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sandsorghum · 1 year

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Hollywood AU

With Oscars round the corner I wanted to explore a Movie Industry 'verse, featuring Screenplay writer Nanamin x Starlet Reader, with some messy Director Geto x Reader thrown into the mix cuz it's HOllywood so why not.

I don't have things fully fleshed out, this is only a drabble. It's just a fun little plot bunny I'm considering chasing down the rabbithole, so if you enjoy it, please leave some feedback! Thanks~

Nanami toes the line he's sketched in the sand - and you keep scuffing it. Because it is sand, not cement, as much as Nanami would like to believe that. The grains keep trickling through the hourglass, and his throat gets ever more parched around you.

He used to be able to call you to the side of a sound stage in between takes to murmur his corrections. Now he just scratches them out on a clipboard, cursing PAs and sticky notes that aren't at all adhesive.

"I miss you."

Glue floods his throat. Nanami glances at your reflection, eclipsed by a bevy of stylists coiling your locks into perfectly tight, period-accurate ringlets.

"Bunkering down in that cramped trailer, discussing stories. Have you seen Sangsoo's latest by the way?"

You catch sight of him in the mirror and smile, but someone tuts at you to "stay still". Nanami watches your lips go taut as the gloss swipes over, but he knows where to look. Sure enough, there's a matching shimmer in your gaze, locked in on his. Nanami swallows, his eyes dropping to the papers in his lap.

"Been too busy," he grunts.

"Right Now, Wrong Then remains my fav, but you should make your own assessment. I wouldn't mind seeing his new film twice. Maybe over the weekend, we could-"

"I'll be holed up with the rewrites. Studio's orders. I'm leaving your new lines here."

Nanami doesn't so much hear you sigh, as glimpse a small corner of the glass getting fogged up. He feels your stare slide from the rear view to his retreating silhouette as he turns and walks away from your pout, from the memory of a puff of air tickling his mouth.

Every day you seem more like a mirage, less an oasis.

But these are the desert dunes he's chosen to trek through, grounds ever shifting.

Framed by ink strands, jet stone irises cut across steepled ivory hands, with a gleam that renders the lamination of the page redundant.

[And would you like to address the rumours-?]

[Talent's drawn to talent. That's all.]

[The final say?]

[Your next soundbite - until another distraction from our craft comes along.]

The black and white portrait rustles, a splotch of darkness seeps over those eyes, coloured grey as the super-sized quote [DRAWN TO TALENT] is imprinted across the ravines of cheekbones and deep recesses of sockets, now thinned with text.

He's well aware of your history with Geto, the inaccuracies of the accounts on both sides, the way the two of you are the darlings of the gossip columns, as cyclical as the seasons and heroin chic coming back in vogue, appalling as it is.

"How's the fluff piece for our auteur extraordinaire? He opt for self-flagellating or self-fellating?"

So, trouble in paradise then, Nanami thinks.

He shrugs. "The box office'll be happy."

"Oh, hooraay. Praise be for the ultimate - nay, the only metric and arbiter of art."

"Nay?"

His tone is withering, but not enough to stop your belligerence from sprouting. Or spouting.

"Hey. Do you think I got where I am based on sheer luck, or looks?"

You're a few too many whiskey neats in.

"Clearly they weren't stumbling blocks," he says drily, gesturing for his refill. Normally you'd find his diplomacy coy. Now it's just tiresome.

"I expected more than this calibre of flattery from a BAFTA nominee," you sneer, fingers creeping along Nanami's taut wrist. He steadies his grip around his bourbon.

"I'm off the clock. You'll have to get your one-liners elsewhere. Union rules."

You lean in, the cloud of alcohol and your perfume shrouding Nanami.

"Such a stickler," you whisper, the taunt gusting warm and wet against his lips. Through the fog, just barely, Nanami telescopes in on the gleam of your maraschino-red mouth, the gimlet glint of your eyes.

Not chandeliers, but stalactites, the notion coalesces somehow, despite your distractions. Nanami's brain churns, scrambling for a deflective quip, only to short-circuit when he feels your other hand land on his thigh.

"You know, in these scenarios, the rulebook gets thrown out - if one even exists in the first place."

A rough palm clasps your hand, but your forehead brushes Nanami's.

"My point is, I don't give up. I always get what I want."

"Assuming you know what that is."

You freeze.

It's better this way, Nanami thinks, watching the shards twist in your eyes. There is still barely an inch between you and him, close enough for him to feel the breath and consequences you hold in the quiver of your lips. At arm's length, and a lifetime away.

At least like this, he has a front row seat to the fracturing story.

He was never meant to be the protagonist, let alone a hero.

"Are you really coming after me, or are you just trying to get away from Suguru?"

