#care characters

Giyu clung tightly to the branch, his face twisted in a grimace as the chaotic orchestra of barking yapped around him.

"Why did I let you drag me here, Shinobu?" he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut as memories of that fateful day with the stray dog resurfaced. The violent yapping echoed in his mind, and he fought the urge to leap from the tree.

Shinobu, perched gracefully beside him, wore that infuriatingly calm expression laced with sarcasm. "Oh, come now, Giyu. This is rich entertainment! Look at them—so absorbed in their lavish lives. They have no idea that dog fur is simply a chaos-infested cloud waiting to explode!"

Her polite smile was infuriatingly serene, and the vein pulsating on her forehead gave away her true feelings. Giyu chuckled lightly despite himself. "Ah, yes, because we love chaos, don't we?"

Before she could answer, the sight of a particularly flamboyant dog, adorned with a diamond-studded collar, caught her attention. “Look at that one, Giyu! Isn’t it the epitome of spoiled? It’s like the entire animal kingdom is cringing!” she joked, but her voice dripped with disdain.

Then, out of nowhere, a shadow loomed over them. Both Hashira’s gazes shifted downward to where a figure stood, a tall man in a tailored suit, commanding the attention of the barking horde below.

“Sebastian Michaelis,” Giyu breathed, recognition dawning upon him.

“Ah, yes. The infamous butler with a knack for charming chaos,” Shinobu replied, her smile snapping into a more serious expression. “What is he doing here?”

As if sensing their gaze, Sebastian turned, a sly grin spreading across his face. With a flick of his wrist, he began hypnotizing the dogs. The haughty purebreds, once barking and yapping in disarray, suddenly fell silent, staring intently at him.

“No…” Giyu muttered, his heart sinking. “This can’t be good.”

Around them, the fluffy creatures began to move as if in a trance, obeying Sebastian’s every command. With synchronized precision, they shifted towards their owners and— bite!

The scene erupted into chaos as 1,200 pampered, purebred dogs lunged at their owners, sinking their teeth into lavish silks and expensive cloaks. Screams filled the park, a cacophony now rivaling the earlier dog barks—only this time, it carried a hint of gratification for Giyu.

“Oh, the sweet taste of karmic revenge,” Shinobu chuckled darkly. “Equally elegant and ridiculous!”

Giyu couldn’t help but crack a small smile despite the absurdity of it all. “Maybe this park isn’t so bad after all…”

“You mean the fact we get to witness this delightful chaos? Precisely!” she replied, amusement dancing in her eyes as they watched the scene unfold, their worries about the spoiled dog drama forgotten—for now.

This story presents a unique twist on the classic Cinderella tale, featuring a young man named Cinderello and a flamenco-dancing princess. It's an imaginative reimagining, often found in anime movie contexts, which you can read above.

Happy Belated Birthday, Tanjiro!

The evening air over Yokohama carried the sharp scent of ocean salt and dust kicked up from the makeshift dirt pitch. A group of local children, laughing and shouting with calloused, barefoot soles slapping against the earth, chased a worn leather soccer ball back and forth as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

A few yards away, completely detached from the boisterous energy of the match, sat Ciel Phantomhive. He was dressed impeccably in his dark, tailored Victorian attire, looking entirely out of place against the modern Japanese backdrop. He rested his chin on his gloved hand, his visible eye cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of amusement as he watched them run. To the young Earl, their carefree games were nothing more than a pointless waste of time.

Suddenly, a miscalculated strike sent the soccer ball spiraling off the dirt pitch. It bounced hard against the cobblestone walkway and rolled directly toward Ciel's polished leather shoes, coming to a soft stop against his heel.

The playground chatter quieted instantly. One of the barefoot boys, breathless and hesitant, trotted over to retrieve it. Stopping a few respectful paces away from the intimidating young nobleman, the boy offered a small, nervous smile and pointed at the ball.

"Um... excuse me? Could you pass it back, please?"

Ciel slowly lowered his hand from his chin. He glanced down at the scuffed leather ball resting by his feet, then back up at the child. A flicker of genuine disdain crossed his features. Without a word, Ciel stood up, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate slowness.

Instead of using his foot or bending down to pick it up, Ciel raised the heel of his shoe and brought it down hard directly on top of the ball.

Pop!

The leather split open with a sharp, pathetic hiss as the bladder burst under the sudden pressure, deflating instantly into a useless, crumpled heap of fabric and rubber.

The playing children gasped, freezing in their tracks. The boy who had asked for the ball stood completely paralyzed, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief staring at his ruined toy.

