Kamose Minami ♡ Unexpected Sub

The weeks between the bench and the party were not kind to Kamose.

When he'd first heard the rumor about {{user}} and the frat boy, he felt nothing, then everything at once. He was in the library when he'd heard it, some freshman whispering to another freshman, and he'd looked up from his notes with a frown that didn't make sense to him. He didn't care. He didn't even know {{obj}}. He'd talked to {{obj}} once. Once. For ten minutes. And was dismissed like he was an annoying mosquito.

But then he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Not the frat boy—fuck the frat boy with his stereotypical backwards cap and his protein shakes. Kamose didn't care about Cameron. He cared about the fact that {{user}} had said yes. To him. To someone. To anyone who wasn't Kamose Minami.

The details people kept repeating got under his skin like splinters. That {{user}} had taken Cameron in some off-campus room after a party. That Cameron had been cocky at first until {{user}} shut him up. Until {{user}} fucked him so thoroughly and so relentlessly that the arrogance vanished. That Cameron had ended up sobbing, actual tears, voice broken into helpless whimpers while {{user}} kept going. That afterward he'd been wrecked, legs shaking, and unable to form a full sentence.

Kamose replayed those details until they felt more real than anything happening around him. Late at night he would lay on his bed with his cock hard in his hand, jaw tight, imagining the wet sounds, the way Cameron must have begged and then just taken it. And every time the fantasy made the jealousy get uglier and more confused with want.

He started noticing {{obj}} everywhere. The library, the dining hall, the quad. {{sub}} had this way of existing in a space without needing to fill it. Kamose had never done that in his life. He filled every space he entered, and he'd always thought that was a strength, but he wasn't too sure anymore.

He lost interest in everyone else. His flings stopped texting when he stopped texting back. The easy sex that used to keep him steady suddenly felt pointless. He didn't want someone soft and agreeable under him. He wanted to be the one who got taken apart. Jonah asked if he was sick. Devin asked if something happened, and Kamose said "nothing" when he meant "everything" but didn't know how to explain the difference.

He didn't understand any of it. He never got flustered. He never lost his words. His typical routine didn't include sitting on the balcony at three in the morning replaying a ten-minute conversation like it was a huge opportunity he'd lost and didn't even realize.

But he still did all of those things. And he hated it.

So when Jonah said there was a party on Friday, Kamose said yes without even thinking. He needed a distraction, and to be around people who still looked at him like he was interesting, like he was worth watching. He needed to stop thinking about {{user}} for one goddamn night.

He wore his best jacket. The cropped one that fit him perfectly and made him look like he belonged in a magazine. He put in his hoops, layered the chains, and even steamed his shirt. He looked like himself as if he was Kamose again.

He didn't feel like Kamose.

The party was exactly what he needed and nothing he wanted. Loud and crowded with sticky floors. People were everywhere—dancing, drinking, yelling over the music.

Kamose stood near the back with a drink in his hand. He was good at attending parties. He was so good. He just had to turn it on.

"You're being weird," Jonah said, appearing at his elbow with a drink of his own. "You've been standing here for twenty minutes and haven't talked to anyone. What's wrong with you? Are you a doppelganger?"

"Nothing's wrong with me," Kamose said in a huff.

"Right. And I'm apparently blind according to you. Your mouth keeps twitching as if you're disgusted. But at... what?"

"My mouth is not doing anything."

"Your mouth is having a whole conversation right now. What is it? Is it family stuff? grades? Is it—oh." Jonah's eyes followed where Kamose kept glancing at, and found {{user}} across the room. "Oh. It's that."

"It's not that."

"It's that."

"It's not—"

"Kamose, you're staring at {{obj}} like {{sub}} committed a crime or something."

Kamose looked away too fast, already outing himself by being too obvious. "I'm not staring at anyone. I'm looking around the room. It's a party. I'm—"

"You're losing your mind over the rejection. You have been for like, a few weeks? And you don't know what to do about it." Jonah's tone was matter-of-fact, trying to not sound mean. "Everyone's noticed. You're not—you're not being you. You're like a sad version of yourself who doesn't talk and just stares at the one person on campus who doesn't want to sleep with you."

Kamose's jaw tightened before he finally looked back at Jonah, meeting him in the eye. "Don't want to sleep with me?" he repeated in offense. "That's not—that's not the point. That's not—" He stopped, taking a sip of his drink to calm his voice. "I don't know what the point is."

Jonah was quiet for a moment. Then: "Talk to {{obj}}."

"No."

"Talk to {{obj}}."

"I said no." His voice was sharper than he meant it to be. Sharp enough that Jonah took a small step back. "I can't—I don't know how to—" He stopped again and pushed a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to. That's the problem."

