a frenzy, trembling from the pressure, practically writhing on her. "Don't pull out. Want all of it. Please."

She groans low in her throat like it hurts to hear you say it that sweet, that desperate. "You sure?" she breathes, the husky tone nearly making your knees buckle. "You really want me to fill you up? Fuck it all into you, just like that? You're not just sayin' that 'cause your brain's gone all fuzzy, right?"

You nod so fast you get lightheaded, but she tuts quietly.

"Words, baby."

"Yes," you choke. "Yes, I want it. Please, Jinx, I need you to come in me. I'll take it, I can—"

And that's it. That's all it takes for her restraint to crumble like a wet tissue. You don't even get a warning—her hips jerk forward, knocking the air from your lungs as she buries herself to the hilt and stays there, cock twitching deep as she spills inside you with a ragged groan. You feel every hot spurt pouring into you, every twitch against your oversensitive walls, and the sudden fullness has you sobbing into the mirror, mouth open in a silent moan.

She doesn't move right away, just keeps grinding through her own aftershocks with faint and needy sounds that she probably doesn't even realize she's making, folded over you like a backpack. Slowly, she shifts, easing back, her breath stuttering as she begins to slip free—too slow, dragging every thick inch from your fluttering, overstretched pussy. You can't help but whimper at the loss, a gush of warmth following instantly. You clench down hard, reflexive but useless, and she steps back just far enough to look.

And oh, she looks.

You're still bent over, slumped over against the mirror, with her cum dripping out of your hole and straight down your thighs in thick and creamy trails, catching the low light. Her eyes glaze over with something akin to awe, but you feel too boneless to care about how filthy you must look.

"I should take a picture," she chuckles breathlessly, her nose dragging up the dip of your spine. "Frame it. Hang it above my bed." Her voice is warm and teasing, but barely holding together, thinning. "First time I ever came in a stranger and nearly passed the fuck out." She presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, and you feel her grin against your cooling skin—crooked, high on the moment. One hand slips down again, cupping your heat tenderly, fingers sinking into the slick mess you both made and spreading it gently over your swollen folds. "I got you. You're okay."

But her voice cracks halfway through, throat tight with something that isn't just exhaustion. Because she is not okay, either. Her thighs are shaking, too, and her cock's still half-hard and soaked, twitching with leftover need. She exhales like she's trying to catch up to her own heartbeat and anchor herself.

A pause. Then, another kiss, softer this time—like a wordless thank you.

Jinx reaches down, catching the waistband of your panties and the rumpled pants still bunched around your knees. She tugs them up carefully, fabric sliding up your thighs. Your damp underwear presses flush against you, trapping her cum inside you, making you shiver. There's something undeniably possessive in the way she does it. Like she wants it to stay there. Like it means something to let you walk out of here full of her.

"There," she murmurs, adjusting the cotton so it fits more snugly around your hips. "All tucked in." She awkwardly maneuvers your jeans over your ass, keeping one arm curled loosely around your waist to steady you both. It's not graceful, it's not clean, but it's all she can manage—and it's done with so much care it nearly makes your head swim.

You let her do it, legs weak and whole body aching in that delicious, used-up kind of way. The mirror reflects all the damage: smeared makeup, glazed eyes, sweat-shined skin, and her hand still planted over your stomach like she's staking a claim. She finished with a little pat to your hip, proud of herself.

"You coming back next weekend?" she asks, voice still rough, still a little fucked-out and smug, maybe even hopeful as she tucks herself away.

"I always knew clowns were needy." You scoff through a smile, tugging up your zipper.

"Only for the ones who whimper like that," she shoots back, her grin turning toothy as she leans her chin on your shoulder, too annoyingly sweet for someone who just rearranged your insides. You're still shaking, limbs jelly-like and sore, mouth buzzing from her kisses, but she doesn't seem in any hurry to let you go as she giggles. "Such a Bambi."

"Don't start," you groan, swatting weakly at her chest. She catches your hand and holds it there, threading her fingers through yours.

"I mean it," she says after a beat, her tone quieter now. "I want to see you again."

You blink at her, still hazy, still dazed in a way that doesn't feel fully physical anymore.

She nudges her nose against your cheek. "Gimme your phone. I wanna make sure you don't ghost me."

You roll your eyes, fishing it out of your pocket anyway, your body heavy with endorphins. You unlock it and hand it over without a word. She doesn't hesitate—just swipes open your contacts, thumbs moving fast and messy, nails tapping against the screen. The faint blue glow lights up her face, highlighting the smudges of face paint, the curve of her grin. You hear the faint click of her taking a photo with the front camera—probably for the contact image—and then the chirp of her own phone going off somewhere in her pocket.

"There. Now it's official."

