let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
macklin celebrini has autism
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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
noise dept.
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gracie abrams
Sweet Seals For You, Always
PR's Tumblrdome
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
sheepfilms
occasionally subtle
Claire Keane
cherry valley forever
@theartofmadeline
Fai_Ryy
Show & Tell
almost home
ojovivo
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Italy
seen from T1
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
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@chososexual
— HUE’S NAVI ⋆.˚ ★.ᐟ
♫༝⁺.𝄞 — LOCAL SOFT DOM!CHOSO ENTHUSIAST
ABOUT | CATALOG | NOW PLAYING: LOW BEAM BY HER’S
HUE | TWENTY7 | SHE/HER | MDNI [18+] — ♫༝⁺.𝄞
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © chosopedia — do not plagiarize, repost, translate, or modify my works on any platform nor feed my work into artificial intelligence.
꒰ 呪術廻戦 ꒱ › satoru’s the luckiest man alive. sfw. gojo x fem! reader. canon-compliant. tooth-rotting fluff. est rel.
it’s one of those summer afternoons where the air feels thick enough to swim in. tsumiki’s somehow managed to drag a very reluctant megumi to the community pool, leaving you and satoru to melt into the worn leather of your couch together. your head’s resting on his lap, the thin fabric of his shorts doing little to mask the heat radiating off him. a well-loved paperback of pride and prejudice with a creased spine is lying open on your stomach, but the words have started to blur into meaningless black squiggles. you let out a sigh. lifting the book and letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud.
“oh?” satoru murmurs. “finally done reading about ‘your darling fitzwilliam’ ?” his hair is slightly damp, a few snowy strands clinging to his forehead. his blindfold’s pushed up and he’s looking down at you with an amused smile playing on his lips.
“don’t call him that,” you mumble, swatting at his knee. “you have to call him mr. darcy. calling him fitzwilliam just ruins his sex appeal.”
“tell me, does fitzwilliam make your heart flutter the way i do ?”
“i don’t have the energy for your nonsense today, satoru” you groan, draping an arm over your eyes to block out the harsh light filtering through the curtains “it’s too hot”
“c’mon, sweets, humor me,” he murmurs, leaning down until his face is merely inches from yours. “i want to play a game with you.”
“what kind of game ?” you ask, your voice muffled by your arm “if it involves getting up from this couch, i’m not interested.”
“no moving required,” he promises, “it’s a naming game. we’ll take turns, ‘kay ?” you raise a brow but you’re too lethargic to question him
“name all the things you like about satoru gojo. see who can name the most. my turn.” he claps his hands together, “everything.” he claps again, looking down at you with an expectant grin.
you can’t help but roll your eyes, “you can’t just say everything” you scoff, “that’s cheating, now i’m obviously not gonna play”
it’s almost comical how quickly his smug grin melts away, replaced by a persistent pout. his lower lip juts out, his eyes widen, and he slumps back against the couch cushions with a wounded sigh. “sometimes it feels like no one appreciates me.” he mumbles
“oh, you’re such a baby,” you sigh. satoru’s genuinely sulking. the strongest sorcerer of the modern age, pouting because you won’t stroke his ego. it’s ridiculous, but it’ll be great practice for your vows
with another sigh, this one more resigned, you prop yourself up on your elbows, facing him. his pout is still in full effect, but his bright blue eyes are watching you, a flicker of hope in their depths. “fine, i’ll humor you” you concede, rolling your eyes. satoru immediately perks up, pout vanishing as if it never existed.
𝓦ait, so your academic rival thinks you're amazing? nerdjo! x clueless reader!
“Wait, we hate eachother?"
“I mean–”
“When did that happen?” Satoru asked, surprised, turning to look at you blinking as if not believing the words you had just blurted out.
Heat crept up on your cheeks as you bit down on your lower lip, cursing yourself for saying that out loud in the flow of the conversation. But if not hate then what?
Oh god, was it only you competing with him all this time or what? Had it only been you keeping a check of everything? Every position, every class test, every semester exam.
This was even more embarrassing than it should have been. So, what he meant was that he didn't gloat in achieving first place over you? Hadn't taken some sadistic pleasure in beating you by a handful of marks every single time. You wanted to smack him, but you wanted to smack yourself more for bringing that up to him.
“If you want to be happy, you have to be happy on purpose. When you wake up, you can’t just wait to see what kind of day you’ll have. You have to decide what kind of day you’ll have.”
