chvnnie

[chvnnie]

mappa did not have to make him this cute in this panel they wana fuck him so bad

[chvnnie]

don’t worry I threw away the key, he won’t be getting out again

HIS HAIRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

@chvnnie take UR man away i cannot do this lock him up right now

[chvnnie]

this is everything to me

adorable curly quokka feat. choco chip

#han jisung loml

[chvnnie]

it’s 1000% my fault guys 😔 i go to sleep and have ONE dream and ALL OF A SUDDEN

hey everyone. just found out that @chvnnie is solely responsible for the jisung pics we were attacked with.

#this is my public apology

[chvnnie]

little secrets ᡣ𐭩 minors dni

cw: smut!!! fem reader, mentions of oral (f), fingering, overstim, (and they were) roommate!nanami, not proof read (pls be nice)

an: my first jjk fic <3 pls enjoy my word vomit

It was smaller than the length of your pointer finger. Tiny, pink, easy to tuck between your fitted sheet and the bed. Stowed away, hid so that nobody would ever know about it other than you. The hiding spot was also convenient — easy to grab while you’re kicking the comforter off. Too hot. Too pent up. Just stretch your hand back behind your pillows and there it is. The tiny pink toy in a gold silk bag. Charged, happily humming in your hand with the click of a button.

Your perfect little secret. A reliable one, something you know that is always there for you.

Until it’s not.

The bed frame, four posts and all, shakes as you tear it apart. Pillows scattered across the ground, sheets crumpled up and thrown at the foot of the bed. You’ve lifted the mattress, shone a flashlight in the spaces underneath. Not a single glimpse of it.

Panic starts to set in your chest. It weighs heavily on your stomach, which has started to flip. Could you have left it in the bathroom when you went to wash it? Was it accidentally thrown in with your laundry? Though you know all these possibilities are unlikely, you find yourself desperately trying to cling to them. To justify the disappearance.

There’s no point in destroying your room even more. It isn’t here. It had to have been misplaced. There’s no other explanation for what could have happened. It seems in your frantic panic and annoyance at what could have been, you forgot an important fact.

You’re not the only one that knows about your little pink secret.

But don’t worry — you’ll be reminded half past midnight, a hand clasped over your mouth and core vibrating violently.

It did end up in your laundry basket, tangled in your sheets, tagging along for the weekly wash. The second you had everything set up is when your phone buzzed. How could you have forgotten that you were supposed to meet a friend?

“Kento?” You called the second you hung up the phone, completely abandoning the sheets. The golden bag that didn’t catch your eye.

“Hm?” He responded, not bothering to look up from his book.

“I have to leave, like, now. Can you start my laundry for me?”

With a huffed laugh, he rolls his eyes. You couldn’t just toss it in quickly — no, he knows once you’re set on something, all other tasks cease to exist. It’s endearing. “Sure.”

“Thank you.” You’re not projecting your voice anymore, passing by where he’s sat in the living room. “I owe you.”

It was careless not to notice the golden bag against your white sheets. How did you miss that? Such a stark contrast, it should have been easy to catch your eye. Kento clicks his tongue, gently grabbing the bag by the drawstrings and pulling it out of the heap of sheets. He places it on the dryer, trying to figure out where he should put it. On your bed? Maybe back in the basket, once the sheets return?

The tension in your house was thick all the time. An obvious attraction between roommates that shouldn’t be there. For months, you both lived with it, ignoring the feelings that would bubble up when he loosened his tie after a long day, large hands flexing around the knot. Or when you would walk out of your room in the morning, stretching, tee shirt hiking up your thighs. The day Kento caught a glimpse of your panties — white and sheer — was when he realized he wasn’t as strong as he thought he was. Though his expression remained neutral, eyes flicking up quickly, he knew he was weak. Unable to resist.

It wasn’t until one night. Too many glasses of wine, giggles in the living room as you both watched some shitty movie after a shitty week. You watched the lights from the television dance on his face, sharp nose more prominent than ever. What must it be like to sit— “Ken?”

He hums softly, head rolling towards you. “Yes?”

“I’m really hot.” You say. It’s true; the alcohol went straight to your cheeks, and the blanket you’re under felt suffocating. But god, there was this heat in your lower stomach. The one you feel every time you touch the gold bag, butterflies scattering as the sun pounds down on them. You get that feeling when you look at Kento. When he’s this close, the smell of red wine and a woody cologne makes your body feel like summer.

Eyes flicker to your lap, his hand following. He pulls the blanket away. “Better?”

You shake your head. “No. Not at all.”

“I can see what the thermostat is set on—“

Thank the heavens for wine, and the unbridled confidence that comes from it. That night you straddled his lap, fingers carding through his perfectly styled hair. That night he got to taste you, words slurring when his tongue worked over your folds. That night was a pivoting moment, and Kento wasn’t just your hot roommate that you fantasized about anymore.

It’s been almost a year since that night, and you two have found yourself craving each other far too often. He’s stopped dating, noticing nobody holds your attention quite like you. It’s hard to acknowledge anyone else when you’re around — and he doesn’t want to, either.

The bag ended up in his room. He knows you haven’t been using it as often anymore. Just like him, you’ve found yourself far too enamored to even want anything other than him.

He walked by your room as you were searching for that toy. Mumbling in frustration, huffing and puffing as you came up empty again and again. Maybe it’s time to return it.

You like the third highest setting. Intense, but not overwhelming, pressed right to your clit. He watched as your eyelids fluttered at the first brush of it, a hand softly placed over your mouth. Thumb stroking your cheek. Only a few more seconds before he gets to see your pretty eyes, brows furrowed in confusion. Blinking up at him.

It’s an alarming sensation. Rem ripped away, you wake with a gasp. The inside of your thighs are already quaking a bit, held apart by his knees. Keeping your legs nice and spread for him.

“Hello, sweetheart.” He says in a low whisper. The distress starts to melt once you recognize it’s him, sinking into the feeling. “Sleep well?”

You moan against his hand, eyes rolling back just slightly. God, the knot in your stomach is so tight already. Has the vibratior been on you that long? Or was it being woken up like this that’s rapidly pushed you to the edge of your cliff.

Either way — you can’t guarantee you’ll last much longer.

“You’re so pretty when you sleep.” Kento whispers, pressing a gentle kiss in between your brows. “I couldn’t spend another night away from you. I hope you don’t mind.”

It’s impossible to argue with Kento even when he doesn’t have a fucking toy pressed to your clit. The feeling starts to get more intense when you feel a hand on your inner thigh, slowly working its way up.

“You must have gotten hot again. Sleeping in only your panties? It’s like you were trying to provoke me, darling.”

The hand ghosts over your folds, tips of his fingers barely even touching you. Even in your tired, dizzy state, you quickly realize what he was going for. Your hands come up to his arm, nails digging in as you shake your head. If he presses that button—

Too late.

Not one click. Not two. Three. The second highest setting, the vibrations ripping a raw scream from your throat. He chuckles a bit, fingers going to plunge inside you.

“Oh my.” They slid in with ease. His pace is brutal off the back, quickly moving in and out. Brushing against every part of you that craves him, that needs him. “See, this is why you should stay in my room. I’d never let my girl go to bed so worked up.”

Tears sting. Sweat forms at your hairline. Ecstasy building so fast and so relentlessly that you have no time to think. The world is Kento — nothing else matters.

You grunt against his hand, panting pathetically against it. Your nails draw blood, bruises sure form. Good. You hope the marks never fade.

A fat tear rolls down your cheek, quickly brushed away by his thumb. His smile is gentle, warm. A contrast from how roughly he’s treating your cunt. He’s filthy, rough, treating you like the little pink vibrator stuffed against your clit. A toy. His toy.

