pom pom!

[choso-ish]

i want your whiskey mouth all over my blonde south

. ݁ ⟡ ݁ minerva | infp | libra | 8teen!

. ⊹ ₊ ݁.... request status: [ open ]

request info/rules are linked here!

⠀⠀︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶⠀⠀

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ recently uploaded:

boyfriend!caleb headcanons

welcoming Caleb home after a mission (nsfw)

©choso-ish. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works.

red wine, cheap perfume, and a filthy pout

[choso-ish]

idk how to describe this but go away by weezer is so nerdjo coded lmao

[choso-ish]

Choso learns he has a problem the very first time you sit on his lap. 

Movie night isn’t supposed to be anything special. It’s just you, him, a blanket, and a film whose plot you’ve both half-forgotten. One lazy shift has you sliding off the cushion beside him and settling across his thighs instead. 

And at first, he thinks nothing of it; it’s just warmth, softness, and a weight pressing into him that he’s always greedy for. Then you ease down completely—hips nestling over his, the curve of your ass pressing into his thighs—and something thick and hot rolls over him before he has the chance to brace himself for it.

You’re focused on the screen, eyes soft, mouth parted in that distracted way he always finds stupidly pretty. He pivots to the movie, feigning indifference, ignoring the way you wiggle and the growing tent in his sweatpants. 

He swallows hard. Tries to breathe around it. Fails. 

Heat prickles at the back of his neck, spreading fast, and suddenly he’s hyperaware of everything—where his hands are, where yours aren’t, and the blanket that doesn’t sit quite high enough to disguise anything. He shifts an inch to tug it over your legs, hoping you won’t take interest in the real reason he’s fumbling with the fabric. 

Maybe you won’t notice. 

Maybe you’re too into the movie. 

Maybe he still has time to get himself under control. 

“...Choso?” 

Fuck. 

His head turns a fraction, just enough to see the question in your eyes, and that’s all it takes for his fragile hope to crumble. Your gaze flicks downward—brief, but devastating—and he watches the understanding settle behind your eyes, helpless to stop it. 

Your lips curve. 

“Oh,” you murmur, sweet and teasing and unbearably innocent. “So that's your little problem.” 

The way his fingers tighten on your waist tells you he’s about to make it yours, too.

©choso-ish. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works.

[choso-ish]

Hi everyone! I wanted to make a quick reminder that I do not allow translations of my works without my consent.

Today, I found out that there is a community on Telegram that has been taking some of my posts and reposting/translating them in Russian. Although they did credit me, they did not contact me or ask for my permission. I am flattered by their interest, but it's important to me that my work is shared in a way that aligns with my intentions and values.

Thankfully, I was able to contact the owner and the translations have been removed. However, I believe some members of the server reported me for commenting on the posts, as my account was put under suspension. I was able to appeal the suspension with Telegram's support.

For those who are interested in translations, I'm proficient in Spanish, German, and Russian---so if you'd like a translated version of something, feel free to reach out and ask! I'd much rather provide a version myself than have it spread without my knowledge.

If anyone sees my writing elsewhere, I kindly ask that you let me know.

Thank you so much for supporting me and my work! More will be released soon. (Feel free to send requests as well!)

- Minerva 🤍

[choso-ish]

You’ve worn Caleb's things before: hoodies when you forgot yours, old shirts during late-night movies, his flight jacket once during a storm. He never mentioned it. Never made it weird. 

But now that you’re dating? 

It’s different. 

He walks in—still half-tired from a morning run, headphones looped around his neck—and sees you in one of his old academy tees, one that you definitely weren’t wearing when he left. It’s soft, old, and hangs off your frame like it belongs there. 

“Whoa, hold on,” He pauses mid-step, blinking once. Then again, like it’ll make a difference. 

You glance up, confused. “What?” 

He gestures vaguely. “That’s my shirt.”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “It was clean. Sort of.” 

He tilts his head, eyes flickering over you slowly. 

“Okay,” he says, voice steady. “See, that’s not fair.” 

“What isn’t?”

“You. In that.” he motions aimlessly, as if the sight of you short-circuited his vocabulary. 

“It’s just your shirt.” 

“Yeah, and this is exactly how people end up late to work.” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face like it might cool him off. “I was supposed to be productive today.” 

You raise a brow. “And you can’t be… because of a t-shirt?” 

“Because it’s my t-shirt. And you’re walking around in it like that’s not a weapon.” 

You laugh, turning back towards the coffee machine—but he keeps watching you, arms crossed, jaw working like he’s debating something. 

Then, quieter: “You gonna give it back?” 

“Why? You feeling territorial now?” you tease. 

His mouth twitches into a smirk. “Nah. I just wanna know if I should keep it under my pillow for later.” 

You pause. 

“...You mean to wear it again?” 

He shrugs casually. “Sure. That too.”

[choso-ish]

₊˚⊹♡ welcome home !!

summary: the mission's over, he's safe. but something in caleb still burns, and you're the only way he knows how to cool it down. tags: NSFW, established relationship, rough sex, dry humping, unprotected sex, slight dom!caleb

Caleb is the type to fuck you right when he gets home from a long mission. 

