Signature moves.
One may think they are limited to battle manga of one genre or another. After all, what comes to mind more readily than a Kamehameha (and all the embarrassing attempts to perform one myself) when one thinks of a signature move? Indeed, some of the most heart-pounding moments that the shounen genre has granted its followers are nothing more than canned rehashings of the same character doing the same thing he's done enough times before to count as Pavlovian conditioning for their audience.
Just… in varying contexts.
After all, it's not the same thing for Ranma Saotome to practice the Hiryu Shouten Ha for the first time so that he can triumph over the dastardly plot of his ancient master taking his strength away to properly grope his genderbent breasts (Ranma had… interesting plot points) than it is for Ranma to defeat the last villain of his story with the very same technique in a life or death battle against an incarnated god (yes, we're talking about the same series). It's not the same thing for Touma Kamijou to punch the villain du jour in the mouth with his Imagine Breaker while yelling about destroying some messed up delusion than… okay, no, in that particular case, it's basically always the same.
But there are other examples. Joseph Joestar claiming what your next line's going to be? Naru Narusegawa helping her loving boyfriend join Japan's space program? Sasuke Uchiha getting an eye infection? All things that we've seen a hundred times before, yet all of them progressing toward something greater, toward the inevitable climax at the end of the story that will make all the repetitions beforehand meaningful, an escalation rather than monotony, something that builds and builds toward a greater whole.
Or, well, ideally.
"You'll do just fine," Haruno's tired voice reassures me from the other end of the phone.
"I really don't think lightning will strike twice," I say with my characteristic optimism and trust in the generosity of the cosmos.
"You cooked it to perfection the first time," she says in a way I can only imagine involves circular massaging of either her temples or the bridge of her nose. Mostly because I would rather not think about Haruno circularly massaging anything other than that after having inadvertently outed my girlfriend's onanistic and voyeuristic tendencies to her younger sister in a way I dearly hope won't be reciprocated in kind.
'Gross. Super gross. Oreimo levels of gross.'
Well, yes, of course. Incest is always gross, even if it were to involve the likes of Haruno and Yukino discovering a way to heal over their mutual inherited trauma—
…
Brain-chan, I would dearly appreciate you stopping that train of thought right the fuck now.
'Oh, really. You would rather not think about your mature girlfriend and your first love entangling slender limbs on the very sofa Haruno desecrated in your name, maybe both girls thinking about the absent man that could join in so that—you can stop me anytime, you know?'
… If I really could stop my brain from running away with dangerous thoughts whenever I wanted, I wouldn't be in the mess I'm in right now.
'You're welcome.'
Fuck you.
"I just know you're right in the middle of one of your delusional monologues, and I am resentful that I'm not there to pick up on some much-needed contextual clues," she says.
I wet my lips, try very hard not to think about any of Haruno's possible reactions to me thinking entirely too hard about things that should gross me out rather than get some very complicated and conflicting feelings from parts of my psyche I'd rather not give a persona to, and go back to looking at the golden minced garlic cooling in molten butter.
"I don't know what you're talking about, and if I did, I certainly would not blurt it out over the phone after earlier," I say, subtly reminding Haruno about my unwitting outing of her in a way that maybe I should refrain from if my goal is truly to avoid further repercussions for my actions.
"I'm apparently buying a new sofa," she says with a tone that is as endearing as any of her sharp gazes and only about ten percent more arousing—intimidating.
"Ah," I answer with a tone that, if the trend in our relationship holds, will amuse her enough to border on arousal.
"To replace Yukino's older one," she sadistically clarifies.
"I had gathered," I say.
"Oh, you have? You mean to say that you've perfectly envisioned the grueling conversation I've held with my little sister about your sex life since the last time we spoke, not even an hour ago?"
I take up the wooden spatula and unnecessarily stir the garlic butter in the making.
It is not as soothingly distracting as I had hoped.
"Have I told you lately how stunning you look when you want to murder me?" I conciliatorily offer.
