`

Glancing down at the glass, you are teasingly quiet, “I think what you like is this whiskey, maybe a bit more than me.” You retort in jest with a smile, tucking long dark strands behind his ear. “You’re usually drinking that one. Is it your favorite or something?”

“Wanna find out?” He hums. “Have a taste, if you’d like.”

It’s only in vain when you go to reach for the glass because his firm grip rapidly clasps at your hand with a playful clap, catching it, to the point of startling you. Your surprise has you snapping your eyes over to his, and he murmurs, “Not like that.” Lightly shaking his head, his long locks lilting in tandem.

“You wanted to play. Let’s play.”

The soft hand he caught is placed down on your lap, his other cupping at your face with a thumb smoothing over the soft cheek.

“I know you like it when that pretty mouth of yours gets to play, baby,” now tenderly thumbing at your bottom lip, “like it when it's full...getting stuffed, so let’s try it this way...”

He takes another sip, letting the fluid rest still and heavy in his mouth, just for a moment, before gulping it down. Setting the glass back onto the mirrored table, two of his fingers dip into the glass, swishing them along the liquid, then lifting both with satisfaction as wet trickles run down, hovering both digits just over his mouth.

“Taste here, kitten...suck my tongue.”

His lips spread apart to reveal the slow dart of his red tongue, smoothly sliding whiskey-stained fingers down its length, eyeing you like a feline transfixed with every miniscule shift of expression on your face.

F-fuck. All you’re able to feel next are your pupils dilating. The only thing you can conceive of at this moment is his careful downward motion over cushiony wetness—hot and inviting. Your head is dizzying, the love in your heart involuntarily surging, with a keen focus on the sweet sheen of his mouth.

You lean forward as if pulled by the draw of a magnet to wrap lovely lips at the back of his tongue, around the fattiest girth of wet plush, able to meet his bottom lip from there. His lip is still icy to the touch against your own, from the last chilly sip he took. The cold feels almost electric, a spark that nicely contrasts the warmth of his spirit-trickled tongue. The subtly mixed sensations tickle at your spine and your upswing of pleasure.

The drag of your mouth, sucking around the muscle, is softly pulling and pumping onto syrupy, oaky-smoky flavor. Moans of desire breathily match one another before Kenma’s impatience to have all of you overwhelms him as he grabs at your jaw to swallow your last muffled moan into a highly sensual kiss.

"...Mnfph, fuck, baby." He groans, when your fingers pleasurably dig into his back.

He pulls away, only out of mild curiosity for your thoughts.

“So...verdict?” Eyes hazy like the misty fog of autumn, searching into yours.

“Tastes as good as you, just a bit spicier.” You speak onto his lips.

“Shit.” He hisses out the word. The answer has him running a fever with a deep dig of his fingers into the fleshiest parts of your ass.

“Mmm, ok, my turn.” He mutters, as you squirm a bit against the hardness of his erect cock beneath you. “Take off your shirt.” He gently commands, running hands up your rib cage underneath the blouse to trap tits that already pose tiny hardened peaks, rubbing and rolling his palms onto your flesh, ignited in a way that has you unabashedly mewling from the strong embers aflame on your skin. “Gonna rub the ice on your nipples now, ‘kay, baby?...” He nearly whispers in your ear.

Your body involuntarily clenches, releasing a pleased low moan onto his neck.

“...then, I’m gonna lick n’ suck the drip right off of them.”

‣ masterlist

You respond with a soft snort and a pursed smirk follows.

“Really love your style. You should think about a career in fashion.” Sarcasm colors his drawl. “Or you can come over here and I can keep you warm. Soften you up, y’know, just in case you're not into that look,” he suggests with a flatline smugness.

—And there it is. There he was, coming at you like a sly train hurtling down some bold pick-up-lines track. Truth be told, Osamu is far, far less brazen than his counterpart twin, but you gather that he is still a Miya nonetheless.

Maybe that is part of the ‘something’ that mildly bugs you about him. It seems he’s in a kind of constant, understated horniness, and somehow, even for all his other subtleties, is always a little too easy displaying it with you. In a way, he knows you’d probably never actually take him up on the little jabs that were his offers; that you would only laugh it off or smack his arm, shutting him down as usual, so he figures he has both nothing to lose or gain by continuing. He’s also extraordinarily nice at times, and for some reason that slightly irks you. Always making unsolicited offers to make you feel better, always just there for you.

