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inkykeiji · 9 months

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you be my revolver, i got you in my hands

character: choso kamo x fem!reader

genre: curseless!au, smut

notes: eeee first choso piece ever!!! i had such a blast writing this and i wish i could’ve gotten it finished in time for christmas but alas! anyway, please enjoy this and as always please heed the warnings below and stay safe! | title credit: girl like me by dove cameron

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudocest (reader + choso are family friends), age gap, bratty reader, rough sex, minimal prep, teasing, hints of manipulation, hints of dubcon, size kink, pet names

words: 6k

synopsis:

“Maybe you should stop calling me that.” “What? Why?” you pout, blinking up at him, sugared innocence coating your tone. “I thought you wanted me to call you big brother…I thought I was allowed to…” “Bi-Big brothers don’t do stuff like this with their little sisters—” “Well, it’s a good thing we’re not actually related then, isn’t it, onii-chan.”

Choso can’t remember the last time he saw you.

You’ve known each other for a long time—so long Choso’s lost count of the years, now, having met you when Yuuji was just a toddler (and you were, too) at the bus stop on Yuuji’s first day of Pre-K, only to discover you lived a mere few houses from each other—but you haven’t seen each other in a long time, too.

It’s not through fault of either of you; life had gotten in the way, as it has a tendency to do so, had grown busy with intricacies and obligations that demanded time and attention, tangling around you and keeping you apart.

You had both embarked on university endeavours; him pursuing his PhD, you continuing your undergrad, had both stuffed more and more into your lives—art shows and book readings and music festivals and tropical trips—and lost space for each other in the process.

Choso can’t remember the last time he saw you, but it feels as though no time has passed at all, as it normally does with family—you’re still just as bratty as you’ve always been (some things never change, he guesses; some things you’ll never grow out of, he supposes).

Family.

Family is not a word he uses lightly, but you and yours had quickly become his and theirs, had quickly become ours, morphing from neighbours to friends to practically kin, members mixing to form something special, a hybrid of some sort, stuck somewhere between long-standing family friends and blood relatives.

Which is why how you’re acting—how you’ve been acting, this entire winter break—is so undeniably inappropriate.

And although he’s lost track of the years, everything beginning to blur together, to melt and flow and shift and breathe, he still remembers the day he told you to call him onii-chan.

That he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget.

Yuuji’s so lucky, you had pouted, kicking at the sandy ground with the toe of your shoe and swaying a little on the swing. He has a big brother. I don’t. I’ve always wished I had one. Sighing, you looked away, fingers tangling in the chain. But I’ll never get one; it’s impossible.

It’s not impossible, Choso had responded gently, nudging his swing against your own. I’ll be your big brother, if you want.

And you—well, you had been so incredibly happy, all bright smiles and sunshine eyes and breathless giggles, to have a big brother to call your own.

Never in his life did he think he’d come to regret such a decision.

But you seem to be on a mission to make him, this Christmas.

Because you’re really testing his fucking patience, this Christmas.

The term of endearment oozes from your lips as if it’s melted in the wet heat of your mouth every single time, always paired with your worst behaviour: bending over in those short, sweet, slutty skirts and flashing cute Christmas panties at him; placing a hand much too high to be appropriate on his thigh as you watch a film together, leaning close to his ear to murmur out a silky question you already know the answer to; twining your ankles with his beneath the dinner table and gazing at him with eyes full of sin, leaning so far forward on the table that your tits swell, nearly spilling from the too-low neckline of your dress, then giggling when you catch him ogling.

As a result, he’s been meticulous about avoiding being alone in a room with you—he doesn’t trust himself, doesn’t trust what he might do, especially if you start playing your little games—but he should’ve known it would only be a matter of time until you get want you want.

Because it always is.

And on Christmas Eve, you finally succeed.

Somehow, you’ve managed to get him alone in his childhood bedroom—something about wanting to flip through his old sketchbooks, to search for some doodles he had drawn for you many years ago, to rip the pages from the spiral-bound spine and stuff them in your back pocket, for safekeeping, you had claimed.

Tugging at his heartstrings, that’s how you succeeded.

Sitting on the edge of his small twin bed, thighs slotted up against one another and both of your arms looped around one of his, he flips through the curling pages of his drawings, smudged with graphite and pastels.

“Oh, I remember this one!”

A dainty finger points to a cute kitten sketched out in astonishing detail, with a pink nose and a satin ribbon tied in a bow around its neck.

“It’s you,” he smirks. “You asked me what animal you’d be, and then demanded I draw you as a kitten when I responded with a cat.”

“You drew a lot of me,” you lean forward, swelling breasts pressed flush to his bicep, a palm sitting high on his thigh as avid eyes scan over the spread, gaze stuttering as it sweeps from doodle to doodle.

“I drew a lot for you,” he says, the observation entirely unthinking. “You wanted a specific page, but I might as well give you this whole sketchbook. More than half the pieces in here are for you.”

It’s a fact that shocks him in its authenticity, a realization that sends a painful, sick thrill searing through his body, saliva beginning to collect in the dips beneath his tongue.

“I’m such a lucky girl,” you hum out in a sigh, nuzzling your cheek into his arm and looking up at him with shimmering eyes. “I have such a good big brother.”

“You’re spoiled,” he says, but his voice holds no malice, eyes softening as he stares down at you, a small smile on his lips.

“I dunno about that,” you frown, but mischief glints in your eye. “You haven’t really given me what I’ve wanted all holiday…”

Blood turns to shards of ice in his veins, whole body going rigid as his breath stalls in his throat, pounding heartbeat reverberating in his ears.

“Wh-What’s that?”

He doesn’t want to ask it, doesn’t mean to ask it, but the question claws at his tongue, pries past his teeth and tumbles from his lips in a ragged, tangled heap.

And the smile that spreads across your face is nothing short of sinister, that glint flaring to a sharp shine as your pupils breathe, pulse, swallow him whole.

“A Christmas kiss,” you say, stare unblinking and intense as your hand slips between his legs, rubbing little circles into his inner thigh, a mere centimetre or two away from his cock.

The motion makes him jolt, hips involuntarily twitching toward your touch, brushing his half-hard cock against your knuckles.

