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A/N: since ppl were sooooo sad over my nanami angst, here, have some crack. pls enjoy this, it was fun to write. will prolly write this for other characters as well.
warnings: crack fic, smut, moobies mention
Listen.
The sun’s not even properly up yet.
The sky is doing that soft peach-and-blue gradient thing like it’s God’s Canva template, and the apartment smells faintly like coffee grounds from yesterday and Nanami’s cologne—warm cedar and faint regret, probably because he was out until ungodly o’clock fighting some stubborn-ass curse that just wouldn’t die.
He came in late. Very late. Slipped off his shoes like a polite assassin. Shushed Chairman Meow, who was standing at the door screaming like you’d been murdered.
(“Please,” Nanami whispered, crouching to pet him, “do not wake your mother.”) The cat blinked. And then meowed even louder because Chairman Meow is, frankly, a little bitch.
By the time he crawled into bed, you were already starfished in dreamland, probably drooling into your pillow.
And now… now the sun is painting lazy streaks across your apartment (because yes, you decorated this place, he just lives here) and you—warm, soft, still half-asleep—blink blearily, realize the bed is heavier than usual, and oh.
Well to be honest, the first thing you register is the sunlight.
The second thing you register is heat.
Not the cute "oh look the morning rays are gently warming my cheek" kind of heat — no, no. This is the heavy, man-shaped, late-night-fight-exhaustion kind of heat radiating off your husband, who has somehow materialized in your bed without waking you up.
You blink into the glow of your very aesthetically pleasing curtains (because your husband has no taste (well he does but like... eh), and therefore, you were the one who decided their entire apartment would look like a Pinterest board had swallowed it whole).
And there he is.
The Great Man: Nanami Kento.
Salaryman, current jujutsu sorcerer, eternal sufferer of Your Bullshit™.
His tie is draped half-off the nightstand, he's in an overshized shirt that's showing off a cute lil' happy trail (like he knows what he’s doing), and his arm is slung across his eyes like the world’s sexiest Roman statue, except his hair is a mess and he smells faintly of sweat and blood and something distinctly Nanami.
And oh. Oh no.
You notice it.
The… situation.
The bulge.
The morning offering.
The turgid declaration that your husband is alive, well, and blessed with a circulatory system that gets to work before he’s even conscious.
You grin. Slowly. Like a cat that’s about to knock something expensive off a shelf just because it can.
“...You’re home,” you whisper, sliding closer under the covers like some unholy, horny and very wet eel.
Nanami makes a small, tired noise — half acknowledgment, half please don’t make me talk before caffeine.
“Got in late,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and disuse. “Curse wouldn’t die.”
“Mm,” you hum, already tucking yourself against his side, one leg shamelessly hooking over his. Oh, what’s this? A perfectly placed thigh pillow for my hand? Don’t mind if I do.
“Chairman Meow tried to kill me when I came in,” he adds. “I assume you trained him for this.”
“Self-defense,” you say breezily, fingers inching down his stomach like they have a death wish. “What’s the point of a guard cat if he lets strange men in at night?”
You smile, triumphant, because you’ve reached The Heat Source. Your fingers ghost over it like you’re diffusing a bomb, except the only thing you plan on detonating here is your self-control.
“...How was your night?” he asks, because apparently this man is going to make polite conversation while you’re copping a feel.
“Mm, fine,” you say, giving him a squeeze, watching the corner of his mouth twitch. “Did some laundry. Watched that drama with the hot chef. Watered the plants. Oh, and—”
You bite him. Right on the chest. A soft, playful little nip through the open vee of his shirt.
Nanami stills. “...Did you just—?”
“A lil mlem,” you clarify, licking the spot. “Tiny nibble.”
“...You’re odd.”
“And horny,” you correct, eyes flicking up to meet his.
His gaze is tired but fond, like he’s both baffled and amused that this is the life he chose. You know exactly what he’s thinking, though — he enjoys this. He likes the soft, lazy mornings where you get handsy and make him feel like he’s some marble Adonis in a museum you’re hellbent on defiling.
Your own eyes flick down to his chest again. You grin.
“—those moobies,” you continue, undeterred, “are lookin’ extra good this morning.”
“Pecs,” he insists, though his hand comes up to cup the back of your head anyway.
You purr. “Moobies for the grabbin’. Moobies for the lovin’.”
“Stop calling them that.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Nanami exhales through his nose, which you know means he’s actually into this and you’re winning.
And, in your defense, you are winning. Because you’re warm, pressed up against him, hand on his morning wood, biting his chest, calling him a sexy slab of man-meat, and it’s not even 8 a.m. yet.
And maybe, just maybe, you’re about to make his very bad night a whole lot better.
You’re still grinning like you’ve just stolen fire from the gods, except instead of fire it’s a very large, very warm, very blessedly hard problem currently nestled against your thigh.
