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#muse as dog
ficwip · 11 months
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reblog and in the tags, describe your current favorite character* WITHOUT mentioning any specific character or place names
*if you have lots, please pick one
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thatsrightice · 1 month
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Meatball, squadron dog of the 100th bomb group, is pictured above at the 418th Bomb Squadron site in 1944.
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yomeiu · 1 month
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collage.
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guacamoleroll · 16 days
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ɪᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ · ᴍᴜʟᴛɪᴘʟᴇ ʙꜱᴅ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ༉‧₊˚
featured. osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, sigma. content. f!reader. based on a request. mentions of alcohol (dazai), mentions of food, nicknames, slavic dishes. (minor) spoilers for stormbringer. translation at the end. not proofread.
author's note. this was an incredibly fun request! these men either shift between being incompetent, or not being reliant on others, so it took a sweet turn.
would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!
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synopsis. the kitchen can be many things. a refuge from the toils of everyday life. a workshop for the creation of exquisite tastes. an assemblage of conversation over collaboration.
but one thing is certain—a well-endeavored meal can warm the coldest of hearts.
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𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 arrived home late one evening, tromping through the doorway with the confidence only a drunken man could muster. It had been one of those nights, ones in which he was all too aware of the hollowness of his own heart. One of those days where everything was too loud, the ones where he picked up every minuscule detail, whether he wanted to or not. So, he had taken to a drink or two to fill a void, only to dip into another—before he knew it, the room was spinning, and he found himself kicked out of the bar.
But he still had you to return to, so he gathered any soberness left within him and clambered to place his trench coat and shoes in the spots you had set out for them. He was glad you didn't hear him walk in. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been granted the opportunity to take in the view. You pranced around the kitchen, a lifted twirl in your heel as you stirred ingredients in a saucepan, the domestic mess of powders against your skin.
You were all his. The reason he had a home to return to. His sanctuary from his own mind. He often fretted—though he pretended not to—about the idea of you being taken away from him, a fact that he had come to accept as his reality. But in these simple moments, he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy that you encompassed for a moment longer.
His arms fit snug around your waist, his head like a puzzle piece against the curve of your shoulder. "Is that for me?"
You hummed, pressing a peck on his cheek as you leaned into him.
"You'll always have a meal to return home to, Osamu."
Yeah. He'd indulge for just a little longer.
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𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 did not expect to pass out. He had returned home from a weeks-long mission overseas, anxiously awaiting the moment you reunited and ran into his arms—only for him to arrive early to an empty home. You were at work, and it wasn't his fault the couch clung to him like a vice! For a moment, he thought he had been dreaming of the fresh smell of savory pasta sauce and spices.
Wait. He can't dream.
He cracked open his eyes, his vision steadily straightening out, and trudged into the kitchen with a befuddled pout, his sight narrowing in on exactly what you had been up to.
"Babe."
"Chuuya!" you yelled, almost losing your grip on your spoon before you managed to catch it, clutching it close to your chest as you twisted the knob on the stove to place the heat at a simmer. "You scared me!"
His arms crossed as he leaned on the doorway. "What're you doing cooking in here by yourself?" he asked sternly, scanning the contents of the pot along with your face. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he was mad. But you did know better, catching onto the subtle tilt of his brow, narrowed in simultaneous amusement and disappointment. Cooking was often a partnered endeavor.
You couldn't resist laughter, cupping his cheek as if comforting an upset child. "You've had a long week, and you looked so peaceful lying there. I couldn't bring myself to disturb you."
He would've been quick to argue—you could wake him anytime, no matter the circumstance—but a thought overwhelmed him and kept his mouth at bay. You had done something for him, not with anything to gain, but simply because you cared. He was used to it happening the other way around, but this. . .this felt nice.
So, he relented, his ginger locks tickling your skin as he tucked his face into your neck with a sigh. "Thank you, baby."
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𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 had been busy preparing the next phase of his plans, though you supposed he was always busy—too busy to take care of his own basic needs, that was for sure. He was always sorting through different data, exploring multiple angles to achieve his goals.
