#jason wise | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jennxxe · 4 days ago

Text

Funhouse rules.

pairing — jason wise x fem! reader

summary — you make him jealous on purpose at a carnival so he rails you in an abandoned haunted house attraction.

warnings — 18+, p in v, unprotected sex, angry sex, teasing, edging, orgasm denial, rough sex, a bit of degradation, public sex, oral (f receiving), light marking/bruising, established relationship, spitting, boob worship (or is it), jealous jason, cursing

a/n — sorry for being inactive yall, exam season is whopping my ass. request from @h34rtsf0rianmckinley <33

The air crackles with light and movement, cotton candy haze drifting through neon, carousel music mixing with screams from the drop tower in the distance. It's late enough that the sky’s dipped into deep velvet, but the carnival’s still wide awake with lights flashing, games barking, crowds shifting.

You’ve been walking the fairgrounds with Jason for a while now, his hand’s locked in yours. He’s wearing that sleeveless red tee that clings just right, showing off the cut of his arms, that lean build that’s always coiled like he’s ready to fight or fuck. Low-slung jeans, a Varsity jacket, worn Vans, and that smug, sideways smirk that always curls deeper when he sees you looking.

You’ve caught him clenching his jaw three times already though. Once when a guy stared too long while you waited in line for funnel cake. Once when your top rode up on the swings. And now it’s just buzzing under his skin.

“You want a corndog or something, babe?” he asks, tone easy on the surface, but there’s tension beneath it.

You glance up, smiling like you don’t feel the static radiating off him. “Nope. Just thirsty.”

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing with amusement. “For a drink, or for attention?”

You shrug. Don’t answer.

He huffs out a laugh but it’s tight, his thumb stroking once over your hand before dropping it.

You reach the ring toss stand, and Jason’s already sizing it up with a cynical eye. The kind of setup only idiots fall for. He mutters something under his breath about it being rigged, but before you can respond, the guy behind the counter catches your eye.

Backwards cap. White tee. Cocky little grin.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, handing you three rings without a glance at Jason. “First round's on me.”

You feel Jason still beside you. You part your lips just slightly, let that flirtatious smile ghost the corners of your mouth. Not quite committing. But not walking away either.

You take the rings slow. Deliberate. Bend a little too far forward, feel your ass brush against Jason's thigh, let the guy at the booth drink it all in.

“Thanks,” you say sweetly, batting your lashes as you glance up. “Hope I get lucky.”

Jason doesn't speak. His silence is loud. His arm is still, but not relaxed. That muscle in his jaw ticks, and you know you just lit a match. You toss your last ring, making sure it misses, and the carnie leans in, smirking.

“Almost, sweetheart. You want me to show you how it’s done?”

Jason moves immediately almost, hand at your waist. Fingers gripping tight, yanking you back so your body collides with his chest. He’s hard, tense, breathing through his nose like he’s deciding whether to slam your back against the booth or just drag you away and handle it elsewhere.

“She’s already got someone who shows her plenty,” he says. You can feel how pissed he is in the press of his hand, in the heat rolling off him.

The guy behind the counter blinks. “Dude—”

Jason doesn’t even look at him. His gaze is locked on yours. “She’s taken. Back off.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. His mouth is suddenly right next to your ear, his voice nothing more than a sharp whisper. “You think that was cute?” he mutters, tone low as he drags you away from the booth. His hand stays on your waist.

“I thought it was fun,” you whisper back, breathless; half teasing, half daring. Jason’s grip on your wrist is tight, not painful, but definitely not gentle either. He’s pissed.

“You think that was funny?” he huffs, dragging you through the carnival crowds like he’s trying not to full-on throw you over his shoulder “Seriously?”

You stumble a little on the uneven pavement as he weaves you through the maze of food stalls, game booths, and wandering kids with balloons. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t look back.

“Jason, chill—”

“Don’t tell me to chill,” he snaps, not yelling.. and definitely not quiet. “You let that loser flirt with you right in front of me. Right in front of me, babe.”