— Joel Osteen
catboy choso
Choso Study
Still trying to learn anatomy
Backrooms AU
Choso and Yuji in the backrooms sketch
choso
choso and his oral fixation cw. cunningligus overstimulation 18+
if there’s one quirk that you’d complain about your boyfriend having, it’d be his uncontrollable oral fixation. always putting something in his mouth like a teething puppy, clanking his teeth on the chain wrapped around his neck, or even chewing on the neckline of his shirt.
and if there was one, specific thing that helped soothe the ache inside of his mouth — it was you. choso loved the way your silk skin tasted on his tongue. he loved the little darkened marks that’d bloom across your skin whenever he suctioned his mouth just right. creating a slobbering mess all over body, especially your breasts.
the way he’d swirl his tongue around the areola, teasingly just to see the way your nipple would harden under against his mouth before flicking his tongue at it. your breasts sitting in his palms as he gives the glob of fat fondles, and squeezes while moaning with your nipple suctioning within his mouth.
choso’s dark eyes closed, rested in pure bliss as he sucks and sucks barely able to control himself as his hips rut against the mattress while groaning.
each flick of his tongue against your sensitive nipple sends a pulse to your throbbing clit, and only time will tell when choso’s done with his fill of your breasts before he’s moving down to your thighs… his favourite place right between your legs, his favourite way to be pacified — your clit.
his hands spread your thighs a part from each other, exposing the sight that made his mouth salivate from a mere glance as he leans down, his tongue already lulling out before pressing flush against your bud making you moan at the sensation.
he’s instantly lapping up the wet mess dripping from your hole. his tongue gliding in all the right places before he’s latching against your sensitive bud causing you to push at his head, making him bury his face deeper between your thighs.
the first way his cheeks hollow as he shakes his head side to side, pulling you closer against his mouth. he’s never unlatching his mouth off you, not when your clit is pulsing perfectly against his tongue and your thighs are locking his head in place. this is the sole thing that soothes the ache inside his mouth perfectly, so even if you’re an overstimulated mess underneath him — he won’t be stopping until that ache is fully gone.
Ok, new art
Choso sat on the worn wooden porch of their modest home. The afternoon light filtered through the leaves overhead. He watched his mother tend to her small garden. Her hands moved with the same quiet precision he remembered from childhood. But now those hands showed the soft lines of age. He felt a deep pull in his chest.
She had always been more than just mom to him. She was a woman with dreams that life had gently set aside. Raising him and his siblings demanded everything. Choso understood that sacrifice now in ways he never had before. He loved her with the same fierce devotion he held for his brothers. Yet this love carried an extra layer. Care. Appreciation. A need to give back what time had taken.
"Mom," he called softly. His voice carried across the yard like a gentle breeze. "I found something online. A pottery class downtown. Starts next week."
She looked up. Her eyes sparkled with surprise and something brighter. Curiosity. "Pottery? At my age? Choso, you spoil me."
He stood and walked over. His tall frame cast a protective shadow. "You're never too old to try new things. I want you to explore. Not just as my mother. As you."
She wiped her hands on her apron. A small smile tugged at her lips. That smile always warmed him. It reminded him of quieter days before curses and battles claimed so much of his world.
Weeks later they boarded a plane for their first trip together. Choso had planned it carefully. A small coastal town in Italy where the sea met ancient stone streets. His mother had always spoken of wanting to see the ocean in different lights. He made it happen.
They walked along the cobblestone paths. Her arm linked through his. Choso matched his steps to hers. Slow and steady. He carried her bag without complaint. The sun warmed their skin. Vendors called out in melodic Italian. She stopped at a small market stall filled with handmade scarves.
"Look at this one," she said. Her fingers traced the soft blue fabric. "It reminds me of the sky back home after a rain."
Choso bought it immediately. He draped it around her shoulders. "It suits you. You always loved colors that felt alive."
They spent days like that. Exploring museums where she lingered before paintings of mothers and children. Not with nostalgia for her role. But with fresh eyes. She pointed out brushstrokes. Whispered about the artists' lives. Choso listened. He asked questions. He saw her not as the woman who raised him. But as an individual full of wonder.
Evenings found them on a terrace overlooking the water. They shared simple meals. Pasta and wine for her. He stuck to tea. She laughed more freely here. Her inner child peeked out. The one buried under years of responsibility.
"Remember when you were little?" she said one night. Her voice soft against the waves. "You used to draw pictures for me. Always with so many colors."
"I remember," he replied. His hand covered hers. "But now I want to see what colors you choose for yourself."
Back home the pottery class became a ritual. Choso drove her every week. He sat in the corner of the studio. Watching her hands shape wet clay. She was clumsy at first. Laughing when the bowl collapsed. But she kept trying. Determination lit her features.
"You don't have to stay every time," she told him once. Clay streaked her cheek.
"I want to," he answered simply. "This is your time. I just like being part of it."
After class they often stopped at a nearby museum. Small local exhibits. Photographs. Sculptures. She moved through the rooms with renewed energy. Choso walked beside her. Pointing out details she might have missed. She did the same for him. Their conversations flowed easily. About art. About life. About the beauty in simply being.
He noticed how her posture changed. Straighter. Lighter. As if the weight of motherhood had eased. Not gone. But shared. He wanted her to feel free. To rediscover the girl she had been before everything.
One afternoon she shaped a small vase. Imperfect but full of heart. She gifted it to him later that evening.
"For all the trips you plan," she said. Her eyes misty. "So you remember I was here. Really here."
Choso held it carefully. His large hands gentle around the fragile clay. "I always will."
