#bushido (group)

[sabraeal]

If the Mind Is Willing, Chapter 3

[Read on AO3]

Part three of 500 Follower prizes @bubblesthemonsterartist​ earned herself years ago! Only two more and I will have fulfilled all those fics...probably just in time to have a 1K follower raffle

Blue light washes her pink sheets pale, until it’s impossible to tell when cotton ends and her skin begins. The shadows pull longer in its glow, turning her own nearly skeletal as she reaches out a finger, hovering over the link.

“U-J-Kyo?” Chizuru’s mouth wraps around each letter, the sound of them tumbling softly into the muted glow. “But that’s just...?”

The university’s homepage. And her laptop’s, technically, now that Yamazaki helped her set it. Not something she’d normally associate with Souji’s interests, not unless he’s started some new hostilities with the provost’s office again. Their last open letter hung on the fridge until just before Thanksgiving, the second paragraph asking for “certain individuals in the student body“ to “show more conduct becoming of an undergraduate of a prestigious institution” highlighted proudly in lime green.

Dean Kondo dropped by the house only a few days later-- for a friendly visit, he’d said, smile as warm as she remembered. He’d stayed for dinner, complimenting the soup she’d made from their leftovers, and then talked with Souji out on the porch until the swing’s chains started to creak. The letter disappeared the next morning, unremarked, though Souji kept glowering at the bare metal every time he passed through the kitchen.

Chizuru swipes tentatively at the screen, messaging app blooming beneath her finger. The link’s innocuous, known, but Souji has a gift for slipping a sting into any handshake. And if he’s calling it a gift, well--

[ToudouDomination] omg holy shit dude nice knowing u hijikatas gonna kill u 4 sure 💀💀

Professor Hijikata’s taught her enough about Trojans to take that kind of present at face value.

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] *skullfuck u mean skullfuck ull b the most beautiful corpse at ur funeral bro

Her lips press tight, clinging to each other as close as the rubber case to her phone. If everyone’s acting like this about it, it’s better that she doesn’t look.

[ToudouDomination] MY funeral???!! what’s this got to do with me??!!

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] nah man im not talking ab YOU im talking ab dead man walking over here

She’d regret it if she did, probably.

[Dr 💖💋🤭] jfc I’ll say somethign nice at you’re disciplinery hearing

[ToudouDomination] Me??

[Dr 💖💋🤭] No one’s talking about you Heisuke

It’s an accident, really. Her thumb skims up the side of the screen-- scrolling past the sudden influx of skull and fire emojis the boys heave into the chat-- and the pad of it just barely brushes the link. It flashes under the pressure, blue then purple, selected, and well...

There’s no harm in just letting it happen, is there? It’s only the university homepage, nothing--

Ah. That’s what it should be at least. But instead of the azure and white, there’s text curling across the screen, a half dozen different hand-written poems in blue bic and college rule, tiled across every inch of the background. There’s coffee stains on them too, some in the corner, and some in rings, like they were more used to being coasters than literature. And in the center of it all--

“Oh.” She blinks, tilting her screen to get a better view. “A video?”

Hogyoku Open Mic, it reads at one corner, reflection on water. A strange choice for Souji; he’s never mentioned an interest in poetry, let alone live readings. Frowning, Chizuru tilts her phone, letting the video fill the screen.

It plays, and oh, several things become clear, all at once.

“My heart is pure,” the man on screen promises, words raking over the gravel of his voice-- how little of it there is marks his age more than the lack of lines on his face-- but Chizuru’s isn’t, not when she can’t do much more than stare, fingers numb around the rubber case. “I use my palm as an inkstone.”

The camera pans closer, and yes, above that black dress shirt-- open to its third button, oh goodness gracious-- is Hijikata. Not the one she knows now, the grizzled professor who kicks his feet up on the desk and uses profanity as punctuation, but--

But a much younger man, not much older than her, considering the last little bastions of baby fat clinging to his cheekbones.

[Dr 💖💋🤭] This muts be a hundred pakcs of cigs ago

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] 💯

[ToudouDomination] do moths feel desire or is that like a poetic thing he talks about rain a lot too whats that all ab

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] its a sex thing

[Dr 💖💋🤭] Shin don’t tell the baby taht

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] hes a growing boy he has to learn sometime better he hears it from us hijikata fucks 🍑🍆🍑

[Saito.Hajime] Can I please be removed from this group? Also, congratulations, Souji, on finding a new, creative way to die

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] no way if we all have to think think about hijikata fucking u have to suffer too

[Saito.Hajime] I am not certain I care for that logic

[Dr 💖💋🤭] Too bad, bud. Your stukc with us

[✨💯GAINS💪💪✨] yeah bro u signed the housing contract ur here til death comes for u or like u move out or smthn

Chizuru means to stop the video, really she does. It’s not something Hijikata would want them to see-- at least, she assumes so, considering the way he flushes every time Souji brings up his graduate school slam jams, threatening to expel him if he doesn’t ‘shut his damn mouth.’

But the one on the screen smiles as he finishes his set, smouldering out past the stage lights, and she-- she expects snapping, some cool cats with shades and berets nodding their heads to his truth or whatever mood this is supposed to give. A respectful silence, one that gives space to the idea he’s introduced to the space, but instead--

Instead there’s screams. A full audience of women-- and a few particularly enthusiastic men-- loudly voicing their appreciation for what she’s hoping is the poetry.

Ah, maybe Shinpachi is right. It is a sex thing. And she’s watched a full ten minutes of it.

Hijikata can never know. Or worse--

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take this down. Now.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] eat my ass

Her heart ricochets around her rib cage, panicked, before it lodges itself in her throat. It flutters there, queasily, and-- and there’s no way he could possibly know, but still, guilt seizes her. She shouldn’t have looked, not once she knew. She should have been the first to say it was wrong. Helpers can only help when they know there is a problem, that’s what Father would have said. If you cannot perceive it then you are part of it.

She could say something now. Her hand squeezes tight around the case. No, she should say something now. She has to, because father will ask. She’ll tell him about this frantic midnight showdown, and he’ll say, and what did you say?

And if it is nothing...

[Susumu Yamazaki] Take it down now. Or I will get university IT involved.

[( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)] you don’t have the fucking balls

[Susumu Yamazaki] Try me.

Even with her eyes closed, her failure is inescapable. The words flash behind her eyelids, no longer composed of ones and zeros but scrawled in neon lights instead, reminding her that if she were better she could have fixed this. That if she were good enough, she could have found the magic phrase to get them all to get along. But instead...

Silence, that’s what he’ll give her. A long pause where all his expectations weigh on her, piling on her chest like boulders on a criminal. A cluck of his tongue, and a soft, I thought I raised you better. Any moment now, her phone will ring, and Father will know what a disappointment she is because--

It’s Christmas. Just about everywhere but Hawaii. A couple other islands in the Pacific too, if she’s being fair. It’s Christmas, and he’s supposed to call because that’s the way it’s always been: her staying up late not to catch Santa and his Reindeer but Father emerging from his office. It’s her that would tromp down the hall with all the grace of an elephant, to fling her arms around him and yelp, Merry Christmas!

And it was him who had to be stern, who must put her back down on the carpet and scold her for being out of bed. Who has to wait until she’s nearly shut her door to stop her, to call out, Merry Christmas, Chizuru.

It’s supposed to be her first. The one given moments after midnight, the most real, and-- and--

And she’s spent the whole day waiting for an empty office.

There’s a part of her, one that’s still too short to reach the microwave and can’t bear the kindness next door, that thinks she missed it. That there’s some dead zone in the house that she unwittingly lingered in, or a notification that her phone somehow swallowed whole. That it’s her fault she never presented herself to be loved.

But there’s another part, one that’s growing every day, and that one--

That one’s just tired. 

It’s tired that wins out, in the end.

There’s a weight that drags at her, urging her to stay within the cocoon of her covers, to let the night unfurl across her screen, each blow reported in black and white right before her eyes. A passive observer, an active disappointment, but most importantly: unmoving.

Even still, she gets up, throwing the cloud of her comforter back so that she can slide out from underneath it. Her heels hit the floor with a force that chatters her teeth; or maybe that’s just the chill of the air now that her body heat is no longer trapped up against her skin.

Her phone settles on the nightstand, cozening up to the lamp, and for a long moment, she thinks about turning it on. Every muscle complains as she peels her day clothes off and exchanges them for pajamas, her eyes straining to make out what’s a hole and what’s just dead air, and yet--

Yet it’s easier than facing herself.

The same weight drops her back onto the mattress, an anchor sinking into the endless depths of open water. She isn’t sure when she’ll hit bottom, but staring at the blank screen beside her feels entirely too close to it.

It’s with a trembling finger that she guides the volume from full to vibrate. Even that makes her heart race, makes her wonder if she’s just punishing Father for having priorities besides a fully adult daughter, the same one who had so happily told him she would support his sabbatical wherever it took him. What if he needs to get a hold of her? If there’s an emergency on Borneo or San Cistobal or whatever island his research took him? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just keep it on a little, just in case--

Her fingers flex. She deserves to sleep tonight, what little of it there is left. And if this is on...

Vibrate changes to mute. The phone flips over, screen pressed against the wood.

“Good night, Daddy.” She gives the case one last, small tap. “Merry Christmas.”

“Hey, jailbait.” Something warm nudges her shoulder, not gently. Chizuru has the space of exactly one breath to wonder what, before the same something grips both and shakes. “Get up!”

“Haah?” Her hands flail out, but whatever’s gotten hold of her slithers out of her grip, retreating past her arm’s reach. “What...?”

It’s bright when her eyes peel open, the sun already seeping through the curtain even though it can’t be more than--

“Class!” Her limbs fly out, wild as she tries to turn over, tangled up in the tight embrace of her covers. “I’m late for--”

“Hold up a slice, shortcake.” Souji looms over her, tall enough that his knees barely brush the bed to do it. “No classes today.”

“No...?” It’s not as if she has anything to say, brain moving at a snail’s pace that it is, but her mouth keeps moving anyway, as if just working her jaw might help get the gears moving. Which it does, oddly enough, reminding her it’s not a weekend but a holiday, and not just any holiday but Christmas, and--

And Father never called. Unless it came in the night, after she’d put herself to bed. After she’d not only turned off the ringtone but vibrate too, leaving him no chance to hear her voice, forcing any attempts for him to contact her straight to voicemail, like she didn’t even care--

“Hey.” Souji knees the mattress, jolting her outstretched elbow right into the corner of the nightstand. “Get up already.”

Painful tingles race up her arm, bouncing from elbow to shoulder and back and, oh, why is it called the funny bone when it’s not funny at all? “Souji, why are you--?”

A bleary blink turns the blurred numbers on her clock to something like sense.

“Oh!” She bolts upright on the mattress, sending Souji skittering back a step. No wonder he’s deigned to scratch at her door; Harada might be the oldest, but of the three of them, Chizuru’s the only one that can be trusted with the stove. “It’s late! Are you hungry?”

“No.” This close, it’s easy to see that furrow flash between his brows, the quick reassessment of his opinion. “Well, yeah. But that’s not what I want right now.”

This early, her brain’s as bleary as her vision, but it won’t clear no matter how much she blinks. “Then what...?”

He heaves a sigh; her only warning before long fingers clamp around her wrist, cold as iron. “Just come with me already.”