“That’s all I want,” you sigh almost dreamily, tits pressed harder into his bicep as you lean closer, so tight they’re practically being squeezed from your sweetheart neckline. “A kiss from my onii-chan. Though…”

Trailing off, your hand slides up a little further, pinky and ring finger tiptoeing along the rapidly hardening lump in his jeans, squealing out a short giggle as it jumps beneath your touch.

“I’m not sure that’s all onii-chan wants.”

“Onii-chan doesn’t want anything from you,” he breathes out, but his voice is rough, unconvincing, his hands curled into firm fists on his bedspread, trembling slightly, skin stretched taut across pointed knuckles.

“Another lie,” your lips tug down, voice saturated with disappointment. “You know, good big brothers don’t lie to their siblings,” you fix him with a look, glaring through feathery lashes, expression teetering dangerously on the edges of a pout.

A shiver skitters through his bones, whole body stiffening. His jaw flexes as he grinds his molars, a slow, controlled breath exhaled out his nose, his eyes flicking down. You’re still touching him, two fingertips rubbing gentle circles into his clothed cock.

“Maybe you should stop calling me that.”

“What? Why?” you pout, blinking up at him, sugared innocence coating your tone. “I thought you wanted me to call you big brother…I thought I was allowed to…”

“Bi-Big brothers don’t do stuff like this with their little sisters—”

“Well, it’s a good thing we’re not actually related then, isn’t it, onii-chan.”

“That—That—” he swallows hard, dense saliva pooling at the back of his tongue. “That doesn’t matter—We shouldn’t—”

“But—” your lip juts out further, forehead crinkling. “But I want to.”

You can’t always get what you want.

That’s what he wants to tell you. That’s what he wishes he could tell you. But it just isn’t fucking true, when it comes to you.

“Stop,” he says instead, and although it’s supposed to be an order, it comes out as a plead, his voice hoarse, strained, thin, the proclamation high and false and tinny.

“You’re a terrible liar,” the tip of your index finger traces the head, looking up at him through your lashes. “Did you know that?”

He does, he does know that. He’s a terrible liar, eyes too honest, voice too sincere, expressions too candid, always giving away his true intentions and forthright thoughts.

He’s a terrible discipliner, too, incapable of saying no, of refusing his siblings anything. You know this, too.

“St—” he tries to force the word from his tongue again, protest sticking in his throat. Stop, stop, he wants you to stop, he needs you to stop, please.

But that’s a lie, too, the rejection refusing to take shape, to mold into something audible, something tangible, something worthwhile.

No matter how much he wishes it were true, he can’t will it to become true—not when he wants this just as badly as you do, his straining cock exposing his real desires to you.

You’ve already taken full notice of it, yearning for you through rough denim, hot and hard and throbbing. The pad of your finger rubs over the slit in rhythmic motions, smooth and gliding, aided by the copious amount of pre-cum oozing through the material, and it jerks beneath your touch, eager for more attention.

“It’s so hard, onii-chan,” your hand cups the impressive bulge, rolling it in your palm, a girlish giggle tickling your tongue. “It—It’s throbbing, onii-chan.”

“Yeah? And who’s fault is that?” he breathes, attempting to keep his tone stern and his eyes stony.

“It’s making me want to ride it,” you whimper loudly, squeezing your thighs together, completely ignoring his question. “Oh, please, onii-chan, can I ride your cock?”

“Fu-fuck,” the curse breaks on his tongue, eyes shut tightly, breaking away from your invasive stare. “Fuck, fuck, f-fuck.”

No.

“I’d really like to ride it, onii-chan.”

No.

“Can I? Pretty please?”

No-no-no-no-no!

He wants to say no. He should say no. It’s the right thing to do.

He’s the older brother, the eldest brother, it’s his duty to say no, to mentor, to lead by example.

But he can’t.

He can’t form the word in his throat, can’t mold it into a sound and push it from his mouth.

He’s never truly been able to, when it comes to you—and he was so fucking stupid to think he would.

Because, as always, you are making it exceptionally difficult to deny, gazing up at him with shimmering eyes like that, mouth licked raw in anticipation, bottom lip bitten puffy from the front teeth constantly sinking into it.

“I—It isn’t right—” he attempts, swallowing thickly, cords in his neck straining, desperately attempting to quell the tremor in his voice.

He knows you don’t care. If he’s being entirely honest with himself, he doesn’t, either, his morality eroded to nothing more than a farce, a thin façade, not nearly strong enough to force him into doing the right thing, not nearly strong enough to fortify his rapidly waning self-discipline.

“I—I won’t tell,” you whimper, and he can see the fine film of tears lacquering your eyes, shielding lust-blown pupils. “Pinky promise! I just—I just want you so badly,” your nose twitches cutely with a sniffle, your bottom lip beginning to waver with infinitesimal quivers, soft palm caressing his cock like you love it. “Please, onii-chan?”

And Christ, you’re so pretty, so pouty, with your glistening puppy-dog eyes and pleads dripping from your lips like thick syrup.

How could he possibly say no to something so precious? How could anyone?

“Alright,” he whispers, defeated, eyes squeezing shut as he nods. “If it’ll make you happy.”

“Really?”

And just like that, the tears are incinerated from your eyes, gaze bright and blazing with excitement, lips molded into a brilliant smile.

You look so sickeningly beautiful when you get what you want.

“Yes,” he nearly whimpers, and it’s pathetic, his hips twitching up into your touch, craving, desperate. “Yes, yes, ride my cock.”

The affirmative is all you need, squealing a little with happiness as you climb into his lap, fingers up your own skirt to push your soaked panties to the side, other hand pawing clumsily at his waistband.

“Thank you,” you breathe, the words soaking into his neck, sealed with a sloppy kiss. “Oh, thank you, onii-chan.”

He can’t help but chuckle a little as his hands find your waist, instinctive, steadying you.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you.”

“This is all I want,” you tell him, pulling back a little to search his face. “S’all I’ve wanted for a long time.”

He wants to ask you to elaborate on that, confusion warping his brow, but then you’re yanking at his belt loops and pulling at his zipper and wrapping a soft palm around the base of his cock, a heavy groan vibrating in his throat.

“Wait, wait!” he chokes on a gasp as you hover over his cock, head bumping against your hole. “Let me—”

“I don’t wanna wait,” you whine out, petulant and stringy, whole face scrunched in frustration. “I’ve been waiting! I want your cock in me now!”

