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You would confidently dub yourself Hotwired’s biggest fan. You’ve been around since the very beginning, back when they were just two sisters in their dad’s garage, crafting the songs that would one day become their greatest hits. You were at their first ever show (at a shitty bar with a busted PA system), and you’ve kept every single ticket stub since.
When they brought on the mysterious, masked C.K., you were there. When they had a brief fallout, cancelled their slot at Riot Fest, and went offline for six months? You were there. For every single bit of the whole stealing Sevika from her old band, Blood Feud, you were right there in every thread and underneath every discussion post.
Your collection of signed merch is practically priceless now, stuff newer fans would probably commit crimes for. You run a well-known fan blog that’s updated religiously, mostly dedicated to the band’s chaotic, blue-haired frontwoman: Jinx.
Your bedroom is a shrine. Posters on every wall, records lined up on your shelves, a glass case dedicated to your wristbands and setlists and polaroids. Everyone who knows you is beyond tired of hearing about them, and especially tired of hearing about her .
Jinx Lanes. All attitude, no brakes. She says what she wants, does what she wants, flips off the cameras while doing it. You’ve seen every stage interview, every grainy fan clip, every viral moment where she’s either flashing the crowd or starting a fake fight with Vi for fun. She’s a full-on nightmare and you are obsessed . You’ve got painfully vivid daydreams where she picks you out of the crowd, grins that feral little grin, and takes you home to ruin your life in the best possible way.
Unfortunately, that fantasy’s still just that. A fantasy.
You go to every show, sure, but it’s not like you’re balling on VIP money. If it’s not your birthday or some kind of Hotwired-related anniversary, you’re usually stuck somewhere in the middle of the crowd. Lost in the sea of people screaming her name. Completely invisible.
You’ve accepted it, mostly. The truth that the girl you’ve spent years loving from afar probably doesn’t even know you exist. And if she does? You’re just another fan. Another face in the crowd.
But the thing about Jinx is, she’s never been great at sticking to the script.
Your first actual meeting with her (outside of the brief signings where you were quickly ushered away to make room for the ridiculously long lines) is not nearly as glamorous as in any of your many, many daydreams.
It’s early afternoon, middle of the week, and you’re leaning against your car, waiting for your latest post to upload, when you hear footsteps approaching. You glance up, ready to size up whoever’s headed your way—only to nearly choke on your own spit.
Standing in front of you is Jinx . Jinx fucking Lanes .
She’s got on these huge sunglasses and a spiked beret; neither do a great job at hiding who she is. Though, you like to think you’d be able to recognize her in a heartbeat either way. She’s looking up at you over the rim of the glasses with those big blue-gray eyes.
“Hey, could you do me a huge favor?” she asks, barely giving you time to react. “So, like—I’m kinda famous, and these annoying-ass guys have been following me around trying to get a picture. Normally I’d just cause a scene and smash their gear, but apparently I’m supposed to be on my best behavior or whatever. Look, I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
She talks fast, like the words are trying to outrun each other, and you’re pretty sure you only catch about half of what she actually says.
“You’re…you’re Jinx Lanes,” you manage to get out, brain still buffering.
Her shoulders drop a little and her arms cross defensively, like she’s bracing for impact. “Yep. That’s me. You gonna sell me out?”
“No! No, of course not,” you blurt out, instantly panicked at the idea. “I’m just—I’m a huge fan. You’re literally my number one artist. I think you’re a brilliant songwriter—”
“Think I’m brilliant enough to give me a ride?”
Right. Right. You remember the whole reason this conversation is even happening and nod so fast it might give you whiplash. “Oh my god. Yes. Of course. Sorry. I’m just—this is kind of insane. Get in, please.”
You know you’re talking too fast and probably too loud, and your heart feels like it’s turning into soup in your chest. This is not how you imagined this moment going. You’re supposed to be in the perfect outfit, front row, stage lights casting that soft glow, and Jinx points to you mid-song during Pretty Punk Girl , so taken by your killer look and smooth moves that she hauls you on stage.
Instead, she’s climbing into your car, and you’re cringing as her boot knocks over some half-empty water bottle and an embarrassing tangle of receipts and snack wrappers. So much for the cool, effortless fantasy.
Whatever. Sue you for not being perfect.
You pull out of the parking lot with slightly trembling hands, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that Jinx is in your passenger seat. Your initial plan had just been to go home, maybe heat up leftovers and reblog a few photos of Hotwired’s last show. But now?
Now your number one obsession is sprawled out beside you like this is no big deal. You suppose that, maybe for her, it really isn’t. You’re not entirely sure whether your should be impressed or deeply concerned with how easily she got into the car with a stranger.
You hesitate at the first red light, your blinker ticking away as you try to stall and think of somewhere else to go. You can’t just…take her back to your place. That would be insane. Not because you’re ashamed or anything—everyone who knows you knows you’re obsessed—but there’s a difference between being a dedicated fan and opening the door to what’s basically a museum of her face.
That kind of devotion might be just a little much in person.
You risk a glance out of the corner of your eye and immediately regret it. Jinx has her boots kicked up on the dash, scuffed black leather creaking slightly as she adjusts. Her legs are bare and pale and stretch impossibly long out from the cut-offs she’s wearing. Your gaze drifts up to where her low-slung shorts sit, a few teasing inches of toned stomach peeking out under her cropped tee. Ink clouds curl around her navel, disappearing into the waistband. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.
She's busy on her phone, thumb flying across the screen with streaks of chipped pink and blue polish. Completely unaware—or at least pretending not to notice—that you’re openly staring like a deer in headlights.
