18

en kamel

[kotsubano]

[/] lucy, 18, french!

[%] active every now and then (weekly)

[!] I post sfw content unless cw indicate otherwise

[$] friends: jitsu, em,

[÷] likes; ginger ale, thunderstorms, romance novels, vanilla and camomile tea, soup

[=] filter #🐟 . otsumail, #🦓.txt, and #ynbox for my writing content

[bokyvku]

i hc kenma to be good at claw machines. After seeing firsthand how you'd whine and rage for the nth time after losing once again, he'd let out a chuckle, teasing you for blaming your bad aim on how "the game was rigged". (he called you a sore loser and said you were just shitty at it) before relenting and easily winning a plushie for you. he never misses a chance to win you stuffed plushies from a claw game.

it's all worth it, he would think, eyes softening as he took in the smile on your face and the bright glint in your eyes.

[missmeinyourbones]

SIMPLE COMPLICATION, MISCOMMUNICATION

cw: arguments aren’t fun :( suna is bad at communicating :( reader is frustrated and a tad insecure :( angst to fluff tho i swear, i was mad so i took it out on paper (and on rintaro)

The small crack of light creeping through your curtain feels equivalent to the burn of a hangover. 

The clock reads a reasonable almost ten in the morning, but your body dismisses the concept of time and aches for twelve more hours of sleep. You barely slept last night, tossing and turning for hours on end, all because of your stupid boyfriend. 

Suna’s terrible at communicating, no matter how many times you tell him. He’s human, prone to making mistakes and having his fair share of wheels that need greasing, but his avoidant communication skills are often the core of a handful of your arguments.

This time around, he’s been away for the week traveling with EJP—and while the travel is nothing new, you’ve only received a single phone call and four texts within the past week. 

Waking up with a pounding headache, you instantly groan at the thought of pulling yourself out of bed. Rintaro won’t be home for another day, which means another night of no sleep and spiraling worry. 

At this point, coffee may be your only saving grace.

Trudging into your kitchen with knotted hair and morning breath, you barely even open your eyes as you mindlessly navigate your way to the savior that is your coffee machine. 

However, your apartment isn’t as empty as you left it last night. 

“Yikes,” an unsuspecting yet familiar voice practically wheezes at your appearance. “You look like you slept well,” the voice oozes of nothing but sarcasm and instigation. 

Keep reading

[kotsubano]

suna who takes care of u when ur sick 😫

cw: touching imagery, gn reader, suggestive

he's not fastidious and conscientious when you're sick -- quite lacking, actually, to your and his knowledge. It's rather strange, now that you think of it, as you reminisce about how he'd get a few weighted blankets too heavy or neglect to warn you about the soup he prepared, gurgling hot, as it singed the roof of your mouth. but mirth comes easy to him, despite everything -- he finds his frenzied runs to and from the supperette peculiarly adorable, grinning proudly as he shows you a spotify playlist he made, dramatically named 'Troubled Mind: The Cold goes On and On,' featuring Swedish and Icelandic heavy metal acts (???) previously unbeknownst to you. he can be forgetful and feverish sometimes but you know he cares, more than whatever spotify playlist and 'get well soon' card and unprompted 'if I was a heart, would u let me beat?' text could ever express.

and sometimes he's a bit more surreptitious; a little more calculating, coming to check up on you at your weak, hoarse address, sitting on the edge of your bed, observing, thinking, contemplating. he doesn't make to get the thermometer, an act you only begin to admonish before you are quickly silenced at the presence of his large hand at your back, heated as it glides over your skin, pausing at the nape of your neck; the hem of your shirt fastened in between his fingers as he sees your skin redden against his grip, flushed against the blanket. squirming a little against him, a little desperate to move and feel his skin skim and skate against yours, reddened and clammy with friction against his callouses. he comments on how hot you feel against him, smirking as his hand retreats to grab a damp cloth, the water cold and welcoming on your forehead, fabric just beneath your hairline, slightly poised at the eyebrows; and he stays with you to make sure it stays that way -- asleep at your side, arms lazily circled around your waist.

[kotsubano]

happy birthday? what are you going to do today?

thank you so much!!

