#eeeeEEEEEEEE!!!!

[bopbop171]

SEMI CANON TMA DESIGNS FROM THE TTRPG?????? WOAHHHHHHH

[sorsabruh]

BEEE!!! He's so stupid and silly I love him

[rodawgg]

he said the thing!! hesaidthe !! this nasty little shit i hate him /pos closeup beloooowwww :OOOO

shidting my ants

also this cheeky litle goober

[animatronic-assistant]

Mod: aaaaaw Storm >////<

You are so whipped for your girlfriend. She says jump and you say how high.

And if she'd ask us to cut your throat, we'd ask how deep~ it's a good thing she doesn't abuse that knowledge or else you'd all be fucked.

[signanothername]

I saw this beautiful amazing design for Fresh Inky boi made by @toffeebrew and y’know i HAD to draw it

Just AAA LOOK AT HIM BEAUTIFUL BOI <33333

[spideyhexx]

oct. 7th - scaredy cat

William H. Bonney x BountyHunter!Female!Reader

mdni! wc; 3.3k cw; gunplay, threats of death, dom-ish reader, dub-con-ish, thighriding, grinding, mentions of piss

kinktober 2024 masterlist

a/n; was worried about this one because i was having trouble writing it, but i think i like how it turned out soooo!!!! hope you all enjoy!!!!

The smoothness of the cards touch at your skin as you move your thumb across, eyes bouncing from the cards, then back up to the man in front of you. 

The bar is rustling with life, but the noises drown out the longer you focus on the man’s blue eyes. They sear into you, subtly trying to beg for an inch, to find what it is you’re thinking or take an educated guess at what cards you hold behind your hands. 

His lips are in neutral territory. No faint smile, but no tension, though his thumb taps to his cards every other second. You count it. One. No tap. Two. Tap. One. No tap. Two. Tap. 

There are two other men in the game, a gentleman to your left that’s clearly off his rocker, and a gentleman to your right, who has the worst poker face known to life itself. Your focus is on the blue-eyed man though. Actual competition. 

The drunken man folds his cards, giving up more because he cannot even think straight. He barely walks straight to the bar just ahead. The man across from you tilts his head, his slightly messy hair catching your attention for only the moment he’s looking away at the drunk man. The cocky one places another bet. You raise your bet. And the blue-eyed man taps his thumb twice in a row this time, before raising his bet. 

The cocky guy scoffs a bit, but your expression remains unmoving. In fact, you lean back in the rickety wooden chair, like this is just some easy day for you. The guy folds his cards and you resist the urge to smirk, your eyes gluing themselves back to the young man in front of you. 

You make your bet, then lean back against, the only movement you give him is a slight cock of your head. The man tries to school his expression, but you see the slight quirk in the corner of his mouth as he looks at his cards, thinking. Or pretending to think. Most likely the latter. Either way, you study him more than you were before.

His dark blue shirt is dirtied, no doubt. Probably hasn’t been washed in days. Weeks, maybe. His knuckles are redder than they should be, but there is no bruising. You can deduce he was hitting something though. Or someone. There is a cut on his lip though. A cut in the process of healing. His hair, messy like you noticed before, seems more windswept or hat hair, than anything else. The slight curls near his ears curl around the curve of it, and his eyes, well, they return to boring into your soul. 

He hasn’t said much of anything since he sat down. A small hello to the other players. A lingering glance at you. He called you ma’am. It’s not that women didn’t play poker, but it was certainly rarer, especially out here in a middle of nowhere town with maybe three entire buildings and the rest expansive farmland. 

The man thinks for a few more moments and you have played enough poker to know he’s purposely building up the tension, wondering if you’ll push through any cracks to give him an inkling on your hand. He’s baiting you, but you know better. 

He shows his cards and leans on his arms on the table, a silent challenge, because he would be winning right now with that hand. 

If only you didn’t have a straight flush. 

The man gives a huff, but a small smile graces his lips. They’re so red, and you catch yourself watching the way his tongue quickly runs over them as he stands from his chair. He grabs his hat, black in color, and sits it perfectly atop his head, pushing it down a moment, before sticking his hand out. 

“Well done,” he says, his voice smooth with the slightest hint of a twang. You shake his hand once, then move to gather your winnings into the small satchel at your side. 

“You’re good. It was a good game,” he speaks again, adjusting his hat, though you know he has no need to do so. A nervous twitch, maybe, but you’ve already gathered he’s a fidgety guy. 

“I know,” you respond, offering half of a grin. His hands drop to his gun belt, shifting one of his legs like he wants your attention to drop to that area. 

His fingers drum on his belt, a grin still stuck to his face, but he just nods, and shrugs on a maroon jacket, then saunters out to the bar exit, while you turn towards the bar itself. 

Once you hear his boots leave the establishment, you count to thirty in your head. You’re lenient. Your hand snakes down to the gun in your holster, your thumb tracing the handle. It soothes it. Prepares it for the potential action afoot, something you always had to do before a job. 

