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18+ minors and ageless blogs dni | one two three end

weeb!choso gets the girl, but will never change

you didn’t think he was serious when he approached you a week later, apologizing profusely for how he interacted with you at first. you definitely didn’t take him seriously when immediately after, he dropped to his knees and asked you on a date. it was embarrassing and he wouldn’t even get up even after you told him, “sure”. it was the most pathetic display a man has put on for you and for some reason you found it sweet. but the reality was that getting a real view of looking up at you and you agreeing to date him, made him hard, painfully and obviously. he couldn’t get up. so you just walked off.

and that’s why you were so quiet, walking hand in (shaky, sweaty)hand with him on the way back from what was the most romantic date you’ve ever been on (bar in hell). not once the whole date did he mention ‘just one more summer’, not once did he do anything weird or perverse. god knows he wanted to though, the way you put your fork in your mouth like a normal person really got him going. seriously, what do you think he did when he had to ‘take a piss’? and he was actually really attractive, you hadn’t really allowed yourself to see him that way until last week in the lecture when you caught him staring and doing what looked like he was jerking his dick in class.

and what was really surprising was that when asking him about it, he came clean. told you everything he’s ever done, what he was thinking in that moment, and exactly what he was doing. even more surprising, was you not looking disgusted by it, but rather turned on. he thought this was a sick prank that satoru and suguru were pulling on him. especially when you asked him, “what if i answer some of those questions for you?” because no way did you hear about the pillows, the tributes, the fanfictions—and still want to have anything to do with him. no you had to have been briefed, i mean they did introduce you to him.

the walk wasn’t that long, you both weren’t really mentally present for it. minds’ occupied with constant thoughts of hoping his freakiness wasn’t performative and if this was dream he’d wake up soon from with sticky boxers. god he hoped this wasn’t a dream. you made it back to his shared apartment in no time. and were surprised to see the two guys that pushed him towards you that one day.

“holy shit-, wait are two gonna fuck?”, the one with the uncharacteristically blue eyes asked, nearly hopping over the couch he was sitting on. the one sitting next to him just broke out into a cheshiresque smile. the man holding your hand groaned in aggravation, pulling you towards his room. which surprising smelled nice and wasn’t too dirty. you know giving his proclivities. and then he kind of just stood there awkwardly after closing and locking the door.

“look i only ever did this with the pillow-it’s not gonna be-”, you cut him off, by walking over to him and placing a finger over his mouth. “i didn’t expect you to”, you say. and the implication of that stabs him right through the heart in the sickest way possible. he practically purrs. you thought he was a bitchless, virgin loser and still wanted to fuck him. it was like that one fic.

“didn’t you say you wanted to feel me around your fingers?, how wet i get?,” you’re near his ear now and he’s swears he’ll cum right now, “let’s just start there, hmm?” it’s pathetic how quick he’s nodding his head. you smile at the acknowledgment and open your mouth again to speak, “good boy”.

you lead him over to his bed and sit back on it, resting on your elbows and lifting up your leg. “take off my shoes, then come kiss me”, you say and he does as told like some robot. his head is spinning, this was like the real deal, he read about exactly this. he was so hard it was embarrassing, but it all slipped away the moment his mouth met yours. some newfound confidence sparks within him and he lays you back, kissing you deeper. the sound of your wet mouth did little to help his predicament and slowly chipped away at some of your dominance.

he silently prayed he wasn’t embarrassing himself right now, because he was only mimicking what he had read in all those sick stories. one of his hands came to cradle the side of your jaw and the other choosing to explore. you moaned in the kiss as he knee found a place between your legs and his hand groped at your breasts. at hearing you, his hips buck slightly. you seriously have no idea what’s happening, he was just some shy dude who was worried he’d get it all wrong.

the kiss was dizzying and you felt nothing but warmth pooling in your stomach. his knee was pressing against you in a way that made you squirm, it was inevitable, you started grinding against it. he pulled away at the motion to look down at you. he needed to be pinched. there was no way he had you grinding against his knee right now. and it was too little, the sight that is, he needed to see.

so, he moved from you completely. your face looked defeated and he felt the need to say something cool, “hold on baby, just need to get you out of these clothes”. woah, he wasn’t expecting that. his voiced sound hazed in like the crazy hot way described in those fanfictions. you nodded up at him and sat up resting on your elbows once more. he surprisingly didn’t fumble with the button of your jeans and undid them in a fast fashion.

you helped him slide them down your legs and watched as he practically drooled at the sight of the darkened patch on the crotch of your panties. finally maybe you can get the control back, “i’m out the clothes, i need you to touch me”, you say. honestly you’re getting an ‘a’ for effort, your voice betrayed you, you sound just as needy as you say you are. he glances at you briefly and then right back between your legs. he lets out a small laugh in disbelief. your eyebrows crinkle at him, “what?” he reaches a hand up to fiddle with his ponytail and shrugs while shaking his head in response.

you give him a once over and find he’s hard, a bulge so prominent you think maybe all you want to do is have him finger you. because there was no way, this dude, had that. “i really don’t want to mess up, i really like you y/n”, he says, but not in any type of tone. “you’re only going to mess up if you don’t touch me,” you say and let out a sigh, “i’ll tell you what i like okay?” he nods. he pulls at the waistband of your underwear and tugs them down one of your legs, leaving them half on. you go to take them down the rest of the way but he flits your hand away.

