Work Text:
It’s uncomfortable. Since an accidental spell blow-up gave everyone in its vicinity the same awful problem, Jamil has been suffering. He... or rather, she, and everyone else are stuck in these transformed bodies until someone finds a way to reverse the spell. To put it mildly, it’s absolute misery.
Avoiding attention is all the harder when you’re a girl’s body stuck in the middle of an all-boys school, and that’s not taking into account the problems that Kalim in the same situation is bound to cause. He was way too excited about this whole mess for Jamil’s sanity. Meanwhile, Jamil had shielded himself and his new body in the biggest hoodie he could find.
Not that it’s helping. A boys’ school is far from equipped to dress female students, meaning that everyone who was transformed is stuck with no choice but to make do. In whatever form that would have to take.
Kalim, unfairly lucky even like this, is... small ... enough that it doesn’t matter much. His normal clothes, baggy as they are, hide everything fine.
Jamil is much less fortunate. The weight on his chest is an ever-present discomfort, only worsened by moving too quickly. Or bending over. Or lying down. Hiding in his hoodie, hopefully baggy and thick enough that nothing shows through, is the best he can do to keep some modesty.
Now the second day of being stuck like this, anyone hit with the spell has a free pass to call in “sick”. Crowley seemed to have some sympathy for his panicking charges, and Jamil isn’t enough of a kiss-up to not take the offer while it’s there. Kalim promised to stay in his room for the day and keep himself entertained, and Jamil can only pray he keeps his word. Going outside like this is too much to handle right now, so a sick day it is.
Still, it’s hard to distract himself. Even trying to pour all conscious thought into studying, Jamil can’t shake the creeping discomfort. Every time he moves, it’s another reminder that his body is all wrong right now, a reminder of how he has to look to everyone else. Stupid as it is, he can’t stand the idea of being seen like this. Viewed. Hiding is much better.
All too soon, though, there’s a knock on his door. Jamil flinches, and immediately feels like an idiot because of it. He shouldn’t be this upset.
“Can I come in?” you call before he has a chance to ask who it is. Jamil is half-grateful that it’s you, and half ready to slam his head against his desk because the last thing he wants is for you to see him like this.
He sighs, and with gritted teeth, “Sure. The door’s unlocked.”
His relationship with you is... complicated. It falls just short of official, despite you being as aware of his frustratingly persistent crush as he is of yours. Despite the rational knowledge that getting involved with someone is a terrible idea, it’s nice to have someone around who even kind of understands. And who doesn’t cause him any additional trouble.
When you crack the door and slip inside, Jamil curls in on himself a little. With this body’s hips too wide to fit any of his pants, he’s left in nothing but the hoodie and his loosest boxers. It’s already humiliating to have you see him like this, and you’re barely even in the room.
You stop a couple of feet away from him. “Are you holding up okay?” you ask, concerned. “All of this has to be pretty weird...”
Jamil sets his pen down and half-turns to face you. The movement causes part of his hair to slip right back into his face. It’s longer now, and he didn’t have the energy to braid it this morning. Your eyes follow his fingers when he pushes the lock back behind his ear. “I’m fine. It’ll be fixed soon enough, and I’m capable of putting up with the effects until then.”
“You look uncomfortable.” Half-smiling with something between sympathy and light teasing, you continue. “Wanna talk for a bit? I’m guessing studying isn’t going all that well, so I can be a distraction.”
Maybe it’s the stress getting to him, but Jamil agrees. With an even heavier sigh than the one before, he forces himself to push the chair back and stand up. Instantly, he regrets it. The shift in position brings the same uncomfortable awareness of his current body crashing right back down.
You’re staring. Jamil can’t say he blames you, but the way your gaze creeps up his half-exposed legs still makes him bristle. Unconsciously crossing his arms, he moves to the bed quickly. You silently follow.
Sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest is a little better. You won’t point it out if he acts nervous. Instead, you ask about what he was studying, how it’s going, and where Kalim is. It’s unexpectedly easy to slip into the conversation and stop thinking for a bit, especially when he’s just listening to you talk. Jamil rests his chin on his knees and watches you through lidded eyes. You look happy. Could it really be just from talking to him?