You clear your throat quickly, whipping your head forward as the light flips green. “So, uh…where exactly should I be going?”
“Right. Lemme just—” she leans over, not even asking before tapping on your car’s GPS with all the casual confidence of someone who doesn’t hear the internal screaming going on beside her. “There.”
You glance down at the glowing screen, squinting at the address. “Is that…your house?”
“Yep.” She pops the p , still tapping away on her phone. “Hope you don’t mind playing chauffeur for a bit. I’ll even give you five stars.”
“Oh, yeah,” you say, like your brain isn’t short-circuiting. “No problem. Totally normal day.”
Jinx finishes typing something out on her phone and tosses it carelessly into the cupholder. Then she leans back, kicking her boots off the dash and turning her head toward you. "Play something," she says.
You glance at her. “Anything you’re in the mood for?”
Jinx hums. “I dunno. Surprise me.”
You hesitate for half a second before asking, “Are you opposed to hearing your own stuff?”
“God, no,” she scoffs, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “I love the sound of my own voice.”
You huff a laugh and scroll through your playlist until you find the first track in the “Hotwired: Timefracture Saga” queue. You don’t hesitate to hit play.
The opening guitar riff of Parallel Hearts spills into the car and Jinx perks up immediately, grinning like you just handed her a slice of cake. “Oooh, you’re going deep cuts on me, huh?”
“I’m committed to the bit,” you say, trying to sound cool and not like you’re slowly melting into the driver's seat. The idea of singing Jinx’s song in front of her in real life? Literally unreal. Your hands are already sweating.
But then the first verse starts and your body knows what to do. You belt it out with the kind of confidence that only comes from listening to a song approximately nine thousand times. To your amazement, Jinx doesn’t just let you carry it. She joins in with all the same energy she brings on stage.
The two of you blast through the first two songs— Parallel Hearts and Phantom Frequency —loud and off-key and gloriously dramatic. When the final chorus ends, Jinx turns in her seat to look at you, visibly impressed.
“Okay, wow,” she says, a little breathless. “You maybe you really are my biggest fan.”
You shrug like it’s not the best compliment you’ve ever received. “Yeah, I mean, I kinda know everything there is to know.”
That gets a raised brow. Jinx smirks, already shifting in her seat like she’s ready to stir shit. “Everything?”
You nod. Maybe a little smug.
“Alright, fan club president,” she says, cracking her knuckles. “Pop quiz time. Let’s see if you’re full of shit.”
You don’t even blink.
She fires off the first question. “What city did we play our first sold-out show in?”
“New Orleans,” you say immediately. “At a place called The Violet Room. You jumped off the drum kit and nearly broke your ankle. It was the first time you guys ever performed Despair Girls live. It was magical.”
“Fuck, all of that’s true,” she mutters, almost to herself. “Okay. What’s Vi’s pre-show ritual?”
“She does five push-ups and kisses her guitar. That’s child’s play.”
Jinx laughs. “Okay, try this one out. What’s the first song I’ve ever written?”
“Easy. I Love You, Dad . You wrote it when you were thirteen for your dad’s birthday and you and Vi performed it for him. If I recall correctly, there were tears?”
“Holy. Shit.” She flops back against the seat and looks at you for a second, slack-jawed. “You should be like an interviewer or some shit. Wait…are you an interviewer? Tabloid?”
You shake your head. “Nah. Just a fan,” you answer, drumming your fingers on the wheel to the song playing quietly now. “I found you guys pretty early on, when it was just you and Vi. I was hooked from then.”
“Alright, alright. One more. Let’s see if you know this one,” she says, leaning in like this one is going to be her real ace up the sleeve. “What is C.K.’s real identity?”
“Oh, come on! Nobody knows that except you guys and even that’s me speculating!”
She throws her head back and laughs, wild and delighted and loud, and for a second you feel a weird flutter of something between adrenaline and affection. “I know, I know. I just had to get one over on ya. I don’t like to lose, superfan.”
You can’t help but join in on her laughter. Then, you feel the sudden need to explain yourself. “I-I hope you don’t think I’m some kinda freak, now. Like, I’m not gonna turn into some crazy stalker or anything. I believe in ethical obsession…with your music! And your whole persona.”
“Nah,” she says, grinning out the window. “Kinda hot, actually.”
Eventually, the road curves around a sharp bend and there it is: a tall iron gate flanked by brick pillars, ringed with ivy, with a small keypad mounted on the side. You ease to a stop in front of it, unsure of what comes next, until Jinx leans fully across the center console to punch in the code herself. Her body brushes yours and you go rigid on instinct, hands glued to your lap as if moving them might set off some kind of alarm.
Her weight is warm, surprisingly solid. You keep your eyes forward but your gaze betrays you, flicking down to take in the bare skin of her lower back as her cropped shirt rides up. A little tattoo rests there, inked just above the waistband of her low-slung shorts.
You recognize it immediately. It’s the grinning robotic monkey from Hotwired’s first album cover. It’s crude in a way that feels personal, a perfect fit for her. You catch a whiff of her perfume as she leans over you, warm and sweet, cinnamon-spiced and dizzying. It makes your fingers twitch where they’re clenched, white-knuckled, against your thighs.
Just when you think your heart might give out from sheer sensory overload, Jinx pulls away and settles back in her seat. “Full speed ahead,” she says, casually, and you try to follow that directive but end up hitting the gas a little too hard. The car jerks forward before you recover, easing up and offering a weak laugh. She doesn’t say anything about it, but you catch her smirk from the corner of your eye.