When your mental count hits thirty, you stand, and walk out of the bar. The setting sun still shines bright and hits your vision at first. You shield your eyes, clocking the man’s horse still tied up here. 

You walk past the few buildings in this settlement, then veer off toward the woods. The grass of the field swishes against you as you stride slow, careful of your steps as you look around. 

As you approach the small thicket of trees, you catch that maroon color. 

His back is to you, standing near a tree, so you slowly stalk over, pulling your gun from your holster with ease. 

You make no noise, approaching your prey with a staunch air. Your heart is beating. A rapt hitting against your chest, but it’s not nerves, it’s excitement. As you get closer, you realize he’s urinating against the tree, but it does little to hinder you. It only excites you more. 

He whistles softly to himself, a tune you cannot place, and it almost distracts you from the task at hand. You roll your shoulders back to snap yourself out of it, then close the distance, quickly coming up on him from behind. 

The man startles and makes a quick move to grab his gun, but the barrel of yours digs into the side of his neck before he can reach it. You press your chest close up on his back, your other hand reaching around the front of him to undo his gun belt. 

His head turns slightly and you watch him recognize who it is. 

Your hand almost grazes his exposed dick, and a droplet of piss leaves him. You snicker, letting the gun belt detach and you toss it to the side,“Continue.”

“What?” He asks, voice more gruff than it was back in the bar. 

“Finish pissing, Mr. Bonney.” 

Billy hesitates, but you nudge the barrel harder against the skin of his neck and he relents, continuing to relieve himself against the tree. 

It’s quiet besides the sound of his stream, until he asks, “Who do you work for?” 

You scoffs. “No one.” He finishes, and goes to tuck himself back in. You watch the movement with a deep intensity, feeling lucky he isn’t looking at your face. 

“People are after you all over this state and the next. And you made your face known in a busy bar?” 

You’re ridiculing him. The tone of your voice shows it, and you get him to turn around, pushing hard at his chest so he’s up against the tree. There’s no question that Billy the Kid, is stronger than you, but he makes no move to fight you. Not yet, at least. 

“Guess I had some faith,” he says, keeping his hands held up. You drag the barrel from his neck to the front of his chest. 

“How long were you followin’ me? No way you just happened to be there…playin’ poker with me,” he questions, eyes narrowing. He’s trying to study you, but you won’t let him do that. 

“You’re gonna come with me.” You step up closer to him, almost chest to chest if it wouldn’t be for your gun against him. His one leg, having been slightly jutted out, makes it perfect to step up closer to him, his knee brushing to your leg, his head tilted to see you. 

Billy’s jaw clenches when you don’t directly answer his question, “Or you’re gonna kill me? Is that it, ma’am?” 

“Do you not believe I would?” You laugh in his face. 

“No offense, ma’am, but you don’t look all that…threatening,” he says and you break your little composure to furrow your brow. Is he trying to anger you? Trying to see how far you’d go? Well if he is, you’ll sure show him. 

“Ah, I see.” With a nod, you quickly push your hands down on his shoulders. The shove is hard enough to send him to his knees on the ground and you cock your gun, putting it right at his head, “Your poster says dead or alive, didya know that?”

“Yeah I do,” Billy clears his throat, his gaze up at you. He still makes no move to do anything. He doesn’t dive for his gun that’s a couple feet away. He doesn’t try to steal your gun. He doesn’t try to shove or push you away. He’s toying and it’s killing you. 

“Darlin’, listen, maybe we could work out-”

He’s cut off by a shot ringing out. You shot right next to him, so close to him, the bullet whizzed past his ear before landing somewhere behind him. The amount of unadulterated power you feel when you see his expression morph into something of genuine fear makes your stomach heat up more than it should. 

“Mr. Bonney, while I appreciate a negotiation, the price for your head is worth more than anything you could possibly give me.” As you cock your gun again, the movement casual, almost nonchalant as though you don’t have the ability to end his life in the manner of a second. 

Billy’s eyes never leave your figure. He looks up at you with a glint of what you can classify as fear, but also interest. You try to ignore that second part. His eyes are widened and wet, but you’re not sure if that’s incoming tears or just how his eyes are. 

“Your nose is bigger than the poster’s detail,” you blurt out. Why? Why the fuck would you say that? At least you didn’t say he looked more handsome than his picture. More rugged. He’s got a boyish charm that you could easily get hooked to if it wasn’t your job to wrangle in outlaws just like him. 

He doesn’t tease, no, Billy still looks frightened. Is that an act? You almost wanna ask him. 

“You have been followin’ me,” he says, more of a statement this time than a question. You give a nod to confirm it for him, because it doesn’t matter. And you’re wasting time, gun to his head and standing here while he’s on his knees. 