But, god, it’s the affection in his gaze that sends you to the brink. Raw screams, tears that are quickly wiped away. Your body twitches as you soak the clean sheets, his sweatpants. Everything covered in you.

Kento quickly withdraws his fingers, moving the vibrator from your clit. His hand properly cups your face, unrestricted moans filling the apartment. You’re fisting his white shirt, hands so small compared to his large frame.

“Easy, sweetheart.” He peppers kisses across your cheeks, licking the salty tears away. “There you go, there’s my girl.”

His girl. You’re hoping that one day, you truly will be — Kento knows you are already.

You look up at him, the waves of pleasure finally starting to numb. With a smile, you hit your bottom lip out. Silently asking for a kiss.

He beams at you, very happy to fulfill the request. Lips pressed against yours, you hum happily into the kiss. Content. Wonderfully achy. A feeling that only comes when you’re with Kento.

As you lose yourself in the kiss, he reaches for the little pink toy, and clicks it on again.

#chvnnie recs

[chvnnie]

[chvnnie]

shaggy seungmin really does something to me—

everyone thank @chvnnie for what i’m currently working on

#my influence #get this shit out of my face (but not really i’m drooling) #the excitement has me giggly #chvnnie moots

[chvnnie]

@rachalixie is a pretty blend of new york and montreal

tag yourself ; cities

paris - soft smiles, blooming flowers, lots of sunlight, stories swirling in your mind, cursive letters, piercing eyes, whispers filled with secrets

new york - gives zero fucks about others’ opinions, perfect eyebrows, no sleep, a bit sad inside, huge equal rights activist, red lipstick, artsy af, string lights, lots of coffee, high waisted jeans

london - new ideas, old architecture, a soft voice, flickering candles, intelligent eyes, loud laughter, dancing alone in your room, big dreams, hot tea

montréal - comfy socks, french bakeries, lover of books, bold thoughts, wide smiles, kinda broken, cute jackets, warm hot chocolate, cobblestone streets

tokyo - aesthetic af, pen sketches, bright colors, bold fashion, small yet powerful smiles, striving for greatness, cute glasses

rome - loves museums, kind words, tangled earbuds, a bit in love, bright eyes, artsy photos, likes history, open windows, probably sings in the shower

[chvnnie]

the way my jaw was dropped, i was breathless, i’m a wreck—

'AND STILL, WE STAND' NANAMI KENTO: PART ONE

summary. as a girl, you spent a lot of time dreaming about southron princes. the only problem is…none of those dreams consisted of marrying king aegon’s bastard son. | wc. 2k+

cw/ tw. arranged marriage, political marriage, angst, hurt/comfort, bastard prince nanami, mentioned past relationships, princess reader, original characters, game of thrones au, intended for 18+ readers

an. enjoy what i've stalled posting. also daemon is not to be confused with hotd daemon. this is daemon blackfyre:3 reblogs are appreciated!

On the morning of his arrival, your mother helps you into your best dress, Tully blue with lace trim, and sits you down at your vanity to put pins in your hair—a hairstyle to match those of King’s Landing. Lady Alys of Riverrun is a soft, gentle woman whose love runs long and deep for her children, but there’s fire in her eyes that’d sway the fiercest dragon when she whispers, “Family, duty, honor. Remember that, my sweet.” 

Those words play a steady drum in your chest when you stand in the courtyard with the rest of your family, your younger brothers restless from the heat and excitement about meeting a Southron prince, that it’s almost contagious.

Only, when he steps off his horse to stand before you—a train of black and red banners flying high behind him and Prince Daemon at his side—is he nothing like the princes from the songs.

(Not that there are any songs about Kento Targaryen that the people sing.)

“Your Grace,” Lord Tully greets, bowing with a hand at his chest. “This is my daughter.”

Your thumb presses into your palm when the Prince’s eyes sweep over you, stomach knotting uncontrollably.

There should be more joy in this moment, more of the girlish thoughts about golden-haired princes that often consume you, more hope that your union isn’t a tragic one. But doubt silences it when the Prince doesn’t kiss your hand or shower you with praises about your beauty aside from pleasantries and a solemn expression made of stone—never have you seen a man look more like he’s about to meet the Stranger than his future lady-wife. 

“My lady.” His body is stiff, and his lips are thin. The words sound stilted and almost burdensome on his tongue, heavy with unspoken disdain.

No, he’s nothing close to what the stories say about charming men with beguiling smiles. He’s rude, and you find he’d send your heart hammering in your chest with his soft eyes and broad shoulders if he didn’t scowl so much and often.

(Because there are no smiles for you.)

Love will come in time; that’s what your mother told you.

But he hardly seems to like you.

The disappointment lodges in your throat, and you do your best to swallow around it. This, you know, has always been your fate: the oldest do not marry for love, so the youngest might get the chance to.

Family. Duty. Honor.

You will do as duty commands. You will marry in front of the people, cloaked in black and red, and give the Prince heirs, even if it is not how you dreamt it.

At dinner in the Great Hall, you hear all kinds of whispers.

He's hardly a dragon, the bolder ones say. Bastard, others whisper under their breath. And in less than a sennight, you’re meant to call him husband; a broody husband who’s spent the remainder of the evening quietly staring into his mug full of ale and refusing to acknowledge your existence beside him.

It’s unbecoming of a prince, and you try not to let your displeasure show by drawing in an uneasy breath and raising your own glass to your lips.

After a few refills of Arbor Gold, you attempt to find common ground, to be civil, to test the waters of what it means to be a dutiful wife.

“I hope you are enjoying Riverrun, my lord.”

Kento’s fingers thrum along the table. “It’s not the capital.”

You purse your lips, hands bunching in your lap. “No, I imagine not. It smells better here, I should think.”

His mouth twitches, but there’s little humor behind it.

“You can call me by my name,” he tells you. “We’re to be married, after all.”

“Of course…Kento.” 

His name feels odd on your tongue, too intimate for what’s or what’s not between you; a gap wider than the Narrow Sea, and you’re unsure how to cross it.

(For your family, you’ll try.)

“I’m aware this isn’t a love match,” you say in hopes of breaking the tension, careful not to let your voice carry to your brother Brynden sitting two seats down the table. “But I hope we can learn to be.”

A scowl returns to his face, deeper when he turns to you, mouth twisting like he’d eaten something sour.

“What do you know about love?”

(Whatever you expected him to say—it’s not that.)

You don’t think they’re words meant to hurt, but they smart just the same.

“More than a bastard,” you hiss, regretting it immediately. It’s no outstanding feat to figure out King Aegon isn’t the best father, although nobody is brave enough to breathe that truth into existence. And you managed to remind Kento of this in so few words.

“No, I’m sure bastards know nothing of it.” And then he’s gone, disappearing from the hall without waiting for you to find the right thing to say.

Since you spoke your vows before the Septon, he hasn't smiled once—not that your husband is known to smile—or said a word to you. It leaves you with little else to do other than to think about the kiss he gave you what feels like hours ago, his lips softer than the barbs they speak.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”

“And take you for my lady and wife.”

“One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

It’s a wife’s right to think about her husband’s mouth if she wants and the look on his face after—dazed and somewhat rattled. He felt it, too; you know he did.

You’re careful not to touch your mouth afterward, but there’s a secret smile on your mother’s face during the feast as if she already knows.

(A kiss—you’re first outside of those on the hand from playing princess and knights as a girl—is much easier than talking because you’ve both become pretty good with sharp words.)

Besides the gruff declaration that there’ll be no bedding ceremony—the silent relief you’d felt about not having men rip at your skirts and carry you to your chambers—you watch your new husband brood in the corner from where you sit at the high table. His head nodding every so often to the Northern Lord at his ear.