The gates swing open and you cruise slowly up the long, curved driveway. At the top of the hill, her house comes into view. Less mansion, more mini palace. Sleek, modern lines dressed up in stone and glass, surrounded by manicured hedges and little bursts of wildflowers. From the outside, it doesn’t scream rockstar , but the gated privacy and oversized front door definitely whisper it.
You park at the top and cut the engine, hands hovering awkwardly as Jinx climbs out. She stretches with a groan, then slams the door shut and starts heading toward the entrance. Halfway there, she turns and sees you still frozen in the driver's seat. She lifts her arms with an incredulous little laugh.
“You coming, or are you gonna sit there until I drag you out?”
That shakes you loose. You hop out, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary, trying not to let your nerves show. Jinx jogs the rest of the way up and punches in a different code at the front door before swinging it open. She steps inside first and flicks on a light.
The interior hits you like a wall of color and chaos. It’s loud and messy and perfect, a curated kind of maximalism that looks like someone raided every vintage shop in a tri-county radius and made it work through force of will.
Sunken couches in mismatched colors, shag rugs layered over each other like someone couldn’t choose, neon signs and lava lamps and velvet posters that are definitely original prints. There’s an old jukebox in the corner that might actually work and a huge blown-up shot of the band’s first Rolling Stone cover takes up half the wall behind the couch. You see guitars hung like art and a massive wall-mounted shadowbox of ticket stubs, backstage passes, and little bits of confetti sealed in resin. A few shelves are crammed with Hotwired memorabilia, some of it rare enough that you actually gasp a little.
Jinx sweeps her arm out in a grand, over-the-top flourish. “Welcome to the madhouse. Make yourself at home.”
You step in cautiously, like you’re walking through the most holy of places. It’s hard to believe any of this is even remotely real; you sneak and pinch the back of your hand, praying you don’t suddenly wake up.
The door shuts behind you with a soft click. All you can think is: holy shit, you’re in Jinx’s house.
You can't help yourself. The second Jinx gives the okay, you're flitting from corner to corner like a sugar-high kid let loose in a toy store. There’s just so much to take in.
You zero in on a glass display case near the stairs, pressing your hands to the glass as you stare down at what looks like one of Jinx’s stage costumes from their third tour—the blue leather jacket with the jagged, mismatched patches and the “KISS ME, COWARD” painted across the back. “This is from the Bright Lights, Bloody Knuckles tour,” you say, breath catching. “You wore this in Chicago and then again in Paris, but the patch on the left shoulder wasn’t torn off until the Tokyo show so it’s the only one sewn on with red thread. Vi’s work, I’m assuming.”
You’re not really assuming. You know this as fact.
Jinx whistles low. “Damn. I still can’t believe you know your shit like this.”
You glance over your shoulder, sheepish, but your feet are already carrying you to the next treasure. There’s a line of guitars, none of them in cases, just propped up like art along the back wall. One of them is Jinx’s first—a cherry red Gretsch with cracked lacquer and band stickers peeling at the edges. Another is Vi’s, the body all scratched up and scuffed from a thousand drunken stage dives.
You spot a limited run vinyl from one of your other favorite punk bands and let out an embarrassing little gasp. “Wait, can I just ask: was the whole Hollow Vow/Hotwired friendship real? Or were you guys playing it up for the camera?” you ask, pointing.
“Fuck yeah,” Jinx grins. “You probably already know this, but they were the first legit band to give us a chance. Let us open for them and shit. Total weirdos. Great energy.”
There’s a wall-mounted rack of signed magazine covers— Spin , Rolling Stone , NME , even Teen Vogue , from that one brief moment where Hotwired was just two teenage girls making their way across the west coast. “That cover got us so much hate mail,” Jinx says, sidling up behind you. “You’d think we pissed on someone’s grandma.”
You laugh, almost nervously, finally starting to feel a little more grounded in the whirlwind that is her house. But then you realize how much you've been talking, how fast, and how completely unhinged you probably sound. You snap your mouth shut before you can rattle off which Spin article has your favorite quote.
When you glance back at Jinx, she’s watching you. Just looking, head tilted like she's figuring you out. And then, casually as anything, she says, “You wanna go for a dip?”
You blink at her. “What?”
“Hottub,” she replies, already turning toward a side door that you hadn’t even noticed before. “Consider it part of my payment for the ride. I’m going either way, so if you wanna come, bring your fine little trivia brain with you.”
“I don’t—I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” you say, instinctively glancing down at yourself like one might spontaneously materialize.”Not really a, uh, car essential.”
Jinx scoffs, her smirk practically criminal. “So? Get naked. I’m not shy.”
The very idea has your brain going horribly blank. You go visibly stiff, body locking up entirely against your will. She laughs—loud and genuine.
“Okay, okay. Jesus,” she says, holding up her hands in surrender. “You can just go in your underwear. I’ve got robes and a dryer. It’s not a big deal.”
You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The idea of being that close, in so little, with her is almost enough to make you reconsider. But you’re not dumb enough to pass this up. An honest to god once in a lifetime possibility was just dropped into your lap and you would never be able to forgive yourself should you let it slip through your fingers.
You nod, slow and shaky, then offer a small, breathless, “Okay.”
Jinx gives you a look like she’s thoroughly amused by your entire existence. “Cool. You can go ahead, I’ll be there in a sec..” She disappears up the grand staircase, taking them two at a time and you just stand there for a beat, silently trying to remember how to walk.
