̊ ˖ ♪⃝ ̣̣̥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.

Just honest, visible need.

Yi Sang swallowed hard as the towel slid higher along your thigh again, his fingers tightening against his sleeves hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.

“You are exceedingly cruel,” he whispered.

“You’re staring voluntarily.”

“I know.”

Another tiny, wounded sound escaped him when your legs shifted slightly apart.

It was almost embarrassing how affected he was.

Yi Sang lowered his face into one hand for a moment as though trying to regain control of himself, but even then his eyes peeked through his fingers toward your thighs again almost immediately.

“...I cannot stop looking,” he confessed weakly.

“You’re hopeless.”

“Hm.”

His voice had gone rough now—thin at the edges in a way that made him sound genuinely overwhelmed.

When he finally stood and drifted closer, it wasn’t smooth or confident.

It was needy.

Like he couldn’t help himself anymore.

He settled carefully between your knees on the floor, hands resting lightly against your legs like he was afraid you might push him away. The position alone made his breathing uneven.

“You are soft,” he murmured quietly, almost sounding distressed by it. “I noticed during the mission as well. It has remained... deeply troubling.”

You laughed softly, brushing a hand through his hair.

That nearly ruined him.

Yi Sang’s eyes fluttered shut instantly, a shaky breath leaving him as he leaned unconsciously into your touch.

Affection always hit him harder than it should.

“...Please do not be overly kind while I am already compromised,” he whispered.

“And what exactly is compromising you?”

His gaze dropped again.

Your thighs.

Obviously.

Yi Sang looked genuinely miserable about how badly he wanted them.

His hands slid slightly higher, careful and hesitant, fingertips pressing into your skin with visible restraint.

Then, quieter still—

“May I ask for something embarrassing?”

“You already look embarrassed.”

“That is because I am.”

He laughed weakly at himself, though it came out more breathless than amused.

“I fear I shall sound pathetic regardless of phrasing.”

“You’ll survive.”

“...Could you let me place myself between your thighs?”

The words left him in a rush.

A tighjob.

Yi Sang, asking for a thigh job.

“I believe it would soothe me,” he added quickly, already flustered beyond repair. “Or perhaps worsen me irreparably. I am uncertain.”

You stared at him.

Yi Sang’s composure finally cracked completely under the silence.

His forehead dropped against your knee with a soft groan, shoulders tense with humiliation.

“...You see?” he mumbled weakly against your leg. “Pathetic.”

“You’re whining.”

“I am trying not to.”

Another tiny sound escaped him the moment your fingers brushed through his hair again.

His grip on your thighs tightened immediately.

Yi Sang looked up at you through flushed cheeks and damp lashes, expression openly needy now—wanting, vulnerable, and far too affected by how gently you were touching him.

“...Please,” he whispered again, voice almost trembling this time. “I have behaved as much as I am capable of.”