Or maybe, just maybe, when you mull it over, it’s possible that what might actually be getting to you is that there’s a sliver of self-doubt. An acknowledged, mild self-loathing that runs through you, making it irritating that someone could actually like you for who you are to the degree that they'd be so blatantly persistent about it. Possibly, somewhere deep down you wonder if you feel worthy enough for this amount of showered attention, since you unconsciously struggle to see why that is yourself...huh....

Either way, whatever the reason, it is a bit annoying.

Another thing altogether, is how at times he could even be pretty flirtatious with a few others—(Libras, you know?)—and even though it was obvious you were his favorite target for flirty mischief, it also made the seriousness of his true intentions more difficult to read.

Anyway, you’re not entirely sure of anything and it’s probably not something that needs to be processed all that deeply to begin with. It’s just Samu. For heaven’s sake, you’ve known him and his family for ages. You grew up in the same town and, for as far back as you can remember, even saw all of them near to every Sunday afternoon while attending the same church.

So, that’s that. You are both very familiar with one another and there should be nothing more to consider.

This particular Sunday had you rolling out of bed on the wrong side of it from earlier this morning. Yesterday had filled you with all kinds of mental strain and it seems the rejuvenating rest you were hoping to get by sleeping it off was to no avail. The whole day has been one of those wake up and stub your toe kind of days that leads to a cumbersome snowballing-effect, creeping up to become increasingly more annoying as it goes on. Still a bit off, you definitely do not feel up to attending your usual Sunday afternoon church service right now. But you're aware that if you don’t show up, you won’t hear the end of it from your family, only adding another headache to your already shit-stain of a day.

Propping yourself up, you head over to the closet and choose a nice knee-length dress—one of your favorites. It’s surprisingly comfortable, despite the way it may look as though it isn’t. A good-looking, feel-good dress would at least be enough reason to get up and go out. You flick your eyes over to the clock that marks 4pm, noticing you’re already running late, and so, with the longest sigh you think the universe has probably ever witnessed, you reluctantly hurry out the door.

-:*:--:*:--:*:-

Entering from the backside of the church, you’re able to catch sight of the rest of your family seated close to the altar. Several other familiar faces are scattered about various rows and, as usual, there's also the back of one head of silver and one other bobbing head of golden strands bouncing merrily along to the choir’s song, standing side by side.

The idea of all but announcing your tardiness to the entire congregation by shuffling through tight seats and awkwardly pushing past bodies in order to arrive at the place you normally sit, especially with the sour mood you're in, sounds like the dread akin to hauling around 100 tons of manure. So instead, you settle for picking the emptiest area of the worship hall, a pew bench in the back, furthest away from any parishioners. Your family will just have to deal with that. At least you showed up.

Slinking into the seat of the very last row, you feel immense relief, utterly pleased to be uncrowded by the stuffy presence of others and sit for a few minutes settling into the ceremonial mass.

The priest lauds, arms half-raised, proclaiming, “May peace be with you. Let us kneel before the Lord and pray.”

Your knees meet the foamy cushion of the pew kneeler below and in a customary position of prayer, you bow your head with both hands folded in front of you. In a quiet meditative state, with eyes closed and a giant exhale, all the prayer you can muster is being aimed at not being so foolishly peeved anymore.

It's not until the playful bump of a shoulder barging in on your side that your eyes snap open to behold a friendly Miya Osamu sliding into the pew alongside you with a suddenness. He had noticed you weren’t with your family today and periodically poked his gaze around, eyeing to see if he’d eventually spot you. Osamu casts you a cheery little look and the flash of a close-mouthed grin. Ever the great pretender, he mimics your stance along with the seriousness of your demeanor: hands clasped together in prayer, bowing his head with eyes shut tight in fake solemn. He holds this little gag for a few beats before one eye squints open. It peeks to the side playfully, checking if you’re still watching him, but more to the point, seeing if he’s effectively teasing you—is it working?

You smirk in response with a light glare and can’t help as your eyes roll upwards just a smidge. Instinctually, you dart your tongue out towards him—the mischievous reciprocation he deserves!

After all your internal griping about not wanting to be around people right now, it’s surprisingly nice to see him, nice to have the singular company of a person who you know surely cares about you.

