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ssa-dado · 1 month ago

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Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

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The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he��s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

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#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader smut #fleabag!reader #war is fucking over

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sixxels · 9 days ago

Text

you, always. ~ choso.k

summary!! in the chaos of frat parties, firelight, and fucked-up choices, you and choso keep dancing around what you really are. everyone sees it except you two. when one mistake shatters the illusion, you’re forced to face the truth: he was never yours. and that’s what made it hurt the most. a messy, slow-burn situationship full of angst, heartbreak, and the kind of love that doesn’t go away, no matter how hard you try to let it.

wc: 12.8k

!!disclaimer!! based on this ask! heavy themes of situationships, emotional angst, betrayal, and heartbreak, choso is a stoner, alcohol and drug use, slow-burn with a payoff, eventual resolution.

"gojo! go long!"

the air smells like salt and smoke. waves crash in the distance, a steady rhythm under the thump of bass from a speaker half-buried in the sand. the fire crackles, casting flickering shadows on faces you know too well.

you kick off your sandals, the sand cool beneath your feet. the party is in full swing, bodies swaying, drinks sloshing, joints passing from hand to hand. alpha phi knows how to throw a party, especially when finals are over and the only thing left to do is forget.

your eyes drift to the open sand, watching as sukuna, goji, and toji pass around a football with ease. shirtless, of course. they yell and laugh and tackle eachother without a care in the world as nanami and geto sit on a towel supervising their tipsy friends.

their eyes snap towards you, and gojo flashed a big toothy grin.

"y/n!! you're here!" you smile back at him but before you could walk up to greet him with a hug, two arms snake around your waist, and the scent of weed, smoke, and aragon oil invades your senses.

"hey, baby."

"hey cho."

you don’t turn around. don’t need to. his voice is low and lazy against your neck, warm breath brushing your skin like it’s second nature. he pulls you in a little tighter, his hands settling on your hips like he owns them. like he always does when he’s high and feeling a little territorial.

“jesus christ,” gojo hollers, already laughing, “you guys are so gross. it’s a beach party not a porno.” you roll your eyes, but choso doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t say a word. just rests his chin on your shoulder like he plans on staying there all night.

“don’t be mad no one wants to cuddle you,” you shoot back, and gojo gasps, clutching his chest like you physically stabbed him.

“wow. okay. betrayal. and after i saved you that jello shot earlier.”

“you drank it in front of me.”

“for you. spiritually.”

choso huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but you feel it. the way his mouth brushes the curve of your jaw when he does it, the way his arms tighten for half a second like he’s anchoring you to him.

“you wanna smoke?” he murmurs, voice quiet under the music, just for you. you tilt your head back slightly, eyes meeting his. his lashes are heavy, lids low, and he looks so fucking relaxed it makes your chest ache. that easy, sleepy stoner look. always so chill, even when you know he’s not.

“yeah,” you say, just as soft, “but only if you roll it.”

he smirks, barely. “you just like watching me do it.”

“you roll like it’s a love language.”

“maybe it is.”

you feel it in your stomach then. that familiar pull. the ache of something you’re both pretending isn’t real. you lean into him anyway. because you’re a little buzzed and the night smells like ocean and smoke and the fire makes everyone look golden.

“c’mon,” he says, and tugs your hand gently, guiding you away from the fire, away from the noise, to somewhere a little quieter. as you walk, you hear gojo yell behind you, “don’t fuck on the dunes!”

you flip him off over your shoulder.

you don’t hear choso laugh, but you feel his smile in the way he squeezes your hand.

after you and choso disappear, gojo's football arcs through the night sky, spinning like a slow comet before landing in sukuna’s outstretched hands with a soft whump. he catches it effortlessly, turns, and hurls it back to toji without looking.

“well choso's all over y/n again.” sukuna says, not even trying to sound casual. toji catches the ball against his chest, grunts, then shrugs. “he’s always all over her.”

“yeah, but like,” sukuna kicks at the sand, eyes following where choso and y/n disappeared into the shadows past the firelight. “they’re not together, right? still?”

“they’ve never been together,” gojo calls out as he jogs up to them, sweat sticking to his neck, eyes glassy from whatever edible he snuck earlier. he throws himself into the circle, catches the football when toji tosses it back. “they just… do whatever the fuck it is they do. the ‘situationship’ special.”

“he fucks her. sleeps next to her every night. calls her baby,” sukuna ticks it off like a grocery list. “but they’re not dating. okay.”

“you know choso,” gojo says, spinning the ball in his hands. “he’s too high to define anything.” toji lets out a quiet scoff. “too lazy, more like.”

“same thing,” gojo shrugs. the fire crackles behind them, muffled bass bumping from the speaker half-buried in the sand. people laugh, yell, somewhere a girl shrieks in mock horror. the air is warm with weed and ocean breeze, the kind of night that makes everything feel heavier than it is.

“i don’t get it,” sukuna mutters, squinting in the direction they disappeared. “she’s bad. like, bad bad. and she’s just letting him walk around like he’s not barely trying.”

“she’s not letting him,” gojo says. “she’s just not saying anything.”

“yeah, well,” toji grunts, reaching to scratch at the back of his neck, “what’s she gonna say? ‘hey, could you stop being a pussy and ask me out’? it’s not her job to spell it out.”

sukuna snorts. “you’ve seen the way he just lets girls flirt with him, right? he doesn’t even do anything. just lets it happen. that’d drive me fucking nuts.”

“yeah, but he never does anything,” gojo cuts in, voice a little more serious now. “like, he never kisses them. never leaves with anyone. he just—sits there. lets it happen ‘til they get bored.”

“still feels like a betrayal,” sukuna mutters, kicking at the sand.

“not cheating, but not loyal either.”

toji hums low. “he’s not a cheater. he’s just… lazy. too lazy to say no, too quiet to set boundaries. but he doesn’t cross lines. not really.”

“no,” gojo agrees, tossing the football in the air and catching it. “he just hovers near the edge and hopes no one calls him on it.”

“gojo, didn’t you say that girl from theta chi was hanging off him at that house crawl last week?”

“yep.” gojo grins, wide and toothy. “kept playing with his hair, calling him cho-bear. it was nasty. and he didn’t even move. just let it happen like a couch with a pulse.”

“fucking couch with a pulse,” sukuna howls.

“no, but for real,” gojo says, tossing the ball back to sukuna, who catches it one-handed. “she saw it. y/n. just stood there, stone-faced. didn’t say a word. you could tell it was eating her alive.” toji watches the ball get passed back again. “she’s not gonna call him out unless he gives her a reason to. and he’s smart enough to never quite cross the line. just hovers near it, like a dickhead.”

“i think he genuinely doesn’t even notice when girls flirt with him,” gojo says, lounging back into the sand now, hands behind his head. “like, i think he thinks they’re just being friendly.”

“that’s even worse,” sukuna scoffs. “ignorant motherfucker.”

“nah, he notices,” toji says after a beat. “he just doesn’t care enough to stop it.” they all go quiet for a second. the ball sits forgotten in the sand between them, the firelight throwing weird shadows across their faces. “so what’s she supposed to do?” sukuna finally asks.

“go crazy,” gojo says, laughing. “spiral. drink too much. flirt with someone worse.”

“someone like you, you mean?”

gojo raises a hand. “i would be the villain in her story, yeah.”

“you’d do it just to get a rise out of choso.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“i mean, it’d be fun to watch.” sukuna smirks, then sighs, kicking back a little in the sand. “she deserves someone who actually tries, man.”

“she deserves someone who isn’t high 24/7 and doesn’t look like he crawled out of a grave,” toji adds. gojo grins. “she likes the grave thing, though.”

“unfortunately,” sukuna says. they all look back toward the shadows past the firelight where choso and y/n disappeared, now just vague outlines under the moonlight. they’re sitting on a blanket, her legs stretched across his lap, a slow curl of smoke rising between them. her head tilts back in laughter at something he says, and even from this far, you can see the way he watches her. eyes soft. half-lidded. stoned and glowing and absolutely hers, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

“fuck,” gojo mutters. “he likes her. you can see it all over him.”

“then why doesn’t he just say it?” sukuna asks, and for once there’s no edge to it. just confusion. “because if he says it out loud,” toji says, picking up the football and tossing it lightly between his hands, “then it’s real. and if it’s real, he could lose it.” gojo whistles low. “damn, dr. phil in the house.” toji throws the ball at him. hard. “shut the fuck up.”

gojo laughs as he catches it, wincing a little. “i’m just saying. he’s not dumb. he knows the second they talk about it, shit might change. and right now? they’re in that sweet spot. not official, not broken. no labels. just… vibes.”

“vibes,” sukuna echoes, rolling his eyes.

“vibes don’t keep people around forever,” toji mutters. and they all go quiet again. the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. the kind that feels a little too honest, even for them. eventually, gojo sighs. “should we go tackle him? drag him back here and bully him into having one single adult conversation in his life?”

“nah,” sukuna smirks. “let him fuck it up on his own. it’s more entertaining.”

“you’re such a good friend,” gojo deadpans. sukuna shrugs. “i never said i wasn’t an asshole.” they go back to throwing the football. the fire pops and spits. and in the distance, choso passes the joint to you like he’s handing you a piece of himself. not a word spoken. just that same lazy, deliberate affection that drives you insane.

not quite enough, but still just enough to keep you here.

for now.

you slip away from the firelight without saying a word, your drink forgotten in the sand, music fading behind you as you wander toward the dunes.

he follows like he always does. doesn’t ask where you’re going. doesn’t need to.

the world feels softer out here, where the party is a dull hum and the moon hangs low over the ocean like it’s watching. your skin is warm from the fire and the drinks and his eyes, heavy on your back as you settle on the slope of a dune, dry grass brushing your bare legs.

choso sits behind you. doesn’t touch you at first. just passes you the joint, his fingers brushing yours like he doesn’t mean to. like it’s accidental. it never is. you take a slow drag, eyes on the black water in the distance. the kind of quiet settles over you that only ever exists with him. easy, full of things unsaid. always full of things unsaid.

he shifts closer. knees bumping. breath grazing your neck.

“cold?” he murmurs.

you shake your head, even though you kind of are. but he wraps an arm around your waist anyway, pulling you back against him. warm hoodie. bare legs across his. his chin finds your shoulder like muscle memory. you can feel his heartbeat against your spine. slow. steady. so fucking calm it drives you insane.

“you’re quiet tonight,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind. “so are you,�� he says, and it’s not a deflection. it’s an observation. his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin. not in a sexual way. not yet. just grounding. just his hand resting there like it belongs.

you tilt your head and he takes the cue. kisses the side of your neck. slow, unhurried. his lips trail over your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. because he has. but this time, he lingers. this time, he doesn’t stop. your fingers find the edge of his shirt, tug lightly. he shifts so he’s above you now, braced on his forearms in the sand, his hair falling forward to tickle your face. he looks at you like he’s stoned and dreaming.

maybe he is. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing that soft patch of skin beneath his lip. he kisses you like he’s never been in a rush in his life. slow. deep. lazy, but not careless. like he wants to make sure you feel every part of it. like this is the only thing tonight that he means.

your back arches under him. his hand slips beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into skin that’s still warm from the firelight, from his touch. the kiss deepens, turns a little messier, a little hungrier, but still never rushed. he tastes like weed and salt and something sweeter that’s just him.

he pulls back, barely, breath ragged. “you okay?” he asks, voice low and rough. you nod, lips parted, eyes on his. “want me to stop?” you shake your head.

his mouth curves into something almost like a smile. not all the way. just enough. he kisses you again, slower this time. less urgency, more meaning. like he’s trying to say everything he never does with his mouth instead. your fingers tangle in his hoodie. his hand spreads across your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wants to climb inside you just to be near your heartbeat. like closeness is the only language he’s fluent in.

and it’s not just sex. it never has been. not with him. this is what it always is—soft mouths, quiet hands, closeness that never gets named. something just shy of love. you don’t talk about it. you just kiss like maybe it’s enough. and maybe, tonight, it is.

he kisses you one last time, softer than the others, like he’s tucking something away. then he shifts, rolls off to lie beside you in the sand, hoodie bunched at his ribs, arm behind his head like nothing happened.

you stare at the stars. try to even your breathing. try not to think too hard about the way your lips still feel swollen, the way his hand had fit so perfectly behind your knee. “that was…” you start, then stop. instantly regret saying anything.

he hums, low in his throat. noncommittal. like he’s agreeing but not really engaging. like he knows what you meant but isn’t going to make it easy. silence stretches between you. not quite comfortable this time. not like before.

“your hoodie smells like weed and bonfire,” you say eventually, just to fill the air. “so do you,” he says, lazy. not even looking at you. you swallow. blink up at the sky.

“are we gonna talk about it?” the words slip out before you can stop them. his jaw tightens, just for a second. you catch it in the side of your vision. “talk about what?”

you shrug, try to make it light, like it doesn’t matter. like you didn’t just let him kiss you like he meant it. “this. whatever this is.” he takes a slow breath. the kind people take when they don’t want to lie but don’t want to tell the truth either.

“it’s whatever you want it to be,” he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. your throat tightens. that’s the problem. it’s always been whatever you want. and you never say what you want. and he never asks again. “right,” you say, a little too fast. “cool.” you sit up, brush sand off your legs, avoid looking at him.

“we should go back,” you say. “people are probably wondering where we went.” he doesn’t move right away. just watches you, eyes unreadable in the dark. then he sits up too, pulls his hoodie straight, stands. you walk back together but not touching. not speaking.

his hand hovers near yours the whole time but never quite reaches. and you don’t ask why. you just let the pain in your chest eat you up from the inside out as you make your way back to the bonfire, greeted by gojo and yuki.

the fire’s burning hotter than before when you make it back. someone’s thrown more logs on it, and the flames lick high into the night, casting everyone in gold and shadow. gojo spots you first, sitting crisscross in the sand with a red solo cup balanced on his knee and a bottle of tequila in his lap.

“look who finally decided to rejoin society,” he grins. “get over here, slut, we’re playing truth or dare.” you laugh despite yourself, letting the rest of the group pull you in. yuki scoots to make space, draping an arm around your shoulders, already three drinks in and glowing like mischief incarnate. “you missed nanami getting dared to do a shot off haibara’s stomach. tragic.”

“and he actually did it,” shoko adds dryly from across the circle, holding a cigarette like a wine glass. “he’s so real for that.” you let yourself settle in, take the cup someone hands you, ignore how your heart still beats unevenly in your chest. choso’s a few feet away, sitting on a driftwood log, blunt in one hand and a half-empty bottle of something dark in the other. he’s slouched low, legs spread, hoodie falling off one shoulder. eyes half-lidded, mouth slack.

you glance at him. he doesn’t look back. you look away. “okay,” gojo claps once, way too loud. “truth or dare, y/n.” you raise a brow. “we’re just starting with me?”

“you disappeared for like thirty minutes,” he says, waggling his brows. “gotta make up for lost time.” you sigh dramatically. “fine. truth.”

“ooooh,” yuki coos. “boring.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re laughing. gojo leans forward, blue eyes gleaming. “if you had to kiss someone in this circle right now, who would it be?”

groans echo around the fire. you make a show of looking around, tapping your finger to your chin. “hmmm… probably yuki.”

“coward!” gojo shouts. “hot,” shoko says at the same time. “kiss her then,” sukuna smirks from across the flames. you raise your cup in mock salute.

“haibara,” yuki says, pointing at him with a wicked grin. “truth or dare?”

“truth,” he says too fast, already blushing “what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said during sex?” the group erupts, groaning, laughing, shoko immediately choking on her drink.

“you’re evil,” haibara says, clutching his chest. while he fumbles through a mortifying story about calling someone “milady” mid-hookup, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the fire.

choso’s leaning back against the log now, body heavy, hoodie pushed halfway off one shoulder. his cup is empty. the blunt that had been passed around earlier is down to the filter in his fingers. he’s not saying anything, just watching the flames, face slack and unreadable.

he’s wasted.

not just high, not just tipsy—gone in that quiet, slippery way he gets when he doesn’t want to talk. eyes half-shut. jaw loose. totally somewhere else. you don’t clock it fully, not yet. not with yuki howling beside you and gojo still hanging off your back like an overgrown child.

“milady??” gojo cries, throwing his head back. “nah, jail. straight to jail.” the circle bursts into laughter again. you smile, distracted. choso doesn’t. he's way too off his face to even think properly, and when he was like this, he was very impressionable.

“next round.”

the game rolls on. someone dares toji to shotgun a beer with no hands (he does it without blinking). haibara is dared to say the filthiest thing he’s ever googled (he refuses, gets booed). yuki chooses dare, ends up giving shoko a lap dance that has geto raising his eyebrows and muttering something about needing a cigarette.

then gojo turns to you again, eyes sharp. “truth or dare, y/n.” you smirk. “dare.”

“yes,” he hisses. “okay. i dare you to sit on someone’s lap for the next two rounds.”

“jesus christ,” you mutter. “don’t act shy now,” yuki laughs. “just pick your victim.”

your eyes skim the circle. your gaze flicks to choso’s spot.

it’s... empty?

the log is bare. the bottle’s gone. the blunt’s out. no sign of him.

you blink.

when did he leave?

you hesitate too long and gojo grins wider. “need help choosing?” you huff and drop yourself in his lap, just to shut him up. he yells, triumphant, wrapping his arms around your waist like a wrestling belt. “ladies and gentlemen, i am blessed.”

“you’re a menace,” you say, trying not to laugh as he leans into it, chin on your shoulder, theatrically sighing. you stay there for two rounds, as ordered. it’s stupid and warm and kind of perfect. yuki flicks bottle caps at you, toji starts telling a story no one believes, and the fire cracks and spits into the night like it’s trying to keep up with everyone’s energy.

but underneath all of it, a small thought needles at you.

'where the hell did choso go?'

you don’t say it out loud. you just smile and laugh and sip your drink. pretend not to feel the hole that opened beside you when he left.

the firelight dances over everyone’s faces, laughter and music mingling with the smell of salt and smoke. you can still taste tequila on your lips, hear gojo’s ridiculous jokes echoing over the waves. everyone’s caught up in the moment, gojos still relishing in the fact you're in his lap, nanamis still scowling at yuki for being so loud, but your mind drifts back to choso.

you last saw him sitting with you guys around the fire. something aches in your chest at the memory—like you should have stayed closer, made sure he was okay. instead you laughed with yuki, played along with gojo’s dumb dares, tried to forget. forget the akward moment the two of you shared before all of this.

visibly, you were upset. anyone could see you were looking for choso, it was just what you did.

but then you catch sukuna’s eye from across the circle. he’s staring where you are, face unreadable under the flicker of flame. with a stern look in his eyes that almost screams 'i'm sorry' he points his chin toward the bar with a slow nod. you frown—why is sukuna looking at you like that? it’s a silent invitation to look back. you shift uncomfortably in gojo’s lap. he snickers, but you barely hear him.

“you good?” he asks, eyebrows raised. you force a smile, head shaking. “yeah. just… saw something.” you shrug it off and stand unsteadily—two drinks plus who knows how many hits of blunt doesn’t mix well with sand.

you push through the circle of friends, “i’m just gonna grab another drink,” you tell gojo, but you don’t reach for the cooler. instead you make your way toward where sukuna pointed. the makeshift bar is a low wooden plank on cinder blocks, empty bottles strewn at its feet. choso is there, only he’s not alone.

you catch the last line of a slurred sentence—“what, i can't even see your face right now i'm so fucked up—” and see him pressing his mouth against a girl’s in a sloppy, desperate kiss. her arms are around his neck, and she’s pulling him closer. she’s pretty in that sorority way, wavy hair and cheap sundress, someone you barely know. neither of them notices you. his hoodie is off, draped on the back of the barstool. he’s shirtless except for a half-unbuttoned flannel, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls, uneven. he smells of weed and booze and regret you haven’t even registered yet.

your heart collapses before you even process what’s happening. he’s never done this. he’s never gone past a little throat-clearing and some conversation when other girls flirted. he never let things escalate. but here he is, his lips smashed against another girl’s, fingers tangled in her hair. he’s too drunk to pull away. it’s not just a flirt or a laugh-by; it’s something messy.

you step closer, frozen. your mouth goes dry. you hear someone call your name from the fire circle, yuki’s voice, but you can’t answer. your breath catches when choso’s gaze flickers away from the girl’s mouth. his eyes widen for half a second when he sees you, and then he panics.

he pushes the girl off him. she stumbles back, startled, and you feel a sharp pang for her, too, she was probably just playing the game like everyone else. his hands tremble as he reaches for her, swaying on his feet. the girl backs away, wiping lipstick off her mouth, then walks off into the dark, leaving choso standing there alone with his shirt hanging open.

he turns to you, lashes drooping. his voice slurs: “y/n, shit, i—”

you can’t hear the rest. you can’t even breathe. everything goes quiet except for the pounding in your ears. tears burn behind your eyes. you feel goosebumps prick your skin even though it’s warm. your legs quake. how could he do this to you? he’s never done this to you. he’s never shown any sign of wanting someone else like this. he’s always been so… lazy, but at least he never burned you like this.

you open your mouth, wanting to scream something, but the only sound that comes out is a ragged whisper: “cho…” the name catches in your throat like a curse. he steps forward, but you step back.