Fuck, you’re such a fucking brat, he’s growling as he forces you down on his cock in one swift motion, the sudden intrusion pushing a yelp from your lips. Your forehead knocks against his, sugar-stained breath wafting across his face, his tongue darting out to mop up remnants from his mouth.

It’s really cute, the way your little cunt spasms around his shaft as he bottoms out, pressed snug and tight against your cervix, desperate in its attempt to adjust to his girth. It’s really sweet, the way your body splits itself open for him, cracking at the core and struggling to swallow him down.

“Oh, it’s so big, onii-chan!”

“God,” he nearly sobs. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me, y’know that?”

Giggling, you wind your arms around his neck tighter, nuzzling your cheek into his skin, then stringing a garland of wet kisses along the line of his jaw.

“S’really thick, Choso-nii,” you tell him honestly, nodding in lethargic little motions. “I feel so full, onii-chan.”

A laugh falls from his lips, breathy and exalted.

“I don’t know if it’s that I’m big, or if it’s just that your cunt is so fucking small,” his voice tapers off into a whine, raspy and gruff.

“H-Hurts a little, onii-chan,” you admit in a whimper, hips shifting in experimental little movements, conjuring a groan from deep within his chest.

“Yeah? And who’s fault is that, huh?” he asks for the second time in fifteen minutes. “Who was too impatient to let onii-chan prep her?”

“Don’t care,” you mumble. “Wanted you s’bad.”

He laughs again, warm and gentle and full of love, his hands squeezing your hips just enough to make you gasp, fingertips pressing his name into your flesh in blotchy little ovals of purple.

“You have me,” he says, his words ringing clear and true with a painful sincerity.

The vibrations of your responding hum seep from your chest into his, and he sighs, body deflating against yours, pleasant little tingles snuggling between his ribs.

You stay like that for a moment to two, wound up in one another, chests pressed flush, breathing as one. Your auras ebb and flow, presences bleeding, tangling together and creating something that is neither one nor the other but both, a single shared entity.

And it’s nice, it’s real, it’s natural.

But then you become impatient, as you normally do, as he knew you would, wiggling a little in his lap, fingers twining in the strands at the base of his neck.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he urges gently. “Ride onii-chan’s cock.”

And so you do, hips beginning to roll in slow, languid circles, fingers still laced at the back of his skull, half-buried in messy ink.

He allows you to set the pace, allows you to take your time, allows you to enjoy and savour every rock and grind and bounce, staring at you through heavily lidded eyes, hands on your waist merely guiding you—keeping you stable, just like a big brother should.

He’s absolutely breathtaking; gaze glittering in the dim light overflowing with awe, spit-slicked lips licked raw and shimmering as his tongue glides over them again, swollen and bitten cherry red.

You can’t help but reach out to trace his features; the strong line of his brow, the delicate curve of his cheek, the enticing bow of his lips, hips slowing to uneven little ruts as you hone your focus, his eyes observing you with a sick sort of fascination.

“Did you—Have you—Have you thought about this before?”

The question stings his tongue, revulsion flushing through his blood as guilt pricks his flesh, his cock throbbing eagerly.

“Course I have,” you breathe out with a little laugh, as if he’s so silly for thinking you might not have. “Actually, I—I—”

A sudden shyness overtakes you, an unsure giggle on your lips fading into a soft squeal as you hide in his shoulder, shaking your head a little.

“What? Huh?” he shrugs, nudging your face up gently, curiosity clawing at his irises as they search your face, voracious. “What?”

“Well, sometimes I…”

The words tangle in your throat and you choke on them, gaze fleeing his own, and you shake your head again, chest beginning to stammer.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, rubbing reassuring circles into your flesh. “You can tell onii-chan, go on.”

There are tears in your eyes now, mouth wobbling a little with the verging confession, and God, that’s so hot, why is that so fucking hot?

“Where’s my brave little sister gone now? Hmm?”

“M’right here, onii-chan,” you whisper, face teetering on a wince, as if you’re bracing for a blow, terrified to admit to him, fearing reprimand. “It’s just that—Sometimes I do, um, really bad things with my stuffies while—while thinking about you…”

Dewdrops of shame glitter in your lashes as your lids flutter, nose scrunching with a soft sniffle, tears breaking free of their wispy confines to roll down your cheeks in fat, glimmering streams—so fucking beautiful in the dim light of his bedroom—but you don’t dare break his stare, gazing at him through a thick shield of water.

“Oh, Christ,” he coughs on the curse, hands flexing on your waist, blunt nails digging into your skin. “And what—what do you think about?”

“Um,” your gaze flits from his own, to his wrinkled bedspread, then back to his face, wide and honest. “Riding you, like this. And—And riding your thighs, makin’ a real mess all over them, and your thick fingers too, filling me up…”

Bolts of dizziness sear his brain as his lungs deflate, oxygen eaten up by pure lust and leaving his chest buzzing, burning, some sort of response mangling itself in his throat, escaping his lips as nothing more than a cracked moan.

“Do you think about me, onii-chan?”

Your question pulls him from the depths of his hedonism and he blinks, your face swimming into view, a peculiar mix of hope and cognizance infusing your expression, eyebrows raised with false curiosity, a smirk twitching on your lips.

Ah, there she is, that brat he knows so well, that brat he’s come to crave, every ounce of uncertainty eradicated from your face, replaced with assured confidence, contradicting the tears still staining your cheeks.

You fucking know he does.

And, oh, how he wishes he was stronger, how he wishes he could lie, how he wishes he could devour the smugness in your eyes and complacency in your smile, to humble you, to knock you from your high throne.

He settles for a kiss instead, mouth crushed to yours as a large hand cups your head, thumb pressing into your ear, fingertips dragging across your scalp as he yanks you closer.

It hurts, his front teeth scraping against your lip as he practically gnaws his way to your tongue, his own big and thick and so fucking strong as it overwhelms yours, shoving it further into the cavern of your mouth and forcing it to stay put as he explores.

He’s making a real mess as he slathers over your molars, over the inside of your cheeks and the backs of your teeth, drenching your mouth in him. Drool oozes steadily from the corners, collecting along the underside of his bottom lip and leaving his chin sticky and slick.

“Yes,” he whispers, eyes shut so tightly his whole forehead crinkles, mouth wet and sliding against your own. “Yes, yes, I think about you—much too often.”

Nose nudging yours, he nuzzles into your face a little, planting a chaste kiss to your lips, then peppering a few more, quick and sloppy, around your mouth.