You strip down to your underwear in the living room, folding your clothes into a neat little stack on the edge of the couch like that somehow makes this entire situation feel less insane. At least you wore something cute. Matching set, soft cotton, nothing too showy but still enough that you won’t die of embarrassment.
You head through the door Jinx showed you just moments ago and find a stone hottub that looks like it probably cost a small fortune. There’s chairs surrounding it and the whole thing overlooks the equally stunning pool.
The evening air is cool but not cold, and you’re grateful for it when you climb the short steps and settle into the hot tub’s edge.
You turn the jets on, feeling them whir to life beneath your legs, and sink in. The water is still warming up but it feels nice, soothing the weird ache in your limbs from how tense you’ve been since Jinx got in your car. You keep your arms propped on the edge, head tilted back, eyes on the stars above because it’s easier than staring down the panic creeping up your spine.
Then you hear the door slide open.
You glance up and immediately forget how to breathe.
Jinx steps outside holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and two flutes in the other. She’s changed, if you could call it that. Her bikini is leopard print and tiny, and very, very familiar. You recognize it instantly from the “Trashy Punk Drunk” music video where she sang an entire verse while riding a mechanical shark. Seeing it in person, on her body, is borderline unfair.
“Like what you see?” she asks, already grinning as she gives you a slow, exaggerated twirl. The light catches on her pale skin, almost giving her an otherworldly glow. You catch a glimpse of the small navel ring you hadn’t noticed before, the dip of her hips, the tattoo wrapping her rib cage.
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“You look—uh. Nice,” you manage, mentally kicking yourself as the words come out. “Really, um. Good. Like...sexy. Really sexy.”
Jinx barks out a laugh, delighted, and finally hands you a glass before she steps into the water. “I knew you were cute, but this is adorable .” She taps the rim of your flute with hers and then sinks into the hot tub beside you, head tipping back with a satisfied sigh as the bubbles start to build around her. “You’re lucky I’m such a sucker for awkward.”
You take a long sip of champagne and try not to combust.
She reaches over to set the temperature gauge a few degrees higher, her fingers dancing casually across the digital screen, and then she settles in with her arms outstretched along the back of the tub. One arm brushes against yours. It takes every ounce of your self-control not to flinch.
“So,” she says, eyes flicking your way with a lazy smirk, “you come here often?” Despite it obviously being a joke, her voice still comes out as a purr that sends a shameful wave of arousal through you. It’s a good thing you’re already wet.
You let out a breath and do your best to match her casual. “Can’t say that I do.”
Jinx hums, pleased, and takes another slow sip. “Glad you are.”
You take another sip of champagne, feeling the bubbles fizzle down your throat, and risk a glance at Jinx from the corner of your eye. Her legs are kicked up in the water, toes just breaking the surface, and her head is resting lazily against the lip of the hot tub. She looks...content. Maybe a little tired, in that way people get when they’ve finally exhaled after holding their breath for too long.
You turn toward her a bit. “Hey, can I ask you something kind of personal?”
Jinx cracks one eye open. “Shoot.”
“Do you, like...regularly invite strangers into your house? Or am I, like, special?”
She huffs a small laugh and stretches her arms behind her head, chest lifting slightly above the bubbling water. “Not usually. Though, to be fair, I make a lot of bad choices. So the answer’s not always no.” She glances over at you, smile crooked. “You were adorable, though. And passionate. And you don’t really seem like the psycho killer type yet. You haven’t even asked me for an autograph yet and you’re my little superfan..”
You laugh, flustered but warm. “I try.”
Jinx shrugs a shoulder, her expression softening. “And...I dunno. It’s been a minute since I’ve talked to someone who wasn’t in my band or working PR or trying to sleep with ‘Jinx Lanes.’” Her voice lowers slightly, sincerity bleeding through. “You’re very easy to be around.”
You nod. “You’re pretty cool like this, too. Just so you know.”
She nudges her shoulder into yours, that playful grin finding its way back. “Flatterer.”
You grin right back, nerves slowly unspooling.
“Wanna know something only, like, two people know about me?” she asks after a beat, turning a little more toward you, her leg brushing yours under the water. “A little treat to add to your endless trivia?”
“Obviously.”
She leans in conspiratorially, her voice a half-whisper like someone might be listening. “I actually graduated with a degree in astrophysics.”
Your jaw drops. “No shit?”
“No shit,” she says proudly, lifting her glass in a little cheers to herself. “Top of my class, too.”
You blink. “Wait—what? How did you go from literal rocket science to fronting a punk rock band?”
Jinx’s smile dims just a little, not sad exactly—more nostalgic. “Vi. I always thought she’d do something like this. Big stage, screaming fans, y’know? When the band started getting traction, she didn’t want to do it alone. In fact, said she’d only go for it with me. And I figured...why the hell not? I’d already chased one dream. Why not try another if it meant doing it with my sister?”
“That’s actually amazing,” you say, your voice softer now. “How’d you manage to keep that one under wraps?”
“Oh, I looked a hell of a lot different then and, obviously, my real name’s not Jinx Lanes.”
“You know, you’re making it really hard not to idolize you,” you whisper. And you’re not really sure why you’re whispering. It may have something to do with just how close Jinx is to you. “Not—not in, like, a weird way. Just, uh, just like the normal amount. Because you’re so cool and so pretty and now I know you’re, like, a genius and stuff and…yeah.”
There’s a pause.
You’re both looking at each other, water bubbling around you, glasses half full and the night wrapping its arms around the deck in a quiet hush. Jinx’s eyes are a little softer than usual, lips parted slightly as if caught between a smile and something else. You think she might say something, but instead, she just leans in.