“Now, I’m gonna tie you up a bit so you can’t-”

“I’ll give you somethin’. If you let me go,” he interrupts, his eyes still fucking shining like they hold every single truth of the world. He says it with so much conviction, you almost want to indulge him. 

“Yeah? More than the money on your head?” You knock your gun against his head and he winces despite there being no pain from a few small bumps of your gun. 

Billy goes to speak, but in an instant, he decides to grab at your hips, and he tugs you down with him as he sits. On instinct, you squeeze the trigger, but your hand was already dislodged from it’s position, so the shot rings out beside him instead of at his head. It makes his breath quicken, as yours hitches, your body sat against him, his hold tight on your hips. 

His strong thigh is nestled right between your legs and you glare at him, cocking your gun again and holding it to his head, “What the fuck do you think-”

“You’re a very good poker player,” he says, his voice closer to a whisper than the volume he was speaking before. 

Your head cocks, a confused look dawning your face, “I know that.” 

“Are you alone? Do this all…alone?” Billy swallows hard, shifting his thigh ever so slightly and you instinctively shift too. The fabric of your trousers and his separates the two of you enough, but his words ring true, reminding you of the vacancy of touch in your life. Suddenly you hate him even more. 

“That’s none of your business. But I guess there might be a use for you while I drag you back to Lincoln,” you whisper sharply, getting closer to his face than you might have intended to. 

His breath is shaky, “What’s that darlin’?” Billy looks at your lips. You count it. It was three seconds. Three seconds too long and three seconds too short. 

“You can’t charm me.” You don’t believe your words. In fact, you wonder if his stupid eyes are entranced with a curse solely set out to destroy you. They’re urging you to do something. 

To kiss him. To rub on him. To kill him. 

Billy doesn’t speak another word, but he tilts his head ever so slightly against your gun, the tip of his nose brushing to yours. The floodgates open and you surge forward, your usually careful precision breaking as your lips crash to his. The gun stays to his temple like it’s meant to be there. 

Billy kisses you back in a slower manner, like he wants to take his time with it, but fuck that. You push into him, wanting to own his mouth, feel his tongue slip against yours, suck his bottom lip till it’s even redder than his natural color. 

When he lets out the smallest of moans into the kiss, you start the drag of your hips against his meaty thigh, a rampant, erratic motion that has your finger slipping from the trigger. It snaps you out of it for a moment, but you pull back from the kiss, your breath panting as you grind on him. Billy’s hands never stray from your hips, they hold there, and help a very minimal amount. 

His mouth, now parted, his eyes, as deathly as ever. 

Billy goes to say something and you shake your head, “Shut the fuck up,” and without a though, you drag the gun to his cheek, pressing it into him, watching his eyes flutter in fear and arousal. 

If you chanced a look down to his lap, you would see the bulge growing in his trousers, but you can’t look away from his face. 

Your hips never stutter. They’re on a mission, despite the fact you would get more friction if they were off, this is enough. Enough to feel that heat building up inside of you and enough to make you feel something you haven’t felt in so long. 

Billy mumbles, “Oh fuck,” as you shift, so that every time you grind up closer to his body, you’re grazing near his bulge. It’s much less friction for him. He barely gets any, but that small amount makes his eyes glaze. 

Is he under your curse now? Is that what this is?

Your finger almost slips the trigger again and it makes you grunt out in frustration. Your movements are so harsh, you’re surprised you haven’t accidentally shot the gun. Billy’s eyes flicker to the death trap in your hand, and he goes to speak again. 

You pull the barrel from his cheek down to his mouth, the opening grazing his pretty lips. His mouth stays parted, his eyes telling you he too, doesn’t know why he’s got his mouth open. You count to three in your head and his mouth is still open. Your restraint is gone, the grinding of your clothed cunt on his lap prickles at your skin, and you don’t need to think anymore. 

You shove the tip of the gun into his mouth and he fully closes his eyes this time. 

“Good fuckin’ boy,” you grunt, a moan leaving your lips as you sit up more on him, rubbing on him quicker. Your life depended on it. You push the gun deeper into his mouth and grab at his jaw with your other hand, coaxing him to open his mouth a little wider. 

“Y’know, I could kill you right now,” you breathe out, sneering right in his face as a whimper leaves you. You push down a little harder against his thigh, chasing that feeling that’s approaching. 

“I could kill you so fuckin’ easily. The one who killed Billy the Kid…that could be me right now…all cause you…you took her fuckin’ gun in your mouth.”

How could he be so pretty with it? His eyes tear as you push the gun into his mouth enough to make him gag, but all it does is spur your movements on. You grant him som decency to take some of the gun out of his mouth so he won’t choke on it, but you don’t take it out fully, the sight of him with it is doing too much. Why do you love this? You can’t question yourself right now, but you know it’s fucking sick. He looks lewd, swallowing against the barrel, eyes fluttering and chest heaving as you rock yourself on him to completion. 

When it happens, you moan louder, arching against his body, rubbing yourself on him in quick motions so you can feel every part of that orgasm you so deeply needed. 