“keep it like that please”, he speaks, but not while looking at you. no, he’s much too occupied with this new discovery. you know, the one between your legs. “fuck you’re beautiful”, he says, but he’s not talking to you. he finally reaches a hand down to where you need him, dipping low to tease at your slit. he all but whines at the contact, “oh fuck-you’re so wet, i did this?” it’s rhetorical, but you answer anyway, “yeah choso, got me so wet, touch me more”, you say. his middle and ring finger are making circles at what he hopes is your clit. it is, thank god. but at your request he circles more, a little faster. you twitch at the stimulation and let out a barely audible sigh.

but it’s just enough, his eyes are on you now—on your face. “am i doing okay?”, he asks. you nod because your lips are parting in a moan. “can i put in a finger?”, he asks. “yes! yes please-oh”, you respond. he doesn’t hesitate, sliding in his middle finger and fucking it deep. this is insane, you don’t even have pointers for him. just how much of that fanfiction did he consume?. he throws his head back and groans at just how warm you are on the inside. how tight you were squeezing around his finger.

“i’m putting in my other finger too okay-fuck-i’m jealous”, he says, the moment the two fingers are in together they curl up, prodding at that spot inside that has you running. “no baby, stay here”, he says, his other hand gripping onto the leg with your panties hanging on them. he shifts himself to be more on your side, up against your leg. you can’t even open your eyes to look down. they continuously flutter closed with each pump of his fingers, scraping oh so deliciously against your gspot.

you feel him moving against your leg and you crack you eyes open to find he’s humping you and sniffing your panties?? the sight send heat rushing through you and you moan. “oh my g-fuck you’re such a perv”, you say. “yes, yes, yes for you for you”, he responds. the sounds of his fingers moving in and out of you are the only things he really hears. he’s subconsciously responding. the feeling of his fingers and the sight of him humping against your leg, sniffing your panties, pushes you towards your orgasm.

he feels you tense up and only fucks his fingers into you harder. “oh fuck you’re gonna cum? fuck i’m gonna make you cum”, he sounds so pathetic and whiney. it’s almost overshadowing your noises, because you haven’t shut up since he touched you. “yes, i’m gonna cum, you’re gonna make me cum, yes!, yes! mmmmmmm”, it spurs him on so much the movements against your leg are losing rhythm. it takes about three more seconds and you’re cumming. hand reaching down to grab at his wrist, his hand, you don’t know you can’t see. head thrown back and he just keeps his fingers moving until you’re tapping at him.

when he stops, you’re pulling his hand up towards your mouth and sucking off the mess you left. his mouth parts, watching you, and a deep groan leaves him. he just came. wait-he’s still wearing his pants. he just came. in his pants. you release his hand and pull him down for a kiss. he can taste you on your tongue and he all but sucks on your tongue. he’s reaching down to unfasten his pants, cum is not comfortable to sit in. and you wished you hadn’t looked, because he still wasn’t soft. not quite hard, but still enough to keep going.

you both pull away from each other and take the moment to complete undress. he wiped himself down with his shirt and threw it somewhere in the room, while you took the moment to see his body. holy sleeper build. “can we do it raw?, please, i want to feel it like my fingers”, he looks so gone in the face, you’re no better. which is probably why you agreed a little too quickly. laying back to watch as he gave himself prepping strokes, and slid into you.

it’s currently been about ten minutes since he started actually fucking you. your back against his sheets and your head tilted back. legs caged around his lower back, reddish blemishes blooming on your neck, and your hands carded through his loosening ponytail as he licked and sucked on your nipples. you couldn’t think. he was so deep, moving so well. you don’t why he was worried. the sound of your harmonic moans, squelch of your wetness, and smacking of his pelvis hitting yours grounded you.

and when you felt you could cum again, something caught your eye. a poster on his wall that you hadn’t noticed yet of y/n in ‘just one more summer’, with your face on it. when did he get that picture? and before you can piece together just how deep (despite his confession earlier) his ‘like’ for the anime really is, his tip angles just right against that spot inside you, and you don’t care anymore. you’re just glad you designed her—erm you.

blxksun2025, do not copy or translate my works. happy reading !

a/n this is the end, i hope you enjoyed. if you want more send me a request, but please read my rules first. thanks for the love you’ve shown to this miniseries! likes, comments, or reblogs are appreciated!

taglist @flowerarousal @laitifly

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ooouughhh my shayla

i made all the frames into a gif for your viewing pleasure as well under the cut :’)

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movies rated ★★★★★ by riveredmoon

a movie that breaks your heart. a movie that feels like a fever dream. a movie that makes you squeeze your thighs closed.

a writing event hosted by me, and my love for movies!

about: if you’ve ever read my work, you know how much i pull from movies (any media really) — the drama, the aesthetics, that one line that stays stuck with you for months after hearing it. this time it’s your turn!

prompt: pick a movie: your comfort movie, the one that gutted you at three in the morning, or just one you think would be stupid fun. then write an one-shot featuring your favorite jjk character(s) — and bring that movie to life. it can be a messy rom-com, a tragic three-hour epic, or something that feels sultry & filled with bad decisions (wink), this is your theater!

how to enter: send a message, ask, comment on this! (no minors, so please have age in visible on page).

runtime: [no set end date! take your time!!]

rated: [sfw/nsfw allowed. no super dark content allowed (incest, pedophilia, you know). open to all tropes (angst, fluff, horror, etc). 800 word minimum. no repeats of movies! please list movies trigger warnings! use the #jjkboxd when posting]

watched by: riveredmoon & friends!

at the end, i will add the movies to a list on letterboxd so that everyone can check out the movies afterwards!