It’s a feat to get untangled from her blankets; there’s a knit one sandwiched between the top sheet and the comforter, plus another for more weight-- and heat, since she shares her thermostat with Shinpachi and Harada, whose bodies both run at a temperature verging on medically alarming if they think sixty-five degrees is comfortable. It’s harder still with Souji yanking at her the whole time; she’s not certain whether he does it because he’s impatient or because her struggling amuses him. Possibly both, knowing Souji.

Impatience, however, wins out. One foot wins free, planting itself on the bedside braided rug, and he snaps, “Hurry up. We don’t have all day.”

She’d love to, if only the comforter hadn’t swallowed her up to the ankle, cinching tight when she tries to pry it apart. “Ah, I know! Just give me one--”

Unless she’d meant to say second-- which she hadn’t, not at all-- Souji doesn’t give it to her. Instead he tugs, and she stumbles off the mattress, dragging half the blankets with her. “Good,” he huffs, barely glancing back. “Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Souji has a terrible habit of making things worse the longer he’s made to wait, but she digs in her heels anyway. Or, well, the one that isn’t still trapped in Poly-Fil. “Can I at least put on my robe?”

“Why? It’s not like there’s anyone to see your cute little Christmas--” he squints “--raccoons?”

“Tanuki.” She smooths her hand over the fabric, one of their round faces peeking playfully out from between her fingers. “They’re just so fluffy.”

Souji stares at her, stone-faced and silent, and-- and it’s longer than that his teasing typically takes. “Right,” he says, stilted. “Whatever. Just hurry it up, Sleeping Beauty.”

Chizuru is keenly conscious of every second Souji suffers her, all-too aware of how impossible it is to win a race against the limits of his patience, but she’s determined to make the most of what she’s given. It’s hopeless to aspire to Hajime’s cool efficiency, but she tries, keeping her movements sharp and purposeful, as if putting on her robe required the same sweeping grace as his kata, and yet--

Yet she barely cinches the knot tight before he’s grabbed her again. “C’mon, princess. We’ve got things to do.”

It’s a struggle just to keep her feet beneath her, but she manages a very eloquent. “Huh?”

His mouth quirks, too pleased, as he tugs and she stumbles, bare feet barely braced against the jamb. “People to piss off.”

Ah, well that’s hardly promising.

When all is said and done, he doesn’t drag her far. A cold comfort, considering.

“This is Hajime’s room,” she informs him. His grin assures her he already knows. “And, Ya-- ah, I mean, Su-- uh, um. S-susu...?”

The name’s foreign in her mouth, tongue stumbling and stuttering around it, and it’s-- it’s just odd not to use it, when she’s so used to Souji and Hajime and Heisuke and Shinpachi and even Sano, if it feels safe to say, instead of intimate. As if she’s letting all the rest of them close while keeping him at arm’s length.

Which isn’t true. But still, she can’t bring herself to say Yamazaki’s first name so casually, not when even Heisuke, who barely lasted three hours before asking if she was cool with nicknames, hasn’t managed it. With the syllables rolling around in her mouth, it’s almost...

Illicit. That’s it. “Is there a reason you need me here?”

Souji’s mouth curls, so satisfied she’s surprised she can’t see feathers between his teeth. “Yes, definitely.”

“But they went home for the holidays.” She frowns. “Did you need something in there? I’m pretty sure it’s--”

His leg kicks back, and with one smooth swing, he completely bypasses the need for a doorknob, the open door shivering from the force.

“-- locked,” she finishes faintly. “Oh my.”

One hand catches the door, long fingers splayed across the grain. “After you, jailbait.”

She nearly balks-- it’s not as if it’s his room; he hardly has the right to invite her-- but the door swings open, and she--

She’s never seen this before. Yamazaki’s room. Or Hajime’s, of course. A tour down the hallway would be enough to get a glimpse into any of the other rooms; Heisuke hadn’t even waited a day to drag her into his, pointing out all his favorite posters. Harada and Shinpachi took a few weeks longer, though she’d spent most of that visit with her hands clapped over her eyes. Even Souji tolerated her shuffling a step over the threshold, even if it was only to ask for him to help her reach one of the taller cabinets. But Yamazaki and Hajime...

Their door has always been carefully shut, not even the slightest gap for a peek. An easy habit to explain away; the both of them value privacy over accessibility, choosing to socialize in the common areas of the house rather than in their room, but still--

It’s almost surprising how normal it is. Not that Chizuru expected it to be wallpapered floor to ceiling with centerfolds, like Harada and Shinpachi’s room, or crowded with collectibles like Heisuke’s, but maybe white walls and stark sheets, monochrome and neat as a pin. The sort of room that would seem unoccupied, if it wasn’t for the monitors on the desks. Sterile.

Instead there’s posters. Not crowding the walls, so close that the corners overlap, but there’s personality, if not chaos. Enough to know that the boy who sleeps under the navy comforter likes movies with kimonos and swords or computers from the 80s, and that charcoal comforter likes wuxia and vintage medical diagrams. And books too, if the stack teetering on his bedside table is any indication.

Chizuru shuffles a step further into the room. It would be rude to rummage, but surely-- surely it wouldn’t hurt if she just read the titles. If she just stooped down the tiniest bit and--

And tripped over Souji, shoulder-deep beneath Yamazaki’s mattress. “W-what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grunts, annoyed. “A guy that uptight’s got to be hiding something. And not just the normal stuff. The kind of something that’s gotta be top shelf fucked up.”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“Oh come on, you know what I mean. Whips and chains.” He drags his arm out with a huff. “Autoerotic asphyxiation. Snuff tapes.” Souji reaches up, flipping over his pillows. “Yiffing. Who could say what a small-dicked little turd like him is into?”

Half those words are unrecognizable, and so it’s not until he’s on his feet, poking through desk drawers that Chizuru realizes, “You mean you’re looking for...for...” Her mouth works, cheeks painfully hot as she manages, “Girlie magazines?”

His fingers still, pressed into a sheaf of glossy page edges. “I’m trying to find porn, Chizuru. That’s what we call it this century.”

The book shuts with a snap, joining its friends on the shelf, and when he reaches for another, she blurts out, “Don’t people just watch that online now?”

Souji laughs, not kind, but abandons the bookshelf. “And everyone thinks you’re so innocent, huh, princess?”

Her hands clap to her cheeks. Ah, she hadn’t realized it could be painful to blush. “I, um...only, ah--” Souji flings open the closet “--I don’t think you should really be--!”

“Jackpot.” The hangers rattle as he slips something off the rack; with only the sunlight eking in around the blinds to light the room, it’s hard to see just what. “What do you think? Would it look good on me?”

The fabric’s black, limp and shapeless on its hanger, utterly unrecognizable. “I don’t...?”

“Nah, no way I could fit into that shrimp’s costumes.” The light might be dim, but Souji’s teeth practically glow when he says, “But you could, half pint. C’mon, get over here.”

She doesn’t have much of a choice, not when he grabs her wrist and yanks. “I don’t understand,” she murmurs, watching him separate a smaller piece from the whole, more uncomfortable by the second. “Why did you need me when you were only going to..um...?”

Steal seems a little strong for the moment. Scrounge falls a little short.

“Ahhh, see, kid, last night I left a little gift for the whole student body. Right on the main page, where everyone could appreciate it.” He steps entirely too close, the warmth of his body filling the space between them. “And our favorite little ass-kisser didn’t appreciate it.”

The scrap slips over her head, cool and smooth where it settles around her neck. “So he took it down. Or got some of his nerd friends to do it. Either way...” Souji shrugs. “It’s rude to give back a gift, isn’t it?”

His wrist twists, the cloth pulling tight against her skin. Tight enough that only a twitch guides her into a nod. “See? That’s what I thought too. Kid needs to learn a thing or two about manners. So that’s what I’m doing.” Souji grins, the fabric loosening as he lets it slip from his fingers. “Teaching him a lesson.”

“B-but...” Her focus stumbles as he steps closer, threading his hand beneath the few inches of her hair that don’t clear the fabric and pulling them free. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“It’s cute that you don’t know.” His smile could cut when he slips the cloth right up over her nose. “This is a hostage situation, jailbait, and you’re going to read from the script. Now look over here.”

She does, blinking right up into the blinding light of flash photography as his arm squeezes her close. “What...?”

“Perfect.” Souji’s lips slant to a smirk, phone pinched delicately between his fingers. “Now I just need to post this in--”

The lights flick on. Neither of them are near the switch.

But Hajime is.

“Just what,” he says, brows drawn down like a storm, “do you think you’re doing in here?”

There have only been three house meetings since Chizuru showed up on their doorstep, hair shorn and all her earthly possessions split between a backpack and a trash bag: the first, called by the professor, to announce that that there would be a new roommate; the second, to decide how exactly to handle the fact that Chizuru wasn’t a boy’s name, nor was she; and the third, well...

I’m not complaining that you invite girls back, Sano, Shinpachi had said, with all the gravitas of a judge, but you can’t let them wander around. She went through our trash, dude!

But this-- it’s different. Not just because of the Christmas lights, festively twinkling through their cycle, or Shinpachi’s sweater blinking through its own.

It’s that they’re all here, Christmas afternoon-- evening really, with how early the sun sets these days-- holidays cut short. Chizuru might not have anyone to spent Christmas with, but Shinpachi did, and Heisuke, and Yamazaki--

And instead they’re all here. Because of her. Not a single one of them is smiling.

It’s too much.

“I’m so sorry!” The words burst out of her, rushed, but it’s important to get them out before anyone else can speak, before they think she’s only sorry because she got caught. “I really didn’t mean to go in! I just...Souji said...”

“Narc.” It’s muffled in his shoulder, just loud enough for her to hear. And maybe others, the way Yamazaki’s brow twitches across the table.

“Chizu, Chizu. Come on.” Shinpachi holds up his hands, as if a half-hearted sweep like that could clear the slate of her worries.. “No one here thinks this is your fault.”

It’s kind of him to say, but that’s...impossible. Not when she’s so clearly transgressed. “I went into Y-Yamazaki and Hajime’s room without permission. That’s against the--”

“No, Yukimura, that’s not--” Yamazaki’s teeth clack down, hard.  “I don’t mind if it’s you. Ah, I mean--” his ears flush the same angry pink that licks up the column of his neck “--it’s, er, different.”

“You are respectful of other people’s personal belongings,” Hajime clarifies. “There is no issue with you in our private space. Souji, however...”

“Oh, come on.” Souji kicks his feet up on the coffee table, baring every hole in the bottom of them. “It’s not like I broke anything.”

Yamazaki’s eyes hone onto him-- or rather, the parts of him only inches from Harada’s iced mocha, so close a flex of a toe could touch the coaster. “Right, you only stole something. Not like that’s a big deal.”

“Stole? Like I want--” with a sweep of his palm, Yamazaki clears the surface of appendages, so precise it doesn’t even disrupt the condensation on the cup “--hey!”

He doesn’t smile, but when Yamazaki glances up at the couch, his satisfaction shines just as bright as one.

“Souji.”

Hajime is not like Shinpachi, using his outdoor voice in every room no matter how small, or Heisuke, unable to control his volume once a conversation gets interesting. He’s soft spoken, serious; the sort of person other people lean in to hear, rather than ask him to speak up.

But today, he pitches his voice to be heard. “You cannot enter someone’s assigned private room without express permission.” With even graver inflection, he adds “It is against the rules put forth in the Signed Housing Agreement.”