And you meet her halfway.
The kiss is slow and warm, hesitant at first like neither of you is sure how long it’s been coming. Her lips taste like champagne and spearmint, and the second your hand drifts up to cup her cheek, she sighs into it. “I do so very like being worshiped,” she says against your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip.
Jinx floats over into your lap like she belongs there, legs slung carelessly over one of your thighs as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her hands find your chest, sliding over the swell of your breasts through damp fabric, fingers curling and groping with open hunger.
She kisses you again, but this time there’s no testing the waters. It’s harder, hotter, more desperate. Her mouth is demanding and slick with champagne, her hips beginning to roll slow and deliberate against your leg. The friction is minimal, but it’s enough to have her sighing into your mouth like she’s already halfway there.
Emboldened by the way she reacts to every tiny movement, you let your hand settle at her hip. The soft give of her flesh beneath your fingers is dizzying, and she doesn’t stop you when you guide her hips, encouraging the rhythm she’s building on your thigh. The way her body grinds down is enough to send heat pooling between your own legs.
Your other hand moves up without thinking, sliding along her back and up to the base of her neck, where you find the thick roots of those signature twin braids. You grab them—not tight, not yet—but it’s enough to feel them in your grip.
Jinx pulls back just far enough to look at you, eyes bright and wild, lips swollen from the kiss. “If you’re gonna yank ‘em,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Do it hard.”
You hesitate for only a moment, unsure of your own strength, terrified you might misjudge the line and snap the tension in the wrong direction. You give a test tug, just enough to jolt her head back a little, just enough that your mouths part by a fraction.
But it’s clearly not enough. She lets out a frustrated sound, half growl, half moan, and then she’s crashing back into you, teeth scraping against your lower lip, biting hard enough to draw the sharp tang of blood.
You gasp at the sting, the warmth of it on your tongue, and your fingers clench on reflex. You yank harder, and her head jerks back with a gasp that melts into a laugh, her grin feral. She’s loving this. She’s completely out of her mind with it. You loop one of her braids around your fist and drag her back down into another kiss that’s messier than the last, all spit and tongue and aching need.
Her hips grind down with reckless abandon now, sloshing water over the edge of the tub as her pace stutters. Jinx lets out a broken, breathy cry against your mouth, every muscle in her body going taut. You can feel the tremor in her thighs, the way her whole frame shudders, and your only thought is that you did this . You hold her like that, letting her ride it out, letting her fall apart against you until she’s gasping and trembling and grinning like the devil.
When she finally pulls back, she rests her forehead against yours. Her breath ghosts across your lips, heavy and hot, and her grin is still sharp enough to slice you open. “You’re not so shy anymore, are you?”
You don’t even have words. You’re drunk on adrenaline, dazed and reeling because your idol—your ultimate fantasy—just used your thigh to come. Nothing in your entire life will ever top this.
Jinx leans in close, nipping once more at your bottom lip. “How would you like to take this up to my bedroom?”
You nod, unable to form a proper response to the question.
Jinx hops off your lap and out of the hottub; she can’t get you out behind her quick enough it seems. “Come on,” she says, breathless and giddy, already halfway to the stairs. “Upstairs. Now.”
You stumble after her, legs still shaky, heart trying to catch up. She takes the steps two at a time, half-dragging you in her excitement. You follow with much less grace, feet squelching with every wet step the two of you take.
“Jinx,” you call, panting a little, “we’re still soaked. There’s a literal trail behind us.”
She glances over her shoulder, completely unconcerned. “So? I’ve got a cleaner. Don’t care.” Her eyes flash mischievously. “Besides, maybe I like it better wet.”
You pass wet footprints and little drops of water marking your path, but she doesn’t slow down. You barely catch the door to her bedroom swinging open before she pulls you through it and kicks it shut behind you.
The room is big, chaotic in the way only Jinx’s space could be. Her bedroom is exactly as chaotic and stylish as the rest of the house. But the bed is huge, practically a stage in itself. Thick, crushed velvet sheets stretch over it in deep, electric blue, glowing faintly under the dim lighting. You don’t even want to think about how expensive they probably are.
You hesitate, standing awkwardly at the foot of it, still very aware of how wet your skin is, how your soaked underwear sticks to your body.
“These are fresh sheets,” you say. “Jinx, seriously—”
She cuts you off with a laugh, already pulling at the knot of her swimsuit bottoms. “You’re cute when you worry about stuff like that.”
The bottoms peel away from her skin with a soft, sticky sound and hit the floor. She peels off her top next, tossing it in the same direction. And suddenly, she’s naked in front of you, skin flushed, thighs slick, nipples pierced with silver barbells that catch the light.
Your mouth actually falls open.
“Oh, that got your attention,” Jinx teases, climbing up onto the bed on her knees. Her breasts bounce lightly as she moves, each piercing a little glint of danger and temptation. “I’ve got one more, by the way. Wanna see?”
You can’t even answer. You just nod.
She crawls across the bed with unhurried confidence, her knees dragging soft ruts in the velvet as she makes her way to you. You stay frozen until she pushes you back, until your spine hits the mattress and your underwear makes a soft squish against the sheets.
She straddles your hips, and your hands come up instinctively to her thighs—warm, strong, slick where she was grinding earlier.
“Eyes up,” she says with a crooked grin, as she shuffles up your body, her heat growing stronger the closer she gets to your chest…your throat…your mouth.
Then you see it.
Right at the peak of her slick folds, nestled against the swollen pink of her clit, is a small silver ball. Your breath hitches hard enough to make your vision blur.