Osamu leans in with a whisper to ask how you are, despite already being aware of the answer. His question draws out your second eyeroll of ridicule, much heavier than the first, only this time, of course, it’s not directed at him. He’s known you long enough to comprehend that what you’re truly saying is, don’t even ask. A light bounce of his shoulders from a noiseless chuckle, with a tiny nod and a snappy raise of the brow responds, I figured.

And...for a smallest of moments, you are truly understood, leaving you with the feeling that Samu knows so much about you.

The procession is invited to sit back into their seats again. Time for the sermon has come. The adorned priest in immaculate cloth and accessory rises to the podium with the methodology of his preaching, beckoning the word of his God, an authoritative figure in his little hour-long kingdom.

Unable to keep your attention on the mass, your brain begins to amble off, pensive thoughts ruminating on small annoyances. It even has you unconsciously crossing your arms. Clearly even your actions are a slave to your overthinking and your glassy stare drifts off to the side, opposite ways of Samu, at nothing in particular.

As if he wasn’t already seemingly telepathic enough at the moment, it’s as though Samu’s antenna picks up on your radio signal. With an empathetic side glance at you, he contemplates giving a gesture of comfort, wondering if it’s alright to do so. He tells himself, or at least tries to reason, that you seem so lost in your own little world, you might not even notice anyway. Using that logic, he figures—eh, what the hell—and dares to move in.

Samu motions slowly, placing a gentle hand on your thigh nearest to him. It lands on the soft fabric of your dress, and he hopes it gives you a sense of reassurance. It’ll be alright, his warm palm tells the antsy bounce of your leg.

Unfortunately—or fortunately, it’s unclear to him just yet—you do in fact, notice. That’s not all. You actually let it be. Normally by now, you’d have swatted his hand away, but even a part of you is confused at your own allowance of it. Maybe you were just upset enough today to permit it—stupid fucking day made you soft, you suppose. Alright, Samu. Fine. This is fine. Besides, any touch carries alleviation for you just now and, rightfully so, it seems his intent is genuinely out of concern for you.

A swirl of his sincere fingertips moves atop your thigh, circular strokes of comfort running over your leg as if through shallow sand.

Then—

It’s sudden when it happens. Beneath the tickly caressing of his fingertips, unforeseeable tingles begin to flow out from the traced webs being spun onto your thigh. Tiny, teasing surges release and run over your upper leg then morph into a simmering glow of energy. It spreads through your belly, vibrantly shifting into pleasurable prickling over your entire body, reaching its peak at the crown of your head. All of your nerves now stand marvelously upright, tugged on their ends, and a rush of endorphins floods your brain.

You force yourself to focus on why this could be happening as a way to repress it. Thoughts meander on how you’re just having an off day and that perhaps it is just because it’s been quite some time since you’ve been touched. That must be the culprit of this elusive enjoyment, why Samu has you all wound up.

You are in both disbelief and denial as it sinks in further, deeper: this—is—actually—turning—you—on. Grimacing at yourself in what can only be described as a mix of hot shame and mild disgust, you bellow internally—wait, this is turning you on?! All that pent up electricity suddenly heads straight to the sensual mound between your thighs like a target, beginning to pump blood into the lips, your heartbeat pounding in your pussy, the whole of your body pulsating along with it.

Your resistance to what’s happening battles against the relaxation you feel under his touch. It is unthinkable that you would ever be caught like this, under Osamu’s thumb—literally.

There seems to be no sign that he can tell either. Oh, if only he knew how your cunt was throbbing for him. The rising heat in your cheeks builds and—Oh! Too late—the final attempt to conceal the pleasure breaks through on your leg, rearing its horny head through an obvious shudder of your thigh. Noticing the vibration below his hand, he wonders for a second if he’d only just imagined it. Yet, with the quick tensing of your body, as though you’ve been caught off guard, it tells him otherwise.

Of course, it wouldn’t be your old pal, Miya Osamu, if he didn’t at least attempt to investigate further.

He dares to grip fingertips lightly into your thigh, massaging it as a test. He then moves in near the knee, right at the hem of your dress, letting you know he is moving inward between your thighs, but cautious not to frighten you by motioning upward—yet.

Samu is a little-light headed himself, a bit of a pulse rising in anticipation for you to punch him straight in the gut, fire off, and bite back with a searing ‘pervert!’, but it never comes. He is soaring in curiosity and shock.

Your shoulders subtly swell up and down with bated breaths in what he hopes are ones of enjoyment, helping to reassure him—or do they invite him? It makes the space around you both tinge with emanating humidity as your vision and sanity begin to fog; as the words from the priest booming through every speaker become mere garbled sounds.