Souji snorts, sinking further into the couch cushions. “No one pays attention to that crap.”

Air hisses between Yamazaki’s teeth. “That’s--”

“If I am not allowed to leave the group chat unless a member of the house boots me for a pre-agreed upon duration,” Hajime says, mouth pulling thin, “then you are also not allowed in my room.”

His glare is hardly aimed at her, but it comes close enough that she flinches. Souji doesn’t, refusing to acknowledge it that same way a cat declined to be caught on a curtain, as if reality was simply an opinion he did or did not hold. “I didn’t even touch your stuff. I don’t know why you’re trying to--”

“You did touch Yamazaki’s stuff, though.” Harada shifts in his chair, the vee of his sweater dipping deep enough to bare cleavage. It might be distracting, if it wasn’t already a relief that he was wearing all his clothes. “Which is against the rules.”

“Yeah, that’s fucked up, right?” Shinpachi cracks open a tall boy, cold enough that the beer fizzes out, threatening to drip right across the festive moose on his chest; HORNY AND WELL HUNG according to the words knit into his sweater. “There’s no locks on the doors, man. We’ve all got to trust each other.”

Chizuru blinks. “But I have a lock.”

He pauses, mid-sip. “Well, I guess that makes sense. You’re a girl, after all. Can’t have a girl be alone with a bunch of guys if there no--”

“My room also has a lock.” Hajime frowns, considering the socks Souji’s just returned to the table. “Hardly a good one, if Souji was able to bypass it with just his foot, but...”

“Me too,” Heisuke chimes in. “I just don’t really use it.”

“Wait, what?” Shinpachi swivels between them, lost. “Are me and Sano the only ones who don’t--?”

“I think the best course of action is to inform Professor Hijikata about the infraction.” Kneeling on the carpet next to Shinpachi’s luggage, Yamazaki’s hardly an authority figure, but when he raises his voice the room fritters to silence. “I’m sure he can take it from there.”

Harada hums, unconvinced. “I don’t know about that. Souji’s already got two strikes against him. If we report another one, I’m pretty sure Hijikata’s going to toss him out.”

They might be more suggestions than eyebrows, but still, it makes an impression when Yamazaki furrows them.  “I don’t see why that’s any of my concern.”

“Aw, c’mon, Yamazaki.” They all might tease her about her pleading eyes, but it’s Heisuke that uses them now, as compelling as any puppy in a pet store window. “You know Souji doesn’t have anywhere else to go. You wouldn’t throw him out in the cold just like that, would you?”

His mouth pinches, bracing the way the rest of him is, squared off and utterly implacable. “Souji is a grown man who can make his own decisions. If those decisions lead to him getting tossed out, that hardly has anything to do with me.”

Souji snorts. “None of the people who complained are even here anymore.”

Yamazaki whips around, eyes so cold they could turn any other man to ice. Souji just smirks. “Yes, because of you.”

“Well, I don’t know...” Heisuke hums, thoughtful. “Ryu left because of that art program. You know, the one that had the scholarship.”

“Only after Okita shoved him off--!”

“Oh, c’mon.” Souji’s shoulder twitch, barely summoning up the energy for a full shrug. “That’s all water under the bridge.”

Yamazaki surges to his feet; only Harada’s hand, keeping him from jumping the table too. “You broke his wrist in three places! The only reason he didn’t press charges was because his foster father is somehow an even bigger asshole than you!”

Souji picks his grins the same way a chef picks his knives from the block: with the intention to cut. “No hard feelings.”

“Hard feelings?” Yamazaki chokes out. “You think this is about hard feelings? When Itou left, he--”

“Itou was a prick.”

Hajime doesn’t so much sigh as hum, raspy and dubious. “That doesn’t mean that what you did was right, Souji.”

His eyes narrow, annoyed. “Don’t pretend you miss him running around the place, acting better than everyone.”

“No, no. He’s got a point.” The easy chair grunts as Shinpachi shifts his weight back, crossing his legs ankle to knee. “They both do. You know I don’t want to kick you out, man, but you’ve got a bad habit of taking stuff way past funny right into, well...”

“An actionable offense?” Harada offers, wry.

A blunt nail taps at his can, uncomfortable. “Yeah, that. It’s not good, bro.”

Something happens with Souji’s mouth. A lot of somethings, actually; subtle ones, hidden in the corners and tucked into the cheeks, the sort that happen between one blink and the next. Missable, save for the fact that Chizuru never looks away.

There’s a jut of his lip first, not a pout but its more serious cousin, the kind that’s like a levee to a deluge: one tremble away from a flood. A scowl next, never quite reaching his eyes; good practice for the smile that follows, curving into a smirk the way steel takes an edge: like it’s meant for it.

“All right, all right.” His hands raise up, too lax for a peace offering. It might stand in for a concession, if she tilted her head and squinted, but only a little. “So you’re all mad at me or whatever.”

“For good reason.” It’s a strong stance for Harada; he’s usually the one who’s quick to compromise, so long as it keeps everyone civil.

“Sure, right.” Souji shrugs, unconcerned. “I get it. But consider--” fabric whips out from behind a pillow, matte and black-- “this.”

Chizuru blinks. “Wasn’t that in...?”

Yamazaki’s closet, she doesn’t say. Not when he shakes it out, turning it from cloth to clothing, a whole jumpsuit with fussy embroidery picked out in an even darker black.

“What’s that?” Shinpachi scoots to the edge of his chair, squinting. He must not have his contacts in. “Some sort of ninja costume?”

She knows better than to turn, to draw attention to the statue suddenly sitting across the table, but Chizuru can’t help it, not when Souji is so quick to say, “It is.” There’s enough relish in his tone that she can taste it. “And it’s Yamazaki’s.”

There’s a pause-- for effect, she’s sure, considering the way Souji grins. Like he’s pulled off some magic trick, making his troubles disappear in one hand and then plucking them out from behind Yamazaki’s ear.

“So?” Harada snorts, unimpressed. “Are you surprised? He’s been a ninja for Halloween like, what? Three years running? Since I’ve been here at least. What next? Gonna pull a sexy firefighter out of Shin’s closet?”

“Hey!” A hand presses right over WELL, leaving HORNY and HUNG peeking out from underneath it. “I’ve branched out! This year I was a sexy soldier.”

“How can you tell?” Heisuke mutters, hunched shoulders making his chest even narrower, more concave. “You’re only wearing like half a costume.”

“We’re not talking about Nagakura.” With all the subtlety of a bomb, Souji drops, “We’re talking about Mr Kiss-Ass and how he has like, five of these tucked away for a rainy day.”

It’s been three months since Chizuru managed to insinuate herself into the house, but not once has it been quiet. Even in the night there’s something: Shinpachi snoring, Harada’s flings trying to find the front door, Heisuke up entirely too late typing up papers or-- more likely-- playing video games. Something. But now--

Now it’s a ringing silence that’s left in Souji’s wake, an awkward air that has every shoulder stiff, every eye finding somewhere else to look besides the place where Yamazaki sits, still as a stone.

Or at least, until Hajime slides forward, dexterous fingers smoothing over the raised stitches of the sleeve. “Oh,” he hums, impressed. “Your skills have really improved since your last attempt. I take it this is for next weekend?”

“Ah...” He swallows, loud enough that even Chizuru can hear. “Y-yeah. The new kunai were too heavy for the belt, so I thought if I remade that, I might as well add a few more quality of life adjustments, and, er...”

“Oh my god,” Heisuke breathes, quivering like a corgi at the end of his leash. “Are you a real ninja?”

A broad hand cuffs him on the back of his head. “C’mon,” Harada mutters. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

If Yamazaki’s ears were painted pink before, they’re crimson now, hot enough to burn from touch alone. The square of his shoulders deflates, rounding with the slow leak of his confidence, but--

But Hajime simply nods, stroking his chin. “Perhaps I should look at my own as well. It hardly feels adequate next to all the work you’ve done.”

“Is this like...a sex thing?” Shinpachi’s eyes dart between the two of them. “It’s a sex thing, right?”

“No,” Yamazaki says, stern, immediately undermined by Hajime’s, “A little.”

It’s with a hefty heaping of betrayal that Yamazaki turns to him, glaring as he grounds out, “Absolutely not.”

Hajime’s mouth gives a dubious twist, and he opens it, perhaps to gainsay him, but--

But there’s no time, not when Heisuke practically explodes. “Are you a ninja too, Hajime?”

He blinks. “No.”

“Oh.” Heisuke deflates. “Okay, I guess...”

“I’m a samurai.”

“What--” Harada’s voice strains beneath the words “--is going on?”

“So let me get this straight.” Harada’s fingers pinch at the bridge of his nose, but by the wrinkle above them, Chizuru doubts it helps. “You two...dress up as samurai...?”

“I’m the samurai,” Hajime explains, so helpful. “Yamazaki is currently playing as a ninja. As he typically does.”

“You don’t have to tell them that,” he mutters. “That’s not really the point--”

“Right, of course, but...” Harada grimaces. “This is what you do on the weekends? For fun?”

A narrow shoulder lifts under Hajime’s tee, the closest he comes to a shrug. “An afternoon a month, to be more specific.”

“Once a month?” Heisuke asks, wide-eyed. “That doesn’t seem like a lot.”

“It takes a large amount of effort and dedication to keep up a long-form Live Action Roleplaying campaign,” he explains gravely. “That the organizers are able to run so often is a testament to their skill. And to run a weekend event--”

“So you mean you go there the whole weekend?” Heisuke blinks. “Like just forty-eight hours of samurai stuff?”

Hajime’s correction comes the same way as all his interactions: swiftly and without any judgment. “Seventy-two hours.”

Shinpachi goggles. “That’s a lot of fucking hours.”

“It is to aid with immersion.” Hajime isn’t a man of many words, but now he does not so much pause as he does breathe. “Unlike other games of its kind, Legend of the Five Rings does not focus so much on combat as it does internal conflict, and the robust worldbuilding--”

“This isn’t what they’re asking.” Yamazaki’s gaze darts wide-eyed around the table, never daring to stay longer than a blink. “You don’t have to--”

“--Is based on Sengoku Era Japan,” he continues, heedless. “As gratifying as it is to play on a regular basis, it really isn’t until a few hours into any session that people truly come to embody their roles. The court politics alone--”

“Saito.” Yamazaki may be seated at the opposite end of the living room, but his stare is enough to make even Hajime hesitate. “I think they get the idea.”

Harada looks between them, pained. “So are there...scripts or something?”

“No. Yes.” Hajime frowns. “It’s complicated. Each scene is improvised in character, but the organizers are present to facilitate the flow of the story. It is a collaborative effort.”

“But that’s it?” Heisuke asks. “You’re just like...samurai for a day? Or, er, three of them?”

“Yes.”

“And you do this--” Harada’s eyebrows furrow, pained “--for fun?”

Hajime doesn’t answer so much as cock his head, hands outspread as if to say, what else?

“That’s so...so cool!” Heisuke leaps to his feet, practically tripping over the table in his excitement. “Can I go? You guys gotta bring me!”

“What?” Harada blinks at him. “You want to go to this?”

“Uh, yeah?” His hands clench, too excited. “You get to be a samurai, Sano! Who wouldn’t want to?”

“Hey, so.” Shinpachi leans in, face pinched in curiosity. “Is this like...D&D or whatever?”

“In spirit,” Yamazaki creaks out, looking like death warmed over.