Then, you squeeze the trigger. 

Click. 

You have to laugh. A breathless laugh. His eyes are wider. Some of the arousal a bit loss, but still lingering there, and you glance down at his lap, a small wet spot forming on the crotch of his trousers. 

“Seriously?” You taunt him and then slowly slide the gun out of his mouth, your eyes stuck to the string of spit coming from him, and the wetness on your barrel. 

It’s in the flash of a moment that Billy is grabbing your wrist, his bigger hand holding excrucaitingyl tight to you as he forces you to drop the gun. He grabs it with his other hand before you could make a move and he throws it. 

He stands, your wrist still tight in his hand, and doesn’t look back as he drags you the couple feet to his gunbelt, where he grabs his gun, cocking it. He lets go of your wrist with a small shove and points it at you. 

You’re stunned for a moment, processing the sequence of events that just occurred, your mind running rampant and your body still jittery from what the two of you just did. You stay leaned back on your hands, at his mercy, “Go ahead then. Kill me, if you must.” There’s no purpose to your voice. You could scramble for your gun but he could shoot you easily. You could run up and tackle him for his gun, but he’d still have the upperhand. 

You fucked up.

His cursed eyes and just him. Is this why he keeps escaping jails and lawmen?

“I said, kill me,” you say it again, and Billy’s arm is still straight out, gun pointed directly at your heart. His chest is still heaving and his mouth wet and red. 

He lets the moment linger, like he had back at the poker table, then he uncocks his gun, settling it in it’s home in his holster. He leans down to fix his belt on himself on then places his hat back on his head. “I don’t kill women, darlin’.” 

With one more look, his blue eyes cast their last spell, but you’re not sure what. Lingering lust? Arrogance? Pity? He backs off, his gait a saunter. Billy full-on turns his back on you, something so confident it makes you gasp. 

You’re not sure how long you lay there in the dirt and grass, running through the entire encounter, but you know one thing’s for sure.

You’re going to capture that motherfucker someday.

[notmeowse]

screencap redraw of That Guy

[tinyascanbe]

a size shifter (with semi control of their size) who gets in an argument with their friend, sized up to be taller than their friend by a foot due to their anger.

the friend retorts with a personal jab and the size shifters eyes immediately well up and they start losing height, quick, much to their dismay.

the size shifters face flushes and angered tears roll down as they lose their physical intimidation and control of their size

the size shifter turns to run away from the encounter, holding their shirt to cover themselves as theyre now probably around 2 ft tall.

their friend realizes immediately they went too far and immediately scoops the size shrinker up like a toddler and begins profusely apologizing while the size shifter squirms aggressively before giving up and finally wrapping their small limbs around their friend like a koala~

[twominutesbehind]

uhhHhhhh here’s an old drawing of ghost in a dress

[risustravelogue]

Thinking about Wriothesley welcoming you home after a long work trip.

He waits impatiently at the Fortress' aquabus station's gate for your arrival, pacing back and forth, agitating practically everyone in the area. His eyes light up when the gate opens and there you are—a bit sunburnt and tired, but safe and back home.

He runs and jumps onto the moving vehicle, ignoring the fact that it's dangerous to do so, since there is nothing in his mind but to feel you in his embrace and kiss you as soon as possible.

You bury your fingers in his dark wavy hair, smiling against his lips as he devours yours. His icy blue eyes—you'd almost forgotten how beautiful they are—locks with yours for a while after he pulls back, then he buries his face into your neck, breathing in your scent like there's no tomorrow. You hum in contentment as he nuzzles in.

"I miss you too, my love," you say, your fingertips massaging his scalp. You kiss his ear, and he purrs.

"I'm home." / "Welcome home."

© @risustravelogue 2023 • no to reposting, yes to reblogging. feel free to send an ask to suggest, chat, etc. :)

[eeveechuandsticks]

OH MY GOD I JUST REALIZED SOMETHING ABOUT AVA 5

They NEVER used an antivirus against the virabot! AHHHHHH!!!! I love that, because Second and the color gang could’ve, and probably would’ve been in hurt by the antivirus! At least Second would’ve been.

Because if in AvA 2, Chosen was captured by an older antivirus, imagine what one is this day and age could’ve done to Second! It’s basically canon that stick figures, at least the ones created by drawing them, are read as viruses in their code.

[la-papu-lauri]

Late (again...) BUT HERE!!1!!1

��❗❗

Backround reveal

[vilegato]

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH

[inkykeiji]

all wrongs do me right

characters: kawata souya x fem!reader x kawata nahoya

genre: smut with the tiniest sprinkle of angst

notes: i haven’t been able to get the kawata twins out of my head since the first episode of season three so here’s an icky lil piece about souya jerking off to nahoya fucking his girlfriend! as always please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: taste of you by rezz ft. dove cameron

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, souya is a nasty little virgin, traces of twincest if you can read between the lines, stuffy humping, masturbation, voyeurism aka jerking it to a poor unwitting couple (or are they? muahaha), implied rough sex, slight daddy kink with nahoya

words: 2.5k

Souya feels fucking sick. 

