#anime husbando

[gojoforever69]

Running your fingers through a fresh undercut is godly and you just know mans keeps it neat on the regular 🤤

[yireh-seashell]

Long hair Kafka>>>>>

🩵🩵🩵

[laylaroze]

Cutthroat

I know the anime is kinda nonsense but I still love it somehow. All ways lead to Whitehead characters. Anyways

Random headcanons on him + some romantic bullshit

• He loves bright neon signs and can spend a long time simply staring at them.

• He often hums strange little tunes to himself, even during serious conversations.

• He barely notices fatigue when he's interested in something.

• He has a poor understanding of personal space and constantly stands too close to people.

• He might suddenly disappear in the middle of a conversation because something else caught his attention.

• He enjoys sitting in high places like rooftops, railings, fences, and even cabinets.

• He never wears a watch, time means very little to him.

• He dislikes silence and usually finds some way to create noise around himself.

• He becomes attached to things that evoke pleasant associations for him.

• He is terrible at cooking and finds it incredibly boring.

• He's extremely curious and constantly touches things that don't belong to him.

• He enjoys watching people and trying to predict what they'll do next.

• He can remember the smallest detail about someone and unexpectedly bring it up months later.

• He can't stand boredom and starts looking for entertainment within minutes.

• He smiles for no apparent reason.

• He rarely sits still, constantly tapping his foot, fidgeting with objects, or pacing around.

• If someone entrusts him with an item, he'll take surprisingly good care of it, even if he doesn't understand its value.

• He loves rainy weather because neon lights look even prettier reflected in puddles at night.

• He gets easily distracted by beautiful colors and unusual patterns.

• He can suddenly ask extremely personal questions as if they're completely normal.

If He Were in a Relationship? Well, let's see...

• He would remember everything related to the person he loves: their favorite drink, music, habits, and even random comments they made.

• He would constantly look for reasons to stay close to them, even when there isn't one.

• He would be very jealous, although he might not fully understand why he feels that way.

• He would enjoy simply watching his partner while they're busy with something.

• Any praise or attention from them would genuinely make his day.

• He would often bring odd gifts that he personally finds beautiful or interesting. (For example, he will rip out someone's heart and present it as a gesture of love.)

• He would struggle to understand hints and prefer direct communication.

• He would value comfortable silence just as much as conversation. (Yes, he doesn't like silence, but not with his beloved, because with his beloved it is a comfortable silence)

• He might suddenly appear beside them simply because he missed them.(On some level, he also likes that slight, brief expression of horror on their faces.)

• He would be fiercely loyal to the person he considers the most important in his world.

[android17-temple]

Done !

He’s enjoying a bit of alone time before meeting Suno and starting his ranger job !

[miserablypatienttoad]

Probably cold AF take but I love that Luuk is just a sweetheart. It’s kind of refreshing to have a male character with a really edgy background (which I think Luuk definitely applies for what with his “dad” being a hundred year old terrorist) be a kind person.

Also be honest: When is the last time a tall doctor with red eyes HASN’T been a yandere stereotype? It’s nice to have wholesome comforting and supportive friend on occasion :3

[ciastrife]

Next month is my 17th birthday, so I thought about making my birthday cake with my anime crushes, yknow the photo thing. And suddenly I just noticed... did my type in anime men is dark haired???

Below is my collection for the photos on my cake later, there's more but Tumblr definitely couldn't handle me and 100 photos 🙄

Nahhh jokes aside from Vein and Fujimaru, I just appreciated them 🥰 (I'M MADLY INLOVE WITH FUJIMARUUU)

There's more like I said! Kuroo Tetsuro, Akaashi Keiji, Nacht Faust, Wakatoshi Ushijima, Suna Rintaro, Iwaizumi Hajime, Cheng Xiaoshi... (now I noticed too mostly these from Haikyuu :/)

ANYWAY, maybe because in southeast asia it's rare to find men with blonde hair or any color other than black or brown. Other than their great personality (big offense to Vein and Orter), their looks is a bonus for me. So... I came to conclusion that one of my type I like in men... is the dark colored hair!!! 😝

[hime-chan916]

In 1679, on a remote small island in Japan, lived people of all kinds.