You dance with your brothers to distract yourself, laughing when Brynden moves you around the dance floor with little grace and ruffling little Edmyn’s wild red hair when he tells you how beautiful you look in your silk dress.

“Can you believe I get to call a prince my brother?” he says, looking up from his feet to beam at you. “He said he’d teach me how to use a sword before you leave.”

“I’m sure Mother was pleased.”

He gives you a sheepish smile and stares at his feet again to count the steps. “I haven’t told her yet.”

“And your maester?”

He shakes his head.

You give a dramatic sigh. “Oh, Edmyn, what will we do with you?”

Another smile, this one wider. “Love me, I hope.”

“Always.”

There’s an ache in your chest for how much you’ll miss them, and you’re not even gone yet.

The next time you see your little brother, you wonder how much will have changed. He’ll probably be six, ready to practice the sword, almost tall enough to reach your chin, or eight and ten, and you’ll be dancing with him at his own wedding, both your brothers men grown. King’s Landing isn’t far from Riverrun, but that’s your home now; Targaryen first, Tully second.

You keep the quiver from your smile for Edmyn’s sake and let him twirl you around the dance floor one more time before you reclaim your seat at the high table. 

Alone, again. A new lord at your husband’s ear.

“I’d ask you to dance, but your feet must be tired by now,” a voice says beside you. Your head whips toward the sound, a tangled mix of curiosity and trepidation at finding Prince Daemon looking amused with his hip leaning against Prince Kento’s empty chair and watching the crowd twirl along the dance floor. Everyone seems to be enjoying the wedding festivities more than their newlywed prince and princess. 

A porcelain smile slips onto your face. “Apologies, Your Grace. Perhaps before the night ends.”

He waves a hand and takes a seat. “I doubt my brother would be too happy about me dancing with his pretty bride before he’s had a chance to do so himself.”

“He’d have to ask me first.” The words are out of your mouth before you give them much thought. Eyes round, heat instantly flushes to your face. “I’m sorry—”

Daemon shakes his head with laughter, though it does little to ease you.

“Don’t worry about my brother. He’s just upset.”

You purse your lips, knowing he’s secretly eyeing your every move, eager for weakness where you hope he finds none. “I’m sorry, your Grace?”

“Didn’t he tell you about the beautiful Highgarden rose who stole his heart?”

(What do you know about love?)

Something like jealousy swirls in your gut. “No. He hadn’t.”

He looks every bit like a dragon when he flashes an all too-sharp grin your way. “You should have seen him when he learned he was arranged to marry a little fish from the Riverlands.”

“Well, he agreed to this union, hadn’t he?”

“He did,” Daemon says. “Give him time, and maybe he’ll think of you instead when you fu—”

“Daemon.”

Your husband appears behind his brother, face unreadable. 

“Oh, little brother. I was just getting acquainted with my new sweet sister.”

“I’m sure you’ve achieved boring her instead,” he says gruffly, asking you for a dance in the same breath.

Daemon tips his wine glass toward you before you walk away. “Perhaps I’ll get that dance later, after all.”

Kento’s hand tightens around your waist, mouth pressed into a thin line.

No, he won’t. It’s unspoken, but it’s there in the way he leads you through two songs with a watchful eye on his brother. He only loosens his grip when Daemon takes an interest in a serving girl with long blonde hair and disappears from the Great Hall with her moments later.

“What did my brother say?”

You narrow your eyes, feeling your jaw clench.

“Nothing a lady should repeat.”

(What do you know about love? You want to ask the same question, but you’re fearful of his answer.)

A soft breath leaves him. “You shouldn’t listen to the things he says. He only means to get a rise out of people. He’s done it since we were boys using sticks for swords.”

It’s an olive branch you don’t take, your head still spinning with bits and pieces about a beautiful woman from somewhere in the Reach, though not enough to fill the blanks.

“So there isn’t a High Garden rose you’d rather be dancing with than me?”

His steps falter, and he looks away. “He shouldn’t have told you that.”

“But it’s the truth.”

“That isn’t his story to tell.”

“But it’s the truth,” you insist because you’re a glutton for punishment.

“What does it matter now?” he gets out roughly, meeting your eyes finally. “I’m married to you, aren’t I?”

You needn’t have asked the question, for the answer is written all over his face.

(More than a bastard. No, he might know a few things.)

For his heart will never be yours.

#chvnnie fic recs #well goddamn!!! #my heart aches for more #imma reread this brb

[chvnnie]

my pocket size boba ball

recording Jisung is perfect

#han jisung loml

[chvnnie]

a/n: no smut! just some angst w a somewhat happy ending! idk it just came to me! bye!

The water droplets that cling to your back stick you to the bathroom door. Hair too damp, the water spilling down your nude body and dripping to the floor. Plop, plop, plop as if the liquid has a heartbeat of its own. Eyes shut, you focus on the soft sound to slow your breathing. Maybe, just maybe, if you try hard enough, you can evaporate with the water.

Anything would be better than this.

There’s a dull knock on the other side of the door. His head lulling back against the wood, level with yours. The sound of his breathing is too loud, drowning out your treasured drops of water.

“Are you ready to talk to me?”

Your eyes open, red and stinging from the shampoo you lathered in just moments ago. Purposely not rinsing properly, you let it roll down your face. Seep into your eyes. It was nice, a distraction from the feeling of your heart being ripped from your rib cage.

It beats on the other side of the door.

He sighs, and there’s another thud. As if he’s turned, forehead now pressed against the wood. “Baby, just say something.”

The taste on your tongue. Mouthwash burns it, yet that name overpowers its strength. Baby. It makes your stomach churn. Your lip trembles, nose wobbling along with it. If tears fall, it’s the shampoo.

It’s been days since you haven’t fought. Everything. Everything requires a war, the fight not stopping until you’re both broken and bloodied. Voices raw, achy. Heads throbbing. There’s been little reprieve.

Tonight was the night your white flag was raised. When he came home late, tie loosened and curls threaded as if fingers danced through them. He greeted you with a kiss to your cheek before dropping his stuff on the unused kitchen table. It took you a moment, too consumed in washing the dishes, for you to notice.

“It’s after eight.” You say, turning off the water.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got caught up in something.”

“For like, three and a half hours?” It’s impossible to stop the chuckle of disbelief. “It isn’t even your busy season.”

You know him better than yourself. Like the back of your hand, everything about him etched into your brain. Your entire soul, flesh, blood. Without even looking, you know he’s chewing his cheek, unfastening his cuff links. “Can we not do this tonight, please?”

“Not a text, not a call—“

“I’m so tired.”

“So am I.” Your words catch in your throat, sobs on the precipice. The last bit of energy you have is used to stomp them down. “You could have at least told me—“

“What do you think I was doing?” What is heavier in his tone — the pain or the frustration? “Do you think I was cheating? Off fucking someone else?”

It almost shames you, the fact that it did cross your mind. There are no other signs that point to that, nothing to really give you reason to think that. It’s the build up — the weeks of back and forth, never finding a middle ground unless he’s buried inside you. You’re so fucking exhausted. It would almost be easier to think there was another woman than to admit what it actually is.

Even thinking it feels like swallowing glass.

“You do.” He scoffs, throwing his tie on the table. “You really do.”

“Chan—“

“I fucking love you.” His voice is strained, tears like a waterfall. “Don’t you get that?”

“I don’t!” You snap back, forcefully removing the rubber cleaning gloves. The fall in the sink with a splash. “Do you really think fighting every night is love? This push and this pull, I’m so fucking sick of it.” You turn to the staircase, anxiety building in your chest so quickly. You need to get out of here, to get away from all of this.

As your foot hits the first step, the glass shatters. Your ribs cracked open, raw and exposed.

“I want a divorce.”