#nanami kento #nanami x you #nanami x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x reader #kento x reader #kento x y/n #kento x you #geto suguru x reader #geto x you #geto x reader #suguru x reader #geto suguru x you #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #sandsorghum

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sandsorghum · 1 year

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Happy Valentine's!

got teary over thoughts of (lifestyle) Dom Gojo who wants to teach you the importance of punctuality and a fixed routine by waking you up early to sit you on his cock as many mornings as he can (provided you're not too tuckered out from the previous night 😏) It's half hard but doesn't stay that way for long, obviously... honestly I have no excuses for why this exists but I hope this casual ramble makes your Feb 14th extra enjoyable!

Satoru's never gotten a handle on things like lesson plans. More accurately, he doesn't see the point of them. Which is how you end up susceptible to his impromptu, unorthodox methods.

This morning's remedial session is all about Delayed Gratification

Big words and an even bigger concept to wrap your mind around.

But not your mouth...

You don't understand how he's mastered this, just grinding his bulge still covered in those worn briefs against your lips, you can feel the curve and taut warmth of his balls radiating through the material. You love to savour the sensation of his wrinkled sacs smoothing out against your cheek while you sample the salt of his skin, where it's stretched most sensitive and spherical, tinged a pretty terracotta against your tongue's pink, but for now you're grateful for the barrier of the fabric. Because you can see the tip of him straining thick against his cotton confines, the gusset turning into gauzy translucence with his weeping seam, spider silk glistening with dawn's dew. Such a distinct yet familiar scent entrancing you, that morning freshness heralding heat and fingers of sunlight splaying across your thighs is intoxicating enough, but then there's the headier notes of his musk oozing off the dusky rose blush of his cock head, the smell fogging up your mind and you have to breathe, exhale and expunge this dizzying arousal before it takes over you and your day yet again...but your body betrays you and somehow you find your nose nuzzling deeper against Satoru's by now fully stiff shaft, pressed against the underside of his balls you feel throbbing to life, responding to your inadvertent tenderness.

How did he learn such discipline? You'd never guess the rigour with which he inculcated it into himself on all those long nights, before you belonged in his bed, before he dared call it yours too, fisting his cock to desperate dreams of you, first in his sheets then the shower, better to avoid the moon's unsympathetic glare, illuminating his shame through the pallor of his perspiration glowing sticky on his forearms, matching the sheen upon his bulbous tip, flushed as a toadstool, dark roots of vermilion veins tapering toward his frenulum, spent yet still pulsing.

The same moon which illuminated your absence; once he'd swept back his damp, tousled fringe he saw so clearly the crisp lines of his duvet.

How many times had he tucked and untucked the corners, chasing the spectre of your smile, futile attempts to exorcise it with his sickening ritual of diminishing returns. Each time, the facts laid bare as your body in his fantasies, your absence beneath him outlined in smears of white, a haunting in ectoplasm dribbling down his knuckles.

He'd tried to alleviate some of that guilt, or at least suffering, stopping himself short of cumming, right to the edge of reality and sanity - no mess as if it was all invisible, like he'd buried his cum deep inside you, imaginary and sealed away in his head, the only version of you he was convinced he could have, could keep.

But then, you'd shown him how terrible you were at hiding your own secrets. In broad daylight.

And now, you're a little luckier this dawn, as the sun starts to splinter itself over your sill. Satoru allows you to mold your mouth against the single damp spot darkening his underwear. Your eyes threaten to flutter shut, your mouth is full of synthetic fabric but you can still taste the faintest tint of his bittersalt tang, dredging up the memory and connecting to the residual film that had coated your tongue much more generously, mere hours ago. A nexus between morning and night, languor and labour, between pleasure and patience.

The moment is suspended, that last little shining string swaying between your bottom lip and his leaking iridescent slit. You breathe slow and go still, waiting to see which way his thread will snap.

But you aren't at all idle.

You keep your eyes open, locked onto Satoru's slightly unfocused one, dipping between your slack lips and soft, doe gaze. He is watching you waver between innocence and intent, and you have your own assessment to make, careful to mask the keenness of your observation beneath a sleepy half-smile, affection crinkling the corners of your eyes as you wait for his irises to swirl from that familiar cerulean which froths sweetness and guile, to the even more intimate indigo glinting desire, an anglerfish flicker in the depths; you wait for him, to submit to the whirlpool of your lusts.

Alas, he anchors a large palm to your chin, and instead of dragging him down he pulls you up for a gentle kiss, though you feel little eddies of his appetite nibbling along your chin.

"Let's fuck," Satoru whispers, lips teasing the whimper from your lungs, lumbering awake.