"Why? Do you want to make this into a video call?" she says with about as much dangerous resentment as one can pack into two sentences.
"I mean, if you're already throwing that sofa away…" I innocently suggest.
"You're impossible," she says.
"And how else would you describe a man able to get you to fall in love with him?" I say, humbly and not at all nervously tugging on my collar as a sheepish grin hurts my cheeks.
"…"
"Haruno?"
"I'm trying to decide whether that was dangerously suave or endearingly clumsy. I would appreciate you not meddling with the deliberation process," she says, this time the tone decidedly leaning toward bridge-nose-pinching rather than temple-rubbing.
"Ah. Just one more thing?"
"What?"
"I love you."
"… That doesn't settle the score. At all."
I smile without meaning to, my eyes falling on the grey kitchen floor rather than on the pans in front of me, and I briefly remember at least a few of the times I've shared this space with the woman on the other side of the phone.
Provocative smiles, dangerous flirting, quite a few more daring aprons than most starting relationships get, and, underneath it all?
Raw, naked sincerity. Hurt wounds right under the surface. Looks filled with emotion, yearning, and…
Acceptance.
"I wish you were here," I mumble, the words escaping my lips as I imagine her in front of me, lavender eyes softening in that tenderness she would like to pretend she doesn't hold.
"You will do fine without me," she says, willfully misinterpreting what I'm talking about.
"No. I don't think I ever will," I answer, doing precisely the same.
Then… there's a silence. A warm one. What would be filled with slender fingers between mine if she were standing in front of me, once more meddling while I try to focus on cooking for her and the other girls I love.
"Such a needy man…" she whispers.
And I smile back, knowing that she'll be able to perfectly picture it.
━❖━
"I just went out to buy groceries," Shizu grumblingly protests.
"Surprise?" I offer her, brushing my hands down the most masculine apron available in her repertoire.
"I… Hachi, I was going to cook," she says, her coat folded over her arm, her hair brushing over her shoulders with the slow shake of her head, her lips turning into something rueful that tries not to become a smile.
"And I took the chance to show off my impeccable househusband pedigree. I don't see what's so hard to understand," I say with a careless shrug before I turn around and get the cooked dinner out of the oven I have stored it in to keep it hot while Shizu went out to allegedly buy food and actually keep her father and me from continuing our manly bonding that's just shy of a proper shounen 'friendship through fists' thing.
"Househusband. Is that what you aspire to?" said father questions with about as much judgmental a tone as any of the unfortunate souls who ever had to talk to me about my future prospects questionnaires.
"Jealous?" I say with a cheeky grin over my shoulder and just above the kitchen counter separating us.
"Like you wouldn't believe. Nobody should get up at the hour that people claim they want to go to the gym," he says with heartfelt spite.
We may have something in common, after all. Other than being prone to throwing embarrassing speeches at his daughter, I mean.
"Stop. Don't. Please, don't corrupt my father. Mom would never forgive me," a woman making no sense says.
"Would you be a sweetheart and take out the nice dishes, dear? I already cooked dinner for you, after all," I say with my best traditional wife impression, relishing in Shizu's suddenly paling complexion. After all, what's more properly Japanese than a woman with geisha makeup?
Also, her father's laughing. Weird.
"Please, please, don't—" Shizu starts.
"Or would you rather have a bath first? Or maybe it's—"
There's a hand clamped over my mouth.
It should surprise absolutely no one that I'm now licking it.
"Huh. You've gotten faster," her father comments.
"I am motivated," the blushing woman trying not to squirm says.
I shrug and keep licking her.
━❖━
"That's… nice," Mister Hiratsuka says with transparent resentment after silently and efficiently demolishing his first bowl of garlic rice.
"I wasn't confident about it; I'm glad you liked it," I say with humility as sincere as the polite smile I throw his way from the other side of the low, lacquered table we're all sitting around on the floor of Shizu's living room.
She wanted to eat in the kitchen, relaxed and informal.