How can he expect you to talk to him after he says something like that? You replay the moment in your mind over and over again, the words louder each goddamned time. With a shaky breath, your hands cover your face. Nails in your scalp. Numb.

Chan is sniffling. What you don’t see on the other side of the door is the waves of regret. Salty and bitter, twisting around his ankles to pull him deep. Those four fucking words. They made you still, body immediately tense. The mere seconds you stood there felt like eons. Right when his hand reached out, ready to take it all back, you climb up. All too quick.

Why did he say something he didn’t really mean? For you, he would bring the moon to earth. Hang the stars above your bed. Crawl into the depths of the earth and break it down from the inside, watching it collapse with you. He’s tried, many times, to describe his love for you and nothing can come close. It’s bigger than him.

Bigger than this.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, choking softly on his tears. “I don’t know why I said it. I just—“ his inhale is shaky, like he’s unable to fully catch his breath. “—I don’t even know. Baby, please, please come out.”

Your entire soul. The start of time and the end of it. Every planet that ever was, that ever will be. No matter how hard you push, how badly you want to step away.

When the handle turns, he falls to his knees.

Shards of glass pierce your skin from head to toe, digging deeper when the agony he’s feeling hits you. It’s written across his face, etched into his gaze. Sorry. Sorry isn’t close to enough.

You tilt your head down, looking at your husband for the first time in hours. This isn’t the same man that left your house this morning; jaded, empty. This is the man you fell in love with.

“I’m sorry.” He cries, bowing down until his red cheek is flush against your foot. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

Despite the words that have seeped into the walls around you, the foundation of your home all but quaking from the hate and anger that it’s been pelted with. Despite the fact that your heart lay, covered in glass and bled out on the floor next to him. You believe him.

If he really meant it, he would have taken his ring off. 

#skz angst #stray kids angst #bang chan angst #chan angst

[chvnnie]

my favorite was in line for skz when we were like 👀 and it was extra awkward but we did it anyway!

hey. hey. do you. have any. perhaps. thoughts. about minho.

FUNNY YOU SHOULD I ASK I WAS QUITE LITERALLY JUST THINKING ABOUT NOEASY ERA MINHO, SPECIFICALLY CHEESE MV MINHO.

there’s just. something about that motorcycle.

the leather vest, the way his hair is so perfectly slicked back. the way the green light of the bar highlights his feature perfectly, sharp jaw nudging against your collarbones as he looses himself in your neck.

sharp teeth dig into the skin, only soothed by the jolting of his tongue. the marks deepening in color. minho commits time to making sure of it.

it was a risky move — his larger hand in yours, tugged out the backdoor. through the rows of cars until you found the motorcycle you’re all too familiar with.

he chuckles when you pull at his shirt, alcohol making you needier than you should be. “are you sure this is a good idea?” the brisk late winter air pricks his neck and he’s suddenly very aware of how exposed you both are.

you hum, the hands on his shoulders gently pushing him back. the vehicle moves slightly under his weight, minho squeezing the edge of the seat to stay grounded. “straddle it.”

those two shots really gave you some confidence, huh? “your wish is my command.” he climbs onto it, leaving a little space between his lap and the handles for you. it’s lucky you wore a skirt today; hiking it up as you take a seat on him.

your clothed core rolls against his rough jeans. head rolled back in pleasure, you moan into the open air, drowned out only slightly by the music floating out of the bar. as pretty as you think minho is, he’s convinced you’re not human. how can flesh and blood be so ethereal? the marks he left on you earlier are angry. broken skin glowing under your sweat and the moonlight.

god, you just exist and minho is smitten. prepared to walk into the depths of hell if it meant a second alone with you.

“fuck, baby.” he groans, hands on your hips lifting you ever so slightly. the loss of contact makes your head snap back up, pouting at him with your plush lips. “need to feel you.”

you work quickly with his belt, letting it hit the gravel next to the bike’s tire. within seconds, his cock is out — beautifully curved and hard in your grasp.

there’s no time for prep, not when the voices of the friday night crowd are starting to filter outside. people ready to call it a night at almost midnight. pulling your panties to the side, you line your hole with the head of him, quickly sliding down despite the sting.

groaning in unison, minho grabs the nape of your neck. lips slam against yours, moving in a mess of heat and teeth and tongue. the taste of his whiskey fills your mouth, and god. god you feel far more intoxicated than you actually are thanks to him.

“that’s it.” he mumbles against your mouth, other hand quickly finding your ass. he pushes up the rest of your skirt, desperate to feel the plush of your ass against his palm. “fucking ride me like the slut you are.”

the slight degradation makes your head spin, bouncing quickly up and down on his cock. it fills you so wonderfully, head pushing against your sweet spot without much work. the night sky is dark, yet you’re seeing stars, right at the precipice of ecstasy.

“min.” you breathe into him, and he’s convinced this trashy bar parking lot is heaven. “min, i—“

letting go of your neck, his head falls between your legs. an expert on all things you, he finds your clit with ease, thumb brushing the bud in firm circles.

“let me feel it.” he encourages you, his cock twitching as his own edge approaches.

when you both cum, bodies melding into one, your screams are muffled by his lips. a sound that only he can hear, that only he can love. your hips slow, overstimulation raging up and down your spine. his kisses move to your jaw once you’ve quieted down, softly mumbling praises against it.

so consumed. so happy. so lost in each other than neither of you notice the footsteps that are growing in volume. headed straight towards the two of you.

this was shit sorry i wrote it at work



#gotta kiss the girlies before seeing skz

[chvnnie]

MAN STFU BEFORE I COME KISS YOU (again)

hey. hey. do you. have any. perhaps. thoughts. about minho.

FUNNY YOU SHOULD I ASK I WAS QUITE LITERALLY JUST THINKING ABOUT NOEASY ERA MINHO, SPECIFICALLY CHEESE MV MINHO.

there’s just. something about that motorcycle.

the leather vest, the way his hair is so perfectly slicked back. the way the green light of the bar highlights his feature perfectly, sharp jaw nudging against your collarbones as he looses himself in your neck.

sharp teeth dig into the skin, only soothed by the jolting of his tongue. the marks deepening in color. minho commits time to making sure of it.

it was a risky move — his larger hand in yours, tugged out the backdoor. through the rows of cars until you found the motorcycle you’re all too familiar with.

he chuckles when you pull at his shirt, alcohol making you needier than you should be. “are you sure this is a good idea?” the brisk late winter air pricks his neck and he’s suddenly very aware of how exposed you both are.

you hum, the hands on his shoulders gently pushing him back. the vehicle moves slightly under his weight, minho squeezing the edge of the seat to stay grounded. “straddle it.”

those two shots really gave you some confidence, huh? “your wish is my command.” he climbs onto it, leaving a little space between his lap and the handles for you. it’s lucky you wore a skirt today; hiking it up as you take a seat on him.

your clothed core rolls against his rough jeans. head rolled back in pleasure, you moan into the open air, drowned out only slightly by the music floating out of the bar. as pretty as you think minho is, he’s convinced you’re not human. how can flesh and blood be so ethereal? the marks he left on you earlier are angry. broken skin glowing under your sweat and the moonlight.

god, you just exist and minho is smitten. prepared to walk into the depths of hell if it meant a second alone with you.

“fuck, baby.” he groans, hands on your hips lifting you ever so slightly. the loss of contact makes your head snap back up, pouting at him with your plush lips. “need to feel you.”

you work quickly with his belt, letting it hit the gravel next to the bike’s tire. within seconds, his cock is out — beautifully curved and hard in your grasp.

there’s no time for prep, not when the voices of the friday night crowd are starting to filter outside. people ready to call it a night at almost midnight. pulling your panties to the side, you line your hole with the head of him, quickly sliding down despite the sting.

groaning in unison, minho grabs the nape of your neck. lips slam against yours, moving in a mess of heat and teeth and tongue. the taste of his whiskey fills your mouth, and god. god you feel far more intoxicated than you actually are thanks to him.