movie: [title] director: [@riveredmoon] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [eternal sunshine of the spotless mind] director: [@spearofheaven] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [28 days later] director: [@sukunahs] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [dinner in america] director: [@lily-bisque] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [in the mood for love] director: [@kentofilm] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [everything everywhere all at once] director: [@cupidstrace] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [past lives] director: [@kentospeach] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [buffalo ‘66] director: [@satoruined] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [set it up] director: [@redrrem] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [101 dalmatains] director: [@lafleurperdue] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [train to busan] director: [@lvl109] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [mean girls] director: [@ryophie] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [five feet apart] director: [@junkuna] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [midsommar] director: [@karvokr] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [st elmo’s fire] director: [@prosypepper] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [red, white, royal blue] director: [@besidesjustmyamour] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [the amazing spiderman] director: [@muliwamm] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [white chicks] director(s): [@redrrem & @joemama-2] runtime: [wc] rated:

movie: [lost in starlight] director: [@mythblossoms] runtime: [wc] rated:

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hhnnhhghhnnn

18+ minors and ageless blogs dni (nothing explicit but still)| one two

weeb!choso gets humbled and fumbles

one thing you can give him credit for is that he knows what he wants. however, he thinks he knows so much, it kind of kills it. suguru and satoru are really hard to be friends with. much too indirect and much too direct, respectively. but that just highlights why he’s friends with them in the first place. which is resourcefulness. the resources being, validating and reinforcing his beliefs.

satoru’s not that far off the mark of becoming just like him and suguru enabling them both just makes it worse. so if he says something completely ridiculous, he’ll get a laugh and even a few words of encouragement. “my thing is, if she wasn’t meant to be sexualized, the fan service would be nonexistent” he says in a tone so matter of fact, it’s sick. and of course the usual response, “you know what, you’re not wrong”, from a certain white-locked individual, and “you both are like one step away of making this a real world issue concerning objectification, i love it, keep toeing the line”, from a man that stepped out of a shampoo ad.

butttt, that was before. before he became a depraved man that bought body pillows and started reading fanfiction. now they see they created a monster. a nocturnal, red eyed, eyebagged, pillow-fucking, tumblr and ao3 using monster. so they needed to nip it quick. by reintroducing him to real girls. and if ‘y/n’, was what he wanted. it’s what he’d get. it’s pure coincidence that the girl in their fundamentals of socioeconomics lecture, had exactly that name. kind of looked like her too.

didn’t feel bad in the slightest introducing an unsuspecting victim into their plans. they thought it was a solid plan, introduce him to her and maybe he’ll be who he used to be. not this new sick perverted man who can’t even go minutes without texting his c.ai. because they can’t even watch anime with him anymore, he disses every animated woman that isn’t his beloved y/n. something has to give. but watching him now—no hearing him now, they realized it was no use.

“what do you mean you’ve seen ‘just one more summer’, if you’ve seen it you wouldn’t say it was trash!?!, makes sense though, that a girl wouldn’t understand true artistry”, truly one of the worst ideas the two could have made. the girl looked more than unimpressed. “my uncle is the one that made it, y/n, is me, i designed her, i think i do understand true artistry”, you say and turn to walk off.

the words register, when you’re gone. they just watch it click to him, and in an instant, heart eyes. they’ve only made him worse.

blxksun2025, do not copy or translate my works. happy reading !

a/n i hope you enjoyed this, i was thinking of doing more of these and felt validated, so here we go, i might keep going until the ideas run out, but even then im open to requests of scenarios you want to see. likes, comments, or reblogs are appreciated.

taglist @flowerarousal

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one night seven years later

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hi lesbians!!!

marriage . ｡ .: *☆

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killin it girl! by jhope (ft. nami & sanji ^_^)

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my fragile god, my universe

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<3

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childhood friends with... childe.

i cant stop thinking about childhood friends to lovers... especially with my glorious king tartaglia

hour-long snowball fights in the horrendous temperatures, scraped knees and frosty red noses, huddling up with his siblings around the fireplace as someone tells a story. a childhood with ajax is one with no space in between you two, as he’s always finding an excuse to be near. his family, too. no matter the status of your own family, ajax’s mother and father welcome you with open arms, treating you as their own. with how often you seem to be around, his siblings quickly began to take a liking to you, especially the younger ones. i imagine a childhood with him to be filled with pinky promises and ice fishing and lots of hugs.

I imagine a childhood with ajax means neither of you end up being the best students, either. he tries to pay attention to the lecture, he really does. but the idea of throwing paper airplanes in your direction and the image of your future glare makes him giggle. so every time his knees begin to bounce and his eyes begin to droop, he fishes a piece of paper from his notebook and folds it into something clumsy to bother you with. one time he managed to throw a paper plane directly into your eye. your glare did indeed make him giggle, but the ensuing lecture from your teacher wasn’t anything he wanted to laugh at. 

a childhood with ajax is close, in every sense of the word. some days, you two will walk the town, shoulder to shoulder as you peruse the stalls in the market. ajax mentally takes notes on every trinket you show interest in. other days, you will entertain tonia and teucer with him, lifting them up and down and around as they giggle their hearts out. his mother sighs with relief in the kitchen as she makes lunch, grateful for you two keeping them from wreaking havoc. every once in a while, you two will put on fluffy coats and thick gloves and make your way through the forest, hand in hand. having wandered many times, ajax knows all the cool spots with the clear views to guide you to. soon after, you both are laid in the snow together, whispering secrets and troubles and jokes to one another. when the sun begins to sink behind the mountains, you pick each other up and make your way back to your respective homes. he doesn’t let go of your hand until you have to part ways. even then, he holds on to the lingering feeling of your skin.