“i didn’t—i didn’t mean it—” he stammers, palms raised, his voice thick. “she just—was right there, and i—”

his words make no sense. they never do when he’s this fucked up. you’ve seen him high and you’ve seen him drunk, but never this wasted. his eyes are unfocused, his cheeks flushed. he’s tripping over himself, trying to explain. trying to fix something you don’t know can be fixed.

“are you for real right now?” you finally rasp, voice cracking. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he blinks, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. his hands drop to his sides. he sways a little, like his body is untethered from his mind. “y/n, ma, i’m sorry. i’m—shit.”

you step back even further, your hands coming up to cover your face. you don’t want him to see you cry, but you can’t stop the tears. they fall hot down your cheeks. your whole chest aches. the world tilts sideways. you feel like you’re drowning under the weight of it.

he reaches out, hesitates, then drops his arm. “i’m—I was just—”

you slash a hand through your hair. “just, just what? just what, choso? you’re never ‘just’ anything with me. you know that.”

he swallows hard. his throat moves, and you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing. fuck, you always notice. fuck, you hate how much you notice. “i was—i got too high. too drunk. i wasn’t thinking.”

you laugh—bitter, broken. “thinking? you weren’t thinking before either. you never think. but at least before, you didn’t do this.”

he recoils as if your words burn him. his shoulders slump. “you—i’m an asshole, i know.”

“you’re more than an asshole.” the words are sharp, pulsing. “you’re a fucking cunt. you don’t even know what you want.”

he flinches, but push comes from his chest. “that’s not true—”

“no?” you whisper, voice trembling. “so you do want her? is that it? maybe you want a real girlfriend? this is what you want?”

he looks away. his jaw tightens. he runs a hand through his hair, tangling his fingers. he closes his eyes. “i don’t know what i want.”

you feel a fresh wave of hurt, like acid in your bones. “exactly. you don’t know. but you sure know how to use me until you’re bored.”

his head shoots up like he’s been stabbed. his eyes slide to yours, glossy. “i—”

“stop,” you choke out. “just stop.”

he blinks again, tears forming too. you can see how much he’s struggling to keep it together. he opens his mouth to say something, but instead he coughs, draws in a shaking breath, lets it out. his voice is quiet and ragged and real: “i’m so sorry.”

it’s the rawest thing you’ve ever heard from him. but you don’t let yourself believe it. not yet. you can tell by the way he’s stumbling, slurring around his words, he means it in the moment—because he’s too high to lie. but as soon as tomorrow comes, will he remember? will he care?

“i’m fucked up,” he confesses, voice breaking. “i know—i know i fucked up. i—i hate myself so much right now.”

you see it in his eyes: he’s so deep down, he can’t fix this. he knows he’s fucked, but that doesn’t help you. it’s just another confession that puts your heart on a slanted knife. you’re trembling—anger and heartbreak twisting in your gut.

“you hate yourself?” you repeat, voice hollow. “you should.”

he flinches again, then steps toward you slowly, as if wading through quicksand. “look. i'm sorry, i am. i... fuck me bro i don't know how to talk about this right now give me a break.”

“too late,” you spit, stepping around him as if he’s diseased.

he reaches out, then drops his arm again, like he can’t even touch you. “y/n—please.”

you can’t look at him anymore. you feel something hard and cold snap inside you. “i want you to leave,” you say, voice low and controlled. “leave me alone.”

for a moment he just stands there, looking at you like he’s seeing the end of something he didn’t realize was real. then he turns away, unsteady. you watch his shoulders shake. you can’t tell if he’s about to cry or puke.

he staggers toward the dunes, disappearing into the dark. you don’t follow. you don’t want to watch. you sink to the ground in front of the bar, knees up to your chest, arms wrapped around them. the firelight feels harsh, like it’s burning you. you press your face into your knees, let the tears fall freely. you feel everything—anger, sadness, shame, confusion—raw and jagged.

you don’t know how long you sit there before someone touches your shoulder. you look up to see yuki crouched beside you, eyes wide with concern.

“y/n?” she whispers. “are you okay?”

you shake your head, voice lost somewhere in your chest. “i can’t,” you choke out. “i can’t.”

she wraps her arms around you. you let her hold you, even though it feels like admitting defeat. the party rages on behind you, music thumping, friends oblivious or perhaps just giving you space. the waves crash somewhere beyond the fire, steady and indifferent.

you think of choso out there, stumbling over sand, alone. you think of the regret in his eyes, how you saw it plain as day. you think of how you loved him in silence for so long, and now his mistake has ripped that away.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into yuks’s shoulder, though you don’t know if you’re apologizing to her, to yourself, or to him. the tears won’t stop. your heart feels hollow, like the tide has taken a piece of you out to sea.

and somewhere in the dark, choso probably crumbles, realizing he’s lost you. you want to hate him for that, but you can’t. you just want to bury yourself until this night never happened.

choso’s head felt like a fucking drumline was marching through it, each beat sharper and heavier than the last. the sun stabbed through the blinds in long, cruel fingers and the stale smell of smoke clung to the air like a bad hangover perfume. he blinked, slow, trying to remember where the hell he was. the frat house. alpha phi. his bed. but how the fuck did he get there?

his mouth was dry and tasted like burnt rubber, throat raw and sore. he propped himself up on one elbow, the room spinning slightly. he groaned low, the motion making his head pound harder. last night was a blur—faint memories flickered like a broken film reel. laughter, firelight, the crash of waves, the weight of someone in his arms, then flashes of something else, something he didn’t want to remember.

the door creaked open. sukuna stepped in, calm and precise as always, but the usual mischief in his eyes was replaced by something colder, sharper.

“you’re up,” sukuna said, voice low and steady. he didn’t smile. that was the first warning.

choso rubbed his face with both hands, trying to piece it together. “sukuna. how the fuck did i get home?”

“i carried you,” sukuna said flatly. “passed out face-first in the sand behind the bar. someone had to get you the hell out of there before you died or embarrassed yourself worse.”

choso groaned again, sinking back onto the mattress. “shit…”

“yeah, shit,” sukuna muttered, pacing the room with slow, deliberate steps. he sat on the edge of choso’s bed, leaning forward. “you fucked up, man.”

choso’s eyes narrowed. “i know.”

“you don’t,” sukuna said sharply, almost like he was frustrated by his own words. “you really fucked up. and you’re about to find out how bad it is." sukuna says, leaning back and letting out a breath. “you fucked up so bad, choso. you—” he leans forward again, voice low and dangerous, “—you really fucked up.”

“god...” choso muttered, feeling the weight crash down on him like a tidal wave. guilt spread through his chest, thick and heavy. he felt sick, the kind of sick that wasn’t just from booze or weed.

sukuna’s voice cut through the fog. “you’re a goddamn idiot for letting it happen. you’re not the type, not really. you’ve always had some stupid line you wouldn’t cross, but last night you trampled all over it like it didn’t matter.”

choso looked up, voice raw. “i didn’t mean to.”

“no shit,” sukuna said, but his tone wasn’t mocking. it was serious, almost like a warning from a friend who gives no fucks about sugarcoating.

choso swallowed hard. the knot in his stomach tightened. “fuck. i didn’t want this.”

“doesn’t matter what you want.” sukuna’s eyes bore into him. “you had her, you had this whole fucking thing that was more than a hookup but less than a relationship, and you threw it away.”

choso’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “i’m so fucked.”

“yeah. you are. you wanna know why?” sukuna leaned back, shaking his head. “because she didn’t deserve it. she’s been holding her shit together around you while you got high and drunk and let some other girl get what she’s been waiting for. and now she’s gonna hurt. and you’re gonna have to watch.”

chosо runs a shaky hand through his undone hair. the memory clicks into place like a hammer to his skull: the girl’s lips on his, the way he’d lost himself in a haze of substance and needed something familiar, something warm, so he’d found the first person who was breathing close. he feels bile rise in his throat. “i didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “i wasn’t thinking.”

“bullshit,” sukuna snaps, voice surprisingly loud in the small room. “you were drunk, yeah. you were high, yeah. but you were coherent enough to know that wasn't y/n.”

chosо flinches. the memory of slurred words pours into his mind—words he wishes he could swallow back into oblivion. he touches his lips, damp with saliva now. “fuck, y/n,” he breathes, and his chest caves in.

“you do realize what you did?” sukuna demands. he stands, pacing the length of the room, hands curled into fists. “you humiliated her. you broke her heart. and y/n… y/n’s been your ride-or-die since freshman year. hell, she’s been in love with you since day one.” chosо winces. he closes his eyes, vision blurring. “i know.”

“no, you don’t know.” sukuna’s tone shifts, angrier now. “you have no fucking idea. you let her believe your fucked-up silence was affection. you let her walk around telling everyone you were hers and she was yours. you let her think you cared about her. now you’ve gone and spat on that trust.”

choso’s eyes flutter open. he’s sweating, although the room is cool. “i—i know i’m an asshole.” his voice cracks. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

sukuna stops pacing and squares his shoulders. he stares at choso like he’s looking through him, like he can see every flawed cell. “i’m not here to hear you say sorry. do you know why?”

chosо shakes his head, staring down at his hands. “because it doesn’t fix anything?”

“exactly.” sukuna folds his arms, voice shaking with a quiet intensity. “saying sorry doesn’t undo the damage. saying sorry doesn’t un-break her heart. saying sorry doesn’t make her forget watching you with someone else. saying sorry doesn’t bring her back to you.”

choso feels his chest tighten until he can hardly breathe. “i know.”

“do you know what she’ll do now?” sukuna asks, stepping closer, gaze piercing. “do you know she’ll pretend she’s okay? do you know she’ll crash and burn from the inside out because she can’t handle facing you?”

chosо just looks at the floor. tears burn back behind his eyes. he feels like he’s been punched too many times to count. “i don’t deserve her.”

“no shit,” sukuna says softly, then shakes his head. “and that’s the problem. you think you don’t. so you never mess up your lazy routine of smoking and half-assing everything. but this isn’t just half-assing. this is destroying someone you used to claim you cared about.”

his voice cracks. for a moment, choso thinks sukuna might cry. instead, he turns away and stalks toward the door. “i’m done here. get your shit together, cho. learn how to be a man. learn how to say no. learn how to keep your mouth shut when you know saying something will ruin everything. and for god’s sake, figure out what you want before you ruin the next person who loves you.”

he swings the door open and pauses. “and if you ever look at her again like nothing happened, i will personally drag you out of this room and force you to tell her everything you feel. got it?”

chosо nods slowly, unable to trust his voice. sukuna leaves without another word, closing the door with a final click.

he sinks back onto the mattress, head spinning. he slides down until his back presses against the cool wall. tears finally slip free and track down his cheeks. he presses his face into his knees, breathing hard. guilt slams into him like a freight train—so overwhelming he can’t think how to make it stop. he hates himself for hurting y/n. hates himself for being too lazy to say no earlier, for being too cowardly to have the difficult conversation before he got wasted. hated himself for believing he could keep using her heart like it was just another spare, something he could pick up and toss aside.

“so then i said, ‘professor, with all due respect, you can’t assign a 3k essay during finals week and also expect me to be sober.’”

you snort, biting back a grin as gojo throws his arm dramatically over his chest like he’s just taken a bullet. the two of you are walking past the library, sunlight flickering through the trees, heat radiating off the pavement in lazy waves. it should feel like freedom—finals are done, summer’s coming, everyone else is already half-drunk on the taste of no responsibilities.

but your chest is heavy.

you don’t say anything. you just keep walking, nodding along to gojo’s ridiculous story about submitting a paper with a meme in the bibliography.

he’s doing a good job of keeping it light, you’ll give him that. he always does. it’s like he knew you didn’t want to talk about last night—knew you needed distraction, not comfort. jokes, not pity.

“anyway, the TA gave me a seventy-two, which is basically a love letter. should i text her or is that inappropriate?”

“definitely text her,” you say, trying to sound amused. “start with ‘hey, baby. your academic standards are low, and so are mine.’”

gojo clutches his chest again. “y/n, you complete me.”

you smile. or at least you try to.

and then you feel it. not the sun. not the warmth of gojo’s voice. something colder. sharper.

you look up—and there he is.

choso.

he’s across the quad, walking toward the science building with his hoodie pulled up even though it’s too warm for it, and a plastic cup of coffee clenched in his hand. you don’t think he’s seen you at first—he’s walking slow, like his body hasn’t caught up with his brain, like he’s still in last night. his eyes are sunken, skin pale, mouth downturned. he looks like hell. like regret.

and then his gaze lifts. and meets yours. everything halts.

his steps slow. his grip on the cup tightens just slightly, enough to make the lid shift. his whole face stills, mouth parting a little like he might say something, even from this distance.

you stop too. mid-stride. your stomach clenches.

it lasts only a second. maybe two. but it stretches, long and loud and tense. like the entire campus is holding its breath.

you can’t look away from him.

and then he blinks. looks down. keeps walking.

you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. force your legs to move again.

gojo doesn’t say anything for a moment. doesn’t joke. doesn’t tease. just lets you walk beside him in silence until your fingers curl at your sides, and you have to ask.

“did he look at me?”

gojo sighs, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “like you hung the fucking moon.”

you swallow hard.

“he looks like shit,” you mumble.

“yeah. guilt’s not a great moisturizer.”

you let out a small, bitter laugh. “fuck. this is so embarrassing.”

“it’s not embarrassing, y/n. he’s the one who kissed someone else.”

you blink back the sting at the edges of your eyes and shake your head. “we weren’t even… anything.”

gojo stops walking. turns to face you, squinting against the sunlight. “don’t do that.”

you furrow your brows. “do what?”

“pretend it didn’t mean something. like it wasn’t real just because no one put a label on it. i know it’s easier that way, but it’s not the truth.”

you hate how gentle his voice is. how nonchalant he normally is, and how careful he’s being now. it makes it worse. it makes it real.

“i just…” you start, but the words die on your tongue. “i don’t know what to do.”

gojo shrugs, soft. “you don’t have to do anything.”

you blink.

“seriously,” he says. “you don’t owe him your forgiveness. or your rage. you don’t have to figure it out today. you can just be pissed. or sad. or numb. it’s allowed.”

you look down at your shoes. at the way the sunlight splashes across the concrete in broken gold.

you think about last night. about the way choso looked at you before he stumbled off behind the makeshift bar. about how you didn’t notice he was gone. about sukuna’s warning glance. about the girl’s hands in choso’s hair. about the way he couldn’t even string a sentence together. about the way your heart cracked in real time, like glass under pressure. quiet, and then all at once.

you wonder if he remembers it. if it keeps replaying in his head the way it’s stuck in yours.

you wonder if he’s sorry. not just in his body language. not just in the way he looked at you like he was drowning. but really sorry. the kind you say out loud.

gojo nudges your shoulder. “come on. let’s go get lunch before i start crying in public.”

you nod, wordless, and let him steer you toward the student union building. but as you walk, you can still feel it—that moment of eye contact, lodged somewhere between your ribs.

it hurts in ways you didn’t know silence could.

you sighed as gojo pulled you along beside him out of your thoughts. you’re now sitting on the edge of a bench outside the arts building, chin in your hand, barely paying attention to the slow trickle of students passing by. it’s too nice of a day to be sulking, but that hasn’t stopped you before.

gojo plops down beside you like he’s got springs in his joints, letting out an exaggerated sigh as if he’sthe one emotionally hungover from your situationship unraveling in public.

“you know what your problem is?” he says, already grinning.

you glance sideways at him, unimpressed. “no, but i’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“you need to get drunk and reckless and do something stupid. preferably at my place, tomorrow night, very exclusive. i’m inviting you, which means you’re special.”

you raise a brow. “is it really exclusive if you’re inviting the whole campus?”

“shhh,” he hushes, waving a hand. “don’t ruin the illusion. i’m curating vibes, not sending out mass texts.”

you pause, fingers picking at the frayed seam of your sleeve. “i don’t know, satoru…”

“oh, come on.” he leans in closer, drops his voice just enough to make it conspiratorial. “you show up lookin’ hot, drink my alcohol, dance a little, maybe flirt with someone who doesn’t make out with random sorority girls while cross-faded. total healing.”

you snort, despite yourself. “that’s your solution to heartbreak? tequila and objectification?”

“babe, i’ve seen worse coping mechanisms. plus,” he adds, nudging you with his shoulder, “it’s me. you know it’ll be fun.”

you let the silence stretch for a beat, eyes flicking out toward the courtyard. the weight in your chest hasn’t lifted—not really—but it feels a little less suffocating around gojo. he’s good at that. distracting you without making you talk about it.

finally, you shrug. “fine. i’ll come.”

“yes!” he pumps his fist dramatically. “dress code is ‘make your ex cry,’ by the way.”

you roll your eyes, but a real smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “you’re the worst.”

“and yet, somehow, still your favorite.”

you don’t argue. maybe he’s right. maybe a party is exactly what you need. or maybe it’s just easier to dance through the ache than sit in it.

either way—you’re going.

"alright."

the bass is already rattling the windows when you step up to gojo’s front porch. the door’s wide open, light and heat spilling out into the night like the house itself is breathing. you can hear laughter, the clink of bottles, someone yelling about beer pong in the backyard.

you take a breath, adjust the strap of your top, and step inside.

the place is packed. bodies everywhere, music thumping through the floorboards, the air thick with sweat and smoke and something sweetly chemical. you’re barely two steps in before someone presses a red cup into your hand.

“look who finally showed up,” yuki grins, appearing at your side like she’s been waiting for you. she’s in a black crop top and ripped jeans, glitter dusted across her collarbones. “damn, you look hot.”

you laugh, a little breathless. “thanks. you too.”

“obviously,” she smirks. “come on, let’s find sukuna before he starts a fight.”

you follow her through the crowd, weaving between clusters of people, dodging elbows and spilled drinks. the living room’s a mess—couch cushions on the floor, someone dancing on the coffee table, a couple making out against the wall like they’re the only two people in the world.

and then you see him.

choso.

he’s slouched on the couch in the corner, hood up, eyes half-lidded. there’s a joint between his fingers, a bottle of something dark on the floor by his feet. he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. his gaze flicks up, meets yours for a split second, and then drops back to the joint.

your stomach twists.

“don’t,” yuki says, catching your arm. “he’s not your problem tonight.”

you nod, swallowing hard, and let her pull you away.

in the kitchen, sukuna’s leaning against the counter, shirt unbuttoned, tattoos peeking out from beneath the fabric. he raises an eyebrow when he sees you, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“well, well,” he drawls. “look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

“don’t start,” you warn, but there’s no heat in your voice.

“start what?” he feigns innocence, pushing off the counter to stand in front of you. “i’m just appreciating the view.”

yuki rolls her eyes. “you’re such a slut.”

“takes one to know one,” he shoots back, winking at her.

you laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

“come on,” sukuna says, grabbing a bottle from the counter. “let’s get you a real drink.”

he pours you something strong and sweet, the alcohol burning a trail down your throat. you take another sip, letting the warmth settle in your belly.

“so,” sukuna says, leaning in close. “how’ve you been?”

you shrug. “surviving.”

“that’s all anyone can ask for,” he nods.

“listen,” sukuna says, voice a little lower, a little more serious, “i talked to choso.”

your hand pauses halfway to your mouth, red cup hovering in the air. you don’t look at him, not yet.

you just go, “yeah?”

he nods once, slow. then, after a beat: “the night of the beach party. i drove him home.”

you finally glance up.

he’s not wearing the usual smirk. no teasing, no smugness—just sukuna with his jaw clenched a little too tight and his eyes sharp with something you don’t usually see on his face. concern, maybe. or regret, even though this isn’t his thing to regret.

“he was out of it,” sukuna says. “like, properly fucked up. couldn’t walk straight. slurring all over the place. when i found him behind the bar, i thought he was gonna hurl on that girl’s face.”

your stomach flips.

“he kept saying your name,” sukuna goes on. “like, in between trying to light a joint with the wrong end of a lighter. just kept saying it. over and over. sometimes like he was pissed at himself. sometimes like he was scared you’d left already.”

you don’t say anything.

you just keep staring at the edge of the countertop like if you look hard enough, it’ll swallow you whole.