With the many tasks flooding his brain, he hardly had time to abandon his screens. The skin of his thumb had worn from his subconscious biting habit as he looked over another spreadsheet of banking information, his hands about to slide over the keys yet again.
The scent of stroganoff stirred him from his trance. His eyes shifted to find a steaming plate of the delectable dish sitting next to him on the desk. And he finally registered the firm hand propped against his shoulder, with you looking upon him from above with a sweet but knowing smile.
"Eat."
He wouldn't have customarily taken kindly to such a harsh demand, but he bent to the stern look of your gaze, one that hid behind it a level of care he ravenously craved. You worried for him, not in the same fashion as his so-called "friends," but with the genuine desire to see him thrive, no matter the circumstance.
So, the demon allowed himself a momentary reprieve, kissing a smile into your hand before taking a bite of the dish.
"Delicious, as always, моя милая."
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𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐈 had practically burst through the door, prepared to recount the travesties and trials of his day. That was until he caught onto the unmistakable scent of savory pirozhki filling. He followed his nose like a bloodhound, the smell creating a distinct path into the kitchen, where you stood, unaware of the man behind you as you mixed spices into a pan.
"What'cha cooking, dove?" His breath bristled against your ear as he sprung up next to you, using his ability with a shit-eating grin. Your expression mirrored his own, used to the stint of your lover's sudden appearances.
"I found some old Ukrainian recipes online and wanted to try them out." You held out a spoon, and he bit into the filling without a second thought—a mistake. He clutched his throat as his eyes watered, realizing it was too hot for consumption far too late. He finally managed to choke it down, releasing a loud whew!
"Trying to kill me so soon! How cruel!" he exclaimed.
Your laughter roared throughout your home, a shaking hand rubbing his back as you wiped tears from your eyes with the other. "Is it good?"
He brought a finger up to stroke his non-existent beard, humming a quick tune. "Hmm, perhaps a cup of chili powder."
"Коля," you deadpanned. "That's too much."
He sighed, a pout settled on his lips, but you caught the hand sneaking into the interior of his overcoat, snatching his wrist before he poured something irreversible into your dish. He cackled, attempting to pull away as you chased him around the kitchen island.
For a moment, it felt as if you were the only two people in the world—free of restraint. He could feel the bonds tied around him loosen. He could reach out, taste that sensation of freedom for himself. A freedom he had always found in you.
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𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐌𝐀 had arrived back to his section of the Sky Casino earlier than he expected, having a strange lack of paperwork. But he simply decided to take it as a sign that he had been doing good work, and ignored the anxious feelings that always sprung from not having anything to do.
"I'm home—!" he called, but was stopped in the entryway by a sweet aroma. It was intoxicating, and he couldn't resist the temptation to lurk into the kitchen.
"Welcome home, honey!" you called back, your voice echoing down the hallway. He stripped himself of his coat, leaving it folded on one of the benches before he trekked across the threshold, a curious shift in his furrowed brow.
You were baking cookies, fluffy chocolate-chip cookies. He couldn't resist the smile on his face, even if he wanted to, nor could he ignore the bubbling warmth in his heart. But he couldn't help his confusion.
"Cookies?" he asked, dipping his finger into a batch of dough before he popped it into his mouth. "What's the occasion?"
You swiped at him with a flour-coated hand before dusting the rest of it off on a towel. "You've been busy lately, so I wanted to make you something sweet," you stated as if it were the simplest thing. But those few simple words took him aback.
You cooked for him. No one had ever done that before, not without being an employee or attempting to manipulate him—or both. And in a matter of seconds, only enough to let in a sweep of hot air from the oven to warm his skin, he realized something that had long remained empty had been filled. He felt whole.
"Sigma!" you exclaimed, and he realized that he had tears streaming down his face. The look of concern drawn through your strained lips, your furrowed brow, and your shifting eyes only further set in his new reality—he had his family. He had found his home.
"I'm okay, love. Just. . .thank you."
