summary: a pretty girl at your restaurant gets very obviously stood up by her date
contains: probably medical inaccuracies, trin's surprised by anybody wanting her, MDNI, spicy but not smutty, surprise! at the end
a/n: rly loving being gay and messy for trinity santos rn, ily all! lmk if you like this particular pairing (iykyk) | beautiful divider from @strangergraphics
"Anyway, I can't make it tonight. Thought I'd call so you wouldn't be stuck waiting around. How often do you get the chance to scrub in on a whipple procedure?"
"Yeah," Trinity says curtly into her phone, her jaw tightening. Her fingers curl around the bottom hem of her blouse until her knuckles turn white.
A whipple isn't even an emergency surgery, she thinks, grinding her teeth.
"Besides, we're just casual, right, Santos?" Garcia says on the other end of the line, her nonchalance stabbing into Trinity's already-punctured stomach.
"Totally," Trinity bites down on her tongue, the physical pain embracing her like an old friend. She rattles off a half-assed goodbye, then slams her phone down onto the oak picnic table.
The patio of Shirley's Temple Bar & Grill is cast in a warm, twinkly glow from the jar lights dangling from the pergola. The transition from summer to autumn comes later and later every year, so rather than ending up too warm in a pumpkin-spiced-sweater, Trinity's arms are exposed by her red, flowy halter top.
She scoffs to herself, sucking in a sharp breath. She'd picked this top because she thought Yolanda —Garcia— might like it. Thought it might garner a lingering look or even the illusive compliment from her…
Nothing. Garcia isn't anything to Trinity, as she's made abundantly clear. She didn't even apologize for flaking out.
Trinity slides her hands down the ruched fabric of her pants, giving herself no quarter for being such a fucking idiot.
"Excuse me?"
Trinity's eyes snap up to the waitress, who hovers over the edge of the table, carrying an offended expression and a gin and tonic.
"What?" Trinity asks, furrowing her brows.
You set her drink on the table, then cross your arms over your chest. "Did you just call me a fucking idiot?"
The color drains from your customer's face. "Oh, my god, no, I'm so sorry," she waves her hands up effusively. "I was calling myself one, I-I didn't realize I said that out loud."
Now it's your turn to feel bad. "I know," you whisper, eyes shifting conspiratorially as you lean down, just an inch closer. "I was just fucking with you."
The silence between the two of you is deafening, you hunched over her table, her face looking up at you, void of all expression. Two animatronics, broken down mid-scene.
In a desperate attempt to reboot the conversation, you force out a laugh. It's something caught between a self-deprecating chortle and a maniacal cackle reserved only for world domination. "That's what I get for pulling pranks on my first day, huh?"
An unsettled titter stumbles out of the girl's throat. She's about your age. Uniquely pretty, with inky black hair and glassy, cream-colored skin. Tattoos scattered about her arms, and a short, gold chain dangles around her neck.
She seems stuck in place, too stunned by the blip in the matrix that was this entire interaction.
You pop your lips together, then gesture fruitlessly to the drink at the edge of the table. "I'll, uh, leave you to your drink. Let me know if you need anything else."
You shift your weight to turn back inside, with every intention of begging your trainer to switch tables with you. Before you can make a not-so-graceful exit, the woman blurts out, "I was just ditched for the night."
Halting mid-pivot, you flick your gaze to her phone, still face-down on the table. "I, uh, heard, actually. Your side of the conversation, at least."
The color returns to her cheeks in a subtly pink flush.
"So I'll probably just take the check and get out of your hair," her glossy lips flatten into two straight lines. "I'll leave a good tip, I promise. You don't even have to flash me."
The crack of her smile sends you reeling, teeth baring in a kindred grin.
"Aha!" You point at her in the embodiment of a 'gotcha!' moment. "I knew there was some fire under that pout! Let me guess… an Aries?"
She shakes her head.
"Scorpio," she admits, pulling the drink towards her.
"Ah, thus the air of mystery," you waggle your fingers playfully. You extend your hand, and recite your first name. "Though, you could have probably guessed," you add, chin dipping towards your nametag.
It's pinned to your black, long-sleeved t-shirt, your name written in pink and yellow chalk pen. Swooping, girlish letters, which Trinity thinks is meant to match the rubber bands holding together your bubble braids. They curl out the back of your head like devilish horns, which makes a lot of sense.
You're trouble. She can practically smell it on you.
She shakes your hand, then follows suit. "Trinity."
"Well, Trinity," you keep your hand clasped to hers a few moments longer than necessary. Trinity notices the flicker in your eyes, finally recognizing it for what it is: flirtation. "I'll be back with your check."
As you head inside, Trinity takes notice of all the details she missed before, when she was still buzzing on the possibility of Garcia sitting down across from her at any moment.
You sport brightly colored Brooks, the same shoes she wears at the hospital, and a little black apron tied around your waist.
Your black jeans, seemingly the uniform, judging by the other servers, hug your hips snugly. They outline your frame in a way that makes Trinity purse her lips.
They —your jeans, not her lips— are decorated with hand-sewn patches of fabric. She counts four, all varying in shapes and patterns, before you disappear behind the glass door.
Trinity makes note to ask you about them when you return, which is about eight minutes, and half of a gin and tonic, later.
A red, plastic basket of curly fries materializes onto the table, notably unaccompanied by a check.
"Oh, I didn't order these," Trinity chirps, already feeling lighter by way of the gin.
"I know," you mimic her perkier tone, propping a foot up on the end of the bench she's sitting on. "On the house. So's your drink."
"Your first day and you're already stealing from the kitchen?" Trinity cocks her head to the side, placing a dramatic hand over her chest, clutching invisible pearls.
"I bought them for you," you admit without an ounce of bashfulness. That adorable red flush crawls across Trinity's cheeks.
Her button nose, akin to that of a cartoon woodland creature, twitches happily. "That was nice," she says dumbly.
"You won't think so when I tell you why," you slide your fingers absentmindedly down one of your bubble braids. When her eyes cut to yours, you smile again. Warm and inviting, with just a hint of delicious mischief. "I'm kinda hoping I can hold you hostage until ten o'clock."
"Why's that?"
"Because that's when I get off," your heart flips acrobatically in your chest, but you school your expression into something cool and unaffected —two words you'd absolutely never use to describe yourself. "So if you're still here by then, it'll make it a lot easier for you to ask me out."
Amusement softens the lines of Trinity's face. "Oh-ho-ho," she chuckles. "I'm gonna ask you out?"
"It's the least you could do," you push your weight forward on your knee, still propped up on the bench beside her. "After all, I just bought you a drink and a snack. Broke my oath as a waitress to do so."
"An oath, huh?" Something about the word hits her in a way you can't quite translate, her seagreen eyes never leaving yours.
God, if eye contact with her is this titillating…?
You don't let yourself go there, instead shooting her a winsome wink before disappearing back inside for another forty minutes.
After you've clocked out and hung up your apron, you trail back outside to find Trinity now perched against the locked gate separating the patio from the rest of the city.
You've only shed your apron and replaced it with a denim jacket and a pink cross-body bag, but Trinity looks at you like a whole new person.
There's something so familiar about you, she thinks maybe she's met you in another life. Warmth radiates off of you like a fireplace, drawing her in from the blizzard she so often locks herself out in.
She can't belive herself —having stayed past a restaurant's closing to wait on some woman she doesn't even know.
Then again, she argues with herself, this whole thing with Garcia is just casual.
She straightens when you approach. You hold out two styrofoam cups.
"A little water for the road?" You offer, and Trinity accepts with a nod of thanks.
She's less bubbly now that the alcohol's had a chance to course through her veins, leaving her feeling oddly wistful.
"I meant to ask you about your pants," she says, then gestures to the patchwork over your black jeans.
You follow her extended finger to the small square of yellow and orange plaid over your left thigh. No busier a pattern than the ditzy blue flowers on your right, or the red stripes over your knee. All bordered in purposefully clunky, bright-colored stitches.
Suppressing the urge to tease her about her interest in your pants, you hum.
"I like to sew," you say. "They told me black jeans were the uniform, so I thought I'd personalize 'em a little bit. Help me stand out."
"So it really was your first night?" Trinity asks before taking a sip of her water. Under the streetlamps, now your only source of light since the patio's been closed down, you have the fleeting thought that she looks like a mermaid out of an old storybook. "You seemed so… comfortable there."
"It's not my first service job," you explain with a noncommittal shrug. "Plus, I've been coming here with my family since I was a kid. Shirley's was a Monday Night Football staple growing up."
Trinity tugs on this new thread of information. "You're from Pittsburgh?"
"Mmhm," you hum again. The sound buzzes through Trinity's arms, tingling all the way down to her fingertips. "I just moved back a couple weeks ago. From Boston."
"What was in Boston?"
Another shrug. "It wasn't Pittsburgh," you give a little laugh, then look around. "You wanna go to Midnight? It's a bar just down the street. Maybe two blocks. You can continue your interrogation there."
Trinity laughs, then starts in that direction.
"I'm not interrogating you," she explains as you fall into step together. The warm summer haze has tapered off since Trinity arrived at Shirley's Temple, now more of an autumn crisp. "I'm just trying to get to know you better."
You notice her shiver when the breeze picks up, gooseflesh bumping along her bare arms.
"Stop for a sec?" You murmur, and she does as she's told. You hand her your drink, then remove your cross-body and your jacket.
With your bag secured back to your chest, you hold out your jacket. When Trinity just stares at you blankly, you take back your cup, and replace it immediately with the denim, Indiana-Jones-style
"God, you're really not used to people being nice to you, are you?" you ask, adjusting the long sleeves of your shirt.
"I can't take your jacket," Trinity holds it out at you with what she assumes is the same expression as that of a dumbfounded basset hound.
"You didn't answer my question," you challenge, propping your hip out and pursing your lips at her. Trinity wonders fleetingly what flavor lip gloss you're wearing.
A scoff rolls out of her, and she takes the bait, handing you her cup so she can slide your jacket on over her shoulders. It's one size too big, but its warmth immediately satiates her chill. The aroma of jasmine and vanilla isn't a terrible bonus, either.
"People can be nice to me," she mutters stubbornly, untrapping her hair from the jacket's collar. It falls around her shoulders in quick but silky waves.
"Yeah, but you're not used to it," you point out with a smirk.
"Go easy on me, Dr. Phil," Trinity teases before stepping back out on the sidewalk. You follow her lead. A beat passes, then she asks, "So what brings you back to Pittsburgh?"
"Decided to be closer to family," you answer, then take a sip of your water. Over the top of your cup, your eyes meet Trinity's cloyingly. "Helps that the people are more interesting around here, too."
"What, Steelers fans?" she jokes.
"Pretty girls," you parry, garnering yet another soft, pink blush from her.
"Are you always such a shameless flirt?" She switches her cup to her other hand.
"Only when the person I'm flirting with melts into a pretty, flustered mess," you quip, and at the same time, she scoops your hand into hers.
Your knees wobble beneath you as you continue down the sidewalk, knocked into surprise by the forwardness of the gesture.
Trinity shoots you a sideways smirk.
"Two can play," she tuts, the human embodiment of the cat that ate the canary.
You have to look away, shoving down a girlish giggle while you tangle your fingers with hers.
Midnight, as the name suggests, is a darker bar in terms of lighting. Cool-toned, blue stars project from can lights in the ceiling onto the floor, illuminating your path to the bar itself.
Trinity reluctantly tears her hand from yours to buy you a drink.