“Still speechless?” she asks, teasing, hips hovering just above your mouth now. “God, you’re so easy.”
You try to form a reply, but you’re already craning your neck, already reaching up to meet her.
Jinx lowers herself with no hesitation. One hand braces against the wall behind the bed, the other gripping the headboard for leverage as she sinks down onto your mouth, full and flush.
Her taste hits you instantly as her thighs press firm against your cheeks, framing your head. You let your hands settle on her hips, fingers curling tight.
She gasps, loud and unfiltered, then lets out a broken laugh. “Fuck. Okay. Okay, yeah, that’s good .”
The pressure of her against your mouth is intense—your nose buried against her, the piercing rubbing slick against your tongue. Every time she rolls her hips, that little ball brushes you just right. She’s so wet already, and her pace starts unsteady before she finds a rhythm, grinding slow and deep.
You moan into her and feel her thighs tense.
“Damn,” she pants, looking down at you with wild eyes, braid tips brushing your chest. “You keep that up and I’m gonna fall in love or something.”
Your only response is a groan, muffled against her, too far gone to care.
Jinx laughs again, more breath than sound, and plants herself fully down. “Go on then. Let’s see how long I can last.”
You take a steady breath through your nose before burying yourself in her, licking with a wide tongue across the expanse of her pussy. It pulls a cute squeal from her lips and she clenches her legs a little harder around you head. You set a steady pace, making sure to take your time. To commit her every sound and movement to perfect memory.
Jinx rocks her hips forward with more urgency now, chasing friction, chasing that sharp edge she’s clearly been holding back from. Her grip on the headboard tightens, knuckles pale, and her thighs start to tremble against your face.
You’re soaked with her. Your mouth, your chin, your cheeks. Her slick drips down your jaw and onto the crushed velvet beneath you. But all you can think about is that piercing.
You focus on it—rolling your tongue around the little ball at the tip of her clit, tracing tight circles around it, then flicking fast across the sensitive spot it guards. It moves with her, tapping gently against your teeth now and then with a soft, addictive clink . Every time you hear it, feel it bump into your enamel, it makes your brain stutter. You want to taste her forever. Want to see how many times that little piece of metal can make her lose control.
Jinx groans loud above you, throwing her head back. “Shit. Shit , you’re good,” she pants. “Keep that up and I’ll—fuck, that feels so fucking good.”
She grinds down harder, using you now, water sliding down her ribs and dripping from her chest onto your skin. Her piercings swing slightly with the motion, glinting in the low light.
Then her voice cuts through, rough and commanding:
“Slap my ass.”
Your eyes flick up to her in surprise, but she doesn’t slow.
“Do it,” she growls. “And none of that gentle shit. I don’t have time for that.”
You hesitate for a heartbeat—then oblige. Your hand comes up with a firm smack, the sound echoing sharp through the room. She jolts above you and lets out a loud, broken moan.
“Fuck, yeah,” she gasps. “ Just like that. ”
You do it again, your palm stinging as it connects. Her skin reddens under your touch, and you can feel the way her muscles twitch beneath it. Her rhythm stutters and she bears down harder, barely holding herself up now.
Every moan, every tremble, every word out of her mouth is filthy and desperate. She’s soaked your whole lower face, slick running freely down your chin, her thighs practically shaking on either side of your head. You keep your mouth open and your tongue working. Flicking, circling, teasing that perfect little stud until she’s panting, clawing at the headboard like it’s the only thing anchoring her.
“ Shit. Shit! I’m gonna— oh, fuck —don’t stop— don’t you fucking stop— ”
You slap her ass again, harder this time, and she shatters.
She comes with a cry that tears from her throat, full-bodied and raw. Her thighs clamp around your head, her whole body locking up as she grinds down, riding your mouth through it. Her slick floods you, dripping hot and fast over your lips, your chin, soaking the sheets even deeper.
You hold her there, let her grind it all out, hands braced tight on her hips as she rocks and shudders above you. Her breaths are wild, broken little gasps, and her chest heaves like she’s been sprinting.
Eventually, she starts to come down. Her thighs relax. Her grip on the headboard loosens. She slumps forward slowly, catching herself on her elbows above you, braid ends brushing against your collarbone.
She lets out a low, shaky laugh and looks down at you, eyes glassy and satisfied.
“Holy shit,” she breathes. Her eyes stay fixed on you for a beat longer before she lets out one sharp exhale. And then, just like that, her energy flips back on like a switch. The grin spreads across her face again, wicked and electric.
“Now it’s my turn to have some fun,” she says, bouncing up onto her knees. “Also, you should really get those wet clothes off. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold!”
You sit up slowly, skin sticky with sweat and slick, your head still spinning a little from how hard she came. “That wasn’t your fun?”
“Semantics!” she chirps, already rolling away from you. She crawls toward the foot of the bed, where there’s a battered metal chest tucked underneath. She lifts the lid and immediately starts digging through it, muttering under her breath as she tosses things aside.
“No, not that one...ugh, too much effort...ooh, could be fun...definitely this one.”
You take the moment to peel off the rest of your clothes. Bra, underwear, both soaked through and clinging to you. They land in the same messy pile as Jinx’s swimsuit. Your skin prickles in the cooler air, still flushed from before, and your legs instinctively rub together, already slick with fresh anticipation.
Jinx pops her head up from the trunk like a triumphant raccoon. “Hey,” she says, holding something out of sight in one hand. “You cool being tied up?”
You raise a brow. “Sure. Try anything once, right?”