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моя милая = my dear коля = kolya
ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @lovedazai @osameowdazai @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @ajaxism @himikoslove @little-miss-chaoss @justcallmesakira @sillyspookycat @aureatchi @mxxny-lupin @emyyy007 @betweensinners
© ɢᴜᴀᴄᴀᴍᴏʟᴇʀᴏʟʟ 2024 — ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ. ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ, ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜʀᴀɢᴇᴅ
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communistdream · 1 year
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i think im going to cry over this for the rest of my life actually
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Antoine Vollon (1833-1900) "Espagnol" ("Spaniard") (1878) Oil on canvas Realism Located in the Musée d'Orsay, Paris, France
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wrenkos · 1 year
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mushi bday ^^
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caelanglang · 2 years
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📸…
Lippmann’s last photo, he really thinks Chuuya’s got potential to join him on his ‘main job’.
Edit: (close up shot bc i just realized tumblr ate the quality)
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pov: the undefeated prince is judging ur billiard playing skills hhh
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lihim-oa · 4 months
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mahgnolias · 11 months
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wanderlust_samoyed
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note-boom · 1 year
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See here. BSD is a story about how all of our characters were once children. How the scars and wounds and secrets of their past will always haunt them to the present. We see it with Chuuya, Yosano, Ranpo, even Odasaku briefly, Atsushi, Tachihara, Akutagawa, Kyouka and Kenji right now, even Kouyou just a little bit. They've all overcome it or they've allowed it to consume them. And yet that brief glimpse into a past where they were young and scarred shows us once again just how human they are...every criminal, ever person, was once a child wounded by or protected from the world and doesn't that count for something even if it doesn't excuse the atrocities they commit today?
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aesynivc · 3 months
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— “say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime.”
alternatively: “save me, lead me from my solitude.” / i finally release the draft that’s been catching cobwebs in my docs since june 2023
phantom of the opera! dazai osamu x gn! reader
cws: possibly ooc, self indulgent.
wc: 1.0k
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Track down the murderer! Do not let that animal escape!" The mob screams in rage, a fury directed at the one and only culprit of the chaos in the opera house.
They’ve had enough of this- this phantom. His demands, his actions, and how he acts like he's a being above them—the mob rallies above ground with torches and pitchforks, fueled by absolute despise for such a being.
"Too long has his reign of darkness terrorized this opera!" Shouts of agreement ring in the half-destroyed theater house, debris and glass littered across every surface of the floor, faint smoke wafting in the air as the mob charges underground.
"The phantom resides deep below! This monster cannot be left alive anymore!"
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The echoes reverberate in the underground chambers; they are faint and barely audible, but you knew they were looking for him. Yet here he was, holding you like a vice in his arms, and yet his touch is soft, even warm. An arm circled around your waist while the other held your hand, faintly caressing your knuckles as if attempting to soothe you.
He leaned closer to your body, a slight weight piling on your back, burying his face in the crook of your neck, a sigh escaping his lips, his breath tickling your skin. You could only attempt to look at him through your peripherals, his tousled brown hair being the first thing you set your sights on.
The hand that held yours snakes upwards; he places both yours and his hand where your heart is. "May you sing for me, my angel?" he requests, and if you listened closely enough, it was as if he was begging, a tone you’ve only heard from him in jest, or perhaps in your unwaking nights.
"Osamu…" You voiced it out, the response to his words seemingly out of your reach.
He tilts his head. Dazai is not one to plead, however. "Please? For me?" He smiles softly. The traces of ‘the phantom’, the chaos incarnate that runs rampant along the crevices of the opera house, are no longer there; instead, it's the face of a man whose devotion to you—and only you—surpassed that of a thousand men in many lifetimes.
If that viscount could make you royalty, Dazai could make you an angel, he’d burn everything to ashes, meet death, and come back just for you. He’d repent, like the demon that he is, just to see you eye-to-eye, just to be able to hold you in his arms and call you his.
You knew he would do anything for you, and perhaps that was what instilled an odd fondness for such a man. His eyes reflected such solitude, an unwarranted loneliness befitting a shunned child.
Yet in those same eyes lies adoration, his piercing gaze thrilling your soul.
Adhering to his request, you gently hum a tune, one that he wrote for you to sing to. His gaze is fixated on you, a satisfied smile finding a place on his lips. His expression is akin to a child being given candy; you could almost excuse all his crimes with such a look.
Almost.