Eventually, the subject wanders to the spell. It had to at some point.
“It’s awful,” he says when you comment that it has to feel strange to be in a different body like this. “Everything feels creepy. ” Admitting that much is probably a bad idea, but you tend to loosen his self-control.
“I don’t know if it’s any consolation, but... you’re really pretty.” You grin like it’s supposed to be a joke, but those last three words sound way too genuine. Jamil’s chest tightens up at the same time he feels his face heating up. “Sorry, that was probably a weird thing to say.” You try to laugh it off.
“No, from you, it’s fine. I don’t mind.” He says it without thinking, and the embarrassment only catches up a second or two later. Fuck.
But then, you’re staring at him, and he can’t look away. The tension in the room thickens until it’s almost smothering, the weird, achy feeling lodged behind his rib cage swelling up until he can hardly breathe.
Just when Jamil is about to flinch away and change the subject before this can get any more awkward, you say, “Can I touch you?”
He wants to say no. Or maybe he doesn’t. It’s the kind of thing he’d have smothered daydreams about before, and now—, reality, perhaps. Even if it’s like this, you want him. “Sure,” he says before he can stop himself, his voice barely more than a strangled croak. This can’t be happening.
But it is. You’re crawling across the bed a second later, and the next thing Jamil knows, you’re in his space and looking at him like you really do think he’s beautiful. His heart pounds near-painfully when you bring your hand up to cup his cheek, the beat of it stuttering as you brush more escaped hair back over his shoulder. By now, his face is burning.
Then, you’re leaning in to kiss him. It’s slow and gentle and warm, and Jamil has his fingers fisted in the back of your shirt before he can stop himself. A shiver runs through him as you hum against his mouth. One of your hands finds his waist, electric even through the barrier of his hoodie.
A little whimper leaves him. You’re so close, and this has to be the stupidest thing he’s ever done at the same time that he’d never want to take it back. You’re gentle when you get a better grip on his waist, and a second later, the flicker of your tongue over his lower lip sends a bolt of heat straight down. Jamil doesn’t have the space to think about the implications of that. His thighs rub together slightly when you do it again. And again.
By the time you pull back, he’s dizzy. His face is burning, but he leans after you on reflex anyway. It only hits him how pathetic that was when you smile. With him clinging to your shirt still, you can’t get too far away.
“Pretty,” you breathe again, ducking forward to bump your nose against his. The gesture is so tender, his breath catches in his chest.
Unable to tell if he wants to curl closer to you or squirm away and hide, Jamil closes his eyes and tries not to think about how his hands are shaking. The fingers of your free hand come up to stroke over the nape of his neck, combing through his hair in the process. Oh. That feels nice.
“Would you be okay with taking the hoodie off...?” you ask hesitantly, as if you’re truly concerned about whether he wants it or not. It doesn’t matter. At this point, this far in, he couldn’t get away with saying no.
Setting his jaw against the incoming embarrassment, Jamil lets go of your shirt and scoots back enough that he can get the hem of the oversized thing in his grip. His hands are trembling violently. This would be awkward enough if it was his body you were seeing— the unfamiliar weight on his chest is something he’d rather hide for good. Until this goes back to normal and he can pretend like it never happened at all. But you think he’s pretty, and whatever lust-drunk stupidity is driving him is too impulsive to ignore.
It’s not until he’s pulled the thing over his head all the way that it registers just how exposed he is. Your eyes go right to his chest, and while Jamil really can’t say he expected anything different, he crosses his arms to hide anyway. Feeling soft flesh squish under the pressure makes his stomach turn. He can’t look at you. This is exactly as uncomfortable as he thought—
“No need to do that,” you say, light and assuring, shifting right back into his space so you can place a warm hand on his wrist. “I mean it. You’re gorgeous whether you look like this or anything else. Come on. It’s okay.”
“Don’t stare,” he grumbles. His skin tingles at the point of contact.
“I won’t.” You slowly pry his arms away from his chest, and before Jamil can think to be properly embarrassed, your palm is cupping one breast so softly that the mere brush of skin makes his whole body tense up.