Nanami is trying to be the adult here—God bless him—but you’re like a feral raccoon who found a rotisserie chicken. There’s no talking you out of this.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice still gravelly from sleep, “you could just… let me rest for ten minutes.”
You make a noise that’s somewhere between a whine and a scoff. “And waste perfectly good morning wood? Criminal behavior.”
His eyes crack open to give you The Look. The one that says he’s both long-suffering and considering rearranging your spine later. “I was up until four.”
You kiss his jaw, slow and sloppy, because you know what that does to him.
“Mm. Guess I’ll just have to do all the work then.”
And there it is—his breath hitches, just a fraction. You live for that little crack in his composure.
You slide your thigh between his, feel the heat of him through those loose pajama pants that are doing an absolutely pitiful job at hiding anything. You rub up, slow, just to be cruel.
He inhales sharply. “You’re testing me.”
“I’m worshipping you,” you correct, mouthing at his neck now, tasting skin and the faint tang of dried sweat from last night’s curse hunt. “Like the religion you are.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re delicious.” Your hand slips under the waistband, finds him thick and heavy and holy hell. You bite back a moan that would wake Chairman Meow. “Christ, Kento, this is—”
“I’m not Jesus.”
“Fine. Buddha then. Something holy. Something… big.”
He exhales in defeat, eyes fluttering shut again like, if I can’t stop her, I may as well let her finish. “You are insatiable.”
You’re already stroking him lazily, savoring the way he twitches in your grip, the way his breathing changes. Nanami has this controlled sort of pleasure—you can feel him fighting the urge to rut into your hand, because God forbid he lose his perfect gentleman image.
“You like it when I get like this,” you murmur, squeezing him just to hear the tiniest hiss of breath escape.
A pause. Then, softly: “…Yes.”
You smirk. Flawless Victory.
The sun has moved higher now, painting golden light across the room. It catches in his hair, turns him into some ethereal statue who also happens to have a throbbing erection. You lean down and take him into your mouth without warning, just to ruin him completely.
His entire body tenses. “Sweetheart—”
But you’re not listening, because you’re busy making very, very inappropriate sounds around him. The kind that would get you flagged on live TV.
His hand finds the back of your head, not pushing, just holding, like he’s grounding himself. You work him slow, letting your tongue drag along the underside, tasting salt and skin and Nanami.
He mutters something under his breath—probably a prayer or a curse.
You pull off with an obscene pop, grinning up at him. “What was that?”
“Not important.” His voice is rough now, fraying at the edges. “Come here.”
You crawl up, straddling him, and oh—there. You can feel him, hard and ready, pressing right against you through your underwear. Your hips grind without permission, and both of you groan at the friction.
“This is how people start their day,” you whisper against his mouth.
“This is how you start your day.”
“Lucky me.” You kiss him, deep and slow, and then roll your hips again until you’re both panting.
And with that, you sink down onto him, and the morning explodes into sunlight, heat, and the low, helpless sound your husband only makes when you win.
The first thing that happens when you sink down is Nanami swears.
Not loudly—he’s too composed for that—but in this deep, ragged voice that makes your toes curl and your ovaries clap.
His hands immediately grip your hips, fingers digging in just enough to leave a mark, because apparently Gentleman Mode has been turned off and replaced with “keep her here forever” mode, because there’s a moment—just one—where Nanami’s brain short-circuits.
The hands on your hips tighten, his jaw flexes, and you can see the exact instant where the “good husband who lets his wife tease him” gets replaced by the “man who survived a four-hour curse fight and still has enough in the tank to rail you into next week.”
You feel him everywhere. Stretching, filling, hitting that perfect spot that makes your thighs shake almost instantly.
You rock forward experimentally and yeah, that’s it. That’s the good stuff.
Nanami’s eyes open—half-lidded, dark, the kind of look that could end governments—and his thumbs stroke lazy circles over your skin. “You’re going to kill me before breakfast.”
“Not before my breakfast,” you shoot back, rolling your hips again just to see his jaw clench.
You bottom out with a shaky breath, fingers digging into his shoulders (pecs? moobies? moobies). “Oh… oh my God, Kento.”
His hands slide from your hips to your ass, holding you down so he can thrust up into you, slow but deep. And you whine because he’s deliberately making it slow, dragging the head of his cock along that sweet spot like he’s memorizing you.
Your nails dig into his chest. “Stop—being—so—mean.”
“I’m not being mean,” he says, voice maddeningly calm. “I’m enjoying my wife.”
“You’re torturing your wife.”
He thrusts up harder just once, and you let out a sound that’s borderline illegal. “That doesn’t sound like torture to me.”
You bite his shoulder, partly because you can’t help yourself, partly because you know it makes him growl. And oh, he growls. A low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and straight into your brain’s “make bad choices” center.