The arms wrapped around you let go, freeing you of his weight. You continued to vocalize as Dazai grabbed your hand in his and placed his other hand on your waist. Slow steps gradually turned into a waltz led by him.
“Come, embrace the darkness.” He softly sang to your tune, “Forget those earthly fears.”
"I'm here to keep you, to hide you,” he whispers. “Through music, I beguile you.”
He seems to be enjoying himself as you match his tune, with the final duet between a demon and his beloved angel taking turns. A duet only for the two of you to perform and to witness.
“Who appears to me—a friend or phantom?”
The hand on his waist moves to cup his cheek lightly; you could only guess that such an act surprised him as his eyes widened from your touch before leaning into it, savoring your touch.
"Who twines music for my soul to sing?"
A fond smile appears on your face, one that he wouldn't dare miss under the candlelit glow of his chambers.
"Show yourself to me, distorted angel."
“Do you fear the light as I fear for you? "You tilt your head as his eyes trail away from you.
"Are you afraid I'll leave you too?"
The hold on your waist falters ever so slightly as he lifts your hand, placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles. His melancholy so obvious, with a downcast air to him, yet he still manages to smile, that smile still persists; it’s almost disheartening how controlled he is. almost.
“I promise I'll keep you safe; let your fears be no more, my angel.” His honeyed tone tempted you with a promise, one of pure, unadulterated love, just for you.
“Let me be your freedom, your place of solace, a hideaway from the world above. Let us run away together, my angel.”
Dazai tilts your chin up, meeting his gaze—a look filled with hesitation as his eyes drop to your lips.
Yet the moment was fleeting, for the mob seemed to have come closer. Distant shouting, an angry cacophony. Who knows what they’ll do to you and to him once they reach these chambers?
(Kill. They’ll kill him.)
“Do you love me? "You whispered under your breath.
“What kind of question is that? "He raises an eyebrow, as if he has time to tease in this situation. With wholehearted assurance, he replies,
"You know I do."
He leans in to leave a small peck on your forehead, restrained even until now, when everything is high-stakes, yet that kiss alone seems to say everything you needed to know, yet at the same time, everything you already knew.
He hesitates at first before letting go of you. Walking to one of the draperies in the chambers, his hand grasps it before putting it to the side, revealing to you a secret exit. Of course. Of course, he of all people would have an exit strategy.
The downcast gleam in his eyes seems to disappear for just this once, as he’s back to that loveable, cat-like grin. With his other hand, he extends it to you as a final confirmation, a decision that you cannot undo once made.
And just this once, you’ve never been so sure of anything else.
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canisalbus · 10 months
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Hello I made you some more art!! IDK Why your little guys have just stuck in my brain as of late but yeah I'm just on a roll I guess!
This piece was inspired by wondering who was present around Machete's assassination, and how people around him would react to his downfall. So I had the idea for a portrait of a final lover's embrace, as Vasco holds his dying beloved in bloodsoaked arms.
I tried my best with the clothing -- especially the shoes -- and I think I did a pretty good job but BOY were they hard! XD Anyways, I hope you like this one, it was a blast to draw! I love machete sm istg <3
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#Machete#Vasco#own characters#coldandfoggy#gift art#hhhhadgasjgdshad???#THIS#¿¿¿¿¿#congratulations you've managed to deliver some immense mental damage through the ethers#and I mean that as a compliment I live for the moments when art just really Hits You Where It Hurts#loving the way the scarlet red of Machete's cassock blends seamlessly with the pool of blood#Vasco's expression speaks volumes#he was always a very touchy feely person so thinking of their final embrace just puts a pit in your stomach#poses like this are tricky but Machete looks appropriately limp and lifeless and at peace in a way that's cruelly ironic#the halo is a nice touch it kind of evokes pietà imagery#the clothing and the shoes look fine I wouldn't have guessed you had issues with them if you hadn't mentioned it#just a grand old liver punch this one#damn son#thank you for drawing the sad dog guys I'm very flattered they've made an impression! I know I'll be agonizing over this piece for a while#some potentially upsetting lore musings!! violence and tragedy and stuff:#I haven't cemented the chain of events yet but I believe he was ambushed by a single assailant when he was alone#either early in the morning or late evening#he didn't manage to put up much of a fight that time the first stab punctured a lung and the second nicked a carotid artery#I believe you lose consciousness in a minute or so and generally bleed out in less than three#Vasco wouldn't have been informed of the murder because why would he be and even if he somehow found out very quickly#the distance between Rome and Florence is roughly 250 km don't quote me on this but it looks like it'd take at least 4 days on horseback?#I think but I don't know how horses work to be honest#maybe they had some sneaky correspondence going on but if there was a pause in communications it wouldn't have been a cause for concern#so it's highly likely he'd only find out when he rolled in town for another business trip#and Machete had been buried weeks or months ago
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yomeiu · 8 months
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I cannot position myself with graceful nature, to take upon the role of a righteous person, and not have it be the deceptions of a farcical liar.
