#sandsorghum's seven seas

[sandsorghum]

Formal Fabrications

NanaNov Appreciation Month 2/4

New Nanamin drabbles every Tues this month, for the man I love

Find the others here: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

You get up earlier than Nanamin, for once

Word count: 1.6k Genre(s): Fluff, Smut

The slanting beams bring with them gradual warmth, but the wrong kind; they alert him to the absence of a much more natural one. Nanami turns away from the rays to nuzzle into his own personal sun, only to find cool, smooth silk where the scratchy tickle of your hair should be, locks unspooling to lead him from the labyrinth of slumber.

Where are you?

Reluctantly Nanami cracks an eye open, unhappy that his ritual has been disrupted. Unlike most mornings, your peaceful, prone form isn't the first thing to greet him, let alone be coiled along the length of him in sinuous parallel.

Nanami's gaze tracks to your unfortunately upright form some feet away from the bed. Well, actually - he squints blearily, it's a little stooped, your head tucked into the wardrobe. The pace of his breath keeps steady - you are fully dressed after all, despite the early hour (having shed the thigh highs Nanami demonstrated such... exuberance for the previous night). But still you seem to sense he's awake and you crane your head over the shoulder, sending him a smile, your heart fluttering at the sight of him shifting forward, drawn to you.

So much for the dispersal of a dreamy state.

Nanami, still sleep ruffled and bare chested, blurs the edges of awake and your subconscious, or maybe it's more memory than fantasy at this point. Not that you'd complain about this particular vision of deja vu. His tousled fringe droops over pillow creased cheeks, like sorghum sheaves heavy with grain, bending by their stems. You're reminded of how their sway has caressed your own skin when you were underneath Nanami, on sweeter, slower, kinder mornings.

But at a distance, this one offers its own mercies.

Admiringly, you observe your sweetheart scrub the back of his hand over sickle edged cheek bones, a certain sharpness seeping into his irises as they emerge from pinholes into horizons, landing on you. A soft yawn ripples through those plush pectorals, easily the most comfortable cushions you've lain your head against, dappling with movement and shadows tracing that familiar swell, reminiscent of your prerogatives. But alas, not your priorities currently.

You made the right decision, to not twitch the curtains open further than a half inch, whatever available glow illuminating the angel slowly stretching on your bed is already distracting enough. Although, with the room wrapped in the vestiges of dawn and darkness, Nanami seems even more surreal, something summoned, or conjured after midnight, in the chanting of his name and restrained little gasps.

You bury your blush and that particular reverie back in the wardrobe, focusing on the mundane, trying to remember Nanami is, in fact, mortal.

"I'm not sure which outfit I should go for," you sigh.

"You'd look cute in all of them," Nanami mutters in a voice still slurred with slumber. It sounds non-committal but you know Nanami doesn't make insincere statements.

"The priority is looking professional, not cute today, Kento," you remark, peering into your closet.

"Mmh, you can hardly help it though," he murmurs with another yawn, rubbing his eyes.

"Help what?" your voice is muffled as you stick your head further in your cupboard.

"Being a professional cutie. Isn't that your full-time job?" You don't need to turn around to see the almost imperceptible, sleepy smile plastered on your partner's face.

Your own is probably tinted a deep scarlet, you think you'll continue hiding out in this wardrobe till it subsides. That would probably take a while though, because now Nanami's snuck up behind you, wrapping those ridiculously long limbs around your waist.

"Or how about none of them?" he mumbles, dragging his lips along your nape, tugging at the sleeve of a blouse you had been staring at for five minutes before trying it on. The fabric slides off your shoulder in a matter of seconds; must be the universe's way of telling you you've made the wrong choice.

"That's n-not an option, stop it. You're gonna make me late for work!" you giggle, trying to nudge Nanami back by elbowing him in the ribs. It must be a half-hearted attempt at best, because Nanami so easily pins your wrists against one of the higher shelves, molding the hard planes of his torso to your arched back. How the heck was he so strong mere minutes after regaining consciousness?

You feel the firm ridges of his abs pressed against the curve of your spine as he rasps, "Then you should have woken up earlier."