“i sat him in the car,” sukuna says, softer now. “he couldn’t even get the fucking door open. just slumped in the seat and stared out the window the whole drive. i don’t think he even knew i was there. and then he said—”

he cuts himself off, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

you glance at him. “he said what?”

sukuna’s eyes flick to yours. something unreadable flickers there.

“he said, ‘she’s not gonna look at me the same,’” sukuna mutters. “‘i ruined it.’”

your throat closes.

he shrugs, like he’s trying to keep it casual, like he hasn’t just torn a hole in your chest.

your heart is beating in your ears now, too loud, too fast. the crowd, the music, the whole fucking house feels like it’s underwater. like you’re moving through molasses.

sukuna leans his elbows back on the counter, watching you.

“look,” he says, voice calm but firm, “i’m not saying this to excuse what he did. he fucked up. and not just at the party. i mean all of it. the way he lets girls talk to him like he’s not taken. the way he never says shit when they flirt. the way he lets you hurt in silence because he’s too fucking lazy to figure out what he wants.”

your jaw tightens.

“but i know choso,” sukuna adds. “he doesn’t care about them. any of them. he never even touches them, not really. not until that night, and even then—it was like he didn’t even know what he was doing. like he was trying to prove something. or forget something.”

you whisper, “me.”

sukuna looks at you.

you don’t mean to say it. it just slips out. soft. sad. pathetic, maybe. but it’s true.

“he was trying to forget me.”

sukuna doesn’t argue.

he doesn’t need to.

because you both know it’s true. that when choso’s world got too full of you, too sharp, too terrifying, he tried to blur it out. the way he always does—getting high, getting drunk, fucking off his feelings until he could float above them.

except he couldn’t. not this time.

“he looked wrecked when he woke up,” sukuna says, his voice gentler now. “like he wanted to peel his own skin off. he couldn’t even look at me. just sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.”

you blink, slow.

“he knows he fucked up, y/n.”

you close your eyes.

it hurts. it still fucking hurts. even knowing all of this. even hearing the guilt in secondhand words. it doesn’t undo the image burned into your brain—choso, kissing someone else. his hands on someone who wasn’t you. his mouth where only yours should’ve been.

and worse, knowing he knew what he was doing. that even if he regretted it, he still let it happen.

because what the fuck did that mean about you?

sukuna watches you a moment longer before nudging your cup with the back of his hand.

“drink,” he says. “you deserve to have a good time.”

you nod. you drink. it burns.

“just—” sukuna pauses. “don’t let him take up your whole head tonight, alright?”

you try to smile. “i’ll try.”

he leans in, his grin returning, just a bit. “i mean, worst case scenario? you can always rebound with me.”

you roll your eyes, snort softly, but the ache in your chest has shifted just a little.

it’s still there, still sharp, but now you know it’s not just you who’s hurting.

and somehow, that makes it worse.

and better.

all at once.

the bass hits you in the chest the second you step back into the living room.

you throw your head back, laugh bubbling out, drink still cold in your hand as yuki grabs your wrist and spins you into the circle forming near the coffee table. the lights are low and golden, the air thick with weed and heat and breathless voices. bodies are everywhere—lounging, grinding, tangled limbs on couches and in corners—but all you care about is the way your friends are looking at you like you’re electric.

“you’re a menace tonight,” gojo yells over the music, grinning so wide you can’t help but laugh.

“finally!” yuki shouts, raising her drink. “she’s letting loose. it’s about fucking time.”

toji’s watching you from his place on the arm of the couch, lips curled into the barest smirk. “is this her trying to pretend choso isn't a thing anymore?”

“she’s earned it,” shiu says, eyes glittering as he hands you another drink. “cheers to heartbreak and hedonism.”

you take it. you take all of it. the laughter, the dancing, the teasing. it doesn’t fix anything, but it lets you forget. even if just for a little while.

you let go.

you dance with yuki like no one’s watching, her arms slung over your shoulders as she mouths the lyrics to a song you don’t even know. toji moves with lazy precision beside you both, rolling a joint one-handed. gojo grabs your other hand and spins you, dramatic and ridiculous, until you’re dizzy from more than the alcohol. shiu throws a pillow at him and the whole room erupts into chaotic laughter.

someone pulls out a disposable camera. you pose in yuki’s lap, fingers in a peace sign, tongue out. someone snaps a picture of you and gojo fake-kissing just to piss people off. you feel blurry and beautiful and wanted.

the floor shifts beneath your feet. the lights swirl. everything smells like weed, cologne, sweat, spilt beer.

you’ve never felt more untouchable.

until you realize you really need to pee.

“bathroom,” you shout into yuki’s ear, who nods and swats your ass like she’s sending you off into battle. you weave through the living room, slipping past elbows and shoulders and breathless giggles. the hallway’s darker, quieter, like stepping into a different world.

you turn the corner—

—and there he is.

choso.

leaning against the wall just past the bathroom door. hoodie half-on, hair falling in front of his eyes, red solo cup dangling forgotten from his fingers. solemn. still. like a ghost in the middle of the party.

your breath catches in your throat.

he lifts his head.

his eyes meet yours.

and just like that, the whole party fades away.

no music. no shouting. no laughter or bodies or haze of weed curling in the air. just you and him, standing in the soft hallway light like ghosts who forgot they were alive. frozen. held in place by the weight of something too big to look at directly.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

it’s all there in the air between you—heavy, aching, unfinished.

choso’s eyes flicker down, like it hurts to hold your gaze for too long. he swallows, thumb nervously rubbing the side of the plastic cup. there’s a tremble to the way he exhales. not drunk, not high—not like before. just scared. tired. stripped of all the usual defenses.

and then, finally, he speaks.

“i’m sorry.”

two words. small. fragile. like he’s been carrying them around too long and now they barely hold their shape.

you blink. your heart stutters in your chest.

he doesn’t wait for you to say anything. he can’t. the words are already spilling.

“i was—i was so fucking out of my head that night,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “i don’t even know how it happened. i didn’t—i didn’t want her. it didn’t mean anything. i wasn’t thinking. i just… i wasn’t here.”

he runs a hand through his hair, dragging it back, breathing like the air hurts to take in.

“and that’s not an excuse. i know that. i know that doesn’t make it okay. but i need you to know—it was never supposed to be anyone else. it’s always been you.”

your chest tightens.

“even if we weren’t, like—together,” he says, softer now. “even if we never called it anything. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

you swallow hard, the ache catching at the back of your throat.

“i didn’t say anything that night because i didn’t know how,” he murmurs. “i thought… i thought i’d ruined it for good. and maybe i did. but i swear to god, i’ve never regretted something more in my entire life.”

he finally meets your eyes again.

“i hurt you. i know that. and if you never want to talk to me again, i get it. but i had to say this. i had to tell you. because pretending like i didn’t care was the worst thing i’ve ever done.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the warmth touches your cheek.

“you mean everything to me,” he says, like it’s a confession. “and i’m so fucking sorry.”

and for the first time in weeks, he looks like himself again.

not the broken boy on the couch, not the too-stoned mess at the beach, not the ghost you keep locking eyes with across a room. just choso. your choso. tired, hurting, but finally honest.

you don’t say anything right away.

because what is there to say to something like that?

you just look at him. and he looks at you. and the silence doesn’t feel so heavy this time. it feels… suspended. fragile. like if either of you moves too fast, it might all disappear.

but for the first time in what feels like forever, the space between you feels open again.

like maybe something could grow there. if you let it.

you look at him.

really look.

and you think about all the nights you spent tangled up in him—his skin warm against yours, his mouth pressed to the hollow of your throat, the sound of his voice all low and wrecked when he said your name like it was the only thing he could hold onto.

you think about the way he’d pull you closer after, like he couldn’t stand the distance. the way he’d brush the hair out of your face, whisper dumb shit that made you laugh into his neck.

how even when you weren’t having sex, you were still wrapped around each other—on his bed, on your couch, in the backseat of someone’s car, high out of your minds and half-asleep but still reaching for each other without thinking.

like magnets. like instinct. like he was home and he didn’t even know it.

you remember the way he’d kiss your shoulder in the dark. soft. almost careful. like he didn’t want to wake you, like maybe even then he was scared to admit how badly he needed you.

you remember thinking— 'maybe he’ll say something this time.'

and then he wouldn’t. and you’d just stay there in the silence, curled into him, heart beating way too loud for a girl who wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

but you did. of course you did.

and this—this moment, right now—was the one you’d imagined more times than you’d ever admit. him, finally saying it. the truth. not some half-joke or drunken almost-confession, but real, bare, bleeding honesty.

it’s always been you.

your throat tightens.

you’d hoped for this so many times. but not like this. not with your heart in pieces and mascara clinging to the corner of your lashes, not after all that damage.

not with that girl’s lipgloss still burned somewhere into your memory like a fucking scar.

but he’s here. and he’s saying it. and you can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.

you can’t pretend that those nights weren’t everything. that he wasn’t the only one who ever made you feel this full and this hollow, all at once.

your fingers twitch at your side, aching with the muscle memory of touching him.

but instead of moving, you just stand there. caught in the weight of it.

his apology. your history. everything you never said.

the hallway feels too quiet. your pulse, too loud.

and still, he waits.

like he knows this might be the only time you’ll let him say it. like he’s ready for whatever comes next—even if it’s nothing. even if it’s goodbye.

and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

he’s finally giving you everything you wanted.

but now that it’s here, you don’t know if it’s enough.

he’s still looking at you like that.

like you’re it. like even if you walked away right now, he’d still wait.

and you’re still standing there like an idiot, heart too full, body too frozen, blinking through the blur of too much feeling.

then you move.

just a step. just one.

but it’s enough.

his face breaks when you do. not in a bad way. just—softens. like he can’t believe it. like something in him finally unclenches.

and before either of you can overthink it, you crash into each other.

arms around his shoulders. his around your waist.

no hesitation. no performance. no air between you.

you bury your face in his neck and just breathe.

and he laughs. a little broken, a little teary, like the sound gets caught in his throat halfway out.

“fuck,” he whispers, holding you tighter. “fuck, i missed you.”

you laugh too, because you don’t know what else to do, because it’s so stupid how long you went pretending this didn’t matter.

you squeeze him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t.

“you’re such an idiot,” you say into his skin. “you’re actually the dumbest person i’ve ever met.”

he laughs again, warm and quiet. you feel it vibrate through his chest.

“i know,” he mumbles. “i know.”

your fingers fist in the back of his shirt. his hand cups the back of your head. you stay there like that for a long time.

not speaking. just holding. just letting the ache bleed out slow.

“i thought i lost you,” he says into your hair, voice thick. “for real this time.”

you pull back just enough to look at him. eyes glossy. nose red. cheeks a little flushed.

you give him the softest smile you’ve ever worn.

“you didn’t,” you say. “not yet.”

and then he hugs you again. even tighter. like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

you laugh against his neck, one hand slipping under the hem of his hoodie just to feel his skin, just to make sure he’s real.

“you always smell like weed,” you mumble.

“and you always smell like heaven,” he replies, without missing a beat.

you groan. “jesus christ.”

he grins into your hair. “too much?”

“way too much.”

but you’re smiling. you’re both smiling. and this—this doesn’t feel like a fix, not really.

but it feels like a beginning.

he doesn’t let go of your hand after that.

just keeps it tangled in his, like if he loses contact, the whole moment might vanish.

his thumb brushes over your knuckles as he walks you up the stairs, step by step, quiet except for the sound of music bleeding up from below and the creak of the old floorboards.

you’ve been up here a million times.

you know the way to his room like the back of your hand.

but this time feels different. slower. like neither of you want to break the spell.

he pushes open the door and lets you in first, and it’s the same as always—dim, messy, faint smell of weed and detergent. but something about the air feels heavier now.

like something’s finally about to change.

you stand there for a second. he closes the door behind you.

it clicks shut, and the silence settles around you both like fog.

you half-turn toward him, expecting him to reach for you like he always does. to kiss you, to push you gently back onto the bed, to start peeling off your clothes like second nature.

but he doesn’t.

he just looks at you. like he’s seeing you all over again.

like he’s remembering every late night, every laugh, every time you crawled into his lap just to feel close. every time you left in the morning and he wished you didn’t have to.

“can i—” he starts, then stops.

clears his throat. rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

“can i say something?”

you nod, heartbeat in your throat.

he steps closer. slow and careful.

not touching. not assuming. just… there.

“i know i don’t deserve anything from you,” he says quietly. “not after how bad i fucked it all up. not after that night.”

your breath catches.

“but i need you to know it’s never been anyone else. not really.”

his voice wavers, just a little. “even before we started… whatever this was. it was always you. it’s still you.”

your chest tightens. you look at him, and he’s so serious. so raw. so real in a way you haven’t seen in so long.

he swallows hard. steps a little closer.

“i don’t wanna keep pretending like we’re just friends who fuck. i don’t wanna keep hurting you just because i’m scared of calling it what it is.”

his voice drops, just a murmur.

“i want to be yours. if you’ll let me. for real this time.”

it hits you like a wave. a real, breath-stealing, chest-caving wave.

because this is what you always wanted.

not just the touching. not just the late nights and the secrets and the tension.

you wanted this. the honesty. the softness. the choice.

you don’t say anything right away. just step forward, slow and sure, until you’re in his space again. until your forehead rests gently against his.

you close your eyes.

“okay,” you whisper.

his breath hitches. “yeah?”

you nod. just once.

his hands come up, hold your waist like you’re fragile. like you’re something he’s afraid to break.

he doesn’t kiss you. not yet.

just pulls you into his chest and holds you.

quiet. steady. like he finally knows what he wants. and it’s this.

just this.

you.

his hands are warm on your waist, steady like they finally know where they belong.

you’re still pressed against his chest, arms wrapped loosely around him, heartbeat slowing to match his. the room’s quiet now, soft and golden in the low lamplight. like it’s holding space for this moment.

he pulls back just enough to see your face.

his eyes flick across it, like he’s memorizing every detail.

and then he says it. quietly. sincerely.

“i’m gonna take care of you.”

your breath stutters, but he keeps going.

“for real this time. not just when it’s convenient or easy. not just in private.”

his voice trembles a little, but he doesn’t stop.

“i’ll be there when you’re tired, when you’re pissed off at the world, when you’re sick, when you’re sad, when you don’t wanna talk and just need someone to sit with you.”

he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, so gently it makes your eyes sting.

“i’ll remember your coffee order. i’ll walk you to class when it rains. i’ll hold your bag while you try on shit at the mall and tell you you look hot in everything, even when you don’t believe me.”

a soft laugh breaks out of your chest—wet and breathless.

he smiles, but it’s soft around the edges, like he’s still afraid to fall apart.

“i know i don’t always say the right thing. or show shit the right way. but i’m gonna try. i’m gonna learnhow to love you the way you deserve. because you deserve everything.”

his thumb brushes your cheek, eyes fixed on yours.

“i love every single part of you. the loud parts. the quiet ones. the way you talk with your hands, and the way you tuck your knees up when you’re on the couch. the way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry, and how you laugh when you’re drunk.”

your chest twists, overwhelmed. his voice is low now, almost reverent.

“i love how smart you are. how you always know what people need before they say it. how you care too much, even when it hurts you. how you make everyone feel like they matter.”

you’re crying now, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. he cups your face in both hands.

“but more than anything, i love you. even when i didn’t know how to say it. even when i pretended it was nothing. it’s always been you.”

you blink up at him, breathing hard.

your voice shakes when you whisper, “choso…”

he leans in. kisses your forehead. your cheeks. the corner of your mouth.

“i love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

like it’s always been right there on the tip of his tongue.

“and i’m gonna be the best fucking boyfriend you’ve ever had. i promise.”

and somehow, you believe him.

because he means it. every fucking word.

the house is quiet now.

party debris litters the living room—empty solo cups, discarded hoodies, a half-eaten pizza box still open on the kitchen bench. someone’s shoe is on the stairs. no one knows whose.

gojo and sukuna are camped out on the back porch, slouched low in mismatched deck chairs, beers in hand. the moon’s high. the air’s still warm from the chaos earlier, thick with leftover smoke and the faint pulse of whatever playlist had been on repeat for six hours.

gojo stretches out his legs with a groan, tipping his head back.

“bro… my back hurts like i gave someone a piggyback through the trenches.”

sukuna doesn’t look up from his beer.

“you did. yuuji tackled you into the kiddie pool.”

“…oh. yeah.” he snorts. “that was kinda funny though.”

they sit in silence for a second, the good kind, broken only by the clink of their bottles when they sip.

then sukuna says it.

“so. you see choso and y/n disappear earlier?”

gojo grins. “upstairs?” he raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “yeah, i saw.”

sukuna huffs a small laugh. “fuckin’ finally, man. those two have been doing mental gymnastics around each other for like, what? a year?”

“a year and five months,” gojo corrects, holding up a finger. “i’ve been counting.”

sukuna gives him a look. “of course you have.”

“you know it’s bad when I noticed the emotional repression,” gojo says, tapping his temple. “like, i’m all for subtle pining, but watching those two was like… watching a slow car crash in a rom-com.”

“a rom-com where everyone’s too stoned to say their feelings.”

“exactly.”

sukuna takes another pull of his drink, then smirks.

“lowkey thought she was gonna kick him in the dick after the beach party though.”

gojo cackles. “she should’ve! man was acting like a dumbass.”

“nah, he is a dumbass,” sukuna says, stretching his arms behind his head. “but he loves her. like, real shit. he looked like a kicked puppy for weeks.”

“the haunted stare,” gojo nods sagely. “saw him just sitting on the couch one day staring into the void while yuki played meg thee stallion.”

“emo boy in a house full of chaos,” sukuna mutters.

gojo hums, gaze drifting up to the open window above the porch—choso’s room. the light is off now, but he can imagine what’s up there.

soft conversation. laughter. maybe some kissing. maybe a little crying.

a happy kind of mess.

“you think they’ll actually work out?” he asks.

sukuna shrugs. “i think they already were. just didn’t admit it yet.”

gojo smiles, lazy and warm.

“yeah,” he says. “they’re good together. weird, but good.”

another beat passes. the crickets are loud. someone starts snoring from the living room.

“you think we’ll get invited to the wedding?” gojo says eventually.

sukuna scoffs. “only if you don’t ruin the reception.”

gojo lifts his beer with a grin.

“no promises.”

they clink bottles.

and somewhere upstairs, behind the walls of a room where two people finally figured their shit out, the light turns on again.

heck yeah i'm back 👅👅👅 if you liked this let me know 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

more choso ! sex with a stoner | sticky situation

~ m.list!

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girliism · 10 months ago

Text

nerdy!art who based on his physique and good looks should be getting any and every girl he wants but instead he chooses to hide away in his books. he’s top of all his classes and does extra credit work for fun on the weekends, according to his roommate patrick he’s kind of a loser that needs to get out more. patrick invites him out to a lot of parties but art just ends up in the corner nursing only one drink before leaving early.

you were the opposite everyone on campus knew you. you went to every party thrown but you weren’t some slut you just liked being around people. now you weren’t stupid by any means but you also weren’t top of your classes.

“what do you mean i’m failing.” you looked at your math professor who just told you that if you don’t pass this upcoming test you’d fail his class. “i don’t think you’re understanding the material very well that’s why i assigned you a tutor.” a tall blonde with thick rimmed glasses walks up to your professors desk. “this is art, i’ve asked him to help.” art gave you a small wave. you’ve seen art around campus sitting under trees reading or stuck in the corner at a party. he was quiet only spoke when spoken to, you had no idea he was even in this class.

art cleared his throat. “you can come by my dorm tomorrow if you’re free.” art held on the door for you to walk out of. “tomorrows fine with me. you’re patrick’s roommate right?” art nodded “cool! i can get your dorm number from a friend of mine.” you smiled big at him. art gave you a closed mouth smile back before you guys waved goodbye.

“can you please not be here when she comes over.” it was saturday the day of yours and art’s tutoring session and he’s been cleaning up their dorm. “right i forgot you’re having a girl over.” patrick says raising eyebrows up and down before placing his cereal bowl in the sink not bothering to wash it. art pushes his glasses back up his nose bridge. “we’re just studying.” he mumbles going to wash patrick’s dish. patrick ended up leaving so art had the dorm to himself when you showed.

you sat on the couch in their dorm studying the place instead of the math problem art was trying to explain. “you got lucky pairing with zweig this dorm is partially an apartment.” art stopped talking to look around his dorm before shrugging going back to teaching you. “ugh i’m so jealous i’d kill for a dorm this big-” “you like to distracted yourself from your work when you don’t understand it.” art said cutting you off. you just stared at him not knowing what to say. art senses the awkward tension he created. “i’m sorry i didn’t mean to make you feel bad just if you payed attention i think you could really get it.” art spoke softly and you just nodded finally shutting up and listening to him.

studying with art was kinda fun. every saturday you’d meet at his dorm and listen to explain more in depth what your professor didn’t. at first art was very rigid but after a while you got him to loosen up. he now laughed openly with you and made stupid math jokes.