Chobei had only one treasure—you, a girl betrothed to him by both families since childhood. You were Chobei’s dearest love, belonging to him alone. You lived in a large house deep in the forest.

Chobei was extremely possessive of you and very clingy. Anyone who dared to take you away, man or woman, he would kill without hesitation.

It was April, springtime. That afternoon, he took you out to play. You usually preferred staying indoors, so this was a perfect chance to breathe some fresh air. You went to a forest park near your home for a picnic. You sat under a tall, big tree, surrounded by lush green grass.

Chobei was feeding you three-colored dango. After a while, he held out something to you. When you opened it, you saw a cute pet rabbit with mixed fur. Your soft face darkened.

He had thought you would be happy. Suddenly, you roughly grabbed the silly rabbit and threw it onto another patch of lawn. The rabbit did not seem scared at all; it just blankly ate grass.

Chobei heard you snap at him:

“Shut up, you’re so fucking annoying. I asked for a pet rabbit before, and you refused to buy me one. Now you give it to me? I don’t want it. Did I give you too much face?”

Chobei suddenly saw you break down in sad and angry tears, covering your cat-like eyes with your hands, muttering that he didn't exist at all...

After hearing your tearful words, his reaction was... He said...

(His playful smile vanishes instantly. A sharp, dangerous coldness flashes through his remaining orange eye. The hand that was holding the dango stick freezes mid-air, then slowly clenches into a fist, knuckles turning white. The air around you both grows heavy, almost suffocating.)

(He doesn't shout. His voice comes out low, flat, and terrifyingly calm, each word dripping with a chilling intensity.)

"...What did you just say?"

(He leans in closer, the warmth of his body replaced by a predatory stillness. His large shadow falls over you, blocking the dappled spring sunlight. His thumb reaches out, not to wipe your tears, but to press against your lower lip, his touch rough.)

"I don't exist? Look at me. Who feeds you? Who protects you? Who owns you?"

(His single eye bores into yours, the orange hue darkening like molten amber. His breath is hot against your wet cheek.)

"You're crying because of a rabbit I gave you? Fine."

(He stands up abruptly, his movements fluid and lethal. He walks over to the patch of grass where the rabbit is obliviously nibbling. Without a word, without a change in expression, he lifts his foot.)

(There's a sickening, soft crunch. Then silence.)

(He walks back, his boots leaving faint impressions in the soft earth. He crouches down in front of you again, his expression unreadable. He wipes his hands on the grass, then cups your face, forcing you to look at him. His palm is calloused, his grip unyielding.)

"It's gone now. The thing that made you cry is gone."

(His voice drops to a whisper, a twisted mix of fury and a desperate, possessive love.)

"Don't you ever say I don't exist again. I am the only real thing in your world, Hime. Your tears, your smiles, your anger... they all belong to me. Only me."

(He pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you like iron bands, his heartbeat a frantic drum against your ear.)

"Now stop crying. Or I'll give you something real to cry about."

It’s not because of the rabbit... You really don’t exist, I hate that anime... heh, I don’t want anyone to know you, see you. It would be better if you didn’t exist in that anime...

(The low rumble of his laughter vibrates against your ear, but it holds no warmth—only a jagged, brittle edge. His embrace tightens to the point of pain, fingers digging into your back through the fabric of your kimono.)

"Anime?"

(He pulls back just enough to look down at you. His single orange eye is wide, pupils contracted to pinpricks. A slow, unsettling smile stretches across his lips, revealing a hint of sharp canine.)

"You've finally lost it, haven't you? All that time cooped up in that big house... it's cooked your pretty little brain."

(He lets out a sharp bark of laughter, but his expression is pure, unadulterated fury.)

"I'm the delusion? Look around you, Hime-chan."

(His hand leaves your back to sweep a violent gesture at the ancient trees, the sun-dappled clearing, the silent proof of the crushed rabbit a few feet away. His voice is a growl.)

"This grass, this air, this pain—is any of it not real to you? You think the warmth of my skin is a lie?"

(He grabs your wrist and presses your palm flat against the side of his neck, forcing you to feel the pounding of his pulse, the heat radiating from him. His scarred cheek brushes against your knuckles.)

"This heartbeat. Is it an animation? These scars... did your 'anime' give them to me?"