Her grin widens. “Atta girl . ”
She climbs back onto the bed and unceremoniously drops her findings at the base of it: a neatly coiled length of red rope, a small black vibrator, and a strap-on with a deep blue silicone dildo attached. The second she does, you feel a fresh wave of heat bloom low in your belly. Your breath catches slightly, thighs pressing together as your gaze lingers on the toy.
Jinx notices, of course.
“Already squirming,” she says, pleased. “God, you’re so easy.”
She crawls up the bed with deliberate slowness, rope in hand. You raise your arms without being asked, and she kneels beside you, beginning to tie them to the headboard with practiced ease. The rope is soft but firm, just rough enough to remind you that it’s there. The knot is tight, your wrists held snugly apart.
Once she’s satisfied with the tension, she leans down and gives you a long, unhurried kiss—her tongue slipping into your mouth, hands braced on either side of your ribs. The kiss is slower than before, but still hungry, like she’s staking a claim now. When she pulls away, you’re left breathless, chasing the taste of her on instinct.
Jinx slides back down the bed, settling between your thighs like she’s done it a thousand times. Her palms run slowly up your inner thighs, spreading you open.
“I’m leaving your legs free,” she says, kissing the crease of your thigh, then the other. “Which is so nice of me, by the way. But I need you to be good and keep them still, yeah?”
You nod quickly, breath shaky. “Yeah. Okay.”
She hums in approval and leans in, dragging her tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, slow lick.
Your head thunks back against the headboard. “Fuck.”
Jinx grins against you, nosing in deeper. “That’s kinda the idea.”
She keeps her hands on your thighs, gentle but grounding, as she dives back in with unrelenting attention. Her tongue moves with purpose. Circling, lapping, teasing.. She doesn’t rush it, just lets the tension build as you writhe under her, doing your best to keep still even as your legs twitch with every flick of her tongue.
And when she closes her lips around your clit and sucks, you actually gasp, wrists tugging uselessly at the rope. You draw one of your knees up, unsure of what exactly you intend to do with it.
“Already twitching,” she says, voice muffled. “You’re so fucking cute like this.”
Jinx doesn’t rush.
Her tongue drags slow and deliberate against your clit, her fingers spreading you open to get a better angle. The rope binding your wrists digs in just enough to remind you of how helpless you are like this—laid out, arms stretched above your head, thighs trembling. You try to keep still like she asked, but it’s getting harder by the second.
She hums against you, the vibration making your whole body tense.
“You’re so wet it’s dripping, ” she murmurs, grinning as she looks up at you. “It’s like your pussy’s crying for me.”
Your breath hitches, and your hips buck upward before you can stop them.
Jinx slaps your cunt lightly. “I said keep those still.”
“Sorry,” you gasp.
She shakes her head, mock-disappointed, and returns to her work like you’re a puzzle she’s not quite finished solving. Her mouth is merciless: tongue circling your clit in tight, teasing laps, then flattening against it to give you just enough pressure to almost fall apart. Her fingers slip inside you slow and shallow at first, then curling just enough to drag against that sweet spot before pulling back again.
It builds. It burns . Your whole body starts to tighten.
“Jinx—” you warn, voice already wobbling.
She pulls back with a wet pop, her chin shiny. “Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Not yet.”
You whine, body shaking, the denial hitting hard. Your legs twitch, thighs trying to close, but she’s already pressing them back open, settling between them again with that same infuriating smirk.
“You’re gonna be a mess, huh?” she says, almost admiring. “Can’t even take a little teasing.”
“A little?” Your voice cracks, breathless.
She just laughs and reaches for the vibrator.
It’s small and sleek, and she turns it on to a low, steady hum before nestling it right against your clit. You jolt like you’ve been shocked. It’s perfect . Too perfect.
She slides two fingers back inside you and begins to fuck you slow, curling just right—again and again. The vibe stays pressed in place as her free hand comes to pin your hip. You can’t move. Can’t run. All you can do is take it.
The pressure builds too fast. You bite your lip so hard it almost bleeds.
“I—I’m gonna—” you choke.
Jinx immediately pulls the vibe away.
You cry out, full-body shaking as the orgasm rips away from you like it was stolen.
She grins, unbothered. “Oops. Timing’s a bitch, huh?”
You’re panting, chest heaving. “Please.”
“Oh, we’re begging already? Thought you’d have a little more fight in you.”
She repeats the whole thing again—mouth and fingers and vibe—and once more drags you to the brink only to yank it away. You can’t even form words the third time. Your eyes start to water, your hips squirming, desperate for friction.
Jinx looks up and laughs . Full, delighted laughter, like this is the best show she’s seen in weeks.
“You crying, babe?” she coos, tilting her head. “God, you’re so hot like this. Look at you.”
You try to blink the tears away, but they fall anyway, tracing down into your hair.
Her smile turns wicked. “Do you want me to stop?”
Your body jerks. “No!. No—please don’t stop.”
She hums, licking her lips. “I dunno. I’ve always been moved by begging.”
You nod, breath breaking apart. “Please, Jinx. Please let me come. I can’t take it, I need it. Need you . I’ll be good, I swear, just…please. Please let me.”
She watches you for a second, then lets out a satisfied sigh. “God, I love when you get pathetic.”
She reaches for the strap-on.
You’re barely coherent by the time she gets it situated on you: adjusting the harness, then placing the vibrator so it presses directly against your swollen clit, held snug by the base of the strap. She climbs back over you, straddling your hips, and leans in to kiss you. Slow, filthy, tongue dragging against yours.
Then she pulls back just enough to speak.