“ART!” you ran over to where he was sitting under a tree. art closed his book standing up when he saw you rushing toward him. “look what i did.” you shoved you test paper in his face smiling. “a B congratulations you’ve officially passed.” you couldn’t contain the squeal that came out of you when you pulled art into a tight hug. “no thanks to you. how will i ever repay you.” you pouted. art just shook his head saying there was no need. you gasp. “delta phi is having a party tonight you have to come and hang out with me.” the second art heard the frat name he was already declining. “parties aren’t really my thing.” art scratches at the back of his head. “bullshit dondalson, you saved me from failing which mean we have to celebrate. you’re coming weither you like it or not.” you gave art an excited smile and he gave you a nervous one back.

(a part 2 will be happening 🙏🏽) part 2.

#girliism #challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #nerdy!art

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rainrot4me · 14 days ago

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Would you think that Brian/Hoody would have been in a fraternity back in college? And would he have had a LOT of girlfriends (maybe a bit of boyfriends) back then?

Idk. He gives me fuckboy player vibes. LMAO

As a sorority girl, I have had MY FAIR SHARE of sweet, terrible, and painfully average frat men who think they rule campus. So, here’s how our sweet Hoody/Brian would have been:

๑ Warning: Alcohol, mentions of hookups + orgies, frat men *eyeroll*

── .✦

✦ . Would Brian/Hoody have been in a fraternity back in college? Yes, but not the stereotypical kind.

He’s around 20 and strikes me as the kind of guy who joined a smaller, more academic or service-based fraternity rather than a loud party frat. Maybe something like Alpha Phi Omega (which is co-ed and service-focused), or a media/film-based one if we’re sticking close to his Marble Hornets backstory where he was into video production. He’s smart, resourceful, and plays the long game, even before he became a lunatic. He really wanted to get his stuff straight and prepared for when he entered the work-force, unknowing that he would never even make it to graduation. He’d absolutely get involved in something that helped him make connections, gain access to equipment, or boost his résumé… without needing to down a keg every night.

That said, he could easily blend in with the party crowd when he needed to. He’s observant, knows how to fake being interested in random people’s conversations, and could have friends in those spaces, but probably kept a low profile in terms of actual commitment. He’s very good about holding a red-solo cup in one hand, stuffing the other in his jean pocket, and watching the rest of the crowd mix and mingle. If someone comes up to talk, he won’t turn them away, but he won’t try to carry a lengthy conversation either.

✦ . Would he have had a lot of girlfriends (and maybe boyfriends) back then? Yeah, his fair share, but a little more unconventional.

Brian would’ve had a mysterious, magnetic presence that drew people in. He’s quiet but intense, the kind of guy who listens more than he talks, makes eye contact that lingers a little too long, and knows exactly when to say something that hits deep. So, yes, he would’ve had his fair share of romantic or sexual flings, but not in an obvious, showy way. He’s not a brag-about-it type, doesn’t talk about all the dick he’s laying down like the rest of his brothers. If anything, he kept it quiet, kept it low-key, and probably left a trail of people who never quite got over him.

Also—yeah, he definitely would’ve experimented a little. He’s someone who’s open-minded, especially in his early 20s when identity is still forming. Maybe not a ton of serious relationships, but definitely meaningful encounters with both women and men. If anything, that ambiguity only added to his allure. He was always more of a personality guy anyway.

However, a frat man is still a frat man, no matter what font you put them in. Brian has had more than his fair share of drunk hookups, at least two orgies, and may have accidentally convinced his RA to sleep with him so they wouldn’t rat him out for keeping alcohol in his dorm. For how emotionally and intellectually smart he is, he is a king at ghosting/blocking people he doesn’t desire to see again.

✦ . Random “frat guy” things he definitely did:

He ghosted at least one situationship without meaning to—got distracted by something else (like, y’know, being stalked by the Operator).

Wrote a philosophy paper while blackout drunk and got an A. Didn’t remember writing it, couldn’t replicate the feat if he tried.

Took shrooms once and spent six hours talking to a broken vending machine. Called it “a spiritual experience.” Still talks about it sometimes whenever Toby asks.

Definitely went through a “man bun” phase. No one could stop him. Not even God.

Had a thing for psychology majors. Loved flirting with people who tried to psychoanalyze him. Played into it a little too well.

Had a secret soft spot for poetry. Got drunk at a party once and started reciting Rilke. Three people cried, one person proposed. He ghosted them the next day.

Pong Champion. Had a win streak so ridiculous in beer pong they called him “Houdini” for his aim. He pretended he hated the nickname but secretly loved it.

Definitely had one intense relationship that started great and ended in a weird, distant fizzle when Brian became more absorbed in… darker things. That person still reaches out to him every once in a while, random birthday or holiday texts, but he hasn’t replied in years.

Favorite beer was Miller Lite (in the can, no ice, room temperature), mainly because he liked the stout taste, but doubly because it made cigars after football games taste better.

His college years were the last time he felt remotely “normal” before everything went sideways. Sometimes he thinks about those days and wonders if it was ever really real, if the people he met and made connections with even remember him.

✦ . Now for a fun little blurb:

The bass thumped through the floor like it was trying to crawl into your bones, and the air in the house was thick with too many bodies and too much cheap beer. You were halfway through a drink you didn’t even like when someone pressed up beside you, the heat of them cutting through the noise before you even turned your head.

“Tell me you’re not drinking that,” Brian said, already reaching for the cup in your hand.

You arched a brow at him, but let him take it. “I was. Until you decided to get all heroic.”

He took a sip, grimaced dramatically, and dumped the rest into a potted plant behind him without breaking eye contact. “You have terrible taste.”

“And you’re wearing sunglasses at midnight.”

He just grinned, crooked, lazy, confident in that frat-boy-who-knows-he’s-hot kind of way, and leaned in closer, voice low in your ear. “It’s part of the mystery. Chicks love mystery.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of his breath on your neck made your skin tingle.

He was already sliding an arm around your waist like he belonged there, like you were an inside joke only the two of you were in on. “Come on,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Your brain told you it was because the loud thump of the music made it hard to hear, so he had to get in close. But your heart told you other, more sensual things. “There’s better drinks in the kitchen. And I wanna show you something.”

“Is it a magic trick?” you teased, letting him guide you through the crowd.

“Something like that,” he said with a wink. “Depends how well you behave.”

Later, when you found yourselves tucked into the quieter corner of the upstairs hallway, his hoodie slung over your shoulders and his cologne clinging to your skin, you realized he was trouble.

The kind of trouble you’d let kiss you breathless against someone else’s bedroom door.

And later still, when he whispered your name like a secret just for him, you realized you were going to fall for him way harder than you should.

꩜ .ᐟ

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anothermaletfwriter · 4 months ago

Note

Hey broo, my gay nerd roommate was insisting me so much to go with him to a new library and I finally agreed to 'cause I was bored and maybe I would see a hot busty babe around to have some fun with, but ever since entering this library hes been really annoying me about some weird smell, like WTF bro??

You and your roommate, Gavin, never really got along. As the pinnacle of a straight alpha bro, you had weekly ragers at the Pi Alpha Phi house with your fellow Asian alpha bros. With them, you all worked out together every day, and brought home a different woman or two every weekend. While you had free time in your room, you often flexed and grunted in front of your mirror for hours, appreciating your masculinity and Adonis physique. You didn’t wear those unnecessary chemicals called deodorants because they would mask your alpha scent. But your musk needed to be out in the world to show you are a true straight alpha male, much to the constant complaints of Gavin.

Unlike you, Gavin was a puny gay nerd. Not an ounce of muscle on his tiny frame. Things were awkward between the two of you since you had nothing in common. He studied frequently in your room and spent the weekends all night watching his little gay shows, often an obstacle whenever you tried to bring a horny hottie with you home from the bars. He paid attention in class and asked unnecessary questions about the lecture while you spent most of the class time flirting with the women next to you and joking with your bros rather than paying attention to your expensive education. You threw parties like no one could while he read poems at open-mic night in gay lounges. Despite you inviting him to your parties on multiple occasions, he always declined, stating he’s not that type of guy. While you jerked your girthy long member to hot women with their bouncing tits and wet pussy on your phone, he played with his meager two incher to men fucking each other. It never bothered you but sometimes you wished he was a straight alpha bro like you. He was missing out on the many pleasures of being a straight alpha male: the woman, the domination and the masculinity. He was a good guy but you often hoped one day he would flip the switch and become one of the bros.

Today, you accompanied him to a brand new library, which only nerds like him could ecstatic about. The library was nothing different from any other libraries so as you entered, you scratched your head, wondering why he was so excited about this. Probably some stupid nerd academic shit.

You picked a table adjacent to a group of sorority girls, sitting with a front row view of them. Gavin sat opposite from you, his back turned from the girls. They wouldn't have interested him anyway.

While Gavin typed textbook notes away on his iPad, you were staring at the group of hot chicks, pretending to study on your laptop. Like you, they weren’t truly studying, having their expensive Macbooks out while they gossiped about the latest mean girl drama in their sororities. You were imagining fucking their mouths and sliding your dick between their breasts and in their pussies when your focus was shattered.

Gavin called out your name.

You panicked, thinking you were caught. Oh shit. You quickly redirect your focus to him and his concerned face.

Gavin wiped his glasses while covering his nose with his hand, “Owen, do you smell that?”

You shook your head. The only thing you could smell was the barely touched sugar-loaded coffee that the sorority girls had, “Sorry bro, you know I don’t do deodorant,” You say as you stretched your arms, flexing you did arms yesterday.

“It’s not that. It’s more nutty. I’m not allergic to nuts though.”

"Just ignore it. It'll go away."

"Sorry, I can’t handle it. My entire body feels like its glowing,” He coughed before running off to the bathroom.

While you entertained the idea of staying behind and flirting with the group of girls, you were more concerned about Gavin. After all, he was your roommate. As you followed him, you noticed how he had grown in height. While you recalled him being more than a foot shorter than you, he appeared to be at your height now. Strange. Why would it be strange since he was always as tall as you? You were certain he got taller and you weren’t seeing things as you noticed he outgrew his jeans with his shins showing.

By the time you caught up with him in the bathroom, Gavin was frantically splashing water on his face, shrieking quietly. His jawline was a lot sharper and angular, slowly resembling an alpha bro. His jaw was not always like that.

“What’s wrong?” You asked.

“I can still smell it. I feel like I’m burning up,” Gavin stepped away from the sink. He looked at you, his face looking more masculine with hard facial features and angles. Cold sink water dripped down from his sharp chin, “Help me out here, bro," His voice dropping octaves as his Adam's apple bulged out.

“I got your back, bro,” You helped him take of his sweat-drenched hoodie, revealing the ill-fitting tank top underneath. You couldn’t help but believe your eyes as you watched the rest of his body transform.

The tank top that once draped loosely over his chest was being squashed by his inflating pecs and a hard six pack that poked through the thin material. He squeezed his solid chest as the growth continued in the rest of his body. His shoulders cracked as his once stick arms that lacked definition began to burst with muscle, pumping up his veins that fueled testosterone to his biceps, which he cockily flexed instinctively. His pits reeked of manly musk like yours. He filled up his pants as his calves exploded into mountains from rigid leg work while his glutes firmed up, no longer flat. You looked down on his crotch and noticed he actually had a bulge for once. You figured it was as long as yours, the perfect length and girth for breeding women. He flexed and admired his ripped body and the alpha sensation he was emanating, he pulled up his tank top with his hand sliding down from his firm pecs to his rock hard abs in a cocky display. He even traced the peaks of his biceps, squeezing it like he was checking if he was dreaming. He resembled an alpha like you but he wasn’t one, he was a nerd.

You no longer remembered the times you came home from a frat parties to him snuggled in his bed watching cute gay romance shows but instead he was jerking his extensive member to straight porn, notably the ones you had recommended to him. He was your best friend in university. But you guys were basically strangers with opposite interests. You shared the same classes together but it’s not like that mattered, as you two always goofed off with each other while ogling at the women. You recalled the excitement when you find out the both of you were accepted into your frat and the week long bender and bar-hopping you two went on afterwards to celebrate. In the gym, you two always had a competition to see who could bench press more, it was a 50-50 chance so your other bros would bet on you two equally. Every party, event and rager you attended had Gavin tag along. You didn’t even have to ask him to come with you. That’s how much of best bros you two are. Even the women you would share around together to use and breed.

He washed his face, leaving whatever was remaining of his homosexuality down the sink. He was now a total straight alpha bro like you. His pecs bounced as he walks towards you, placing a meaty hand on your shoulder, stating he was fine now and the smell was gone.

Before you two left the bathroom, he asked, “You think we can bring those sorority girls sitting behind me home?”

“Of course, bro. You don’t have to ask” You patted his muscular back.

“Just asking, bro. You’re the expert of doing it after all.” He let out an extended, douchy laugh and so did you do.

You left the bathroom with your straight alpha best friend roommate with the successful goal of breeding those sorority girls. There was no friendship better than this. It was up to you and him to assert your dominating nature in the world and conquer women and fill them with your alpha seeds.

#male transformation #gay to straight #muscle tf #nerd to jock #male tf #jockification #jock tf #tf story #breeder tf #reality change #mental change #personality change #ask

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estellan0vella · 5 months ago

Text

Han Jisung’s Panty Protection Program: H.JS Han Jisung x fem!reader (College AU)

WC: 13.4K

CW: Themes of Invasion of Privacy (stolen underwear), Mentions of masturbation, sexual fluids, and references to a character using stolen underwear for sexual gratification, Jisung being dramatic, Light Violence, Discussions and depictions of crystals, tarot readings, and sage-burning rituals, Minho and reader shenanigans

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist Part I Part II

Jisung’s room in the Alpha Phi frat house is a cosy mix of chaos and comfort. His bed, large enough to hold his perpetually sprawled form, sits in the corner with tangled navy sheets and a pile of mismatched pillows. Strawberry-scented incense wafts lazily from the nightstand, curling smoke weaving through the dim light of the room. Crystals are scattered everywhere, on his desk, his bookshelf, and the windowsill, casting faint glimmers when they catch the faint glow of the TV screen.

“Jagiya,” Jisung drawls, shifting so his bare chest brushes against your arm, his voice syrupy in that way it always is when he’s trying to get your attention. “You’re not even watching.”

The screen plays Howl’s Moving Castle, Jisung’s favourite movie, but it’s more background noise than entertainment for you. You’ve seen it around forty times now. Yet somehow, the plot remains a mystery because you always end up distracted. Like right now, as you shuffle your tarot cards, your grey lounge pants soft against Jisung’s thigh and your white bralette letting the cool air kiss your shoulders. Your hair’s in a messy bun, strands escaping to frame your face, and Jisung can’t stop staring at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room.

“Shh, I’m doing my reading,” you murmur, eyes focused on the cards.

Zak, your two-year-old brindle Staffordshire Bull Terrier, gnaws happily on a bone in his dog bed near Jisung’s desk. His ears flick every so often, alert to the sound of your voice, but he’s content to leave you be. He loves it here as much as you do; the space is as much yours as it is Jisung’s, even if you don’t technically live here.

Jisung leans his chin on your shoulder, his dark blue hair tickling your neck. “You’ve seen this one card a million times. What’s it mean this time?”

You flip the final card, a slight shiver crawling up your spine. “The Seven of Swords,” you say, holding it up. The illustration glares at you, sharp and accusing.

“And?” Jisung prompts, though his tone is playful, his attention still half on you and half on the screen. “Good news or bad news?”

You hesitate. “It’s not great.”

That gets his attention. He turns fully toward you, propping himself up on his elbow. His sweatpants ride low on his hips, and his tone softens. “You worried about it, jagiya?”

“No,” you reply quickly, though the card sits heavy in your mind. “It’s just... It’s a warning. Dishonesty, deceit, manipulation, cheating, theft. But it doesn’t mean that something bad is happening right now. It just means to be cautious, you know? I think I just need to pick up more crystals.”

Jisung snorts, ruffling your hair affectionately. “More crystals? Jagiya, my room already sparkles enough to blind someone.”

“There’s no such thing as too much sparkle,” you quip, giving him a pointed look as you start gathering your deck back into a neat pile. The strawberry incense has burned low now, but the sweet scent lingers.

Jisung’s lips twitch into a lopsided grin. “Your eyes sparkle enough to light up the whole fucking world.”

You pause, your hand hovering over the tarot deck. “That’s actually really sweet, Sungie.”

“Sweet enough for you to give me head?”

Your hand smacks his arm before he can even finish the sentence. “You just fucking ruined it.”

“Ow!” he complains, though he’s laughing as he rubs the spot you hit. “What? I’m being honest! You said you appreciate honesty!”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Honesty and your horny ass aren’t the same thing.”

He pulls you closer, his chest warm against your back. “You love me anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that.” You lean into his touch despite the words, letting him press a kiss to your temple.

The movie continues to play in the background, a faint crescendo of orchestral music filling the room. Jisung’s hand finds its way to your waist, resting there idly as his other hand traces nonsensical patterns on the back of yours.

“So, for real,” he says after a beat of silence, “this card thing doesn’t freak you out?”

You shake your head. “Not really. It’s just a reminder to be careful. The universe has a way of sending signals, you know?”

He hums, though his tone is sceptical. “I still don’t get the whole crystal-tarot-astrology thing. But if it makes you feel grounded, I’m all in. My wallet, though, isn’t gonna love you buying out the crystal shop again.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you tease, tilting your head to catch his gaze. “You get a kick out of hearing me rant about this stuff.”

Jisung grins, that familiar, boyish charm lighting up his face. “Maybe I just like hearing your voice.”

“Maybe you just like kissing my ass.”

“Only when it’s bare.”

“Jisung!”

He dissolves into laughter, the kind that shakes the bed and makes Zak lift his head in confusion. You roll your eyes playfully as Jisung’s laughter starts to die down, though the grin on his face lingers. His arm drapes around your shoulders as he pulls you closer, still absently tracing patterns on your skin.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head to look at him, “you look different lately.”

Jisung raises an eyebrow, a teasing smirk already forming. “Different? Like how? Handsomer? Sexier? More fuckable?”

You snort, shoving at his chest, which is frustratingly solid beneath your hand. “I’m serious, Sungie. You cut your hair, switched the silver out for blue, you’ve been hitting the gym more with Changbin, and your arms are like double the size they were before. And your chest...” You trail off, gesturing vaguely at his torso. “I mean, I think your chest is bigger than mine now. You’re making my boobs look tragic.”

Jisung’s jaw drops, feigning absolute horror. “Do not,” he sits up, one hand clutching his chest dramatically, “and I mean do not diss my favourite titties.”

You blink, confused. “Wait, your- oh my god, you mean mine?” You burst out laughing, and he grins like he’s won the lottery. “Jisung, you’re fucking impossible.”

“I’m dead serious,” he says, sitting cross-legged now and leaning toward you with mock solemnity. He pokes your chest lightly, his finger pressing against the fabric of your bralette. “These are works of art, jagiya. They’re perfection. Fuck the gym, Changbin can’t give me what these do.”

You giggle, batting his hand away, but he’s relentless. “No, no, let me finish! These are my favourite titties in the world. The Mona Lisa of boobs. Michelangelo himself couldn’t sculpt anything better.”

“You’re insane,” you manage through your laughter, trying to shove his face away as he leans closer.

“And you’re blessed,” he says, completely unfazed, his grin wide and shameless. “Seriously, I should write a fucking sonnet about them. Ode to the Greatest Pair of Tits That Ever Graced This Earth. Shakespeare would cry.”

“Jisung, shut up,” you giggle, doubling over as he pokes your chest again, his touch playful and light. “You’re so stupid.”

From the room next door, Minho’s voice booms through the thin walls. “JISUNG, SHUT UP ABOUT YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S FUCKING TITS!”

You’re gasping for air as Jisung groans and flops back dramatically, flinging an arm over his eyes. “Why does he always ruin my fun?” he whines before sitting up suddenly and grabbing your chest with both hands. He gives them a quick squeeze. “Honk.”

The noise that comes out of you is somewhere between a laugh and a snort, and it sends Jisung into another fit of giggles. “You’re such a child,” you say, slapping his hands away again, though there’s no real force behind it. “What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” he repeats, looking offended before lunging forward and burying his face between your boobs. “What’s wrong with me is that these exist, and I’m a simple man.”