Sincerity lacks my actions, and the world has a way of knowing.
His voided gaze reaffirms on own his mirror image, at last. Bestowing upon himself a self-critical examination. Two brown irises in return, glower back blankly. The delicate skin just underneath is sunken in. Discolored into a sickly grey, this detail allocates a incurable tiredness to the man.
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guacamoleroll · 3 months
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— 𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖞 𝖍𝖔𝖒𝖊 𝖎'𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖒! ⋆⁺₊
featured: osamu dazai, chuuya nakahara, fyodor dostoevsky, nikolai gogol, sigma
content warning(s): fem!reader, domestic moments, mentions of marriage, kisses and cuddling, these men are whipped, fluff, references to christmas traditions
author's note: i hope you're all enjoying (or at least relaxing) during the holidays! sit back, grab a cup of steaming coffee or hot chocolate, and enjoy some sweet moments with our bungou boys ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-
summary: what gifts do our bungou husbands gift you during the holidays?
would you like to see more? join the taglist or comment under this post!
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𝗢𝗦𝗔𝗠𝗨 𝗗𝗔𝗭𝗔𝗜 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺
Your eyes flutter open as sprinkles of sunlight peeking through the blinds serve as your only alarm, traces of chocolatey hair prickling your skin as he nuzzles into your neck. Your fingers twirl the coils of his knotted tresses, smoothing them into shining waves before pressing kisses against his ear. And that's when you see it.
A basket perched on your nightstand, tied neatly with a bow, and piled high with various cosmetics and accessories. As you sort through each item, feeling nostalgia pinging with every gift, you realize there's a reason you recognize them. 
Each is a small element from a moment in your relationship—the nail polish you wore on your first date, the lipstick you chose for your first kiss. He notes the quirks of others subconsciously, though he chooses to ignore them unless it benefits him. But not with you.
He cherishes every ephemeral habit—the crease of your forehead as candles burn on, the haze of your eyes as raindrops pour down, the indention of your lips as movies summit closed. You're always too preoccupied to notice, but he gawks at you without shame, admiring the purity of your features. He is known for being abstract, but you are his complete opposite. So completely unabashed in sharing your opinions and sentiments, even through your own expressions. And in a way, you're far braver than he believes himself to be, so he knows he must remind you of that.
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𝗖𝗛𝗨𝗨𝗬𝗔 𝗡𝗔𝗞𝗔𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗔 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺
Your sleep is interrupted by a yelp. For a moment, you wanted to keep your eyes closed, still sluggish with sleep, but a sequence of other noises pulled you out of bed. Unaware of the eyes peeking out from under the covers, a smirk on their proprietor's face as you shuffled out of the room, you journeyed into the living room. And he knew that you had found precisely what you were looking for when he heard a barrage of coos and badly muffled shrieks escape your lips, rushing back into the room with a puppy snuggled in your arms, a cute bow fastened to its collar. He knew your heart had been stolen at a glance, much like he had been long ago.
That puppy is now your child, a part of your family. Even if you don't realize it, this dog expresses his eternal fondness and dedication to you and any family you plan to have. He would prefer to pick a larger dog breed, the loyal type of canines that remain devoted to their families (Akitas, Belgian Malinois, German Shepherds, etc.). He knows you'd love any dog, but he wants to guarantee that you'll be protected if he isn't there.