“You wanna come?” she asks, grinding her hips forward just enough to tease the tip against her entrance. “Then do it. But I’m not stopping until I get mine.”
Jinx sinks down onto the strap with a hiss, her fingers digging into your sides as she adjusts to the size, her mouth open, her brow pinched just slightly in that way you now know means she likes it. She rocks her hips once, experimentally, then twice—finding the rhythm.
And then she takes off .
There’s no buildup, no slow tease. She starts fucking herself on you fast and filthy, bouncing with reckless abandon. The sound of her thighs slapping against yours fills the room, joined by the wet suck of her pussy as she takes every inch. She leans back just a bit, bracing one hand behind her on your thigh for leverage, her other hand squeezing one of her own bouncing tits, fingers brushing over the silver barbell through her nipple.
Your mouth is open but no sound comes out at first—just panting breaths and the electric buzz of the vibrator grinding into your clit, steady and relentless under the base of the harness. Every time she comes down hard, the strap shifts just right and the toy pulses deep against you. It’s impossibly good.
“Fuck—fuck, you’re so good at that,” you whine, your hands twitching with the desire to touch her.
Jinx just laughs, wild and breathless. “I know. ”
She slams herself down again, harder this time, and your entire body jumps. The vibrator doesn’t let up—it keeps pressing into your clit, low and constant, while Jinx fucks herself like she’s chasing the end of the world.
Her tits bounce with every movement, small and perfect and pierced, the metal flashing in the low light. Her body is slick with sweat or maybe lingering water, thighs trembling slightly from exertion, but she doesn't slow. If anything, she gets rougher .
You’re already close. Too close. That hum against your clit and the friction where her body meets yours is maddening. Every time she grinds down, you swear sparks go off behind your eyes.
Your nails dig into your palm as you orgasm comes rushing into the edges of your body.
“Jinx…Jinx, I’m gonna—”
“Oh, please do,” she pants, breath catching. “You earned it.”
And that’s all it takes.
You come hard, almost violently, the orgasm crashing over you in white-hot waves. Your back arches, the rope around your wrists straining as you cry out, legs shaking beneath her. The pressure from the vibrator doesn't stop—it forces you through it, even as your muscles lock and your vision blurs.
But Jinx doesn’t stop.
She keeps going, riding you through it with a desperate rhythm, hips still snapping down, her moans going high and ragged now. She’s losing it, right on the edge.
Your hands twitch, helpless, overstimulated, but she’s using your body like a toy now—her toy.
Her breath stutters. “Shit—shit— fuck —”
And then she falls apart.
She slams down one last time and shudders , hard, crying out as her pussy clamps around the strap and her thighs tremble uncontrollably. She collapses forward with a choked sound, her entire body going limp against you as the aftershocks hit her in waves.
She doesn’t move for a long moment—just pants against your neck, the both of you sweating and tangled and shaking. Her breath is warm on your skin. Her arms wrap around your torso, clinging, grounding herself.
-
Later, the two of you are curled up on her couch again, the chaos of the earlier hours now a warm buzz in your bones. You're both wrapped in oversized robes—hers patterned with flames, yours borrowed and far too soft. Jinx is stretched across the cushions with her head in your lap, her damp braids spilling down over your thighs. She’s playing with your fingers, twisting them gently, brushing her thumb along your knuckles like she’s trying to memorize the shape of them.
She lifts your hand suddenly and bites down on the fleshy part of your palm—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you jolt.
“ Ow, ” you mutter, staring down at her.
“You’re very biteable,” she says with a grin, nuzzling your wrist like it’s nothing.
You should be floating. You were floating. But now, with your head clear and the room quiet, something heavier settles in your chest. That creeping sense of reality creeping back in. The part where you leave, and she goes back to being Jinx, Jinx , and this all becomes a story you tell yourself on lonely nights to prove it happened.
Jinx stills slightly. Her fingers stop playing. She glances up at you, brows drawn together. “You’re being loud ,” she says softly.
“I’m not saying anything.”
She tilts her head. “Yeah, but your brain’s shouting.”
You try to laugh it off, but it comes out thin. “It’s nothing. Just…post-nut clarity. Happens to the best of us.”
She doesn't let it go. “What are you worried about?”
You sigh and meet her eyes. She's watching you too closely.
“That I’ll leave,” you admit, “and you’ll forget I exist. That this was just…a one-time thing with a hot fan and you’ll move on to the next one. And I’ll just go back to normal life, pretending this wasn’t the best night of my life.”
In a truly humiliating turn of events, you feel the sudden urge to cry .
Jinx stares at you a second longer. Then she smirks, gentler this time. “Wow. Dramatic.”
You open your mouth, but she reaches up and tugs your face down so she can kiss you. It’s short, soft, but enough to make your heart lurch.
“I’m not gonna forget you,” she murmurs. “You’re way too fun to play with.”
You blink at her, stunned. “That’s it? That’s the bar?”
“It’s a great bar.” She grins and sits up, snatching her phone from the coffee table. “Now give me your number before you give yourself a heart attack.”
You rattle it off, and she types it in with one hand, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration. The moment is cut short by a loud beep from the laundry room.
“Hey, that’s you,” Jinx says. “Clothes are done. Guess I’ve gotta let you go, huh?”
You nod, heart heavy even as you smile. She leans in and kisses your cheek before hopping off the couch.
A week later …
JINX:
sending u tix for our vegas show! im gonna ride u into the sunset <33
don’t worry abt plane tix either, mama’s got it handled
Another message follows a few seconds later.
JINX
:
see you soon, superfan
💋
You don’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.