The clink from your overenthusiastic cheers sends both of you into a fit of laughter.
Then the smooth, fruity taste of whatever the special of the night is —Berry Into You, an appropriate name, you decide— rolls down your throat.
Trinity tells you about her roommate, some guy she works with that she took pity on when she found out he didn't have a place to live, and traces her fingers up under your sleeve, pressing soft, tingly touches along your forearm while you pretend to listen.
"You wanna dance?" You ask once your glasses are both empty, nodding to the small crowd in the corner. Someone's hooked up a laptop to a speaker, a cheap spotlight ensconcing the area in a turquoise sun.
There's probably ten or twelve other people on the dance floor, but you can't say you looked at any one of them once Trinity's hands found your hips. The songs alternate between soulful bedroom pop and more upbeat, mainstream numbers.
You don't think you could name any of the songs if you tried.
Your stomach churns under your ribs. You rub your hands along Trinity's arms, which you can barely feel beneath the bulk of your jacket.
She plays with you, spinning you around like a top until you're giggling, grabbing your hands and stretching them out with hers. The music lifts her spirits in a bubble, floating incandescently all the way up to the ceiling.
It feels so freeing after all the goddamn mind games with Garcia, Trinity thinks. Looking at you and seeing her own want reflecting in your eyes equates to inhaling a breath of fresh, clean air.
Time slows down for a while, your forearms eventually settling in the crooks on either side of her neck. Trinity teases the bottom hem of your shirt, just barely riding it up but oh-so-scintillatingly.
Her silky hair tickles your cheek as she whispers in your ear, sweet, meaningless words that poke that kindling in the pit of your tummy, stoking the fire in a steady, thrumming heat.
Trinity didn't think it was supposed to be this easy. Warmth from your jacket, from the cocktail, from the dance floor, from your smile. It seeps through her and unlocks all the chains she's had wrapped around herself, at least temporarily.
When you invite her back to your place, her answer is an unequivocally eager yes.
Your apartment is teeny-tiny, tucked in the corner of your floor. A sad excuse for a kitchen looms to the right of the door, then a bedroom and a bathroom to the other side.
You've made strategic use of each inch of space, Trinity notes, from the floating shelves to the sliding totes under the loveseat in the corner. A few pictures and books are dotted around the space, but she doesn't pay too much attention to any of them. Surrounding details don't feel very important right now.
"Can I get you anything?" You offer, hanging your bag on the hook on the back of the door, then latching the deadbolt.
"I'm okay," Trinity hums, the energy between you buzzing but not quite as intense as it was back at Midnight.
It feels like the moment right before you go down a waterslide, Trinity thinks. The anticipation, the rushing water, not knowing exactly the right moment to let go.
You gnaw on your lip, approaching slowly to where she's perched against the wall. You're both glistening in a thin sheen of sweat from all the dancing, but somehow it makes her look even more beautiful. Stripped back and unfiltered.
"You're so pretty, Trin," you murmur, sliding two sets of fingers down the lapel of your jean jacket loosely drooping over her shoulders.
The gloss of your lips has since faded since leaving Shirley's, but Trinity's still curious.
"Can I kiss you?" she asks in a whisper, fingers splaying over your hips.
She's not a doctor right now. Not needed in fifteen different places at once, not triggered constantly by reminders of her own hurt, not clamoring to prove her worth at the detriment of others.
She's just Trinity.
Trin, like you called her.
She hasn't been called that since she was a little girl.
"Please do," you nod, using your hold on the jacket to tug her ever closer.
Trinity's hands slide around to the small of your back, her head angling to the side.
Your first kiss with Trinity is strawberry-vodka-flavored, slow and chirring. She snakes her hands around you, lips slotting over yours.
Trinity's stomach flutters as she deepens the kiss, coaxing out of you the most tender little purr. Her tongue exploratorily requests access into your mouth.
It's all softness and femininity until you pull away because —annoyingly— oxygen is imperative for survival. A string of spit bridges your lips to Trinity's, until she chases after your lips for one last, slow kiss.
Helicopter blades chopper through your insides as you tug your denim jacket off of Trinity's shoulders. The shiny skin of her clavicle catches against the warm glow of the lamp in the corner, her hair spilling over it the same time the jacket hits the floor.
You trace your two fingers under her angular jaw, tilting your head to the side to trail along with your lips.
Trinity's back pancakes against the wall, tipping her own head to the opposite side to grant you better access. Sounds of your lips puckering over her skin fill the shoebox apartment, crowding the walls.
"I didn't think this would…" Trinity speaks in exhales as you ministrate over the column of her throat. "I just thought you were being nice because I got stood up."
You hum indignantly, peeling your lips away to run the tip of your nose under her ear. "I'm berry into you, Trinity," you joke, referencing the drink at the bar and earning a breathy laugh.
"Mmkay, good," Trinity's hands cap your shoulders, squaring your face in front of hers. "Me too."
She backs you into the loveseat propped up on the other wall, cramming her knees into the claustrophobic slots on either side of you once your ass hits the cushion. Straddling you, her hands skate under the fabric of your shirt and across your tummy.
You exchange moans and saliva and these perfect, fleeting little smiles, like you're trying to soak up as much of her as you can before your carriage turns back into a pumpkin.
"Fuck, Trin," you whisper, dazed from a lingering buzz that's only further agonized by her touch.
Her dark hair falls over both of you in a short curtain, her back arched in a feline manner.
"I don't think we should…" she murmurs between kisses before finally withdrawing long enough to look you in the eye. Her thumbs swipe over the apples of her cheeks. "I don't think we should have sex tonight."
The words deflate you, stilling your touch at her hips. Your bottom lip flips out. "You don't want to have sex with me?"
Your disappointment shoots rockets through to Trinity's core. Fuck, your pouting is maybe even more arousing than your advances. "Shit," she whispers, shaking her head. "That's not what I meant. I mean, I don't think we should have sex tonight."
The emphasized tonight tingles at the base of your spine. "I just mean, we've both had alcohol tonight," she explains, trailing her fingers down your bubble braids, pinching the ends affectionately. "And I was… well, you know. I was going to meet somebody else at Shirley's tonight."
"Before they stood you up," you point out, and though it lacks any real bite, the reminder still smarts a little.
"Before they stood me up," Trinity shifts up on her haunches, still effectively pinning you to the loveseat. But now her seafoam eyes are more parallel to yours. "I just… I want us both to be in our right heads," she explains. "I think it'll be really special with you, and I don't want something stupid like a hangover to ruin the memory of it."
Her explanation untangles the tangled telephone cord wrapped around your heart. "Okay," you whisper, rubbing her hips in agreement.
"Okay," Trinity, presses forward, and kisses you again. More tenderly this time, humming softly into your mouth. "Do you want me to go?"
You shake your head. "You could sleep here tonight," you offer, breaking one hand from her hip to thumb along the front drape of her hair. "If you wanted to."
"Do you want me to?" she anchors her forehead against yours. Under the red halter she picked out for someone else, her heart is glowing.
You close your eyes briefly. "Yes, I do."
Trinity borrows a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. She showers, quickly, unable to comprehend that you didn't even exist on her radar until four hours ago. She brushes her teeth with her finger.
You shower after her, then settle into the bed beside her.
It's all very new and exhilarating, but safe and soft and disarming all the same.
You stay up another hour, nose-to-nose, just talking. She tells you about the music she grew up listening to. You rattle off cozy anecdotes about your niece and nephew. Her hand slides up and down your arm, while your thumb draws circle into her hipbone.
It feels like kindergarten, holding out little pieces of yourself without fear that they might be rejected.
When you drift off, tucked into her chest, with her chin in your hair, you don't think this apartment has ever felt so much like home.
Morning ekes in slowly, accompanied with more adoring, swollen kisses, and discovering new, ticklish spots of each other. Then when Trinity finally peels away, you follow her out of the bedroom.
"I'll call you, after work, okay?" She promises, cradling your jaw and kissing you again. She's still in the same bubble she was in last night, drifting alongside you.
It's then that you realize you've never exchanged numbers, so you swap phones to do so.
You tilt Trinity's phone back to her, the contacts app still open.
"What'd you say you did for work?" You ask casually, stretching your arms over your head. A laugh flutters out of you. "Can't even remember if you told me or not."
"I'm a doctor," Trinity explains. "At the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center."
"No kidding!" You exclaim, the surprise in your voice setting off Trinity's spidey sense. "My older brother works there! Or, well, he's kind of… on leave, for now, I guess. What department are you in? Maybe you know him!"
She glances down at her phone, spies your first name, then your last name. Her stomach drops hard and fast.
"Who's your brother," she asks flatly, watching with a festering nausea as you cross the crowded, suddenly too-small, airless room.
You pluck a picture frame from one of the shelves, then present it to her.
Trinity's fingers curls around the picture frame. It's you, a little younger than you are now, locked in an embrace with an imposingly tall, brown-haired man with a friendship bracelet around his wrist and strikingly blue eyes.
"Dr. Frank Langdon," you chirp, tapping your brother's face over the glass of the frame. "Do you know him?"
makin out with loser!ellie — ⚢♡︎☺︎︎ she’s so adorable
kissing , neck kissing , cursing, dry humping — thigh riding , ellie’s a whole mess , praise (sorta), ellie cums her pants. men dni !!
— !
Her whole body felt warm. She couldn’t tell if it was from your body heat or from how worked up she was. She didn’t even know what to do with herself. She couldn’t be still. Her hands were everywhere as you kissed — messy , needy. Her hands roamed subconsciously. Just up and under your shirt, feeling the skin of your stomach. You’d really just climb onto her straddling her thigh. You’d only really been kissing like this for maybe two minutes. But she was already soaked. Embarrassing really.
She let out little sighs as you cupped her jaw, deepening the kiss. Barely even breathing.
You’d kept on like that for little while, like you couldn’t get enough of each other. It didn’t quite register in Ellie’s head right away, that is until she really felt it. Felt you. She kinda froze for a second— then she heard your little moan against her mouth. Her eyes fluttered open, seeing your hips rut against her thigh.
“H—holy shit.” She whispered. Barely even audible to her own ears. She bit back a groan when she felt your lips on her cheek— to her jaw. Eyes closing again.
Her hands found your hips. Not guiding but just feeling as you moved across her thigh. She could already feel the mess her own boxers. She genuinely felt so out of it— mind cloudy with lust. “God— Ellie you’re so hot.” you whisper, breath heavy against her ear. She lets out a sort of groan, her own hips jutting slightly. A poor attempt to ease the ache between her thighs. She was just flushed pink, cheeks arm — chest falling and rising.
The way you humped yourself against her thigh was almost overwhelming for her. She truly was a mess, hearing you continuously whisper sweet nothings in her ears, calling her hot like you weren’t some goddess on her lap.
She was really trying to be a trooper— not trying to feel as pathetic as she looked. But god, you were just so hot , this wa just so hot. She couldn’t help the little things that slipped from her mouth, little curses. But it’s truly over when your lips connect with that sensitive spot on her neck.
“Fuckfuckfuck”
She curses out as her hips twitch, a flush of sticky wetness filling her boxers. Her eyes squeeze shut as she groan, cheeks all flushed. She felt all overwhelmed and hot. After a quick and embarrassing high, she forced herself to open her eyes and look at you.
ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 full fic to . . . having a homoerotic friendship with Jinx
pairing: Jinx x fem!reader, modern au.