He slips under your dress, fingers trailing back slowly towards the dark cavity between your thighs. His cock begins to fill hot-blooded with each passing centimeter of his hand that travels nearer to you. Little hairs stand on end with every ticking millisecond as your heartbeats are joined in running a marathon. It clashes with the yielding in your mind, telling you to stop this, how you should stop this, but you can’t, you won’t, you won’t?—no, no, no, you won’t.

You quickly snap yourself back to become dreadfully aware of the reality of the room again, needing to take note of where the nearest people are seated.

Where are the closest parishioners? Ok, a lady in a gaudy purple hat with far too many feathers at two o’ clock—check—three nuns with their heads lowered in devotion at ten o’ clock—check, check. Your eyes flit between each and every possible suspect, hoping to god that you’re accurately gauging their distance, far enough away, pleading to actually get away with this.

Samu’s forefinger and middle shape into little legs that slowly begin walking themselves further into your depth as a sudden memory strikes you. Bracing yourself, knowing embarrassment will soon be washing over as you remember—shit, I’m not wearing any underwear today! With wincing eyes, you internally curse at yourself for the unfinished laundry you let slide last night.

When he meets it with his fingertips, having expected to feel a thin line of fabric only instead to be warmly greeted with the naked plush of your flesh, you don’t need to see to recognize what’s just happened within him. You can feel it. His signature half-lidded eyes flash open, almost comically, brows raised high, shouting, holy hell.

Fuck-fuck-fuck—Lord in heaven, please forgive me, you think, Samu must think I’m totally shameless!...

Mm, nice, slutty—he praises, filling his mind with echoes of applause for you, for how seemingly open and evolved of a person you must be.

You are only able to stay completely still, awaiting whatever comes through a hilted breath.

From the blooming within his chest, he can’t help but be grateful for this unforeseen blessing, asking the heavens above what good amongst his life he could have ever done to be so deserving, to be bestowed this day with the sweet sanctity of your bare, wet pussy.

His expression returns to getting ahold of himself once again and maintaining a nondescript look. It would be best not to draw attention if someone were to turn around. Also, just as important to him is not to freak you out from the tell of overexcitement. His face is one of deep focus now, feeling determined more than ever to get this right.

Slow concentrating fingers move in on you, as you sparsely begin to release your held breath. He swipes gently to one side first, then to the other, as his cock continues hardening below the zipper.

Samu pushes his way to find your weeping slit and a silent breath catches in his throat at just how much of a drip there is already. Oh-my-goddd, he melts at the touch, his body becoming an ooze, as if he’s the one being massaged. They circle around the sleek folds, toying with them as your mouth falls to slight openness. His other hand squeezes tight at his own thigh, in place of the audible groan he so wishes he could release.

The parting of your lips indicates an invitation for him to move a little faster. Your brows knit together, shoulders tensing from both the incredible sensation and the need to keep as silent as possible, all the while, luxuriating in the Hedonistic thrill and tiny bit of fear bubbling within you.

He drags warm slick up from the tremor of your hole to the hooded clit, the silky glide alone making you shudder with a slight squirm in your seat, causing Samu to wet his lips to a nice shine.

He is lasered in on you with the desire of savoring every one of your gorgeous grooves, each soft layer, every sweet, folded crease. Fingers run along, navigating the landscape of your warm glistening pussy, lingering, unhurried and smooth as velvet.

Mmm...this little lip? This tiny, cute middle petal? How about this slippery bit of skin here? This creamy dip between its silky fold?

Taking you in with rapture, he insists that just because he can’t see it, doesn’t mean he won’t try to imagine you as vividly as possible with his sense of touch, creating the visual of your pretty cunt in his mind’s eye, reading your folds like braille to his viewing fingers. It’s a lovely discovery: where you are most sensitive, what makes your insides simmer with want, teasing at your reactions.

Distant words cut across the clouding in your mind, unwarranted, filling the atmosphere.

“Let us pray that we may be freed from sin...” The priest heralds, as he starts off the call-and-response.

Samu’s fingers gently card through the sloppy, plush folds of your lips.

“...Hear our prayer.” The church voices call back out in unison.

“Let us pray at this time to be given a spirit of repentance…”

Your friend’s touch then swivels about the lurid wetness more, dipped into like holy water.

“...Hear our prayer.”