He nods. “Right, right. So like...a total sausage fest, or...?”

“The numbers on many tabletop games typically skews toward male,” Hajime explains, “but Live Action Roleplaying draws a higher percentage of female participants. Possibly due to the cosplay aspect.”

Shinpachi grins. “Oh, then count me in too, sensei.”

Harada stares at him. “Who are you?”

“What?” Shinpachi shrugs. “It’s math with babes. What’s not to love?”

“Ah...” Yamazaki waving hands don’t do much to hide his grimace. “I don’t really think this will be as interesting to you as you think...”

“He’s right,” Harada presses. “You may think it’s a good place to pick up women who aren’t afraid of, er, theoretical numbers--”

“They’re not theoretical,” Shinpachi huffs. “They’re real, it’s just the equations used to describe them are--“

“See? Already my eyes have glazed over.”

“I don’t know,” Chizuru hums, pitched just loud enough to be heard. “I think it sounds...fun?”

Yamazaki’s stare fixes on her. “Really?”

Even as a girl, Chizuru had never been one to play dress up, never been one to play pretend-- father didn’t approve, for one. Not when there were more direct benefits to be had from drilling flashcards or reading books. A second, her daydreams were vivid enough she hardly needed to act them out, not when Father was so apt to remind her, princesses don’t have to pass their medical exams.

But Yamazaki is as serious as they come, a TA for the dean of the pre-med department even before graduating. His acceptance to the medical school almost assured, and he finds this worth his time. Enough to have made a costume-- with his own hands!-- and sign up for a whole weekend away from his studies...

“Y-yeah.” She ducks her head, hoping to hide the heat that pricks at her cheeks. “I mean, as long as it wouldn’t be a bother for me to, um...”

“Ah, no! I mean, yes. Never.” Yamazaki shakes himself, pink staining the high arch of his cheekbones. “It’s not a problem.”

“Yeah, Chizu!” An arm clamps around her shoulders, dragging her against Shinpachi’s personal light display. “That’s right! Let’s all go. House field trip!”

Yamazaki’s jaw drops. “I don’t, er, know about that--!”

“Fine.” Harada sighs, getting to his feet. “If Chizuru wants to go. Count me in.”

“That’s the spirit!” Shinpachi claps him on the back, hard enough that even Harada has to cough. “Now, that just leaves...?”

“Uh-uh.” Souji’s arms fold over his chest, forbidding. “No way I’m going to your nerd party.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Shinpachi drops between them on the couch, arm pulling tight. “Think of it as a group bonding experience.”

Souji scowls. “What makes you think I care about bonding with any of you--”

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it.” He squeezes tight enough to eke a squeak out of him. “Think about it as, ‘if you go we won’t tell Hijikata about you stealing shit.”

Souji glowers. “Fine,” he grumbles, shoving him off. “But I won’t like it!”

Shinpachi’s smile is all knives when he replies, “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

It’s dark when Chizuru stumbles out into the hall; there’d been daylight still when they’d piled into the parlor, but now night clings to the the edges of dusk, only enough light to gild the snow in golden shadow. It might bother her more if it wasn’t such a relief, a respite from having to scrape at the last reserve of her smiles. And so she takes it; one big breath and the muscles around her mouth slump, aching from use.

Any other night, she might worry about one of the boys following out behind her, but she can hear the ruckus shift from the parlor toward the kitchen, wheeled baggage and Shinpachi’s booming voice all tromping toward the back stair. Her day may have happened in fits and starts, but everyone else has been on the move, going from Christmas to short notice travel to fraught house meeting all within the space of hours. There’s no one who’s going to be worried about her.

Which suits her just fine. A few minutes lying face down on her comforter and she’ll be right as rain. Just a breath or two to herself, and--

Someone huffs behind her. Right behind her.

She whips around so fast, she nearly tumbles Yamazaki into the wall with her. Or at least his arm, half outstretched, now just hanging there in the air between them.

“Oh!” There’s no reason for her to shy back, but she does, guiltier with every inch. “Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“No, no. It’s my fault.” His hands aren’t large, not like Harada or Shinpachi, but the fingers are long and tapered, digging runnels through the shaggy bristle of his hair. “I should have-- ah, I mean, I just saw you, and er, wanted to make sure that you were all right. After, ah...all that.”

Her first instinct urges her to laugh, to let her nerves giggle out, there’s no need to worry about me--

But Yamazaki stares at her with the same careful intensity as he had in the kitchen-- you’re worth a good meal-- and Chizuru tries deflection instead. “I’m the one who should be asking you that! I went into your room without any permission and all, and Souji--” Yamazaki grimaces at the name “---I just...you have every right to be mad at me!”

“You?” he echoes, incredulous. “It’s not your fault, Yukimura. Okita’s the one who dragged you in there.”

She shakes her head. “I could have chosen to leave any time. I just was too curious to think to question him.”

“Curious?” There’s no inflection to the word, and with the shadows making a muddle of his expressions, there’s only the tilt of his head to tell here there’s a question. “Why would you be curious?”

“Ah, I’d just...never been inside before?” Her palms clap to her cheeks, and oh, she must glow from how hot her cheeks burn. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not! It’s just, ah...unexpected. I...” His mouth opens, as if he might say more, but with a lick of his lips, it closes instead. Or rather, his chin dips down and it follows, gaze dropping from her eyes to somewhere at her neck. As if...

“Oh, did I spill...?” She can’t actually remember what she’s eaten today, whether it could be something that she could walk around wearing, but Yamazaki’s already shaking his head.

“Ah, no, it’s just...you still have...” His fingers curl hesitantly in the air between them. “If you would let me...?”

Every twitching nerve of her stills as he steps close, fingers skimming past her shoulders. Only days ago she’d knotted his scarf, but it feels different now that he’s the one reaching, so close his hand meet behind her neck. He’s not bundled up now, no three layers of wool and thermal and parka to keep her from realizing that he smells nice, like...like something clean with a hint of eucalyptus, and it’s...

It’s a lot.

His fingers knit into the fabric at her nape, too slippery for him to find the end of it by touch. At least, the first time; he gathers it up, hiking it higher and higher until he can slide under it, the flat of his nails smooth and warm against her neck. Her pulse pounds so hard he must feel it, but Yamazaki doesn’t flinch, instead lifting it with surgical precision. The stretchy fabric threads right off her ponytail with no more than that initial brush of fingers, and she--

She stare. It’s the mask. The one Souji put on her. All this time, and she’s-- she’s just been wearing it, like some sort of...scarf. Right over her tanuki pajamas. In front of everyone.

In front of Yamazaki.

If she could melt into the woodwork, it would be a miracle. But as always, reality refuses to oblige her. “Oh, I hadn’t even...ah...”

“Please, don’t worry about it.” His fingers smooth over the fabric, mouth curving into a rueful smile. “It looked better on you than it does on me.”

“Ah!” Her gasp catches in her throat. “That’s not...um...” She hakes her head, hoping that might clear enough room for a sentence or two to compose itself. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Yamazaki glances up at her, amused, and oh-- she hadn’t meant to say that. Not like that.

“You know, I meant to...” He stops himself. Not abruptly, like she does, but a slow, thoughtful halt. Like a train pulling into a station rather than a car braking for a yellow light. “I mean, I don’t think I ever got around to saying it last night, and today, with everything...well”

He hesitates again, a breath hissing between his teeth. But this time his shoulders square, and even though his gaze is lost in the shadow of his brows, she knows he’s looking at her. “Merry Christmas, Yukimura.”

[chishigure]

tag dumps 2

[malaierba]

Remember that it was explicitly stated that Toshiro was trained in ninjutsu?

(HE WAS SIX. LIKE, BY THE WAY)

(the way he has that fucking flashback always sends me btw. I know my man felt the floor sink and everything)

And most of people trained under his family's residence are ninja-coded. Since his dad has those dark, ambiguous links with powerful people, so he's likely the same.

So why is Toshiro's attire and fighting style like a samurai's?

Strictly speaking, ninjas were essentially historical mercenaries, and samurai were nobles who fought under the shogunate without a fee. They were famously guided by the Bushido Code, while ninjas were expected to be shady and fight dirty.

Essentially opposites. Which makes me think that there's a few likely intentions behind that choice:

Maybe she just wanted to drive home more clearly the culture clash between laishuro. Like Toshiro just so happened he wanted to dress like a samurai in his adventure. Maybe he's trying to avoid being recognised? Could be, but I don't think that's it

Maybe Toshiro's training and general upbringing changed as his dad became more influential. Maybe there was a possibility that he could marry up, or get adopted into noble society, who knows, thing is there was a political reason that justified trying to raise Toshiro so he's more of a diplomat than his dad probably is. But then that'd mean that his dad regretted the switch when he deemed his son "a dull man"? I'm 50/50 here, there's always a possibility that in this fantastic alliteration of Japan has some overlaps between samurai and ninja, and maybe ninjas can be nobles after all. Feels too counterintuitive to be logical though.

Maybe it's meant to highlight how different Toshiro is from his family. So visually, it singles him out and associates a certain set of values with him; And then within the story, it lends itself to some compelling ideas like: Did he do it on purpose, was it somehow decided for him as a weird punishment or something? If he did it on purpose then that'd be the very first big decision he took for himself, to say "I want to embody this". Very bold of him since it sends a clear message to everyone. It'd be kind of cool if he made the switch after his father accused him of being dull. He could feel responsible for inheriting the family and having a lot of people to his charge, but at the same time he has such a negative opinion of the type of leader his father is that the only way to reconcile his conscience would be to become the new head of the family but also lead completely different to his dad. OR maybe it was a silent way to say that he never felt like being in that position of leadership anyway. Quietly quitting, in a way? Or maybe it didn't even happen consciously. Toshiro naturally seeked role models that embodied a type of man that he could actually look up to, and slowly molded himself to that standard, for better and for worse. Strong sense of responsibility and all that.

I guesssss it could be that Toshiro's family really is nobility, but they train their servants in all of those special skills as a private bodyguard force? Hien expected Toshiro to propose to her, would that union be allowed if Toshiro's family was nobility? It's even said in one of the art books that the reason why Toshiro's dad didn't marry Maizuru is because he met her after marrying his wife. Besides, why train Toshiro in ninjutsu too? And then there's those moments when it's hinted that he's familiar with some darker dynamics. I keep thinking about how he knew what Laios group had to do in order to lose the cops fkdkkd. Anyway I can see the logic in the argument, I'm just not sure Toshiro's family isn't hiding something sus. I see it as very mafia coded. Honestly, that might be just it

In any case, it does overlap some interesting elements on Toshiro. There's an expectation on him from his family, the way the household projects an image of strength but also some shadiness, that contrasts with how he presents himself, how he's treated by his charges, how the image he projects is of a mild mannered, stoic, diplomatic man.

[eltube]

(new fic!) Evil-Adult-Anon

I wrote this fic as a gift for @kndrules’ birthday this year (Happy Birthday Jay!) and after he mentioned it offhand someone was interested in reading it—so I am posting it here for all to see!

It takes place in our adult AU, where—for reference—sector V members are about 35 years old. This fic doesn’t feature sector V, though; it stars Cree!! Who is in her forties, a Japanese history professor, and still coming to terms with her life after Father. (Father is recently in prison—basically, if you have any questions about the details of this timeline, feel free to ask about it.) It also features special guests (The) Steve and The Toilenator, though you may not recognize him at first.