I have no idea TT

[kotsubano]

mi amor I vil gib you ze wurld

😷 written like the linguistic equivalent of a ransom letter

[kotsubano]

Happy birthday!!

[kotsubano]

I think this encapsulates fic!atsumu perfectly

jailtime. immediately. your 19+ life sentences begin now

/hj

[kotsubano]

suna who takes care of u when ur sick 😫

cw: touching imagery, gn reader, suggestive

he's not fastidious and conscientious when you're sick -- quite lacking, actually, to your and his knowledge. It's rather strange, now that you think of it, as you reminisce about how he'd get a few weighted blankets too heavy or neglect to warn you about the soup he prepared, gurgling hot, as it singed the roof of your mouth. but mirth comes easy to him, despite everything -- he finds his frenzied runs to and from the supperette peculiarly adorable, grinning proudly as he shows you a spotify playlist he made, dramatically named 'Troubled Mind: The Cold goes On and On,' featuring Swedish and Icelandic heavy metal acts (???) previously unbeknownst to you. he can be forgetful and feverish sometimes but you know he cares, more than whatever spotify playlist and 'get well soon' card and unprompted 'if I was a heart, would u let me beat?' text could ever express.

and sometimes he's a bit more surreptitious; a little more calculating, coming to check up on you at your weak, hoarse address, sitting on the edge of your bed, observing, thinking, contemplating. he doesn't make to get the thermometer, an act you only begin to admonish before you are quickly silenced at the presence of his large hand at your back, heated as it glides over your skin, pausing at the nape of your neck; the hem of your shirt fastened in between his fingers as he sees your skin redden against his grip, flushed against the blanket. squirming a little against him, a little desperate to move and feel his skin skim and skate against yours, reddened and clammy with friction against his callouses. he comments on how hot you feel against him, smirking as his hand retreats to grab a damp cloth, the water cold and welcoming on your forehead, fabric just beneath your hairline, slightly poised at the eyebrows; and he stays with you to make sure it stays that way -- asleep at your side, arms lazily circled around your waist.

[kotsubano]

suna who takes care of u when ur sick 😫

cw: touching imagery, gn reader, suggestive

he's not fastidious and conscientious when you're sick -- quite lacking, actually, to your and his knowledge. It's rather strange, now that you think of it, as you reminisce about how he'd get a few weighted blankets too heavy or neglect to warn you about the soup he prepared, gurgling hot, as it singed the roof of your mouth. but mirth comes easy to him, despite everything -- he finds his frenzied runs to and from the supperette peculiarly adorable, grinning proudly as he shows you a spotify playlist he made, dramatically named 'Troubled Mind: The Cold goes On and On,' featuring Swedish and Icelandic heavy metal acts (???) previously unbeknownst to you. he can be forgetful and feverish sometimes but you know he cares, more than whatever spotify playlist and 'get well soon' card and unprompted 'if I was a heart, would u let me beat?' text could ever express.

and sometimes he's a bit more surreptitious; a little more calculating, coming to check up on you at your weak, hoarse address, sitting on the edge of your bed, observing, thinking, contemplating. he doesn't make to get the thermometer, an act you only begin to admonish before you are quickly silenced at the presence of his large hand at your back, heated as it glides over your skin, pausing at the nape of your neck; the hem of your shirt fastened in between his fingers as he sees your skin redden against his grip, flushed against the blanket. squirming a little against him, a little desperate to move and feel his skin skim and skate against yours, reddened and clammy with friction against his callouses. he comments on how hot you feel against him, smirking as his hand retreats to grab a damp cloth, the water cold and welcoming on your forehead, fabric just beneath your hairline, slightly poised at the eyebrows; and he stays with you to make sure it stays that way -- asleep at your side, arms lazily circled around your waist.

[kotsubano]

I'm back from some of the worst days I've ever experienced, I'll definitely start publishing soon)) ty to everyone who's interacted w my work so far! I hope you've enjoyed them x

[kotsubano]

song rec?