“You really—” he gasps when you grind down hard—“don’t have any shame, do you?”
“Nope.” You kiss him just to shut him up, messy and wet, until both of you are breathing like you ran a marathon. His tongue slides against yours in that slow, thorough way that’s somehow filthier than anything else happening right now.
Your hair’s a mess, your breathing’s erratic, and you’re grinding down on him like you’re trying to fuse your souls together. Nanami’s eyes stay locked on you—steady, intense, like he’s reading a book he really likes.
You lean forward, panting into his mouth. “Ken, I’m—”
“I know,” he murmurs, one hand sliding between you to circle your clit.
The sound you make could wake the dead. “Oh fuck—”
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says, and it’s infuriating because he sounds so sincere while also absolutely rearranging your guts. “You should see yourself.”
“I am seeing myself,” you choke out, “in your stupid, smug, sexy face.”
His lips curve just slightly before he pulls you into a kiss—hot, wet, teeth clashing because neither of you are trying to be gentle anymore. Your hips are moving without thought now, chasing that sharp coil building inside you, and he’s meeting you thrust for thrust, controlled but relentless.
Then he says it, in that deep, firm tone that hits lower than your ears: “Come for me, my love.”
And you do.
It hits hard, sudden, ripping through you so strong you swear your vision whites out. Your whole body clenches around him, and Nanami groans—low, guttural—before spilling into you, his own restraint finally snapping.
For a moment, there’s only panting. The sound of your heartbeat in your ears. The faint swish of Chairman Meow’s tail as he pointedly looks away like the world’s most judgmental chaperone.
You collapse against Nanami’s chest, sweaty, blissed-out, trying to catch your breath. “That… was… so much better than coffee.”
Nanami strokes your hair, still warm and sticky between you. “…You’re cleaning the sheets.”
“Worth it.”
Chairman Meow: meow.
Nanami groans. “We need to feed the cat.”
You grin against his skin. “Five more minutes. Or, you know… breakfast?”
*-*
It’s later—much later—when you finally manage to roll out of bed. Your thighs are mildly jelly, your hair is doing a thing that can only be described as “sexually tragic,” and Nanami is already standing in the kitchen wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt like nothing happened.
You shuffle in, oversized sleep shirt brushing the tops of your legs, and immediately trip over Chairman Meow, who is weaving between your ankles like a furry snake on a mission.
“Food,” you croak to Nanami, pointing vaguely at the coffee machine. “And feed your son before he stages a coup.”
Nanami raises an eyebrow. “Our son.”
“Our son doesn’t scream at me at six a.m. for wet food.”
“You screamed at me at six a.m. for something else entirely,” he says evenly, turning to get your coffee.
You hop up onto the counter, sipping the coffee Nanami slides over. “So, what’s on the agenda today, Mr. Sorcerer?”
“Paperwork at HQ. Grocery run. And…” he sighs, already sounding tired, “…the vet, first thing actually.”
You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god, I forgot that was today, you have to take him?”
“Yes.” Nanami glances at the cat, who pauses mid-bite to glare at him. “He needs his booster shots.”
You’re trying not to laugh because the last vet trip ended with Nanami sporting three scratches on his forearm, a pee-soaked carrier and the vet’s assistant saying, “Wow, he’s spirited.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“No,” he says, completely serious. “One of us has to survive the day.”
You snicker into your mug. “Make sure you write me into your will then.”
He shakes his head but there’s the tiniest smile tugging at his lips as he cracks eggs into a pan. “You’re teaching at the high school today?”
“Mmhm.” You swing your legs. “Second-years. Curse biology. We’re covering the difference between Type II and Type III manifestations.”
Nanami gives you the side-eye. “That’s not going to end with someone summoning an actual curse again, is it?”
“That was one time, and also not my fault.”
Breakfast is a quiet, comfortable affair—scrambled eggs, toast, Nanami’s perfectly sliced fruit because apparently presentation matters at 8 a.m. You eat at the counter while he finishes his own coffee, already dressed in slacks and a crisp white shirt.
He’s heading toward the bedroom to get ready when you call, “Wait!” and dart after him.
“What is it?”
“You can’t just wear any tie today. You’ve got that meeting, remember?”
Nanami exhales patiently, standing still while you go into his closet like it’s a boutique. You pull out a deep navy tie with a subtle gold stripe and hold it up with a flourish. “This one.”
He takes it, inspecting it like he might reject your offer. But he doesn’t. “And the watch?”
You rummage through his little watch case until you find the stainless steel one with the dark blue dial.
“Matchy-matchy. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you my love,” he says, in that way where you know he actually means it but will never admit he needs you for this.
While he finishes getting ready, Nanami starts packing your lunch—rice, grilled salmon, steamed veggies, and a tiny container of your favorite pickles because he’s soft like that.