# cw. homoerotic friends to ???, soft dom!Jinx x power bottom!reader, bratty!Jinx x softer!reader, codependency, intoxication, double-ended dildo, mutual masturbation, size kink/size queen!Jinx, corruption kink, light degradation + praise, obedience kink-ish, overstimulation, squirting, Jinx gets too greedy, aftercare-ish, smut with plot. mdni .ᐟ.ᐟ
# word count. 7k
ᯓ ☘︎ lucky speaks: this got a bit out of hand, i was aiming for 3k words </3 kinda rushed ending! half proofread. this one goes out to the anon who suggested that Jinx is selfish with her pleasure :3
the thing about Jinx and you is that your friendship isn't normal—not by any sane standard, metric, or rulebook ever written. not when you've already burned through every normal boundary two so-called "roommates" should have.
you circle each other with a heat that polite people would call “chemistry” and honest people would call “foreplay.” you're touchy in that way girls with repressed desires often are—careless, intimate, blisteringly casual. Jinx pads around the apartment half-naked: tank top sliding off one shoulder, little shorts that could qualify as underwear, and you don't even blink anymore. your eyes might flick once—traitors—but you pretend it's casual. you change shirts in front of her, and she doesn't look away. she just pretends—badly—that she's only admiring your bra choice or collarbone or whatever flimsy excuse she can muster that day.
you share baths like it's a water bill strategy, sitting knee-to-knee in a porcelain tub too small for one person, let alone two grown women pretending not to notice how often your calves slide over each other. like shaving each other's legs is some sort of sisterly bonding activity.
she smacks your ass when she needs attention—no warning, palm heavy, echoing in the hallway—and you retaliate with a hit so hard her thigh tattoo jiggles. she calls you a slut, you call her a whore; and somehow, it lands sweeter than any "good morning" or "i love you" you don't dare say out loud ever could.
it's absurd, borderline perverted, and deeply codependent—but it's working for you. this is affection, apparently. it keeps you both fed in a way normalcy never could. and for the most part, you get away with it; neither of you acknowledges the heat simmering quietly under every touch, nor the way your shared baths grow longer, slower, full of casual nudity that doesn't feel casual at all once the steam starts clinging to the walls like a witness.
your friends pull you aside and ask how you “put up with her.” their tone always shifts—curious, confused, a little nosy—because they’ve seen the way she crowds you in doorways, the way you adjust her necklace for her, the way she tugs you onto her lap at parties half-joking, half-not. they ask why she bites your shoulder when she’s bored. they ask why you let her.
Jinx gets questions, too. people ask if you’re “a thing.” she laughs like the idea is ridiculous, even though she never denies it outright. she just shrugs and says, “we’re close,” which is a lie lacking even the respect of effort.
according to everyone else, you’re either fucking, denying that you’re fucking, or about to start fucking any second now.
"you ever think that if we were straight, people wouldn't be so obsessed with whether or not we're sleeping together?" you asked once, lost in thought, watching her take a rather ambitious hit from her bong.
"oh, we'd fuck if we were straight," she replied, voice hoarse as she coughed through smoke. "just less cutely.”
"we're not cute."
"we're fucking adorable."
and that was that. she said it like it was the simplest fact in the world. somehow, that ended the conversation—though it answered absolutely nothing.
your degeneration begins, as most scientific breakthroughs do, with online rabbit holes and questionable sobriety.
you're cross-faded, dangerous in that specific way only two girls who know each other's schedules, traumas, and bra sizes can be. you're idly stroking the ends of her hair, wearing nothing but panties and an oversized shirt you definitely stole from her laundry pile. she's wearing a pair of soft shorts and no bra, nipples visible through the fabric of her crop top and absolutely not a problem for anyone involved. you're both flushed, stupid and pliable from mixing THC and cheap sangria. you end up on your stomachs without even meaning to, slowly sliding off the couch like wax slipping off a candle, until you're sprawled on the floor in front of Jinx's laptop. it feels juvenile, like a middle school sleepover where you're googling things your parents would have killed you for.
except you're adults, and this is much, much worse.
the search history starts tame: "worst tattoos ever," "can you microdose nutmeg," and a few subreddits you'll regret opening. but the real fun begins when Jinx opens pornhub like she's pulling up a recipe for banana bread.
the carpet is soft beneath you, shoulders touching, legs kicking behind you in lazy little motions, mirroring each other's rhythm like a pair of bonded siamese cats and betraying your excitement. she clicks on the first video she sees, and something softcore loads: two girls on a bed, all sighs and colorful lighting but nothing explicit yet. barely porn by internet standards, really, but you both giggle into your hands anyway, like two corrupted schoolgirls sneaking "girls kissing" on the family computer.
and then it devolves—beautifully. somewhere between the second and third video, you morph into the most insufferable pair of sex critics the world has ever spawned.
"no lube? rookie move."
"her nails are way too long for this. she's gonna core her like a fucking apple."
"he needs to shut up. and shave his ass."
"mute him. immediately."
"no one needs a close-up like that. seriously! nobody needs a panoramic shot of swinging balls."
you're choking on laughter, bumping into each other every time one of you shakes too hard. at some point, Jinx's chin hooks over your shoulder, her breath warm against your skin as she steadies herself on you. your foot hooks behind her ankle in response, thoughtless and intimate.
somewhere in the haze of poor lighting, bad acting, and fake orgasms, you lose track of how many videos you've critiqued. obviously neither of you is going to admit that you went from mocking the performers to actually watching—that would be healthy. you're definitely not giggling because the girl's face looks really pretty when she moans. you're definitely not pressing your thighs together because the rhythm is doing something inconveniently effective. you're definitely not shifting your hips against the carpet with a little too much intention, searching for a hint of friction.
this is fun. this is platonic. this is just two friends doing dumb shit on a friday night.
sure.
you're pretending, because that's what you're best at.
but pretending doesn't stand a chance against the algorithm, because a toy appears in the next video—a cute-looking rabbit vibrator—and Jinx perks up like a meerkat spotting danger on the horizon.
"woah, pause," she blurts, grabbing your wrist and dragging the laptop closer. "zoom in. no, go back—there!" her manicured finger taps against the screen with the kind of excitement that has historically led you both into terribly wonderful decisions. "that one actually seems fun. how much do you think it is?"
"you're joking."
she isn't. you know she isn't—her pupils are too big, her voice too soft, her interest too real. and that's the exact moment everything starts going downhill in high definition, because of course you google the brand and manage to click yourselves straight into an adult store homepage overflowing with silicone just to satiate her needs.
suddenly, the screen becomes an erotic fever dream with flashing neon banners and lube bottles sorted by flavor. the categories bloom across the header in bold fonts:
"what the fuck," you whisper to yourself, mildly horrified.
"what the fuck," she echoes, but with the delighted awe of a kid in a candy store. she's already scrolling like the investigator she pretends to be, nodding to herself. "ooh—gift cards! makes christmas shopping easier," she chirps.
you inhale sharply, like someone witnessing a car crash you cannot look away from, when you spot a section titled "UNUSUAL FRIENDS," featuring alien dicks and jelly-like appendages with suction cups—products that look less like sex toys and more like sci-fi movie props.
"Jinx, holy fuck. why are there so many ridges?" you gasp, jabbing a finger at a chartreuse tentacle with a price tag so high it should come with dinner and aftercare. you bury your face in the carpet, groaning into the fibers.
"there are too many ridges," she agrees solemnly, rubbing circles into your back like that might help.
you scroll further into the best-sellers: Jinx hums approvingly as glass plugs roll into view, then lets out a low whistle at a sleek, vibrating wand she was not-so-secretly considering for herself two weeks ago.
"you were eyeing that one," you point out, unable to hide the amused glint in your eyes.
"yeah," she admits, shameless, "but the shipping sucked."
then you hit the glitter section—sparkling dildos promising a "magical experience," as if the fairy godmother manufactures fake cocks on the side.
"no one's hole is that ambitious," you mutter.
she doesn't even miss a beat. "speak for yourself."
you smack her arm, she smacks your ass, and balance is restored to the universe.
fifteen minutes pass in a blur of silicone, sizing guides, and color options. you get distracted comparing thicknesses, she gets lost comparing vibration patterns; you both get derailed by something labeled "the diplomat."
"i refuse to understand who this is for."
"diplomats, obviously," she deadpans, scrolling away before you have to think about it too hard. she flattens her palm on the carpet, turning to you like she's about to make an announcement. "okay. we pick something just for ourselves, nothing weird. self-care, right?"
"right," you nod, trying not to visibly swallow your own heartbeat. "because we're mature."
you scroll at a cautious pace, cursor hovering over something gentle, pastel, subtle—curved just right, designed for comfort, pretty in that quietly humiliating way that reveals far too much about who you are behind closed doors.
you click it curiously.
Jinx sees.
Jinx pounces.
"awww, look at you," she croons, sliding closer like she's drawn by the scent of embarrassment, "sweet little princess picking her baby dildo."
"some of us have functioning pelvic floors," you reply flatly, giving her a lazy shove. she uses the momentum to burrow in even more, chin hooking over your shoulder again, arms half-wrapped around your waist like she's claiming real estate.
"ohhh, that's how you wanna play it?" she murmurs, nosing at your skin. she's all warmth and limbs and cheap sangria breath as she laughs into your neck.
this isn't new.
this isn't strange.
this is just… Jinx. touchy on a normal day, unbearable when she's high.
"get off," you mutter, not even pretending to mean it.
your denial has no spine.
Jinx has never minded exploiting that.
"mhmm," she hums, not listening at all, already dragging the freckled bridge of her nose along your jaw. "knew you'd go for the soft one." she presses a teasing kiss just below your ear, light and obnoxiously knowing. her fingers curl around your hip, tugging you in. "i bet you like everything soft and gentle, hm?" she whispers, voice dropping into something hot and mean. another kiss, closer to your throat. she bites, gently, just because she can. "you melt for that shit. slow and nice and sweet—"
"please shut up." you roll your eyes—not because you disagree, but because she's right and you refuse to give her the satisfaction. your head tilts anyway, giving her more room.
she grins against your skin, practically purring, soaking in your reaction like it's her favorite narcotic. when she finally pulls back—just far enough to breathe, not far enough to give you proper space—she sits up and immediately selects something arrogant in size for herself, like she's got something to prove.
"you can't be serious," you whisper, almost in awe, blinking at the toy on the screen. "babe, that's a colonoscopy if you slip it in wrong."
she wiggles her eyebrows in response. "i like a challenge." and then, because she can't help herself, she dips back in and plants another kiss to the crook of your neck—mocking, adoring, filthy in intention but playful in delivery. "what? too big for you?" she asks dumbly, all mock innocence. "you picked your cute little pastel training wheels. i want this."
she knows exactly what she's doing. it's not a boast as much as it is a performance—a demonstration of exactly what kind of girl she is, just in case you still had any doubts. she wants you to imagine it: her struggling to take it, sweating and splitting herself open on colorful silicone and still not giving up until she's overstuffed, whining into her pillow. she wants you to know she's stubborn enough, needy enough, capable. she wants the idea to stick to your brain and rot there.
"don't worry. i'll leave the delicate stuff to you," she murmurs, lips brushing along your pulse, "let me handle the heavy lifting."
"you're fucking insufferable," you groan, but your hand drifts up to her hair all the same, giving her scalp an indulging scratch that makes her melt into you with a low, pleased sound.
