Ouran Sketches :)

mutuals i am politely asking you what color i remind you of

Okay. This may sound strange and very odd, but I took a look at this before reading what it was, and the first thing that popped in my head was 'Oh, this is a post about David Bowie', because this looks like something he would have rocked while dressed like Ziggy Stardust.

I tried finding an image of him in something like this because I was certain I saw him in one before.

I didn't find him in a dressing gown. It wasn't even David dressed as Ziggy. It was David Bowie's album cover for 'The Man Who Sold The World'.

Dressing Gown

c. 1840

Litchfield Historical Society

mechanic toji

cw ✩ ˖  ݁ . domestic abuse (reader is married). zombie apocalypse au. mentions of blood + bruises. violence. death

you and sukuna ryomen had spoken twice before all hell broke loose.

the first time was in front of the elevators — you held an ice pack to your bruised eye, gentle smile on your face despite your predicament as you softly waved at his kid brother, who smiled wide at you, one of his front teeth missing.

“what happened to your face, miss?”

he had smacked him ever so lightly on the back of his head, caused him to yelp out an ouchie, ‘kuna!

“you don’t ask ladies that, brat.”

but your smile had grown, happy to have a conversation. “it’s okay,” you had told them, looking from the tall stranger then to his child. “i’m just really clumsy. i ran into a door.”

the elevator dinged and sukuna ryomen had a feeling you were lying.

the second time was on the roof of the apartment building, late into the night, no adorable toothless kid in sight. your lip was busted that time around.

he was on his second cigarette when you popped up.

“want one?” he inhaled, savored the smoke, exhaled.

“no, thank you. my husband isn’t a fan of the smell — so i should probably leave.” you had laughed, every bit melancholic and unsure.

he figured out the reason of your bruised eye and bloody lip that night.

without hesitation, he dropped the remaining half of his cigarette and stepped on it with his boot.

you were a little dazed, stuck in place.

to have a stranger do something kind for you.

“is,” you cleared your throat almost awkwardly, “is your son already asleep?”

“he’s my brother,” he had shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, let out a puff of winter air. “his name’s yuuji. i’m sukuna. we live in 104.”

you had told him your name. apartment 107. the fact you only —

“don’t take care of that kid. what’s he to you?”

your husband sits across from you a few feet away, elbows resting on his knees, bottle of beer in hand.

you sit next to a sleeping yuuji, hand brushing his pink hair away from his face — you had made sure to clean all the grime from his chubby cheeks with a baby wipe. had fed him a portion of your food. had put him to sleep as his older brother looked for supplies on the upper floors.

“he doesn’t have to be anything of me. he’s a child that needs to be taken care of.”

your husband tsks and stands, throws his beer bottle to the side, makes you wince.

“don’t,” he grabs your forearm roughly, makes you stand up. “take care of the fuckin’ kid.”

you grit your teeth. “don’t touch me.”

your husband laughs before sukuna ryomen appears — grabs him by the collar of his shirt and drags him away from the room on the first floor you started occupying after the infection spread.

he throws your husband on the ground rather roughly, straddles him and throws a nasty punch to the side of his face — another to his nose, mouth, the other side of his head. then, he looses coordination and punches aimlessly — until your husband’s face is disfigured and gushing blood.

“didn’t you fucking hear her, scum?”

you stare with your mouth agape, tears brimming your eyes as you watch sukuna’s grey shirt get stained red.

when he’s done, he turns to you.

you can’t help but to see him as a knight. a savior.

“thank you,” you throw yourself into his arms, sob uncontrollably into his chest. wrap your arms around his body tightly. “thank you, sukuna.”

his hesitancy is palpable, until he slowly wraps his arms around you. mouth dry, knuckles busted and aching as his adrenaline subsides. as he’s wrapped in a blanket of comfort. softness. the faint smell of you.

he swallows and the truth hits his stomach — he’s willing to do anything for you.

So... I did a thing.

I got Tear 🐈‍⬛️ a collar and a tag. The tag has his name on one side, and it says, "Please call my human," on the other with my number (blacked out for online safety).

He absolutely 💯 HATED it, but now he seems pretty chill with it. It took forever to get decent pics of him because he is a cat and hates to stay still when a camera is near.

Throwback to all these Jesus comics I drew in 2012…

Cake is not a lie. It was delicious.

Is anyone interested in me sharing pictures of the food I make?

Not restaurant or fast food.

Homemade food.

I made a pumpkin spice cake tonight. It was supposed to be a sheet cake, but I was like 'fuck it, I'll put it in a throw away cake pan'. I will get a pic eventually.

impostor syndrome: Oh no what if they can all tell that I'm an idiot who's not even supposed to be here, this is terrible. goblin mode: I am the idiot that they use to test whether something's idiot-proof, and boy is this place not up to code.