Blue Footed Booby

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 descent 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:

couples / vibrators / masturbators / anal toys / bondage & fetish

"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—it's 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.

"well," Jinx tries, voice cracking despite her previous bravado, "guess we're… committed?"

the screen dims, and still, neither of you moves.

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.

And she records on anything. Whatever’s closest. Phone when she’s impatient, camcorder when she wants to savor it—the one she thrifted and makes everything look like a cursed VHS from 2004.

You had laughed the first time she brought it to bed, teasing her like it was just another one of her chaotic whims, but Jinx had been serious. “Let me show you how I see you,” she said.

That is how it began.

Now, it’s ritual.

Jinx likes to play director. Not in a bossy way—okay, maybe a little—but in that obsessive, breathless way she does everything. She likes controlling the angles, the lighting, the timing. She likes watching you fall apart frame by frame, pixel by pixel.

Big red record button, mounted on a makeshift tripod. She takes her time, makes you stay still while she adjusts the frame, gives you little teasing commands—“Arch more, baby—yeah, like that. Show the camera what I do to you.”

She always starts with a soft purr: “Don’t mind the red light, baby—just wanna keep you forever.” Then she whispers in your ear, breath hot and full of wicked delight, “Say hi to the camera, sweetheart.” And when you hide your face, flushed and wrecked, she just giggles and coos, “You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed. Don’t worry, it’s just for me.”

Sometimes it’s messy—rushed, breathless, the tripod askew because Jinx couldn’t wait. Other times she sets everything up like a scene: candles, her little speaker playing something low and sultry, you spread out on her sheets while she zooms in on every inch of you she loves. She bites her lip while watching you through the viewfinder—softly praising, perving, worshipping.

Sometimes, she turns the lens on herself, too. She likes the way her pupils blow wide when your lips trace her stomach, how her hips arch into the frame. She likes the tension in her jaw, the twitch of her smile when you make her moan. She likes remembering. Replaying. Reliving.

Jinx never trusted her memory.

Feelings slip through her fingers too fast—like static, like smoke. One second she’s shaking in your arms, full and fucked and floating, and the next, it’s gone. Nothing but skin cooling too fast and a brain already racing somewhere else. But when she films, she can trap it. Every twitch. Every gasp. Every second. It’s more than sex or porn. It’s proof—proof that it happened, that she’d been wanted that much, touched that deep, fucked so thoroughly her brain had no choice but to shut up and let her feel.

Proof you’ll never be this for anyone else.

Proof you were hers.

Proof you still are.

And she thinks, God, that’s me. That’s mine. That happened. It’s real. It’s something she can own, even if it’s something as stupid as underwear reviews.

Afterwards, she pulls you into her lap, arms wrapped tight while the tape plays in the background. You cringe, hiding in her neck, but she’s grinning like the devil. “Look how good you look. Look how pretty you are when you’re mine.”

She never posts them, never shares them, doesn’t even brag. The tapes are sacred—hers to rewatch when she’s lonely, or aching, or just too obsessed with the way your body reacts to her touch. And you let her—over and over again—not because you love the camera, but because you love the look in her eyes when she sees you through it. Like you’re art. Like you’re home.

She keeps the files hidden on her phone, named in codes only she understands—timestamps and inside jokes, raw footage labeled like artwork.

“blue_wreckage03.mp4”

“babyXme_4am_fuck.mp4”

“2idiots_in_lust.mp4”

“gigglefuck_006.mp4”

She burns DVDs, too. Actual DVDs. She’s got a whole collection—organized and color-coded. She takes the time to make ugly little covers for them with hearts and sharpies, doodles of your face and stupid titles like:

“Vol.7: She’s So Fucking Loud <3”

“Crybaby’s First Time”

“Shy Girl Gets Loud”

“Mine. Mine. Mine (Extended Version)”

She plays them for you on lazy afternoons, projecting the image onto the wall, her fingers between your legs while your recorded moans mix with the real ones. “Fuck, look at you,” she breathes. “You’re my favorite movie, y’know that?” Sometimes, you catch her rewatching them when she thinks you’re asleep. Phone brightness low, her other hand idly stroking herself, mouthing your name like a prayer.

She does it not only because she’s obsessed, but because in her glitchy, lust-drenched archive of you, she feels closest to heaven.