come nights, he holds his pillow thinking of you. he looks wistfully up into the starry sky and wonders if you are thinking of him too. some nights are worse than others though, and then, he shuffles his way down the stairs and through the snow to your home just a few houses down. he tosses pebbles at your window and you tiredly trudge your way to the front door to let him in. you both sit in the warmth of your room, under thick fur blankets with an assortment of stuffed animals lying around. you two talk until the night runs out. sometimes he cries, others he laughs. he’ll complain about his stern father and you’ll tell him about yours in return. he tells tall tales and fantasizes about the man he’ll be when he’s older and you’ll giggle at his lofty dreams. he asks you, and you say, “when I grow up, I want to have a big house with a bunch of dogs.” ajax pulls the blankets up further to you both and says, “of course we’re gonna have a big house! and then we can have as many dogs as we want.”

a childhood with ajax means a lifetime with him. he’s there at every birthday, every family birthday, every school award, and more. when you hang out, he’s always draped over you, raving about the amazing future you’ll have together, because there isn’t a future in his mind where you’re not present. you plan everything with him in mind, because for you, there isn’t a future in your mind where ajax isnt present either. even after reality crumbles beneath his feet, after he disappears and returns with a different look in his eyes, he is still the center of your world; and you, his. 

note: is this hot garbage? maybe... is he ooc? maybe... do i care? maybe...

either way i just had so much tartaglia brainrot i had to ramble. thanks for listening <3

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My first art post on tumblr!

Enjoy my contribution to Hyuluka nation haha

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Neither you nor I deserve to be saved....

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summary: it’s ww2, your unfaithful husband naoya has been drafted in the war. but thank god you have the milkman choso!

cw: fluff, smut, crackish. naoya slander, not sorry. cheating but it’s okay cause naoya’s a dick and choso’s not! lolol lowkey pregnancy kink at the end heh mentions of war. nothing crazy. overall, reader is a housewife and a whore for the milkman (i would be too)

wc: 3.3k!

a/n: this has been in my mind for mooonths seeing this art from @/einruji__ on ig! :3

the thing is, your husband was already unfaithful before he shipped off to war. real patriotic of him, really—humping the neighbor’s wife while you ironed his newly issued uniforms and cried into your casseroles.

you knew he wasn’t a good man. he never was. not before he draft notice, not even when the ink was drying on your wedding certificate.

he said he’d be gone eighteen months, maybe longer. you didn’t really care.

he kissed your cheek too fast and told you not to wait up one night. you knew from the smudged lipstick on his collar, the sudden generosity toward the neighbor when she asked to borrow some ‘sugar’. the way he stopped touching you altogether. war is just the excuse. he left like he was relieved, like the only thing he’ll miss is his shaving mirror and the breakfast you make when he’s hungover.

since he’s been gone, he doesn’t write. you don’t either.

what he doesn’t know is that you already stopped loving him long before he even proposed. you’ve just been playing house. standing in your cute little kitchen, polishing the same countertop, folding the same linen napkins, waiting for someone to notice you exist.

enter choso kamo.

choso is the milkman. he’s the quiet type. a sweetheart, truly. you don’t know much about him—just that he’s not from here, that he took over the route from his brother, and that he always has perfect change in his pocket.

he shows up at 7:12 every morning with the same metal carrier, the same off-white uniform, sleeves rolled up like he just has to know what he’s doing to you. dark brown hair tied back low on his neck, one loose strand always curling across his temple, like he’s just been kissed by something. not the sun. and not by you. at least, not yet. but hopefully soon.

he always says “good morning, ma’am” in that slow, syrupy voice of his with a tip of his cap and you smile like butter wouldn’t melt.

the first time you invite him inside, you tell yourself it’s for a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade. he works hard. he deserves it.

and because you feel lonely. that’s all. just…lonely.

the second time, it’s because you want him to see you. really see you. not as some soldier’s wife or pretty housewife in pearls. just a woman. bored and warm and hungry for something that doesn’t feel fake.

he sees you, alright. he sees you and he wants you. but also he sees that pretty little rock on your finger.

so, he’s patient. for now.

he stays almost every time he comes by. leaning against your doorframe and fiddling with the strap of his carrier, eyes flicking over your pretty little house dress, your legs, your lips. nothing improper—not yet. it’s 1944.

but you’re not exactly living by the book anymore, are you?

you were supposed to be the sweet housewife. but your husband is naoya zenin. he makes it hard to be sweet at all. he’s the kind of man who asks you to make dinner and expects applause for showing up hours later when it’s cold. the kind of man who thinks “i love you” is a reward, not a habit. and the neighbor?

oh, she’s still around. still mowing her lawn in kitten heels and curlers like it’s not a war zone out there. you wave to her sometimes. she doesn’t wave back. i guess she’s grieving your husband in her own way.

but you’ve got choso now. or not now now. not officially. right now he just brings the milk and a smile. but you’ve got time. you’ve got plenty of war time. you’ve got 7:12am and the scent of him lingering on your porch and the way he looks at you like you’re something warm he’s afraid to touch.

and then one day, the milk’s not the only thing he brings.

choso knocks the same way he always does. two soft taps on the screen door, just loud enough to pull you out of whatever pretend domestic task you’ve been busying yourself with—watering plants that don’t need it, folding laundry that isn’t dirty, wiping already-clean countertops like a robot.

it’s early. the soft sun is pouring in through the sheer kitchen curtains. you’re in the kitchen when it happens. wearing a little lavender dress that hugs the waist and buttons too tight across the chest, because if you’re going to be a desperate housewife, you might as well be pretty about it.

the radio’s humming low in the corner, some voice crooning about lost love and waiting faithfully.

how fitting.

you wipe your hands on your apron and go to the door, and there he is, in his starched white uniform and spotless cap, holding two glass bottles of milks so innocently like he doesn’t know he’s the only man who’s ever made you feel seen.

he sees you and his soft eyes instantly light up.