"and yet," she murmurs, voice smug and velvet-soft right against your ear, "you're still letting me talk shit."
and for a while, everything is pleasant, manageable—just two girls buying masturbation supplies. you browse, you debate colors and sizes and shapes like you're picking an accent pillow. between the warmth of her body pressed along your back and the slow pulse of the laptop light, you almost forget you're shopping for things meant to make you shake and moan. if the universe had mercy, it would let you stay in this small illusion.
but because curiosity is a slippery creature, it does what it always does with the two of you: mutates into depravity.
Jinx scrolls, pauses, then scrolls back up. her finger hovers over a category neither of you has acknowledged yet—intentionally avoided, even.
"you ever used a double-ended dildo?" her voice comes out too airy and casual to be anything but interest hiding under a joke.
"where the fuck did that come from?"
"we're looking at sex toys," she says with a helpless shrug, as if that explains everything. "my brain is doing its job."
"so is mine," you say dryly. "and it's telling me you're about to say something stupid."
"okay but seriously," she presses, turning onto her side to face you fully. "have you?"
"no," you answer simply, refusing to give her any foothold. "why? you need someone to practice on?"
"bitch." she pinches your thigh sharp enough to make you jerk. "i'm just saying. seems fun."
you scoff, pretending the heat isn't already pooling low while trying to play it cool. "for who?"
"for us. obviously." she scoffs, like it's the dumbest question you've ever asked.
"yeah, okay. sure. because that's casual."
"it can be casual," Jinx insists, far too confident, far too earnest for someone suggesting a shared silicone toy. "like brushing each other's hair… but sluttier."
you stare at her. she stares back, unblinking, dead serious in the most unserious way you've seen since the day she moved in with three boxes and a promise to "never bring weird shit into the apartment."
lie number one of many.
"this is the worst metaphor anyone has ever said to me."
"what? you think women in ancient greece weren't—"
"i got the message. stop talking."
she snickers, nudging your shoulder with hers like you're in on the joke instead of actively drowning in it. "hypothetically speaking," she tries again, "if we got one—"
"hypothetically."
"hypothetically," she repeats with an exaggerated nod, holding up a finger with solemn dignity that means absolutely nothing coming from her.
"uh-uh." you sigh, already exhausted. "and what color would this hypothetical… shared dick be?"
"blue," Jinx replies instantly. "as god intended."
"you just want it to match your aesthetic. pink is literally the universal dildo color."
"boob punch incoming if you keep that up."
and suddenly, the adult store homepage doesn't feel so harmless anymore. neither do the categories. neither do the toys. neither do her eyes when she peers at you and says, "we could look at them, y'know."
everything after that happens too fast, too stupid to track—a blackout made of adrenaline and shared intoxication. you're aware of flashes, maybe: her hair brushing your cheek, your hand accidentally covering hers on the trackpad. a pink option. a blue one. her saying, "that's cute," and you mumbling, "that's nicer."
time stretches, collapses, folds in on itself. you come to, like waking up from a trance, and there it is: a pink-and-blue double-ended dildo sitting in the cart. a compromise, a diplomatic solution—like it fucking matters. as if the color would change anything about the fact that you're ordering a shared dick specifically designed to be inside both of you at once. as if the soft fade from cotton candy pink to electric blue is going to matter once you're both split open on it. as if a stupid silicone hue would distract either of you from the fact that you're ready to ruin your entire, already-rotting friendship over joint penetration.
Jinx's thumb finally hovers over the checkout button. "say please."
"for what?"
"for me to buy us a shared dick. c'mon."
"Jinx, i'm not begging for—"
"you're scared."
"of what? your pussy?"
"you should be."
click.
order confirmed.
your doom is sealed, boxed, and en route.
the world doesn't explode. no alarms go off. no divine being descends to slap the laptop out of your hands—unfortunately. you just lie there, side by side, high out of your minds while the order confirmation number glows in front of you.
because now there's a dildo—three, technically—hurtling toward your apartment through the miracle of express shipping, and you both know exactly what that could mean if you weren't cowards.
it arrives exactly three days later, in a discreet brown box—plain, innocent, offensively unlabelled. the universe hands you plausible deniability on a silver platter; the postal worker, however, drops it against the door with a thud that sounds like judgment.
"special delivery," Jinx announces as she carries it in. "our friendship just got balls-deep."
you follow her into the kitchen, scrunching your nose as you peer over her shoulder. she grabs a knife and slices the tape open, peeling the cardboard flaps back.
and suddenly there's too much inside.
three toys: the two personal ones you each picked, tucked neatly in their boxes… and the main attraction. the double-ended dildo sits nestled in tissue paper, pink melting into blue with a dreamy and romantic softness that not only mocks you both, but contrasts with the thickness itself.
you both stare at your purchase, heads tilting in tandem.
definitely bigger in person.
"wow," you manage, a bit breathless already. "that's… optimistic."
"still scared of it?" she asks, annoyingly gentle.
"i just think it looks…" you mutter, gesturing vaguely, "a little too eager."
"i like it eager," she replies, with the confidence of a woman who's absolutely planning to break herself on it.
"i didn't think you'd actually—"
"you literally held my hand while i checked out," Jinx reminds you—not even smug, just factual.
you clear your throat and slide it back into the box like you're taming a snake. you both drag it into her nightstand like it weighs sixty pounds of suppressed desire and shove it inside—out of sight, not even remotely out of mind.
the next few days pass in denial. you pretend it's funny, she pretends she's not waiting. you try not to think about the thickness, or the way the silicone probably gives under pressure, or how your bodies would move against each other. she keeps picking it up at inopportune times—asking your opinion on angles, positions, storage. you argue over what lube counts as "neutral."
still, neither of you says no.
and the longer it sits untouched, the harder it becomes to pretend it was just a joke.
much harder than taking it ever would be.
everything comes to a halt on a saturday—rainy, boring, insomniac-heavy. Jinx is already high, sprawled upside down with her legs hooked over the headboard, flicking her zippo open and closed in an absentminded rhythm. her shirt has rucked up over her ribs, exposing a stretch of soft, pale stomach and the freckles scattered across her hips like sugar someone spilled just to tempt you. you're sitting cross-legged on the floor, pretending you're not staring at the curve of her waist every time she shifts.
you're not even talking about sex—just bad exes and worse sexts. how both of you have better luck getting off by yourselves. how dating is exhausting, how hookups are awkward, how lately it just feels easier to not bother.
"i haven't come with someone in, like… over a year," you admit, voice small and blunt in the low light.
"what?" she blinks at you, lighter clicking shut with finality. "babe, that's negligence."
"takes too long." you shrug, rubbing your thumb along your calf. "and i hate pretending."
she studies you, and the upside down angle does nothing to soften her expression. "you wouldn't have to pretend with me," she points out simply.
"Jinx—"
"i'm just saying!" she rolls herself upright with a lazy twist, hair messy, eyes slitted with something sharper than weed. she crawls to the edge of the bed, sitting right behind you, peering over your shoulder like she's reading your pulse. "i'm practically your best friend, right? i'd trust you to make me come. easy."
you turn your head slightly, just enough to see her in your periphery, heartbeat tripping over itself. she doesn't smile yet—just watches you, waiting for your brain to catch up.
"that's not what i—you can't just say things like that," you manage, conflicted.
"why not?" she asks softly. her voice has changed—lower, smoother, threaded with something warm enough to curl around your ribs. she shifts off the bed, landing quietly on her knees behind you. her presence wraps around you like heat, legs bracketing your hips without quite touching. her hands come to rest lightly on your shoulders, thumbs brushing slow arcs into your skin—testing, wordlessly asking. "i'm serious," she murmurs into your ear, making your skin prickle. "you hate pretending. i hate pretending. feels like an obvious solution."
oh, the irony. the staggering, ridiculous irony—pretending is all you've ever done with her. your entire friendship is a performance; touchier than friends, cleaner than lovers, stitched together with denial and long looks you both refuse to name.
and now she says she's tired of it, like you both didn't build your whole dynamic on it. you're not sure whether to laugh or scream or call her out on it.
but the hypocrisy tastes sweet coming from her mouth.
"that's not fair…"
"hey," Jinx soothes, fingers sliding from your shoulders to your upper arms, slow enough to feel intentional but not indecent just yet. "you said it yourself. it's hard with other people. too much pressure, too much bullshit."
you simply nod, small and helpless, because you can't seem to do anything else.
"but not with me," she continues, voice dripping with something unbearably coaxing and decadent. "i know you. you wouldn't have to fake a thing." she leans in, chest to your back, her breath ghosting down the side of your neck. "i could help you… if you wanted."
a beat, then another. her hands glide down your arms again, stopping just above your elbows—gentle, deliberate, grounding.
"i can do it for you," she adds, softer this time, as if she's afraid you'll spook if she pushes too hard. "you deserve someone who actually pays attention."
you swallow—too hard, too loud—but at least the sound means your throat is still working.
"i'd pay attention. i'd make it good," she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear lightly. "you know i would."
"fuck," you breathe out involuntarily, and she exhales like the sound of you needing her is its own high.
"mhmm," Jinx hums, smiling into your neck. "i can do it for you." her fingers skate down your sides, slow and teasing, until her hands curve around your waist, drawing you back into her in a soft-bodied claim. "we already have the toy."
the words go off inside you like a shot. your stomach flips violently, thighs pressing together before you can stop them, and she tightens her grip on you just a fraction, just enough to tell you she liked it.
"yeah," she breathes, her teeth grazing your jaw like it's taking everything in her to hold back. "it'll just be you and me, like always." her hands slide slowly up your waist, fingertips pressing into the most sensitive spots she has no business of knowing this well. "tell me you don't want that."
you can't speak. you can barely breathe, really. your whole body is trembling now, betraying you as you lean back, practically offering yourself to her.
"or…" her voice drops into a velvety kind of whisper, like she knows what comes next, "tell me to keep going."
you strip because she does; Jinx strips because she's been waiting for the excuse. the second her shirt comes off, she looks lighter, energized. her shorts drop to the floor, and she kicks them away with ridiculous enthusiasm. her body is a map you know well: the scattered freckles on her chest, the faint scars across her thighs, marks you've noticed a hundred times but somehow feel new under this lighting.
and when she drops her panties, there's the bush—slightly darker than her hair, shaved down into a cute little heart. a blue heat-center you're not supposed to care about.
you're trying to look calm, but your skin feels too tight, every breath a little too sharp. there's nothing unfamiliar about the nudity, but this is different—this is intent, stripping for each other, stripping for sex.
you set the rules almost too quickly: ass to ass, no kissing, also known as the commandments of cowards. because it can't be too intimate, obviously; it can't look like what it actually is. it's not about you after all, right? it's about… curiosity, biology, friction.
the lube is cold as Jinx warms it between her palms, but her hands are shaking with how badly she wants this—wants you, wants this boundary erased, wants the physical proof that she was always right about the two of you. you lie on your side, already soaked, rubbing gentle circles over your clit—enough to take the edge off while keeping yourself aching. she watches openly, unblinking and pupils blown, like seeing your body react is something she's wanted for months.
"if we go ass to ass," she finally says, coating both ends of the dildo with just enough lube, like she's been practicing on fantasies of you, "then it's not, like… intimate intimate."
"you mean if we don't make eye contact while we fuck each other at the same time?"
"exactly!" she beams, almost giddy. "it's practically platonic."
your laugh breaks halfway through, dissolving into a helpless sound you don't want her to hear. you eventually end up on all fours: face down, backs turned, knees digging into the mattress, toy heavy and slick in your hands.