And then, he sees it. That old haunted funhouse. It’s roped off, dark, half-abandoned. One flickering light over the entrance and a crooked wooden sign that says CLOSED FOR REPAIRS in faded red paint.

Perfect.

Jason shoves the caution tape aside like it’s not even there and pulls you through the side entrance, his hand locked around yours now instead of your wrist.

The door slams behind you with a hollow thud, and instantly it’s like stepping into another world—dim, warm, thick with the smell of dust, plastic, and whatever old fog machines leave behind. The walls are lined with cracked mirrors and dusty mannequins dressed in torn-up costumes. Red lights flash slowly overhead, like a heartbeat.

Jason turns to you, chest rising hard, eyes wild with frustration and something much deeper.

“I told you not to pull shit like that,” he says, voice lower now but still heated. “You know how I get.”

Before you can respond, he grabs you again. Backs you up into one of those warped funhouse mirrors. It’s cold against your back, your reflection broken up and twisted around you. Everywhere you look, you see his hands on you. Your mouth parted. His body flushed against yours.

His hands shoot up and pin your wrists above your head. His chest hits yours a little too hard, like he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to be right there, right on you.

“You like being looked at?” he says, breath warm, face close. “You want people staring at you? Watching you throw your ass around in front of some random dude like you forgot who you belong to?”

You smirk, just a little, because yes, you did it to get under his skin and it worked. His eyes drop to your mouth, and for a second, he just stands there. Then his grip tightens just a little and his voice drops again.

“You’re seriously gonna make me lose my shit in a funhouse.”

Your lips part like you’re about to say something snarky, another little tease, maybe one more push but Jason doesn’t give you the chance.

His mouth crashes into yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and frustration and heat. He bites down on your lower lip and pulls back just an inch, lips still brushing yours, eyes narrowed like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you again or throw you on the floor and fuck you.

“Well,” he pants, smirking but there’s nothing playful in it now. “Too bad. ‘Cause tonight? You’re mine.”

He grabs your hand and pulls you deeper into the funhouse, his fingers laced tight in yours like you might try and bolt. You stumble after him down a narrow hallway lined with cracked mirrors and old Halloween decorations, one of those spinning vortex tunnels tilting around you as you pass through it, the whole place groaning like it might fall apart any second.

Eventually, you reach an old back room behind a sagging curtain. There’s busted animatronics slumped in the corners, old fog machines, forgotten clown masks tossed in a bin.

But what really gets his attention? The couch.

“Sit,” he says and before you can sass him, he’s already pushing you down onto it, his body following yours like he can’t stay away from you anymore.

He crawls over you with that same look in his eyes you saw earlier at the ring toss booth. He’s already tugging at your top with one hand, just enough to expose the edge of your bra, just enough to make your chest rise up into him. Your breath stutters. Your thighs shift. And he sees it all.

“No distractions,” he says, voice low but breathless. “No more games. Just me. Just this.”

The couch creaks underneath you. Something hums behind the mirrors, old machinery or maybe the leftover life of this haunted place. But none of it matters. Because the only thing you can hear right now is Jason’s ragged breath... and your name on his lips.

“I’m not lettin’ you walk outta here,” he says, mouth right at your ear, hips already settling between your thighs, “until I fuck the idea of any other guy outta that pretty little head.”

He grins, flushed and out of breath, thumb sliding just beneath your bra. “Hope you’re comfortable, baby,” he whispers, voice teasing now. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

You barely settle on the couch before Jason’s all over you. His hands are everywhere, one grabbing your face, fingers spread across your cheek and jaw while his mouth slams down on yours. It’s teeth and tongue and heat like the previous one, his lips moving against yours like he’s punishing you for making him feel this way.

His body is hot and heavy and solid on top of you, pressing you into the ruined cushions like he’s trying to fuse your skin with his. Every movement is tense, urgent like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or scold you or just fuck it all out of his system.

You rake your nails down his back and he groans, hips jerking into yours on reflex, grinding down with enough force to make the breath leave your lungs in a sharp gasp.

“God, fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, voice ragged. “You liked that, didn’t you?”