Enjoy!

With every step she took into the hotel lobby, Cree gripped the shoulder strap of her canvas bag a little tighter. She had tried to dress casual, but put-together: one of her nicer cardigan sweaters, the pants she actually ironed, and her new shoes with the fancy broguing on the sides. Her locs were tied back in a small, loose bun behind her, and she figured that–at least if nobody zeroed in on the death grip of that one hand on her bag–she probably looked pretty composed from the outside. 

She needed the death grip though, because the farther away she got from her partner’s familiar car, the more she felt her bravado slipping away, already making a smaller woman under this big, domed ceiling. Steve had told her way too many times that she’s “got this,” working his clueless magic that once again made her enough of a fool to believe him. Now, the stronger illusion of her–the stranger who so confidently waved at Steve as he dropped her off, as if this was all her idea–was looking down at her real self with a mixture of smug superiority and pity. 

She ran her palm along the bag’s material as she walked on the lobby carpet, grounding herself (as she had been taught to call it) by feeling the bumps along the surface. She recognized and remembered the shapes of the file folders, overflowing with booklets of paper, packed inside. Cree had brought her students’ essays along with her, like she always did during exam seasons in case she had a few moments to catch up on marking them. 

In this case, bringing the student papers along had been a kind of silent, last-ditch prayer of desperation. Like, maybe this whole thing would actually be cancelled, right? Everyone would go home, not even knowing she had shown up, and she could sit peacefully alone on these pearly white couches until Steve’s band finished practicing, just reading first-year history students’ takes on bushido and cracking up without a care in the world. 

It wasn’t going to happen–but honestly, she just needed the fantasy to get her out the door. As the knots in her stomach were reminding her very loudly now, she really did not want to come.

Trying the grounding again, Cree focused on the surroundings of the hotel as she moved towards the conference room, reminding herself to “name three things” for each of her senses. She had resisted this strategy at first, how babyish it sounded. To her displeasure though, she had to admit that when she actually tried it eventually, the damn thing worked.

I hear…the front desk people typing. Luggage carts. A fountain.

I see…ugly wallpaper. Plants. A snack counter…huh, looks like they have ice cream. That logo is familiar. 

I smell…what do hotels smell like? The scent of blandness? Parfum du nothing? ‘Clean stank’? Sure, those count as three things.

I taste…DAMMIT! FUCK! SHIT!

A jolt of surprised rage yanked Cree out of the ritual. She strode directly into something blocking her path, priming her to explode at whoever put it there–and then, just as fast, a wave of hot embarrassment followed. She realized she had knocked her foot against a sign outside the conference room. It was, actually, the exact sign she was supposed to be looking out for.

 “SUPPORT GROUP HERE,”--the text on the cardboard seemed to be shouting out loud to mock her as it toppled over. Cree couldn’t help but project onto it like it was a person she hated, some shrill little kid maybe, pointing and going LOOK WHAT THIS WEIRD LADY DID for the whole hotel to hear. Scrambling to catch herself and prop the thing back up–make it be quiet–Cree looked around, praying that no one had seen her “calm” herself into a clumsy mess. Luckily, it seemed like it was a secret between her and the security cameras at most.

“So much for mindfulness,” she muttered to herself, silently cursing her therapist. That lady was definitely going to hear about the mess she caused with her advice next week. On the bright side, though, all the potential awkwardness Cree felt around walking into this conference room seemed tamer in comparison, now. She let out a long-suffering breath, reasoning that she had come this far, and put on a brave face as she crossed the threshold.

—

The room was set up just the way Cree had imagined it–she couldn’t tell if she found this funny or downright irritating, the cliche of the scene. The circle of folding chairs, the table of cheap coffee, the name tags…it all felt like the setup of a joke at her expense, and when she found herself taking a sharpie and actually writing Cree on one–eugh—that was the punchline. 

A nametag, as if these people didn’t know exactly who she was. Even if she had changed her hair or her mannerisms much in the last 15 or so years, she was, she noted bitterly, the only Black woman in the room, so she would always be unmistakable. 

At least no one’s staring at me. At least not until my back is turned. 

The cheap label stuck to the right side of her sweater, she kept her hand on her bag as she sat slowly down in one of the chairs. It was stiff, but she took some small pride in having good posture. Others in the room, many of whom she was surprised not to recognize–shouldn’t I know everybody here?--were all milling around and making small talk, like friends. They smiled at each other, touched shoulders, laughed; they probably came here dutifully every second week while she was hiding at home.

People started to take their seats around her, and Cree tried to block the lonely resentment building in her gut from showing on her face. As the meeting started and the scattered conversations died down, she closed her eyes and conjured up her confident self from the car again, a witch conjuring ghosts of the past. She would need magic not to screw this up.

Directly across from her, one middle-aged man stayed standing with his hands folded; he, she assumed, was the group leader she talked to on the phone. 

“Welcome, everybody,” he said, and his familiar voice confirmed Cree’s guess. “Now that everyone’s sitting, we can start.”

The man, tall and Latino with greying hair and broad arms, had already introduced himself to Cree last week as Paolo. He was friendly enough, and thoughtful enough with his direct invitation to attend the meeting, that she tragically couldn’t refuse it anymore without looking like a complete jerk. And as always seemed to be the case with these people, he said he knew who she was, but she never remembered meeting him–and again, she wondered if this tendency to erase people’s names and faces from her memory made her arrogant. 

She tried to console herself with the fact that, at least in this case, there were reasons Paolo might have been forgettable; ice cream men were always wearing those stupid hats anyway, and they all looked the same in uniform. It’s not like she was hanging out with them back in the day—they were never even invited to those Anti-Kid Bingo Nights. 

Ugh, she had almost forgotten how much she hated those.

“First of all,” Paolo continued, with the attention of the room bringing Cree back. “Thanks to everyone again who brought food. Feel free to say something about your recipe when we do the circle…if it’s not a family secret!”

There were good-hearted chuckles scattered around Cree where the older members sat, the kind she hears from the tenured professors pushing 70 at work. When she’s not scared of getting a day older, part of Cree looks forward to getting to an age where unfunny jokes make her laugh like that.

“Now, we’ll start with me like always. We don’t have too many new folks here today,”--and Cree felt his lack of eye contact with her here was deliberate–”but it’s always good to introduce ourselves just in case. So, hi everyone. My name’s Paolo–feel free to share just your first name, or your last too, whatever’s comfortable–and, well, when I’m not running this group, I’m the Ohio regional representative of Tasty Taste. It’s been really rewarding for me to help build the new face of the company, and, hey…I’m sure it’s also rewarding for us that I’m able to offer free ice cream to everyone here.” 

There was a murmur of chuckles from the group again, and Cree remembered the stand she had passed on the way in, the shape and colours of the logo all clicking into place. The new face of the company. So the stand used to belong to…hell, maybe the whole hotel used to be his. Suddenly she felt a pang of nausea, like the chair she was sitting on might be coated in poisonous slime.

Paolo went on. “I’ll pass the intros around the circle now, and feel free to share anything about yourself. It can be a fact about you related to the group or not! Then we’ll go into a theme for this week’s discussion. Lou, you’re on my right–why don’t you go ahead?”

Paolo sat down, and the man next to him looked up and smiled at the group shyly. He was white and semi-elderly, with a belly but stringy, gangly limbs, and he sported a decidedly balding head of thin blonde hair. Cree didn’t recognize this guy, either, and assumed he was another ice cream man. How common was it, she wondered, for men like Paolo to still be working at Tasty Taste now?

“Hi, I’m Lou,” the new man said, and something about his voice sounded instantly familiar. “I brought some quiche today, but it is a bit of a family secret with my husband and me…” He grinned. “Um, I work as a [gastrointestinal specialist] now, but for a long time I guess people probably just knew me as a guy who walked around wearing a goofy costume…a guy who no one liked.”

With that bit of context, in his timid voice, it dawned on her. Holy shit. Her mouth fell open, shocked by how bizarrely normal he seemed across from her now. That’s the Toilenator.

Nobody noticed her gaping expression while Lou continued, now so clearly resembling a time-lapsed version of the villain, like a parody act that walked offstage. “It’s been great for me to get to know people through this group,” he smiled, “And I’m glad more people are coming every time. Sigmund doesn’t come with me since it’s not his experience, but he says he can really tell it makes a difference and he’s grateful to all of you.”

Lou sat back in his chair and the group clapped, something that Cree gathered was customary during this “introductions” phase. She awkwardly raised her hands and clapped once, feeling distinctly stupid, like she was at show-and-tell or something. How long has the Toilenator been married? 

More than that—though she realized how cruel it was, while he was being vulnerable—Cree was embarrassed to think she had any common issues with the Toilenator. 

As the next few people introduced themselves, their words blurred into nonsense and this parallel between them horrified her more and more. She was suddenly haunted by a mirror image of herself, wearing an oversized toilet seat around her head, getting bullied by people—who were, by all accounts, total freaks themselves—is that the kind of company she was seeking solace in? 

More people spoke, mostly ice cream men, or B-list villains, or some guy who watered the lawn at the mansion. Ignoring them, she wondered if the Toilenator had any of the same messed up problems as her—maybe he even went to the same therapists about it. Maybe right after Cree left those offices, all woe-is-me, this old guy walked in after her, clearly doing so much better about it since he can be at home making quiche all day. As if all of this couldn’t be more humiliating, now the Toilenator was beating her at therapy! 

“…would like to share something?”

Cree looked up as she noticed the room was staring at her, expectant. It was silent now, no one else sharing, meaning it must have been her turn to speak. She stupidly opened and closed her mouth and sat up straighter, running her hand along her canvas bag nervously again.

”I, uh.”

Paolo was looking over and smiling patiently, and the patience of it sort of made it worse.

”Sorry. I’m…I didn’t bring anything. Didn’t know it was a potluck. I um…well, you all know who I am. I’m Cree. You know me whether you met me back then or not. Everyone keeps telling me to come to one of these things, but I never felt like I…I dunno, deserved it. But now I’m here, so I guess I have to catch everyone up.” 

Once the first words were out of her mouth, it became a kind of compulsion to speak, which in a way was a mercy. She caught faces with eyes burning into her, but fought the urge to try and read their thoughts.

”So, I was Father’s apprentice. For…10 years? Something like that.” 

Speaking his name made it real. She might as well jump right into it. 

”I guess, you know…I realized in my mid-20s, that after everything I worked for, I wanted out. It wasn’t worth it, and he never intended to give me any of the power he promised. I guess a lot of you worked for him for money, but he never even paid me. Then I realized it was his future or mine—he didn’t want me going to school, didn’t want me doing anything that took me farther away, and I guess…something in me sensed it would only get worse. I took a chance, I left, I cut contact and left for college and didn’t look back. I was scared he’d come after me but lo and behold the case against him came together just in time. And it’s only with him in prison that I feel like I can say anything without putting everyone I know in danger, so I’m not used to…saying anything. But I’m trying to start.”

 The room was listening intently, with a kind of respect that she only got in a really good lecture—the kind she never expected and worried she couldn’t rise to. She kept talking anyway, facts spilling out of her that she was always worried would explode if exposed to the air.