The door hardly shuts by the time he gets his hands on you. No “hi” before you're crushed into him, one arm tight around your waist, the other fisting into your shirt, kissing you like he's dying for it. He's hard in seconds, grinding his dick against your hip like it hurts. 

“Missed you,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your neck.

“Missed this.” 

And fuck, how he loves it when you pull him closer by that damn dog tag. 

He groans—low, guttural—and pants against your skin like a man undone. “Thought about you every night,” he growls, a hand slipping under your waistband, fingers greedy. “In bed, in the shower—couldn’t even hear your name without getting hard. Couldn’t think straight.” 

His fingers find you soaked, his touch practiced but shaking with restraint. When he hits your clit—pressing, circling, teasing—you cry out, hips stuttering against him.

“You should’ve heard me,” he rasps, teeth grazing your ear. “Trying to jerk off quietly. Thinking about you bent over for me, moaning my name, dripping for it.”

You can barely breathe, barely stand, your legs threatening to give out beneath the force of his hand and the heat blooming low in your belly.

He catches you like always: one hand steady at your back, the other working tighter circles against your swollen bud until you’re whining into his shoulder, hips chasing his palm like you’ve got no shame.

“Just like that,” he pants. “Fuck—that's my girl. That’s what I missed. The way you melt for me. The way you need it.”

He drags his jacket off in one fluid movement, the heavy fabric falling to the floor without a second thought. His hands are on your thighs next—lifting, wrapping your legs around his waist like it’s nothing. Your back slams into the wall, and he grinds into you again, dick thick and pulsing through his pants.

“I’m not waiting,” he snarls, fumbling your pants down with one hand, the other still bracing you like it’s effortless. “Don’t need the bed. Don’t need to be gentle. I need you now.”

You manage to nod, and that’s all he needs.

He frees himself in seconds, belt already undone, zipper halfway down. His cock is flushed, hard, twitching in his hand as he strokes himself once, twice, just to hold off the edge.

“Gonna fuck you full,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Not pulling out. Not after the week I’ve had.” 

He presses the tip against your entrance, dragging it through your slick folds with a shaky groan. He doesn’t push in yet, just nudges, teases, until your thighs are trembling around his waist, breath catching with every pulse. 

“So wet,” he grits. “You missed me too, huh? Say it.” 

“I missed you,” you gasp, nails clawing at his back. 

He smiles, breath ghosting your cheek. “That’s more like it.”

And then—he thrusts in. 

One slow, brutal push that stretches you open, drags the air from your lungs, and knocks all thoughts clean out of your head. 

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, hands flush against your ass. “There you are. So fucking tight. Made for me. “ 

He doesn’t move right away. He just holds you there: impaled, stuffed full, belly bulging with the imprint of his cock. 

Your walls flutter helplessly around him, and Caleb’s grin turns feral.

“I could stay like this,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw. “Right here. Balls deep. Never leaving again.” 

But he does move.

He pulls out slowly, leaving you empty for just a heartbeat, then slams back in with a harsh grunt. 

The rhythm builds fast—brutal, hungry, like he’s cramming every day apart into the space between thrusts. Each pump hits your cervix, dragging cries from your throat, his name tangled in each and every one. 

You’re close already. It’s building fast—too fast. How fucking much did you miss him for you to want to cum this quick? 

“Feeling close, sweetheart?” he pants, voice rough. “Come on. Want to feel you fall apart.” 

You arch your back, hands trembling. 

“Fuck—there it is,” he growls, slamming into you again.

You break.

The orgasm rips through you hard—legs shaking, nails digging into his shoulders, walls fluttering around him. You sob his name as you cum, clenching so tight around his cock it drags a noise from his chest that sounds like he’s choking on it.

“Fuck, Caleb!”

You can feel him unravelling, too. 

His hips jerk, pace faltering, grip bruising and tight on your hips like he’s trying to hold the whole world together with just your body. 

“Shit—fuck—you feel too good,” he gasps, burying his face in your neck. “I’m not gonna last either, pips.” 

You can barely answer, your knees wobbling, core aching, and his dick dragging so deep you swear he’s reaching your soul. Your grip tightens around his shoulders, grounding yourself in the one thing that feels real—him. 

“Fuck—fuck—take it,” he growls. 

He slams into you one last time, staying there, buried completely to the hilt. And then it hits—a twitch, a shiver down his spine, his cock pulsing as he cums with a whine ripped straight from his chest.

He holds you through it, thrusts slow and heavy, dragging every last spurt as he fills you. You feel it leak around where you both are connected, dripping down your thighs, soaking both of you. 

And still, he doesn’t pull out.  

He stays there, arms wrapped around you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. 

“I fucking hate leaving you,” he murmurs, finally, forehead resting against yours. He looks completely spent. 

You lean into him. 

Then, quieter, more certain, more him—

“Next time I come home?”