I succinctly explained to her why 'relaxed and informal' wasn't in the cards. Not even in those of Card Captor Sakura, much less Yu-Gi-Oh.
… I may be slightly stressed. I think. Usually, my non-sequiturs are more relevant, to the point of often revealing hitherto unknown aspects of the issue at hand that my humorous tangents tease out of the tangled web of hidden connotations that all my conversations seem to be mired in, yet what is the relationship between Card Captor Sakura and the current conversation? What possible link could there be other than it is a story beloved by my little sister that she keeps stealing from my bookshelf, and I'm now in dire need of a familiar ally while dealing for the first time with Shizu's family and the one parental figure I've met that I should have no bitter feelings about, given the unambiguous praise she often has for both of her parents in clear contrast to Hana Yukinoshita or even Kanade Ishiki?
Huh. Maybe that's it.
When it comes to Yu-Gi-Oh, though…
"You already got praised enough the first time you cooked it…" Shizu grumbles.
"Oh, really? Was it a special occasion?" her father idly comments.
Ah, of course.
Mind crush.
"What?" Mister Hiratsuka asks with mild confusion as Shizu and I refuse to meet his earnest, sincere, innocent eyes.
"You… could say that," I force myself to answer.
"I could?" he asks with what is either sincere confusion or the best sadistic rejoinder this side of Haruno.
"Yes. You could," Shizu manages to get out through gritted teeth as the tip of her foot reaches out in warning under the table. Quite a feat in and of itself, seeing how low it is and how little room for maneuvering it offers to anyone prone to kicking their loved ones as a means of censorship. What's that, you ask? Did I plan for this when I asked to be seated in a more formal setting than Shizu's comfortingly familiar (and recently fucked in) kitchen counter? Why, the nerve of assuming my Machiavelian machinations would be so convoluted. I'm dreadfully offended, dear sir and or madam. Dreadfully, I say.
'You actually didn't plan for it.'
That's why I'm so offended. I should have.
"… This is a sex thing, isn't it?" a parental figure who knows too much asks.
"I mean, when a Christmas Cake and three of her students, two of whom are wearing either maid or butler cosplay, love each other very much—"
"I'm going to strangle you until you can't even escape into one of your inner monologues," the domestic abuser threatens.
"Gasp. I'm appalled. Appalled, I say. How could you. And with your father present. At least hide the kinkier parts of your—"
There's a hand firmly clapped on top of my shoulder. It's broader than Shizu's.
Slowly, with a frozen grin that shows a lot of teeth, I turn to face the man effortlessly reaching me from across the table.
"Yes, dear father-in-law?" I formally and respectfully ask.
"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't tease my daughter more than warranted," he warns.
"That is a fine line to toe. After all, what's the proper amount of teasing when it invariably produces such amusing results?" I say, implicitly asking for his sympathy as I tilt my head toward the mute, crimson-faced woman sitting to my right, on the side of the table between her father and me.
Surprisingly enough, he turns his gaze at her, and a complicated expression goes through his face that hints at deeply-seated parental instincts demanding more amusement out of the bundle of joy who inflicted years of sleep deprivation on him.
… Darn. He's becoming sympathetic.
"I mean, I can see your point—"
"Dad!"
"Look, sweetie, it's not my fault that you're so overly expressive. Nor your mother's. Gods know what it takes to get that woman to break her composure—"
"Dad! Gross!"
"I mean, it's not like I flaunt it in public like a certain exhibitionist—"
"I was five. My shirt was wet. There was absolutely nothing—"
"I'm not talking about distant memories right now. You got your first girlfriend by being filmed," he says.
I turn incredulously toward Shizu, my face clearly displaying the betrayal I feel at her sharing some cherished, private memories of public sex with somebody who wasn't filming it or buying Iroha's product on the deep web, and I get the pleasant surprise of seeing her get even redder.
"Kissing! She filmed us kissing!" she says in a very incriminating panic.