”I had some distance from everything, and I compartmentalized everything from back then until I graduated, but…you know, I still live with all the shit I did, while I worked for him, while I was trying to prove that I could be him someday. What I did to kids, to my own kid sister…and I went to him, right? And I did it year after year, and I convinced myself they deserved it. I didn’t think it was right to call myself a victim, because of that. Sometimes I felt I should have been sentenced with him. But becoming…”

 She took a shaky breath, feeling the full weight of the listening silence. “…becoming a teacher, when I’m working with my students…they’re all adults, right, but even then, I keep thinking…the power I have over them scares me. When I think about doing to them what he did, I feel sick, and it just makes me realize…damn, it was wrong when it happened to me, too. I was like that back then, just…young, and powerless, and wanting to impress someone who could move me up. No matter what it took, right? And he knew that. Even the guilt I’m feeling now, it…he made me feel it on purpose. And it worked.”

Cree had her eyes trained on the floor now, on a space between her shoes, and she was afraid to look up after saying what she knew was far too much. These people connected to her by Father’s common thread of abuse—she didn’t know if their pity or their total apathy to her pain would be more devastating. Whatever reaction there would be, it was the one she was afraid of—it was the escaping of the story, the reveal to the world, that hurt her every time. 

—

Cree felt her arm quickly shoot up to her face to wipe at a hot tear escaping. She and Steve had joked on the way over about how her crying was an inevitability, that it was just about how many fugitive tears she let get away. She thought she had prepared for it then, but she never could.

”Cree,” Paolo said in the silence, his voice sounding even-toned and not so sympathetic as to taunt her. “We are all so glad that you came to a meeting. And though it may not be at all close to what you’ve experienced in its intensity, I think you’ve put words to a dynamic that many of us in this group felt in our work lives for a long time.”

Cree bit down on her cheeks and braved glancing up again, seeing that several people were nodding respectfully, including Lou, who had an indisputably kind smile on his face. She wanted to mock it, but it was too genuine for that.

The woman sitting beside Cree wordlessly handed her a tissue and a glass of water, which she sheepishly accepted. When Paolo continued he addressed the entire group, taking attention away from her, helping her come back from where she had gone.

”Many people have said in group before,” Paolo said, gesturing to the circle, “that we have feelings of guilt, like you described. That we feel we can’t be considered Father’s victims, because we weren’t children when he hurt us, or because he didn’t hit us physically, or because we only suffered abuse in the workplace and not interpersonally.” There were more nods around him. 

“It comes up quite often, too, that members of the group are ourselves perpetrators—we hurt children on his payroll, and so we had no right to speak. And it’s true that many of us are guilty of things that we very well may not be forgiven for.” Paolo shrugged. “I’ve spoken to some people, former Kids Next Door operatives, who I hurt while I was an ice cream man. I want nothing more than to reconcile with them, but some of them—rightfully, I think—don’t speak to any of us. There’s a reason this group is for people who worked for Father. We all feel this tension. But it is powerful to break the cycle.”

Cree smiled, finding Paolo’s speech corny, but in a way that released some tension in her. The Toilenator—Lou, Cree reminded herself—was standing up and passing a dish around, apparently sensing an opportunity to relax everyone further. A thin elderly man looked over as he took a piece of quiche, adding his input:

“I had hoped I would see you at a meeting soon, Ms. Lincoln,” he said, and she immediately recognized his voice as the butler, Wintergreen’s. He broke into a smile at the way her eyes must have widened. “Yes, it’s been many years—and I often wondered if you were well, after you disappeared.” His face grew serious again, and he added: “I saw a lot of things back then that, if I could go back, I would not have allowed, or so I tell myself. There are people I would have protected. If I had been a better man…well. The point is to be a better man, now. Though a very old one, certainly.”

That old refrain of laughter, of middle-aged amusement at a tired joke, bubbled up and helped eat away at the nerves of the moment. Cree’s smirk was one of genuine mirth, this time. Her mind swirled with possibilities of what Wintergreen had been doing, feeling, all this time. Here was someone who served Father tea, who made the delightful children sandwiches for lunch. She had never even thought he had a conscience. But in its way, that must weigh on him, too.

Maybe she wasn’t—in every way—alone.

”I became a teacher after I left the business, too,” one ice cream man added, holding a hand under his quiche to catch the crumbs. “And I think what you said about teaching—seeing yourself in your students, and everything—well, that was a really good point. My students are adult learners, and in a new country, so sometimes when I see them lacking confidence, I remember how I felt when I messed up at work and Father exploded at me…you know, it takes me right back there. I’m not an angry guy, and I try to make class fun, but I just think…what if? What if that’s me one day? Sometimes I even have to leave the class because it messes me up. But, I don’t know if this is true for you…it makes it feel more rewarding to do it the right way. To be patient and not like some tyrant. I keep reminding myself that’s not who I am, because I get to decide.”

”I feel the same way about my patients,” Lou beamed, sitting back down now that the quiche tray was empty. “I love reassuring them, especially about things that are embarrassing, like stomach issues can be.” He shrugged. “Humiliation was a common theme in the ways all the villains targeted me, but it doesn’t have the same power anymore.”

”Damn, everyone sure moved up!” Cree thought aloud, laughing in spite of herself. “I guess the job market can’t be that bad, huh?”

”Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Paolo laughed back. “After all, this group is my big career move, and they pay me in quiche!”

The response to this quip was uproarious, so disproportionately so that Cree found herself earnestly cackling along. As the evening wound down, the relief of introducing herself gave way to a rush of endorphins, powering her forward. 

She had conversations with people her teen self would have never spoken to—wouldn’t have been caught dead sitting in a circle with. That old outline of herself would have called this group a joke, a bunch of expired villains sitting in a circle like a kindergarten class, a cautionary tale about what happens when you let yourself go soft. 

She would have laughed about that with her teen ninja friends and then gone home alone, tried to sleep with the pit in her gut, knowing that she’d have to meet him tomorrow, to give her report, to get her orders. In the back of her mind, Cree thought to herself how much she would have wanted to hold that lonely girl. How much she wished she could call her up and invite her here herself.

—

By the time Cree met the car in the parking lot, she had four phone numbers tucked in her pocket, scrawled on hotel stationary in shaky hands by people who swore they had gotten the hand of technology enough to stay in touch. She often told people she’d call them or text them, fully intending to throw their cards in the trash the second she left—she didn’t intend that, this time. Though she guessed that time would always tell.

Steve unlatched the door handle and grinned at her from the front seat, a fry from the fast food place nearby hanging out of his mouth. “What’sh up?” He said, lips full, and then swallowed quickly to free up his speech. “Band practice was awesome today, you’re gonna love the new album.”

Cree climbed in, slung her bag over her shoulder and onto the floor in front of her. She realized how heavy it was, what she had been carrying all day.

“I’ll judge that when I hear it,” Cree grinned back. “Did you get me a burger?”

“‘Course.” Steve shook the paper bag beside him. “Your go-to after a rough day. I’m guessing you need it, huh? Tell me about everything that sucked on the way home, I’m all ears.”

“Actually,” Cree looked out the window, watching the hotel start to roll past as the car moved. She smiled again despite herself. “I was gonna say you can have it. The eating’s pretty good at these things. And man, you won’t believe who made the food.”

[theworldvsyoshiko]

The ideology's style, of course, means that when Mephizel gives a speech to commemorate her promotion to being the group's moral guide, cherry petals materialize in the air and rain down around her. Because of bushido.

[89hitokiri]

The Path of the 黒影 (Kurokage)

The KuroKage are an elite group of operatives forged in the shadows, whose discipline and loyalty are deeply rooted in the teachings of Bushido, the ancient code of the samurai. This warrior's path, which values honor, courage, and righteousness, guides each of their actions, whether in digital infiltration or in combat.

For the KuroKage, Bushido is not just a set of principles but a way of life. In a world dominated by technology and chaos, they maintain a steadfast commitment to integrity and justice, operating with an unwavering efficiency that reflects the discipline of the samurai of old. Their loyalty to their comrades and their mission is unshakeable, and their courage is evident both in facing impossible threats and in accepting personal sacrifice for the greater good.

However, not all KuroKage follow this path purely. Some, marked by past traumas and invisible scars, have developed a more ambiguous morality and ethics. These traumas have blurred their lines of what is just and right, leading them to make questionable decisions in the heat of battle. For these operatives, the end justifies the means, and they are willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the cost, to protect their sisters and fulfill their mission. Their loyalty to Bushido is intertwined with a dark pragmatism, an internal struggle between duty and the shadows that dwell within.

Note:

The KuroKage are a complex force, guided by an ancient code but also shaped by the harsh realities of their existence. While some operatives remain steadfast on the path of Bushido, others, affected by their pasts, have adapted the code to their own truths. This duality is what makes them not only formidable but also profoundly human, operating in a world where honor and survival sometimes find themselves in delicate balance.

Note 2:

The appearance of the KuroKage (黒影) depicted in these images may not reflect their true form. These visuals have been carefully crafted for propaganda purposes, designed to inspire awe and respect while maintaining the necessary secrecy surrounding their true identities. The KuroKage (黒影) operate in the shadows, and their real faces are hidden behind layers of myth and legend. The images serve to protect their anonymity and to project an image of power and invincibility. The KuroKage (黒影) could be anyone, anywhere, blending seamlessly into the fabric of society while carrying out their missions. The mystique surrounding their appearance is as much a part of their strategy as their combat skills and tactical brilliance.

Thank you for trusting Kage Corp (影社). We wish you success in your endeavor. We will prevail. 👋

From the Kurokage creed:

"In the shadows we always move. We observe and act with surgical resection. We will fulfill our mission even if we have to bite a hole in the fabric of destiny. We are KuroKage (黒影). We will prevail over our enemies."

If AI art is stolen art. Who does this belong to? #CounterCulture

R. 👋

[anxsty-arsenix420]

concept art for a comic im working on

i still dunno what to call it

characters:

dark jacket girl/girl with demon horns: Isa

girl with pigtails/girl with a bushido karate shirt: diva

girl with the weird open smile/girl with the shotgun: sep

but basically, it's about 3 teenagers in a post-apocalyptic city trying to survive. oh ya and theres almost NO adults, theres pretty much only kids and teens in the city. there are different groups that the kids in the city have made. theres high risk of radiation poisoning due to the high concentration of radiation in the city, but no one knows this. some electrical appliances still work, but its really difficult to work them. theres also a group of wolves that are somehow able to talk. those wolves have a big part in the story. also, none of the cars work

upon meeting the wolves, the 3 teens are gifted pendants that gift them magical abilities

TLDR; 3 lesbian teens live in a post-apocalyptic kids-only city with a clan of wolves that turned them into magical girls

[al-hekima-madara-blog]

Schoolgirls dictatorship and Naruto fandom

After a year hanging around in the tumblr Naruto fandom, I've learned with certitude that men (and women) are forbidden to have friendship and express brotherhood. But also, I've just noticed recently that poor general culture is a must. When you read a story you shouldn't be curious to google what you don't understand and expand your view. but in contrary you should tear down the plot to your limited schoolgirl comprehension of the world. And gaslight everything/everyone that/who doesn't fit to your desires. And if it's not enough, have a tantrum, call people names !