He drags his mouth down your neck, biting hard. Not enough to seriously hurt, but enough to make you gasp, your back arching up into him. His lips find that soft spot just above your collarbone and suck, tongue hot and sloppy and possessive, until he pulls back and sees the angry red mark bloom on your skin.

“You loved it,” he pants, his voice rough and way too close to a whine. “You liked him looking at you like you’re some fuckin’ prize.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours with a groan, his tongue forcing its way in. It’s messy. He’s panting into your mouth, breathing like he just ran sprints, like he’s sick with how badly he wants you.

His free hand slides down to your waist, tugging your hips up again to grind against him, his cock hard and thick in his jeans, pressing right into where you need him most.

“You are a prize,” he growls into your mouth, “but you’re mine. You get that? Mine, babe. I don’t give a shit who else tries. I’ll win every fuckin’ time.”

His grip tightens on your waist and he thrusts against you again, just enough to make you squirm. You feel it building already, the way his body’s so much on top of yours, the way his mouth won’t stop, his fingers bruising into your hip.

Your head tilts back as he kisses you harder, deeper, hands gripping your thigh, dragging it over his hip so he can slot himself tighter between your legs. The couch groans beneath you, old springs creaking as he shifts his weight, grinding down with ruthless precision.

His teeth sink into your collarbone and you whimper, hips lifting into him like your body’s already begging.

“You wanted a reaction?” he pants, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown. “You got one.”

Jason’s fingers fumble at the hem of your shirt, and there’s not a second of hesitation. He just grabs and yanks. The fabric bunches up under your arms, stretched and twisted, half-off your shoulders and exposing the top of your bra. He doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t even give you a second to adjust.

Your mouth parts like you might protest, tease him, say something bratty but all that comes out is a moan when his hand covers your breast and squeezes. Just a full, possessive grab that makes your body jolt under him.

“Yeah?” he growls, eyes locked on yours. His voice is rough and breathless, chest rising hard against you. “You like showing off like that? Walking around with your tits bouncing under that little top, like you forgot who fucking owns ‘em?”

His fingers dig into the soft flesh, making you gasp. Before you can answer, his hand slaps your chest just enough to leave a flash of pain that has you gasping and arching into him. Then he’s grabbing again, rougher this time, dragging your bra down so it’s twisted under your chest. Your breasts spill out, flushed and sensitive, nipples hard in the cold air and Jason doesn’t wait.

His mouth is on you in the next breath. Hot lips crashing down over your nipple, tongue flicking hard, fast, wet then he bites. Not deep, but enough to make your back arch and your nails scratch down his arms. You feel him groan against your chest, like the sound got ripped from his lungs just by tasting you.

“Fucking mine,” he mutters against your skin, not even pulling away to say it. His teeth drag across your breast, and then he sucks hard, lips sealing around that bruised, bitten flesh. He moans into it and you can already feel the heat between your legs pulse.

Sucking hard, dragging his tongue around your nipple, then biting again. He pulls back for a second to look at the mark blooming across your skin, deep red, maybe purple.

His mouth finds the other breast, this time starting rougher with no buildup, no warning. Just a sharp, open-mouthed bite that makes you cry out, and his hands pin your wrists back against the couch cushions before you can even think about touching him.

“You’re not moving ‘til I’m done,” he grits out, lips dragging across your chest. “You wanted attention so bad? Good.”

He switches to your other breast again, gripping it with his full palm like he’s trying to leave fingerprints. He leans in and sucks hard, messy and wet, his mouth pulling at you with that desperate noise like he doesn’t care how obscene it sounds.

Your back arches, body hypersensitive, nerves raw under the drag of his tongue. He pulls off with a loud pop, breath panting against your skin, and just stares.

“Goddamn,” he pants, dragging a slow stripe of his tongue up your chest, hot and slow. “You really thought you could flirt like that and not get fucked up for it?”

His hand hits your tit again, sharper this time. It bounces hard from the impact, and he is still grinding his thigh between your legs.

“Keep playing, baby,” he growls, grabbing both your breasts now, squeezing them together. “Go ahead. See what happens.” He leans in again, mouth against your ear, voice dark and breathless. “You’ll be walking outta here with bruises only I get to see.”