"okay," Jinx breathes, settling behind you, crouched and buzzing with anticipation, "on the count of three."
you nod, though your head is spinning. she's excited—genuinely, stupidly excited—because to her, this is a door she's been secretly pressing her weight against for months, waiting for the slightest give.
and tonight, you've opened it for her. this moment? this setup? this is the closest she's ever been to getting what she's wanted from you.
"one."
"two."
"three—wait!" she suddenly bursts into cackles. "are we going in together or, like… alternating? i feel like we need a traffic system."
"Jinx!" you whine,spine arching involuntarily, nearly collapsing forward. "please."
"right, right. shutting up."
liar.
you feel dizzy before it even starts. your thighs tremble as you press back slowly, guiding the blunt head in, letting it nudge you open with a faint whimper. you freeze for a split second, humiliated by your own voice. it's not instant pleasure—it's too big for that, too much. "shit," you whisper, your movements shallow and tentative.
"cute when you swear."
"you're already pushing it."
"i'm pushing it, alright."
behind you, Jinx grunts softly—a sound so hungry it tells you she's already taking more than she should, already pushing herself further than you are. you can only imagine it: pink folds dwarfed by the sheer thickness of the toy, taking inch after inch like she's starving for it, hazy-eyed. you don't have to look at her to know it.
"fuuuck, you feel that?" her voice is all grit, low and wild. "i forgot how good that is."
she hasn't; she just likes saying it out loud. she likes reminding you what kind of girl she is—soaked, sensitive, cockdrunk the second something's inside her. she wants you to hear it. she wants her own filth to rub off on you, like a sick little claim.
"this is—" she laughs under her breath, delighted and disgusting all at once, "—so fucked. even for us."
you're too busy gasping into your palm to answer, trembling as you take more. every time you try to steady yourself, another ripple of sensation knocks you off balance, punching moans out of you at the worst moments. and Jinx is eating it up. she's the first to start moving properly, grinding back slow and low, making the dildo push forward, forcing it deeper into you and bridging you both. she's loving this—the stretch, the pressure, the greedy fullness. it hits something inside her brain like a switch every time. no one else knows that, but she hopes you do—she wants you to.
you whine, hand slipping between your legs to rub fast, wet circles over your throbbing clit, walls fluttering frantically as they struggle to adjust.
"you're fucking tight, huh?" Jinx rasps, voice cracking around the edges of a laugh she’s too far gone to swallow. she fucks herself down on the toy with more force that necessary, grinning through it, wanting to feel you flinch underneath every slam of her hips. she's always been the impatient one, a greedy little whore when it comes to sensation; so she rolls her hips back harder, meaner, gasping when the stretch doubles through the toy, knowing full well that every thrust slams right back into you.
she’s bullying your g-spot over and over, wanting to push you, overwhelm you, watch you fall apart faster than her; she's enjoying your struggle even more than her own pleasure. she loves how much power she has over you, how she can make your voice stutter and your thoughts go fuzzy just from being a little selfish.
"poor baby can't take it already?” her tone is pure corruption—soft, mocking, coaxing, loving the way your breath stutters every time she speaks. “god, you’re adorable.”
"don't… don't say that—"
"mmh," she groans, pleased and vicious all at once. "knew it. knew you'd be like this."
"like what?" you manage, though your voice is shaking.
"like everything i imagined," she whispers. "sweet, overwhelmed. trying so hard to keep up."
you let out another broken sound, strangled and humiliating, and she shudders behind you—a full-body reaction she doesn't bother hiding.
"yeah," she pants, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "give me that. let me hear you."
you don't even notice how frantic your movements have become until the bed starts creaking with the motion, but you both keep grinding, fucked full on either end of the same dripping thing. your knees spread wider, backs bowing further and further as you keep chasing the spot that'll make your vision swim. the toy finally gives and bottoms out, leaving no room to pretend. it disappears between you and forces your pussies to press close, flushed lips parting against each other from the pressure.
Jinx registers it first and lets out a filthy little giggle, bottom lip happily caught between her teeth. "clits are kissing," she points out. "that's so fucking cute."
you choke on a moan, entire body tensing as you try to pull forward, but the dildo is buried—locking you in place, folds rubbing against hers, wet and swollen. "Jinx! just… shut the fuck up—"
"don't move!" she pants, voice high, panic and exhilaration tangled together. "don't you fucking dare—this is perfect."
"Jinx, please… fuck!”
"you feel that, right? feel how wet we are?" she rocks her hips in deliberate circles as if to emphasize her point. your juices mix, sticky and hot between your mashed folds, clits making out together with each thrust. "that's your slick on my clit. you're soaking me."
you're gone—grinding, whining, barely keeping yourself upright as your nails dig into the colorful sheets beneath you. "it's too much… s'too deep, i can't—"
"nuh-uh. you'll take it," she snaps, hips slamming back, wanting to feel you buckle under her. "you'll learn to take it. right here, with me."
you try to keep the rhythm, but Jinx has no sense of moderation, no concept of pacing. you're both moving, sure, but she's the one dragging you into her tempo, like you're an accessory to her pleasure. she's bouncing a little now—short, fast thrusts that make the toy slap wetly between you, obscene in the otherwise quiet apartment. of course she's not even trying to hold back; she's not built for restraint. not when she can feel the toy tug and push with every needy grind of her hips.
and the whole time, she’s loud on purpose. not performative—Jinx doesn’t do fake. but she doesn’t bite back a single moan, not one strained whimper, not a breathy curse. she lets every sound spill out of her, messy and unfiltered, because she knows you can hear her. because she wants you to. she’s loud because she wants you undone by the fact that she’s getting off on you.
it's making you lose composure faster than you want to; you need something to cling to while she's ruining you from behind so easily without even looking. you're overwhelmed, dizzy and trembling, but something about that intensity feels right, like she's pressing buttons you didn't know you had. you reach back blindly, hand fumbling for purchase until it finds her thigh, fingers digging into the soft and creamy flesh to ground yourself. her whole body jumps at the contact, driving the dildo deeper. her brain is pure static by now, near delirious, but she lives for this—you being full, stretched, used, needing her.
your sounds build: moans layered, breaths stuttering, skin slapping, slick squelching. "you sound so fucked out," she giggles, eyes wide and unfocused. "i haven't even touched you." but then she grabs for you, too—one hand gripping the soft meat of your ass, anchoring herself and driving harder. "mmph—harder! c'mon, sweet girl."
you obey before you can think, hand clawing into her hip now, yanking her back. the sound she makes when she feels you commit nearly undoes you. her eyes roll back, and your name starts falling from her lips like a mantra—over and over between high-pitched moans and sobs of pleasure. she tries to touch herself, tries to stay ahead of the sensation, and you can hear how sloppy it is. she's chasing the kind of friction that only makes things overstimulating; she twitches away from her own touch, then forces herself right back into the feeling like she refuses to slow down.
"there you go. good fucking girl," she breathes proudly, voice breaking on a whimper. "you're not—mmph—used to this, huh? bet you're loving it anyway."
she's losing to her own greed, and you're losing to the desperate need to keep up with her, to not disappoint her. you want to be the one who can keep up with the girl who never holds back.
"fuckfuckfuck—i'm right there, m'gonna come—don't stop—"
you beat her to it when your body arches, mouth opening in a silent scream, thighs clenching as your orgasm rips through you—hot and humiliating, gushing around the toy as your pussy sucks it in with each spasm. Jinx groans behind you, hips jerking back with a final slap, pressing your asses flush. she arches and clings to the headboard, face crumpled, borderline sobbing through the unforgiving release as her cunt clenches hard around the other end.
and then you hear it—a heavy, squirting sound as more wetness pools between your locked bodies, soaking the back of your thighs and darkening the sheets beneath you. "oh—fuck—oh my god—" she chokes out, half-laughing, half-crying, the sound coming out wrecked and startled, drunk on her orgasm. "i—gah—i didn't—holy shit!"
you let out a prolonged moan, grinding faintly through the aftershocks as relief floods your body like never before. your releases coat the toy, sticking between your folds in a shared mess—there's no way to tell whose slick is whose anymore. but while you're already done, already whimpering, shaking and breathless, Jinx keeps moving.
"Jinx, wait! shit—" you gasp, but the words barely come out, dissolving into a violent twitch. "m'too sensitive—"
"just a little more… please, don't pull away yet," she whines, only half-apologetic as she tightens her grip and holds you in place.
relentless. greedy. selfish.
because if she still can, she will.
her hips roll back into yours, sticky cunt smearing against yours, toy still buried so deep it squelches when she moves. you feel her clit throbbing right against yours, making you mewl faintly into the pillow, helpless.
"be good," she whimpers, almost pleadingly. "i don't even wanna come—just wanna—"
you try to bear it, to stay with her through the last of it, but your body betrays you, fucked open and raw—you're flinching, toes curled, pussy fluttering around the toy in overstimulated panic. it's the sound of your wet, ruined sob that finally cracks something open in Jinx.
she lets go, hand going slack and falling from your hip, chest heaving. you slump forward at the loss of your anchor, only dragging the toy along your sensitive walls, face buried in the sheets. she peers over her shoulder, dazed and blinking, suddenly aware of how tightly she held on, how hard she came, how much she took.
she pulls the dildo out of you first, movements gentle and careful as to not stimulate you further, before slipping it out of herself with a wet pop and tossing it aside.
"shit, i'm sorry. i didn't—i got carried away. are you—” her voice cracks, the apology tangling itself into something almost scared. "are you okay?"
you can't answer immediately; your lungs don't work yet. your entire body is shuddering as the overstimulation riots under your skin. everything feels too hot, too bright, too intense… but not bad. not wrong.
she inches closer, but not enough to crowd you—just enough that you can feel her warmth at your back, uncertain, guilty, waiting for the verdict like she expects you to flinch.
“sweetheart,” she tries again, barely audible, “talk to me. please.”
it takes a full, shaking breath before you can form any sound at all. then another breath before the sound turns into a laugh—soft, cracked, delirious. you lift your head and let out a stunned, breathless giggle that makes your shoulders shake. “Jinx,” you manage, voice wrecked beyond dignity, “holy shit.”
she blinks, startled. “that's not an answer.”
you laugh again—a messy, fucked out little sound—and flop onto your side, facing away so she doesn’t see the stupid smile stretching your lips. “i’m okay,” you pant, still trembling. “i’m… jesus. i'm okay. that was just—” you swallow, cheeks burning, “—a lot.”
Jinx exhales like she’s been underwater. for the first time since the high swallowed her, she lets her hand rest on your bare back—light, cautious, trembling with the leftover adrenaline. "you fucking scared me. i thought i overdid it."
you shake your head, still giggling weakly. "i'm just fried. need a second."
she lets out a shaky breath that sounds like relief and something more awestruck. “you sure?” she asks, softer.
you finally look back at her, eyes heavy, lips parted, expression stupidly dazed. “Jinx,” you whisper, “that was insane.”
her whole posture melts. the guilt, the panic, the tension? it all drains at once, replaced by a grin that’s half proud, half disbelieving, all Jinx. “yeah?” she murmurs, settling beside you like she’s afraid to jostle you. “yeah… it kinda was.”
she moves closer, cunt still throbbing faintly from her orgasm, lips wet and shiny from drooling just the tiniest bit in the heat of it all. she tucks her face into your neck, nose against the soft warmth of your skin, breathing you in like you're the only real thing left in the world. she's soft, completely undone in a way she usually doesn't let anyone see. your fingers trail up her spine, gentle, stroking like you're afraid she might disappear if you press too hard, heart still stuttering against your ribs.
you both know where you are—the after. the part where the rules get reassembled as if they still matter. the part where you should laugh it off and pretend it didn't mean anything.
but Jinx isn't moving. she's not making a joke. she's not hiding. she stays curled into you, hovering close, mouth brushing the line of your jaw. and when you turn your head just enough to meet her eyes, you can see the ruined look in her face—burning but tender, like she's seeing you for the first time and it's too much to handle.
her voice comes out hoarse, a whisper against your mouth when she speaks again.