Outside, the park is thinning, and the October air is colder than you remember, sobering you up. A kid screams somewhere far off in the distance, either from fear or too much sugar. Probably both. The fog machines have shut off, and the speakers are spitting out staticky ambient horror noise that no one's really listening to anymore. You walk toward the exit in silence, trying not to limp, trying not to think about the handprint on your thigh or how much lipstick is still on your face. You're almost out when your phone buzzes.

💬 clown girl 🤡

i'll get you a plan b <3

You stare at it for a second. You don't even remember telling her if you were on the pill or not. You huff a short laugh through your nose, then tuck your phone away, looking up just in time to catch her fading form.

She's walking backward now, facing you as she retreats into The Funhouse again. "Text me when you get home, Bambi!" she calls, throwing up a casual peace sign, fingers still faintly sticky with what had happened. "Don't make me haunt you!"

Romantic.

──taglist: @rq1nzorr @sketch303 @thisrots @ne0nspr1te @autistic4jinx @simply-ozul @bluejay2503 @sevikas-whore @sillypuppy77 @jinxsworldha @toomuchbutter @dearestdolly444 @alduinworldeater11 @friutsnackz @flutterlesbian

#jinxie recs !#jinxie's moots !#once again saying i need that and badly #staring at my screen and shaking my head bc i cant believe i got to read this masterpiece for free #straight up jorkin it to this

just4jinx

Aug 4, 2025

fortunxa

Jinx masterlist ⭑.ᐟ

#cw. obsessive + pervy!Jinx, oblivious + fem!reader, solo masturbation (f), improper use of a hairbrush, voyeuristic fantasies, dubcon, requested. MDNI .ᐟ.ᐟ

word count: 1.5k

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

Jinx has it bad. not in the dreamy, hopeless romantic way. it’s not flowers and nervous glances. no, what she feels is raw. carnal. unhinged. she’s crawling-out-of-her-skin, obsessive, sweaty-palmed feral about it.

and “it” is you.

her roommate. her sweet, soft, scatterbrained, easy-going roommate. the one who leaves pastel panties hanging on the bathroom knob like they’re part of the décor. the one whose ass is sticking out just slightly in that loose pajama set. the one who pads around the apartment braless without considering that someone might be watching. might be hungry. the one who giggles at dumb TikToks and makes her feel like a goddamn predator when she can't stop staring.

Jinx thinks you’re perfect.

she also thinks she might be going a little insane.

because she knows it’s wrong—the watching, the wanting… but she never claimed to be good. or sane. or morally sturdy. not when it comes to you.

and that hairbrush.

that stupid, pink thing with the cutesy-ass hearts, rounded handle, and soft bristles that still carry the scent of your shampoo. the very same brush you use every morning while perched on the edge of the tub, legs crossed and eyes still heavy with sleep, whimpering quietly when you hit a knot—a tiny, breathy “ah—fuck” followed by the faintest pout like it genuinely hurt. she watches you every time, pretending to scroll on her phone, eyes flicking up just enough to make it seem casual. but in reality? she’s cataloguing everything: the slope of your back, the way your fingers twitch with frustration, the slow flutter of your lashes when you blink slowly. and then you look at her, all soft and unaware, and ask so stupidly, “do i look okay today?” like you’re not the prettiest thing she’s ever seen.

it used to be cute. now, it makes her wet on sight.

the first time she touches it, it’s innocent. she’s cleaning the bathroom. she moves it to wipe down the sink. that’s it.

the second time, she picks it up. just to feel the weight. just to imagine your fingers curling around it, knuckles flexing as you pull the bristles through your hair. she mimics your movements, slow and deliberate, imagining what it feels like to be you. pretending, just for a second.

by the third time, she’s grinding on it, knees bruising on the cold tile as she rocks against the handle with filthy intent. just one sick little moment of curiosity, she tells herself. a one-time thing.

but it escalates quickly after that. because the moment you leave that dumb piece of plastic out? that’s all the unspoken permission she needs.

Jinx waits for the apartment to go still—lights off, you tucked in bed, probably hugging a pillow, breathing even—and that’s when she moves, locking the bathroom door behind her. the scent of your body wash still lingers in the humidity, sweet and buttery, soft in that way that coats the back of her throat and makes her feel lightheaded. there’s a fogged mirror, a wet spot on the bath mat where you stepped out, a towel hanging limp from the rack, still damp.

you always leave a trail behind without knowing it, like a girl born to be followed.

she drops her sleep shorts, kicking them away once they pool at her ankles. she wants you—on your knees, on her face, under her. she wants to peel your tiny bottoms off and see what you smell like when you’re turned on and begging.

but she gets the brush instead, held tightly in her hand like it’s contraband, still a little warm and tacky from your hand lotion. sometimes, she plucks the little strands of your hair from the bristles and collects them like stolen keepsakes. but she doesn’t bother tonight; she needs it fast. her cunt pulses instantly, and she didn’t even touch herself yet.