"Let's fuck," he repeats, and this time it's a warning for himself, a firm statement to bulwark against the rush of desire crashing like a wave upon him when you wriggle your hips and clutch at the barrels of his chest. You cling to Satoru like a limpet, hooking a leg over him, a barnacle desperate for its raft.

But he just chuckles, your whine lost in the rustle of blankets as he wrests them off you, they billow out like sails and the chill finally, properly shocks you awake.

"After breakfast," Satoru says, and you're about to protest this additional injustice when he cups your chin, tilting your face up so you can see the starvation in his eyes, how he's struggling against it.

"Get up now and we'll have time for that thing with my tongue you seem to like so much...or am I mistaken about your enthusiasm?"

You scramble to the bathroom and end up squeezing face wash on your toothbrush.

Even as you glimpse Satoru sniggering at you in the mirror while you (literally) foam at the mouth, furiously gargling, you decide his is a compromise you don't mind waking up earlier for.

But maybe you'd make him try a little harder to convince you tomorrow morning. Satoru's conditioning process is way too fun for it to succeed this soon.

#jjk headcanons #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x you #satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x gender neutral reader #gojo x y/n #satoru smut #i don't often write for this man but when i do it's the simpiest sinfullest things why #gojo satoru x y/n

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sandsorghum · 1 year

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save me

i know it's all in my mind but im in such a mess and bind over him…how does he inspire such woe and wonder, so much my muse and still so mortal? I cannot grasp his grip on me. it's so far beyond the realm of the rational, it almost actively jeopardizes my sanity. how to explain his hold over me, much more than the psychological, carnal, ethereal…all these emotions boiling over while i scrape the bottom of the barrel searching for synonyms to do justice to his beauty and valour. Every day - every hour, i grow a little more bereft of clarity, like breath fogging a mirror or mineral deposits building up around a caldera. There's a dryness coagulating across the tongue when i speak his name, either swallowing saltwater or gasping for oxygen - feeling more focused and lightheaded than ever before with him as both beacon and jagged cove. My harbour, my harbinger, my harpoon straight through the heart - amidst the tempest, a single truth gleams cold and irrefutable; the fact that he's fictional is simultaneously curse and consolation. I shudder and scoff at the thought that anything approaching this intensity could transcend into reality. I will flay it apart, how else to understand it, this is my punishment and indulgence. This craving knows no comparisons, I cannot identify absolution in any form but his. Momentarily I entertain the thought that some body might yet satirize such desire, denigrate it to a pale imitation of misplaced passions, but such hubris hasn't been proven. I have such certainty nothing could cast those aspersions, or insinuations of it being anything lesser than all-consuming, inherent; it is a madness that has molded me! (Intangibly, if not irrevocably.) He survives the scrutiny of my microscope, the aberration of rose-tinted lenses, who else can measure up to these angles?

Now all that remains is to preserve him in polaroids, to frame his portrait and offer others an aperture through which he might be glimpsed. A focal length that requires continuous refining but oh, in one secret still beat of my heart, I have him wholly captured, his soul salvaged as much as mine.

#nanami kento #geto suguru #GNAWmal hours #jujutsu kaisen #i just-#yea it's one of those days yknow #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #nanami x you #suguru x you #satoru x you

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sandsorghum · 1 year

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You're alive!!! 🥹✨️

Are you doing okay??

❤️❤️

- Kali 🌸

Kali! Hello and thanks for checking in on me, means a lot! ^^

I'm doing well enough, some days it's striding and others it's striving - ya know how it can be. But I'm determined this year will be better than last, more productive hopefully - but also more chill? it's a contradiction but I'm optimistic it'll work itself out. somehow.

Anyway! Let me know how you are too! Any new year's resolutions? (:

#sandbox

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sandsorghum · 1 year

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03.02.2023

1st fic of 2023, and obviously it's for a very special someone's birthday! I would also like to dedicate this to the person who so graciously and generously encouraged me to keep writing in 2022, in their hands all my scraps and ramblings and odd ends become treasure maps for plots and perhaps even a few things yall can keep a look out for down the road 👀

That individual is none other than @sukunasun. Not only are they galaxy-brained, they're somehow both the comet from which i tailspin and the sextant parsing constellations from the cosmic chaos of my fictitious obsessions. They're both moonbeam and moonshine, without them i would be lost and have to face that most horrible prospect of sobriety. TLDR if you're a JJK fan and not following them wtf are you doing with your existence. Go, be illuminated.

Anyway I wish I had more time to polish up this piece but I didn't want to procrastinate any further, so hope yall enjoy this. Feedback and reblogs greatly appreciated as always!

Studies in Graphite

Genre: High School AU, Humour, Romance WC: 2.6k Point of inspiration

You abhor these afternoon classes. They were despicable especially at the height of summer.