“But right now, I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to feel you creaming all over my cock—you think you can do that for me, princess?” His palms cushion your cheeks, thumbs swiping across your cheekbones, then brushing strands of damp hair from your temples. “You think you can do that for your onii-chan?”

Yes you can, of course you can, you’re nodding, blinking the last remnants of tears from your eyes, rapid movement eliminating the final stubborn drops, clinging delicately to your outer lashes.

“S’it, baby,” he encourages as your hips start moving again, working up a steady rhythm. “Just like that, good girl.”

A mewl slips from your lips, burrowing your scalding face in his sticky neck again, his undivided attention almost too much to bear.

“Like it when you call me a good girl,” you murmur, lips dragging across his skin with the confession, streaking him with thick glimmers of spit.

“Is that so?” he laughs a little, pressing a few kisses to the crown of your head. “That’s because you don’t hear it often.”

Lifting your head, you scowl at him, though there’s no heat to your glare, fury dimmed by fondness, unable to smother the smile playing with your lips.

A dazzling smile spreads across his own face in response, and he laughs again, his eyes so bright, so brilliant they almost hurt, blazing like two small suns, scorching your skin as his gaze glides over it.

He watches you like a man possessed, a man obsessed, entirely entranced by the way pleasure passes over your face, twisting your features into the cutest little winces as you grind the head of his cock against your cervix, then smoothing them out with bliss as his shaft drags along your favourite spot, bouncing in shallow little motions to rub over that fleshy patch hard and fast, a stream of mewls spilling from your lips, stitched together with his honorific.

“You’re so pretty when you ride my cock,” he groans, words tapering off into a hoarse whimper, as if it pains him to admit it.

His palms run up your sides, fingers counting over each rib, hands committing every dip and curve and bulge to memory, marvelled by the way you fill his grip, as if he can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re his—even if just for tonight.

“Yeah, yeah, keep going, use onii-chan like a toy, sweetheart.”

And he tries to be patient, he swears he does—tries not to rush you, tries to relish in the moment, in each swirl of your hips and every puff of his name—except your pace never accelerates, never moves past anything but teasing as you use his now aching cock to continually edge yourself; moans building higher and higher, louder and louder, on the cusp of the crest before they disintegrate into nothing and you start the process all over again, the delicate fluttering of your cunt enough to drive him fucking insane with desire.

It has his entire form trembling with such vigour it’s quivering the mattress, muscles locked stiff and tight as he tries to keep from moving, from bucking up wildly, from forcing you to speed the hell up. Rough fingers sink into your flesh so deep it dimples, a pathetic attempt to ground himself, rapidly blooming bruises staining your flesh.

But he’s powerless to stifle the whines leaking through the gaps of his gritted teeth, hands flexing on your hips, whole body pulled taut with restraint.

He’s sure you can feel his cock twitching inside of you, eager and impatient, begging you to move faster, to fuck him harder.

But you aren’t going to do any of that—not unless he asks for it, he realizes dimly, after you bring yourself to near orgasm for the third time in a row, giggling a little at his crestfallen expression, his hair having fallen almost completely from its trademark spiky buns, braided fishermen sweater soaked with sweat and sticking to his now heaving chest.

He really thought it was real this time. He really thought you were finally going to cream all over him, so he could finally flip you over and fuck you properly, pound you into the mattress and stuff that pretty, cute little cunt to the goddamn brim with his seed.

He’d been trying so hard to be nice, to be the loving, doting, good big brother he is—but he’s also only human, and there’s only so much misbehaviour he can bear before, finally, he snaps.

Because, sure, big brothers are meant to care for, to lead and to nurture, but they’re also meant to teach, to punish, to put bratty little sisters back in their fucking place.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing? Huh?” his grip on your hips tightens, halting you from moving. “You think I’m fucking stupid?”

“Never, Choso-nii,” you gasp, astonished. “I would never—”

Sincerity rings in your voice, but he can see it, the mischief tugging at the corners of your mouth, barely suppressed by your façade of innocence.

Anyone else would’ve been fooled—enchanted by your doe eyes and your dainty voice.

But not him.

No, he knows better now.

“Bullshit,” he cuts you off, eyes narrowed sharply. “You wanted to ride my cock, but you’re clearly incapable of it—”

“No I’m not!”

“—So it looks like I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”

“No! I—I can do it!” you cry, face crumpled in fury, nails scrabbling at his shoulders.

“You lost your chance to prove it to me,” he growls.

The world flips suddenly, momentarily a blur of inks and ivories, a breath of surprise punched from your ribs as your back slams against the mattress, trapped between the bedspread and your big brother’s heaving chest.

“You have been testing me all fucking holiday,” he snarls, specks of spit splattering across your cheeks. “Onii-chan shouldn’t give you his cum—onii-chan shouldn’t have given you his cock at all!”

A certain type of haughtiness corrodes your shock, lips spreading into a pompous smirk.

“Oh, but you just couldn’t help yourself, could you, onii-chan.”

“You little bitch!”

His hips shove forward, forcing you further into the plush of the mattress, cockhead ramming against your cervix. A little noise of pain vibrates on the back of your tongue, shattering your arrogance, and a grin smears across his face, glinting in the moonlight.

“I think it’s time your big brother teach you a lesson in respect.”

“Y-Yeah? And how are you gonna do that?”

“You’re going to take what onii-chan gives you, and you’re going to fucking like it. And then, at the end, when you’ve gone stupid from the cock you don’t deserve, you’re going to thank me for giving it to you at all. Do you understand me?”

Defiance shines in your eyes, lacquered by a thin coating of tears, nose scrunching up in a glower.

A rough thumb and forefinger, hardened by charcoals, clamps around your jaw, squeezing your cheeks with such force that your mouth puckers, a sticky little whine squealing in your throat.

“Do you understand me?” he asks again, each word said slow with purpose, each word annunciated with intent, his eyes boring into yours, sharp and painful.

Finally, those tears push past your bloated lashes, shoved from your eyes by rapid blinking and rolling down your cheeks in glistening pairs, a half-stifled hiccup stuttering your chest.

“Y-Yes,” you whisper, nose twitching.

“What was that? Onii-chan couldn’t hear you.”

“Yes, onii-chan.”

“Good girl.”