“Let us pray to be given a sense of sin and to grow in holiness.”

The snug and empty walls you clench burn with the ache of desire.

“...Hear our prayer.” The people echo forth.

It is a pain, torture even, the need to stay alert with the worry of getting caught, while attempting to succumb to your own desires. Teetering that line is both thrillingly irritating, but greatly driving you towards the edge of release.

When you do react to being particularly responsive in one spot, his abs clench, cock twitching with precum pooling at the tip, and makes an internal sign-of-the-cross in his mind. He hones in on that spot, sliding back and forth from the clit to that little zone on you he now knows makes your spine curl. Warmth creeps to your neck; you never considered Samu could ever be this thorough, this deliberate and thoughtful, also. Some kind of twisted knot within you uncoils, and it is unwinding for him.

He fiddles two fingers back and forth to feel the heavenly squish, admiring how your juices gush and swish with them. It is pure, unadulterated enjoyment, closing his eyes with a blissful smile and bowing his head when a sudden and truly wicked little idea comes upon him.

You are divinely riding through your pleasure when, out of nowhere, Samu’s index finger gives a tiny determined tap to your clit. You jolt, letting out a small audible noise—the devilish reaction he was looking for.

You both stop dead when a few heads turn to scout for the source of the sound, while his unholy hand rests still over your heat. You straighten up as subtly as possible, aiming to look innocent. Facing directly forward through a fuzzy stare and tiny trembles, you fix your eyes upon a statue of Mary Magdalene situated just above Atsumu’s head in the distance. Samu, with his face as expressionless as ever, definitely wins this game of discretion. Leave it to him to still be fucking with you, even at a precarious moment like this—? Cheeky bastard. The daze you’re in has you willingly accepting it.

Without so much as looking at you, Samu soundlessly snickers as he raises his index finger from his free hand to push it vertically up against his lips, silently shushing you, and you watch it all from the peripheral of your eye with tensed breaths.

When it is safe to move, the smirk creeps back on his face and continues. It seems to break more of the ice for him, igniting a sense of bravery to traverse further into the depths of your body. Two fingers push just past the breach of your tight hole, only with his tips, and you arch forward. Your asscheeks roll under your hips and over the hard wooden seat, attempting to slide more of your puffy cunt onto fullness.

You spill more of your slick out onto the movements of his hand and a lump feels lodged in your throat in anticipation to be so nicely stuffed. Quickly, he removes his fingers only to massage and pet over your slimy clit again in small strokes before sliding back, inserting the tips once more, riling up your arousal. You take in a sharp breath as your jaw goes slack, thighs tightening and moving through it all as discreetly as you can.

Samu sucks in his bottom lip with hot excitement in his gut as he finally shoves two long, thick fingers into you as far as he’s able to reach from this tricky position. Yet, not so tricky that it can’t hit the very back of your walls. The curve of his wrist lengthens to fill more of you and the stretch causes your consciousness to crumble. He begins to pump in and out, curling every so often on that sensitive spot as the heel of his palm hits your clit, rubbing the wide width of it in undulating waves on your soaked skin.

Samu keeps on, at the back of the church, fucking you raw with his hand for several minutes. His shaft that has grown as hard as the most rigid rock even seems like it could begin to hurt. He yearns for so much more, with the need to grunt nearly all-consuming. If only he could.

So instead, this intense sentiment of needing to own you for the moment, the one that rises higher within him, is shown through a gentle, but firm hold clamped around your pussy. The full length from the pads of his fingers inside you are pressing on your cushiony walls against his exterior palm, creating a clenched fist around your throbbing hump and vibrating it, making little pulsations to your pleasure.

It’s a resolute clutch of his hand, like your pussy belongs to him—not to you, not to God, or any other force of nature, other than the sheer grasp of his enraptured hold. You are tethered there to him, unable to go anywhere even if you wanted to, an anchor to your rocking and greatly doused ship, and Samu is the thrilling presence that possesses you. Is he wrong?

He is not wrong. Especially when the marvel of his motions has you grinding against him. Ever so tenderly, he jiggles the trap of his hand, creating more soft vibrations. You try to hold your gaze firm upon anything in the church, urging yourself to stifle pleased huffs.

From the front row of pews, a man rises from his seat and begins to walk along the side aisle towards the back exit. The approach has you both tensing up to a stand still, yet again, and Samu coolly pulls his hand out to rest, drenched, atop of your thigh. He is so calm. Calmer and so much more collected than you expected—Jesus, he’s being so cool about it—has he always been this cool? Your pussy throbs at the thought.