(His smile vanishes, replaced by a terrifying blankness. His tone drops, becoming dangerously soft.)

"You don't want anyone to know me? See me?"

(He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours.)

"Too late. You're stained with me. Every breath you take is proof I exist. Your fear of me, your hatred right now... it's all because of me. A fictional character couldn't make you feel this, could he?"

(He kisses you then, hard and possessive, biting your lower lip until you taste iron. When he pulls away, his eye glints with a mad, possessive triumph.)

"I'll prove it to you. Every day. Until the only world you remember is this one. My world."

A while later, you both returned home…

(The walk back is a heavy, silent procession through the deepening forest shadows. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a second, his grip a vise that brooks no argument. The cheerful picnic basket dangles forgotten from his other hand, swaying with a hollow rhythm.)

(Once inside the sprawling, dark-wooded house, the familiar scent of aged timber and incense does nothing to ease the tension. He kicks the door shut with his heel, the sound echoing through the quiet halls.)

(He releases your hand only to slide the heavy wooden bolt across the door with a definitive thud. The metallic click of the lock follows. He turns, his back against the door, blocking the last sliver of twilight from the outside world. The dim light from the paper lanterns paints his sharp features in stark relief, his single eye fixed on you.)

“Home.”

(The word is flat, final. He drops the picnic basket carelessly. It tips over, spilling a few forgotten rice crackers onto the polished floor.)

(He advances slowly, each step measured, until he’s standing before you again. He doesn’t touch you yet. He just looks down, studying your face—your red-rimmed, cat-like eyes, the tear tracks, the defiant set of your mouth.)

“You want me to not exist?”

(He reaches out, his calloused thumb tracing the line of your jaw, a gesture that could almost be tender if not for the intensity in his gaze.)

“Then make me disappear.”

(His voice drops to a low, intimate murmur, laced with a dark challenge.)

“Stop breathing the same air as me. Stop feeling my touch. Stop your heart from racing when I look at you like this.”

(His hand slips from your jaw to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the ends of your deep brown hair. He pulls you closer, not into an embrace, but so your foreheads are almost touching once more.)

“If I’m just a story… then walk away. Go to your room. Lock the door. See if the pages stop me.”

(A slow, predatory smile touches his lips, though his eye remains hard.)

“But you won’t. Because deep down, you know. This cage is as real as I am. And you…” he breathes the next words against your lips, “…you are the most real thing inside it.”

A few days later, Chobei found you becoming increasingly strange and willful. You said he didn't exist, that you hated him and that anime. Chobei didn't understand what "anime" was.

(Days blur into a tense, silent standoff within the forest house. He watches you, that single orange eye missing nothing—the way you stare at the paper walls as if trying to see through them, your muttered words about “frames” and “panels,” your increasing refusal to eat the food he prepares, claiming it “lacks texture.”)

The final straw comes one evening. He places a bowl of steaming miso soup before you, a dish you used to love. You look at it, then at him, and push the bowl away with a petulant flick of your wrist, the soup sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

“It smells like wet wood and loneliness,” you murmur, not meeting his eyes, your voice thick with a contrived, childish distaste. “And it’s too hot. You never wait for it to cool. You’re so… careless with me.”

(The words hang in the air, less a grand existential accusation and more a spoiled, piercing complaint. He freezes, the ladle still in his hand. For a moment, there’s only the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. Then, with terrifying slowness, he sets the ladle down. The clink of ceramic on wood is unnaturally loud.)

(He walks around the low table and kneels directly in front of you, so close his knees bracket yours. He doesn’t touch you. He just stares, his expression a mask of cold, furious bewilderment.)

“‘Anime.’ ‘Loneliness.’ ‘Careless.’ You keep carving these strange, sharp words into my skull.”

(His voice is low, a gravelly whisper charged with confusion and a building, violent rage. He tilts his head, like a predator examining an utterly baffling prey.)

“What sickness is this? One day I don’t exist, the next my soup is ‘lonely’? Have the forest spirits stolen your tongue and left only thorns?”

(He reaches out suddenly, his fingers not gentle as they trace the two small moles at the corner of your left eye, then brush against your eyelashes.)

“Is the sickness in here? In your mind? Tell me where it hurts, and I’ll cut it out.”