“Jisung!” you shriek, laughing as he starts shaking his head dramatically, his hair tickling your skin. He lets out a loud, exaggerated “brrrrrr” sound, the vibrations making you dissolve into giggles.

“Stop motorboating me!” you gasp, trying to push his head away, but he’s stronger now, Changbin’s workouts clearly paying off, and he just stays there, muffling a defiant “Never!”

“You’re fucking ridiculous!” you cry, laughing so hard your stomach aches.

“Ridiculous or romantic?”

“Neither,” you say, still breathless. “You’re just an idiot.”

“An idiot who loves his jagiya’s tits. Let me suffocate here! I’ll die happy.”

The door creaks open, and Minho pokes his head into the room, eyebrows raised in mock judgment. “Jisung, stop being a fucking freak.”

Jisung doesn’t even lift his face from your chest. He’s still making that obnoxious “brrrr” noise, his head moving side to side. You’re half laughing, half mortified, trying to push him away, but his grip around your waist is unyielding.

“Minho, help me!” you plead, waving a hand toward the door.

Minho crosses his arms and leans casually against the doorframe. “Poor Zak shouldn’t have to see this shit.” He strides into the room, bending down to scoop up your dog. Zak wags his tail, happy for the attention, and Minho cradles him like a baby. “You deserve better, little man. You don’t need to witness whatever the fuck this is.”

“Minho, I’m serious!” you laugh as Jisung lets out another exaggerated “brrrrrr,” his blue hair tickling your skin.

“Jisung,” Minho says, deadpan. “Go sit in the fucking corner and think about what you’ve done.”

Jisung groans dramatically but finally rolls off the bed, landing on the floor with a soft thud. He drags himself to the corner like a petulant child, flopping down cross-legged. But instead of sitting quietly, he presses his hands to his cheeks, squeezing them together. He starts mimicking the same motion he was doing on you, complete with another obnoxious “brrrrrr” noise.

“I have an active imagination!” Jisung declares, grinning mischievously as he shakes his head between his hands. “I’m imagining my hands are your tits, jagiya! It’s like I never left!”

You bury your face in your hands, mortified, while Minho snorts so hard Zak wiggles in his arms. “You’re fucking hopeless,” Minho says, shooting Jisung a look of pure disbelief.

“Hopelessly in love with my girlfriend’s boobs!” Jisung shoots back, unbothered. “And proud of it!”

Minho shakes his head, turning to you. “Come on, Y/N. You don’t need this shit. Seek refuge with your favourite Alpha Phi member.”

Jisung gasps from his corner, clutching his hands to his chest as if he’s been physically wounded. “Traitor!” he cries, pointing an accusatory finger at Minho.

“Shut up,” Minho says firmly, pointing back. “You’re in time-out.”

Jisung starts making the “brrrrrr” noise again, but this time he muffles it with his hands, wiggling his eyebrows at you as if to say, Look how creative I am.

“You poor thing,” Minho says to you, ignoring Jisung completely. “What were you thinking dating him?”

“I declare temporary insanity,” you reply, laughing. “All his 90s dream girl talk got to me.”

“You’re still my 90s dream girl!” Jisung exclaims from his corner, his hands still pressed to his cheeks as he wiggles his head dramatically.

Minho rolls his eyes. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s watch something that’s not fucking Howl’s Moving Castle for the 900th time.”

“Sold,” you say immediately, sliding off the bed.

“Wait, what?” Jisung says, his voice rising an octave. “You’re just gonna leave me?”

Minho smirks, adjusting Zak in his arms. “Jisung, sit there for twenty minutes and repent or something.”

“You’re stealing my girlfriend and our fur child!” Jisung protests, scrambling to his feet.

“I’ll make it permanent if you don’t shut up and accept your time-out,” Minho threatens, raising an eyebrow.

Jisung throws his arms in the air, his frustration exaggerated. “I’m a titty fiend! I shouldn’t be punished for that!”

“Well, you fucking are,” Minho deadpans, stepping toward the door with Zak and gesturing for you to follow. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s leave the fiend to his pity party.”

“I have rights!” Jisung shouts after you as you step into the hallway, Minho chuckling under his breath. “You can’t just take my girlfriend and the dog! This is an act of war!”

Minho closes the door behind you, muffling Jisung’s continued protests. He glances at you with a smirk. “You really put up with that every day?”

You laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He’s ridiculous, but he’s my ridiculous.”

“Temporary insanity,” Minho teases as he starts walking toward the stairs. “Let’s see if I can knock some sense into you with a decent movie.”

Behind the closed door, you can still faintly hear Jisung shouting, “I HAVE RIGHTS!” and you can’t help but laugh.

The living room of the Alpha Phi frat house is comfortably chaotic, the kind of space that reflects the personalities of everyone who lives there. A massive sectional dominates the room, piled with mismatched pillows and throw blankets that no one remembers buying. The faint scent of popcorn lingers from the kitchen, and the hum of an indie playlist plays softly in the background. It’s a rare moment of peace, all the chaos of frat life distilled into a lazy afternoon.

You’re sprawled on the couch with Felix, both of you hunched over his phone, scrolling through a crystal shop’s online catalogue. Felix’s brown mullet bobs as he shifts closer, pointing at a thumbnail of a smoky quartz tower. His glasses slide down his nose, and he pushes them up absentmindedly.

“This one,” Felix says, his tone decisive. “Smoky quartz for grounding. We need that shit in the kitchen after Chan melted the spatula last week.”

“I didn’t melt it,” Chan argues from across the room. He’s sitting on the floor, tossing Zak’s favourite squeaky toy toward Minho, who catches it and tosses it back like they’re playing some weird version of fetch themselves. Zak bounces between them, his brindle fur gleaming under the sunlight streaming through the windows, his tail wagging like it might fly off.

“You fucking did,” Minho says with a snort. “You left it on the stove, genius.”

Zak drops the toy at Chan’s feet, barking once, his tongue lolling happily. Chan throws it again. “It was an accident!”

You and Felix exchange a glance, both rolling your eyes in unison before turning back to the phone. “We definitely need smoky quartz,” you agree. “Also, look at this selenite wand. Cleansing energy for the entryway.”

Felix nods enthusiastically. “Yes! It’ll clear out all the shitty energy people bring in. Like when Jisung tracks mud inside after practice.”

“I don’t track mud-” Jisung starts, but you cut him off with a look. He’s draped over the armrest of the couch, his hair messy and damp from a shower, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants that make him look impossibly soft. "So have you found any good ones?”

“Plenty,” you reply, tilting the phone to show him. “We’re purifying your mud tracks as we speak.”

“I don’t track mud!” he protests again, sitting up and glaring at you. His tone is more indignant than angry, and it makes Felix snicker.

Minho quirks an eyebrow. “Jisung, you actually believe in this crystal shit?”

Jisung shrugs, unbothered, and stretches his arms over his head. “I think Y/N can believe in what she wants if it helps her. I support her.”

Minho’s eyebrow goes higher. “Support her how?”

“Like I support you and Bloody Mary,” Jisung says, smirking.

The toy slips from Minho’s hand, and he shudders so hard Zak stops mid-bounce to tilt his head at him. “Fuck no. Don’t even say that bitch’s name. No bathrooms in the dark for me. Ever.”

Jisung grins, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “That’s why at clubs, I always go to the bathroom with you.”

“Too fucking right,” Minho says, tossing the toy again for Zak. “True bros keep their bros safe from Bloody Mary.”

“I got you, man.” Jisung lifts a fist, and Minho meets it with a loud smack.

Chan, who’s been watching this exchange with growing amusement, shakes his head. “Wait, you actually believe in the Bloody Mary thing?”

“Fuck yes, I do,” Minho says, straightening up. His voice takes on a conspiratorial edge, and you know you’re about to get a classic Minho tangent.

“Listen,” Minho starts, leaning forward like he’s about to deliver the gospel. “Bloody Mary isn’t just some random ghost bullshit. She’s Mary Tudor, as in Mary the First, as in fucking Bloody Mary, queen of England. The bitch burned, like, 300 people at the stake. Protestants, mostly. She was Catholic, right? And her dad, Henry VIII, was all about breaking away from the Catholic Church because he wanted to marry Anne Boleyn, fucking messy family drama, by the way, so Mary basically spends her whole reign trying to reverse all of his Protestant reforms.”

Hyunjin snorts. “Nerd.”

“Shut up,” Minho snaps without heat, continuing his tirade. “So anyway, people start calling her Bloody Mary because of all the executions. And then somehow she gets turned into this creepy bathroom ghost? I don’t know who came up with that shit, but it’s disrespectful as hell.”

Jisung, sprawled like a cat on the couch, grins. “So you believe the ghost part?”

Minho’s expression turns grim. “I don’t fuck with mirrors. Or bathrooms in the dark. No fucking way. You say her name three times, you’re asking for it.”

Chan chuckles, tossing Zak’s toy again. “That’s a stretch, dude.”

“It’s not!” Minho insists, his voice rising. “Mirrors are a gateway. Everyone fucking knows that. And if you say her name, it’s like inviting her in. Like... like a mirror demon or some shit. It’s common fucking sense.”

Zak barks once, as if agreeing, and Felix bursts into laughter. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Minho replies, crossing his arms. “Call me crazy, but I’m not risking my life over a bathroom dare.”

“Bloody Mary’s not gonna come for you,” Chan says, shaking his head with a grin.

“You don’t know that,” Minho fires back. “What if she’s pissed off that I insulted her? You don’t fucking tempt fate.”

Hyunjin, sprawled across the armchair like it’s a throne, finally chimes in with a shudder. “I don’t fuck with those Virgin Ghosts.”

Everyone pauses, turning toward him, and he sits up straighter, waving his hands for emphasis. “You know the ones, white dresses, long dark hair, looking like they crawled straight out of The Ring. Fuck that.”

Chan laughs, but it’s a little nervous. “Mine’s the eyeless woman. You know, the one people see in their sleep paralysis? Fuck that bitch. Or toilet ghosts.”

Minho points at him. “Fuck toilet ghosts. They’re the worst.”

Hyunjin snorts. “Why are toilets such a common fucking haunting spot?”

“Because they’re vulnerable as fuck!” Minho exclaims, sitting up, his voice full of righteous indignation. “You’re literally pants-down, defenceless. A ghost shows up, what the fuck are you gonna do? Waddle away?”

Everyone bursts into laughter, Felix smacking his knee as he doubles over. “Waddle away,” he repeats through his laughter, and you can’t help giggling, too, shaking your head.

Felix sits up, wiping at his eyes. “Y/N and I don’t worry about that shit. You know why? Immaculate vibes, sage, and crystals.”

“Exactly,” you say, holding up a fist toward Felix. He meets it with his own, both of you nodding like you’ve just solved world peace.

Minho scoffs. “I’d like to see sage hold off Bloody Mary.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, his expression calm and confident. “It would.”

“Bullshit,” Minho mutters, leaning back against the couch, arms crossed. Zak, as if sensing the tension, trots over and drops his squeaky toy in Minho’s lap. Minho sighs, picking it up absentmindedly. “Fucking sage isn’t doing shit against a pissed-off ghost.”

Felix grins, his faith unshakable. “Your negativity is why you’re a target.”

Minho throws the toy for Zak, muttering under his breath, “Fucking target.”

Just then, the door to the living room creaks open, and one of the new freshman pledges steps in hesitantly, holding a stack of papers. He’s wide-eyed, clearly intimidated, and freezes when he sees the group sprawled around like the house royalty they are.

“Uh, hi,” he starts, his voice shaky. “I was told to bring-”

“Pleb three!” Minho declares loudly, cutting him off and pointing. “Get in here.”

The poor kid shuffles in, clearly trying not to trip over his own feet. You glance at Minho, frowning slightly. “Minho, don’t call him that. You’re so mean.”

Minho shrugs, unapologetic. “What? We have six new pledges. Pleb one through six. He’s three.”

The pledge looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up, and you sigh, shooting him a reassuring smile. “Don’t mind him. He’s just... like that.”

Minho ignores you completely, turning back to the pledge. “Pleb, go make cocktails for all of us. And remember, no fucking cheap-ass shit. I want something classy.”

The pledge nods quickly, backing toward the door, but Minho holds up a hand, stopping him mid-step. “Oh, and one more thing,” he adds, his tone sharp. “You can’t look at members’ girlfriends either.” He flicks a dismissive hand. “Eyes off. Got it?”

The pledge stares at him for a second before covering his eyes with one hand, holding the papers with the other. “Got it,” he says weakly, stumbling out of the room.

Jisung, who’s been quietly observing from his spot on the couch, lets out a loud snicker. “Minho, you’re fucking insane.”

“What?” Minho says, feigning innocence. “I’m protecting your jagiya, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” you mutter, shaking your head. “You’re scaring him half to death.”

“Good,” Minho says, leaning back with a smirk. “Keeps them on their toes.”

Chan shakes his head, throwing Zak’s toy again. “One of these days, Minho, you’re gonna scare a pledge so bad they’ll quit.”

“Good,” Minho repeats. “If they can’t handle me, they can’t handle this house.” He gestures dramatically at the room as if it’s a fortress rather than a mildly chaotic frat space.

Jisung leans over, resting his head on your shoulder. “You’re too nice to hang out with him, jagiya.”

You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Maybe I just balance him out.”

Felix hums thoughtfully. “Y/N does have impeccable vibes. Minho, you could probably use some of her sage.”

“Fuck off, Felix,”

The sound of the dryer hums faintly in the background as you sit cross-legged on Jisung’s bed, folding the week’s laundry into neat piles. Your white blouse is tied casually above your navel, and the light acid-wash mom jeans you’re wearing feel comfortably snug. A citrine necklace rests against your collarbone, glinting softly in the afternoon light as you work, occasionally brushing back stray strands of hair that escape your seashell claw clip. Jisung sits at the foot of the bed, surrounded by a sea of mismatched socks, diligently trying to pair them up.

“This one?” he asks, holding up a lonely grey sock, squinting at it as if it might magically reveal its partner.

You glance at it and shake your head. “Nope, that’s from the gym set. The other one is probably hiding under your desk.”

“Fucking socks,” he mutters, tossing it into a growing pile of misfits. “It’s like they have a secret society or something. They plan their disappearances.”

You laugh softly, smoothing out one of his hoodies before folding it neatly. “Secret sock society?”

“Don’t act like it’s not real, jagiya,” he says, waving a pair of black socks in the air triumphantly. “These two almost escaped, but I got ‘em.”

“Hero of the day,” you tease, shooting him a smile as you stack another pile of folded clothes.

The two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm, his occasional grumbles about sock conspiracies mixing with the soft rustle of clothes being folded. It’s peaceful, the kind of mundane intimacy that feels almost sacred.

But then your brow furrows, your hands pausing as you sift through your stack of folded laundry. Something is missing. Two somethings, to be exact.

“Ji,” you say, voice suspicious.

“Yeah, jagiya?” He doesn’t look up, too focused on wrestling with a stubborn sock.

“My thongs are missing.”

That gets his attention. His head snaps up, and he blinks at you, confused. “Wait, what?”

You hold up your fingers for emphasis. “Two. My red lace and my black lace. Gone.”

Jisung lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like you’ve just told him the worst news of his life. “Not the red lace! Lord, say it isn’t so!”

“And the black lace,” you add grimly.

“No!” he cries, dropping the socks in his hands and crawling closer to you on the bed. “This is a tragedy.”

“I’m not joking, Ji,” you say, though you can’t help the small laugh that escapes as you watch his theatrics. “I swear if I find one of your idiot frat brothers wearing them on their head again-”

“Minho did that one time.”

“One time too many.”

“Fair,” he concedes, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “But might I remind you that my idiot frat brothers are also your friends?”

“Only during the hours they don’t have my panties on their heads,” you shoot back, smirking.

Jisung sits up, grinning as he reaches out to grab your hand. “Don’t worry, jagiya. If I see one of those assholes wearing your thongs, I’ll wrestle it off their head myself.”

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. “How noble of you.”

“What can I say? I’m a man of principle,” he replies, kissing your cheek quickly before going back to his pile of socks. “But seriously, we should check the laundry room. Maybe they’re still in the dryer or something.”

“Yeah, maybe,” you agree, though you’re still suspicious. You eye Jisung as he focuses on his socks again, wondering if he’s hiding something.

“Stop staring at me like I did it,” he says without looking up.

“I’m not staring!” you protest, laughing.

“You so fucking are,” he says, grinning as he finally looks up. “If I had your thongs, jagiya, trust me. You’d know. Wait a fucking second.” He slaps the wall that separates his room from Minho’s. The thud reverberates loudly, and you flinch slightly at the sound.

“Minho!” Jisung shouts, smacking the wall again for good measure.

“What?!” Minho’s muffled voice comes from the other side, annoyed and sharp.

“Have you got Y/N’s panties on your head again?!” Jisung yells back, his tone accusatory but dripping with humour.

There’s a beat of silence before Minho replies, incredulous, “I wear your girlfriend’s panties on my head one time when I’m drunk, and suddenly I’m always the fucking suspect?! Might I remind you that you double dared me to do that!”

You can’t hold back your laugh, shaking your head as you fold another one of Jisung’s hoodies. “Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, biting your lip to keep from laughing louder.

“That is true,” Jisung concedes, nodding solemnly. “I did double dare you.”

“And I am no bitch when it comes to a double dare!” Minho fires back, his tone haughty and self-righteous.

“Also true,” Jisung agrees, shrugging.

But Minho isn’t done. “Might I also remind you that you were the one who grabbed her black and green bra, held it up to your fucking eyes, and told everyone you were a fly?”

Jisung pauses, his lips twitching. “I did do that.”

“Damn right, you did,” Minho snaps. “So don’t start throwing accusations at me, you little shit.”

“Okay, okay,” Jisung says, holding up his hands as if Minho could see him through the wall. “Do you have her thongs, though?”

“No!” Minho shouts, clearly exasperated. “Why the fuck would I want her thongs? Jesus Christ, Jisung!”

“Just checking!” Jisung calls back before flopping back down on the bed beside you, grinning.

You give him a flat look, raising an eyebrow. “Are you done harassing Minho?”

“Not yet.” Jisung suddenly gasps, sitting up straight again. “Wait! The card you pulled! Theft! Deception! Someone being sneaky!”

“See? It’s real!”

Jisung blinks, nodding slowly as if connecting all the dots. “Holy shit. You might convert me to a tarot believer yet, jagiya.”

“Finally!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in victory. “No more calling it woo-woo shit!”

“When have I ever called it woo-woo shit?”

You arch an eyebrow at him, folding your arms across your chest. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

His mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. “Okay,” he admits sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. “I may have said it... once or twice.”

“Try ten times,”

Jisung winces. “Alright, fine. But look, I’m seeing the light now, jagiya. The cards knew. They knew! Your missing panties are proof.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling at his sudden enthusiasm. “Better late than never, I guess.”

“Exactly,” he says, leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek. “So what does the card say we do about the thief? Do we stage a fucking heist to get them back? Interrogate Minho with a spotlight?”

You laugh, pushing his face away lightly. “It’s a warning card, Ji. It doesn’t give step-by-step instructions.”

“Well, it should,” he mutters, leaning back. “Fucking useless card.”

You shake your head, but you’re grinning as you go back to folding the laundry. “Maybe if you fully believed in the cards, you’d get more out of them.”

“Oh, I’m a believer now,” Jisung says, nodding sagely. “The cards have spoken, and I will honour their wisdom.”

You snort, glancing at him fondly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love me for it,”

The living room is buzzing with curiosity and chaos as the main crew gathers. Jisung sits in the oversized armchair, you perched comfortably on his lap. His hand is lazily stroking your head like you’re a cat, and he’s some villainous mastermind plotting world domination. Zak darts around the room, wagging his tail like he’s chasing invisible ghosts, occasionally bumping into people as they stand in a loose semicircle around you.

Jisung clears his throat dramatically, his free hand gesturing with flair. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he begins, his tone theatrical, “a grave crime has been committed under our roof.”

Everyone straightens up slightly, looking at each other in confusion.

Jisung points at the group, his eyes narrowing. “Someone has stolen Y/N’s lacy thongs.”

Felix’s gasp is immediate and horrified. “No!”

“Yes,” Jisung says, his expression dark and sombre. “I am heartbroken, devastated even. My jagiya’s precious thongs have been taken, and this mystery must be solved.”

Felix clutches his chest like he’s about to faint. “This is a tragedy.”

Chan sits back on the couch, crossing his arms and eyeing the room warily. “Alright, who’s the thief?”

The room goes silent for a moment before, almost instinctively, all eyes land on Minho. He sighs heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “I fucking knew I should never have accepted that stupid dare to wear her panties on my head. Now you all think I’m some panty-stealing deviant.”