The post lunch haze was extra insufferable, the satiation from a food coma conspiring to coil anaconda like around your bones, urging hibernation. You had anvils for eyelids and the drone of the teacher only added extra weight to them.

But there was one thing helping to keep you awake, a singular saving grace that prevents you from entirely loathing the midday heat which made the hours ooze by excruciatingly. You don’t mind the minutes melting together, the taunt of the second hands’ tick tocks is ameliorated by the way he’s illuminated.

Your classmate sits one desk and several eternities away from you, silhouette radiant against the 4pm sun. The sharp slope of his nose and the jutting edges of his jawline cast shadows in all the right places, delicate strands of his fringe that frame his face begging for a breeze. Still, that forehead remains unfurrowed, even with the bead of perspiration that rolls past his temple, arcing across the high cut of his cheeks to drip down in the hollow of his throat. Your own grows scratchy and dry at the descent of this dewy melodrama, mesmerizing in its mundanity, causing you to swallow hard.

The pen perched upon his lips inspires you to lick your own chapped, cracked ones as he fiddles and flicks the writing instrument around, so his knuckles now rest against that plush bottom lip, joint tentatively pressed in thought to it.

God, how the sun adores Geto Suguru.

And then there were those eyes, brighter than any beam daring to stream in through the windows to challenge his gleaming coal gaze. It appears attentive enough and yet he exudes an aura of boredom. If only that sight might slide a couple inches to his right, where you were. Although, you realise immediately as the thought forms, that’s a foolish thing to wish for - he’d catch you staring, and you’d burn to a crisp in a moment.

Focus, you chide yourself, dropping your eyes to your notebook, graphite grazing against the paper in languid loops and swoops. You could never quite get his expression right, maybe fuller lashes, or a little less shading of the philtrum?

There’s an echo of annoyance in the distance, words muffled by their irrelevance but then you hear the syllables most familiar to you spill from an unfamiliar voice, much closer and quivering with the timbre of amusement. He knows your name? Your sight flicks to the side, and oh, there’s the quirk of Geto’s lips to match your silly little hopes. They tilt further with the incline of his head, and at last you trace the sound of exasperation to your teacher.

“Uhm, sorry sir, what was that?” you stutter, shooting up too abruptly and knocking your textbook to the floor.

With a long suffering sigh, the teacher repeats himself.

“Name the solution.”

“Just one second, Yaga-sensei…” You scramble to retrieve your book, bending down but a pair of hands beat you to it. Suguru passes it to you, mouthing page 56.

You duck your head in an abashed gesture of appreciation, flipping like a hurricane through the pages. You clear your throat, stalling for time as you frantically scan for the relevant question. Suguru hums low, signaling assistance and your eyes dart over to his index, tapping the top right corner of his page. You feel the glare of your teacher barreling towards your bowed head yet you still steal a second to flash Suguru a grateful grin before glancing at where he’s hinted.

Perfect! You actually knew this one for once.

Triumphantly you raise your head, reciting in a voice loud and clear, “Here we can apply Pythogoras’ Theorem, which is a squared plus b squared equals…”

You trail off noticing your teacher’s perplexity at your unwarranted confidence, though it switches to irritation in a moment.

“If you’d like to join us, we’re on page 89,” he says in a clipped tone.

“Ah, right. Sorry…” your fingers fly through the pages.

“...of the geography textbook,” he adds after an unnecessarily cruel pause.

It’s not the tittering that swells over the rest of the classroom that make your ears burn scarlet, it’s the stifled snort from the side. Your entire body freezes but your eyes snap to the left, rebelling against your better instincts. And now you’re really scorching, regarding the way Geto Suguru has clasped a palm over his mouth to choke back his chortles, but you see them wracking his body, belly tensing and convulsing with slight shudders.

Amidst the inferno of your infuriation and shame, any gratitude towards Geto goes up in smoke. Still, some small part of you appreciates the view before you, his eyes glittering with mischief, attention fully on you and your seething stare, as you expect embers of embarrassment to spark where your fingernails bite into your palms. Alas, even the gasoline fumes of his grin don’t ignite any real flames in your hands to char that stupid smirk off him.

You’ve heard the rumours, Geto Suguru was pegged to be the next valedictorian.

But now, for a fact, you know he’s also made it to the top of your list of Handsome Assholes Not to Trust. Ever.

As you slump back into your seat, dignity shriveled, you barely register the exasperated sigh of your teacher.

“Would anyone else like to volunteer the answ- oh great.” His grumble gets cut off by the shrill of the bell, indicating the end of the period and thankfully, the school day.

You haul up your books and hurry out to the corridor, deliberately ignoring Geto calling after you, despite how sweet the syllables sound ringing out from him.