As he whimpers and fidgets in place, you do the same to the other side. Your hands move from their gentle grip to stroking up and down his rib cage and back again with torturous slowness. Repeating the motion makes his breath catch. Soon enough, he’s pushing his chest out into the touch.
There’s never been time to think about things like when the last time someone really touched him was. Kalim is always clingy and far too open with gestures of affection, but Jamil shuts those down quickly every time. This is so much different. What had seemed like a silly crush is now desperate heat pooling in his chest and below, wanting so much more.
When the broad, soothing passes of your hands stop, he has to bite down on a whine. But then, your thumb rubs over a puffy, dark nipple—
This time, Jamil can’t ignore the heat between his legs. You do it again, slow and careful, and his whole body shivers at how much it feels. He doesn’t dare look down. Then, you’re doing the same thing to the other side, and the doubled stimulation has his breath stuttering sharp in his chest.
He doesn’t pull away. That must be permission, because all too soon, you’re doing so much more. Massaging his chest, dragging your palms over his nipples slowly enough to make his toes curl, and ducking your head to press a series of hot, gentle kisses up the underside of his jaw—, every thought turns to static. He’s clinging to you again quicker than he can notice. Squirming into the touch while his thighs squeeze together over and over.
It feels good enough that he can ignore anything resembling pride. This is nothing like hurridly getting himself off in whatever moments he has to spare. The places you’re touching aren’t his body at all, but every nerve is a livewire to making him so turned on caution doesn’t matter. When you catch a nipple between two fingers and pinch, Jamil can’t stop his moan.
“You sound pretty too,” you whisper, almost teasing, then lick a little spot of heat on the side of his neck. “Is this okay? Do I need to slow down?”
“N-No. It’s fine.” When did his voice get so shaky? You’re probably looking for a more eager response, but that’s the best Jamil can manage without dying of shame. You lick him again. He arches into you.
Maybe the body swap had some side effects. That’d explain how hot he feels, how badly he wants you to keep touching him for as long as possible. Blaming his neediness on the spell would be easier than living with the choice of letting you have your hands all over him... even if it is good.
Your palms slide down to his hips, trailing a shiver along with them. “Then... do you want to keep going?” Sweetly, you kiss the space just above his collarbone. He should be smarter than this. He should really know better than to say yes, but your hands are solid and warm on his skin, he’s starting to be able to feel his pulse between his legs, and he oh-so-stupidly wants.
When your thumb dips below the waistband of his boxers, something squeezes deep inside of him. A part that’s definitely not meant to be there.
This is the least grossed-out he’s been since this whole mess started. With you touching him, he’s distracted enough not to think too much about... anything, really. Everything. It’s relaxing, in a strange sort of way.
“...go ahead,” Jamil makes himself say after a little too much time has passed. He doesn’t hate this, but he is so embarrassed that asking for more is beyond what his own sense of shame will allow. “I’m okay with it.” The last part barely makes it out, but it seems to be all the permission needed.
The next thing he knows, you’re pushing him backward enough to wiggle the boxers down his hips. A little pang of panic hits as he realizes he’s going to be completely naked in front of you, but that gets shoved back down quickly when your kisses drop to the upper part of his chest.
You’re not staring at him. Jamil is grateful for that much.
However, no amount of not staring can spare his dignity when your fingers slip between his thighs. The noise that leaves him is obscene.
“You’re really wet,” you say, pleased, while Jamil freezes in shock at the much-too-feminine moan that just tore out of him. His voice hadn’t been much different... up until that. “I guess you’re liking this a lot, hm?” Your fingers move just enough to slide in slick wetness that Jamil is quickly realizing came from him. Squirming under the feeling ends in his chest pressed out, hips shifting in a poor attempt to escape your touch.
With a torturously confident remark about how he shouldn’t hide from you like that, you sit back, grab his thighs, and force them open slowly enough that he could stop you if he really wanted to. He doesn’t.