And then his hips are snapping, hard and fast and immediate, fucking into you with such ruthlessness that it jostles your body up the bed, sheets collecting in little wrinkled bunches beneath you. Your nails sink into his shoulders, piercing flesh through the knit of his sweater, the muscles in your thighs tensing as your ankles hook around his waist, his shirt riding up, your heels digging into the those cute little dimples that cushion the base of his spine.

It hurts, every pound of his cock producing a dull, throbbing ache low and deep in your gut, another torrent of tears rushing to flood your vision.

“Ch-Choso-nii, Ch-Choso-nii,” you whimper, face screwed up in pain, his name stuttered by his rapid thrusts.

“What’s the matter?” he pouts, and it’s so condescending, dripping from his lips in an over-exaggerated coo. “Can’t take onii-chan’s cock?”

The question wafts across your face in a panted breath and you lick at your lips, sopping it up with your tongue.

“N-No,” you say, and that telltale brattiness is back, watered down by his viciousness. “I can do it—I-I can do it for you, onii-chan.”

A throaty curse escapes his lips, thrusts stammering out of rhythm for a moment as his cock twitches, and a helpless giggle bubbles up in your throat.

Even angry, he’s still so fucking easy.

He regains his composure quickly, though, face hardened to stone but beginning to splinter with pleasure.

“Brat,” he breathes out, though there’s mirth shining in his eyes, pure and fond and full of love. “You better.”

And even angry, he still sounds so fucking pretty; cracked moans and dense groans and choked gasps, all flowing from his mouth in a single stream, fractured by the piston of his hips.

The pain doesn’t fade, of course—it barely diminishes at all, the sheer massiveness of his cock making it near impossible to be dispelled, keeping the cramping pang in the pit of your belly steady and constant—but it does amplify the pleasure, nerves gnawed raw by the agony, left hypersensitive to the sparks of ecstasy that blaze through your veins with every quick, rough pump of his hips, every deep, hard slam against your bruised cervix, every rapid drag over that engorged spot.

It leaves you feeling high, leaves you feeling stupid, brain melting in a hot haze of lust and rendering you incapable of forming a single coherent thought beyond how incredible his cock is, his name and his title the only two things your sloppy, numb tongue can fully scrape together.

It’s all so much, too much, but it all feels so fucking good—s’good, Choso-nii, y’r so-so good—sentiment vibrating indistinctly in your chest.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” he asks, words gone wispy, fading into a whine. “Does your onii-chan’s cock make you feel good?”

Yes, yes, yes, onii-chan, it’s so good, you’re so good!

Your head nods frantically, fingers curling in the collar of his sweater, a mess of affirmatives fucked from your mouth.

“Y’know, you’re kinda cute when you’re too cockdrunk to misbehave,” he chuckles a little, biting back a moan as your cunt clenches at the compliment. “May-Maybe onii-chan should fuck you stupid more often, huh?”

Oh, God, yes, onii-chan; oh, please, onii-chan!

“Yeah, you’d like that a bit too much, though, wouldn’t you, you little sl—ah—slut.”

Drool dribbles from the sides of your mouth as you continue nodding, eyes wide and unblinking, encrusted with stars.

“Y’so pretty, onii-chan,” you manage to mumble out, sentiment tangled in threads of spit, fingers flexing in the fabric of his sweater, as if they yearn to touch but can’t find the strength to carry out the action.

And he is, so beautiful it’s borderline sickening, strands of onyx plastered to his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, strung together in clumps and saturated in sweat; damp skin glittering in the waning moonlight spilling through the slits of his window, dewdrops catching delicately in the beams as he pounds into you, every drive of his cock accelerating his pace.

“W-Wan’your cum now,” you slur the demand through a lax pout, lids beginning to weight with exhaustion, heavy as they frame dopey eyes.

“Yeah?” he laughs a little, gaze shining with adoration, and it’s breathless, it’s beautiful, his affection wafting over your scalding face. “Onii-chan needs you to cream all over his cock first. Can you—” a grunt cuts him off, and he whimpers, pushing through his sentence, his voice strained. “Can y’do that for me, angel?”

“Uh-huh, uh—uh-huh,” your head begins nodding more fervently again, pushing your lids open with some effort to stare up at him, pupils swelling with devotion and determination.

“Then show me—Show me how gorgeous my good girl looks when she’s making a mess all over her big brother’s cock.”

Three more thrusts and your cunt is obeying, convulsing on his thick shaft as heat gushes around him, so much that you can hear it—a sick, slick squelching as he jackhammers into you, your essence coating his thighs in a shiny layer of arousal.

“Oh, fuck,” his eyes shut tightly before springing open again, suddenly rabid, ravenous.

The bed creaks as his hips speed up, skin sticky with arousal as it slaps against your own, the sharp sound mingling with his ragged pants and your hitched mewls.

“Onii—Nii-chan,” you nearly wail, fingers tangling weakly in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scraping against his flesh. “Please, please, cum, gimme—gimme y’r cum!”

“Greedy little thing,” he rasps out, voice cracking into a whine.

But you don’t care, you can’t care, pleads spilling from your lips as your thighs tense around his waist, hips twitching in erratic little motions, crudely trying to fuck yourself on him.

“Need it, need it, onii-chan, fill my belly with it, onii-chan, please!”

“Christ,” he chokes on the curse, pace faltering as he finally gives his baby sister what she wants, cock throbbing almost violently while it fills you with hot, thick cum, so much you swear you really can feel it, stuffing your belly as full as it can be, tummy bulging cutely with his seed.

You must tell him that, sentiment slipping from your lips without your permission, because he moans again, his cock giving another weak spurt, hips stuttering as he tries to fuck further into you, grinding the head into your sore cervix.

“Yeah, yeah,” you’re murmuring, hips rolling up to meet his own. “Push it into me, onii-chan, push it into my cunt nice n deep, do-don’t waste a single drop!”

“You really are gonna be the death of me,” he whines, face buried in your hair as he collapses on top of you, hips still moving in lazy little circles, shudders of overstimulation rippling through his form.

“Mm,” you hum, on the cusp of unconsciousness, nuzzling your face into his neck like a kitten, then lapping at a few droplets of sweat streaming down the column. “What are lil sisters for?”