It’s something bitter and thick, something that coats the lining of his stomach and sours the back of his tongue, something that furls into a thick, hard lump and lodges itself in his throat. 

It’s something he can’t fucking help.

Souya has barely spoken more than a handful of words to you—you, always so sweet, so nice, so kind to him; you, always desperately striving to include him in activities and conversations despite his unintentionally sharp edges and inherently callous tone; you, always gracious, never shameless, even in the face of his accidental offense—but he’s stained his stuffies and his sheets to you more times than he can count. 

Tonight will be no different. 

He should feel fucking disgusted in himself, he’s sure—he does feel fucking disgusted in himself, he thinks. But it’s not enough to stop him. 

Nothing ever will be. 

Even though his bedroom is all the way across the expanse of the flat, he can still hear you, every single time. 

He swears if he listens hard enough, he can even hear that precious little gasp, caught somewhere between surprised pleasure and sharp pain, as his twin brother pushes his cock into you for the first time that night. 

If he shuts his eyes tight enough, he can even imagine your back arching off the mattress as Nahoya fills you, each vertebra bending with each inch shoved into you, spine forming a perfect curve, hips inadvertently pushing downward, eager to meet Nahoya’s.

You must look so gorgeous—at least half as gorgeous as you sound, if not even more so. Souya wishes he could see you, just once—he thinks that would be enough to satiate the gnawing and clawing at the bottom of his ribs, maybe. 

Maybe if he had a photo or two, or a short video, he wouldn’t be forced to resort to such deplorable methods every night; maybe he could even jerk off discreetly, stain his bedspread to the thought of you quietly and without any of your help, instead of encroaching on your privacy like this. 

Maybe.

Maybe not.  

Because as much as he wishes it wasn’t, and as much as he tries to trick himself into believing it isn’t, this is a compulsion, an addiction, a creature raging out of his control, growing stronger and stronger with desire, with desperate need, every day. 

Maybe he’s stupid to think it could ever be satisfied with anything less than your cunt. Maybe he’s stupid to think that it could even be satisfied at all, that this voracious, all-consuming craving isn’t eternally greedy, perpetually needy, that it’s hunger isn’t boundless and it’s yearning won’t grow once it gets a single taste of you. 

A loud whine draws him out of his rumination, his cock twitching against his old stuffed shark in response, and he bucks his hips against it twice, smearing a webby streak of precum across the fuzzy material, its fur gone all clumped and crusty from too many nights like these. 

That whine in particular never fails to inspire a full flock of butterflies to flutter in his tummy, a half-stifled whimper of your name heavy on his tongue. 

This is how it always starts; some aimless humping, lazy and languid with no real tempo, briefs already kicked to the foot of his bed in a crumpled little heap, hips squirming and writhing in erratic little motions as he rubs up against his stuffy—just teasing, really, exactly like what Nahoya’s currently doing to you.

It never stays like that for long, though.

Because Souya just can’t fucking wait—too eager, too desperate, too hungry to ever take his time with it at all, to indulge, to savour, to draw it out—and it always materializes into Souya curling a fist around his cock much too early, his other arm wrapped firmly around his stuffed shark as his hips roll and his hand works, the head of his cock grinding against the plushie, a leg thrown haphazardly over it. 

It’s really fucking perverse.

But your moans are already climbing in pitch and frequency, too, meaning Nahoya has already traversed past his tantalizing and is moving on to something a little more satisfying. 

As expected.

By this point, Souya’s such a seasoned pro that he knows the general pattern and rhythm of your whimpers and moans and mewls, the general pace and timing of his brother’s fucking, that he can stroke his cock in the same manner. 

If he focuses hard enough, closes his eyes and hones his concentration, he can almost imagine it’s him fucking you instead. It wouldn’t be all that different, would it? His cock’s half an inch shorter than Nahoya’s, but it’s a little girthier, which Souya thinks probably makes up for it.  

He’s sure it wouldn’t feel all that unusual to you; not when he has Nahoya’s style and pattern of fucking so memorized that he’s sure he could imitate it pretty well, given the chance. How much different could it be, really? They are twins, after all—he bets with a blindfold on, you might not even be able to tell the difference at all.

Maybe. Maybe not. He sure would like to find out, though.  

A stab of guilt sears through his stomach, chased by sick thorns of pleasure sprouting in his gut, the fisting of his cock accelerating. He’s not sure Nahoya would take too kindly to Souya thinking of you in such a manner. He’s not sure he cares. 

Because it all feels so good, head gone cloudy with a thick haze of hedonism, smothering any flickers of remorse, consuming them and adding to the sheer exhilaration of it all.