You yank your locker door open, snatching your bag and stuffing everything into it haphazardly. You had to get off campus as quickly as possible but - your pack feels less bulky than usual. You’re missing your notebook. Shit, it had all your assignments - or more accurately the distractions from your assignments in it. You rummage through files and folders. Of course your bag chose this precise moment to unfathomably transform into a black hole, of course -

“Looking for this?”

And of course Geto Suguru had to be the one holding up the very thing you were looking for, bemusement twinkling in his eyes. As he strides toward you, you wonder if the inexplicable cosmic phenomena in your bag could swallow you up first.

It doesn’t, naturally.

“Hello,” Geto says, unnaturally chipper. “You dropped this just now.”

You can tell by the sparkle in his eyes the worst has happened, he’s already rifled through it.

“Give it back,” you snap, holding your hand out. Geto’s a good several feet taller than you, you’re not about to humiliate yourself in front of him a second time today by treating him like a basketball hoop.

He waves it back and forth anyway, seeing if he can get a rise out of you. And sure, if someone popped an old-fashioned thermometer in your mouth, the mercury would be rocketing up.

“You’re so quiet, I always took you for the diligent, studious type ya know? Turns out you’re quite the day dreamer, aren’t ya?”

“Give it back,” you repeat with pitch-perfect stoicism.

“But I wonder what you dream about at night,” Geto muses, as if you were mute. “Or should I say who?”

That thermometer under your tongue has turned into a cat’s claw.

He presses the spine of your notebook to the corners of his mouth in mock contemplation, and your mind screams louder Don’t say anything! Just make him submit with your stare. Your brain always provides the best advice.

That your mouth just doesn't abide by.

“That’s none of your business. Probably nightmares of Yaga-sensei, thanks to you.”

“Sorry, sorry. You were just so perfect…”

“Excuse me?” You’re caught wholly off guard by the combination of Geto’s half-assed apology and what seems to be his entirely sincere compliment.

“For my plan,” he elaborates, advancing toward you. Your heart skips a beat for every step Geto takes closer to you.

“Class was almost over, I just needed an incident to make sensei forget about giving us homework. Or maybe, a few more minutes to help me get through the day,” he hums, voice dropping low. You don’t need to lean forward to hear Geto, with how he’s looming over you now, your body caged between the locker and his arm.

“Either way, you were the perfect distraction.”

“If you want to express your thanks, you ought to return my property.”

You clutch your bag to your chest, trying to form some sort of shield between you and the hot gust of Geto’s chuckle. Or perhaps it’s a sound barrier, so he doesn’t detect the drumming of your heart; you have a hunch that’s futile though.

“Your property? See, I don’t know about that. Sure, you bought this book, but the intellectual property inside, the likenesses of certain images, that I certainly don’t remember authorizing the replication of...”

“You gonna stand there and lecture me about...about copyright infringement?” You huff, incredulous.

“Well, no,” Suguru cocks his head, contemplating your retort.

“I suppose involving you in my earlier stunt is payback enough.”

“Payback?”

“Mmhmm, for invasion of privacy.”

“You’re the one who went through the contents of my-”

“You must have taken a picture of me without my permission,” Geto frowns, as if disappointed that you’d try to fib so pathetically.

“I didn’t!”

“Hm? How else do you explain the quality of your art? You must have had some sort of reference, or sneaky recording.”

“I- I did no such thing! I just drew you from memory and thought about your face a lot!” You yell, composure shattering like glass. You see Geto’s smug victory reflected in its shards.

Too late you realise the outburst his accusation triggered is just what he wanted.

“All that from memory? It’s awfully accurate, that’s impressive.” Geto murmurs, and you’re taken aback again by how much he means his praise.

“You honestly think that?” You mumble, temporarily forgetting the original transgression that allowed him to have any opinion of your work in the first place.

Geto nods, holding your gaze level with his. “Although you probably shouldn’t doodle in class so you can avoid humiliating scenarios.”

“Oh yea, and what should I call this then?”

“Well, we’re technically outta class now, I can’t give you any guarantees there.”

Your breath hitches with the slender finger that Geto slyly slides beneath your chin, tilting them so your mouth is perfectly angled to meet the one you’ve been fixated on for months, breaking in dozens of 2B pencil points on their outline, the precise shape of their smirk remaining elusive. Now, that you had an up-close study though…

“I - um - I suppose I should concentrate during lessons more,” you admit, “Art’s not a real subject anyway…”

Geto’s lips twitch downward in the same motion he arches a brow.

“Not real?” There’s a huskiness, a promise, a risk to his rhetorical inquiry.

“This subject doesn’t feel real to you?”