[kotsubano]

you're sequestered between the couch's seat and duvet; the weight of cotton sufficient enough to disturb your neat chignon¹ -- from the preceding morning -- into a curtain of tousled hair from which behind sakusa's silhouette is barely visible. his profile is tense against the doorframe he leans against; stiff and tight with fatigue and exasperation. wondering if sakusa can feel your glare fixed on him -- a prelude to a grumbled I was sleeping -- until he speaks, the words quiet and clipped.

'I'm too tired to argue anymore, y/n,' sakusa begins, disregarding his typical salutation for an articulate disinterest in continuing your argument from earlier. the phrase is concise and polished as it leaves his lips, as if he's practiced talking to you since your argument, all meticulous and tentative, and you soften a little at the thought.

when you respond, curious about what he needs at such an hour, the question is wary -- a little gentler from stifling any trace of residual irritation from your voice, throat thickened with emotion from having to talk to him again. Despite all the anger and irritation you had, you still love him. You still longed for a pleasant, relaxing evening with sakusa even if it meant doing the most mundane things ever. and you know such an evening would've occurred if your argument hadn't soured the possibility for domestic bliss.

"You know that it gets cold at this hour, right? Especially since the heater here doesn't work well anyway."

"I am aware," you acknowledge, pulling the blankets closer to you. "That's why I bought these blankets to sleep on the couch." You gesture weakly at the fabric. "Besides, I can handle a little chill."

You recoil a little at your declaration, embarrassed at how every little sniffle and tremor contradicts your aforementioned assertion. You'd be a fool to believe that sakusa agrees with you; his own dissent apparent as he shakes his head, curls fluttering gently against his forehead.

He nears you and bends slightly. the scent of tea is heavy on his parted lips.

"Do you need someone to warm you up, y/n?"

¹ chignon = (hair) bun

[kotsubano]

Osamu Miya, Ushijima Wakatoshi, or even Sakusa Kiyoomi. I was not expecting Miles Edgeworth.

Sorry if I'm clogging up your blog

-🦓

hmm, ushijima...I'll have to think about that. I'd like to see what people like about him, recommend me some fics you think really encapsulate what you like about him

no no you're not dw! I love interacting with people on my blog!! even if it's random convos. keep the questions coming ×

[kotsubano]

👀 wouldn't peg you as someone who likes miles Edgeworth

wait omg who did you think I had a crush on?? tell me I have to know!

btw ur the 🦓 anon!

[kotsubano]

IM gonna need. a part 2 to that drabble. I fear.

[kotsubano]

you're sequestered between the couch's seat and duvet; the weight of cotton sufficient enough to disturb your neat chignon¹ -- from the preceding morning -- into a curtain of tousled hair from which behind sakusa's silhouette is barely visible. his profile is tense against the doorframe he leans against; stiff and tight with fatigue and exasperation. wondering if sakusa can feel your glare fixed on him -- a prelude to a grumbled I was sleeping -- until he speaks, the words quiet and clipped.

'I'm too tired to argue anymore, y/n,' sakusa begins, disregarding his typical salutation for an articulate disinterest in continuing your argument from earlier. the phrase is concise and polished as it leaves his lips, as if he's practiced talking to you since your argument, all meticulous and tentative, and you soften a little at the thought.

when you respond, curious about what he needs at such an hour, the question is wary -- a little gentler from stifling any trace of residual irritation from your voice, throat thickened with emotion from having to talk to him again. Despite all the anger and irritation you had, you still love him. You still longed for a pleasant, relaxing evening with sakusa even if it meant doing the most mundane things ever. and you know such an evening would've occurred if your argument hadn't soured the possibility for domestic bliss.

"You know that it gets cold at this hour, right? Especially since the heater here doesn't work well anyway."

"I am aware," you acknowledge, pulling the blankets closer to you. "That's why I bought these blankets to sleep on the couch." You gesture weakly at the fabric. "Besides, I can handle a little chill."

You recoil a little at your declaration, embarrassed at how every little sniffle and tremor contradicts your aforementioned assertion. You'd be a fool to believe that sakusa agrees with you; his own dissent apparent as he shakes his head, curls fluttering gently against his forehead.

He nears you and bends slightly. the scent of tea is heavy on his parted lips.

"Do you need someone to warm you up, y/n?"

¹ chignon = (hair) bun