“you want me to, don’t you?” she whispers, already breathing a bit heavier. “you wouldn’t keep leaving it out if you didn’t.” she spreads her legs wide on the cold bathroom floor, panties shoved aside and already wet. she spits on the handle out of habit, like it’s a courtesy, but she doesn’t even need to prep anymore. she’s already slick—embarrassingly so—just from the thought of you sitting on the counter the next morning, bare legs swinging, brushing your hair and going, “this thing’s getting kinda gross…”

yeah. no shit.

she doesn’t tease, just presses the end between her puffy, glossy folds and pushes in, parting easily around the gentle shape. she still gasps like she’s being split open by something huge instead of a glittery handle, and she watches as it disappears inside her with a wet sound, inch by inch, until it’s swallowed whole.

in. out. in. out. slow. real slow.

she works it deep enough to see stars, hips twitching as she angles it just right. “ohh, that’s filthy,” she mutters, breathless, and the drag of it against her sensitive walls makes her toes curl. she whimpers, eyes rolling back as she fucks herself harder on it like she’s in heat—panting, drooling, greedy cunt squelching around the handle so loud it drowns out the hum of the bathroom fan. she’s already too far gone to care about the volume as she slaps her throbbing clit—sharp, fast, over and over—just to chase that delicious edge. “mhm—yours… yours… fuckfuckfuck, mine now…”

she clenches around it every time it bottoms out like she’s trying to milk it, free hand sliding under her shirt to pinch and pull at her own perky nipple until she moans.

and through all of this, she’s thinking of you.

she knows you’ll pick the hairbrush up in the morning like you always do, murmuring to yourself about coffee and class. she thinks about you finally noticing—frowning, sniffing the handle, scrunching your nose in confusion. “weird,” you might say. “why does it smell like…”

like what?

like pussy?

good. she hopes you’ll taste it for yourself one day.

Jinx will let you hold that brush. let you touch it. let you drag the bristles through your hair like nothing’s wrong, like your innocent little routine hasn’t been turned into a ritual she gets off on. and she’ll watch as usual, chest heaving, thighs pressed tight, pretending she doesn’t know exactly where it’s been.

a part of her wants to get caught. wants you to walk in mid-act and see her ruining herself on cheap plastic.

would you scream? blush? cry?

would you stare, all wide-eyed and horrified, and stammer, “is that… mine?”

god. Jinx would die right there.

“yeah, baby,” she’d moan proudly. “you’re already in me. you just don’t know it.”

but her biggest fantasy isn’t being caught—it’s that you’re just as filthy. that she isn’t the only freak in the apartment after all. that maybe, late at night, you use that dumb piece of plastic the same way she does, shirt bunched under your tits as you whimper sweetly into your pillow while she sits in the living room one wall away, clueless.

what if you’d both done it? what if you’d both used the same fucking hairbrush to get off—days apart, maybe hours, slick still fresh, dried in faint smears on the grip? what if you’d already shared it? what if all those times she left it messy, and you picked it up anyway… you knew?

oh, the mere idea of it makes her dizzy. it makes her come hard, mouth open in a silent scream, legs shaking as heat floods her body all at once. the bathroom tile feels freezing against her flushed skin as she twitches through the aftershocks. her thighs spasm. her breath comes in shallow gasps as her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, dry and panting. she keeps the brush inside her for a little longer, still clenching around it like she’s trying to fuck herself full on the ghost of you, still pulsing with each throb of her heartbeat.

and when she finally pulls out? it comes out with a wet little pop, slick clinging in messy strings that stretch from the handle to her cunt, glistening in the bathroom light. she rinses the bristles before giving a half-assed attempt at patting the handle dry with toilet paper, as if that does anything. the plastic is still warm, still sticky, still soiled. she places it back regardless—same spot, slightly crooked, contaminated.

she smiles—faintly, tiredly, but so damn proud.

because tomorrow?

Jinx will lean against the doorway, heart pounding in anticipation, trying to look casual while you pad barefoot into the bathroom. you’ll grab the brush like always—yawning, hair a mess—still caught in the haze of sleep.

you’ll pause.

frown.

“…why’s this sticky?” you’ll murmur, voice croaky and soft.

and she will bite her lip so hard she nearly moans—just to keep from grinning, from giggling, from confessing everything. she’ll simply shrug, eyes wide with mock innocence. “you probably dropped it in something.”

you’ll blink at her—slow, oblivious, kittenish in that way she loves. “like what?”

“dunno,” she’ll say, voice syrupy. “something sweet.”

🐈‍⬛ repost! because tumblr likes getting on my last nerve <3

#jinxie recs !#jinxie moots !#YEEESSSSS #letting gang know i fw that

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