Sly fingers creep around to your front, fiddling with the first few buttons and they quickly come undone. Nanami next applies that cunning dexterity to flit against the lace of your brasserie, earning him a gasp. "I-I did, but I only budgeted enough time to try on a few different outfits...not entertain...your whims...this early in the day."

Your words are drawn out amidst your whimpers, Nanami’s heated palm delving beneath the half-cup of your bra to grope your breasts, his other hand tightening on your hip as well. “I don’t think this bra matches your current top, in fact it’s a little sheer. I thought you wanted to look professional hmm?”

“I-I didn’t realise-“

Your protest turns into a yelp as Nanami lands a sharp smack to your ass - it doesn’t sting so much since you’ve still got a skirt on (for now), or maybe he was demonstrating a modicum of restraint since it was, after all, not even 7am.

“Did you forget I’m the only one who has the privilege to see what’s underneath this?” He growls, his hand abruptly abandons the delicious squeeze of your chest to roughly wrest the hem of your blouse out from where it had been modestly tucked into your skirt.

You shake your head, thighs trembling when Nanami shoves his own muscled one between them, hiking up your skirt.

“Are you sure? Seems like you still need my fashion advice,” he whispers, voice suddenly syrupy and low by your ear. You shudder from the sweet heat of his breath, or perhaps it’s the emotional whiplash. Another possibility...Nanami’s knee, sliding slow and deliberate against your clothed cunt, that somehow remained miraculously covered.

Against your better instincts, you stutter, “I-I...wouldn't mind m-more input...”

In a moment, Nanami’s spun your body around, slamming his hands on either side of your hips and caging you in against the cupboard. He tilts your chin up to see your wide-eyed expression, greeting him for the first time that day; it’s a welcome sight.

“I think you’ll look better in blue,” he muses, pulling your collar even further apart. “Or purples,” he hums, mouth latching to your clavicle. “Pinks and reds suit your complexion too,” Nanami continues, as his teeth track leisurely along your throat, littering lazy nibbles along your neck. But his hands aren’t idle, slender, elegant digits trailing from your jawline to your sternum. You can only pray they’ll dip much further into obscenity before long. You try to sneak a glance at your wristwatch, which Nanami notices. It’s fine, you can skip breakfast, you think, in favour of satisfying much more…urgent appetites.

“When does your virtual meeting start?” Nanami asks seriously, lifting his head away from you. Right, trust Mr Time Management to enforce punctuality and professionalism.

"A few minutes,” you sigh, anticipating the postponing of both your pleasures. A low rumble issues from Nanami’s throat, as if he’s in deep contemplation.

“Are you conducting a presentation?”

“No, I’m just in attendance.”

“You’ll be seated at the desk, as usual?” You nod, wondering why Nanami is pursuing such a banal line of questioning. But that confusion dissipates when you taste his desperate, hungry kiss, some sort of conciliatory, consolation prize you suppose, a reward for grudgingly understanding the merits of delayed gratification. If only you’d woken him up earlier, you think. Distracted by Nanami's passionate lips, you don’t hear the hiss of the zipper or the sussurration of silk as your skirt pools around your ankles. You’re even more puzzled when Nanami does up your shirt buttons, even while helping you step out of the puddle of fallen fabric.

“You can keep this on, some appearances have to be maintained after all. But you won’t be needing that,” he adds, kicking your skirt to the side. You stare after the trajectory of the offending article, Nanami’s intentions slowly dawning on you.

You’re sure the sunrise must be flooding your face as he leads you, half-naked, to the room adapted into a home office, the gentle current of air whispering between your slicked thighs making you shiver.

Nanami seats you down before your laptop. You glance at the computer clock. 2 minutes. You lick your only pair of lips that's dry.

“Darling,” you hear Nanami’s muffled croon and you look down to where he’s nestled, kneeling between your legs. He wears a smirk that seems equally comfortable in its place, even as those wicked fingers inch higher to divest you of your sodden panties.

The meeting notification buzzes in the exact same moment Nanami chooses to press a kiss to the apex of your thighs. Nervously you click the link into the call, and he launches his attack on your dignity and decorum with a swipe of his tongue to the crest of your folds. You squeak, gripping the edge of your seat, squirming as the pixels and profile pictures of your co-workers sharpen into view.