What do I mean by schoolgirl? You don't need to be at school, neither being a teenage not even being a girl. You can be a 40 years old mother of 6 with a deep schoolgirl mindset. Schoolgirl is a concept, a way of life, a philosophy of being. It's rooted from the idea that everything is about you somehow. What you feel is what the world shall feel, what you see is what the world shall see, and in the Naruto fandom what you want is what Kishimoto wanted too but couldn't say it loud enough so he needs YOU to make it more obvious to the ignorant mass of readers. Here is an exhaustive list of what a schoolgirl will demand and impose as canon no matter if it destroys the whole story in the process :

intense emotional romance (love or hate, with me or against me tropes)

intense hardcore sex (hormonal urges)

intense anxieties. Toxic love affairs, taking pleasure in the victimhood's position with a total refusal to acknowledge own mistakes is a peak.

abolition of friendship. It's a shonen but you know those sad and pathetic males in denial of their true feeling, stubbornly platonic who refuse to engage in graphic intercourses for the well-being of schoolgirls' libido.

meowmeow-fication of the world, the cuter the better. Why should we take into account the mysterious attraction in the otherness, the beauty, the paradox and awe in human's nature, human's temperaments, the subtle differences between men and women while it's so much more easy for your lazy brain when everyone is a babygirl.

Decontextualisation. War? shinobi world? history? geography? politics? nuances? foreign cultural norms? No this is too deep for a schoolgirl. You need storyline like junk food, it needs to be fat, heavily sweet and easy to digest. How dare you add subliminal references to others artists from past centuries, arts, mythologies? You mean the schoolgirl needs to actually open a non fanfictional book? Shut up !

I was reading lately a comment from someone stressing that there is "obvious" romance spotted when Madara asks Hashirama to kill him and in reverse when Hashirama chose to kill himself. I thought to myself : Ok maybe not everyone knows what is the bushido (google it!) ...but surely this fandom has seen before a war movie or knighthood movie or even spend time talking with actual soldiers? They seems to genuinely ignore what is a code of honour. Secondly we're talking about a japanese manga and the Warring state era is heavily inspired by the real Japanese warring state era (Sengoku Jidai). If you have watched the documentary Age of samurai on Netflix, they… decide to perform su*cide all the goddamn time! 😭 Often for reasons related to honour, avoidance of disgrace for the group after a general loose a battle. But also a su*cide can be a form of protestation, a way to tell an important message.

Emile Durheim (google him!), a sociologist who wrote a study about su*cide classifies them in 4 differents types : egoistic, anomic, fatalistic and altruistic su*cide. The well-known japanese seppuku performed by samurai is part of the altruistic form. When Hashirama is ready to die, It has nothing to do with emotional turmoil for the love of his life or whatever metaphysical anxiety. He wants to prove how strongly resolved he is to build his village and the new era of peace he dreamed of and for that he's resolute to give up his own life for the benefit of the group. It's true heroism and it's selfless (see, I'm not a fan of Hashirama but I can detach myself from my subjective feelings sometimes)

And just before that, Madara accepting death from Hashirama's hand (a former childhood friend) is also a proof how highly he esteems Hashirama as a victorious winner even if he is his arch-enemy. In his own way Madara shows his selflessness. In this precise moment, even in his personal pain and anger against the Senju, he's still able to recognise Hashirama's dignity and protect him from going through the same despair of losing a brother. But yeah that's too much effort… Schoolgirl fever is way more comfortable, right?

[acceleracers-baby]

Acceleracers HC’s! Core Memories! Metal Maniacs Edition!

Metal Maniacs

(Taro Kitano, Tork Maddox, Monkey McClurg, Porkchop Riggs & Mark Wylde)

————

Metal Maniacs

Taro Kitano - The Kitano family strongly follows Bushido. Bushido is the samurai code of ethics, and Taro has always taken the tenants very seriously. Even as a boy, he was always taught to act with those core values in mind. He was expected to serve his purpose with honor and benevolence. With that in mind, he found that when his family was gossiping about the other boys his age, they always pointed out how chatty they were. Those who were criticized the most were often the loudest of the group. That’s why Taro has trouble communicating. He associates expressing his boundaries and needs with being accused of lacking wisdom and humility. His stoic persona is his way of proving to himself that he is worthy, so when that inevitably ends up getting in the way of his relationships with the people he cares most about, he’s not sure how to react.

Tork Maddox - Tork’s core memory stems from that small scar he has just above his eyebrow. Before becoming the leader of the Metal Maniacs, he worked on cars and occasionally contract welding. Due to all the heavy lifting and long hours, he built up muscle fast. So when he gets burned during a freak welding accident, people begin to find him…intimidating. Tork’s a big guy, and between all the other cuts and bruises he gets working jobs, people, unfortunately, automatically assume the worst when they see him. It’s a HUGE hit to his confidence. He looks tough, but back then he didn’t have the same no nonsense attitude towards life. It takes about a week of Tork avoiding his friends, family, coworkers…and everyone else for his uncle to approach him about it. Tork confides that he doesn’t want people to be afraid of him, but his uncle suggests that maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Maybe that knee jerk reaction people have could weed out the ones who aren’t worth welding himself too. That’s where he gets “we’re welded” from.

Monkey McClurg - Monkey’s first engine is something he will never forget. He always liked puzzles growing up and an engine was just a bigger and better version of that. Every second at home was spent experimenting with different solutions for every problem that junkyard relic had to offer. It was genuinely in shambles when he had picked it up from the dump- but in his opinion, that was half the fun. It took a solid year for him to even be able to get it to run for more than five minutes before ripping itself apart. Every step forward always seemed to be followed by three steps back, but with every problem he ran into, he gained that much more knowledge on what worked and what didn’t. Truly, failure was his greatest teacher. He basically learned everything there is to know just from messing around in the town junkyard.

Porkchop Riggs - Sometimes core memories are grand events that change a person for the rest of their life. Other times it just something small somebody did for you when you were just big enough to remember. Porkchop’s core memory is just that. He wasn’t even big enough to see over the dash of his momma’s rig yet, but that didn’t stop him from being the best little helper he could possibly be. Between swapping out the music and handing her the ham radio when asked, he almost felt like a genuine trucker. Almost. For some reason, in his tiny child mind, you weren’t a real trucker until you blew the horn. The day he gets to was the end of a full week trip. They traveled from one end of the states to the other and it had taken them about 40 hours of driving time with stops along the way. He’d been so good the whole way there, Momma Chop let him blow the horn for as long as he wanted on a long strip of empty highway. It was glorious.

Mark Wylde - Like I mentioned in the Teku Edition of this series, I like to imagine that Kurt & Mark’s dad was the one to get them into racing. However, before they could drive, he wanted to get their hand eye coordination up to par via sports. Kurt chose baseball, and Mark, idolizing his big brother at the time, followed suit. At the time, they were too young to really start having a sibling rivalry yet, so both boys were just excited to be doing something together with their old man. The best part, however, were the shitty concession stand hot dogs they got after every game. They were always prepared on one of those gas station style roll cookers and the buns were usually just slightly stale, but that never mattered to Markie. Especially, as they grew up and a wedge started to form between them, no argument couldn’t be solved with a good old fashioned hot dog. It was like their form of a peace treaty. It’s the first thing Kurt offers him once they get back from the drone headquarters.

[midnightactual]

I don't have the interest or desire to really flesh this out beyond observing it but maybe it's useful to somebody. So like Wandenreich invades Soul Society twice and the first time everyone mostly 1v1s doing this honorable duelist bushido nonsense they've always done, during an actual proper war, and they uniformly get wrecked, with Yamamoto dying. The second time, most of the fights by Shinigami are in pairs or small groups, at least partially:

Tōshirō AND Rangiku vs. Cang Du

Soifon AND Marechiyo vs. BG9

Shinji AND Sajin AND Momo vs. Bambietta

Kensei AND Rose AND Renji vs. Mask De Masculine

Rukia AND Byakuya vs. Äs Nödt

Mayuri AND Nemu vs. Pernida

Shunsui AND Nanao vs. Lille

Yoruichi AND Yūshirō AND Kisuke AND Grimmjow vs. Askin

Lots of People vs. Gerard

Kenpachi AND Yachiru vs. Gerard

Byakuya AND Tōshirō vs. Gerard

Ichigo AND Orihime vs. Yhwach

Ichigo AND Uryū AND Renji AND Aizen vs. Yhwach

Now, I don't think most of these fights work well or are very good because the team-ups generally make one party or another look weak or stupid and make the villains look ridiculously overpowered, making for mostly unsatisfying fights (notable exceptions: Cang Du, BG9, Lille) but I do think that this signifies something thematically even if it doesn't work narratively very well.

Basically the death of Yamamoto, the death of the last and greatest of the old guard solo queuers, was the death of the old mentality of the Gotei 13 and the shift to the most overpowered powerup in all of history: teamwork. Not that they're mostly any good at it yet, but it does represent a major shift in their thinking.

[look-sharp-notes]

Есть на Северном Кавказе удивительный народ- Кабардинцы. Более трех столетий в истории жизни этого региона, прошли под их влиянием. Они стали законодателями во всех сферах: в одежде, воинском мастерстве, оружейном деле, коневодстве и искусстве верховой езды, в танцах, музыке, кулинарии, в построении социальной и политической жизни. Кабардинцы и есть подлинный источник того образа горца, который появился в 19 веке в русской классической литературе: бурка, черкеска, башлык, папаха, газыри, кинжал, шашка, методы ведения войны мелкими группами, тактика пластунов, песни, танцы, горская поэтика, культ и образ горца, все это, полностью сформировано кабардинцами. Этот народ создал и фундаментальную основу и для морально-нравственных ценностей, своеобразного кодекса чести воина-рыцаря «Уорк Хабзэ», который во многом схож с самурайским кодексом бусидо в Японии. В Европе рыцарство как идеология сформировалась в XII веке и как любое историческое явление, пережив периоды расцвета и упадка, спустя два столетия сошло с исторической сцены, став сюжетом рыцарских романов, исторических преданий и легенд. На Северном Кавказе и в Японии эта идеология продолжала культивироваться вплоть до XIX века.

There are amazing people in the North Caucasus - Kabardians. More than three centuries in the history of life in this region passed under their influence. They became legislators in all areas: in clothing, military skills, weapons, horse breeding and horsemanship, in dancing, music, cooking, in building social and political life. Kabardians are the true source of the image of the mountaineer, which appeared in the 19th century in Russian classical literature: burka, cherkeska, hood, hat, gazyri, dagger, saber, methods of warfare in small groups, plastun tactics, songs, dances, mountain poetics, cult and the image of a highlander, all this, was completely formed by the Kabardians. This people also created the fundamental basis for moral values, a kind of code of honor for the warrior-knight “Work Habze”, which is in many ways similar to the samurai code of Bushido in Japan. In Europe, chivalry as an ideology was formed in the 12th century and, like any historical phenomenon, having experienced periods of prosperity and decline, two centuries later it disappeared from the historical stage, becoming the plot of knightly novels, historical traditions and legends. In the North Caucasus and Japan, this ideology continued to be cultivated until the 19th century.

[weeb-polls-with-pip]

Autistic Anime Girls Group 3 Match 3

SUBMISSION PROPAGANDA:

Eve -

"BanG Dream is full of autism girlies, but Eve is my personal favourite. She's a Finnish-Japanese idol with a special interest in bushido of all things. She just says whatever she wants and it's delightful."

Chouko -

"“She’s some kind of communication disorder, and she’s a lesbian!” like cmon what more can i say. she sucks she’s awful rep and i love her so much."

[clearwillow]

*trying to do that thing where I yell more about the nerdy things in my head and I swear it's not all silly lol

"I wish I was that worthy."