Suddenly, a weight collides against your mouth, Suguru’s scent invades your senses - but not his taste; something feels wrong. There’s just the texture and flat flavour of wood pulp, no warmth of flesh or curve of a wicked grin crashing against your lips, certainly no wet muscle stroking along them, probing aggressively for entrance.

You had cinched your eyes shut to brace for the impact of your first ever kiss but they fly open again to investigate the abnormal sensations, so foreign to your fantasies. You’d always anticipated some degree of incongruity with reality but this wasn’t how any man’s mouth should feel, definitely not Suguru’s. You would know, after all, you had devoted a...not insignificant amount of time and mental capacity considering what his in particular might feel like.

The cunning bastard’s gone and slipped the notebook between your mouths, the pages pressed between lips. Fortunately (or unfortunately?) the notebook’s less thick than when you’d purchased it. In your exasperation you’d torn out dozens of pages of failed starts and imperfect sketches of Suguru. And now, you’re further frustrated by the irony that if only you’d ruined more of your drawings, the individual you’d based them on would perhaps have been able to give you a proper kiss, damned fantasy obstructing reality.

But even now, you feel his heat, his hunger.

This close to him, your noses are brushing, foreheads bumping. Obviously you can’t see the smirk etched on his mouth blocked by the notebook, but it’s traveled to his sparkling eyes, mirth apparently finding permanent residence there. You think it probably is unlucky after all, for the pages to be so thin, you wouldn’t want anyone catching you and Geto Suguru making out (not making out?) in the school hallways, that would be-

“Oiii Suguru, I’m finally freaking done! Let’s head to the arcade, I’m gonna smash your Street Fighter record!”

You glimpse a shock of white hair and dark sunglasses, and hurriedly shove Suguru away.

“Oh. Is there another record you’re more interested in setting?”

Suguru shakes his head at his best friend’s snarky comment. Birds of a feather, you think, dazed at the close shave. You barely register Suguru curling his fingers around you, but the light squeeze of his hand sends a bloom of warmth rushing through your body.

“I was just swapping notes with her,” Suguru responds nonchalantly.

“Yeah? Looked more like you were swapping spi-”

“How about you get some practice rounds in first, you could use the head start.”

“Now you’re telling me not to dawdle? After spending all semester sighing about…”

Your schoolmate squints at you, then his friend, then back at you. His face is inscrutable beneath his shades, but Suguru seems to have picked something up.

“Give us a few minutes, Satoru. Alone.”

He clasps his hands behind his head, scoffing, “Right, because that needed emphasis.”

“Whatever. Bring enough change later, no excuses for copping out this time,” he drawls, drifting back down the hall. You turn back towards Suguru.

“Street Fighter?”

“It’s an ongoing bet. Long story,” he responds with a vague gesture.

“Right.”

You lock eyes with him, curiosity ballooning, the question you’re so tempted to ask stretching the silence even tauter. For once, your muse studies you instead, patient and observant.

Slowly you ask, “Was I really that obvious in class?”

Suguru shrugs - or attempts to, the jerky movement of his shoulders syncing with the grin splitting his face. “Nah I just have extraordinary peripheral vision.”

You bury your face in your palm, fingers valiantly attempting to dam back the flood of blood to your cheeks.

“You know, I wouldn’t have noticed if the resemblance wasn’t that striking.”

You shoot a glare at him. “Are you humble-bragging about your looks right now?”

He laughs, an unfettered full-throated ribbon of sound reverberating in your bones. “Not intentionally. I just meant, you’re talented. You should keep it up.”

He notes the incredulity wrinkling across your expression and his smile widens.

“In fact,” he taps the hand clutching your notebook. It’s light and playful, but there’s a touch more tenderness in his tone, “if you want to keep improving your drawing skills, next time just ask me to be your model, all right? I can’t promise I’ll sit still the whole time though.”

Airily, too daringly, you reply, “I don’t expect you to.”

Suguru’s eyes glint, in recognition of your challenge.

Since that day, you've stopped tearing out the pages.

Not that it really mattered how thick or thin your notebooks were when the pictures leaped out of them at you, that same charcoal gaze turning your skin to canvas; His very own work of art, a portrait to savour in private.