Panicking as the man reaches closer to passing your row, you instinctually grab a wide music hymn book to cover your lap and track him through a discreet side glance. He wears thick-set lenses encased within heavy black rimmed frames, and you tell yourself, or more so try to convince yourself, that he probably can’t see very well to begin with. Even still, your chest is tight, awaiting trouble.

Thankfully, Mr. Weighty-glasses passes by in a rush. With the coast clear once more, not a second later, Samu claws at the hymn book, specifically making sure to grab it with his dry hand, because, by God, he is in church after all—he should show some respect! The book sits in its rightful place in the pew slot again, and a quick thought passes through you: you feel that some shame should be coming over you, but only Samu’s fingers feathering over your cunt once more lays itself bare in your mind.

His hand grips your leg for reassurance, making sure you’re alright. Fingers then rapidly slide back along the inner dripping of your thighs and he gives two soft calming pats on the warm plump of your lips to sooth you. Samu draws circles upon aroused wetness again, swift and tender, before he’s back to filling you up completely. Somehow, it’s even better the second time around, probably from the adrenaline of nearly being found out, the edge is pleasure.

Every centimeter of your tight walls suck him in as they hit the farthest reach once more. Pouring into you as your lower belly floods with heat, your eyes slam shut with heavy flutters. You have no other will than to begin actually humping his hand. With a light swing of your hips, both of your palms press flat into the seat on either side of your body as leverage. It helps you to slightly hover over the wood, so as to diffuse any obvious creaking sounds when pushing forward. You roll and rock tilted, eager hips, thrusting yourself subtly on to Samu, riding his fingers into the gracious high of your sin.

As extraordinary as this feels, it becomes very apparent to the both of you after only a minute how unfortunate the nature of this act’s position is. It causes far too much noise, including the squelch of your desperate cunt, and will draw irredeemable attention, leaving you unable to hit your euphoric end in this way. So with the plop of defeated thighs back on to the seat, you take in a deep disappointed breath, still without a glance at one another, still unbearable to do so.

Then, as if the celestial clouds open up, beaming down a ray of hope and sunshine, gifted to you by seraphim angels answering your prayer, the blaring of a song from the majestic church organ breaks through the halls, loud as can be, the vocal choir joining in.

The two of you are so in sync by now that it should be no surprise how both of your chests jointly swell, filling with excited, opportunistic awareness through deeply simultaneous inhales.

Quick as the flap of a dove’s wing, your legs spread just that little bit more widely as you press yourself off the bench once more to finish what you both hath deigned to start. Your tits bounce to the thrilled seeking of your jolting pelvis over Samu’s artfully-working digits, and his gritted jaw, now mildly bearing teeth from how painfully hard he is, finally lets loose an achingly hushed groan.

Luckily, all of your debauchery is inaudible beneath the echo of choral voices and orchestration, reflecting off of archways and stony corridors. As the escalation of the orchestra’s volume reaches its peak, so does the silver fox’s rhythmic ministrations, ramming into you with more brute force, taking advantage of the highest amplitude of the song.

It’s not just the delicious hits of his palm which pinpoint the perfect amount of force on your sobbing clit, and it’s not just the direct shots of his fingertips roughing you up inside with extreme accuracy on your g-spot—it’s both. Both which unforgettably delivers you the greatest release you have had in some time. Elbows wobble and nearly give out as you reach toward the climactic crest, and your gasping mouth falls open, threatening to destroy all the clandestine safety you both had built.

The afternoon sun bursts through a stained glass window right into your eyes, beginning its descent for the day. Blinded by rainbows as you come so fiercely, it can only be hailed as reaching the pinnacle of some divinity. Samu cups your mouth with his free hand as your eyes roll backward, losing sight of the colors, just for a second, doing the very best to breathe through your climax from out of your nose. Hot, moist breaths blow onto and around Samu’s palm while your head plummets forward slightly, and his strong fingers indent firmly into your cheek.

Powerful hymnal voices harmonize thunderously and you entrancingly link up alongside their wavelengths, joining their soaring rise, as if you suddenly understand the same level of devotion the singers cry out about through the sharp knife of pleasure ripping through your entire being. As they sing out loudly, so does the inferno in your body, and as the instruments uproar through the space, so does your own ecstasy, reaching a new vibrant level of ascension.