"i"m gonna break the rule."
theres barely time to breathe before she does.
she kisses you like she's been waiting forever, slow and deep, lips parting with the softest sigh as her tongue slides in, tentative but smooth. you open for her instantly, hand sliding to her cheek, pulling her closer, bodies already pressed together but suddenly not close enough. you kiss like cats drink milk—long, slow licks, tongues brushing in the softest glide, breaths catching with every shifts. she whimpers into it, hips grinding just once against your thigh like she can't help herself. you moan back, licking softly into her mouth, like tasting her there is simply a continuation of everything you had already done.
and maybe this is kind of intimate.
but not like that, right?
— divider by @/cursed-carmine !!
how it feels to write smut sometimes. i physically cannot drop them in the middle of it with no context or buildup. next thing i’m posting will be bite-sized i am TIRED.
— says girl who is doing this to herself for the love of the game
summary: after a summer of watching you and robin, steve decides to play cupid. 3.8k words PART1
warnings: kissing, making out, underage drinking. notes: this is long and messy. the title from august by taylor swift has actually nothing to do with the story.
Ever since the fourth, Robin was set on spending the summer at your house — movie nights teaching Steve about good movies; hanging out in his room just whispering so you wouldn’t hear from the other side of the wall; dipping in the pool sometimes.
You never minded it, Steve made sure to include you too, even if they were going out, and even if he wasn’t so nice about it.
“Ice cream, car in two minutes. ‘M picking up Robin, you coming?” He’d ask after opening your door without knocking, leaving you to freak out and try to change into something that wasn’t an old t-shirt of his.
By August, it had gotten to the point where Robin would show up even if Steve wasn’t home yet. “Oh, he said he’d be home by eight, I’ll just wait”, she’d said. And it was those moments where you got to know each other.
You’d offer a snack, maybe something to drink and you’d talk, while secretly hoping your brother would take longer than intended. You would sometimes even notice how she stumbled over her words or bounced her leg; but that was just how she always was.
One of those times, Steve got home and Robin was rambling about something you didn’t understand, and he definitely caught that when he walked into the living room.
“Rob,” he called out, finally stopping her “my room, now”
“Alright, Harrington junior, I’ve been summoned for a terrible date debrief”
“What the hell, Robin? You’re talking her ear off” he whisper-yelled at her, “you were better than this when met”
“Well, it was all a façade, Steven, I’m not half as cool as you painted me to be. I’m hopeless” she threw herself on his bed. “Why do you even care anyway?”
“Hey, it’s you or high school guys. I would rather if it’s you.”
By the end of summer, a friend invited you to a party, just a house party before school started. You decided to bring it up while Steve was in the room, being casual about it.
“You should go, Rob”
“Me? I don’t do parties” she said, voice cracking and high-pitched.
“That’s because you’ve never been invited, nerd. Luckily, I’ve made this one” he gestured towards you, “popular enough to be invited. You should go. Together. I’ll drive you” he smiled.
So, days later, Robin was knocking on your bedroom door because you promised to do her hair and make up.
“Make yourself comfortable, I’m still freaking out a bit over my clothes. I don’t know if I like this skirt. What do you think?”
“I think it looks good. You look great, actually”
Robin felt like burying herself alive immediately, but you smiled, even blushed a little. “Thanks. But, I know I have another skirt that will look better.”
You looked through your closet again and again until you found the denim skirt. Then you stopped, thought for a second — would this be too in the face? Robin had seen you in every single one of your swimsuits and your big shirt should cover you enough.
“Do you mind?”
Robin shook her head almost too quickly and tried to look away, look at anything else in your room, but her eyes quickly drifted back to you. The way you shimmed and moved to take the skirt off and bent over to pick it up from the floor. Before slipping the other one on.
She kept watching as you moved to the mirror, taking your time to tuck the shirt in, make sure everything was sitting right.
“Right, does this one look better?”
Robin agreed, wiping her hands on her jeans, still trying to be casual about being in your bedroom. You talked as you finished your hair and make up, and she watched the way your mouth parted when you did mascara.
Then you moved on to her hair. Sat her in front of your vanity, gently running fingers through her hair as the curling iron heated and she felt like melting into your touch. And when your nails dragged against her scalp to section the hair she shivered — and you noticed.
“Sensitive?” you teased. She nodded.
You tried not to think about it as you started curling her hair, nothing much, just to give it some volume. You couldn’t help but watch her through the mirror. Meanwhile, Robin was desperately trying to find something normal to talk about and that’s when her brain completely shuts down.
From the corner of her eye, she spotted an old Little Women copy on a shelf.
“Do you think Amy marrying Laurie was bitchy of her?”
The sudden question took you off guard, making you touch the hot iron for a second, just long enough gasp. “What?”
“You know, Amy just shows up at the right place at the right time and steals the guy that’s been in love with her sister forever.”
You gasped again, this time at her ridiculous interpretation. “That’s not what happened. She didn’t steal anyone. She was in love with him and Jo had turned him down.”
“So you think Jo is better off with the french guy?”
“I think Jo was better off on her own, writing and caring for her family. She didn’t need men” you stood your ground, defending both characters.
“But Laurie, you don’t think he’s a dick?”
“The book is not about Laurie” Robin watched your face carefully through the mirror, almost studying your expression. “So you hate him!”
Robin looked at you in the mirror, holding eye contact for a little longer than she meant, and burst into giggles. You just shook your head, holding back a smile and focusing back on finishing her hair.
“Okay, makeup time. What do you usually do?” you asked, moving her chair away so you could stand between her and the vanity.
“Just liner and mascara, probably”
You hummed, looking around your drawers, “should we add a little shimmer and maybe some lipstick?”
“Whatever you’d like” she smiled, “I’m your canvas”
You couldn’t hide the excitement, “won’t do too much, promise. Wouldn’t want you to feel not like yourself”
You did her eyes first, while you both tried to be normal about the sudden closeness. Your hands were warm on her face, your breath so insanely close as you told her to close and open her eyes. Robin could feel her heart thumping against her chest.
“Do you mind if I do some lotion before the powder? Just so your skin doesn’t dry out”
“Whatever you’d like” she smiled again, repeating her words.
You reached back for the lotion and she watched as you took some and warmed it between your fingers before smearing it on her cheeks.
“You have a lot of freckles, that’s cute”
Robin couldn’t even hide the blush — your hands felt the warmth blooming on her cheeks. Your eyes followed your fingertips as they worked across her face, maybe for a bit longer than they needed. Robin’s wide blue eyes stared back at you, the blue shimmer on her lids making them more intense.
Before you knew it, your hands were cupping her cheeks and you were moving closer and closer, until your lips pressed a quick kiss to hers. Robin sucked in a breath, too shocked to even kiss back, so you pulled away.
“Sorry, I—“
It took her less than a second to reach up for your face and pull you back to her. Your lips met again, slow and tentative, intertwining gently. The position was awkward but you didn’t mind, you didn’t want it to end.
“Hey” Steve’s voice came through with a knock on your door, making you both jump and pull away, “you guys ready? You’re almost too late to be cool”
You looked down at Robin, eyes wide and startled, and giggled — what is that even supposed to mean? you mouthed at her.
She shrugged. “Yeah, almost done!”
Steve mumbled something about waiting downstairs while you fumbled with the powder pan in your hands. Robin closed her eyes and you bit your lip while dragging the makeup sponge on her face.
“I got some gloss on your lips, sorry” you whispered, wiping it away with your thumb.
Robin could feel every hair on her body stand just from your delicate touch. Then your hand was on her chin, holding her in place as you swiped the lipstick on her lips. She looked up at you when you held a tissue to her mouth. She knew what to do, took the tissue between her lips, pressing them together for a second; all while her intense eyes stared into yours.
“We should go” you whispered, still a bit lightheaded from everything.
She nodded and grabbed her jacket, quickly making her way out of the room. You didn’t know if you should scream, cry or bang your head against the wall — but ultimately, you just checked yourself in the mirror one last time, fixed your lipgloss and followed Robin downstairs.
Robin always got the front seat when the three of you were in the car, so you hopped in the back, and you couldn’t help but watch her through the mirrors. Steve had the windows down, the night breeze blowing her hair as she stared into the road ahead, a soft smile on her face. Seeing Robin so calm and happy made a smile pop up on your face too — you kissed her, and she was smiling about it.
You were too into your thoughts to notice the car stopping, only realizing when Robin opened the door for you. “Thanks”, you whispered, barely audible.
“Alright, listen up,” Steve called, “Robin, you take this” he handed her a flask through the window, “this is good, expensive vodka, be careful”
“I don’t drink”
“You should, maybe it would make you less awkward. But this is mainly for the princess over here, that doesn’t drink beer, don’t let her have too much, alright?” you both nodded. “Now, I’ll be here at 12:15, and this is the important part, only call home if someone is dying, you do not want mom and dad to know about this! Understood?”
“Yes, captain” Robin teased, making you chuckle.
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, I’m out, have fun, drink, be normal!”
And just like that, your brother was gone, just you and Robin alone again. You stared ahead, into the already crowded house for a second, taking it in. You got on your tiptoes and leaned into her ear.
“I’ve actually never been to a party either” you confessed.
“I guess we’ll find out if we like being teenagers, then”
The answer came very quickly, you did not enjoy being a teen very much. The music was way too loud, the house was packed, guys hitting on you and girls asking about your brother. Robin wasn’t fond of it either, she could feel the judgment in people's eyes when they realized she was with you.
Robin grabbed your arm and leaned down so you could hear her, “do you want to find somewhere quieter?” You nodded immediately and she smiled. “Should we get something to drink first?”
You nodded, taking her hand in yours to guide her to the kitchen. Robin hoped you wouldn’t feel how shaky her fingers were, just from being intertwined in yours. You groaned when you got to the kitchen — the counters were already full of used cups and empty cans, nothing to drink in sight but beer.
Your eyes landed on the fridge, “How does coke and vodka sound?”
“Refreshing” Robin handed you the flask and watched you fill two red cups with coke, splashing some of the alcohol in them.
“Okay, I think I know where we can hide,” you grinned, taking a sip of your drink.
You took Robin’s hand again, guiding her back through the crowded house, to an empty hallway. You stood in front of a door for a second, before pushing it open, the laundry room.
“How did you know?” she chuckled at your hiding spot.
“It’s my friends place”
You pulled her in after she checked the surroundings, making sure no one was watching. You both chuckled when she closed the door, finding yourselves in the small room. Somehow, being cramped between walls and washing machines was better than drunk teenagers.
“Steve would be so proud of us for being normal,” you joked.
“Yeah, well, let me at least honor him by drinking a little” Robin took the cup to her lips, taking a sip and soon her face twisted. “No. I don’t like this. Why is it warm?”
You smiled, trying not to laugh. “You should know that drinking alcohol is literally poisoning yourself, the burning must be a warning.”
She nodded, downing another gulp. The small room had you both way more comfortable, conversation easily flowing as you finished your drinks.