“mornin’ ma’am.” he says.

“goodmorning choso,” you smile, opening the screen door. “would you like to come in?”

choso wouldn’t dare turn down a gorgeous woman like you.

he steps inside, following behind you slowly. he sets the milk on the counter, pretends for a moment that he’s just doing his job.

his eyes dropping to your collarbone like it’s a crime scene. today, though, it’s different. there’s something in the air. something heady and stupid. like heat in the springtime. like lust with manners.

“brought you some extra,” he says, lifting one of the bottles. “cream. had some left over from the route.”

you tilt your head. “how generous, cho.”

“figured you could use it.”

“i could use a lot of things.” you say with a smile.

the silence? thick and sweet.

you watch the way his throat moves when he swallows. how his tongue peeks out just barely to wet his bottom lip.

and that’s when you decide.

he’s helped you carry your groceries. fixed your leaky sink. reached the good china from the top shelf like a gentleman. this man has earned more than a thank-you note and a dry mouth.

you step closer. he doesn’t move. just looks at you, soft and wide-eyed like a boy who’s been dared to do something illegal.

“choso, darling,” you say, and he blinks slow. “have you ever been kissed by a married woman?”

“no, ma’am.”

“wanna be?”

he’s sweet, at first. always so sweet. he kisses you like he’s scared he’ll break you. he touches you like you’re made of glass.

but there’s a desperation to him that never quite stays buried—something deep and starved that makes him groan the moment you tug his belt loose and whisper,

“you want me to take care of you, baby?”

he nods too fast. his breath trembling as you sink to your knees right there in the warm little kitchen, pulling down his trousers.

the soft sound of the radio mixing with the wet sounds of your mouth around his cock.

he says your name so softly. moans like he shouldn’t be allowed to. like no one’s ever done this for him before.

maybe no one’s ever milked him like this, slow and messy, with spit running down your chin and your hand wrapped tight around the base. maybe no one’s ever looked up at him from between their lashes and smiled around his cock.

god, you look so pretty like this, he can’t help himself.

his hands tremble where they tangle in your hair, his hips twitch when you suck a little harder, encouraging him to cum in your mouth.

“b-baby, fuck—i’m cumming—“

he finally spills down your throat, he groans like a man ruined. broken open. and so, so grateful.

but you don’t stop there.

you stand up, untying your lavender halter, shimmying it down your body, leaving you naked.

again, you were desperate.

you guide him back to the little table where you usually sit and stare at untouched coffee.

you lean back against cool wood and spread your legs just a little—barefoot, pussy so wet and pretty, already dripping for him.

he groans at the sight, stepping between your legs and dips his head down, sucking pretty little marks onto your neck.

he’s good with his hands—of course he is.

delivers glass bottles all day, has to handle them gentle, precise. and he treats you the same way at first, like something breakable.

thumb smoothing circles into the inside of your thigh while his mouth coasts along your body. slow and reverent. says your name like it tastes good. he tells you you’re pretty, even though your curls are messed up and lipstick’s smudged and you’re gasping like a common whore.

you’re not used to being touched like this. not worshipped. not unraveled by someone who actually listens. who kisses the inside of your knee and says,

“been thinking about this for weeks,” like a confession. who sucks a mark into your collarbone and then soothes it with a kiss. who sinks two fingers inside you and groans like he’s the one being touched.

“sweetheart,” he breathes, and your stomach flips.

his voice is low, like velvet dipped in molasses. his hair’s come loose around his face and he looks feral, flushed, focused.

every time he curls his fingers just right, you jolt—back arching, legs twitching—and he just watches, lips parted, eyes glazed, like this is the highlight of his whole year.

you’re so wet his palm’s slick with it, so needy you’re clutching at his uniform, whining and squirming.

“you’re makin’ a mess on my hand, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the swell of your breast as you writhe against the table. “is that all for me?”

you nod, frantic. “y-yeah. yes. all you.”

he smiles against your skin. then he sinks to his knees.

and lord have mercy—when the milkman eats pussy, he delivers.

he holds your thighs apart like he’s bracing a storm. tongue soft at first, then greedy.

lips sealing around your clit and sucking like he’s getting paid by the hour.

you grab his hair, crying out his name and he groans.

he drags his tongue through your slick folds like he’s memorizing the taste.

you buck your hips, his arms tighten around your thighs and pull you closer.

you swear you black out a little when you come. you hear yourself moan his name—feel your whole body pulse but he doesn’t even let up.

he just licks you through it like he’s thirsty. lets you shake and twitch and melt against the kitchen table while he groans into you, obscene and grateful. like he’s thanking you for the privilege of eating you out.

he stands back up, lips glossy and cheeks flushed, you kiss him so hard you see stars.

you taste yourself on his tongue. grinding against his thigh like a dog in heat until he pulls back, helping you stand as he takes a seat on one of the dining chairs.

he tries to be a gentleman as if he didn’t make you see god seconds ago and say—“ma’am, are you sure?”—but you’re eagerly straddling his thighs, already sinking down on his still hard cock, gasping at how full he makes you feel.

you ride him slow, the worn kitchen chair creaking beneath you with every bounce. your palms press firm to his chest, feeling the way it rises and falls under your touch. his mouth falls open. his eyes flutter shut.

he’s so good like this—soft sounds, soft hands, soft eyes—and you move like you want to milk every last drop from him. you want to feel him leaking out of you all day, dripping down your thighs while you tidy up the house.

he kisses you different when you’re on top. like he’d lay down and die for you if you told him to.