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, his voice sharp with sarcasm. “Are you?”

“Of course fucking not!” Minho snaps, glaring at him.

“Well,” Chan interjects, trying to steer the conversation, “when was the last time you saw them?”

You sit up slightly, your brow furrowing in thought. “When I put them in the laundry basket. They were definitely there.”

Everyone once again turns to Minho, who throws his hands up in frustration. “Oh, come on! It wasn’t me!”

Changbin, who’s leaning casually against the arm of the couch, tilts his head thoughtfully. “Can we just take a moment to process the fact that someone stole Y/N’s used panties?”

You shudder at the thought, hugging yourself as a wave of discomfort rolls through you. Jisung immediately rubs your back, his touch soothing. “It’s okay, jagiya,” he murmurs. “We’ll figure it out.”

But then, as if struck by a bolt of lightning, Jisung sits up straight, his eyes wide with horror. “Oh my fucking god,” he exclaims, his voice loud and panicked. “Someone is sniffing my girlfriend’s used panties!”

Changbin snorts so hard he has to hide his laugh behind his hand, his shoulders shaking. Chan bites his lip, failing miserably to suppress a giggle, while Felix pulls his hoodie strings so tight his face disappears as he dissolves into laughter. Seungmin and Hyunjin exchange looks before breaking into outright snickers.

Jisung is relentless. “They’re smelling my girlfriend’s vagina smell! What kind of sick-”

“Ji!” you interrupt, mortified, pressing your hand firmly against his mouth. Your cheeks are burning as you hide your face in his shoulder, your voice muffled as you whine, “Oh my god, stop!”

The guys lose it. Changbin’s laughter is loud and unapologetic now, his hand slapping against the couch. Felix has nearly folded himself in half, muffled giggles escaping from the depths of his hoodie. Chan shakes his head, laughing so hard his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Jeongin, the youngest but clearly as chaotic as the rest, raises a hand like he’s in class. “What if they’re licking the panties, too?”

Jisung pulls your hand away, ready to reply. “Only I lick-”

You cut him off with a quick, desperate press of your hand back against his mouth. “Jisung, stop!” you cry, burying your face deeper into his shoulder as the group erupts into another wave of uncontrollable laughter.

Hyunjin, wiping tears from his eyes, finally manages to speak. “You know,” he says, catching his breath, “someone probably sold them. You can make bank off used panties.”

You let out a loud whine, muffled into Jisung’s hoodie, while he strokes your back soothingly. “Don’t worry, jagiya,” he says, his tone serious but with a mischievous glint in his eye. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. And if someone is making money off your panties, we’re demanding fucking royalties.”

The week passes without incident. Until it doesn’t. You’re folding laundry on Jisung’s bed, sitting cross-legged in your usual spot while he lounges nearby in nothing but his boxers, scrolling on his phone. Your blue cotton lounge pants and bralette feel soft and familiar, your makeup-free face showing off the faint freckles dusted across your cheeks. The peaceful rhythm of folding clothes is abruptly shattered when you let out a horrified gasp.

Jisung looks up immediately, concern flashing across his face. “What? What happened?”

“My lacy boyshorts! My favourite pair of underwear! Gone!”

Jisung freezes, his phone slipping from his hands. Then he leaps to his feet with a theatrical flourish. “No. No!” he shouts. “House meeting! Everyone, to my room immediately!”

The sound of heavy footsteps fills the hallway as the guys shuffle in, groaning and confused. Chan’s hair is slightly damp, probably from a quick shower, while Minho and Hyunjin look like they were in the middle of a heated FIFA match. Felix clutches a snack, shoving chips into his mouth as he walks, and Jeongin and Seungmin appear with their usual air of “why are we even fucking here?”

Jisung stands dramatically in the middle of the room, pointing at the group as they gather. “Once again,” he declares, his voice booming, “the panty thief strikes!”

Felix, who’s perched on the edge of the bed, widens his eyes. “Dude, someone is seriously stealing your panties.”

“They stole my favourite pair, Lix!” you say, your voice a mix of despair and disbelief.

Felix gasps, his chips forgotten as he pats your head gently, then pulls you into a comforting cuddle. You lean into him, grateful for his warmth, as he says solemnly, “Don’t worry. We’ll hold a funeral service. They deserve a proper send-off.”

You laugh softly despite the situation, shaking your head against his shoulder.

Minho, leaning casually against the desk, crosses his arms and tilts his head. “You know,” he says, his tone disturbingly calm, “if they haven’t sold them, they’re probably jerking their dick with your panties.”

Jisung stiffens, spinning around to glare at him. “That is a sin! Dishonor on my good name!”

Chan raises an eyebrow, barely able to contain a grin. “Dishonor on you?”

“Yes, on me!” Jisung exclaims, pointing at himself indignantly. “Someone is probably wanking with my girlfriend’s used panties. They dishonour her, so they dishonour me! When I find this hooligan, I’m going to stick them in the washing machine and put it on a hot wash!”

The room erupts into laughter at Jisung’s outburst. Changbin doubles over, clutching his stomach, while Felix hides his face in his hands, shaking with silent giggles. You’re biting your lip, trying not to laugh, but Jisung’s dramatics make it nearly impossible.

Jeongin, ever the voice of practicality, raises his hand. “Okay, but, like, just buy new panties?”

Jisung whirls on him, his eyes wide with disbelief. “That is not the point! This isn’t about new panties! It’s about justice! Someone has stolen her used panties! A crime! A threat to my manhood! I must duel this thief to the death! With a stick! Like they did on the horses back in the day.”

Seungmin, leaning against the wall, rolls his eyes. “That’s jousting, you idiot. And it wasn’t a death match.”

“It might as well have been!” Jisung shoots back, throwing his hands in the air. “The point is, I have to defend my jagiya’s honour!”

Hyunjin lazily flips his hair out of his eyes. “Can we all just take a moment to remember that Minho is the only person in this room, besides Jisung, to have ever touched her panties?”

The room falls silent as everyone turns to Minho again. He groans loudly, swatting at Hyunjin. “It is not me, you unfairly beautiful bastard!”

Hyunjin smirks, dodging the swat with ease. “Defensiveness sounds like guilt to me.”

“Fuck off,” Minho grumbles, shaking his head. “I don’t even want your damn panties. I just wanted to win a dare. This is all Jisung’s fault anyway for making me do it.”

Jisung glares at Minho but says nothing, instead wrapping his arms around you. “Don’t worry, jagiya,” he murmurs softly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “We’re going to solve this if it’s the last thing I do. No one gets away with disrespecting you like this.”

The guys groan, already bracing themselves for whatever chaos Jisung’s plan might bring. But as ridiculous as the situation is, there’s an unspoken agreement among them: this mystery will be solved.

The Times Square shopping centre in Seoul is buzzing with life, a vibrant mix of chatter, footsteps, and the occasional burst of laughter echoing through the spacious halls. You’re walking hand in hand with Jisung, his grip firm and warm.

Your black turtleneck is tucked neatly into your black shorts, sheer tights peeking out from underneath, and the thigh-high boots you’re wearing click softly against the polished floor. The golden chain belt around your waist glimmers faintly under the overhead lights. Jisung, next to you, looks effortlessly striking in black cargos and boots, his blue and black compression top hugging his broad chest and muscular arms in a way that makes him stand out in the crowd. His messy blue hair adds a carefree charm to his sharp appearance.

The two of you turn into the Victoria’s Secret store, the soft pink glow of its signage welcoming you inside. The scent of vanilla and floral perfumes greets you, mingling with the faint rustle of fabric as customers browse the racks.

“Spend as much as you want, jagiya,” Jisung says immediately, his voice warm and encouraging. “Replace your stolen panties, get some new ones, retail therapy. My treat.” He grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Because, you know, I get to see you in them.”

You giggle, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you love me,” he replies smoothly, reaching out to pluck a lacy black bralette from a nearby rack. He holds it up, inspecting it with an exaggeratedly critical eye before tossing it into the basket on his arm. “This one’s sexy as fuck. It’s a must.”

The store is lined with rows of lingerie in every imaginable style and colour. You wander slowly, taking in the intricate lace details and delicate embroidery. Jisung stays close, clearly invested in the selection process. He pauses by a display of pastel-coloured sets, picking up a soft lavender bra with matching panties. “This would look amazing on you,” he says, adding it to the growing collection in the basket.

“Most guys would be standing outside right now, you know,” you tease, watching as he browses like he owns the place.

“And miss this?” He gestures around the store dramatically, then points to you. “Miss being in heaven, getting to pick out my girlfriend’s lingerie? Fuck that.”

You laugh, shaking your head as he continues to browse, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re ridiculous.”

He smirks, picking up a red lace set and holding it up for you to see. “Ridiculously lucky. You should try this one on. Actually-” He tosses it into the basket before you can respond. “No need. I already know it’ll look amazing.”

You snort, glancing at the basket on his arm, which is quickly filling up. “Are you trying to buy out the whole store?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “You deserve the best. Should we grab boba after this? You’ve got that I need sugar look.”

“Yeah, boba sounds good,” you say, smiling. “My treat, though, because you’re about to break your bank in here.”

“Fair trade,” he says, nodding as he picks up a lacy blue set, admiring the delicate straps before tossing it into the basket with a grin. “But let’s make it a large. I’ll need it after carrying this financial burden.”

You laugh, leaning into his side as the two of you make your way toward another section of the store. He pauses by a rack of silk robes, running his fingers over the fabric. “What about this?” he asks, holding up a short, champagne-colored robe.

“For lounging around the house?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Or for seducing your boyfriend,” he replies smoothly, his tone teasing. “Dual purpose.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile on your face as he adds it to the basket. “You’re seriously too much.”

“Too much? Or just enough?” He leans down, his face close to yours, his grin playful.

You shake your head, pushing him lightly. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you love me,” he says again, his confidence unwavering as he grabs another set off a nearby rack. The basket on his arm is practically overflowing now, but he doesn’t seem to care.

When you finally make it to the register, the cashier raises an eyebrow at the sheer volume of items. Jisung doesn’t bat an eye, pulling out his card like a man on a mission.

As the cashier rings up the items, you glance at the total and let out a soft whistle. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“Absolutely,” Jisung says, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Retail therapy works wonders, and seeing you happy? Worth every won.”

You smile, leaning into him as the cashier finishes bagging the items. As the two of you leave the store, Jisung carrying the bags like they’re trophies, he turns to you with a grin. “Boba now?”

“Boba now,” you agree, laughing as he leads you toward the food court.

Jisung swings the bags lightly, his grin ever-present. “Best shopping trip ever.”

Laundry day comes again, and you and Jisung are back in his room, sorting through freshly cleaned clothes. The atmosphere is relaxed as you fold shirts into neat piles and Jisung matches up socks. You’re wearing white lounge pants and a black bralette, your hair messily tied up in a bun with strands framing your face. Your socks are mismatched and fluffy, a detail Jisung keeps teasing you about.

“Do you do this on purpose?” he asks, holding up your feet for inspection. “Like, is it a vibe or-”

“It’s laundry day, Ji,” you reply with a smirk. “All my matching ones are in the basket. Besides, they’re comfy.”

Before he can retort, your hands pause mid-fold. You sift through the pile of freshly laundered clothes, brow furrowing. “Wait a second...”

Jisung notices immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“My new panties... they’re gone.” Then realization dawns, and your eyes widen. “No. No, no, no. My bra is gone too! They’ve evolved! They’re taking my bras!”

Jisung stares at you in horror, his mouth falling open. “The titty support?” he exclaims. “How fucking dare they!”

You laugh despite your frustration, but Jisung’s dramatics continue. He gestures wildly to the room as if addressing the universe. “Do they not understand the sanctity of a bra? The pain of unsupported boobs? Your poor back, jagiya.”

You snort. “My back is fine”

“No, it’s not!” he interrupts, suddenly moving behind you and cupping your boobs with both hands. “Your back is crying out for help. Don’t worry. I’ll hold them up with my own two hands. Problem solved.”

“Jisung!” you squeal, laughing as you try to wriggle out of his grip, but he just adjusts his hold, resting his chin on your shoulder with a smug grin.

“Perfect,” he says as if he’s genuinely proud of himself. “See? No bra needed. I’ll do this all day.”

You roll your eyes, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously devoted,” he corrects, giving your boobs a playful bounce for emphasis. But before he can call for a house meeting, there’s a knock at the door, and then it swings open as the rest of the guys shuffle in uninvited.

Seungmin is the first to speak, his voice dripping with exasperation. “Again?”

Jisung spins around, still holding your boobs protectively. “This creep has evolved,” he announces, his tone dark. “He’s stealing matching sets now! Bra and panties!”

Felix’s eyes immediately lock on Jisung’s hands. “Uh, why are you holding her boobs?”

Jisung doesn’t miss a beat. “Because the perv is stealing her bras, Felix! I’m protecting her spine.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Seems legit,” he mutters, but his lips twitch like he’s fighting a laugh.

Changbin crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Minho, didn’t you once say you like blue underwear?”

Minho freezes mid-step, his expression scandalized. “Oh, come on! This has been going on for three weeks. If I were the panty thief, which, let me remind you, I am not, it would’ve been one and done! Why the fuck does this guy need so many pairs?”

Seungmin tilts his head thoughtfully, but his face twists in mild disgust as he continues. “Well, if we’re going with the theory that he’s keeping them, then it probably means they’re all, uh, crusted with old jizz.”

The room erupts.

“What the fuck, Seungmin?!” Jisung shouts, gagging dramatically as he finally lets go of your boobs to clutch his stomach.

Felix covers his mouth with both hands, his eyes wide in horror. “Ew! Ew, ew, ew!”

Hyunjin clutches his chest like he’s about to faint. “Why the fuck would you say that out loud?”

Even Changbin, who rarely shies away from crude humour, looks appalled. “Dude, what the fuck?!”

Chan, who had been leaning silently against the desk, grimaces. “I’m gonna need brain bleach after this conversation.”

You stand there, stunned and horrified, before you let out a loud groan, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god, can we not?”

Jisung, ever your champion, regains his composure first. He places a hand on your shoulder, his expression serious. “Don’t worry, jagiya,” he says solemnly. “We’ll catch this fucker. And when we do, I’m putting his ass through the washing machine on the spin cycle.”

Hyunjin clears his throat, still looking mildly traumatized. “Seungmin, you’re banned from speculating about the thief’s habits. Forever.”

“Seconded,” Minho says quickly, shoving Seungmin lightly as if to physically push the thought away. “And for the last time, it’s not me. I’m offended you guys keep looking at me like I’m the panty goblin.”

“You are still the only one in this room, besides Jisung, to have touched her underwear,” Hyunjin points out, smirking as Minho groans.

“It’s not fucking me, you unfairly beautiful bastard!” Minho snaps, swatting at Hyunjin, who easily dodges with a laugh. "Stop pointing fingers at me just because I dared to be a team player once!”

“Sounds like something a panty thief would say.”

As the room devolves into bickering, Jisung sighs, shaking his head. “This is getting us nowhere,” he mutters. Then, louder, he adds, “But mark my fucking words. We’re catching this asshole. And when we do, they’re done.”

The week has been a tense one, with every passing day filled with speculation, jokes, and frustration. But tonight, Jisung is determined to end it. He sets his trap with meticulous care, placing mousetraps inside the laundry basket in the laundry room. The basket is filled with unwashed clothes, including a decoy pair of your panties, a plain, older pair he sacrificially snuck into the mix. It’s all bait, and the trap is set.

You’re lounging on the couch in the living room with the rest of the Alpha Phi crew, dressed in sage green lounge pants and a matching bralette. Your hair is messily tied up in a bun, and your mismatched fluffy socks peek out as you curl your legs beneath you. The group is scattered across the room, chatting idly, the usual chaos subdued by the lazy hum of the evening.

Jisung sits beside you, bouncing his leg nervously, his attention divided between your conversation and his ears straining for any sound from the laundry room. The tension is palpable.

Then it happens, a sharp snap echoes through the house, followed by a loud, panicked yelp.

Jisung jumps to his feet, his eyes wide with excitement. “The panty thief!” he shouts, already darting toward the hallway. The rest of you scramble after him, the energy in the room going from zero to chaotic in seconds.

The group floods into the laundry room, and there, standing frozen with a mousetrap clamped firmly onto his hand, is Pledge Five. His face is a mixture of pain, panic, and guilt, his free hand flailing helplessly as he tries to pry the trap loose.

“Pleb Five!” Minho exclaims, his voice dripping with disdain. He crosses his arms, glaring at the red-faced freshman. “No. You’re not Pleb Five anymore. From now on, you’re Pleb Perv.”

Jisung steps forward, his expression livid as he points an accusatory finger at the pledge. “You! What did you do to my girlfriend’s panties?!”

“Please don’t answer that,” you mutter, your voice weary as you press a hand to your forehead.

The pledge stammers, his mouth opening and closing uselessly, but Minho’s not about to let him off the hook. “Look at his fucking face!” Minho says, pointing for emphasis. “He jerked it with her underwear. I fucking knew it.”

The pledge’s face flushes a deep, incriminating red, and the room collectively groans.

“I’ve been fighting accusations for weeks, you dirty little bastard!” Minho yells, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Weeks! And it was you the whole fucking time!”

Jisung’s fury flares even brighter. “Get in the washing machine!” he demands, pointing to the industrial-sized appliance in the corner.

The pledge blinks, his panic momentarily replaced by confusion. “What?”

Chan steps forward, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “Jisung, we can’t put him in the washing machine.”

“Why not?” Jisung snaps. “He put his dirty, nasty, little dick on my girlfriend’s fucking panties! He deserves it!”

Hyunjin, who’s been watching the scene unfold with wide-eyed amusement, chimes in. “Let’s just get this straight.” He looks at the pledge, tilting his head. “Did you jerk it with Y/N’s panties?”

The pledge hesitates, his gaze darting around the room before he finally nods, his head dropping in shame.

“Fucking hell,” Felix mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is so fucked.”

Minho throws his hands up again, clearly exasperated. “I told you all it wasn’t me, but nooooo, everyone blamed Minho! And it was this little shit the whole time!”

Felix steps forward, his expression serious now. “Where is her underwear?”

The pledge gulps audibly, avoiding eye contact as he mumbles, “Under my mattress.”

Another collective groan ripples through the group, louder this time. Hyunjin gags dramatically, covering his mouth with his hand.

“That’s fucking disgusting,” Changbin says, his voice filled with disbelief.

“Burn the whole house down,” Seungmin mutters, shaking his head.

Chan steps forward, his authoritative presence silencing the chaos momentarily. “Alright, listen. Get the fuck out. Pack your shit. We’ll ship it to your new address. You’re done here.”

The pledge’s mouth opens like he’s about to argue, but one look from Chan shuts him up. He nods weakly, wincing as he tries to remove the mousetrap from his hand.

Minho claps his hands together, his tone suddenly chipper. “Great! I’ll grab supplies for recovery and disposal.” Without another word, he disappears down the hallway, leaving everyone else staring at the humiliated pledge.

Jisung takes a deep breath, his hand sliding into yours as he looks at you with a mix of anger and protectiveness. “Don’t worry, jagiya,” he says softly. “This shit’s over. No one disrespects you like that and gets away with it.”

You nod, squeezing his hand. “Let’s just hope Minho doesn’t come back with a flamethrower.”

Hyunjin laughs softly, shaking his head. “Would anyone even blame him if he did?”

The group trudges upstairs, a tense, horrified energy hanging over everyone as they make their way to the pledge’s room. Minho leads the charge, armed with a trash bag, rubber gloves, and a pair of tongs that look like they were stolen from the kitchen. You stay close to Jisung, who’s muttering under his breath about unwashed pledges and crimes against humanity.

Chan is the first to reach the bed, and he grabs the edge of the mattress with a sigh. “Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

As he lifts the mattress, everyone leans in—and collective groans of disgust ripple through the group. Beneath the mattress is a stash of your missing panties and bras, folded haphazardly but undeniably there.

Jisung recoils instantly, gagging. “Oh my fucking god. Ew! There’s- That’s- That’s on my girlfriend’s panties!”

“Jizz,” Minho declares flatly, leaning in with his tongs like a forensic investigator at a crime scene. “It’s old, crusty jizz. This is a biohazard.”

The whole room groans again, and Jisung looks like he’s going to throw up. Minho, completely unfazed, crouches down and starts picking up the offending items one by one with the tongs. “Alright,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, “trash bag open. Gloves on. Let’s get this shit cleaned up.”

Jisung points accusingly at him, his disgust temporarily overridden by a smirk. “I dare you to put these ones on your head.”