The trips continued over the years. France for lavender fields. Japan for quiet temples where she found peace. Each journey another thread in their growing bond. Choso documented everything. An old Polaroid camera became his constant companion. He captured her laughing in a sunflower meadow. Her focused expression in a cooking class. The way she danced awkwardly but joyfully during a street festival.
"You don't need to take so many," she teased. Wind tousling her hair on a beach in Greece.
"I do," he said. Snapping another. "These are for later. When I need to remember how bright you shine."
She found her inner child on those adventures. Running her fingers through tide pools. Trying new foods with wide eyes. Arguing playfully with him over the best gelato flavor. Choso cherished every moment. He saw her as complete. Not defined by her role as mother. But as a soul who deserved joy. Exploration. Freedom.
Illness came eventually. Slow at first. Then undeniable. Choso stayed close. Adjusting plans to shorter outings. Home-based classes. Quiet museum visits nearby. His devotion never wavered. He cooked her favorite meals. Read to her when her strength faded. Held her hand through doctor's visits.
"I wish we had more time," she whispered one evening. The vase she made still sat on his shelf.
"We made the most of it," he replied. His voice steady despite the ache. "You got to be you again. That's what matters."
After she passed Choso sat alone in their living room. The house felt larger. Emptier. Yet filled with her presence. He spread the Polaroids across the table. Dozens of them. Her smile in Italy. Her focused hands on clay. Laughing under foreign skies.
Tears slipped down his cheeks. He didn't wipe them away. The grief hit hard. But gratitude wove through it. He had been there. Truly there. Appreciating her individuality. Her dreams. Her quiet strength. He had given her space to be free. To find that inner child before the end.
Choso picked up one photo. Her standing by the sea. Scarf fluttering. Eyes full of life. "Thank you," he murmured. "For letting me see you. All of you."
He kept the vase she made nearby. Filled with fresh flowers every week. A reminder of their shared journey. Of love that went beyond blood. Beyond roles. A devotion rooted in seeing someone fully.
In the quiet moments he still planned imaginary trips. Places she would have loved. He carried her with him. In his heart. In those captured memories. Choso Kamo had been the son who cared deeply. Who understood. Who made sure his mother knew she was more than mom. She was everything. And he was forever thankful.
you’ve been choso’s muse longer than you think.
art by @/f_tality0 on twt
you and choso have been friends since the start of your second year at college, with him being an art major and you being one of his only friends it's no surprise that over time you began to take up half his sketchbook.
he's always insisting you have a face made to be put on a canvas. you don't quite see it nor have a good understanding of what exactly that means, but it makes you feel good.
sitting on the art studio's uncomfortable chairs isn't so bad when he finally reveals the finished product. the way he draws you—it's like he's drawing your soul too. you've never felt prettier than when you see yourself through his eyes.
"well, can i see?" you ask, noticing he finally put down his sketchbook.
"it's not finished yet, i have to go over some of the shading—but you can take a look while i clean up a little." he picks it up between two fingers and stretches so you can reach it without any difficulty.
before standing he speaks again, "i know you've got a busy couple days coming up so i'll do my best to paint it without you here." in truth he would do just fine without you here. he has the sketch, has the colors he'll use planned out in his head—hell, he could draw you from memory at this point. but you don't know that.
you furrow your brows, "you sure?"
"positive."
"kay, just let me admire it for a sec and i'll go."
the second your eyes hit the page you start smiling, its beautiful. it always is. you don't have words for him, you haven't for a long time. there's nothing you can say that he hasn't already heard.
while choso's busy cleaning you decide to look through the rest of his sketchbook, flicking to the very first page. at the top right-hand corner of the page he has the date marked in red pen—which is nothing out of the ordinary for him, but you take note that it begins just a few weeks into his first year.
you turn the pages and smile, noticing how his current art-style seeps into his older drawings, but the next page is something you didn’t expect, something that makes your heart drop.
it sinks lower and lower every time you carefully slide the pages between your fingers. its you—they’re all you. they date back to a time you hadn’t even heard of his existence.
you sitting on a bench, you with your friends who’s faces haven’t been drawn, you reading a book, you listening to music, you—
“like it?” choso shouts from across the studio.
do you?
Why can’t you love normally?
recent sukugos posting here in celebration of the new season,,,, sighs these two still have such a grip on me,,,
──── 𑣲⋆𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐓 ⊹ ࣪ ˖
ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ rodrick heffley coded 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐉𝐎 and fashion nerd/girly reader 𑁤⨾
2.1k wc. no warnings, this is pure fluff
a/n :: i deadass might make a little part 2 for geto hehe. art by @to00fu and dividers by @uzmacchiato and @angeliicide
Satoru wasn't your typical nerd.
He didn't care about math or history, and he definitely didn't care about the syllabus for a single class that didn't involve a keyboard, a computer, or a snare drum. The guy barely scraped by in anything that wasn't music theory or coding, not because he wasn't smart — he was, annoyingly so — but because he refused to put in effort for anything that didn't already have his attention. His attention, once caught, was a spotlight. If it hadn't caught you yet, you didn't exist.
Bad posture Yuji
grace bad as hell statement