“oh—god, sweetheart, you feel so good,” he moans, big hands gripping your waist as he helps you grind down on his cock, meeting your rhythm.

“so—so full, choso,” you whine, arms wrapped around his neck. each thrust hits deep inside your cervix, making your whole body shiver.

he nuzzles into your neck, voice wrecked. “please, ma’am—baby—can i cum inside you?”

his breath is hot against your skin. his voice is almost a sob.

you nod, already gone. completely cockdrunk, all thoughts melted down to one single need.

“mhm! yes—fuck, please! need it, choso—fill me up, please!”

and oh, does he ever.

he picks up the pace at your words, hips snapping upward with a hunger that makes your thighs tremble. he pulls back just enough to look at you and those soft, sleepy eyes meet yours, wide and glazed with need, like he’s falling apart under you.

you moan louder, the kitchen echoing with the slick, rhythmic plap of his cock driving up into your soaked cunt.

“oh—oh my—‘m cumming! don’t stop—just like that,” you gasp, voice ragged, your whole body tightening around him.

he grunts, low and desperate, fucking up into you over and over until it crashes over both of you—a wave of heat, of pleasure, of something that feels dangerously like love.

you cry out, gushing around him, and he groans as he spills inside, cock twitching deep as he coats your walls in thick, milky white.

oops.

you hadn’t meant to let him finish inside.

but with the way he looked at you—eyes all soft and sweet and yours—how the hell were you supposed to tell him no?

six months later, you’ve got a belly like a watermelon and a glow that definitely isn’t from the sun.

your neighbors are absolutely scandalized.

your belly’s too round, too visible, and your husband’s been gone far too long. mrs. kusakabe from two houses down stops bringing you pies. someone leaves a bible on your doorstep. you put it under the wobbly leg of your kitchen table and keep right on sinning.

choso’s much more handsy now. protective. he rubs your belly absentmindedly while you drink your coffee. always tells you things like “you need rest” and “don’t bend over like that, baby, i’ll get it.”

he still calls you ma’am sometimes, just to make you flustered. it works. it always works.

you don’t talk about the future much. it’s the war years, after all. everything’s temporary. everyone’s waiting for something. but sometimes you catch him staring at you—hands on your stomach, eyes soft— like he’s dreaming about something he won’t say out loud.

you’d ask him, but you’re too busy bouncing on his cock in the back of the delivery truck.

priorities.

currently, you’ve got your knees on the kitchen tile and your mouth full of cock when the front door opens.

choso doesn’t hear it at first—well, he doesn’t, but he’s too far gone to care.

his head’s tipped back, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other buried in your hair like he’s afraid you might vanish. he tastes like sweat and sin, salty on your tongue, heavy on your lips.

you hum around him and he moans. soft and strangled, like he’s trying not to say your name out loud—and his hips stutter like he’s already close.

you’ve gotten very good at this, in the past few months.

“jesus,” he whispers, low and reverent. “fuck, sweetheart, you’re—”

“—what in the goddamn hell is this?!”

ah. there he is.

you blink up—cock still in your mouth—and there stands your husband. boots still dusty, duffel bag on the floor, mouth hanging open like he’s walked into a church on fire.

he looks older. thinner. confused. which is fair, considering the image in front of him: you, barefoot and six months pregnant, hunched over the milkman’s dick like it’s breakfast.

you pull off with a lewd pop and wipe your mouth on the back of your hand.

“oh,” you say brightly, “you’re back.”

naoya—yes, that naoya—just gapes. his eyes flick from your swollen belly to the outline of choso’s cock. still glistening, still very much at attention to the little drool stain on your chin.

his face turns a shade of red you’ve only ever seen on overcooked meat.

“what the fuck,” he sputters. “what the fuck is going on here?!”

you raise your eyebrows. “thought that was obvious, honey.”

“you—he—jesus christ, i’ve been gone eighteen months—”

“and not a single letter,” you chirp, standing slowly, smoothing your skirt down over your belly. “not even a postcard. how’s toga, by the way?”

that hits. his eyes go wide. “you—you knew about toga?”

“knew?” you laugh. “are you dumb? naoya, she used to borrow my curling iron. she left her girdle in our guest bathroom.”

“you’re—you’re blowing the milkman?!”

“technically i was milking the milkman,” you say with a wink, “but yes, naoya. i was.”

choso, to his credit, looks faintly apologetic—but mostly just embarrassed to have his dick still out.

he tucks himself back into his trousers and clears his throat, adjusting his uniform like he’s about to apologize for tracking dirt in, not for getting sucked off in someone else’s kitchen.

“sir,” he says awkwardly, nodding once. “i—uh—didn’t know you’d be home.”

naoya just sputters.

you walk over and grab the milk from the counter like it’s just another thursday.

“we’ll need another bottle next week, choso,” you say sweetly, patting your belly. “baby’s been craving milk. and something tells me i’ll be thirsty again real soon.”

“yes, ma’am,” choso says, smiling now. the fucker actually blushes.

you glance back at naoya, who’s still frozen in the doorway, fists clenched and eyes bulging.

“well,” you sigh, “guess we should talk about living arrangements.”

“what?!”

“you’re not staying here,” you say, matter-of-fact. “baby’s due in october. choso’s already built the crib.”

“you cheated on me, y/n!”

you blink. then laugh.