“that’s it.” he mumbles against your mouth, other hand quickly finding your ass. he pushes up the rest of your skirt, desperate to feel the plush of your ass against his palm. “fucking ride me like the slut you are.”

the slight degradation makes your head spin, bouncing quickly up and down on his cock. it fills you so wonderfully, head pushing against your sweet spot without much work. the night sky is dark, yet you’re seeing stars, right at the precipice of ecstasy.

“min.” you breathe into him, and he’s convinced this trashy bar parking lot is heaven. “min, i—“

letting go of your neck, his head falls between your legs. an expert on all things you, he finds your clit with ease, thumb brushing the bud in firm circles.

“let me feel it.” he encourages you, his cock twitching as his own edge approaches.

when you both cum, bodies melding into one, your screams are muffled by his lips. a sound that only he can hear, that only he can love. your hips slow, overstimulation raging up and down your spine. his kisses move to your jaw once you’ve quieted down, softly mumbling praises against it.

so consumed. so happy. so lost in each other than neither of you notice the footsteps that are growing in volume. headed straight towards the two of you.

this was shit sorry i wrote it at work



[chvnnie]

hey. hey. do you. have any. perhaps. thoughts. about minho.

FUNNY YOU SHOULD I ASK I WAS QUITE LITERALLY JUST THINKING ABOUT NOEASY ERA MINHO, SPECIFICALLY CHEESE MV MINHO.

there’s just. something about that motorcycle.

the leather vest, the way his hair is so perfectly slicked back. the way the green light of the bar highlights his feature perfectly, sharp jaw nudging against your collarbones as he looses himself in your neck.

sharp teeth dig into the skin, only soothed by the jolting of his tongue. the marks deepening in color. minho commits time to making sure of it.

it was a risky move — his larger hand in yours, tugged out the backdoor. through the rows of cars until you found the motorcycle you’re all too familiar with.

he chuckles when you pull at his shirt, alcohol making you needier than you should be. “are you sure this is a good idea?” the brisk late winter air pricks his neck and he’s suddenly very aware of how exposed you both are.

you hum, the hands on his shoulders gently pushing him back. the vehicle moves slightly under his weight, minho squeezing the edge of the seat to stay grounded. “straddle it.”

those two shots really gave you some confidence, huh? “your wish is my command.” he climbs onto it, leaving a little space between his lap and the handles for you. it’s lucky you wore a skirt today; hiking it up as you take a seat on him.

your clothed core rolls against his rough jeans. head rolled back in pleasure, you moan into the open air, drowned out only slightly by the music floating out of the bar. as pretty as you think minho is, he’s convinced you’re not human. how can flesh and blood be so ethereal? the marks he left on you earlier are angry. broken skin glowing under your sweat and the moonlight.

god, you just exist and minho is smitten. prepared to walk into the depths of hell if it meant a second alone with you.

“fuck, baby.” he groans, hands on your hips lifting you ever so slightly. the loss of contact makes your head snap back up, pouting at him with your plush lips. “need to feel you.”

you work quickly with his belt, letting it hit the gravel next to the bike’s tire. within seconds, his cock is out — beautifully curved and hard in your grasp.

there’s no time for prep, not when the voices of the friday night crowd are starting to filter outside. people ready to call it a night at almost midnight. pulling your panties to the side, you line your hole with the head of him, quickly sliding down despite the sting.

groaning in unison, minho grabs the nape of your neck. lips slam against yours, moving in a mess of heat and teeth and tongue. the taste of his whiskey fills your mouth, and god. god you feel far more intoxicated than you actually are thanks to him.

“that’s it.” he mumbles against your mouth, other hand quickly finding your ass. he pushes up the rest of your skirt, desperate to feel the plush of your ass against his palm. “fucking ride me like the slut you are.”

the slight degradation makes your head spin, bouncing quickly up and down on his cock. it fills you so wonderfully, head pushing against your sweet spot without much work. the night sky is dark, yet you’re seeing stars, right at the precipice of ecstasy.

“min.” you breathe into him, and he’s convinced this trashy bar parking lot is heaven. “min, i—“

letting go of your neck, his head falls between your legs. an expert on all things you, he finds your clit with ease, thumb brushing the bud in firm circles.

“let me feel it.” he encourages you, his cock twitching as his own edge approaches.

when you both cum, bodies melding into one, your screams are muffled by his lips. a sound that only he can hear, that only he can love. your hips slow, overstimulation raging up and down your spine. his kisses move to your jaw once you’ve quieted down, softly mumbling praises against it.

so consumed. so happy. so lost in each other than neither of you notice the footsteps that are growing in volume. headed straight towards the two of you.

this was shit sorry i wrote it at work



#skz smut #stray kids smut #lee know smut #minho smut #lee minho smut

[chvnnie]

Operation: Babymaker -- A Trip to the Tailors

When it comes to trying for a baby, Nanami Kento always works overtime. And the reader had better be ready.

Finally, the series begins...

Warnings: 18+ throughout, breeding kink, fertility/infertility discussion

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Kento had asked you not to tell him when you came off the pill.

You sat on the toilet, rolling the negative pregnancy test between your fingers, tamping down your disappointment. While you had been on the pill for years, and only off it for four months, and the logical part of you knew your cycles were not yet predictable, and knew you had not been tracking for signs of ovulation, and knew you and Kento hadn't necessarily been trying...you felt a mild twinge of worry, of "what if?" coil in your gut.

It was best Kento knew, you thought. In case you needed any...help.

You stood, wrapping the negative test, and tucking it in your bag for disposal outside of the house. You had decided; you would tell Kento you were ready for the baby he had wanted for years.

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Nanami Kento did not like surprises.

He wasn't, per se, a killjoy. Christmas gifts he wasn't expecting were lovely. You delighted him when you cooked his favourite meals. He cherished the spontaneous day-to-day joys to be found in being married to you.

Nanami Kento took no thrill from jump-scares. Nanami Kento did not like going to destroy one Curse, and being corralled by two more which needed his same brutal treatment. Nanami Kento did not like unpredictability.

Yet, he had not wished for you to tell him when you had come off the pill; when you were ready for the baby he had wanted to have with you for years. And this was for one very specific reason, because not wanting to know you were off your contraception was fundamentally contrary to the fact that Nanami Kento did not like surprises.

It was because, the only thing standing between you and Kento's powerfully ingrained urge to breed you, was the belief that you would not fall pregnant when he came inside you. That his cum would not, could not, find anything to fertilise anyway. That twisting you over and emptying his balls inside you would not end with you falling pregnant, because anything fertilised would not find a plush, ready womb to stick to anyway.

Kento felt hot, bothered, harshly quashing his sexual issues down with a stern word to himself. Still, he felt himself throb inside his boxers as he headed down the steps to his car, his tie feeling too tight, the prickle of desire running through his spine and belly.

No, thought Nanami Kento. It was best you didn't know exactly how feral he would be if he knew he could breed you until you were full of him.

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"Kento?" You called out, lost in the get-ready-hustle-bustle the following morning.

A hum of acknowledgement from the bathroom in answer. You took a deep breath, ready.

"We...should go out for lunch," you bit out, immediately chastising yourself for being such a chicken, then immediately reassuring yourself Kento would be extra-delighted to hear that you wanted to have his babies, when he had a bread basket in front of him. I'll tell him over lunch, you resolved.

Another hum of acknowledgement, a happy one. Taps running. Footsteps, and Kento appeared, pulling on a jacket. He looked at his watch.