Pathetic little noises keep leaking through the gaps of his teeth and the seam of his lips no matter how stubbornly he tries to silence them, pulled from his throat with each swift tug of his hand.

He can’t hear much of what Nahoya’s saying to you, his voice too muted to be anything other than an indistinct rumble undertowing your precious little sounds, but whatever it is, you’re eating it up. 

“Please, please, pl-please,” you’re begging in response to whatever his niichan just said, needy and strained, and his cock throbs violently in his palm. 

“Please, please, please,” Souya’s rasping out in tandem, stroking his cock in hard, fast, thorough yanks, in perfect time with the fractured words his brother is fucking out of you. 

It’s really cute, how increasingly sloppy you get the more Nahoya fucks you, twining your words together with threads of saliva, all slurred and messy. Nahoya gets that way when he’s close, too. Souya thinks it’s kind of nice, the way the two of you match like that.

It’s all so insanely hot, and every once in a while Souya gets extra lucky, fortunate enough to capture a smattering of words from his big brother—never anything more than a handful, just tatters of a single sentence—but his stomach swoops every time he hears that assertive amusement dyed with patronization, Nahoya’s voice husky and edges of his letters gone wispy with breathlessness, Souya’s cock pulsing hotly as another rush of blood surges southward. 

“—Wanna be—little fucktoy?”

“I wanna,” you’re gasping out. “I wan’it s’bad!” 

Christ, how can someone be so fucking sweet and so fucking sexy at the same time? It’s an intoxicating combination, one that goes straight to his cock, one that twists a feverish warmth in his gut and pulls his muscles stiff and taut. 

“Yeah, yeah, take it,” Souya mumbles into his stuffed shark, the rocking of his hips speeding up as he hastily fucks his fist, words tapering off into a gravelly whine, almost as if he’s pleading. “Ta-Take m’cock.” 

Nahoya murmurs something else, voice too low for Souya to make out anything other than the notes of sadistic glee steeped in his tone, but you cry out an affirmative in reply, the yelp jostled by Nahoya’s snapping hips. 

“S’good, Daddy, s’good, your cock is so good,” you nearly sob, chanted out like it’s a fucking  prayer, garbled and soaked with spit, fading into an airy little mewl. 

“Fuck, f-fuck,” Souya’s hips stutter, that heat in his belly blazing, curse snarled out through his nostrils in a harsh, stammered breath. “Ha-ah, fuck.”

The expletive breaks on his tongue, jagged and high, and Goddamn it, Goddamn it—

He has to keep it down, for God’s sake—he knows this, knows that, logically, if he can hear you two, then you two can probably hear him, too. 

The thought sends a vile thrill shooting through his gut, palm squeezing the head of his cock, the ball of his thumb rubbing across it in slow, lopsided circles, doing little to stifle his rapidly building orgasm, fervour coiling in his belly. An exceptionally loud grunt—much too loud to be discreet, that’s for sure—pries its way past his lips, rough and ragged and full of razors.  

And God, he’s so gross, he’s so fucking gross, and can you hear him? Huh? Can you hear him? He hopes you can hear him. 

Can you hear him, fucking himself to just the sound of you? Can you hear him, humping away at his old stuffed animals like the dirty little virgin he is, pretending it’s your body, your hip, your thigh? Can you hear him, fragments of your name slicing his tongue, tangling in his drool, never the full thing, shards bitten back and swallowed down to fester in his heart, to feed the animal living inside his ribcage?  

Can Nahoya?

What does Nahoya think? How does Nahoya feel about his baby brother jerking his cock every time his niichan fucks his girlfriend, without fail, like fucking clockwork? Would he be disgusted, or did he get that same sordid gene Souya did—that knack for the naughty, for the nasty, for the downright nauseating? 

They are twins, after all. 

Another spear of guilt pierces his chest, radiating sparks of euphoria through his limbs, wicked little flares that leave his blood fizzing and tummy smoldering, adding to the dull, dense heat collecting in the pit. 

He should feel worse about all of it, he thinks. He should feel worse about the utter disrespect he’s showing to the both of you, but he doesn’t. It’s hard to feel anything at all other than the push and pull, the tug-of war between rhapsody and repulsiveness, one only working to fuel and heighten the other.  

Thick cords of drool are dribbling from the corners of his mouth now, panted out with his hot breath and his whimpered words, rolling along his jaw and dripping, slow and sticky, to puddle in the ridges of his pillowcase. Are you this filthy, too, when Nahoya fucks you? 

You’re getting close now, he can tell, moans catching on Nahoya’s rough, fast thrusts and shattering into choked little gasps.

You’re trying to get his name out, and God, it’s so fucking cute, adorable little Naho-Nahoy-Naho!’s spilling from your throat in a single continuous stream, juddered by his big brother’s plunging hips. 

Would you sound just as pretty trying to get Souya’s name out? 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nahoya’s panting out, voice still tinged with that trademark teasing tone, almost as if he’s egging you on, a question of if that’s all you got infused into his words.