“oh, sweetheart. you don’t get to play the victim. you were balls-deep in the neighbor before the draft notice even showed up.”

he opens his mouth to argue. then closes it.

“now,” you say, stepping forward, tone clipped and cheery, “you can collect your things and sleep at the boarding house, or you can keep screaming and let the whole street know your wife traded up while you were off diddling the neighbor and forgetting how a return address works.”

choso stands taller behind you, quiet but solid.

he doesn’t say a word—doesn’t need to.

he’s already won.

naoya says nothing. just picks up his bag and stomps out the way he came, muttering curses and dragging months worth of humiliation behind him.

you and choso look at each other for a moment. then burst out laughing.

later, after dinner, which he cooks, of course—your favorite—you curl up next to him on the couch, belly round and content. he strokes your hair, kisses your temple, presses his palm to the soft swell of your stomach.

“you ever think about…makin’ it official?” he asks, voice low. “after the baby comes and all.”

you smile.

“what, make an honest man out of you, hmm?”

he chuckles. “figure i already am, seein’ as you’ve been usin’ my last name at the doctor’s.”

you grin. “only ‘cause it’s prettier than his.”

choso leans in and kisses you slow. sweet. like nothing’s ever rushed, even when it is.

“i’ll get you a ring,” he whispers against your mouth. “soon as i finish the rebuilding the porch.”

you hum, tugging him closer by the collar.

“fine,” you murmur, nose brushing his, “but i’m keepin’ the milkman fantasy. you still owe me for last week, cho.”

he smirks. all lazy confidence and flushed cheeks—and runs a hand down your thigh.

“ma’am, i think i got another bottle in the truck.”

you laugh and then straddle him right there on the couch, belly and all.

and you ride him like the whole town isn’t already talking.

the porch doesn’t get finished that week.

but the crib is perfect. and so is the baby.

mrs. kusakabe eventually drops off a pie again in the spring.

you wave from the porch. choso’s shirtless, rocking your baby girl in one arm and drinking from the milk bottle with the other.

a scandal, yes.

but a well-fed one.

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n again: side lore, growing up people told my mom i was the milkman’s baby because i’m a pale latina and not the same shade as my dad 😭😭

taglist: @bistrocatxx @spacebabe02 @1stqueenofhell @raveszn @chr1ss1etina @desirehorizon @satorupi @besidesjustmyamour @ha1lstorm

[clamousera]

۶ৎ JJK Men reads thirsty tweets! with nanami.

nanami sits alone in the studio chair, perfectly straight posture, tailored suit crisp and completely out of place against the chaotic neon set behind him. he glances once at the camera, then at the laminated card in his hand. he already looks mildly annoyed, which is to say—normal.

a producer’s voice chimes off-camera. “we’re rolling. go ahead whenever you’re ready, mr. nanami.”

he exhales slowly through his nose. “very well.”

he stares at the card. hesitates. “…i don’t have twitter.”

a beat. he looks dead into the camera. “i’d like to make that very clear before we begin.” he adjusts his tie like he’s about to read a public statement.

tweet #1

“nanami can fold me like his damn button-up. that’s all. thank you.”

he pauses. blinks. “…i don’t even iron my own shirts.”

he flips the card over as if that’ll change the content. “is this… meant to be complimentary?”

someone off-camera snickers. nanami exhales again. “next one.”

tweet #2

“nanami is so fine i’d let him ruin my credit score. respectfully.”

his brow furrows. “that’s a terrible idea.”

he says it so plainly, so sincerely, it’s even funnier. “why would you let someone jeopardize your financial future because you find them attractive?”

a pause. “…thank you, though.” he moves on.

tweet #3

“he got that 9-5 then beat-it-up-after-office-hours kind of energy. mr. nanami if you’re free after your shift pls rearrange my organs.”

he stares. stares longer. “…i have no medical training.”

he places the card down slowly. “also, i’m not sure what the first half of that sentence means. are they referring to combat?”

off-camera: “no, sir.”

“right.” he straightens the cuffs of his sleeves. “then i don’t think i’m the kind of person they’re looking for.”

tweet #4

“nanami gives off real daddy energy and i’d like to be adopted immediately.”

he tilts his head, confused. “i wasn’t aware i had children.”

he reads it again, then mutters, “...do they mean it literally?”

off-camera: “uh. not really.”

“hm.” he sits in silence for a second. “…i don’t think i’m comfortable being called ‘daddy’ by strangers. but i appreciate the… sentiment.”

tweet #5

“if nanami told me to stop breathing i’d ask if he wanted me to do it slow or fast.”

he blinks. “don’t do that.”

there’s a beat. he looks directly at the camera again, calm but serious. “please keep breathing.”

tweet #6

“i’d let nanami spit in my mouth and say thank you. sir.”

he pinches the bridge of his nose. “…what is wrong with you people?”

off-camera laughter erupts. nanami lets the silence hang, composing himself. “i’m not sure when spitting became something people… enjoyed. but it’s unhygienic. and odd.”

he folds the card and sets it aside like it personally offended him. “i don’t believe in disrespecting others’ interests, but i do believe in dental health.”

final thoughts?

nanami straightens in his seat. “i’d like to apologize to any viewers expecting insightful commentary.”

he adjusts his watch. “i now understand why my students were laughing when they said i ‘go viral for breathing.’ i thought it was just a turn of phrase.”

a pause. “...also. please stop calling me daddy.” he stands. buttons his coat. bows slightly.

“thank you for your time.” and just like that, nanami kento walks off set—thoroughly disturbed, vaguely flustered, and still somehow more composed than anyone else ever will be.

