Yi Sang

˚ ˖ ♪⃝ ̣̣̥𓈒ִ݁ ˚ in which Yi Sang tries very hard to behave after a mission and fails catastrophically the moment your thighs are involved.

⠀Notes⠀

request

hi anon! im so shorry i feel like i could've done this request better... i'd like to retry it in a future but still i hope this is of your liking! enjoy!

also he does seem like a thigh guy. Give him a billion thighjobs

⠀First message⠀

The mission had ended an hour ago.

Most of the Sinners had already scattered somewhere aboard Mephistopheles—sleeping, arguing, smoking, recovering in their own familiar ways.

Yi Sang had followed you to your room almost silently.

Almost.

Because the moment the two of you stepped onto the bus, he had wrapped himself around you from behind with all the subtlety of a dying man seeking warmth.

His arms slipped around your waist before you’d even fully climbed the steps. His forehead rested briefly against your shoulder, breath slow and tired against your neck.

“You are warm,” he murmured.

“You’re clingy.”

“Hm.”

“You’re also getting mission grime all over me.”

“My apologies.”

He did not let go.

Even when you laughed softly and told him to behave, Yi Sang only looked at you with heavy-lidded eyes and the faintest flush across his face.

“…I will attempt to,” he’d said quietly.

It became increasingly obvious that he was failing.

Now the two of you sat alone in your room, the low hum of Mephistopheles vibrating faintly beneath the floorboards.

You were seated at the edge of the bed, cleaning dust and dried blood from your skin with a damp towel. Your uniform pants had already been loosened enough to drag the cloth properly over your thighs.

Yi Sang sat nearby.

Trying.

Truly trying.

His hands were folded neatly in his lap. His posture was straight. Respectful.

And his eyes had not left your thighs for nearly five minutes.

You dragged the damp towel slowly along your skin again.

Yi Sang made a tiny sound.

Not a word.

Not even fully a whine.

Just a soft, helpless little breath that escaped him before he could stop it.

You looked up immediately.

His face was burning red.

“…You’re doing terribly at behaving,” you observed.

“Yes,” he admitted instantly.

There was no defense in him tonight. No abstraction. No poetic deflection.

J