A threat is uttered, something about hurrying and making a mess on Daddy’s cock, and Souya coughs around the spit pooling beneath his tongue, wheezing out strands of saliva smudged and gauzy across his stuffy. 

Because Christ, you’re so obedient, so keen to please, a chain of jagged affirmations pouring past your lips punctuated with the sweetest sounds of effort, your dedication to his big brother so fucking sexy, your dedication to his big brother rivaling his own.

A growl rumbles behind his ribs, and Souya shoves his face in his stuffy, teeth sinking into the cotton flesh in an attempt to muffle the sound. 

His jaw already hurts from being clenched so tightly, a stiff ache that has settled deep within the straining hinges, something he’ll spend half an hour massaging out tomorrow morning.

But right now it doesn’t matter, not when that ball of heat is roiling in his gut, curling tighter and tighter and tighter with each quick pump of his fist, teetering on the edge of an explosion. 

It’s as though he can’t jerk himself fast enough, hips twitching in quick little motions, sloppy and irregular and so, so fucking eager, into his own grasp, fucking his slippery palm.

His breath stutters as he tries to quiet himself, desperate to hear you cum, harsh erratic exhales huffed out against the synthetic fur of his shark humid against his upper lip, leaving behind tiny beads of condensation. 

A whine splinters in his chest, eyes shut tightly as tears crystalize at the corners, his lungs swelling painfully with stagnated breath while his teeth burrow further into the plush of his stuffed animal, a pitiful attempt to starve off his impending orgasm. 

He doesn’t want to cum before you, not again. 

Drops of sweat are streaming from his brow and catching in his lashes, his curls saturated with salt and clinging in cute little swirls to his temples and the nape of his neck.

You’re so close, moans climbing higher and higher, louder and louder, faster and faster, and only a few more moments now, he only needs to hold out for a few more moments and then—

And then you’re crying out Nahoya’s name, breathless and beautiful, and Souya’s spilling his seed all over his knuckles and his sheets and the soft fur of his stuffy, hot and sticky and so, so much, groaning in time with his brother as he fills your cunt with his cum, Nahoya’s slurred out good, good, y’did s’good for me, baby forcing another weak spurt of cream to cascade over Souya’s fingers, cock jolting painfully. 

He doesn’t stop jerking his cock until it’s too much, until each drag of his fist sends heavy tremors of overstimulation rippling through his flesh, until his thrusts are nothing more than pathetic little ruts, every brush of his cockhead against his stuffed animal causing him to suck a hiss through his teeth. 

It starts to creep over him then, that dense film of shame grimy on his skin, that leaden block of guilt acrid in the pit of his stomach, nausea swelling in his chest and up his throat to sit, biting and bitter, on the back of his tongue. 

It’ll fuse to him as he sleeps, seeping into his tissues, through his blood and his bones to root, to rot, at the very core of his soul, infesting and infecting, every bit of his being. 

And when he sees you tomorrow morning, bright and beautiful despite being stained with his brother’s hands, bruises and bite marks peaking out from beneath Nahoya’s baggy t-shirt, it will reignite, that creature re-awoken, starved for any small piece of you it can devour—a soft smile, a sweet giggle, the brush of fingertips as they pass syrup or the knocking of knees beneath the table. 

And Souya’s not sure he’ll ever be able to tame it.

[exalted-dawn]

The Emerald Death. The Ghost of the Dales. Skald of Skyhold. Talenna Ethera.

Art by GerryArt on Twitter :3

[solarwhisper]

;0;

This was a gift for me…?

Thank you thank you thank you!!! It’s so sweet and bright and wonderful! I love and miss this boy so much and you continue to knock it out of the park with portraying his charming (and infuriating but that’s part of why it’s so charming) mannerisms ;v;

Incidentally, I saw this as soon as I woke up so I received two whiplashes from the dedication and the opening dialogue hehe. I couldn’t be happier~

Did I say thank you yet? THANK YOU *hugshugs*

christmas shopping

Alright, so I know Christmas passed and all, but I thought I'd share this old work anyway to serve as both posting writing and also as a mini-announcement here!

I received two requests already, so thank you for your support, even though it's been a long time! I'm working on the first one already, although it's looking really rough, ahaha. I won't close requests yet since there's only two.

This work is actually from November 2020, if you can believe it, but I never posted it because a.) it felt unfinished and b.) I had actually intended to write it as a birthday present for Solar @\solarwhisper. But I never finished it and felt sorry about it, so it was never sent or posted... Anyway, this is a Kokichi x Reader (PG) short one-shot!

“Wake up! Wake up!” 

You feel an overbearing pressure on your midriff as you try to get your bearings, still half-asleep and wanting to go back to sleep, wrapped in fluffy blankets. Your eyes slowly peel open a crack, and a familiar silhouette comes into view. 