The vodka had made you tipsy, and you were now sitting on top of the dryer, waffling about something. Robin was suspiciously quiet, leaning on the washing machine right next to you. She was mesmerized, watching you talk about whatever, your glossy lips moving, your skirt now shorter with how you were sitting, your hair falling behind your shoulders.
“Rob? Still with me?” you teased, getting her attention from your legs back to your face.
Your breath faltered when she looked at you, studying your face as she moved closer and closer, until she was standing between your legs, hands on your knees.
“You were flirting with me this entire summer, weren’t you?”
The sudden closeness and question caught you by surprise, but before you could react her hand was on your face, rings against your cheek.
“Can I kiss you again?” she asked, thumb brushing your lip as her bright eyes started into yours.
“Please” you answered, almost breathless.
Her lips pressed against yours, not as gentle or tentative as hours before, she felt confident now. The kiss was fast, almost hungry, lips parting slightly, noses crashing.
Your hand moved to cup her face, too. Robin licked your lips, letting her tongue slip into your mouth and pulling you to the edge or the dryer, so you were flush against each other. Your fingers dived into her hair, grabbing as her hand slipped up the side of your thigh, under your skirt.
You thought for sure the vodka was fucking up your mind, never in those three months did you think the harmless flirting would actually lead to something like that. But somehow you ended up in a tiny laundry room with Robin, tongues brushing against each other’s and her hand up your skirt — and you had never felt better.
Robin pressed your chest to hers, left hand resting on your waist to pull you closer. Noises of wet smacking and heavy breathing filled out the room as you kissed desperately after all the tension left by the earlier kiss.
You felt like you were losing all control, handling it to Robin willingly as she took charge of the kiss. She seemed so confident now, not like the girl who was always bouncing her knee or blushed at a simple compliment.
She took advantage of the gap where your shirt had become untucked and let her hand under it. She was warm and her thumb pressed down on your skin, making you gasp and smile into the kiss. Your hands were fisting her shirt, probably making a mess of it, but you didn’t care.
You had to pull away after a couple of minutes, to catch your breath. Robin looked straight into your eyes, no words. Your hand reached up for her face again, thumb brushing her swollen bottom lip.
“You look so hot right now” you whispered.
She blushed immediately, burying her face into your neck. For a second, you thought she was just being shy, hiding, but soon her lips started pressing gentle kisses to your neck. You smiled, fingers finding their way into her hair again.
“Rob” you sighed, her kisses suddenly more intense, “fuck. Rob, careful”
She knew exactly what you meant, no marks. So she went back to your lips, you smiled and kissed her back. Your tongues quickly tangled together again, her hands squeezing your waist and your thigh.
You were getting lost in each other again, when, suddenly–
Beep, beep beep.
Robin slowly pulled away, reluctantly, as if she never wanted it to end. She looked at her watch, not beeping anymore, “it’s midnight. We should probably, uh- wait for Steve outside.”
You smiled, nodding as your hands ran through her hair, trying to fix the mess, “yeah.”
“Do I look a mess?”
You took the sight of her in. She looked great, hot, messy lipstick and the curls you did were now just loose waves — if anyone saw her like that they would know straight away what you were doing in there.
“Just a bit” you whispered, reaching for her face. You wiped the rest of lipstick off her lips, ran your hands through her hair only last time and straightened her shirt. “Better”
Robin helped you off the dryer, tugging your skirt down as you tucked your shirt back in. You walked to the door to check the hall — empty.
You didn’t dare to take Robin’s hand to guide her though the crowd this time, you felt like everyone could see in your faces what you had done, hands would just bring more attention. So you walked outside and stood by the curb.
Robin couldn’t help but notice how you shivered when the cold breeze hit. She didn’t even ask, just placed her jacket over your shoulders. You smiled up at her.
You wanted to kiss her again, lean against her body, hold her, tell her how hot it was that she noticed your shiver, how beautiful and bright her eyes looked even in the dark street.
“You okay?” she asked after you stared for too long.
You blushed, feeling caught, but nodded. Steve caught the exact moment when the blood filled your cheeks as he stopped the car right in front of you.
“Right on time. Let’s go”
You reached for the handle and opened the door, hopping into the car. To your surprise, Robin followed after you, settling into the backseat. Steve was surprised too, but decided not to mention it, just started driving.
“So… did you guys have fun?”
“Oh my god,” you murmured to yourself, Robin trying to hide a smirk, “you don’t need to play parent, Steve”
“I’m not playing parent. Just a brother who took time of his life to drive you to and from a party and made sure the actual parents didn’t find out. You know, nothing much”
Robin rolled her eyes at his drama, “yes, Steve, we had fun. But we also drank most of that vodka, just wanna sleep.”
Steve nodded, focusing back on the road, but not without noticing that you had your head on Robin’s shoulder. The drive home was quiet, and quite enjoyable — you asked Robin to roll down the window so you could feel the chilly night breeze.
“Remember, take off your shoes and be quiet. If dad finds out I let his little princess go to a party, I’m dead!” Steve whispered.
He insisted on parking in the driveway because the garage doors were too loud, and apparently so was the front door, because he had also insisted that the best way in was through the back fence and back door.
You just rolled your eyes, taking off your boots as he unlocked the door. You and Robin got in and quickly made your way upstairs, then stopped at your bedroom door.
“Are you… uh– are you sleeping in Steve’s room or…”
“I’m not sure. Steve?” she lifted her arm, scratching the back of her neck.
He looked at her, trying to figure out what kind of telepathy message she was trying to send him. “It’s probably better if you girls sleep together, don’t want mom or dad catching Robin coming out of my room, you know? Is that okay?” he asked, directing it at Robin and she nodded.
“Okay, I’m gonna brush my teeth and change, ‘m tired.” You announced and went into your room.
Robin got her things from Steve’s room as you grabbed pajamas and when you shut the bathroom door she let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
“So?” Steve whispered, “how was it?”
“Good” she answered, extremely vague.
“Oh, come on! Did anything happen? Did you talk? Did you dance?”
Robin couldn’t even stop the smile creeping on her face. “We kissed” she whispered, making Steve’s eyes widen.
“Oh? Kissed?”
“Well, I kissed her. But she kissed me before the party anyway” she mumbled, quite shyly.
“What? She kissed you?”
“Is that a problem?” she teased, because she knew from the beginning that the second this actually happened, it would bother Steve, even if he swore it didn’t.
“No. I just– I don’t wanna know about it. Go to bed.”
Robin couldn’t help but chuckle at him. “Oh, I will, with your sister,” she teased.
“Stop this. I don’t like this anymore, this is not what I had in mind. You’re sleeping on the floor. I’m getting a sleeping bag.”
When you come back to your room Robin is setting the bag on the floor, grabbing an extra pillow from your bed. You moved quietly, not saying anything as you sat back on your vanity to brush and braid your hair.
Robin walked out to change in the bathroom and by the time she came back you were already in bed, lights off, just the night lamp on. You watched her move in the dark, walking to the sleeping bag and getting comfortable.
When she was done you turned the light off, whispering a soft “good night”. But, as tired as you were, you couldn’t bring yourself to sleep.
“Rob?”
“Yeah?” she replied, voice hoarse and sleepy.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” you whispered.
“Want me to sleep with you?”
“Yeah.” You moved on the bed, making space for Robin to take the edge. You felt the bed dip, but kept looking up into the ceiling while she settled and let herself under your blanket. You both stayed like that for a beat, staring at the ceiling in silence until you turned to face her. “Rob,” you called again.
“Yeah?” this time she turned to face you too, chuckling as your knees brushed each other’s under the blanket.
“I really enjoyed tonight,” you whispered.
She watched you for a second, searching for your eyes in the dark room and her hand met your face, thumb stroking your cheek. “Me too”
You bit back a smile and nodded once before turning to face the wall. “Night”
Robin felt like her arm moved before she could think, wrapping loosely around your waist. She felt your breathing stop and thought for sure she had crossed a line. But you pushed yourself back, curling closer to her until you could feel her breath on your neck, your hand covering hers over your waist.
summary: pervy nerd!ellie is really needy for you as she invited you to her room for the first time, and good thing you are just as needy.
dom!ellie, sub!femreader, fingering!
it’s noon when you check the notification from your phone, your body glued to the sheets of your uninteresting room. you see a text from Ellie, your newly girlfriend who’s always texting you about something random. this time it’s an invite, begging for you to come over, smiling to yourself reading each word.
while getting ready, your eyes meet with the lonely push up bra sitting on your comfy desk chair. you decide to put it on, with of course perverted intentions.
after a rushed twenty minutes spent on makeup and hair, you feel like you might be ready to go as you stare at yourself for the thousandth time, feeling that kind of adrenaline you wish would never die out.
time passes as you enter her room, Ellie’s eyes already glued to the cleavage peeking at her. “uh um… hey”, her body language is awkward, accompanied with the subtle fidgeting of her limbs. clearly affected by your presence, more so your beauty.
“I love your room”, you take in the furniture surrounding you both, posters and trinkets you have no knowledge of. your eyes catch on to the little video game setup by the tv, studying each little detail with interest.
Ellie nervously grabs a random plushie from her pillow, hiding it before you find out, “you wanna sit on the bed with me?” she hastily offers, trying to distract you from your exploration.
“um yeah sure”, you sit next to her on the soft cushion, your hand merely touching hers. you take a peek at Ellie, soft auburn strands framing her flushed face, her expression also empty as her eyes stick to the ground.
“so… tell me about you room, i wanna know you more ellie” your knee nudges hers, subtly begging her, desperate for some kind of conversation. Ellie can clearly sense your persistence, leading to feelings of guilt.
“sorry um, yeah I can show you my uh”, her eyes then trail to all the books about outer space, dinosaur figures, superhero comics, so many nerdy things she refuses to mention out loud, she scratches the back of her neck.
“ellie you know I don’t care right? seriously just talk to me”, you rub her bicep for some sort of comfort, she flinches slightly, her body heating up with every move of your fingertips.
“fine… you wanna ask about my video games first?” her eyes slowly light up as you agree without hesitation, her hand resting against your thigh as she begins to tell you.
as she rambles on about each passion, her hand travels across your body, you begin to shiver when her fingers reach under your long white lace skirt. her touch embellished over the valleys of your soft skin, her fingertips tracing little shapes over your thigh.
your breath hitches as she starts to squeeze, still hearing her ramble on like she isn’t torturing you at the same time.
“Ellie…”, you softly whimper uncontrollably, her eyes immediately turning towards you.
“you ok?” she asks, her face contorted with confusion, so unaware of her actions that it makes you whine out of desperation.
“you keep… touching there, go further.. please” you beg softly, ellie’s hand complies as her fingers crawl closer to your inner thigh, already feeling a little moist from the heat growing inside you.
you feel her touch against your clothed pussy, shaking when she applies more pressure. meanwhile her gaze lives within your cleavage, eager to paint with bruising hickeys.
ellie still takes time to really process what’s going on, all she did was innocently massage your thigh, she guesses you took it as an act of lust. ellie smirks a tiny bit, your mind in a whirlwind of perversity as you feel her fingers creeping your panties off, inserting her long middle finger deep inside.
the foreign feeling of your wet walls swallowing her makes ellie feel dizzy, you cry deep into her sage eyes, whining for more as your folds sob after each hard thrust.