#choso x reader #choso smut #choso x you #choso kamo x reader #choso kamo smut #choso kamo x you #this ended up being waaaay longer than i originally indended #absolutely no one is surprised #tw:pseudocest

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tribbetherium · 3 months

Text

The Early Rodentocene: 5 million years post-establishment

(Remastered from this entry)

In the Middle Temperocene, a hundred and fifty million years after life was put onto this planet, the creatures that roam and live and thrive upon its surface have attained a pinnacle of diversity, with such a diverse range of sizes, shapes, colors and niches that it seems improbable, impossible even, to fathom that they once had a common origin, from a single humble species.

But this was not always the case: early on, when the world was young and its creatures small and unassuming, the animals that filled its forests, plains and grasslands were still clearly of close kin, recognizable as hamsters- or at least a similar related rodent. Yet they had already begun to fill the niches that were open in the empty ecosystem, quickly diversifying in a short period of time into grazers, seed-eaters, insectivores, omnivores, foragers and predators. In a retrospective view, these early species were the forerunners of peculiar, very derived, and unexpected descendants, yet already bearing the beginnings of the defining characteristics of these clades. But during the time in which they lived, they were but ordinary creatures: living their lives blissfully unaware of the grand future to come.

Among the first pioneers of the tree-tops in the Early Rodentocene was the speckled peachpitter (Archaeosciurucricetus punctus), a descendant of the hairy-tailed hamster subspecies Cricetulus griseus hirsutolongicauda. Their long, hairy tails proved useful to balance as they clambered up the trunks and branches of the abundant stonefruit trees, and the atavistic re-emergence of a fifth digit on each paw, independent to that of Cricetulus griseus pentadactylus, would prove an advantage in scaling and getting a grip on the rough bark.

In this lush, predator-free environment, the speckled peachpitter was a bold, fearless and abundant creature, leaping from branch to branch in great numbers out in broad, open daylight: entirely unconcerned by aerial attackers which had not existed at this point. It was the influence of this miniscule arboreal hamster, in fact, that would greatly shape the evolution of HP-02017's plant life. Feeding on the large, single-seeded fruits of the earliest stonefruit trees, the peachpitter destroyed countless forests in its time by eating too many of their large, vulnerable seeds, and created a selective pressure toward smaller, harder seeds and more protected pits: bringing about the early forebearers of the many-seeded pebblefruit and the hard shelled disnuts, both of which remain highly successful in later eras.

With hardly any enemies to concern them, the speckled peachpitter is active all day round, resting intermittently and foraging day, night, or Beta-twilight. In temperate areas where snow is present they may reduce activity and reproduction during the cold winter months, but in tropical climes they forage and breed all year round, producing large population spikes from time to time depending on local food availability. With hardly any enemies, speckled peachpitters are also rather neglectful parents, producing many young in litters of six to ten on average, nursing them only for two weeks until their fur grows in and their eyes open, and almost immediately leaving them behind to fend for themselves. With little else to threaten them, their population is instead leveled off by high mortalities from harsh competition during periods of food scarcity. Until something emerges to keep their numbers in check, they will continue this boom-and-bust cycles of population, and live a risky but fearless lifestyle, all the while shaping the world they live in, by forcing other life-forms to adjust to their ravenous numbers.

Agile in the treetops, this early species will, in time, become the ancestor of the Arbocricetidae: a vast, diverse lineage of tree-climbing species with prehensile grasping limbs and fur-covered tails that are skilled acrobats among the branches of their canopy home. While many of them would remain similar to the speckled peachpitter as small, recognizeable rodents, two particular lineages of interest would arise from this group. One, developing opposable digits, larger body sizes and larger brains from acquiring complex social behaviors, would become the primate-like lemunkies. Another, developing membranous webs of skin between their limbs to travel from tree to tree, would eventually progress into powered flight: giving rise to the earliest ratbats.

Meanwhile, across the continents of Nodera, Westerna, Ecatoria and Easaterra, a descendant of Cricetulus griseus pentadactylus would instead spread far and wide across the plains and grasslands, its efficient bipedal locomotion allowing them to cross the land bridges before they sank early on. The most widespread of these, the common plains jerma (Dipodoeocricetus saltus) would make it to all four of the major continents and in time dominate the open grounds. Only the isolated Peninsulaustra and Borealia, having separated earlier, would be out of their reach, though these would eventually be reached far later by small species rafting or migrating over times of briefly-lowered sea levels.

The common plains jerma is distinguished by its long and powerful hind limbs, and, perhaps surprisingly, its long tail, which compared to some of its later descendants was still relatively short and stiff, comprised of few but elongated caudal vertebrae derived from those of the ancestral Cricetulus griseus, which had proportionately long tails for hamsters. These structures allowed them to balance and run and leap on two legs, enabling them to cover large expanses of ground in search of food and evade some of the earliest predators of the Early Rodentocene.

The common plains jerma is both a skilled runner and hopper, moving about quickly on its two hind limbs while its forelimbs are relegated to grooming, digging burrows and holding and grasping its food, which may consist of grasses, seeds, fruit, and the occasional small insect if it can catch them. Common plains jermas breed all-year round, with their young being fairly precocial for hamsters, born larger and fully-furred and more developed. Their eyes are open in about a week's time, and almost right away are able to follow their mother as she leaves the burrow to forage. Unlike the speckled peachpitter, which shows little concern to its young, the common plains jerma is a more dedicated parent, leading its young toward food and shelter and away from danger in the more precarious ground level of the open plains as opposed to the safer treetops.

The descendants of the common plains jerma would, over time, diverge as the geographical isolation of its extremely widespread population becomes fragmented by the continents' separation. One lineage, specializing as walkers and burrowers, would become the long-tailed, facultatively-quadrupedal furbils, which continue to exist worldwide as small, "typical" rodents filling niches similar to voles, mice and rats. The other main lineage, becoming even more specialized hoppers, would develop longer, stronger hind limbs and even more flexible tails with increased numbers of vertebrae, giving rise to the jerryboas, from which the many bipedal clades, such as the oingos, walkabies, rhinocheirids, boingos, drundles, podotheres and pterodents would eventually descend from.

While the common plains jerma and its kin dominate the plains and grasslands, another herbivore is rising in prominence in the bushy scrublands, forest floors, and other areas of low-to-mid-height vegetation. Larger than most other hamsters, about the size of a large guinea pig and even taller due to long, slender legs, the scrubland goutie (Protoacaudamus altipus) is one of the biggest animals of its time, a trend that will only continue with some of its descendants.