"It would be a late lunch," he toned, slow and considered, "I've got an appointment at the Tailors this morning."

Kento raised thin eyebrows to your look of surprise, before wordlessly tapping the calender. You shot him a mulish look, unwilling to admit you had not remembered as diligently as him.

"You should come with me, then," he smiled, pressing a kiss to your hairline, "especially if I'm taking you out to lunch after."

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"Straight through, Mr.Nanami! You know where to go," sing-songed the Tailor, wizened as a walnut and wearing a tape-measure as one may wear a feather boa, in this sleek oak-pannelled old shop, about as Savile Row as Tokyo could get.

"I assume my wife can...?" Kento offered to his Tailor, who flapped his hands dismissively, ushering you through, with Kento, to a large hexagonal room, mirrored on alternate walls, the others filled with rows of suits, ties, shoes, pocket squares, cufflinks...

Businessman heaven, you thought as you brushed your fingertips smilingly along rows of expensive fabrics.

Like old friends, chatting with his Tailor, Kento undressed, folding his clothes as you sat on a velvet chaise longue, watching, in your own personal heaven. It had long-since been a desire of yours to accompany Kento here for a suit-fitting.

Stripped down to his boxers, Kento stood to attention, and you eyed him up shamelessly as the tape measure was pulled expertly around his waist, down the inside of his leg, across his shoulders. You smiled to yourself, biting your lip. The Tailor caught your eye with a knowing twinkle.

"I think Mrs.Nanami is enjoying herself," the Tailor teased, and you blushed the mortified blush of having been caught looking. Kento looked at you sideways, his face impassive and stern, giving himself away with a wink and a proud clench of his jaw.

"Chosen the material already, haven't you, Mr.Nanami?" The Tailor said airily, as the shop bell tinkled down the corridor and a voice called out, "Yes, yes...please do peruse the shirts, I'll just be a moment." The Tailor walked away, leaving you and Kento alone as he walked over to the shirt rail.

You stood to head over, your eyes fixed on a shirt you wanted Kento to try, and your handbag was bumped off the chaise longue, its contents scattering to Kento's bare feet.

You met head-to-head as you both bent down to gather the mess...and Kento paused, stunned, his hand hovering over the pregnancy test, result-side down. His jaw dropped, eyes wide and hopeful, as he stared into your eyes, hunting for confirmation.

"No, don't-- I mean, you shouldn't-- I'm not--" you stuttered, and Kento grabbed the test, unable to wait a moment longer. He stood as he looked at the result, visibly deflating. You stood, apologetic.

"That's...what I wanted to tell you. Part of it. I...haven't taken my pill for four months. I want-- I mean, if you're ready, I want--" Kento had his back to you now, mountainous shoulders tense, one hand clasped to his jaw and mouth, one hand gripping the test, twiddling it, jittery.

You felt your belly twist with uncertainty, unsure how Kento was feeling. As you opened your mouth to speak, you were briskly interrupted by the Tailor returning, an apology on his lips, liver-spotted hands wringing. Kento still stood with his back to you, and the doorway.

"Mr.Nanami, I am dreadfully sorry. I appear to have double-booked. I shan't be long-- please do carry on perusing-- my fault entirely..." The Tailor's voice faded as he continued making his apologies all the way down the corridor.

"It's fine," Kento said to nobody in particular, his voice quiet, tight, as tense as his body, "no problem at all." You eyed Kento uncertainly, reaching slowly for his back, calling his name softly. Your hand stopped as he spoke again.

"You're saying...you want a baby." His voice was smooth, measured, emotionless. Kento was barely keeping himself under control, his cock swelling in his boxers, overwhelmed with the pre-cum-dripping arousal of a man just a hair's-breadth away from fulfilling an urge he'd had for longer than he could remember. He gulped thickly, his hands shaking as he tried to reach for his trousers without you seeing how his cock ran thick and throbbing down the length of his thigh. Your next words snapped his self-restraint.

"If-- if you'll have me," you laughed drily. Kento turned, closely the distance swiftly, and gripped your chin, his eyes hungry, predatory. His mind was a gradually fraying strip of fabric, montages flashing in his head, of you folded, pressed, restrained, his cum dripping out of you while he pressed it back in with his fingers, using your slick to stroke himself, readying himself for another round--

It was electric. Uncontrollable. And, he felt animalistic as he raised your little hand to his mouth, languidly grazing his tongue up your forefinger before taking it between his lips, sucking. Reaching for your other hand, he pressed it to his aching cock, rutting briefly against your palm with a shiver.

"If I'll have you?" Kento chuckled, dark. You swallowed, awash in heat, as if Kento's rush of hormonal possessiveness pressed you into fog, your brain abandoning you to this vulnerable state. Kento swore he could smell your hesitant arousal, your thighs clenching around your pussy almost imperceptibly. Almost.

"I think you mean, if I'll stop having you," Kento hushed in your ear, low and throaty, as he reached out to pluck a tie from the rack beside you. You gaped up at him, speechless, feeling his cock twitch against the palm of your hand. Kento groaned as you squeezed him, teasing, testing.

Kento pressed a long, deep kiss to your lips, invading your mouth almost immediately, tasting you, desperate to be inside you in any way he could. Another thread snapped as your moan vibrated along his tongue, and he swiftly bound your hands together to your alarmed squeak, squeezing your throat lightly with a trembling hand.

Kento shivered as he felt you swallow underneath his fingers. He spun you, still clasping you by the throat, until you faced a mirror. Kento towered over you, broad and powerful and holding you against the planes of his chest. Holding your jaw, forcing you to look at him in the mirrors, he spoke again.

"Tell me," he rumbled, "what it is you want." His other hand slipped idly down, lowering the straps of your tank top and bra, lifting your breasts out of their confines, shuddering as he rolled each nipple between his fingers just once before setting them bare in front of the reflection. You opened your mouth to talk, unsure--

"Tell me. Now," he commanded, authoritative in his right to possess you, finally released from this self-imposed prison. His hand had continued to trail down, and he unbuttoned your jeans, snaking his fingers straight down to your pussy. He groaned as he slipped one thick finger inside you, feeling you gasp and clench against his hands.

"A baby," you sputtered, knees going weak as he pressed his finger deeper, "I want you to--" Kento squeezed your throat in warning, his moan turning into an appalled chuckle at how badly he had broken, and his hand, wet with your slick, came up and splayed across your belly, low, grazing your mound.

"Fuck, yes," Kento shuddered, head tipped back towards the ceiling, feeling all the grace of heaven rain down upon him, "I can't believe-- finally--" Kento walked you forwards, full of urgency, the veins bounding in his forearms as he pressed you against the mirror, upright and tied. You shivered as your breasts pressed against the cold glass.

Wasting no more time, needing to be inside you before he spilled his seed down his own leg, Kento ripped your jeans down your legs to your ankles. Landing a growling slap to your arse, gripping the fat of it and shaking it before making you squeak with another slap, Kento leaned you forwards, pressing down on your lower back to make you arch before dropping to his knees. He looked at you this way, sighing in appreciation, knowing you needed some preparation before ruining you the way he wanted to.

You squealed, feeling his teeth bite into you where he had slapped. His warm breath soothed the sting, and you felt his hands come up to grip your arse, spreading your cheeks to gaze reverently at your dripping pussy. You were paralyzed, stunned that your husband had turned into such an animal. You jolted, your hips trying vainly to chase forwards out of his grasp as he brought his mouth sloppily to your pussy, nose pressing into your entrance as his tongue slid further along, licking eagerly at your clit.

Kento was messy as he ate you out, face deeply in your folds at this angle, grinding you back against his nose and chin, his tongue swiping so wet and rhythmic over your clit, that you felt your pleasure beginning to peak with little build-up. You bit down on your lip, weak little moans ebbing out, your breath steaming the mirror.