I think this line was anime-only in "Holy War IV" but it is really telling about Joshua's character as a whole - and that says a lot when you have so many new characters thrown at you in a shorter season.

(Under cut for spoilers)

This is spoken by the samurai leader. If it had been Vai or Schen, it would be expected. Vai is desperate to be top dog, and Schen has past drama that prevents him from rising in rank. But Schen isn't likely to voice it because he understands that his past choices have consequences (unlike Vai). Instead, we hear this come from Joshua, the one that the other samurai are supposed to follow.

Supposed to.

Vai is perhaps the best example of not following the leader, which astounds me that he's as high up in the ranks as he is. He follows the code of Bushido, of course, but he's too prone to running his mouth. He's reckless. He went after Bol Gil Bol, ignoring the calls to not do it because Bol is a Sorcerer Shogun. Vai is ranked #3, which I think needs to be restructured because of his temperament alone. When Joshua tells him to back off of DS, it goes ignored.

But that line about worth? That's coming from a man who recognizes that his rank and achievements aren't everything. He became a samurai master when he was younger (wiki articles say he's supposed to be around 21, so you could assume teens or even a child prodigy). He likely trained Vai, which could explain the #3 ranking. Joshua's been in the leader role for longer than most his age, and he's trying to herd a group of people that are roughly the same age into following his commands. I headcanon that Schen is actually older, but he also respects Joshua, and that's the issue.

Joshua doesn't believe that he's earned the respect of his men. I think his age is the biggest factor; if you were the student who got appointed to watch the class when the teacher had to step out, you get it. Your peers will see any opportunity to test the limits. Now some of this falls back on Joshua because he's not brash and hotheaded. He stays calm...99% of the time. If he were more like DS, he might have more pull, but that's not in his character. Joshua is the kind to bring silence with soft-spoken words; he doesn't shout unless it's in a fight.

On the otherside, DS is loud and obnoxious. He doesn't have consideration for others, and his well-meaning actions are usually sarcastic and bruising. But even after being sealed away in Lucien, even after the two year disappearance, the Divine Kings still came to his aid and were willing to die for him. Everyone around Joshua talks of how powerful that DS is to have that kind of influence, and it digs into the samurai that he doesn't have an ounce of that guarantee. He knows that if he were to fall in battle, the samurai would continue to fight. It's their code. They do it because they swore an oath, not out of love.

DS's deciphels follow him out of their own version of love and respect, and Joshua sees that. He's jealous of so many things about DS, but that...I think that one is his breaking point. He doesn't believe he's done anything to make people want to support him outside of duty, and that's actually heartbreaking.

Does this have a point? Other than it living rent free in my head for almost a year, not really. But I think there's interesting little details in Bastard!! beyond the obvious music references and gratuitous fanservice that go unappreciated because of the nature of the show, and that's disappointing.

[theworldvsyoshiko]

Meph is turning out to be more of a goody-two-shoes than anticipated. Like yeah, she loves murder and drinks like a pint of human blood every day, but she's legitimately nice to the people around her while they're alive, and seems to fall in love with basically every person she gets to know. Even when that person is an incompetent guy named Humps who tried to kill her like three days ago.

With no Emancipation meme, she's also lacking one of the major avenues to liberate lots of kids. And it seems like she needs a steady stream of new kids, because a lot of them are dying. There's probably nothing problematic to consider there. Children love combat. It'd frankly be irresponsible to not let them charge gun-wielding enemies with axes.

Monastic is turning out to be a pretty boring meme too. It's rated as a 3-star one, which means that it's supposed to be a huge colony-defining thing like 'we only want to eat human flesh' or 'we believe that animals are people and behave accordingly', but it really just means that they want to sleep in a mediocre barracks and don't like booze or sex. That's mostly easier than the base game--booze and sex aren't huge mood improvements or anything, and a mediocre barracks is really easy to build. And honestly, what kind of samurai doesn't appreciate some sake now and then?

So, I think it's time for some alterations to Hyper-Bushido.

(Full disclosure: some combination of mods that I've installed seems to have kinda broken the ideology editing interface to let me add basically anything to any ideology. Like, I could make a group of vegans who have a cannibalism festival. I am fully taking advantage of this, because some of the restrictions are silly anyway. And also using dev mode to edit the ideology mid-game in the first place.)

Presenting the new Hyper-Bushido, with one of the best randomly-generated texts I've seen:

The era of self-denial is over. It's time for some Suika shit.

Other features include:

They can now perform the Emancipation ritual to free slaves.

Gladiator duels are still on the menu. Look, Meph isn't a horrible person, but she still has her murder-based vices.

All ideology-based restrictions on sex and romance have been lifted. As long as they're old enough, she could sleep with every single person she meets.

Charity is in the mix now, so she's obligated to help out anybody who asks her for it. This does get back to the problem Yoshiko had where she's going to constantly feel guilty for telling adults that they can't move in with this group.

She's going to want a steady supply of booze, which is going to be an issue in the near future, because she has no idea how to make it.

[morporkian-cryptid]

Okay! For the 24.7 people potentially interested, I give you:

✨Lupin III Discworld AU✨

Aka Lupin and Lipwig give Vimes an aneurysm ! :D

For those lacking context: Discworld is a fantasy universe composed of a flat circular world carried through space on the back of four elephants and a turtle. It's got your typical wizards, dwarves, trolls etc, but in a trope-subversive way. And it's fucking awesome 💖

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Character introductions!

Lupin: Agatean* with Quirmian* ancestry. He moved to Ankh-Morpork in search of success and adventure and more people to rob; and also to follow Fujiko. He's an illegal thief (not registered with the Thieve's Guild). His favourite hobby (besides stealing) is messing with the Guild and with the Watch (aka the police). Commander Vimes is secretly rooting for him, because he dislikes the Guild slightly more than he dislikes Lupin. He's also friends with Moist Von Lipwig (former conman, current postmaster; more about this in another post).

*Agatean Empire: equivalent of China (closest DW culture to Japan). Quirm: equivalent of France with a bit of Italy.

Fujiko: Agatean. She fled the Empire to escape Goemon after stealing his sword. Once in Ankh-Morpork, she joined the Thieves’ Guild; but everyone confuses her for a seamstress* because her technique usually involves seduction. She tried it on Vetinari once. It failed spectacularly.

*Seamstresses: another word for ladies of negotiable affection. Their guild is one of the oldest and most respected in Ankh-Morpork.

Jigen: Ankh-Morporkian, son of Agatean immigrants, grew up as a street urchin in the Shades (the most crime-ridden neighborhood of the notoriously crime-ridden Ankh-Morpork). He joined the Assassin's Guild as a self-taught sharp-shooter, then quit after joining Lupin (whom he had been contracted to assassinate). He's also a werewolf, although no one knows how that's possible since he doesn't have any Überwaldian ancestry.

(see @benevolenterrancy's amazing art of Jigen and Angua)

Goemon: Agatean, moved to Ankh-Morpork in pursuit of Fujiko who had stolen his sword. He later meets Lupin and Jigen, and decides to stick with them. He refuses to join the Thieve's Guilds, which he considers an affront to the noble art of thievery.

Zenigata: Agatean, was sent abroad by the Empire's police force in pursuit of Lupin. The Ankh-Morpork City Watch agreed to lend him resources after Lupin started causing havoc. Vimes simultaneously dislikes him and admires his dedication.

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Side characters:

Zantetsuken: a sentient talking sword whose personality is the embodiment of Bushido. It is extremely annoying. It was probably Goemon's only friend back in the Agatean Empire.

Yata: Agatean, Zenigata's assistant, the only resource the Empire allowed him to bring along. He quickly bonds with Rufus Drumknott, the Patrician's Head Secretary, through their common admiration for their bosses.

The Cagliostro family: rulers of a small county in Überwald* in the foothills of the Ramtop moutains. Half of them (the Count's branch) are vampires, the other half (Clarisse's branch) are humans.

*Überwald: equivalent of Transylvania

Ami Enan: not sure about her place of origin,I just know it's somewhere in the Sto Plains. She's a genius clacks operator, and part of the GNU (a group of clacks hackers).

Rebecca Rosselini: Quirmian noble. Might be related to Leonardo Da Quirm.

.

I'll make another post with more details and headcanons, and PLEASE do send me your own ideas!!

EDIT: More headcanons here and here!

[mutagn]

𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐎 𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐈 𝐀𝐍𝐃: 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘.

changed the whole layout of my day just to get on and make this post. anyway below the cut i'm going to outline all of the things i'm stealing from usagi's source material, usagi: yo.jimbo, to add to his 2003 characterization. i AM going to be pretty picky because i think it's fair to say that the character in 2003 is not exactly the character from the yojimbo comics - this is just to help flesh him out a little. bear in mind that usagi is canonically around 16 when we're introduced to him at the battle nexus tournament, so things will have to be adjusted from his canon proper in order for his age in the show to make sense. tws for death/death of a parent, murder, other various gritty samurai things.

usagi was raised as the only son of a village headman, though he did not spend much time at home. he loved and respected his father, and, later, was granted leave from his training to travel back to his home village and pay his respects at his father's grave.

at age 3, typical for most young boys being trained to be samurai, he was given his first wooden katana to train with. he learned to fence very quickly.

eventually he was sent, along with childhood friend/rival kenichi, to train at the dogora school of bushido. while travelling there, a group of dishonourable students set about attacking an old man (he's literally a lion) in the street. the old man held his own and beat the students despite being vastly outnumbered. usagi, enamoured with his technique and style, set about trying to convince this man to become his sensei instead.

the man (lion), katsuichi, initially refused to train usagi - until usagi convinced him by standing outside of his house, morning and night, for days on end, through rain and sun, displaying his tenacity and determination. he is so annoying i love him

usagi was katsuichi's only student, but he was mischievous and sneaky enough to make this poor guy feel like he had a whole class. stole a sword from a dead soldier once. nearly got his hand cut off trying to return it. just usagi things

around here is usagi's first foray into the battle nexus; he's 13, still training, and about to beef a fully grown dragon

when usagi 'graduated' at age 15 he was brought to a fencing tournament hosted by the dogora school and won the fuckin thing because of course he did. the last bout of the tournament was up against kenichi, who did in fact attend dogora school and became its top student. upon winning this tournament, usagi was gifted the daisho he uses still today; the katana, yagi no eda (willow branch) and the wakizashi, aoyagi (young willow).

the guy that intervened and stopped usagi getting his hand cut off for the thieving thing up there turned out to be the daimyo, mifune. he was in attendance at the tournament and was like. i gotta get this kid on payroll

so he did

im not giving this child a son. i just don't think that would be fair to anyone involved. jotaro i love you though good luck out there kid

it's just hit me now that they call usagi a 'ronin' during his introductory episode which means all of the trauma must have happened before he turned 16. this is the most miserable i've ever been

i won't even sugar coat it man ninjas were hired to assassinate mifune and killed his wife and son. this sparked a big war in which mifune was killed by a barrage of arrows on the battlefield. usagi had to perform his final duty, i.e cutting off this guy's head and burying it somewhere secret to save it from desecration

oh also one of usagi's closest friends goes turncoat that battle and runs away. dw though usagi murders him for it later!

happy 16th birthday usagi. do you want to go to the battle nexus tournament and get a boyfriend. cool

now we're all caught up. he's going to kill gunichi soon-ish. at around 17/18 i figure. after the events of samurai tourist.