He kisses your neck. “I’m fucking you before the door even closes.”

©choso-ish. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works.

[choso-ish]

thinking abt boyfriend!caleb...

boyfriend!caleb who fixes everything without you even needing to ask. drawer sticking? already taken care of. lamp flickering? rewired it. he doesn't tell you—he just watches as you notice it later and coyly grins into his coffee. 

boyfriend!caleb who claims he's not tired after a long mission, only for you to find him half-asleep on the couch, boots still on and one arm curled around a pillow. His mouth is slack, just barely drooling onto the fabric, grumbling something unintelligible as you try to take off his shoes for him. 

boyfriend!caleb who never talks about his nightmares, but you know he has them. sometimes you wake to find him already staring at the ceiling, eyes tired and fingers quietly tracing his necklace. you don't press—you just reach for his hand under the covers, and he squeezes back like that's all he needed to fall back asleep again. 

boyfriend!caleb who always insists on carrying the groceries, your bags, or even your water bottle if you're out walking together. “what kind of man would I be if I let you haul this on your own?” he says, smug—but you catch him sneaking glances at your smile every time. 

boyfriend!caleb who brushes your hair behind your ear while you're half-asleep just to get a better look at your face. when your eyes flutter open, he’s still staring, mischief in his voice as he mutters, “would you look at that—i’m still not dreaming. guess i’m really stuck with you after all, pips.” 

boyfriend!caleb who likes it when you sit on the counter while he cooks. Not because it's helpful, but because he likes having you close, swinging your legs and stealing tastes while he pretends to scold you. “that’s for the plate, not your fingers. …okay, one more.” you’re lucky you're cute. 

boyfriend!caleb who doesn't say he's jealous, but suddenly gets a lot clingier after someone else makes you laugh. an arm slung around your waist, chin hooked over your shoulder, voice low and casual as he asks, “new friend of yours?” as much as you tease, he just hums and pulls you closer. “didn't know I needed to remind you who you belong to.” 

boyfriend!caleb who hates fighting with you—not because he can't argue, but because he refuses to let it wedge between you. even if he's still annoyed, he'll find you in the dark, sliding his arm around your torso, voice firm. “we’re not ending the night like this. i’m mad, you're mad, fine. but i’m not losing sleep over something we can fix. not with you.” 

boyfriend!caleb who pouts when you steal his jackets, but always makes sure the next one you take smells freshly laundered and has something tucked in its pocket—a wrapped candy, a scribbled note, a folded paper star—something small. something tender. something that’s his. 

boyfriend!caleb who doesn't flinch when you're angry because he wants you to feel safe expressing anything with him. he lowers his voice, softens his expression and says, “okay, hit me with it. no shields.” and he listens. 

boyfriend!caleb who dreams of a small life away from the fleet, from Ever, from everything. a place where no one knows his name, where the two of you can be ordinary. even when you blow off the prospect, he’s already mapped it out in his head, blueprints and all. 

boyfriend!caleb who doesn't let you see how much it kills him that he's part machine. but every time your fingers brush the metal of his arm, and you don't flinch—every time you press your lips to the cold and say, “still you”—something in him stitches back together. 

boyfriend!caleb who can't stop watching you when you're distracted. reading, cooking, tying your shoes, it doesn't matter. he stares like you're the most fascinating thing in the world. and when you catch him, he just shrugs. “what? can't look at my beautiful girl?” 

boyfriend!caleb who says “mine” under his breath when he kisses you. it’s not about ownership, it’s about fear. like he still can’t believe you chose him. like if he doesn’t say it out loud, the world might steal you back. 

boyfriend!caleb who has contingency plans for if you go missing. not because he doesn't trust you (at least, for the most part), but because the world is dangerous. he's memorized every route of town, planted caches, and learned the faces and names of potential threats. you’ll never know how deep it goes. 

boyfriend!caleb who keeps a photo of you hidden behind the inner clasp of his uniform, its surface creased and edges softened by time and touch. no one knows it's there, not even you—but when the world turns brutal, pressures high and hands bloody, he’ll press his fingers to it like a lifeline. and sometimes, when no one's looking, he unfolds it—just for a moment—and allows his eyes to soften in a way his subordinates never see. you’re his axis. his anchor. his only constant in a world of smoke and lies. he’d crawl through fire, through blood, and through everything he hates about himself just to come home to you. 

©choso-ish. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works.

[choso-ish]

request info/rules

the main fandoms I write for are:

Jujutsu Kaisen

Bungo Stray Dogs

Genshin Impact 

Attack on Titan

LADS

TKATB

some general things that I will write in a request: 

Angst 

Fluff/comfort

Modern AU 

Yandere!Character 

Headcanons

Oneshots

Character death

NSFW

If you’re unsure about whether or not I’m okay with writing something (unless I specifically stated that I won’t in the list below), go ahead and ask. 

some general things that I will not write in a request: 

Incest

Pedophilia, or anything involving a minor romantically

Racism

Character x character

Child!reader

Yandere!reader

Pregnancy