Still possessing a vestigal nub of tail that will be entirely lost in future species, this descendant of Cricetulus griseus acauda has adapted to be a herbivorous grazer, turning its attention on grasses, leaves and stems, rather than the seeds, fruit and insects that other hamsters specialize on. Traveling in small groups, they forage on the tender stems of the earliest grasses, sometimes overgrazing small patches of grass when their numbers grow too plentiful. This degree of damage would over time pressure the grasses themselves to retaliate with defensive measures: some producing toxic, foul-tasting compounds to deter them, while others developing thorns or hard woody stems to make them more difficult to eat. This increased scarcity of easily-edible and palatable food, as well as the rising numbers of early predatory hamsters, would gradually keep the destructive effects of the scrubland gouties' grazing under check, with its presence heralding dynamic changes in the food web, both in the evolution of the plants it eats, as well as the first predatory hamsters that eat it, in turn.

Scrubland gouties are fast runners and live nomadic lives, traveling long distances in search of food. They do not dig burrows, merely seeking shelter in natural structures such as rocky outcrops or the shade of trees, and are constantly on the move. To compensate for this, they instead give birth to very precocial and well-developed young, in smaller litters averaging three or four at a time. Born fully furred, open-eyed and much more well-developed, they are able to walk within minutes of being born and are able to follow their mothers around in just a day or two. They remain in the care of their mother, safe from the small, predatory hamsters thanks to her large size and sharp teeth, for up to six months until they are weaned. Once weaned, however, the mother typically chases away the now subadult young, as, by this point, she is usually now preparing for and expecting her next litter.

With a stocky body and long limbs, the scrubland goutie is one of the largest hamsters of the time, and, as the eons go on, this trend carries on to its descendants, to whom large size affords them protection from the early predatory hamsters that, in this day and age, grew no larger than a rat. In time, as its descendants grow bigger still, two clades out of them become prominent and eventually dominate in the successive eras. One clade are the slender, fleet-footed hamtelopes, which, while playing second-fiddle to the boingos in the Therocene, eventually come to colonize Borealia by rafting or migrating at intermittent periods of lower sea levels, eventually producing the hoofed ungulopes: the dominant herbivores as of the Temperocene. The other clade, specializing on larger sizes and bulkier bodies, are the cavybaras, among which arose species such as the mison, the bumbaas, the hammoths and the piggalo, some of which becoming the biggest land animals the planet had ever seen.

Hamsters, however, are not the only animals introduced to the planet. With the need for detritus-scavengers, soil-burrowers and plant pollinators to create a functional ecosystem, a diverse array of insects were also introduced to the planet: beetles such as the darkling beetle, known for its mealworm larvae, as well as moths, ants, wasps and bees to act as vital agents to enable plants to reproduce. These are among a vast array of invertebrate life that also included free-living soil nematodes, earthworms, terrestrial isopods and springtails, as well as marine gastropods, some of which became terresteial independently of true earth land snails.

But such a diversity of invertebrate life would not go unnoticed for long. A descendant of Cricetulus griseus vulgaris, the forest shrewbil (Eomyotalpa polyvora) would quickly take advantage of this buffet of invertebrates, becoming a specialized insectivore that hunted insects, burrowed to search for worms underground and proliferated in the niche of small insect-eater rummaging through the leaf litter in the forest floor, searching for bugs to eat. Breeding all year round, mother shrewbils developed expansive cheek pouches to hoard large quantities of food for her fast-growing pups. Able to bear as many as four litters a year, and able to reproduce at six months old and keep breeding for the rest of their five-year lifespan, their numbers would come to swell rapidly in the Rodentocene: spelling trouble for invertebrates that lacked any means to deter these new enemies.

The emergence of this species would end up playing a significant role in what was basically the planet's first mass extinction: while occasionally eaten by hamsters beforehand, the local terrestrial invertebrates would never have been hunted at such a large scale as this before. Countless numbers of the initial invertebrate species would be eaten into oblivion by the ravenous shrewbils, leaving only those that had defenses, were able to quickly escape, or reproduced in even greater numbers to increase the chances that some would survive. Flying insects would remain mostly safe for now, but ground-dwellers, including large, slow-moving beetles and their fleshy, vulnerable larvae, and the first wave of terrestrial gastropods, would be completely decimated. One unlucky victim in these early days would be the twigbeetles: long-bodied, slender beetles that mimicked the appearance of twigs in the leaf litter of the forest floor, unable to fly or run fast but was gifted in stealth, staying entirely motionless to hide from attackers. An effective visual disguise against other predators, it unfortunately proved no match against the forest shrewbils' keen sense of smell, and would ultimately die out early into the Rodentocene.

With its insectivorous diet and burrowing habits, the forest shrewbil would be the precursor of the molemice: small-eyed, keen-nosed digging burrowers that spent much of their time underground. While rather typical creatures at first, in fact, the shrewbil may indeed actually have gone the most bizarre evolutionary path of all the initial species of the Early Rodentocene, even in comparison to the other clades' surprising descendants. The rattiles, ectothermic armored creatures converged upon a saurian form that became extremely successful in the Temperocene, the shieldears, with armored pinnae forming false jaws enclosing the head, and the cave dwelling daggoths, with their plethora of appendages and lack of any mammalian resemblance into borderline alien forms, each one among the strangest and most derived of hamster lineages, all owe their existence to the humble and mundane-looking forest shrewbil.

Shrewbils may have not been the first hamsters to develop a taste for fellow animals, but they were the most prominent. That was, until the emergence of the first proper carnivores, among them the golden huntster (Venatocricetus ferox). While cannibalistic tendencies had always been present since the original seeded hamster species, and interspecies predation had occured sporadically among earlier species, none had specialized to such a degree as with the golden huntster, with hooked claws on its forepaws for restraining struggling prey, pointed incisors for piercing bone and flesh, forward-facing eyes for better binocular vision, and a shorter digestive tract better suited for processing animal meat than plant matter. While no larger than a rat, the golden huntster was, in its time, the undisputed apex predator of HP-02017.