You can barely breathe. Your legs are trembling now, wrapped around his thigh, grinding without thinking because fuck, he feels good. The heat, the pressure, the way every move he makes lights you up from the inside out.

His mouth is everywhere. Your chest, your collarbones, the soft underside of your tits. He kisses hard and fast, then bites just to watch you squirm, groaning into your skin when your hips twitch against his leg.

He pulls back just long enough to look down at you; hair messy, lips red and shiny, his breath ragged. “Not done yet,” he says, almost to himself, before he starts tugging at the button of your shorts.

Jason’s fingers fumble at the button of your shorts, breath puffing hot against your chest. He’s not smooth with it. You squirm under him, hips lifting just enough to help, but he grabs you by the waistband and tugs hard.

The button pops. The zipper drags open with a hiss. He peels your shorts down your thighs, not bothering to be careful, dragging the denim past your knees, then all the way off and tossing them somewhere behind him like.

“Look at you,” he mutters, running one hand up the inside of your thigh while the other palms your ass. “All worked up from a few slaps and some attention, huh? That’s all it takes, babygirl?”

He grips your panties next, fingertips hooking into the sides, thumbs pressing into your hip bones and just stares for a second. At the wet patch between your legs. At the way your thighs twitch. At how ruined you already look.

“Fuck,” he groans, head tilting back for a second like he needs to breathe through it. “You’re soaked.” Then he rips them down in one smooth motion. He drags the damp cotton down your legs and off your ankles, eyes locked on your pussy the entire time.

“God, you’re so hot like this,” he pants, voice barely holding it together. “Flushed. Desperate. Fuckin’ dripping.”

He drops to his knees between your legs, hands spreading your thighs so wide it makes the couch creak, and his thumbs drag up the inside of them.

Your thighs are trembling, muscles clenching around nothing as Jason settles between them, his hands keeping you spread wide. His eyes are locked on your cunt, swollen and slick and pulsing from everything he’s done and everything he hasn’t.

He’s been teasing you for what feels like hours, fingers ghosting over your skin, tongue dragging slow and mean along the inside of your thigh, but never where you need him.

You buck your hips, chasing any kind of friction.

He just smirks. “You really thought I’d let you cum easy?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and sharp with that cocky, jock-boy edge that makes your stomach flip. “After that little show you put on out there?”

He leans in low, lips barely grazing your inner thigh, and his fingers slide up to the heat between your legs. Just knuckles. Enough to make you jolt.

“C’mon, babe,” he taunts, fingers trailing lazily through the wetness between your folds. “Bet he would’ve begged to eat this pretty pussy the second you bent over for him.”

You whimper, hips twitching. Jason huffs a laugh. He spits. It lands right on your clit, sticky and shining in the dark.

“Oops.”

His fingers immediately slide through the mess, swirling it in tight circles over your swollen bundle of nerves. Just one flick. One sweet, devastating flick that makes you arch off the couch with a gasp.

And then he pulls away. You cry out, wrecked and helpless, thighs still shaking as your orgasm slips just out of reach. Again.

Jason leans back on his heels, sucking the wet off his fingers like it’s nothing, grinning at the way your body trembles.

“Nah,” he says, voice low, cocky, breathless. “Not yet.”

He leans in again, tongue licking one long stripe between your folds, wet and hot and when he wraps his lips around your clit, you nearly lose it. Your fingers tangle in his hair, hips rocking up into his face but then—

He stops. Again.

You let out a strangled whine.

“Mm-mm,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s savoring you. “You flirted, remember? You made me jealous. So now I get to decide when that pretty little pussy gets to cum.”

He slaps your inner thigh, not too hard but hard enough to jolt you. “Lie still.”

And then his fingers are inside you—two of them, fucking up into you at a brutal pace that makes your eyes roll back. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your clit, pressure just enough to make your whole body tighten and just when you’re right at the edge, legs shaking, moaning his name—

He pulls out again.

“No—Jason—fuck—!”