Minho snorts, holding up a particularly stiff-looking pair of panties with the tongs. “And get pink eye from old jizz? Fuck no.”

Felix, who’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, grins. “But you put Y/N’s clean panties on your head, though.”

Minho shrugs, unfazed. “Get me drunk enough, and I’d wear fucking panties. Hell, I’d rock them.”

“Good to know,” Seungmin mutters, looking like he’s trying not to vomit.

Minho waves the stiff panties around like a flag. “Look at this shit! They’re fucking stiff. This isn’t fabric anymore, it’s a weapon.”

You’re the first to crack, a loud laugh bursting out of you as you lean against Jisung for support. “Oh my god, Minho, stop!”

“I’m serious!” Minho says, grinning as he waves the panties again. “Feel this. It’s like cardboard. How many times did this dude nut in your panties?!”

The room descends into chaos. Felix doubles over, laughter muffled against his hoodie sleeve. Hyunjin is next, his laughter loud and unrestrained as he clutches the doorframe for support. Changbin starts laughing so hard he has to sit on the floor, while Seungmin and Jeongin exchange horrified glances before breaking into fits of giggles.

Jisung, however, remains rooted to the spot, his expression one of pure horror. “This isn’t funny,” he says, but his voice wavers as if he’s fighting the urge to laugh. Beside him, Chan pinches the bridge of his nose, his face twitching as he tries to keep a straight face.

Minho, meanwhile, is fully committed to his role as narrator. He picks up another pair of panties, holding it delicately with the tongs as he examines it. “Here we have Exhibit B,” he says in a faux-serious tone. “Notice the uneven crust patterns. This suggests a man who lacks precision, perhaps caught up in the throes of self fulfillment”

“Minho, stop!” you cry, tears streaming down your face as you laugh uncontrollably.

“Can’t stop,” Minho replies, deadpan. “Won’t stop. The people deserve to know the truth.”

He moves on to the matching blue bra, lifting it carefully. His face twists in exaggerated disgust. “And here we have the pièce de résistance,” he says, gesturing to the inside of the cups. “The bra. Notice the texture.”

“Don’t,” Jisung warns, his voice low and dangerous.

Minho doesn’t listen. “It looks like spoiled breast milk in the cups,” he says, shaking the bra for emphasis. “That’s how much he spaffed in this thing. His jizz looks like spoiled fucking breast milk.”

The room explodes again. Felix collapses onto the floor, wheezing as Hyunjin clings to him for support. Seungmin and Jeongin are doubled over, tears streaming down their faces, while Changbin has to lie back against the wall to catch his breath.

You’re gasping for air, clutching Jisung’s arm as you laugh so hard your stomach aches. “Minho, you’re going to kill us!”

“Hey, I’m just reporting the facts,” Minho replies, tossing the bra into the trash bag with a flourish. “And the facts are fucking disgusting.”

Jisung, still horrified, shakes his head. “I’m going to burn this room to the ground.”

“Let me grab the bleach first,” Minho says cheerfully, sealing the trash bag. “We’re going to need it.”

As the laughter dies down, Chan steps forward, his face now calm but stern. “Alright, let’s finish this and make sure this perv is out of the house by tonight.”

Everyone nods, though the occasional giggle still bubbles up as Minho lugs the bag toward the door, narrating under his breath about “the tragic tale of crusty lingerie.” You can’t help but laugh again, even as Jisung pulls you close, shaking his head with a mix of amusement and exhaustion.

“This fucking house,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your temple.

The entire group makes their way outside to the frat house’s backyard, where the fire pit stands as the centrepiece of many questionable decisions. The cool night air carries the faint scent of grass, and the fire pit glows dimly as Seungmin crouches to light it. The flames lick to life, crackling and snapping as everyone gathers around.

Minho, with the trash bag of “evidence” slung over his shoulder like some deranged Santa Claus, steps forward dramatically. “Alright,” he announces, “time to cleanse this house of its filth.”

“Cleanse the house?” Hyunjin echoes, smirking. “You’re literally about to burn jizz-crusted underwear. That’s not cleansing. That’s fumigating.”

Minho ignores him, holding the bag out over the flames. “Farewell to these cursed artefacts,” he intones. “May their spirit haunt no one.”

With that, he dumps the entire bag into the fire. The flames roar higher for a moment as the bag’s contents catch, and a faintly acrid smell fills the air. Everyone groans and steps back, waving their hands.

“Fuck,” Changbin mutters, covering his nose. “That smells worse than Jisung’s gym socks.”

“Hey!” Jisung snaps, glaring at him. “Unnecessary.”

As the flames die back down, you cross your arms, staring at the fire with a frown. “You know,” you say, your tone dry, “that’s like 750,000 won worth of underwear.”

Minho, still holding the tongs like some bizarre ceremonial tool, whirls around to face you. “Why the fuck is your underwear so expensive?!”

“Because I’m classy,” you reply, lifting your chin with mock indignation.

“Fuck yeah, she is,” Jisung cuts in proudly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Classiest jagiya on the planet.”

Felix snickers, nudging Jeongin. “She’s got champagne taste in panties, clearly.”

“Alright, alright,” Minho interrupts, raising a hand like a preacher about to deliver a sermon. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it right. Everyone, gather ‘round. It’s time for... a prayer.”

“A prayer?” Seungmin deadpans, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Minho says seriously. “We must honour the departed and also beg the universe to never let this shit happen again.”

Everyone exchanges amused glances, but they shuffle closer to the fire, forming a loose circle.

Minho clears his throat, holding the tongs reverently over the flames like a sceptre. “Dear holy powers of expensive-ass lingerie,” he begins, his voice deep and dramatic, “we gather here tonight to mourn the loss of Y/N’s panties and bras, taken too soon, sullied by the hands and jizz of a perv.”

“Oh my god,” you mutter, hiding your face in Jisung’s shoulder as the group dissolves into muffled laughter.

Minho soldiers on. “We ask for forgiveness for burning these sacred garments, but we do so in the name of cleansing. May their spirit ascend to the great lingerie drawer in the sky, where no man shall ever nut on them again.”

Felix loses it first, doubling over with laughter. Hyunjin follows, leaning against Changbin for support as tears stream down his face.

“And,” Minho continues, ignoring the chaos, “we pray for Y/N’s future panties. May they be free of creeps and crust, and may they rest safely in their rightful place, her drawer. Amen.”

“Amen!” Jeongin shouts through his laughter, throwing his hands in the air like he’s at a revival.

Jisung shakes his head, muttering, “This fucking house,” but he’s grinning as he holds you close. You’re laughing so hard you’re shaking, and Jisung kisses the top of your head, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

Minho bows deeply, tossing the tongs and gloves into the fire. “Lady and gentlemen,” he says, straightening up, “the perv has been purged.”

“About fucking time,” Chan mutters, shaking his head as the flames crackle behind him.

“Now,” Minho says, clapping his hands, “who wants s’mores? The fire’s already going.”

The living room buzzes with its usual chaos. Felix is sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his phone and occasionally showing you something funny while Hyunjin lounges on the floor, doodling absentmindedly in his sketchbook. Jeongin is perched on the armrest of the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine, tossing in sarcastic comments every few pages. Meanwhile, Minho and Changbin are in the corner, tossing Zak’s ball back and forth as your dog bounds between them, tail wagging so hard it looks like it might fly off.

You’re curled up on the other end of the couch, dressed in a black leather miniskirt and a white blouse, layered with a black leather corset cinching your waist. Your black fluffy socks provide the only hint of comfort in the otherwise polished outfit, and Felix keeps glancing at them with a mix of amusement and approval.

“I like the socks,” Felix says, finally breaking the silence. “It’s like badass on top, cosy on the bottom. Duality.”

You snort, nudging his leg with your foot. “Fashion’s about balance, Lix. You wouldn’t get it.”

He gasps mockingly. “Excuse me? I’m the most fashionable person in this room.”

Hyunjin looks up from his sketchbook, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t you wear socks with sandals last week?”

“That was ironic,” Felix defends immediately, sitting up straighter. “I was making a statement.”

Jeongin smirks, flipping a page in his magazine. “The statement was you have no taste.”

Before Felix can argue, the door swings open, and Jisung enters, his arms full as he carries a huge cardboard box. His face is determined, his blue hair slightly messy from the wind outside. “Make way,” he announces dramatically, setting the box down in the centre of the room with a loud thud.

Everyone pauses, watching as he carefully opens the flaps and pulls out a laundry basket. But this isn’t just any laundry basket. It’s metal, reinforced, and clearly equipped with a padlock.

“What the fuck is that?” Minho asks, holding Zak’s ball mid-throw.

“This,” Jisung says, holding up the basket proudly, “is the future of laundry security. I do not care if the panty thief has been ousted; I will protect my girlfriend’s panties forever now. Look!” He lifts a small key on a chain around his neck. “Only I have the key, which I will wear at all times. Just in case Minho decides to play panty hats again.”

Minho, without missing a beat, chucks Zak’s ball directly at Jisung’s head. It bounces off harmlessly as Jisung glares at him. “Hey!”

“It was one time!” Minho exclaims, exasperated. “And you dared me to do it!”

Jisung points an accusing finger at him. “You may not have been the panty thief, but you were way too comfortable putting her panties on your head!”

“They were clean panties!” Minho shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I did not touch her used panties. That was Pledge Perv!”

“I know,” Jisung says, crossing his arms. “But this is preventative. I study criminal psych. It starts with small fires, then bam! Arson. In your case, clean panties on your head for a dare, and then bam, you’re sniffing my girlfriend’s used panties.”

Everyone groans at the sheer absurdity of his logic, except Minho, who looks utterly betrayed. “Y/N,” Minho says, turning to you with wide eyes, “I swear I will never sniff your used panties.”

You blink at him, then burst into laughter. “Thank you for that confirmation, Minho. That was actually oddly comforting.”

Felix wheezes from the couch, holding his stomach. “This fucking house,” he mutters, wiping at his eyes.

Jisung steps forward, holding up the laundry basket like a prize. “And it gets better. This thing is multipurpose! Someone starts being annoying, and we can lock them in it. Like the chokey from Matilda!”

“Jesus Christ,” Hyunjin mutters, shaking his head as he goes back to his sketchbook.

Jeongin leans forward, inspecting the basket with a smirk. “I mean... it’s not a bad idea. Can we test it on Minho?”

“Fuck you,” Minho shoots back, glaring at him. “I’ve suffered enough in this house.”

“You brought that on yourself,” Changbin points out, tossing Zak’s ball back at Minho with a grin.

Jisung grins, placing the basket down with a flourish. “Mark my words, jagiya. Your panties are safe now. No one’s getting through this bad boy.”

Minho’s eyes narrow as he steps closer to the newly unveiled laundry basket. “We can lock annoying people in there, you say?”

Jisung, completely oblivious to the brewing chaos, nods proudly. “Exactly. Multifunctional, genius, and- Hey, what are you doing?”

Minho doesn’t answer. Instead, he exchanges a quick glance with you, and before Jisung can process what’s happening, Minho lunges at him, tackling him to the couch. You’re quick to follow, snatching the key from around Jisung’s neck as he flails dramatically.

“Traitor!” Jisung yells, looking up at you with mock betrayal. “Jagiya, how could you-”

“Oh, shut up,” you say, laughing as Minho pins him down. “You’re the one who said it was multifunctional.”

Jeongin and Changbin jump into action, grabbing Jisung’s arms and legs as Minho lifts him off the couch. Jisung is shouting the whole time, a mix of curses and sputtered protests. “Put me down, you bastards! This is abuse! Y/N!”

You ignore him, grinning as you open the laundry basket. “In you go, Ji.”

The guys shove him inside with surprising efficiency, slamming the lid down before he can escape. Jisung’s voice muffles immediately as he thrashes inside the basket. “This is not how this thing was supposed to be used!”

You sit on the lid, crossing your arms smugly as you press your weight down. Jisung stills almost instantly. “Jagiya, I swear, you’re making a huge mistake.”

“Am I?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, your voice dripping with amusement. “Because it feels like I’m making the perfect choice.”

Minho leans over, snapping the padlock into place with a flourish. “Alright,” he says, brushing off his hands. “That’s done. I’m starving. Let’s go grab some lunch.”

“Wait, what?” Jisung shouts from inside the basket, his tone shifting from incredulous to panicked. “No! You can’t just leave me in here! Jagiya, don’t let them do this!”

You hop off the basket, slipping into your shoes as Jisung’s muffled protests grow louder. “Sorry, Ji,” you say with a grin, grabbing your bag. “You’re in timeout now.”

“Timeout? This is false imprisonment!” he yells. “Felix, back me up here! Someone, please!”

Felix, ever the chaos enabler, grabs his jacket and waves cheerfully toward the basket. “Bye, Jisung! Don’t worry, we’ll bring you back a doggy bag.”

“Felix!” Jisung screeches, but Felix just snickers, nudging Hyunjin as they head toward the door.

Jeongin grabs the key, holding it up like a trophy. “Think we should keep this as a souvenir?” he asks with a mischievous grin.

Minho snatches it from him. “Nah, let’s leave it here. Adds to the suspense.” He drops it back on the coffee table with a clink, turning to you. “Ready, Y/N?”

“Let’s go,” you reply, slinging your bag over your shoulder as Jisung’s voice continues to echo from the basket.

“Don’t leave me here!” he shouts, his tone shifting to his most pitiful. “Jagiya, please! I’ll do all the laundry for a week! No, a month! Just let me out!”

Hyunjin chuckles, holding the door open as the group files out. “You’ll be fine, Ji. Enjoy your new home.”

“I hate all of you!” Jisung yells as the door clicks shut behind you.

The last thing you hear before you’re out of earshot is Jisung’s dramatic, muffled voice: “This is fucking betrayal! You’ll regret this! JAGIYA!” You laugh, shaking your head as you follow your friends toward lunch, already planning how to tease him about this later.

The house is quiet, the kind of peaceful lull that settles in when everyone’s off doing their own thing. Chan stumbles downstairs after an afternoon nap, his hair sticking up in every direction and his hoodie slightly askew. He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he pads toward the kitchen, yawning loudly.

But before he can make it there, faint singing drifts from the living room. It’s woeful and slightly off-key, the kind of exaggerated misery that can only mean one thing. Jisung.

“All by myseeeelf,” Jisung wails, his voice cracking as he drags out the note. “Don’t wanna be... all by myseeeelf anymoreee!”

Chan stops mid-step, his curiosity piqued. He follows the sound and steps into the living room, only to freeze at the sight in front of him.

There’s Jisung, sitting curled up inside the locked laundry basket in the middle of the room, his knees pulled up to his chest as he continues his impassioned rendition of the ballad. Zak runs around the room, occasionally bumping into the basket with his nose, clearly entertained by Jisung’s predicament.

Chan blinks once, then twice, before bursting into laughter. “What the fuck?”

Jisung stops singing immediately, his head snapping up to see Chan standing in the doorway. “Oh, great. You’re awake,” he says, slumping back against the basket’s walls. “The key’s on the table.”

Chan snorts, shaking his head as he steps toward the coffee table to grab the key. “What the fuck happened, man?”

Jisung’s voice is full of betrayal as he explains, “I bought this thing to protect Y/N’s panties, right? And then those bastards, all of them, locked me in it and then, get this, they all went out for food. And! And! Y/N fucking helped them, Chan. My own fucking girlfriend helped them!”

Chan is already laughing so hard he has to lean on the table for support, but Jisung isn’t done. “Seungmin came downstairs half an hour ago, stood right there, laughed in my face, and then he went back to bed! He left me in here! Like this!”

Chan’s laughter crescendos into a full-on howl as he struggles to unlock the padlock. His hands are shaking so much from laughing that it takes him two tries to fit the key in. “Holy shit, Ji,” he wheezes, doubling over. “This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I might actually piss my pants.”

Jisung pouts, crossing his arms over his chest as Zak paws at the side of the basket, barking softly. “This isn’t funny, Chan! This is fucking trauma! I’ve been sitting here singing sad songs to myself for the last hour! I require intense therapy now!"

“Clearly,” Chan chokes out between laughs, finally managing to unlock the padlock and lift the lid. “Man, this is golden. You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

Jisung clambers out of the basket with as much dignity as he can muster, which isn’t much. He straightens his clothes, glaring at Chan, who’s still doubled over and gasping for air.

“You’re the worst,” Jisung mutters, brushing himself off. “And you’re all dead when they get back. Dead. Especially Y/N. My own girlfriend betrayed me.”

Chan shakes his head, still giggling as he collapses onto the couch. “Ji, I’m gonna be laughing about this for weeks.” He wipes at his eyes, his voice still shaking with mirth. “All by myself. Fucking hell, man. I can’t.”

Zak barks again, wagging his tail as he jumps up on Jisung, who sighs and scratches behind the dog’s ears. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” Jisung says to Zak, his voice resigned.

Chan lets out another burst of laughter, leaning back on the couch. “Jisung, I’m begging you, never change.”

Jisung glares at him but can’t hold back the small smirk that tugs at his lips. “I hate this house,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat behind his words.

The front door swings open, and you, Minho, Jeongin, Changbin, Felix, and Hyunjin pile back into the Alpha Phi house, laughing and chatting after a long lunch. The smell of fried food still lingers on your clothes, and you kick off your boots near the door, wiggling your toes in your mismatched socks. Minho grumbles as his sneakers get caught on the laces, nearly tripping himself, while Jeongin tosses his shoes haphazardly into the corner.

“Dude, how are you this bad at taking off shoes?” Hyunjin teases, neatly placing his own beside the wall.

“Shut the fuck up,” Minho mutters, finally yanking his sneaker off with a grunt. “At least I don’t look like I’m about to model for a sock commercial.”

Changbin stretches dramatically, his voice booming. “That lunch hit the spot. I could sleep for three hours now.”

“You mean your usual nap,” Jeongin quips, dodging a swat from Changbin as the group makes their way toward the living room.

But the moment you all step inside, the laughter dies. Chan is sitting on the couch, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, while Jisung is standing in front of the coffee table, glaring at the doorway like a man possessed.

“Oh fuck,” Minho mutters under his breath.

Jisung’s expression darkens further when he sees the six you. “Well, well, well,” he says, his tone low and dangerous. “Look who decided to show up.”

Before anyone can respond, Jisung takes a single step forward, and the group instantly scatters like cockroaches under a light. “Run!” Felix yells, grabbing your wrist as he bolts toward the stairs.

You barely have time to pull away before Minho lets out a loud, panicked shriek and scrambles toward the kitchen, with Jeongin and Changbin hot on his heels. Hyunjin stumbles over his own feet, laughing hysterically as he runs toward the back door, shouting, “Every man for himself!”

Felix drags you upstairs, both of you taking the steps two at a time until you reach the second floor. You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting Jisung to be right behind you, but the stairwell is empty.

“Do you think he’s chasing them?” you whisper, crouching down against the hallway wall to catch your breath.

Felix nods, his own breathing ragged as he leans back against the wall beside you. “Oh, 100 percent. Did you hear Minho scream? He’s got to be Jisung’s main target.”

You stifle a laugh, pressing a hand to your mouth as you hear faint shouting from downstairs. Minho’s voice rings out, high-pitched and panicked. “Don’t touch me, you psycho!”

Felix snorts, shaking his head. “Poor Minho. He’s definitely regretting his life choices right now.”

Another round of shouting echoes from the first floor, and you catch snippets of Changbin’s booming laugh and Jeongin’s frantic “He’s gaining on us!” You exchange a look with Felix, and both of you dissolve into quiet giggles, trying to muffle the sound with your sleeves.

“Think he’ll come up here?” Felix whispers, glancing nervously toward the staircase.

“Doubt it,” you reply, adjusting your position to peek around the corner. “I think he’s too focused on Minho.”

“Smart choice,” Felix says, grinning. “Minho’s the worst at running. He’s fucked.”

As if on cue, another shriek from Minho echoes through the house, followed by Jisung’s triumphant yell. “Got you, asshole!”

Felix leans closer, whispering urgently, “We need to move. If he catches Minho, we’re next. And I’m not about to be victim number two.”

You nod, already rising to your feet. The chaos downstairs seems to have quieted for a moment, which only makes you more anxious. “He’s probably planning something,” you whisper back, glancing nervously toward the staircase.

“Exactly,” Felix says, tugging at your sleeve. “Let’s go before he decides to head up here.”

The two of you dart down the hallway, your footsteps soft against the hardwood floors. Felix glances over his shoulder every few seconds, his paranoia palpable as you reach the other flight of stairs that leads to the opposite side of the house. “Quietly,” he mutters, raising a finger to his lips as he starts down the steps.

But as soon as you reach the bottom, your stomach drops. Standing there, looking far too pleased with himself, is Jisung. His blue hair is slightly dishevelled from the earlier chaos, and his grin is both smug and dangerous.