Sticky trails of fluid stretch between the upper parts of his thighs when they spread. There’s more of it than Jamil had been aware of, so much more, and the delighted look in your eyes as you take in the sight makes him want to curl up and die. “You s-said you wouldn’t stare...” he hisses, trying and failing to sound anything but nervous and humiliated.
“Sorry, sorry. I really don’t mind, though. You don’t need to feel bad. It’s good that you like it so much.” Your comforting words are paired with fingers wandering right back up to the source of the slick. This time, they nudge between his labia just enough to touch something way more sensitive. “You’re really cute,” you assure him as you keep stroking places that make him squirm. “Like this or like normal, you’re really cute.”
Fortunately for his sanity, you stop talking when he tucks his head against your shoulder. You’re fully in his space now, and the insistent drag of your fingers between his legs doesn’t feel anywhere near as violating as it should. Something is squeezing again, and he doesn’t fully hate it.
When you actually press in a little bit, he registers why.
Inside. Instead of where there should be smooth, empty skin, you’re working one finger into a wet, wet hole that feels so much he can’t stop trying to close his thighs around your hand. It doesn’t hurt, but—
“Feel too weird?” you ask, slowing down while you go back to petting the nape of his neck with your free hand. That part is nice.
Jamil shakes his head. He clings to you a little tighter.
Your one finger works in a little deeper. Rationally, he knows it’s not much for this sort of part to handle, but the feeling of having something inside of him, even in a place that’s not supposed to be there at all, is overwhelming. You’re rubbing things in there, slow and gentle.
As he shivers and digs his fingers into your shirt, your thumb slips up, nudging into a place a little farther up. It’s hard to get a good angle with how wet he is, but all too soon, it’s brushing against something that makes his whole body draw tight. A startled yelp leaves him when you do it again. Everything inside squeezes around your finger as his muscles spasm.
“There it is.” Sounding satisfied and perfectly calm, you rub that place again and again, until Jamil can’t stop whimpering with every pass.
He’s getting wetter. It doesn’t seem possible, but the obscene squelching noises coming from every little movement are plenty of proof. If he wasn’t so occupied with the surge of arousal making his limbs shake, he’d be humiliated. As it is, it’s hard to care about anything but the brief moments where your finger curls against just the right spot. He’s shaking. A little more pressure on his clit turns his whines into high-pitched moans.
By the time he’s trying to grind into your hand, Jamil has more or less stopped thinking at all. Closing his eyes and relaxing into the waves of pleasure while you’re all but holding him is nice. It’s more peace than he’s had in longer than he wants to think about, just letting you touch him.
His stomach feels tight. Your thumb flicking over his clit has his body twitching like it’s shocked, and when you curl that one finger just right, hooking forward like you want to pull him closer to you, it’s over.
The tension snaps.
Moaning slack-jawed into your shoulder, he comes hard. Every muscle tenses over and over again, clenching around your finger hardest of all. He can feel his pulse between his legs. You keep petting his insides, drawing it out until he’s trembling everywhere and flinching away from your hand. It’s only when every touch to his clit feels like fire that you stop.
And Jamil goes limp. The aftershocks fade little by little, and he’s left sagged against you with his fists still clinging loosely to the back of your shirt. There’s a wet patch of drool under his mouth, and he doesn’t care.
That was the best orgasm he’s had, probably ever.
“Everything okay?” you ask when you assume he’s a little more coherent. You’re rubbing his back now. Your hand is still so warm.
Making a vague noise of assent where his face is still buried, Jamil tries to catch up to reality enough to form words. He really doesn’t want to think right now. Embarrassment is going to catch up to him eventually, along with the crushing awareness that he shouldn’t have made himself this vulnerable. Those things are easy enough to ignore for now, when he’s still limp and empty-headed. He’d rather savor the sense of peace while it lasts.
This... this means you’re interested in him, right? While a cynical part of him wants to think you were just entertained by the spell, realistically, you’re surely more serious than that. The mutual, unspoken crush between you isn’t going to be so unspoken anymore, for better or for worse.
In a thought more honest than he’d tolerate while in any kind of sane mind, Jamil hopes that means you’ll do this again, when his body is his own again. That this kind of relaxation can happen again and again. With you.