“feels good?” ellie begins to reek of self doubt as she asks, poor ellie, so desperate to please you. her other hand focuses on your clothes, almost every garment fleeting to the wooden floor. you nod rapidly, crying out at the feeling of her ring finger joining in so intrusively.
the sound of your soft pretty moans soothe ellie into a state of inner hunger, blood rushing through her veins as her lust controls her every move. your finger nails bite her freckled skin as she curls her fingers, hitting that spot you’ve never felt before.
your begging words begin to slur, her fingers so deep it makes your soul fully numb. her cute nervous demeanor thrown away at the sight of you like this, all wet and open for her.
the only piece of fabric remaining on your sweaty body was your skimpy push up bra, she tried to pull it off, but was too preoccupied with the squelching sounds of your pussy. her hand only able to pull the cups down, your nipples greeting her as she fixates on them.
your body twitches from her overflowing need for you, her touch engraved around each crevice of skin, it’s all too much. as you climax, you gaze upon her wild pupils, fading into softness slowly.
she holds you by your waist, her arm clung as she kisses you tenderly, thumb rubbing against the soft skin of your torso. eventually you catch your breath, slowly your eye lids open up to her pretty face.
“did I do a good job?, I hope it was because to be honest i didn’t really-“ you kiss her softly to shut her up, only craving to feel her warmth consuming you entirely.
# cw. established relationship, synced up periods, period sex (scissoring), messy sex (duh), bloodplay, mutual boob/nipple play, pain kink, praise, overstimulation, Jinx goes feral. mdni .ᐟ.ᐟ
# word count. 1.8k
ᯓ ☘︎ lucky speaks: if you think this is gross we are not on the same freak level.
you always joke you’re synced. from the way you finish each other’s sentences to the way your moods cycle in tandem—clinging and crabby, giggly then glassy-eyed—it makes sense. like your bodies quietly make a pact long before your minds catch up.
still, waking up on the same morning with matching cramps is cruel, even for you.
“twinsies,” Jinx smirks, bleary-eyed, lifting her shirt to press a heating pad against her lower belly. “except mine feels like it brought a sledgehammer.”
you just wince, arms wrapped around yourself. “i want to claw my uterus out with a spoon.”
still, somehow, it makes you closer.
the whole day passes slow and heavy. Jinx, normally bouncing off the walls, is more subdued—lanky limbs sprawled across the couch like a starfish, lounging in nothing but a pair of boxers and the softest cotton shirt she owns.
Jinx doesn’t like her period, but she likes what it does to her. her body goes soft in strange places, heavy in the chest. her tits swell like overripe fruit, sore and temperamental—tender to the point of being ridiculous. her nipples, usually small and pouty, become pinkier than usual, hard and petulant—even in her sleep, even under blankets, even when she’s not turned on. she doesn’t know if it’s hormonal or psychological, but they feel needy. she walks around the apartment with one hand pressed to her chest like it’s her heart that’s hurting—a shirt brushing wrong can ruin her whole mood, hands already dipping underneath to palm herself soothingly. constantly adjusting, adjusting, adjusting.
“fucking tragic,” she hisses, pinching the side of her breast like maybe the pressure will distract from the ache at the center. it doesn’t. she moans anyway, a high, breathy sound that sounds far too much like it belongs in a bedroom.
you, for your part, can simply nurse herbal tea in two hands like something sacred, fuzzy socks up to your knees. “you cramping already or just being a whore about your nipples?”
“both.”
you rub your lower bellies or backs in sync, pop painkillers, and alternate between making fun of each other and cooing sympathy while everything throbs with that dull, dragging pain.
night falls, but the cramps don’t. and Jinx, now lying on her back in your shared bed, turns her head toward you, who’s curled beside her in a similarly pathetic fetal position. her blue hair haloes out across the pillow, and her hand creeps, slow and warm, under the hem of your sleep shirt.
“think scissoring would help?” she finally asks, voice a low purr—part teasing, part dead serious. her fingers twitch, like they’re itching to pull you closer, split you open, ease you the only way she knows how. she can’t help it; she gets horny when she hurts, like her cunt and her pain receptors are sharing a bed for the week.
you can’t even laugh; your face crumples like you might cry instead. “i’m so sensitive,” you whisper, voice trembling just slightly. “everything hurts.”
“i know, baby. me too,” she croons, instantly softer. “everything’s sore and swollen, huh? poor thing.” she scoots closer, resting her forehead against yours, stroking the inside of your thigh with slow, spoiled little pets. she keeps inching closer to the heat between your legs, where your pussy pulses against nothing, as if begging to be touched, to be known, to be made useful. “but i think… it might feel good. all slow, all sweet. just us.”
and that’s all it takes for you to fold like a girl raised to please, leaning into her. you wouldn’t let your girlfriend suffer alone, would you? not when she’s this soft. not when she’s aching so sweetly.
“atta girl,” she murmurs, only dragging you closer. “it’s okay if it hurts a little. we’ll make it good.”
you set up first. realism still matters, right? because this isn’t porn—it’s life. and period sex is messy and sticky and unbearable sweet in its own way. she grabs an old towel—dark, soft, worn from a thousand washes—and lays it over the center of the bed with a little wink. “our crime scene,” she teases, already stripping.
Jinx kisses your belly before you can respond, lingering like she’s tasting you. she nuzzles in, nose brushing skin, breathing you in even though she can already smell it: that faint, unmistakable tang of blood. it doesn’t slow her down; if anything, it makes her mouth more intent. when she tugs your own shirt off, she gasps softly as your tits spill free—just as sore, just as flushed, nipples so painful they’ve crossed over into that maddening, itchy type of ache. she gives her attention to both breasts, kissing and lapping slow, careful, wet. her hands cup them just enough to make your body buzz, thumbs stroking lazy circles around the areolas without flicking directly—too much pressure and you’d cry. she knows.
“can’t be mean to them yet,” she whispers, almost to herself. “they’ll cry.”
you return the favor—sleepy and eager—pulling her closer and burying your mouth in her breast, mouthing gently at one nipple. she lets out a guttural sound, hips rolling forward like instinct, like her pussy needs contact now. she’s flushed—feverish and writhing—pulling your face deeper into her chest with the urgency of a starving thing.
“f–fuck,” she whimpers, already twitching. “don’t tease, just keep sucking—”
her whole body flinches when your lips seal around her properly and suckle. it’s not quite relief—it’s pain that wants to be pleasure, the chemical high of something that hurts so good it confuses her. still, you keep licking, circling the peak with slow worship, as your other hand kneads the fullness of her opposite breast. you’re careful with pressure—she’s too sore for anything rough—but not timid. Jinx doesn’t like timid; she likes being handled, especially like this.
her hips start rocking against the sheets, shallow and desperate. “i hate this,” she gasps, but she’s clinging to you. “hate how fucking turned on i get when i’m like this. hurts so bad it makes me wet. that’s fucked, right?”
she says that kind of thing a lot.
you don’t stop. you keep suckling, letting your tongue flatten across the tight little bud, then dragging it up in a long, hot stripe. you feel the way Jinx trembles, how her thighs twitch, how her hands claw at the sheets. and when you finally switch to the other nipple, taking it deeper into your mouth and flicking it with your tongue in short, mean little bursts—Jinx howls.
“fuckfuckfuck,” she sobs, a full-body writhe now. “too much! feels like i’m gonna… gonna come just from that—” and she might. she honestly might—you’ve seen it happen before. when she pulls you up for a kiss, it’s all spit and pitiful whines. your bodies press together, bare breasts rubbing, and you both flinch at the contact. “want more,” she breathes. “pretty please?”
you don’t even pretend it’s going to be clean when you nestle into each other—maybe you don’t even want it to be. maybe the mess is half the point. your legs slot together with the soft, aching precision only familiarity allows, thighs warm and damp where you meet. Jinx guides your hips, her breath catching when your clits kiss—angry and aching little things that haven’t been touched all day because it would’ve hurt.
she’s already murmuring, because she always does when it’s good—soft things, nonsense things. “that’s it, baby… that’s my girl… fuuuck, i feel you.”
each brush is too much already. every shift is another jolt of white-hot hypersensitivity—pain braided with heat, heat braided with want. the blood makes everything glide too easily, the friction burns and soothes at once.
you keep rocking together, slowly at first, but your bodies stutter. your tits bounce uncomfortably with every motion, feeling a whole cup heavier than usual, prompting you to wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt to hold them up and soothe them. you can feel her clit pulsing under yours, her cunt red and drooling, glistening from blood and arousal alike. the bedroom’s lived-in scent of cherries and spice gets replaced by the smell of sex and copper—raw and iron-rich.
your thighs are slipping against hers, but you can’t bring yourself to care as she grabs your ass with both hands and only yanks you down harder. “fucking ride me.”
she pulls you in tighter, drags your cunt against her own puffy folds in long strokes that echo the most obscene, wet squelches. your clits catch again, and again, and again, but never in the same way twice. one moment it’s tender; the next, it’s sharp.
“you’re bleeding on me,” she pants, voice wrecked like that turns her on more than she knows what to do with.
“you’re fucking bleeding on me.”
your mess does coat one another, of course—blood mixing with slick into a warm, crimson mixture that stains your skin with each thrust. it’s as filthy as it is unapologetic, borderline animalistic in the best way possible, as if you’re both in heat.
Jinx is breathing like she’s on the verge of blacking out, pupils blown wide, jaw slack. “come on,” she murmurs, almost slurred like she’s drunk on it. “come on, pretty girl. rub that messy little cunt on me. use me.”
your face feels hot, hair sticking to your forehead with sweat as your legs start shaking from the effort. every muscle feels stretched thin. every second neither of you comes feels unbearable. it hurts. but the more it hurts, the harder you grind—desperate and sloppy. you can hear yourself now, little broken sounds slipping out of you without permission, half-whines, half-sobs. your breath stutters. your hips jerk instead of glide.
“Jinx—fuckfuck—i can’t!” you gasp, voice cracking. “i’m so… m’too sensitive—”
she thrusts up into you in short, needy little motions, chasing friction like she’s lost her mind. “i’m gonna—” she whines. “i’m gonna fucking—ah—”
your orgasm hits you like a sucker punch. you come with a sharp cry, body locking up, clit pulsing uncontrollably against hers as your hips stutter through it. you keep grinding helplessly, chasing the sensation even as it crests. your cunt clenches around nothing, oversensitive and aching, like it doesn’t know whether to beg or recoil. Jinx feels it all, and that’s what sends her over. she follows with a cracked, high-pitched sob, thighs shaking under yours. “ahhhfuck—fuckfuck—yes!”
you ride it out together, messy and overstimulated, grinding slower and slower until the spasms fade into aftershocks. the pitiful sounds are overlapping now—yours and hers—breathless and whiny.
when it finally ebbs, neither of you even pretends to try and clean up. you lie in the mess of it all, the towel darkened under you, thighs red and shining.
“that was disgusting,” you pant, slumping over her, bodies sticky.
she lets out a weak, fucked-out giggle against your throat, dry tongue flicking out to taste the salt off your skin. “nuh-uh,” she murmurs, voice hoarse but satisfied. “let’s do it again next month.”
✦ ⋆ ࣪. a group chat with residents, doctors, nurses of the pitt and you!
summary: conversations between the pitt’s fav er doctors! and more :) reader is referred to as (sunshine/happy feet!)
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
warnings: 18+, lots of flirting, reader is roommates with santos and whitaker, jack cannon, readers brother is frank langdon, reader is also on the night and rotating with morning shift crew!!, no description of reader so self insert :) mid nsfw, pittfest mentions…talks of blood and doctor work in general. reader is about same age as santos and whitaker!! basically just a bunch of bs talk ogilvie hate idc.
romaincrisis
kaledo-art
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