“Going somewhere, jagiya?” he asks, tilting his head.

You barely have time to yelp before he lunges forward, grabbing you by the waist and effortlessly tossing you over his shoulder. “Jisung!” you squeal, your hands scrambling for purchase as the world tilts upside down.

He holds you securely, one arm wrapped around your legs while his free hand presses down on the back of your skirt. “Relax, I’ve got you,” he says, his tone playful. “Can’t have you flashing everyone, can I?”

From your awkward upside-down position, you can see Felix staring wide-eyed from the top of the stairs. “You’re on your own!” he shouts, bolting in the opposite direction.

“Felix, you asshole!” you yell, laughing despite yourself as Jisung starts walking back toward the living room, his steps steady and confident.

You shift slightly, trying to wiggle free, but his grip tightens. “Don’t even try it, jagiya,” he warns, giving your thigh a light pat. “You’re not going anywhere.”

With a mischievous grin, you reach down and give his ass a firm squeeze. Jisung freezes for a split second before letting out an exaggerated groan. “Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. “No ass for you. You’re in trouble, remember?”

“What kind of trouble?” you tease, grinning against his shoulder.

“The kind where you’re in air jail for the rest of the day,” he replies, his voice mock-serious. “I try to protect your panties, and what do I get? Locked in a fucking laundry basket like I’m the bad guy. No, jagiya, you’ve brought this on yourself.”

“Air jail?” you ask, laughing as he gives your thigh another pat.

“Air jail,” he confirms, starting to bounce you lightly on his shoulder. “And I’ve got muscles now, so I can do that shit. Naughty girlfriend air jail, all day long.”

You shriek with laughter as he jerks his shoulder, jostling you like you’re nothing more than a sack of flour. “Jisung, put me down!” you protest, though you’re laughing too hard to sound convincing.

“Nope,” he says, popping the “p” with a grin. “Not until you’ve learned your lesson. You locked me up, jagiya. Me! Your sweet, innocent boyfriend who just wanted to protect your underwear.”

“Innocent, my ass,” you mutter, giggling.

He smirks, adjusting his grip on you as he steps into the living room. “Speaking of your ass, keep your hands to yourself. That’s part of your punishment.”

“You’re impossible,” you say, shaking your head against his back.

“And you love me,” he replies confidently, plopping down onto the couch with you still slung over his shoulder. “Welcome to air jail. Population: you.”

Ten minutes pass, and the living room has mostly settled back into its usual chaos. Jisung is perched on the couch, still smugly holding you draped over his shoulder like a prize he refuses to relinquish. You’ve mostly given up struggling, half-laughing and half-groaning as he adjusts his position, jostling you slightly every now and then just to remind you who’s in charge of “air jail.”

Suddenly, Minho shuffles into the room, his trousers bunched around his ankles, one hand tugging at the back of his underwear. His face is red with equal parts rage and humiliation as he glares at Jisung. “You wedgied me so fucking hard, man! I can taste my underwear! My asshole might actually be bleeding!”

Jisung shrugs nonchalantly, which jostles you again. You yelp, slapping his back lightly. “Ji! Careful!”

“Sorry, jagiya,” he says, grinning before turning his attention back to Minho. “You started it, man. You were the first to lunge, which led to me being imprisoned in a laundry basket until the only decent soul in this house let me out.”

“That doesn’t mean you pull my underwear up so high you split my fucking balls!” Minho snaps, waddling over to the armchair. He places a cold bag of peas on the cushion before lowering himself gingerly onto it with a groan. “Jesus Christ. I might never walk the same again.”

Jisung smirks, leaning back on the couch. “That’s what you get.”

Minho points at you, still draped over Jisung’s shoulder. “You might wanna let your girlfriend up before her brain pops from all the blood rushing to her head.”

Jisung sighs dramatically, patting your back. “Alright, alright. You’ve served your time in air jail.”

Finally, he shifts, carefully helping you down from his shoulder. Your hair is slightly mussed, and you give him a playful glare as you straighten your skirt.

“You’re impossible,” you say, but the grin tugging at your lips betrays your words.

“And you love me,” Jisung replies, pulling you into his lap and wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you trapped. “But don’t get too comfortable. You’ve gotta earn your freedom.”

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

“Yup,” he says, his grin widening. “You’re helping me plan my revenge on Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, and Jeongin. They all left me to rot, and now it’s their turn.”

You laugh, leaning back against his chest. “Done. What’s the plan?”

From the armchair, Minho groans. “If there’s another trap, I’m sitting this one out. My balls can’t handle it.”

You, Jisung, and Minho exchange a glance before bursting into laughter, the kind of uncontrollable, ridiculous laughter that only comes from living in a house as chaotic as this one. Jisung’s arms tighten around you, and you can’t help but think, despite the madness, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx

Proofread by the lovely @eastjonowhere

160 notes · View notes

chaotic-for-good · 4 months ago

Text

ropes & rumors

Luigi Mangione x Reader

NSFW 18+

summary: When Luigi thinks you cheated on him with his rival frat brother, he goes nuclear and makes you prove you belong to him.

based on this request: you cheated on lu at a party while being super drunk (as if that'd ever happen in real life pls who'd cheat on him 🙄, but its just for the plot) and he finds out, gets super mad. So he kidnaps you in like a random cabin in the forest, 'punishes' you by overstimulating your nipples and clit while you keep apologizing to him with tears streaming down your face but he just does not give a ff.

cw: cheating (kind of), dubcon, established relationship, vaginal sex, overstimulation, bondage, fingering, it's always a Tyler (sorry Tyler's), frat boy Lulu, some pred/prey themes going on

an: This got a lot more dramatic at the end than I had originally envisioned (idk if I've just been reading too much romantasy or if worrying about this boy made me need to write some softness back in after he goes wild or what). Lulu and reader are a lil obsessed with each other. This was fun, thanks for the request and feel free to keep 'em coming :) I'm thinking we need a lil fluff sometime soon after this one haha

Usually when you black out at a party, you take it as a sign to sit the next weekend out. Half as punishment for the inevitable embarrassment (though who can really say what happened?), half to recover from the damage you surely did to your developing brain. A little reset after behaving badly.

You spend the weekend alone, or at least mostly alone. Journaling, meditating, reading. Sometimes, you even let Luigi join for parts of your reflective time, if he promises to be quiet and keep his hands to himself (he’s not always great at the latter). You grocery shop, cook, clean, get your apartment back in order. Cuddle up and watch movies. Stop paying attention to the movie entirely when more naked activities prove to be a better cure for your frazzled nerves.

But this weekend is the exception.

It’s winter formal, and despite the way your stomach pitched the whole ride up, despite still being wracked with hangxiety a full week after having a few too many at Phi Psi, you’d never back out of a commitment you made to him.

Now, sipping prosecco out of a red solo cup in the hot tub, snow falling gently as the other girlfriends gossip and laugh, you’re actually grateful your usual weekend reset had to be postponed. Sinking into a pure moment of girlhood always has that effect on you. It’s nice to be out here, under the stars, convening with nature—especially knowing Luigi still hasn’t seen you’re wearing the flowered bikini that drives him crazy.

Inside, he’s running the beer pong table with his partner, Ryan, when that jackass Tyler calls winner. He throws Ryan an irritable look.

Normally, Luigi is as chill and easygoing as they come. It was rare, if ever, that he had an issue with anyone, least of all one of his fraternity brothers.

But Tyler… Tyler gets under his skin.

It’s the way he looks at you—like you’re a piece of meat. Something to be won. The way he’s always finding excuses to put his hands on you—a graze of your arm, a half-hug, a too-playful shove. And he gets bolder when you’re drunk.

You’re Luigi’s girl—his vulnerable, precious baby, something to protect at all costs. But you’re not oblivious. You see what Tyler’s playing at, and you don’t let it slide. The time he had the balls to crack a joke about how he’d “keep you up late that night”, you told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off—with enough heat to make him steer clear of you for a few peaceful weeks. Good thing Luigi wasn’t there for that exchange, or you surmise he would have gotten into the first fight of his life.

So, when Luigi hears Tyler’s idiot friend pumping him up across the table about how you finally made it back to his room last weekend—and that you were in there for over an hour—something inside him snaps.

His blood runs cold.

And for the first time in Luigi’s calculated, careful, methodical life—he doesn’t think at all.

He just acts.

In some kind of predatory haze, Luigi pushes back from the table, shoving past anyone unlucky enough to be in his way. He barely hears Ryan call after him, chastising him about leaving in the middle of a game. He pulls on his coat, laces up his sneakers, and steps out into the frigid cold, heading straight for the hot tub.

He hears you before he sees you—your warm giggle, that little squeak at the end of it that always gives away how tipsy and light you’re feeling.

Any other time, he’d find it endearing.

But after finding out what you did, it makes his skin prickle with rage.

It fills him with hunger, need—a feral desire to take what’s his and crush all of the foul feelings bubbling up inside of him until they don’t exist anymore.

You think he’s joking when he plucks you out of the hot tub by the armpits, throws you over his shoulder, and storms down the side of the house like you weigh nothing. A cacophony of giggles, what the fuck?’s and oh my god, Mangione’s follow you as he strides into the woods.

“Luigi! It’s COLD!” You squeal, giggling and swatting against his back.

But Luigi isn’t laughing. Not at all.

Instead, he grips your wrists behind your back, voice raw and rough as he growls something about the party last week. About how he knows everything.

_____________________________________________________________

Luigi rounds the path to the tiny cabin on the edge of the property, barely feeling the cold, barely feeling anything at all.

When you arrived earlier, the owners warned against advertising the additional space to the other brothers, saying it was remote enough it had a tendency to encourage bad decisions. Before leaving, the caretaker’s wife slipped the key into Luigi’s hand, winking as she murmured something about keeping everyone in line.

Now, he was sliding said key into the lock, ignoring your frantic protests.

“Luigi, please, just listen—"

He cuts you off. “Oh, I don’t think talking about this one is what either of us need, y/n.”

His voice is cold, sharp as a blade as he shoves the door open and throws you onto the little double bed tucked into the corner of the one-room cabin.

You scramble to get up, but Luigi is already moving—pulling off his jacket and shirt before rummaging through an ancient-looking armoire, each movement purposeful. He doesn’t look at you as he walks past, but when he kicks a wooden chair into place in front of the bed, you flinch.

Before you can react, he’s on you again.

You squeal as he picks you up once more, planting your ass in the chair with authority.

“Luigi, please, just let me tell you—” you start, before he smacks your tit so roughly it makes your bikini top skew. You gasp at his sudden sharp touch, arching your back against your will.

His fingers lock around your jaw. With his face this close to yours, you can see the hazel flecked in his eyes. “STOP. TALKING. Y/.N.”

His snarl sends a shiver down your spine. You freeze, shock rippling through you.

Behind your seat, you feel him sweep your wrists together, tightening something soft but unyielding around them. Cloth—a shirt, maybe. Something that holds you firm, but won’t hurt.

Like him.

His hands move fast, rough, yanking at the tie of your bikini top before you fully register what’s happening. The damp fabric peels away, falling uselessly onto the floor. Your breath hitches, nipples pebbling under the cold air and his scalding gaze.

He crouches, gripping your ankles as he rakes your dripping bottoms down your legs. You jerk against his grasp, struggling, but he’s stronger. So much stronger.

He forces one ankle against the chair’s wooden rung. Then the other. Spread wide, locked in place.

“You belong to ME.”

His voice is venomous, possessive—an unfamiliar edge darkening each word. Not like your Luigi. Your Luigi doesn’t even like killing mosquitos when you camp.

You open your mouth again—to explain, to protest, to make him understand—when without warning, he shoves two fingers into you at once.

A broken moan spills out instead.

You thrash against your restraints, but he gives you no time to adjust, immediately pumping those long fingers you love so much into you, dragging over every sensitive spot with ruthless precision. He has your body down to a science, and each movement is calculated, practiced. This isn’t about pleasure.

This is a claim.

Your eyes prick with tears, the pleasure-blurred edge of discomfort unraveling into something raw. And for the first time in your relationship, Luigi doesn’t seem to care.

No—he revels in it.

Every mangled cry that escapes you only seems to fuel him, to sharpen the hunger in his gaze. His towering frame dwarfs you, caging you in as he grips the back of the chair. You’re so small beneath him. Weak.

All you can do is submit.

“You’re going to come on my hand,” he grits out.

And as though he’s spoken it into existence, pleasure detonates through you, sharp and brutal.

“Yes.” His growl vibrates through the air as you pulsate around his fingers, gasping. He fucks them into you harder, faster. Wet sounds fill the room, your body wrung tight around the relentless curl of his fingers, milking every last tremor from your release.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

“Nothing happened,” you choke out, voice splintering. “I would never—"

“You would never!” He spits, moving to palm your full breast with his other hand. “That’s what I thought, y/n. Until you did.” His voice cracks on the last word.

His fingers keep working you with cruel expertise, circling his index finger and thumb over your peaked bud, exactly the way he knows makes you fall apart. His other hand stays firmly between your legs, unyielding. The restraints bite into your ankles as you flail, fighting for any kind of reprieve from his overstimulating hands.

“He cornered me,” you falter, trying to meet Luigi’s gaze, only to find yourself nearly eye to eye with his straining fly, his bulge pressed heavy and thick against the fabric.

A third finger slides into you, and you inhale sharply against his relentless touch. His thumb circles your swollen clit with agonizing precision.

Luigi is everywhere, his presence inescapable. His hands demand your surrender, each deft movement a command your body can’t refuse.

“I’m yours, Luigi!” You cry out, tears finally spilling over, streaked black with mascara as you break beneath his touch. “I’ve only ever been yours!”

You can only hope he finally hears your pleas, desperate to see usual light in his eyes so you know he hears you. That he understands.

“Please,” you whisper, breath stuttering. “Please look at me, Luigi.”

But he’s still lost, eyes dark, locked on you like prey as he crouches down to eye level.

“Again, y/n,” he demands, voice dangerously low.

Your body teeters on the edge once more as he swirls against both delicate buds. The coil inside you tightens, impossibly taut, ready to snap.

“Luigi,” you sob as you fall, pleasure crashing over you in vicious waves.

You wonder, dazed, how your body can keep answering his call—how you can still pulse and clench like this when every inch of you is completely wrung out.

Something tugs at the edges of your consciousness as he launches his next assault on your pussy and breasts; his hands and mouth setting every nerve on fire. Something you need to tell him… Something clawing at the edges of your mind.

His teeth scrape your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you arch. Something like panic bubbles up as you realize he’s about to pull another orgasm from you. He’s done it before, without all this added stimulation to your cunt—just his hands, his mouth, his normally endless curiosity about how to make you climb new heights under his touch.

The thought is terrifying in it’s intensity, your body too wrecked to allow it—you have to reach him before you explode again.

That’s when you see it.

The pain in his eyes when he looks up at you, the raw betrayal lurking there. The sweat at his hairline releases the familiar scent of his shampoo, anchoring you back to reality.

He still doesn’t know you were alone the whole time.

That’s it. That’s what you need him to understand. That you were never really in there together, that you’d never let it happen.

That you would never turn your back on him.

It all rushes back—Tyler’s hands on you, your own hands shoving back, the anger in his eyes when you refused him. His friends dragging him away when they saw how unwilling you were to play his stupid game. The door slamming. Silence.

You were alone. You had only laid down for a moment, pissed off and clouded, before the booze swallowed you whole.

“Tyler left,” your voice cracks, tears spilling freely now.

But Luigi doesn’t stop. His fingers, his mouth—they keep going. His hands are still demanding, cruel as they force you to concede, even as your body thrashes against the stimulation that has long since tipped into too much.

“I just fell asleep,” you insist, voice raw. You reach for him through the binding, landing a trembling hand on his forearm.

You dig into him, fingertips pressing into taut muscle, answering his demands with one of your own: come back.

Understanding flickers. Just a spark at first, a moment of hesitation. But it’s enough.

His grip falters. His breath hitches. His mouth stills against your breast.

And then it crashes down on him, all of it.

The fury drains so suddenly that it leaves him empty, weightless. Like something inside him has become unseated, and doesn’t know how to put it back.

His hands tighten for a moment—as if trying to hold onto his anger, trying to ground himself in what he thought was real. But the crack has already splintered wide across the ice, and it’s giving way beneath him.

“Y/n—”

His tone is different now: shaking, raw. Ruined.

His forehead drops to yours. His whole body, the same one that had been unyielding, overpowering, relentless, now shivers against you.

His weight sinks into you, crushing, fervent.

“I didn’t know.” The words rasp out of him, barely a breath. His hands tremble where they hold you, unsure whether to grip tighter or let go completely.

A sharp, choked sound rips from his throat—somewhere between a sob and a curse—and suddenly, he’s moving.

You barely register it at first—the sudden shift of his weight, the whisper of fabric.

The pressure at your wrists disappears.

One restraint falls away, then the next.

Your ankles. He yanks them loose so fast you barely have time to process it before he’s pulling you into him.

Not to restrain. Not to control. To hold—capturing you against him.

“Fuck, I thought…” he croaks. “I didn’t—"

A wrecked, hollow sound escapes him as he gathers you into his arms. He’s surrounding you again, but not like before. Not demanding, or cruel.

Desperate.

“I love you, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.” The words tumble out of him, choked, frantic. He presses his face into your neck, his body shaking against yours, clinging.

“I love you, I love you, I love you—"

It spills from him as he unravels. His hands are everywhere once more, stroking, clutching, reverent. Like he’s trying to memorize you, trying to hold onto something he thought he lost.

He presses himself to you, chest rising and falling erratically, every breath a sob that never quite escapes.

“Please—"

His hands slide beneath you, pulling you closer. As if there’s any space left between you. As if he isn’t always pressed into your skin like a bruise.

You don’t fight it, even when the wounded part of your mind reminds you could. That maybe you should.

But you don’t—because it’s him. Your Luigi. The only man you’ve ever loved, completely wrecked in your arms.

You stroke shaky fingers through his hair, feeling his damp curls beneath your palm. His breath stutters unevenly.

“I know,” you whisper.

He shudders, eliminating whatever space lingers between you as he kisses you. Not rough, not punishing, no longer even desperate.

Worshipping.

Like he’s trying to prove himself to you this time, to rebuild. Offering himself back to you the only way he knows how.

And you let him—because you really are his. Because you’d give him anything, anything at all, if he asked for it.

“Please,” he breathes again, voice breaking as he fumbles with the button of his pants. He doesn’t let you go for even a second, one hand still gripping you—caressing, holding, like he’s afraid to lose you again.

His hard length springs free, and then he’s pressing against you, his palm cupping your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

“You’re mine,” he rasps, rutting into your aching folds.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice just as wrecked. “Always have been.”

“And I'm yours. Need to show you," he pleads, voice breaking. "Need you.”

His tip brushes your entrance, his eyes searching your face before his bitten, plush lips melt into yours.

“Show me, Luigi,” you whisper back, spreading your legs wider, inviting him in. After the distance, the disconnect—you need him, too. Need to mend what’s broken, to be whole with him again.

He nods against your forehead, breath ragged, as he plunges into you. You both cry out, bodies fusing as he clings to you—like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“Y/n,” he moans, fucking into you so deep, barely pulling himself out of you with each rolling stroke. Like he can’t bear even that much separation from you.

You thread your fingers through his hair, breath hitching as you take him in, letting go for him. Opening. Meeting him. Just as he does the same for you.

“Mine,” he growls, a glimpse of his usual self peeking through. He drags his lips along your throat. “Say it again.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your body bowing to him once again as he pulls you back toward your peak, walls fluttering around him.

He follows with a rough groan, eyes locked on yours as he empties himself inside you. His hips stutter as he rides you through the aftershocks before he collapses against you, chest heaving, still wrapped around you. Still buried deep, like he never wants to let you go again.

For a long moment, all that fills the room are your mingled breaths, the slick heat between your bodies, the weight of everything that just happened.

Luigi hardly misses a beat before letting out a half-satisfied half-apologetic chuckle against your skin.

“Well then.” He quips. “I think we just redefined ‘making up’."

You huff a breathless laugh, arching a brow as you look up at him. “I sure fucking hope so,” you snort.

The tension finally breaks, but you still search his face, serious. “You good?”

“Good?” He lifts his head, smirking despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “I just went from hell and all the way back to heaven with no layover in between.”

You roll your eyes but smile, shaking your head. “Babe, in the future, can we just assume Tyler is always full of shit?”

Luigi grimaces, then shakes his head with a wry grin. “Maybe that would've been the smartest move tonight.”

#luigi mangione imagine #luigi mangione smut #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione x yn #luigi mangione

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