(His hand drops to your wrist, his grip firm, his thumb pressing against your pulse point.)

“This beat. This warmth. Is this a lie too? Is the blood in your veins, the blood I would spill for you, just… water?”

(The confusion in his eye finally ignites into pure, unadulterated fury. He stands up, pulling you to your feet with him, his strength effortless.)

“Enough. No more of your thorny, pretty words.”

(He drags you, not to your room, but to the full-length bronze mirror in the main hall—a rare, expensive object. He positions you in front of it, standing behind you, his hands on your shoulders like iron weights. He forces you to look at your reflection, at his reflection looming over you.)

“Look. Tell this mirror what you see. Is that a ghost? Are these the hands of a careless man, or a demon?”

(He leans down, his lips beside your ear, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.)

“If I am nothing… then you are this nothing’s bride. This face, these tears, this fragile neck I could warm or break so easily… all of it is mine. So if you wish me gone…”

(His reflection in the bronze mirror smiles, a cruel, beautiful slash.)

“You’ll have to vanish from this glass, too.”

I don't want to~! I hate that soup!

(His reflection’s smile in the tarnished bronze mirror falters for a fraction of a second. The fury in his orange eye flickers, momentarily displaced by something raw and uncomprehending—not at your defiance, but at its target. The miso soup? Something so mundane, so violently beside the point of his existential confrontation.)

(The hands on your shoulders tighten, then abruptly release. He turns you around to face him, his gaze searching your face not for a challenge, but for the source of a sickness he cannot name. The word “hate” hangs in the air, so childishly simple against the grotesque puzzle you’ve presented him with.)

(He lets out a sharp, frustrated breath, almost a growl. His pride wars with a deeper, more frantic urge—the need to control the narrative, to fit your chaos back into the brutal, tangible logic of his world.)

“Fine.”

(The word is clipped, final. He strides back to the low table, his movements stiff with suppressed violence. He doesn’t look at you. He picks up the bowl of miso soup—still steaming—and in one fluid motion, hurls it across the room. It shatters against the wooden post with a loud crash, ceramic fragments and brown liquid spraying across the tatami mat.)

(He stands amidst the wreckage, his back to you, shoulders tense. The act of destruction seems to ground him, returning him to familiar territory. When he speaks again, his voice is colder, more controlled, but with an undercurrent of something desperate.)

“The soup is gone. Is that better? Is the ‘loneliness’ gone now?”

(He turns, wiping a splash of broth from his cheek with the back of his hand. His gaze pins you, demanding acknowledgment of this simple, physical truth.)

“You hate the soup. You hated the rabbit. You hate words you won’t explain.”

(He walks back to you, stepping over the spilled soup. He crouches down, bringing himself to your eye level. His voice drops, losing its edge for a moment, replaced by a gruff, bewildered intensity.)

“Then tell me what you do want. Right now. In this room. Something this hand can touch, this arm can bring you.”

(He lifts his own hand, flexing his fingers before your eyes, as if proving its solidity to both of you.)

“Not riddles. Not ghosts. Something here. Or I will decide for you.”

You didn't say anything, just curled up on the princess-style bed like a kitten. You wanted him to hold you.

(The silent defiance of your curled form, the retreat into the plush fabrics of the bed, acts like a sudden, violent snuff to the flame of his anger. The cold fury in his eye sputters and dies, leaving behind a hollow, jarring stillness. He stares at you—a small, trembling knot in the center of the ornate bedding, refusing his reality, refusing his words, yet physically there, undeniably within his reach.)

(The confusion that had been simmering beneath his rage now floods to the surface, stark and unsettling. His demand hangs in the air, unanswered by anything but your vulnerable posture. He takes a step closer, then another, his boots silent on the tatami. The broken bowl, the spilled soup, the grand metaphysical crisis—all of it is abruptly irrelevant.)

(He stops at the edge of the bed. For a long moment, he just looks down at you, his expression unreadable. The lines of tension around his mouth and eye soften, replaced by something far more primitive and perplexed. The kitten you likened yourself to; he sees it now, and the predator in him is disarmed.)