And don't be surprised if an engagement ring follows a few months later. You're raising an animal together—your fur baby—and while it's a bit out of order, he wants to tie the knot officially. And you'll have the cutest little ring bearer in the world ⋆˙⟡♡
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𝗙𝗬𝗢𝗗𝗢𝗥 𝗗𝗢𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗘𝗩𝗦𝗞𝗬 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺
(I briefly discussed this in a post a while ago, but I wanted to expand on it a bit further.)
A stack of uniform presents pile in symmetrical mountains around the base of your shared tree; each fold intricately pristine. However, he insists on having a large breakfast, reveling in your anticipation with each course as you eye the gifts—it's too cute. Once you've finally reached the tree, he observes with unstated delight as you rip open the wrapping paper, only to discover hardcover copies of classic novels in your favorite genres.
He knows you peruse through his personal collection while he is away on missions, missing him and seeking comfort in his familiar words. Without your knowledge, he has caught you with a beaming grin on your face, skimming the story, enamored by his annotations. So once you've finished the book, with your thoughts written neatly inside the pages, he'd offer to swap with you, finding a sudden interest in the story.
Because the way your brain operates is absolutely fascinating to him—it is, in his (correct) opinion, one of your most stunning attributes. He finds himself seeking other ways to look into your thoughts, and if you just so happen to get inside his head as a result, he finds that he doesn't mind all the much.
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𝗡𝗜𝗞𝗢𝗟𝗔𝗜 𝗚𝗢𝗚𝗢𝗟 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺
He would be bouncing up and down as soon as the sun rose, forcing you onto the sofa as he picked presents up from across the room. However, breaking away from tradition, he insisted that he opened the first few, utilizing many of your gifts as props for a little skit.
He enjoys your laughter more than any other sound in this world. It's such a freeing sight, watching you throw back your head, unable to help yourself. Even in the midst of his antics, he finds himself unable to avert his gaze, wide-eyed as you laugh without a care in the world. To him, you're always beautiful, but especially when you're happy.
And in that, he realizes that he wants to make you laugh all the time. Every second that you're together should be filled with joy. His heart constricts painfully whenever he sees sorrow on your face, and he has made it his prime duty in life to relieve your suffering. Anything that has ever made you laugh is collected in those gift boxes, and he feels lighter than ever as you giggle in your seat.
You have become the rope that tethered him to the ground, but he finds that he no longer wishes to fly free. Perhaps he has become exactly what he used to fear: his own attachments anchoring him, but he doesn't mind. He is a fool, but only for you.
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𝗦𝗜𝗚𝗠𝗔 ⋆⁺₊ ⸺⸺⸺
He has never had anyone to celebrate the holiday with before; there hasn't been a reason. So instead, he would bury himself in his paperwork, trying to find a purpose through the letters, though he knew it was all in vain. So when he finds someone to celebrate with, he will ensure that you will stick around until the holiday next year.
You're met with bundles of presents, heavy with luxurious clothes and fragrant accessories, things he knows you like. But one of those gifts stands out amongst the rest: a simple box with a neat but fashionable outfit inside. Your eyes scan the seams, and it dawns on you—these are handmade. 
He knows his stuff about fabrics and colors, constantly choosing different options for the casino, and one of his stress-relieving hobbies (in my headcanon) is sewing. Before you came into his life, he made his own clothes, finding only brief comfort in the repetitive stitches.
But there is something so domestic about creating clothes for someone you care about. Thoughts of them are embuded in every stitch, seams pressed with care as it's molded to flatter your body specifically. It reassures him whenever you walk around the building, showing off your new clothes with a smile on your face—you are his family, his home. His other half. And you are here to stay.
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ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ: @imhandicapableofmath @lovedazai @hauntedsol @ruru-kiss @ishqani @zyilas @lovesick-fairy @fedyascoffin @squigglewigglewoo @kelperspelt @miloofc @thesilvernight0wl @s1eepybunny @dazaisms @deepseafragments @justanotherjester @sillyspookycat @kotysluny @aureatchi
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learnelle · 1 year
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Dog with a biscuit and a chinese cup by Baroque/Renaissance painter Giovanna Garzoni.
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