“Uh uh,” he pants, leaning over you, mouth brushing your ear as his soaked fingers grab your throat. “You don’t get to cum until I say so. You don’t get anything until you learn to behave.”

He starts again, faster this time. Harder. Fingers curling right where you need them, his thumb grinding into your clit, lips kissing and biting your neck like he owns you and when you scream his name again, body clenching so close to the edge—

He stops. You sob.

“Please—”

Jason smiles, cock hard in his jeans, sweat dripping from his hair as he looks down at you.

“Not good enough,” he hums. “Beg like you mean it. Or I’ll keep doing this until the damn sun comes up.”

“Please—Jason,” you sob, voice cracked from moaning too hard, too long. “I-I need it—I need you, I can’t—please, baby, I’ll be good, I swear—just fuck me, please—”

That’s all he needed.

“Finally.” He grabs your hips, flipping you up higher on the couch with rough hands, your back hitting the armrest, legs thrown open.

His belt clinks, zipper dragged down with vicious speed. You feel him. Heavy against your dripping entrance. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t warn you. He lines himself up and slams in, the stretch brutal, perfect, making your body jolt so hard you knock your head back against the couch.

“Fuck—Jason—!”

He groans deep in his chest, like it physically hurts to be inside you, he’s so pissed, so turned on, his fingers bruising your hips as he sets a punishing rhythm.

“You don’t get to flirt. You don’t get to fucking beg for it after acting like a little slut unless I say so,” he growls, snapping his hips into you with every filthy word. “This pussy’s mine. Got it?”

You’re crying now, half from overstimulation, half from how goddamn good it feels. His cock hits deep, relentless, dragging over that spot that makes your whole body lock up. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other grabbing your throat; not choking, just holding.

His eyes never leave your face. “Say it.”

“M-mine—yours—it’s yours,” you sob, body trembling violently under him.

“Damn right it is.” He fucks you harder, all frustration and jealousy and weeks of pent-up need slamming into your core with every savage thrust. Your thighs are soaked. The couch is creaking. His sweat drips onto your skin and you don’t even care that your clothes are in shreds on the floor.

You feel yourself building again, right to the edge and you can’t even say a word. You just sob his name, legs tightening around his waist.

Jason feels it.

“Cum for me,” he orders through clenched teeth. Your whole body shakes, back arching, breath gone, nerves on fire. He lets out a strangled moan and follows, his hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside you as he buries himself to the hilt.

For a moment, there’s only silence. Only your breathless, wrecked body shaking under him. Only his weight holding you down, cock still twitching inside you.

Then he leans down, breath hot on your lips.

“Bet you won’t try that shit again after this.” he whispers, smirking now.

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You both come stumbling out of the haunted funhouse like nothing happened but it’s so obvious something did.

Your hair’s a mess. Your shirt’s pulled down but not quite right. Your shorts are twisted at the waist, Jason’s jacket draped over your shoulders. And he’s got that grin on his face.

That smug, post-fuck, victory lap grin.

He slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight into his side as you head back toward the noise and lights of the carnival. You can barely walk straight and he’s clearly loving it. Every time you stumble, he tugs you closer, laughing under his breath.

And then of course you see him.

That guy from earlier. The one at the ring toss.

He’s leaning against the booth now, still handing out cheap stuffed animals, but his eyes lift when you pass,

Jason sees him too. And oh, he doesn’t let it slide. He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and laced with mock sympathy.

“Aw, look at that,” he whispers. “Your little fanboy’s still here.”

You elbow him weakly, but he laughs, loud and cocky.

“What? You wanna go back and thank him? Maybe bend over the booth again so he gets a better look this time?” he teases, bumping your hip with his. “Might as well. Not like he’s ever gonna see what I just saw.”

You glare up at him, flustered, cheeks burning.

Jason just grins wider, boyish and smug and way too pleased with himself.

“Nah,” he adds, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re walking funny enough. He’ll get the message.”

Then he smacks your ass, quick and playful, right there in public, and keeps walking like he didn’t just say the dirtiest shit in the middle of a family carnival.

Yeah. He’s back in jock mode. And he’s never letting you live this down.

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