. . .

Gradually coming down has you serenely falling limp, heaving silently. It has you now noticing your own perspiration and actually made aware of the hand clenched over your mouth. You slouch back and blink straight down at your shoes, catching breaths through your nostrils, letting all that has happened sink in, and then, coasting on a moment of peace.

When your eyes pop steadily open, Samu moves his human muzzle into a caring pat and tiny rub on your shoulder, removing his other hand from beneath you. It’s the very least you can do when you offer him the tug of the bottom of your dress to wipe off, but rather than smudge your pretty clothes, he considerately declines.

Instead, with a gentle turn of his head towards you, at last, he reveals a rosied face of seducing charm and the tiniest hint of a smug grin on it. At that exact moment, the priest finishes whatever utterances he had been speaking with a simple “Amen”; and Samu’s seductive eyes reach for yours, holding tight to your gaze as he lifts up glazed fingers to lick and suck off the taste of you and cleverly calls back in response, directly into your eyes with a smirk, “Amen.” And the word joined with rest of the churchgoers’ resounding voices.

Motioning for a tatty old bible from the pew, he flips open to a section of the Old Testament, deliberately, and not the New—because fuck the Old Testament, he squints in thought, that shit was extra fucked up—and with a satisfying rip of a page, he towels off the remainder with the dainty, yellowing sheet.

A hushed chuckle breaks out between the both of you when he crumples the paper, and it’s a mutual influx of dizzying warmth that you did not anticipate for him. What is that? Is that some sort of ~fondness~ ? Vaguely pondering it through your light-headed state.

It’s not until tomorrow that you will come to the light of it and see.

Oh, and that thing that was maybe missing about Osamu? That thing you couldn’t quite place your finger on?

Maybe all this time what was missing were simply Samu’s fingers filling you up by the might of his sacred touch.

‣ masterlist

He reaches around to unclasp both of your bras at the same time. He’s gotten exceptionally good at the ability to do that and it makes your girlfriend release a pleased sigh next to you as she plants a few, slow, kitten kisses along his neck, causing Kenma’s parted lips to moan warm air in your ear.

His hands move in to cup one nude breast from each of your chests and a satisfied tremble from your friend is felt beside you, right as your own body also casts one off. He kisses you first, knowing you’re the neediest one, through his breathy moan while his fingers knead into both of the tits that fill up his palms like plush paradise.

When he motions his lips towards her, you begin rocking yourself over him, positioning your raw clit right where it can roll perfectly to the sway of your hips, and with the first splendid thrust, a sharp squeal leaves your throat. You turn to watch them kiss as the crook of your pelvis also rubs sublime against his hard-on, and your friend follows suit shortly after.

The air around you becomes heavier as a mix of heated huffs and pleasant puffs fill the space with the grinding of three bodies taking place at a single, concentrated point in the room. The weight sinking into the chair drips with sweet sweat and a cacophony of outrageous groans as the creak from the seat is sounding off in a steady rhythm; all to mutual thigh-riding.

Your sultry eyes raise over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of the illuminated monitor processing and scanning through some form of code. Flashes of numbers and letters run rampant along the blue-tinged screen, and you discover that he is, in fact, in the middle of hacking into the Gemini cryptocurrency database’s system. This exact moment, right here, was for him, just a quick intermission while his software worked its magic, waiting on it to clear the way for the next step in the process.

It comes over you that he actually desired—no, needed the coating of your divine juices spread all over his thighs to continue on. It was a determined act, necessary, craving it, like sweet on candy, the two of you cumming all over his legs like a requirement, being the crucially encouraging push he needed, enabling him to calmly and successfully complete this monumental mission.

He could not do this without you.

He needs you and your sweet cunt in order to end this.

K.O.

The realization slaps you giddy with some kind of pride—pride for him, proud for all three of you, in a way you can’t describe. It edges you closer to climax through weighted panting and your eyes shut, head thrown back as you release another thrilled moan.

You’re so close, you’re so close.

The head of his cock is assuredly poking out from the slit in his boxers at present, and it glistens with the ooze of lovely precum. You reach for it as your friend goes to play with his clothed balls, working over the hard tip masterfully, causing his jaw to clench and the muscles in Kenma’s legs to flex under your clit. He begins to bounce his legs, jiggling you both on top of him, knowing the vibration will topple you both to the finish and, he is correct, as ecstatic wailing from your voices bounce off of every wall. He has to get back to work soon and this timing feels just right.