There's a digital chime of the bell, indicating the recording of the meeting has commenced. It rings out in stark contrast to Nanami’s own whispered reminder, reverberating in a dark chuckle against your soaked cunt: 


“Try and remember to keep yourself on mute this time, sweetheart.”

[sandsorghum]

Ley Lines

NanaNov Appreciation Month 1/4

New Nanamin drabbles every Tues this month, for the man I love

Find the others here: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

A rumination on Domesticity, Paternity, and how well they fit Nanami AKA Did someone say Breeding Kink, but make it soft hours only?

Word count: 520

Genre(s): Fluff, Smut

He had traded in those custom-fit eye glasses for horn-rimmed tortoiseshell spectacles, the former too easily swatted off by pudgy fingers, the chubbiness of infancy immune to any impact against the sharp jawline they would inherit. It was typically razor-edged, but you'd seen it blunted by five-o-clock shadows that matched the ones shading Nanami's sockets, ablutions neglected in the blur of mornings trembling with new-born wails. You remember now, the way Nanami sprung, then slunk, then eventually plodded, from the bed to the crib a few feet away, how strange it seemed to you that some weight would shrug off his hunched silhouette even as he scooped up half your world, shoulders bouncing lightly as he patted the burbling bellyaches of its earthquakes till those petulant fists relaxed, ceasing their assault upon a humming mountain range.

Tenderly now, you slide those frames away from his hard ridges, revealing crags and contour and ley lines etched on Nanami's countenance, the cartography of paternity, of partnership. No need for telescopes, before the survey of his naked eyes, Nanami strips you, with every seam and stitch in place, though not for long.

He winds a wiry strength around the view he adores, valleys up close to his cavernous gaze, hunger whistles your name on the breeze, his breath heated as if it's crossed Saharan deserts and sands of time to reach the dune of your upturned lips, parched and parted. You drink in your sea, thirstier with each gulp, caught in a conflicting whirlpool of satiation and dehydration, and the ocean swells with you in the careless crest of your fingers, the rolling tide of your hips.

Pull me under, you beg without words, and he does, with carbuncle coarse hands, weathered palms worshiping his sun as he sinks into its welcome, prow ploughing through waves of heat and pleasure. They grow rough, choppy, storm clouds unfurl in his eyes when his name spills from your lips, even as salt steeps through your slats, white flecked foam familiar in its ooze washing over the bow of your thighs as Nanami rocks upwards from depths primordial.

What is there to guard your vessel from Poseidon's lust, the maelstrom malevolence of his urge? If he seeks to bless Amphitrite with precious cargo once more, who is she to resist? How can she?

By asking, you know. All it would take is a stutter of his name, nobler than any god's, and humanity would flood back into those golden irises, though that tide of want wouldn't ebb. But still, even splayed before him like this, gasping his litanies, Nanami remembers whose altar this really is, whose body built his faith and devotion. In these moments, you think him a deity that remembers the weaknesses of flesh, split from the pantheon and myths by his intimacy with mortality, but Nanami has named you the real patron saint of sacrifice, first on that night and on so many others since.

"Cum for me, Kento."

After all, it is because of this divine truth that you grant his prayers, every time. And he grunts yours, echoes ascending past Olympus.

[sandsorghum]

Damned/Sweet/Time

NanaNov Appreciation Month 4/4

Final Nanamin drabble for the month, for the man I love

Find the others here: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Snapshots of a life to be

Word count: 900+ Genre(s): Fluff/Domestic bliss Phenomenal art by hercaptain

Nanami Kento takes exactly 37 minutes to get ready for his day, that is, if you don’t distract him. If he successfully resists your whines at his warmth leaving your side, he has 7 minutes for ablutions, 20 to get dressed, and the remaining reserved for a quick cup of coffee.

It used to take him half an hour. You aren’t aware of this, but since you started staying overnight, he’s budgeted 5 whole extra minutes for morning smooches and cuddles with you, so he can see you wake up with a smile at his uncharacteristically unruly bed head, and at the most unguarded, peaceful version of him. You’ve never had to wake up to an empty bed. These days, he rarely leaves the house without you waving to him from the doorway.