Which kind of accounts for me facepalming and her father spluttering perfectly cooked garlic rice all over the back of my hand and some of the exposed parts of my cheek. This, at least, gives me a momentary moral high ground when I look at him through slowly spreading fingers to meet a sheepish, apologetic, contrite muscle wall trying to look tinier than a combiner robot.
"I feel like we should talk about anything at all other than Iroha's efforts to get into the film industry," I calmly and reasonably state as I make liberal use of the cloth napkin that Shizu brought out to accommodate my demands for a formal setting.
"Yes, please," a tiny voice agrees from my right.
"Are you sure she won't share those videos? Because—"
"Perfectly certain. Mutually assured destruction is the foundation of all good romance," I say without further clarification, yet still managing to get him to look a shade of green away from his muscle shirt.
"Ah," he says.
There's a shared, uncomfortable silence as we all go back to our meals, and I pick up a piece of monkfish breaded with rice flour. It's not the traditional recipe, but Shizu didn't have wheat flour to go with the frozen remains of the ingredients Haruno brought for our excessively French orgy—gross.
… Okay, yes, she was wearing a French maid outfit, and the bouillabaisse is a French dish, and we (Iroha obviously excluded) drank some pastis, which is again a French thing, so…
…
My first sex act involving all of my girlfriends was French-themed. Damn you, Haruno. Damn you and your subtle fetishes.
"Hachi?" Shizu shily asks as I remain frozen with a piece of crunchily breaded monkfish between my chopsticks.
"It's a Haruno thing," I say as if that's the only explanation I need.
"Ah," she says and goes back to eating with muffled sounds of enjoyment that are lacking in exuberance from when she does the same thing with only three other particular witnesses.
"… A Haruno thing?" her father asks.
"You've met her," Shizu answers with a shrug before licking her lips off some fried flour crumbs.
"You have a dynamic," he says, with a few blinks added in for good measure.
"A what?" she asks.
"A dynamic. You have a couple—relationship dynamic. With your own in-jokes and secret language. After weeks."
I blink at him, then at his daughter.
"Isn't that normal?" I genuinely ask, like someone whose closest acquaintance with the word 'normal' is a restraining order.
"How—you—are you serious?" he confusingly asks.
"I'm being serious. And don't call me Shirley," I immediately answer.
"What?"
"Don't—it's a thing. A thing he picked up from Haruno and that I'm already regretting," Shizu traitorously says.
"Do you know how little that narrows things down?" I ask her while suppressing the cheekiest grin to ever cheek.
"Unless you want me to demonstrate just how many things I picked up from Haruno, you will drop it. Right now."
"Kinky."
"I was talking about joint locks!"
"Oh. Extra kinky, then."
"Please, please, stop having verbal sex with my daughter right in front of me," a man communing with his green shirt begs like he should have since he entered my domain.
"All right, but I don't think other kinds of sex will be less traumatizing—"
"Hachi!"
"Your mouth says 'no,' but your blush says—"
"Incoming physical violence. My blush says, 'incoming physical violence.'"
"Can't we keep it at verbal violence? That way, I can defend myself."
Oh, would you look at that. The broad hand is back.
"Yes, dearest father-in-law?" I ask with my most innocent smile. Which, according to Komachi, is about as innocent as a Clamp Jojo doujin involving Kakyouin and egg-laying.
Gross. I don't understand where she gets it from.
"Stop," he says with a very convincing grunt added for emphasis.
"Make me," I say. Because, apparently, I'm not easily convinced.
He looks at me for a moment as if considering things, and…
"You're making my daughter uncomfortable," he says.
I blink at him, then I look at Shizu, and…
Damn it.
"I'm sorry," I say with… with a very unwelcome feeling in my chest. "I went too far."
There's a bit more silence, and… and the hand loses its grip on my shoulder, turning from a clamp into a reassuring, warm weight.
"It's okay," he says. "You'll learn."
And then he leans back with a gentle smile on his chiseled face and proceeds to steal the piece of monkfish I just dropped into my plate.
━❖━⧫━❖━
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