okay. hear me out.

this is not weird. this is not that weird. i mean yeah, i’ve got my girlfriend’s lace thong on my head like it’s a crown.

..and yeah i might’ve just sniffed it like a goddamn pervert, but it’s hers. it’s not like i’m raiding strangers’ laundry baskets. this is personal. this is devotion.

and holy shit, she smells like heaven dipped in sin. i’m sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling tiktok with her panties stretched over my hair, pretending it’s normal.

(spoiler: it’s not normal.) every time i shift, the lace brushes my forehead and i get goosebumps like a fucking idiot.

i don’t even know what i’m doing—half embarrassed, half so turned on i could combust.

like… she wore these. her body, her heat, her everything… and now i’m here like some deranged fanboy putting them on my head instead of my dick.

then it hits me—oh shit. what if she comes home?

what if she walks in right now and sees her boyfriend—the guy people think is mysterious and unfazed—wearing her underwear like a party hat.

but also… fuck it. part of me wants her to see. to watch me turn bright red and then grin like the shameless bastard i am.

maybe she’ll laugh. maybe she’ll crawl into my lap. maybe she’ll call me her little freak and i’ll lose my mind.

and that’s when i hear the door click.

oh. fuck.

she’s home.

and i’m just sitting here—panty crown, raging hard-on, zero excuses.