///

On the subway, Nanami Kento is the paragon of a man who is professional, immaculate and…impatient. The rush hour commuters, and indeed, even his co-workers, would only know him by the first two traits, but as his partner, you’re intimately and fondly familiar with this third quirk. It shows up when he discovers a faded stain on the tie set aside for Tuesday, and has to swap it out at the last minute (now he’s only got time for the half-Windsor knot, instead of his preferred full.)

Or when he gets a call from Gojo informing him he’ll be late, cause he was sidetracked by some fantastic smelling taiyaki, does he want some? No? Just tell him the address for next time?

Or when the kettle’s taking too long to boil, and he’s pacing back and forth, getting the grounds, filter paper and a mug. You wonder if he can switch his impatience off, because it seems to dissipate when you shuffle into the kitchen with a yawn, and brush against him to check the toaster. He pulls you in on your way past, doesn’t care you might crease his suit, gives you a morning kiss (which you think ought to be mandatory, if you could just get your sleep cycle under control. He makes getting out of bed earlier seem worth it somehow.)

Nanami will ask if you want a cup of coffee. You remind him he doesn’t have the time.

“I always do, for you.”

On such mornings, you think you’ll probably have to skip the sugar with your coffee. Your teeth would rot otherwise. So yes, with all evidence to the contrary, Nanami Kento has reservoirs of impatience for just about everything and everyone, maybe himself included. You think it’s surprising since he did take his own damn sweet time to ask you out. A couple of years, in fact.

For a long time, you don’t know why he delayed this, you’d probably have agreed to a date the first week you met him. But you yourself were too shy to initiate or ask him yourself, during those years when it seemed he would never be anything more than the strait-laced, stern (albeit sexy) colleague who was strictly dedicated to his career, whom you happened to have a massive crush on.

You feel the same way now, dancing around the question, Kento, we could have had this sooner, I wish you’d told me earlier…

Why didn’t you?

But the urgency of your curiosity has its edges frayed when he smiles just for you, kisses your hand quick in public when he thinks no one’s looking, picks ups multigrain bagels from your favourite bakery and declares one day he’ll crack the recipe to make a superior batch so you don’t have to travel 40 minutes from your office when the cravings strike…It doesn’t matter, you’re in love and it’s probably too soon to interrogate the origins of such sentiments, this early into a relationship.

///

Nanami Kento is in a queue, and he thinks it’s too late.

It’s too late to ditch his basket of baguettes and bagels, screw the line and the surprise and just go home to you with the velvet box alone, just ask you directly. Nanami sighs, looking at his watch five minutes after he last checked.

He might as well do it properly, he’s been planning it the past few months, though he's known for much longer. Because the truth is, Nanami Kento thinks he waited too long, he wants to make up for lost time.

Even if he doesn’t have to think too far back about when that first date was, or how it was punctured with awkward silences before thankfully devolving into a philosophical argument about whether doughnuts qualified as bread:

It’s fried, not baked.

But there’s yeast, the proof! I will die on this hill Nanami.

Even if he had to admit (to himself and absolutely no one else) that he had capitulated to Gojo’s thinly-veiled insinuations of Heeeyyy you’re gorgeous and single so am I, what a coincidence! What are you doing Friday night and how those had worked wonders as a final trigger for him to intervene and save you from the smug schemer’s advances.

Even if his first taste of you was a tangle of copper and salt, iron and honey, reminding him how the cruelty of the world inevitably alchemized his own selfishness, and still he begged to hear your voice, craving your wavering rejection, but he was denied this instead with gasps pledging pleasure, promising him you could be selfish too

Nanami Kento needs to make up for lost time, so he’ll ask to spend all of it, share whatever remains of his hours, with you.