#geto suguru x you #geto suguru x y/n #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru #suguru x reader #suguru x y/n #suguru x you #jjk suguru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #geto x reader #geto x you #sandsorghum #that drawing of him is 100/10 #isn't it so SO gorgeous #it makes me insaNe

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sandsorghum · 1 year

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new year old obsessions

i am down bad for higuruma hiromi

like, oh, Mr Lawyer, you can get me off? Yeah, i bet you could

gege needs to stop enabling my addictions to world weary workaholics who dream of a kinder society, like pls. n o.

my self-respecc goes straight out the window when it comes to this manic idealist sadboi gone terribly wrong right wrong?

there's just smth about that guy that makes me wanna grab him by the tie and -i wanna tear this attorney to pieces goddamnit

don't get me wrong nanami is still it for me, but variety's the spice of life y'know? their appearances are just so different

it's not hyperbole when i say i believe nanami could 100% be scouted off the street as a couture model. he's stop-dead-in-your-tracks-right-there-get-whiplash-at-a-traffic-junction-from-how-your-head-spins-round gorgeous (eye bags, pissed expression and even blood flecked high on those cheekbones and all) His stature, his gait, everything from the way he walks to the way he fking stands I'd find enrapturing.

whereas hiromi, no offense, doesn't quite have the same double take effect. maybe i am way more smitten with his characterization at first impressions? i have a feelin' he's a lot less dominant and forward in bed, but exudes his own very unique brand of control? idk he's just able to compel and convince you to do what he wants. Sigh.

everyday i stray a lil farther from sanity and reality

also hi , uyueah, uh i'm alive i guess. how are yalls' 2023 going so far

Sanely?

pls Stop bragging.

anyway febuary is right around the corner so you know what that means! It's SUGURU SEASON SOON. I will be preparing a couple of pieces, fingers crossed I can finish them on time.

#nixyaks #i cannot with how atrociously aggressively attractive everyone is in this series #the way they can all get it #is a violation of decency #im sorry its manic hours here #jjk #higuruma hiromi #nanami kento #ive missed writing!!#i have so many ideas for hiromi yall don't know how mad he's making me

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sandsorghum · 1 year

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Reblog this and tell the person you reblogged from whether they are like the sun, moon, stars or sky and WHY

#the sky #because it contains all of these and if i look too long the eyes get watery #hurh

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sandsorghum · 1 year

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wow. wrote a full sentence. im a god. im done for the day

#a FKING vibe #actually i got two more sections done so #pats back

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sandsorghum · 1 year

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Hello there! Brunch or Supper with corporate!Nanami (2 x chili, open genre), please! I really hope I'm not too late but all goods otherwise. 💖

I go by she/her pronouns btw in case you need that detail. :) Thank you!

Thank you so much for participating in this event! CorporateNanami is such a classic and always an absolute treat to dive into his psyche/back story - so I'm really grateful to have the opportunity to explore that!

The story I'm working on for this isn't complete yet (I'm not sure if it even has a proper title right now :p) but please have this sneak peek by way of an Xmas gift!

___________________________________________________________

Nanami Kento doesn’t hate his job.

Cogs have no concept of resentment. Cogs rarely have a concept of themselves.

Or of the gears they’re caught in, churning and turning. Teeth fitting into teeth, the mundane devouring of a mechanical maw.

Nanami cranes his neck back and something clicks in his jaw. He winces, an aperture shuttering into astigmatism. Everything is amber-tinted, refracting through crystal tumblers. Through the boozy bokeh, a smoky purr coils around his ears.

“I was promised a good time y’know.”

A sigh escapes a mulberry-smudged mouth. A plum, just overripe. Or bruised early. Nanami finds his thoughts inclined towards smears of jam. He swerves sharply away from the idea of acquiring a sample.

“So much for that.”

The lips don’t plump into the pout he expects. Instead they split into a wild grin, all savage triumph relishing the spoils of battle; Blazers discarded, the abandoned armour of woven reeds gone rotten. Ties and lanyards loosened around wilted collars, with fingers still curled in a death grip around the beer glasses, condensation bleeding into the cuffs around rigor mortis wrists.

Her eyes glitter, surveying the slump of bodies and lolling tongues, shirttails soaking up beer and bravado. She’d seen through them right from the start. The cajoling under the pretext of camaraderie - “It’s good for team spirit, syacho!” someone from sales had simpered while another wheedled, “It’s not like you have a husband to run home to. Enjoy it while you can!” - the goading as rows of shots were shoved into her unresisting hands, then the amused hooting as she slammed them down first, five whole seconds faster than her rivals.

Their raucous jibes had been eclipsed by her hiccups and giggles, jeering blurring into a cacophony of challenges.

Who’s next! Who’s next! They chant.

But there was only ever one target. Every man knew.

Amidst the chorus of compliments for her, an echo of condescension. “Quit bragging, the little lady holds her liquor better than you!”

It’s a feint, this turning on each other, these taunts of masculinity called into question. The truth is primordial, transfigures the pack into a pact. Night wears on, tension coalescing around their truce, straddled somewhere between cooperation and competition.