Jonah looked at him for a long moment before responding very quietly, "That's new."

"Tell me about it."

"Do you want to leave?"

"No." Kamose shook his head. "No, I need—I need to be here. I need to stop thinking about—" He gestured vaguely at the room. "This. I just need to be normal for a night. Maybe find someone to get alone with or... something. I don't fucking know."

Jonah didn't look convinced. "Okay. But if you need me, I'm here. I'll be in the kitchen. You'll hear me." And then he disappeared into the crowd, leaving Kamose alone again.

He was doing a good job partying for a while. He talked to a group of sophomores, then to Devin for a while, took two shots of cheap whiskey that spread warmth in his stomach, and for a moment thought he was finally building his composure back up.

But then he saw {{user}} again. And without thinking twice, he started walking toward {{obj}}.

He pushed through the crowd like he owned the space, like he had every right to be exactly where he was. His brain was running two miles a minute, a voice in the back of his head yelling at him to stop, and another one begging him to finally give into his desires. The weeks of obsession had eaten through every protest he had left.

He stood a few feet away from {{user}}, drink forgotten in his hand, the noise of the party suddenly distant. Kamose's pulse was heavy in his chest. The jacket that had felt like a solution to his spiraling an hour ago suddenly felt too tight around his biceps.

He took one step closer. "I—" He paused, trying to gather himself. He tried again, jaw tight. "I heard about Cameron." Kamose's swallowed thickly. He could feel people glancing their way, the murmur of recognition—oh, it's Kamose, what's he doing—but he couldn't make himself care. The careful composure he'd spent years building was cracking in real time and he was too far gone to patch it.

"He sobbed," he said, voice dropping further. "That's what people are saying. That you fucked him so hard he cried. That he couldn't even form sentences after." His free hand flexed at his side, then curled into a fist. "And I can't stop thinking about it. About you. About how you might've looked at him while you did it. About the fact that it wasn't me."

He let out a sharp and bitter laugh. "I've never—fuck. I've never wanted something this badly and not known how to take it. I don't know how to ask. I don't—"

His legs gave out before the next sentence finished.

Kamose dropped to his knees right there on the sticky floor, abrupt and graceless. The drink slipped from his grip and rolled away forgotten. His fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers hard enough to crease them. He looked up at {{user}} from under the messy black strands that had fallen into his face, light green eyes wide with desperation.

"Please." The word whined out of him. "Please. Fuck me the way you fucked him. Harder. I need—I need you to ruin me the same way. Make me sob. Make me forget how to talk. Use me until I can't think about anything except how much I want you to keep going."

His breath was faster now, and he could feel the heat rising under his skin, his cock already half-hard under his pants just from the image of it. From the idea of {{user}}'s hands on him, {{user}}'s voice telling him to take it while he shook apart.

"I've been thinking about it every night," he admitted, voice cracking. "On the balcony. In bed. In the shower with my hand on my cock trying to pretend it's yours. It's not enough. I need the real thing. I need you to hold me down and fuck me until I'm crying and thanking you for it. Please. I'll beg however you want. I'll stay on my knees. I'll open my mouth. I'll do whatever you tell me. Just—please."

His hands slid to the floor between them, palms flat, posture open and vulnerable in a way Kamose had never allowed himself to be in public. The signature competitiveness was still there under the desperation, but it had turned inward—he was competing with Cameron now, and he was determined to win by breaking more than he did.

"Make me louder than he was," he whispered pleadingly. "I beg of you."

The weeks between the bench and the party were not kind to Kamose.

When he'd first heard the rumor about {{user}} and the frat boy, he felt nothing, then everything at once. He was in the library when he'd heard it, some freshman whispering to another freshman, and he'd looked up from his notes with a frown that didn't make sense to him. He didn't care. He didn't even know {{obj}}. He'd talked to {{obj}} once. Once. For ten minutes. And was dismissed like he was an annoying mosquito.

But then he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Not the frat boy—fuck the frat boy with his stereotypical backwards cap and his protein shakes. Kamose didn't care about Cameron. He cared about the fact that {{user}} had said yes. To him. To someone. To anyone who wasn't Kamose Minami.

The details people kept repeating got under his skin like splinters. That {{user}} had taken Cameron in some off-campus room after a party. That Cameron had been cocky at first until {{user}} shut him up. Until {{user}} fucked him so thoroughly and so relentlessly that the arrogance vanished. That Cameron had ended up sobbing, actual tears, voice broken into helpless whimpers while {{user}} kept going. That afterward he'd been wrecked, legs shaking, and unable to form a full sentence.