۶ৎ notes, puh lease im laughing at my own writing...

[clamousera]

nanami vs. kento

there is a difference between nanami and kento.

nanami is all suits and odd patterns. he is quiet, reserved, but his fashion so loud. nanami takes great care to steam his suits. ironing would damage the expensive material. wool is to be steamed and hand washed. denim is hung to dry so that it doesn't shrink in the dryer.

oh, but kento discards those patterned ties and pinchy shoes once he's through the door. after long days, they feel more like a choker than a tie.

sometimes, even, when you stay over, the suit is certainly discarded. if kento wasn't fast enough, you would rip it off for him. oh, but the harness. the harness would stay on. bronze and muscle and the addition of leather with beautiful blonde hair you loved tugging. you love pulling at his harness when he's on top of you, so big and—oh, he just remembered. he should get you more hair ties.

oh, but nanami. nanami would never do such things.

you stroll side by side in public, maybe nanami a few steps ahead of you. not in the way that he was superior to you as wives would trail after their husbands' shadows five paces behind. no, you are equals, but you are decidedly better.

nanami lets you turn off your rampant mind, guiding you to where your curse was located. he knows you perform best with a clear mind and without the loom of anxiety over your shoulder. there is no hand holding, no gentle pushes from the small of your back, but there are secret glances and stares you tease him about when you're on your own.

oh, but kento would tickle you. throw you onto the couch and crawl on top of you with a goofy, delighted smile. it was only after becoming a brick layerer of hard-won trust and many “is this okay’s?” that kento knew he could offer more of himself. perhaps eighty percent of himself. he was wrong. one hundred was just fine.

kento fantasized about your smile and the newest addition to your closet and how pretty it looked on you. nanami, with a little give in the stick up his ass, kept a tab of solitaire open on his work computer. the minutes had become hours. who could blame him? there were some old files on the work system he was curious about browsing, too.

glancing around him, nanami suddenly more kento, clicks on the folder titled "CLASS_009"

organized into subfolders "Year 1, Year 2, and Year 3", kento enlarges the folders and dives into year 1. there you are. much younger, hair longer and frizzier, and teeth a little more crooked and skin bumpy with scars and acne. a golden feeling overwhelms him. suddenly, kento is happy gojo insisted poking his tiny Sony camera into his face so long ago. kento's mouse clicking becomes incessant.

there you are with those blue popsicles that have discontinued so long ago. there you are leaning against a tree, kento beside you, appearing to be reading a book to you. your face is covered by your hair blown by the wind, but he sees how you lean to get closer to him, but not touching. how silly the two of you were.

just friends, kento recalls explaining to an old woman when he was scouting an area with you, and your sudden quietness he read as nervousness for the mission. kento scoffs. he was a dumb little punk.

year 2, you appear distant. there's a photo of the two of you standing beside each other stiffly, each of you holding several papers kento recalls were still hot from the printer.

class rewards, kento muses while zooming into the paper you were holding.

highest standing in cursed studies and highest standing in intro to sorcerer strategies, the papers you were holding read. of course. yes, you were a very small class, so everyone received at least one reward by default, but you did give kento a hard time. you were his competition, and you made him better.

kento shifts his mouse, dragging the image while zoomed in to read his own reward.

highest standing in cursed combat was the paper he held. kento smirks, thinking about all the times he pushed you to the ground. you always looked angry, complaining about how someone so skinny and with a side bang could take you down. you claimed his music made him violent, but he knew you indulged in rock, too. that was funny.

the next photo, ichiji shyly held a pile of papers, one slipping from his hands, the only visible one reading highest standing in cursed history, first year written beneath in smaller text. kento chuckles. how ichiji of him.

the next photo was of the three of you with your rewards, poor ichiji squished between the two of you, like a child caught between his fighting parents.

evidently, the tension between you and kento was from the absence of the third student in your class. in those remaining years, kento was more nanami than kento, an icy veneer frosted over him.

there was no more listening to punk rock in his room. there was no more sneaking to the convenience store after curfew. there was only staring pointedly at his toes, murmuring to you about missions, and the dodging of the bright elephant in the room that was brutally sliced in half.

it was easier to be professional, distant, and cool. kento had presented himself as nanami. there was very little fun between the two of you, nanami's time well spent between his upperclassman, leaving you to the first years.

kento quickly exits the folder system when he hears familiar footsteps enter the staff office.

"time is up," you say warmly from the doorway. "let's go home."

"you can be silly with me." your smile was so sweet and so hurt. if he wasn't so terribly in love with you, he would look away, but he can also see each detail in your eye. each individual speck and colour no one else gets to see but him, and especially how tears began to gather along your waterline. from the pain or the strain on your relationship, he wasn't sure.

"i want to know all versions of you, nanami kento." you play with his fingertips. they're more square and wider compared to your tinier and more rectangular fingertips. it's the only part of you you could move.

"i want to know who you've become. come back to me. come back. come back." you're crying now, your chest heaving as you gasp for air. tears are forced out of kento's eyes as he holds you close. it must hurt, your heart and your ribs. several of them are broken.

four years as a salaryman, nanami mused. four years away from you. when he returned, he was not kento, but nanami. pinchy shoes and patterned ties.

now, you laid on the ground, bloody and bruised.

it is nanami kento that promises you he will give you all of him: his body, his mind, his heart.

today, it is nanami kento who holds you, smiles at you, and whispers goodnight and flicks off the light with a kiss to your forehead.

he wants this to last. he wants to make up for all the times he had just been nanami, and not your nanami kento.

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