“Cum for me, kittens.” He tenderly commands.

Right at the edge of your shared high, Kenma lightly grips the backs of your necks, giving them a turn so your faces are toward each other. He pushes two pretty skulls together, prompting you to make out with one another as your dual pleasure escalates from the rough thrusting of your slick pussies over his thigh, growing more frenzied by the second.

“Go on. That’s it...” He encourages.

His eyes sear into the sight where your two gorgeous sets of lips meet and his rigid cock throbs at the way they mesh and nip at one another.

With a thunderous wave releasing through you, you succumb to a lavish orgasm while your head is being gently pressed into the face of your beautiful friend. She mewls into your mouth as the same climatic sensation crashes over her, all while her tongue melts into yours.

Once he allows you to pull away and gasp for air, your eyes hazily latch back on to the screen for a moment, watching digits whir by as you ride through your pleasure, unable to help it as you giggle savagely, carefree, your mind swimming in a kind of euphoric mania towards the end of your release.

Fuck, it feels so good to be this criminal.

Kitten ears then softly collide as you both slump over him, fully relaxed, heaving heavily and floating mellowly, one of your hands rests over the rise and fall of his toned chest. From between his index fingers and thumbs he reaches up to cutely rub at the furry, pointed ears atop of your heads before gently brushing his hands over your strands of hair, soothing the two of you. Kenma then dreamily whispers that the time has come for him to get back to work again.

“Kiss me quick.” He breathlessly insists, as his fingertips grip deeply into both outer thighs on either side of his steaming body. Two separate kisses land on his lips and after, your floppy frames dutifully withdraw from his lap and collapse merrily onto the expensively suave rug below.

When your hazy sets of eyes meet at floor-level, you both burst into echoed giggles at one another.

A squeak from the chair hurriedly turns around towards the desk once again.

“You’ll both be taking care of me next, kittens, since after this—we’re gonna be filthy fuckin rich.”

‣ masterlist

networks: @hqintheclub @paccheris-place

aiming to collect yourself and set some fake record straight, you squander, "i-i mean that's old. the material, it's been—you know, getting more complex just recently."

he moves in mildly, closer to you, "that doesn't make any sense and you know it."

your pulse rises, the sweetness of his scent creeps in over you.

"i went through this entire exam and it looks like you have a pretty good grasp of everything that is fundamentally important- actually, you have a perfect grasp according to this." he states it as though it’s entertainment.

your tense heart is thumping against your chest so rapidly you swear it could hit him too with how near he is.

although he is enjoying watching you shift and sweat, akaashi hates to see that you’ve grown this shaken by it, so he softens his playful expression a bit. — what he does absolutely love, however, is seeing how your cheeks turn to a nice sweltering rouge, the spirit of your pretty face all flamed and flustered.

it has him imagining what you would look like even more hot and bothered within his bed.

he traces a finger along the expanse of your jawline, making you tingle to the tip of everywhere, and when it stops just underneath the center of your chin, he tilts it upward, having you look straight into his keen eyes. "if you wanted to get to know me, spend some time with me, you could've just asked. i'm not scary."

your shoulders rise and fall to the weight of your breath, "senpai, y-you are—it was hard to—difficult to..."

"no. what's difficult is how cute you actually are. what's actually hard is how badly I want to kiss you right now." he leans in decisively to ask hushed in your ear. "will you let me, little 'failed' student?"

heat rises from your ribs up to the back of your ears. he slips his hand behind your neck, lightly holding the base of your head, so ready for your obvious willingness.

"yes, please, akaashi-senpai." the curve of your ass hits the back of the study table as he presses his beautiful lips onto yours, pushing in over you, and all at once, you can't remember what day it is anymore.

a hot minute of muddled moans and excited embraces has him pulling away for only a moment, out of breath with the need to tell you, "...good god...well, you certainly passed that- with flying colors." his airy smile against your lips, lids closed.

he begins leaning you further onto the table, grasping warmly at your tits, playing with your clothed nipples while the both of you now crumple on top of that simple sheet of paper that started it all.

“but...” he slyly teaches, “i’m of the mindset that there’s always room for improvement...maybe you need me to be your tutor after all…”

send me your fave akaashi headcanon(s) while I write lyrics for a song about him this week and i'll write you a short cute scenario! nsfw allowed :)