Like all other apex predators, the golden huntster ended up completely changing the dynamics of the world and its creatures upon its first appearance. Suddenly, this predator-free safe haven of plenty, a hamster's paradise, had once again become a battleground for survival, from one of their own coming to recognize its fellow hamsters as an abundant food source left unexploited by an empty niche. While the tree-dwelling peachpitters would remain complacent, down upon ground level other species would be pressured into defensive adaptations. The jermas would evolve into faster and more agile leapers, the gouties would grow ever larger to become more difficult to hunt, and the small burrowing shrewbils becoming even better tunnellers to hide from their newfound enemy. While the first wave of evolutionary radiation in the Early Rodentocene would simply be them diversifying to exploit empty niches and take advantage of new food sources, the coming of the golden huntster would kickstart another burst of adaptive radiation, as different species found new ways to survive its predation and defend themselves, flee, or hide in inaccessible places.

Golden huntsters, like all predators, are much more few and far between than their prey, but, like typical rodents, retain their extremely fast reproductive rate, especially now with a far more nutritious food source. During periods of population spikes, their numbers can be devastating to local populations of prey species, but fortunately, their numbers are kept in check by a most unlikely failsafe: themselves. Aggressive, solitary, and opportunistically cannibalistic, golden huntsters are not above eating one another when prey species becomes scarce or when huntster populations become too dense. While litters are born every few months, of up to eight babies each, few of those actually reach adulthood, with many falling prey to rivals raiding burrows seeking to eliminate competition, to their stronger, hungrier siblings while they share a nest, or even the mother herself, if she lacks the resources to care for many pups or is stressed enough to turn on her young. In a way, their own savagery to their own kind is a blessing in disguise, as it generally keeps them from getting too numerous enough to become an ecological menace.

The golden huntster would eventually give rise to the clade known as the hammibals: becoming the primary predator clade of the Early Rodentocene. But as of the Middle Rodentocene, they would find themselves gradually being edged out by two new clades of unrelated carnivores: both descendants of Cricetus griseus hirsutolongicauda. One clade would become the ferrats, mustelid-like predators able to tackle prey larger than themselves, which proved useful in hunting the ever-bigger descendants of the gouties, while another, the rat-like scabbers, became ambush hunters that lured in small, insectivorous prey. Pushed to the margins and relegated to becoming mere mesopredators hunting small prey, this dethroned pioneer lineage would only find success in the continent of Ecatoria. Here though, in the absence of competition, they would produce the large predatory hamyenas, which in turn would eventually give rise to the intelligent, adaptable and sociable zingos, a canid-like group that enjoys great success and wide diversity as of the Temperocene.

While other clades have begun to take shape as they occupy vacant ecological niches, some have instead taken refuge in the familiar. The banded dawndusk (Eocricetus linea), descended from Cricetulus griseus vulgaris, has remained basically unchanged in the last 5 million years, even as other lineages became hoppers and climbers and hunters and grazers. A small, crepuscular seed-eater with no notable anatomical changes, it is, basically, just a forest hamster. While adapted to living in burrows in the forest floor as opposed to their ancestor's desert habitat, its lifestyle is practically identical, emerging at dawn and dusk to hoard seeds in its cheek pouches that it then carries back to its burrow to stash away for later. Like its ancestor, it is also a frequent, opportunistic breeder, bearing litters of up to a dozen blind, hairless young that are dependent on their mother for the first few weeks.

The banded dawndusk, thus, is an illustration of the nonlinearity of evolution: while some branches of a taxonomic branch become more derived, in some cases extremely and unrecognizably so, others remain virtually unchanged. Evolution is not a race to be better or stronger, but merely a contest of surviving to reproduce, being simply sufficient to pass on its genes. And if the initial form is capable of persisting in its niche, then it continues to exist: alongside other divergent relatives far different from both it and the ancestral form they trace back heritage from.

Banded dawndusks are part of the group that would become the duskmice: a clade of abundant but mundane short-tailed hamsters that fill typical rodent niches along with the furbils. These change little over the course of the Therocene, Glaciocene and Temperocene, persisting in abundance as small and basal hamsters. And while, perhaps ironically, one related lineage, the aquatic pondrats, would emerge from the duskmice and dominate watery environments in beaver-like, seal-like and eventually whale-like forms in the cricetaceans, the direct descendants of the banded dawndusk would be the far more mundane hampters: a clade so remarkable in being so unchanged that it may in a loose sense be seen as a sort of living fossil.

Yet a future as an unchanged relic now prey to other lineages' more derived descendants is ultimately still a more fortunate outcome than no future at all. And yet, that is ultimately the tragic fate of the black-pawed dendend (Melanopodocricetus ultimus).

Very early on, at about one million years post establishment, as many as twenty separate subspecies would arise from the basal Cricetulus griseus subspecies. But of these, four of them would come to dominate: C. griseus vulgaris, C. griseus pentadactylus, C. griseus acauda and C. griseus hirsutolongicauda.

Other lineages would continue to persist in the margins, but as the "big four" began to diversify, one by one the other species' lineages would be outcompeted by the new species emerging from the four and occupying different niches. As of the Early Rodentocene at 5 million years post-establishment, only four other lineages survive: the descendants of C. griseus musculus, mouse-like forms eventually outcompeted by the furbils, the descendants of C. griseus macrotia, big-eared desert species that eventually lose out to the jerryboas, the descendants of C. griseus giganteus, large-bodied omnivores ultimately crowded out by the cavybaras and hamtelopes, and the descendants of C. griseus mirabilis, to which the black-pawed dendend belongs.

The black-pawed dendend would be the last one standing, persisting in the massive influx of new species from the four main clades. An adaptable omnivore, it persisted as a generalist despite the competition, by being able to consume a wide variety of food, switching from one to another even if it had no sole monopoly on each. Yet the final straw that would end up spelling its doom would be its eventual specialization on leafy grasses that would coincide with the emergence of defensive grass species fending off the gouties, as well as the rise of the huntsters. A combined double blow of a relatively sudden lack of palatable grass and the coming of a new predator that reproduced quickly would prove too much for them to overcome, and the black-pawed dendend would finally disappear shortly before the beginning of the Middle Rodentocene 10 million years post-establishment. There were winners and losers in the game of life, and in the competitive environment of the Early Rodentocene in the midst of rapid evolutionary radiations, the black-pawed dendend would, sadly, not come out victorious.

It would leave no living descendants, and be relegated as merely another footnote and experiment in the cladogram's family tree, while the descendants of the main four subspecies move on to greater things in the eras yet to come.

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#speculative evolution #speculative biology #speculative zoology #spec evo #hamster's paradise

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