They each have their own stratagems; a friendly arm slung over her shoulder, a gravitationally-compromised palm claiming the small of her back, essential territory but guarded too soon. Nanami has watched her slip through their fingers all evening, while they were wrapped around one of hers.

Escape in ecdysis, shedding the coats his co-workers had wrapped over her with a serpentine smile. There’s a certain chimeran charisma to her that the others weren’t wary enough of; a single well-manicured talon pressed to the crease of an arm, lashes fluttering like a falcon taking flight on her breathy laugh, chiding, “There’s no way I’m cold with all this alcohol you guys are plying me with!”

It would be a longer evening than most, than any of them anticipated, even with their tired routines. Recently hired department heads are the worst. Accustomed to boot polish smiles that keep the axles greased, quaffing just enough to keep the ants underfoot grinding in their mills. But Nanami knows how these things go down with everyone else, these induction rituals of company culture with the fresh-faced graduates, the unassuming secretaries, the summer interns just turned 18.

The revelry is practically rehearsed, the intentions always the same, to strip them of inhibitions. And more, if they’re “lucky”. It’s not like he’s merely witnessed the plays. He’s complicit, even as a calefare.

Nanami’s old enough to have inklings of when a night will drag on. And just aware enough of how he’s aged to ignore those instincts.

So here he is, observing his new team lead chase down pint after pint, over the rim of whiskeys he’d been nursing, on the sidelines of a sprint no one else realizes will become a torturous marathon.

There’s a residual disgust, clinging like tar to his guts, but mostly Nanami’s desensitized to the way his colleagues openly ogle the gallons disappearing as she tilts her head back, exposing the unmarked column of her neck. Practically salivating, watching her throat grow taut with each effortless swallow, the froth flecking her lips white.

They had tried everything - tequila, sake, shochu even. All to no avail, her eyes remaining bright and only the slightest slur to the edge of her voice, trilling encouragement as they competed for her favour.

It had been a little amusing, he’ll admit, watching these jackasses’ pantomimed admiration morph into sheer terror at her stamina.

And now, Nanami’s pinstripes are draped across her shoulders. He doesn’t remember passing his jacket to her at any point, he’d just shrugged it off when it got too warm, the atmosphere too thick with desire curdling into despair.

On her, it looks less like the final banner unfurled on the battlefield, and more like military regalia. It suits her, he thinks. His lapels fringing the ruffled sleeves of her cream blouse like epaulets, lightly mussed locks tumbling over her neckline.

He almost misses her murmur, watching her deft hands combing through the dark cascade.

“So mr last mans tanding, what’ll your prize be?”

He wonders how many times she’s won. He wonders how many times she’s survived.

“I wouldn’t say no to an extra day of paid leave.”

Amusement reverberates through her, the rich and low hum an antithesis to the airiness of her giggles before. It's an equal affectation, he suspects.

“Request denied, too much administrative fuss.”

Her digits skim the pinstripes tapering up his thighs, cuticles calculative, inching across the lines

“But I have a counter-offer you could still enjoy.”

Tendrils of heat spool in his belly, his focus fraying, the seam of his pants tighter than it was seconds ago.

“Well, a pay raise doesn’t sound bad either.”

“I’m afraid that also isn’t on the table.”

The corner of her mouth twists wry as her fingers creep further toward a breach of subordinate-supervisor decorum.

“I’m not drunk enough for these antics.”

He grips her wrist, fingers splayed broad and thick against her pulse. She takes a short breath. Nanami pins her with a sharper gaze. It lasts a beat too long. Her mouth draws into a thin line.

And then he follows up, “You aren’t either.”

Bright, hard points of light flash off her canines; he’s a deer, dazzled and caught in a high beam, blinded by her bared teeth before he feels them cutting into his lower lip, devouring his startled grunt, senses overwhelmed by the contrasting prick of her nails embedded into his chest and the tender grasp of the fine hairs at his nape standing on end. His spine stiffens, gooseflesh rippling over his skin, racing to fight the flush spreading beneath his starched white collar.

She pulls back, he lurches forward, and in this loss of momentum he sees the parabola of her smirk arc wide. He wears her victory in vermilion stains.

She presses the pad of her thumb over his mouth, plum pigment feathering over his cupid’s bow to notch in the whorls of her fingerprint. Then, she drags it over his Adam’s apple, as it bobs, hard.

“I should clean up this mess,” she tuts.

Nanami doesn’t have another protest as she pulls him off the bar stool and into a bathroom stall.

A big thank you to everyone in general who supports my terribly inconsistent writing by reading, reblogging or going off in the tags haha. Happy Yuletide! I promise I'll try to update this blog more regularly next year~

As always your comments and feedback mean a lot <3

#nanami kento #nanami kento x y/n #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento smut #nanami kento x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #sandsorghum

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