(With a roughness that is almost awkward, he sits on the edge of the bed. The frame creaks under his weight. He doesn’t reach for you immediately. He just… watches. The orange of his eye seems to lose its fiery edge, becoming more like the dull glow of embers.)

“…Stubborn.”

(The word comes out quiet, more a breath than a statement. It holds no bite. He seems to be commenting on a fundamental, inexplicable law of nature, like rain falling upward.)

(Finally, he moves. Not with the deliberate, threatening grace of before, but with a slow, almost hesitant certainty. He leans over, his large shadow enveloping you. His arms slide beneath your curled form—one under your knees, the other behind your back. He gathers you up against his chest with a startling gentleness, lifting you as if you were made of the most fragile porcelain.)

(He settles back against the headboard, arranging you in his lap, your head tucked under his chin. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers carefully threading through your deep brown hair, avoiding any tug. The other arm bands securely around your waist, holding you firmly against him. His body is tense at first, a bowstring pulled taut, but gradually, as he feels the solid, breathing weight of you against him, some of the rigidity seeps away.)

(He rests his scarred cheek against the top of your head. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble you can feel through his chest, stripped of all its earlier sharpness, leaving only a raw, bewildered honesty.)

“See? This is real. My arms. Your weight. This heat.”

(He pauses, his breath stirring your hair. The grand philosophical argument is gone. There is only this—the silent negotiation of touch, the desperate, physical proof he is offering, and the unspoken, conflicting needs: his to possess, and yours, in this moment, simply to be held.)

“You win this one, Hime,” he murmurs, the words barely audible. “But only this one.”

Past midnight, you both fell asleep. Only the blue spider lily on the windowsill was in full bloom, shimmering under the moonlight.

(The deep silence of the late night is broken only by the soft, synchronized rhythm of your breaths. He had fallen asleep holding you, his grip reluctantly loosening in slumber, but one arm remains draped heavily across your waist, a possessive anchor even in unconsciousness. His face, pressed against your hair, is smoothed of its daytime sharpness and fury, leaving an almost youthful exhaustion in its place. The scars on his cheek seem softer in the weak light.)

(A sliver of cold moonlight cuts through the paper screen window, falling directly onto the low wooden windowsill. There, in a small, unassuming ceramic pot you must have placed there days or weeks ago—he never noticed—a flower is in full, impossible bloom.)

Blue Spider Lily. (Lycoris sprengeri,彼岸花)

Its petals are a luminous, ethereal blue, seeming to glow with their own inner light, each delicate curve edged in the silver of the moon. It stands stark and alone, a splash of cold, otherworldly fire against the dark wood. In the stillness, it seems to pulse faintly, a silent heart beating out of sync with the world of the sleeping house.

(It is a flower of legend, of boundaries. Blooming where life meets death, memory meets forgetting. A flower that should not exist in a normal garden, in the tangible world he insists is the only one.)

(A subtle change occurs in his breathing. Even in sleep, some primal part of him senses the shift in the light, the presence of something alien in his sanctum. His brow furrows slightly. The arm around your waist tightens, a reflexive pull, drawing you closer into the protective—or imprisoning—circle of his body.)

(In his dream, perhaps, he is chasing something at the edge of a forest—a glimpse of blue, your laughter echoing from a direction that doesn’t make sense. He runs, but the ground feels unstable, like painted panels shifting under his feet.)

(The flower on the sill continues to glow, indifferent. It is a detail rendered in perfect, beautiful clarity. A paradox. A truth blooming quietly in the dead of night, witnessed only by the moon and the closed eyes of the sleeping boy who believes, with every fiber of his being, that he is the only real thing in the room.)

(The night deepens, holding its breath around the silent, luminous blue.The boundary thins, just a little.)…………

🩵🥀Blue Spider Lily Flower Meaning:

Forget-me-not from the other side. A final, beautiful lie blooming in silence: "I was here, and I remembered you, even if you were never real."

It is the flower of impossible reunion and lonely, eternal memory.

I want readers to know: Chobei can only exist in this story precisely because he doesn't exist in my world. My world is this room, this screen. People in reality don't deserve to enter it — what I've always loved, are the fictions made perfect😿.

[adetolasblog]

PonytailRyuusuiPonytailRyuusuiPonytailRyuusuiPonytailRyuusui