“...Kokichi?” You mumble and shut your eyes again. “What are you doing?” 

You can almost see his grin as he laughs and shakes you ruthlessly. You’re not sure when you last became close enough with Kokichi to be shaken as he sits on you or when Kokichi even managed to get into your room, but you’re not too concerned. It’s Kokichi, after all. Now, if only you could get back to sleep… 

“No, no going back to sleep!” Small, not to mention cold, hands pat your cheeks repeatedly. “It’s time to wake up! Come on, lazybones. It’s already 10 am. We have places to go, things to do, people to see!” 

You grumble discontentedly and unsuccessfully attempt to roll over on your bed. Kokichi is too heavy for you to do so, even if he’s a tiny boy. All you end up achieving is turning your face to the side. 

“Leave me alone. I didn’t make any plans with you. I need my sleep. I was up late doing work…” 

Then, you hear him sniff quietly. Uh-oh. Disaster number one was about to head your way. In a flash, you shoot upright and slap a hand over his open mouth just as he’s preparing to let loose a piercing wail that you were sure your neighbors would hear. You glare at him as his purple eyes stare back, seemingly smug despite how firmly your hand was clapped over his mouth. That mouth could do horrible, horrible things, and it wasn’t restricted to only telling lies and emitting sonic cries. You weren’t keen on finding out what else it could do. 

“Enough! I’m awake. What do you want, Kokichi?” 

You let your hand fall from his mouth and instead cover your own as you yawn sleepily. Kokichi huffs as he sits with his legs resting over yours. The bedding does nothing to lessen the impact of him weighing on you, and you reach over, gracelessly pushing him off of you. 

“Using brute force this early in the morning?” he pouts, but he looks positively delighted as his purple eyes sparkle brightly. “Anyway, now that you’re awake, don’t tell me you forgot all about the promise we made to go Christmas shopping together for gifts!” 

You frown, yawning yet again. 

“I didn’t make any promise to go Christmas shopping with you.” 

Kokichi’s eyes grow big and wet, and he purses his lips indignantly. 

“You forgot! We promised, we really did. You said you’d help me look for Christmas gifts this season because I can never find good gifts. I’m usually too busy carrying out my Ultimate Supreme Leader duties, after all,” he asserts. 

You shake your head adamantly. 

“I didn’t promise you anything.” 

He knocks himself on the head with a fist, making a silly expression with a wink and sticking out his tongue. 

“Whoopsie! I mean, maybe that was a little white lie but…” He suddenly has his arm hooked around yours. “Now we have a promise! Go Christmas shopping with me today, alright?” He points at your calendar, which is chaotically hanging askew on a tiny hook on the right wall of your room. “You don’t have anything today! You’re free all day,” he sings triumphantly. 

You have the urge to promptly kick him out, but instead you pinch the bridge of your nose to mitigate your incoming headache. 

“It’s like that because I planned today to rest,” you emphasize the last word, hoping to get through to him. “I need this day to be free, or I won't survive the rest of the week.” 

But he doesn’t give in. 

“Going Christmas shopping with me is like being free,” he claims proudly without a shred of guilt, a barefaced lie. “You’ll have so much fun you’ll forget all about all your worries and stress. Come on,” he begs with shining eyes.

How did his eyes sparkle like that? Did god sprinkle glitter in Kokichi’s eyes when he made Kokichi? You brush away your thoughts and try to get back to the topic at hand.

“Yeah… No.” You send him a disapproving look. “I know you’ll drag me to every store and tire me out before lunch, and then make me carry all your bags for you as you run around the place without a care in the world.” 

“Aww, how did you know?” he sulks. “Still, it has to be you. Gonta’s good for carrying things, but not much else. And Shuichi has zero stamina, so he’ll be tired after we go to maybe two stores. Plus, there’s no way I could convince anyone else to come with me. Maybe Kaede, but I’ll probably get a life lesson and lecture if I have her come with me.”

You stare at him, trying to figure out what his motive was, anyway. 

“Are you seriously just asking me to go Christmas shopping with you? Nothing else? What do you want from me, anyway? I’m not as strong as Gonta, and I doubt I can give as much advice on gifts as Shuichi or Kaede.” 

He just grins and puts a finger to his lips playfully. 

“Hm, I wonder? What do I want from you?” He jumps off your bed sprightly and skips to the door. “Anyway, be out of your room in ten. We’re going to the mall!” 

Before you can object another time, he goes out and shuts the door, leaving you alone with your thoughts and an unfortunate time restriction that gives you little time to tidy yourself up. Sighing, you clamber out of your bed, resigned, and start sifting through your clean clothes. It was going to be a long day with Kokichi at your side.

Even so, you can’t deny he’d indeed sparked your curiosity, and when it came to satiating it, Kokichi never disappointed. Excitement simmered in your chest just below the surface of your weariness. There was something to look forward to, even if you weren’t sure what it was yet. And boy, was it something.