As Kento growled into you, voice husky as he rolled his face from side to side in your pussy, tongue pressing tight circles round your clit, you came with a cry, mewling as he continued to lick you through it.

Pulling his face away, rubbing it over your thigh to dry it, Kento surveyed his work, shaking with anticipation. Kento stood, jumping your hips back to sit flush against his, deepening the arch in your back, and he hooked his cock out of his boxers. His balls felt like lead weights, and he knew he didn't have long.

"How long--" he choked, "How long have I been fucking you, not knowing you could fall pregnant at any time? How long?"

"Four-- four months," you keened, repeating yourself still reeling from the intensity of your orgasm. Kento nodded insistently, eager for you to tell him more.

"That-- that time at the party," you stuttered, and Kento saw stars as he remembered how he had teased you relentlessly before making you ride him by the koi pond. He gripped the base of his cock, trembling with exertion.

"When I-- after my night out with Shoko," you whined as Kento thrusted his fingers into you, testing your wetness, feeling the length of you and certain he could get his cockhead hard against your cervix at this angle. Kento hummed appreciatively, remembering how he had fucked you, prone, through fantasies of impregnating you that night.

"And in the car...I came in your mouth? You let that go to waste?" He growled, angry at himself, the intimacy of the previous four months now irreversibly overlaid by the new knowledge that he had been breeding you the whole time.

Kento stared at himself in the mirror, how his neatly parted hair now dropped commas of blond over his forehead, how his abdomen clenched and unclenched with the effort of not ejaculating as soon as he pressed his tip into you. He reached the committed conclusion of a man given a new mission.

Slipping his cock into you, starting slow, Kento squeezed your hips with bruising force as he spoke; "Well I'd better try harder then, hadn't I?"

Your cheek pressed with a jolt into the cold mirror as Kento slammed his cock into you. He whimpered with relief, his words coming out in husky whispers as he hammered into you, determined to let his orgasm build so he could absolutely flood you with cum. He watched you both in the mirror as your pussy fluttered around him, spurred on by your desperate keening cries.

Kento whispered to you, his voice jolting with the force of his thrusts, feeling his cockhead kiss your cervix; "... treat you so well-- taking it so-- haaaah-- can do it, we can do it, we-- we can-- gonna look so beautiful--"

You bathed in his praise, his filth centred around treating you like a queen, and you drank him in, overwhelmed by the sudden knowledge that he had held himself back for your benefit, for years.

"--I don't think I can-- fuck-- darling you need to-- need you to--" Kento folded over you, and you felt his abs twitch urgently against your lower back with the force of his impending orgasm. His hand splayed across your belly again, fingers clawing desperately.

Kento came with a ragged moan, feeling the pressure of his ejaculation against the top of his cock as it spurted, flush against your deepest point. Kento swore he felt his balls lighten as he emptied into you, his mind swimming with ultrasound scans, classes, feeding you, nurturing you, tiny footsteps-- he had never orgasmed with such blissful purpose.

As if coming back to his own body, Kento stared at where you stayed joined, panting, stunned. He was filled with intense purpose again as he pulled out slowly, tucking himself back into his boxers, trying his best to keep your thighs clamped together as he hastily yanked up your panties and jeans.

"Come on," he whispered to you, "come-- come come come--" Kento turned you round, scooping you up into his arms as he tipped you onto the chaise longue, pushing you back down as you tried to sit up with a giggle.

"No-- no, do as you're told," he bargained, holding you down with one hand as he leaned over you, his other hand slipping down into your panties to roll your clit expertly between his fingers, grazing across it, paying attention to the area just around it. He knelt beside you, his other hand gliding across your nipples until your back arched off the cushions. Kento continued to whisper to you.

"--once more, just cum once more-- good girl, I'll make you feel so good--" You nodded blankly, eyes fluttering closed in bliss, and Kento felt a rush of pride as your hips humped up against his hand, mewling his name as your orgasm crashed over you, the pleasure warm and mellow.

Kento pressed his lips to your forehead as he continued to stroke your clit through it, prolonging your orgasm as much as possible. As his eyes drifted closed, he imagined your pussy clenching, gulping his cum into your womb, and he shivered with excitement.

When your body tailed off into incoordinate jerks and gasps, Kento pulled his hand free, wiping his fingers on his boxers, and tidying you up, making you look as if you hadn't just been fucked into sweet oblivion. He untied your hands, apologising-- "--no idea-- don't know what got into me, I'm so sorry, my love--" -- as you giggled again, breathless.

Still panting, you moved to sit up, and he pushed you back, stern; "Don't you dare." You bit your lip, your smile coy, wondering if you were going to have any say in this whatsoever from this point onwards.

It was all in the nick of time, as the Tailor returned-- "My sincere apologies, Mr.Nanami, just a diary mishap..."-- to Kento waiting patiently, still in his boxers, idly buttoning a new shirt, the tie draped over his shoulder. The Tailor spotted you lying on the chaise with a small jump. Kento cleared his throat, interrupting.

"My wife felt a bit faint."

The Tailor nodded knowingly as he returned to Kento with his tape measure; "Ah, yes. A good suit often has that effect on the ladies."

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Breeding kink Kento, pussy go brrrrr, hahaha

Up next: Benchpress, Ditch the Party Pt.2 and others...

#chvnnie fic recs #i…i have no words #the way im so miserably down bad for this man

[chvnnie]

also friends — i have some pcs i need traded from rockstar so if you see me posting about it this weekend!!! i have proofs 🫶🏻

#chvnnie shit posts #idk if it flops it flops!

[chvnnie]

not skz related but the way i’ve reread this over and over and over after CRUSHING it in a few days. SHEEEEESH.

if you hear me talking about this fic for the next like ten years ☝️

Infiltration, Chapter One: Introduction

Nanami Kento and the reader must pretend to be married to infiltrate a deadly Curse-user cult and take it down from the inside.

A slow-burn fic with fluff/comfort, angst, smut and heroics from our favourite salaryman.

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Kento waited in Yaga's office, pacing, restless. He hadn't wanted you invited into Jujutsu High under these circumstances, knowing you needed time after your trauma, but he couldn't deny that his heart was pounding in anticipation. He had only approved of you being called because the mission you had, if you chose to accept it, would be shared. Together. With him.

He heard three short taps on the door and his heart leapt into his throat, feeling your cursed energy approach. He contained himself, outwardly unaffected, and walked to the door to let you in.

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You were overwhelmingly anxious before even entering the school grounds. You would visit your best friend's grave today, for the first time since losing her, and you would see...him. The man who was...what, to you? Your other best friend? Your confidante? The man composed of the same formula from which your own soul was made? Or just your lunch buddy? You didn't know. Whatever had been blooming between you had surely died in your absence.

Your numb feet had carried you across the frosted grass, under Torii gates and past effigies, down a short winding staircase to where graves-- too many graves -- nestled under the shadows of the trees' bare branches. Winding past the long sleep of names known and unknown, your hand brushed lovingly over Yuu Haibara's headstone, the tears already starting to blur your vision as you stopped in front of the grave of your own best friend. Just three months old, frost decorated the white stone like diamonds, and you sat heavily in front of it, knees drawn up and arms holding them to yourself as you wept bitterly into your jeans. You had promised to hold yourself together, to make a proper apology for failing to save her, but you poured garbled nonsense between your sobs, stroking the headstone as if it were her hand in yours.

Enough, you told yourself after ten minutes had passed, she deserved better and she still deserves better, so sort yourself out. Rising up, the back of your jeans damp and muddy, you proceeded to tend to the grave, cleaning and polishing, replacing flowers and leaving a small bottle of her favourite drink. In silence, you walked away, another brush of your hand bidding Haibara goodbye, and made your way up the many steps, to Principal Yaga's office.