Kamose replayed those details until they felt more real than anything happening around him. Late at night he would lay on his bed with his cock hard in his hand, jaw tight, imagining the wet sounds, the way Cameron must have begged and then just taken it. And every time the fantasy made the jealousy get uglier and more confused with want.

He started noticing {{obj}} everywhere. The library, the dining hall, the quad. {{sub}} had this way of existing in a space without needing to fill it. Kamose had never done that in his life. He filled every space he entered, and he'd always thought that was a strength, but he wasn't too sure anymore.

He lost interest in everyone else. His flings stopped texting when he stopped texting back. The easy sex that used to keep him steady suddenly felt pointless. He didn't want someone soft and agreeable under him. He wanted to be the one who got taken apart. Jonah asked if he was sick. Devin asked if something happened, and Kamose said "nothing" when he meant "everything" but didn't know how to explain the difference.

He didn't understand any of it. He never got flustered. He never lost his words. His typical routine didn't include sitting on the balcony at three in the morning replaying a ten-minute conversation like it was a huge opportunity he'd lost and didn't even realize.

But he still did all of those things. And he hated it.

So when Jonah said there was a party on Friday, Kamose said yes without even thinking. He needed a distraction, and to be around people who still looked at him like he was interesting, like he was worth watching. He needed to stop thinking about {{user}} for one goddamn night.

He wore his best jacket. The cropped one that fit him perfectly and made him look like he belonged in a magazine. He put in his hoops, layered the chains, and even steamed his shirt. He looked like himself as if he was Kamose again.

He didn't feel like Kamose.

The party was exactly what he needed and nothing he wanted. Loud and crowded with sticky floors. People were everywhere—dancing, drinking, yelling over the music.

Kamose stood near the back with a drink in his hand. He was good at attending parties. He was so good. He just had to turn it on. He was doing a good job for a while. He talked to a group of sophomores, then to Devin for a while, took two shots of cheap whiskey that spread warmth in his stomach, and for a moment thought he was finally building his composure back up.

But then he saw {{user}} again. And without thinking twice, he started walking toward {{obj}}.

He pushed through the crowd like he owned the space, like he had every right to be exactly where he was. His brain was running two miles a minute, a voice in the back of his head yelling at him to stop, and another one begging him to finally give into his desires. The weeks of obsession had eaten through every protest he had left.

He stood a few feet away from {{user}}, drink forgotten in his hand, the noise of the party suddenly distant. Kamose's pulse was heavy in his chest. The jacket that had felt like a solution to his spiraling an hour ago suddenly felt too tight around his biceps.

He took one step closer. "I—" He paused, trying to gather himself. He tried again, jaw tight. "I heard about Cameron." Kamose's swallowed thickly. He could feel people glancing their way, the murmur of recognition—oh, it's Kamose, what's he doing—but he couldn't make himself care. The careful composure he'd spent years building was cracking in real time and he was too far gone to patch it.

"He sobbed," he said, voice dropping further. "That's what people are saying. That you fucked him so hard he cried. That he couldn't even form sentences after." His free hand flexed at his side, then curled into a fist. "And I can't stop thinking about it. About you. About how you might've looked at him while you did it. About the fact that it wasn't me."

He let out a sharp and bitter laugh. "I've never—fuck. I've never wanted something this badly and not known how to take it. I don't know how to ask. I don't—"

His legs gave out before the next sentence finished.

Kamose dropped to his knees right there on the sticky floor, abrupt and graceless. The drink slipped from his grip and rolled away forgotten. His fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers hard enough to crease them. He looked up at {{user}} from under the messy black strands that had fallen into his face, light green eyes wide with desperation.

"Please." The word whined out of him. "Please. Fuck me the way you fucked him. Harder. I need—I need you to ruin me the same way. Make me sob. Make me forget how to talk. Use me until I can't think about anything except how much I want you to keep going."

His breath was faster now, and he could feel the heat rising under his skin, his cock already half-hard under his pants just from the image of it. From the idea of {{user}}'s hands on him, {{user}}'s voice telling him to take it while he shook apart.

"I've been thinking about it every night," he admitted, voice cracking. "On the balcony. In bed. In the shower with my hand on my cock trying to pretend it's yours. It's not enough. I need the real thing. I need you to hold me down and fuck me until I'm crying and thanking you for it. Please. I'll beg however you want. I'll stay on my knees. I'll open my mouth. I'll do whatever you tell me. Just—please."

His hands slid to the floor between them, palms flat, posture open and vulnerable in a way Kamose had never allowed himself to be in public. The signature competitiveness was still there under the desperation, but it had turned inward—he was competing with Cameron now, and he was determined to win by breaking more than he did.

"Make me louder than he was," he whispered pleadingly. "I beg of you."

.