[sandsorghum]

False Sobriety

NanaNov Appreciation Month 3/ 4

New Nanamin drabbles every Tues this month, for the man I love

Find the others here: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Nanami brings you revisions for your definitions of 'Inebriation'

Word count: 800+ Genre(s): Fluff/Domestic bliss, Slight Smut (Notes and extra fanart beneath the cut)

Nanami has rituals that pre-date you, and you and him. Habits ingrained from a life of hard edges, in the jut of his shoulder blades or the grooves of his knuckles. You know them now like the back of his hand, how some pull of the past will always pool at the base of his spine, the permanence of tension in those tendons and sinews. Most days you can dissolve them,turn them sedimentary in his veins, enough that he won't go sifting through those memories in the shower (only ever in the shower, because the rivulets of some reveries need to be washed away, down the drain - before even you could catch them in the corner of his eye.) It's been years, and your acute, mute gaze, its brimming patience, has left no stone of his unturned, but some rubble will never become silt. Or at best, they'll be tile grout. One of these rituals is for him to be wreathed in little else than vapour and, at your insistence, a towel around his waist. After one too many burnt dinners, he had compromised, a tradeoff of smoke for steam, one you were both glad of. Besides, emerging this way, towel-clad, your eyes smolder and spark some tight fuse in his belly, instead of dropping shyly to the floor with its trail of wet footprints. You don't even permit yourself a crack in the doorway. Any hint of distraction and the meal would never get made, you don't have Nanami's discipline, lamentably - much as you want to treat him right, the way he does for you. So you wait. And it's worth it.

The way he comes to you, all soft smiles and damp, tousled strands of gold, the kiss he presses to your palm in gratitude for the nutritious, delicious fare prepared for him every evening that you're able to. Oh, but this evening isn't like every other. It isn't a "special occasion" kind of wine; or rather, the two of you don't need an occasion, and maybe that's what makes it special. Nanami has a tendency to transform luxury into simplicity, into new thresholds of necessity. Or conversely, the mundane into magical moments, tiny daily doses of the miraculous in the sip of an expensive Merlot which you'll taste in his fleeting kiss later, tenderly bequeathed as he does the dishes. No verbal offer is made, it's automatic by now, his routine glide to the sink, a dance sequence of knuckles, bubbles, pots and pans. A movement of grace that parallels the way he sways with you in the living room so often, melodies faint before the steady beat of his heart that fills your world, and matches the tempo of your soul. The expanse of his palms, heat-creased and broad, yet conveying but a fraction of Nanami's devotion, cradles your nape against the swell of his chest. His appreciation is wordless too when your positions are switched, humming when you press your body along his back, snaking your hands around his waist, sating your arms' envy of the towel earlier. A light roll of your hips to the rhythm of whatever gentle jazz tune is playing in the background makes Nanami still for a moment, before he tilts your chin with a sud soaked hand to capture your mouth once more. He risks the alkaline acerbity of the soap seeping into the kiss, but of course nothing could ever overwhelm your lover’s sweetness. If anything, you're the one who has to recover your composure when you pull away with a giggle, murmuring, "Meet me in the bedroom, sweetheart, soon as you can.” The kitchen clutter gets dealt with in record time, save for two champagne flutes. Nanami brings his once-secret habits of indulgence to tablecloths and silk sheets; it's more than a mere tendency of spoiling you, to the detriment of inclining your standards of instant gratification. But of course, he meets these challenges he sets for himself each time. He does this with wine, with his whispers, with the way his mouth roves along your skin, tongues tangling tannin, libations chasing the liberation of moans, pleas and praise.

As it glazes your tastebuds, his sweat is Sauvignon Blanc, except more intoxicating, headier, fills you with light. His bottled reds; cabernet-scarlet hues of frustration, despair, stress from the day - dissolve before the Moscato flush of your cheeks, comes uncorked in a bursting stream of white, your lips parted just for him, shuddering just for him. When you whimper the mangled syllables of his name, he hears you quote Perignon “Come with me, I am tasting the stars.”

And, like any fine bottle of wine, he allows you to breathe - but not for so many hours; it is a false cycle of sobriety. After all, Nanami cannot wait to savour your inebriation again and again. Cannot hold himself to that same patience he pulls from you, a private trait you honed long before the prospect of him, that serves the both of you as the mulberry wine of dusk spills into the rosè blush of morn.

There will be no aspirin necessary; Nanami's a hangover who long ago become your default state of sobriety. As you are his.

---

I got totally carried away with this. On one hand I adore the idea of fiscally responsible Nanamin and the wifey who have a sensible joint savings account, but you also cannot convince me otherwise that this man is addicted to spoiling his partner in unspeakably lavish, lush ways <3. Pls enjoy/suffer simping for my muse with this gorgeous art @twitter source

so, so pretty U^U