You peek into the kitchen as he tucks in an extra snack. “You’re spoiling me.”
“You’re a menace, and it’s the only way to keep you from terrorizing the school vending machines.”
*-*
By the time you’re both ready to leave, Chairman Meow is sitting by the door with the exact expression of someone about to commit homicide. You crouch to kiss his little head. “Be good for Daddy.”
Nanami mutters, “He won’t.”
And then you’re off—him with the cat carrier (already shaking from the wrath within), you with your bag and lunch, both of you stepping into the bright morning, your coffee still warm, your day somehow already perfect.
A/N: there you go, the balance is restored, i hope you guys liked it
obviously like i'm not saying that everyone has to selfship and that selfshipping can't be unhealthy, but like there are a lot of things you can learn about yourself through selfshipping, e.g.:
why you fixate on certain bad scenarios and also certain good scenarios
what needs are most important to you in a romantic partner once you figure out a trend
what words/actions make you feel most secure
how you see yourself if you're fleshing out careers or goals or drives
talking out your more traumatic experiences with someone that makes you feel safe or even inserting the characters into those experiences to figure out how they could have been better
combating loneliness
tracking your own growth and maturity by seeing how your trends have changed
assessing how bad external stress is because honestly they'll reflect in how you selfship
also ngl, just listening to other people's selfships can help remind you that there's so much diversity of thought and experience and how other people feel safe
it's also nice when you share with someone else (that is a safe person!!!) because sometimes other people can tell you things about yourself you haven't realized and that in and of itself is very helpful
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sorry. i zoned out while you were talking because i saw the tips of your fangs and got hit with a wave of fondness & lust so strong it almost made me nauseous. What were you saying
erwin smith is one of the funniest characters of all time because everything about his visual character design screams Jock Guy and like yeah, he's strong and can fight, but like. his main thing is playing 4D chess, manipulation, gambling addiction (with people's lives), conspiracy theories, hate the government, intimidate everybody, eat hot chip and lie
like oh yeah the 6'3" 200lb blonde bombshell who looks like a male supermodel or perhaps a football player? yeah he's the resident 200 IQ plotter and schemer. he's the dude who ominously says shit like "all according to plan." he could beat you up but he doesn't even need to, he'd rather deduce all your deepest insecurities from like 2 conversations and gaslight you about them. RIP erwin smith you would have loved doxxing politicians on social media
controversial opinion but unfortunately you are your actions and what you say. if you are mean to people, it doesn’t matter if you sometimes have secret kind thoughts. fortunately you are your actions and what you say. if you are kind in your actions and your words, it doesn’t matter if you sometimes have mean thoughts. the power is in working against inner negative thoughts and being a better person despite it. you have the ability to cultivate the person you want to be.
B) he has WAY too much money if he's renting out the PYRAMIDS OF GIZA????
C) renting out actual historical landmarks that have already been desecrated and destroyed over thousands of years for a goddamn youtube video is actually disgusting.
idk if you think that they're "just the pyramids", they're the ONLY remaining wonder of the ancient world!!! Not to mention!! they're TOMBS!! sure, the people who were inside are long gone, but like?? idk, maybe i'm oversely sensitive, but being a white dude and desecrating an ancient burial site (for profit) and thus disregarding thousands upon thousands of years of history and culture is probably Up There with the scummy stuff this jackass has done
Mounts are coming to Mistria! Your mount can be summoned anywhere outside and has its own Skill Perks to obtain. The new mount quest will unlock after completing the "Repair Hayden's Barn" questline!
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do you guys ever like forget you're interested in something until you start engaging with it again and you go "oh wait i'm like crazy crazy about this yeah"
“you’ve already seen a movie this week” oh i’m sorry stardew valley am i not the backbone of this fucking town? did i not single-handedly fix the community center, the bus, the boat, and whip up a movie theater on top of that? am i not shipping out thousands of dollars worth of material on the daily and killing monsters for you people? collecting whatever bullshit you ask for? bringing you gifts tailored to your preferences? and when i wish only to play the crane game and get a dinosaur egg you won’t even let me in the door to PAY YOU MONEY? unbelievable.
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When I was a kid, I faxed my dad’s satellite office drawings of horses. I had watched my father send so many faxes that I had the process memorized. Except, for some reason I thought that I could fax things to grandma. I put in the numbers for the office every time, but was convinced that the faxes were going to grandma. I also didn’t think to inform my parents that I was doing this.
My dad visited the satellite office (three hour drive) one day and discovered their conference room white board absolutely covered in my drawings. The guys thought it was adorable that I sent drawings and letters to them, and didn’t tell my dad because they knew he’d stop me.
Once I said "My gender is whatever's funniest at the time" and my coworker stops dead in his tracks, turns slowly and says "So are your pronouns honk/honk?" killing me instantly
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