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Kento opened the office door, and immediately met your eyes. Thousands of unspoken words passed between you both; Kento hesitated only briefly before stepping aside in invitation, and, upon closing the door, gently pressed a cup of tea into your hands. You had been crying, and smelled faintly of the cold forest floor, and you were the most beautiful thing Kento had ever seen. He had never had the chance to hold you, but now was not the time or place-- if he pulled you to him now, he ran the risk of never letting you go.

"How...how are you...Kento?" you asked weakly. Your words seemed flat and small, so utterly unlike you. Kento's heart creaked, a child's footsteps on old floorboards, and he ached to tell you how little his own wellbeing mattered to him now.

Kento sighed, gripping the back of a chair and leaning forwards. Your eyes drank in his thick, corded forearms, the way his navy shirt stretched over his back, the lick of fringe that hopped forwards over his forehead. God, I've missed you so much. The words turned to a cold drink as they slipped off your tongue and down into your stomach.

"I'm...better than you are, I'm sure. I'm sorry Yaga is asking for you back like this, you deserved more time. I don't know what they want from us. But I know it's together and some distance away. If you have any reservations, please speak up. I won't let them take advantage of you."

You sighed into your steaming mug, the vapour clouding your glasses for a moment-- Kento's heart thumped fondly-- and answered him.

"I feel like...if I'm not dragged back, I won't come back. And I know what you're going to say--" you raised your hand to Kento in a soothing gesture as he stood, ready to argue your case even against yourself, "-- but I want to be back. I miss the students. I miss the camaraderie. I miss...god, I even miss Gojo, idiot though he is. And if anyone in this place understands what I've been through, it's you."

A flash of pain crossed Kento's face, haunted by the memories of his dead friend, and you stepped to him, hand instantly placed over his harsh grip on the chair. You felt the tendons of his hands soften under yours.

"So I'll hear him out," you continued gently, "because I owe it to her, to all of you, and to myself to try this again."

Kento nodded, folding just one digit over the back of your palm to swipe against it in wordless communication. You blushed lightly, pleased he was looking at the floor. Hearing the click of the door behind you, you stepped apart from each other, caught in shared vulnerability. Yaga greeted you both, and the meeting began.

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Seven short days later, you stepped down from your front door, locking up with a shaky outward breath. Turning to Kento, waiting for you by his car, he returned your hesitant smile with one of genuine warmth, brown eyes twinkling with affection.

"It suits you," he teased, putting your suitcase into the car as you twiddled your new ring nervously. You punched the top of his arm playfully.

"I could say the same to you...darling." Kento buried his head in the car, pretending to organise the suitcases as he blushed, alarmed by how natural a wedding ring already felt on his hand. Stepping back, he looked down at you, stern and unamused, but opening your door for you nonetheless. His heart soared at the first natural smile he had seen from you in months. Closing your door, he stepped to his own, feeling teenagerishly proud to have you in his passenger seat.

"Let's go over things just once more on the way?" You asked him. Kento hummed affirmingly, turning the heating on, and gently clasping your hands in his own against the air vents.

"Warm up," he ordered as the car rumbled to life. Bringing one arm up around the back of your seat, your breath caught in your chest as he turned backwards, thin eyebrows raised and one arm outstretched on the wheel as he made the car glide backwards out of the driveway. A waft of his cologne, familiar and woody, hit your nose as he passed his arm back, his fingertips (accidentally?) grazing your shoulder, and he began to drive.

"So," you started, trying not to stutter, "we are the...Tsuda family." Kento hummed his affirmation again. "Mr and Mrs." A short cough, and another hum. "Married for two years, but together..."

"Forever, basically," Kento interjected quickly-- too quickly, he cursed himself-- before clearing his throat and continuing, "All I mean is...it has only ever been me and you. Us. Easier than...messy exes." His ears crept with crimson as your laughter twinkled through his car.

How the fuck am I going to get through this without completely giving myself away? Kento felt utterly tortured, trapped between the divinity of your company and the agony of not knowing it more intimately.

You talked for hours, barely needing to fill each other in on the details of your lives-- you had had so many late lunches, so many late-night post-mission calls-- and instead focused on the upcoming plans.

"So, our informants are certain this cult is at the centre of a significant increase in skilled and armed curse-users, but they only seem to accept married couples as new members, both of whom should display significant jujutsu sorcery skills or the potential to do so," Kento mused, "which I have a theory for."

"Breeding," you both said, shooting each other a sideways glance and blush. Kento cleared his throat.

"Quite. It's certainly one way to grow your cult's power."

"It's eugenics in the making," you spat, "I'm sure Suguru Geto approves."

A rumble which went straight to your core came from Kento's chest, and he spoke, "Or, we end up with a Curse-user turf war. Either way, they've already been responsible for dozens of deaths and disappearances. We take them out."

Eyeing Kento admiringly, you didn't fancy the curse-users' chances against him. Your own ability, to compel the thoughts or desires of others, had some application in combat, but largely lent itself to support and reconnaissance. The cursed-energy tumbling off the giant beside you was in no way second to his commanding physique or quick mind. Unaware, you unashamedly stared at Kento, eyes taking in his thick thighs, tan trousers stretched enticingly over them and the subtle bulge between his legs, and up to his cheekbones, razor sharp and framing such a handsome face--

Before you could murmur your agreement, you caught yourself, turning swiftly to look out the window, blush creeping across your cheeks.

Unbeknownst to you, Kento stole glances while he drove, taking you in...the gentle curve of your breasts into your waist, the bow of your lips, bright eyes behind curtained lashes. He swallowed, bidding his blood to rush elsewhere. He focused on the road.

"Regardless...we've been accepted, pending Face-to-Face interview. Ijichi and the team built our false profiles, all we have to do is prove our cursed techniques, and we're part of the cult."

"I'm delighted," you chirped, "what a lovely anniversary gift, my love."

"Only the best for my girl," Kento rumbled, playing along. Neither of you knew how delighted the other was by the charade.

But, while you felt completely safe, reassured by Kento's presence, Kento felt that his heart had been removed from his chest, and walked away from him, directly into battle. He did not have his blade, too much of a giveaway, and instead planned to imbue his energy into his fists. You, however, had to rely purely on your wiles and intellect to survive. Kento knew he would punch a hole through a god to keep you safe.

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Ornate compound gates surrounded a beautiful traditional Japanese village, nestled between mountain ranges and clear rivers. As Kento crawled the car skillfully around peaks and narrow roads, you felt trepidation sink into you as, on approaching the entrance, you felt the thrum of Cursed energy seep, cold and unwelcome, into your belly.

Kento pulled up to vast gates, taking a deep, calm breath and pressing the intercom; a tinny buzz, a click, and--

"Do you have an appointment?"

"Tsuda Kento. I'm here with my wife," Kento lied smoothly. Silence.

"Come in," said the voice, accompanied by the heavy creak of the automatic gates swinging open. Kento's chin dipped, clench-jawed and staring intently ahead as he pulled forwards into an expansive driveway of pale grey gravel, a temple lying quiet and still in the distance.

Now afraid, suddenly full of doubt, you grasped at the potential consequences of your decision to return to Jujutsu High. You felt Kento's hand reach for yours, anchoring you. You turned to him, eyes full of fear.

"I won't let anything happen to you. I promise you this. I'd die to get you out alive." You squeezed Kento's hand between your own, warm and strong, unable to tell him that the loss of him would drive you past the edge of despair.

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Chapter 2: Pillow talk link HERE!

#chvnnie fic recs #i literally have not shut up about it #even put it on my snap story #like guys i��m wrecked by this #in the beeeest way