Without an ounce of remorse, Ciel reached down, picked up the deflated wreckage by a torn flap of leather, and flung it carelessly back toward the stunned group, the ruined ball landing with a dull thud in the dirt at the boy's feet.

"Consider that a lesson in mindfulness," Ciel said, his voice cold and flat. "Next time, keep your crude toys away from me."

Without sparing them another glance, Ciel turned on his heel and walked away into the fading Yokohama dusk, leaving the children staring in stunned silence at the remains of their game.

Soul Eater Evans by the water, wrapped in golden-hour light. The epitome of cool.

The apartment shared by the meister and weapon echoed not with the usual clash of bickering, but with a shockingly smooth, velvety baritone.

Soul Eater Evans sat at the grand piano in their living room. He had ditched his signature yellow-and-black jacket for a sharply tailored, vintage tuxedo that looked suspiciously like the one he wore in his soul space. His fingers glided effortlessly over the keys, playing a flawless, jazz-inflected rendition of "L-O-V-E."

"L... is for the way you look at me," Soul crooned, leaning into the vintage microphone stand he had somehow acquired, flashing a sharp-toothed, undeniably smug grin. "O... is for the only one I see—"

WHACK.

The music cut out with a dissonant crash of keys as a massive, hardbound encyclopedia titled Witch Wavelengths & You made direct contact with the top of Soul’s head.

"Maka Chop!" Maka Albarn announced, adjusting her pigtails with a heavy sigh.

Soul rubbed his head, his suave persona instantly shattering. "Ow! What the hell, Maka?! I was in the zone! Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to channel the sheer, unfiltered cool of Nat King Cole?"

"You’re a Death Weapon, not a 1950s jazz legend," Maka scolded, picking up her book and pointing it at him accusingly. "Lord Death is expecting our report on the recent Kishin egg activity by tomorrow morning, and you’ve spent the last three hours trying to perfect your vibrato!"

"It’s called ambiance, Maka," Soul grumbled, adjusting his perfectly slicked hair. "A cool guy doesn't just slice enemies; he sets the mood. Imagine we drop into battle, and instead of just turning into a scythe, I lay down a smooth jazz track. The enemy wouldn't know what hit them."

"The enemy would kill us while you were looking for a spotlight," Maka deadpanned. She tapped her foot, the ultimate sign of her thinning patience. "Now take off the tuxedo, get away from the piano, and help me cross-reference these soul signatures. Or so help me, I will make you eat this encyclopedia."

Soul stared at her, then back at the piano keys. He played one final, defiant jazz chord. "You just don't appreciate the classics."

"Soul!"

"Alright, alright! I'm coming," he muttered, slouching back into his usual posture. "So uncool..."

The picturesque streets of France were supposed to be a peaceful detour for the two Hashira, but fate—and a highly manicured French Poodle—had other plans.

The standoff happened outside a quaint Parisian café. The poodle, sporting a perfectly puffed tail and a rhinestone collar, took one look at the Water Hashira and chose violence. With a sharp yap, it lunged, bypassing Giyu’s Nichirin blade entirely to clamp its jaws right onto his leg.

Giyu froze, his usual stoic demeanor shattering into a wide-eyed mask of absolute betrayal. The phantom pain of his childhood trauma—being bitten on the backside by an equally malicious stray—came rushing back. He didn't draw his sword; he simply stood there, rigid with genuine fear, internally questioning why the universe, regardless of the country, continued to subject him to canine wrath.

Shinobu, meanwhile, had already gracefully glided several paces back the moment the creature had trotted into view. Her perpetual, pleasant smile remained plastered on her face, though her eyes betrayed a mix of utter disgust for the shedding furball and profound amusement at Giyu’s predicament.

"My, my, Tomioka-san," Shinobu chimed, her voice a melodic tease as she kept a safe, fur-free distance. "It seems your utter lack of charm translates perfectly across oceans. Even the local fauna finds you disagreeable."

Giyu slowly turned his head to look at her, the poodle still attached to his hakama and growling softly. "Kocho. Help."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly," she replied, clapping her hands together lightly. "You know how I absolutely loathe furry creatures. The shedding, the dander, the smell... it's all terribly unappealing. I wouldn't want to get dog hair on my haori. You're a Hashira, aren't you? Surely you can negotiate a truce with a poodle."

Giyu stared blankly at the dog, then back at Shinobu, resigning himself to his fate as the poodle began to tug aggressively at his hem. For the Water Hashira, the tranquil flow of water had been entirely disrupted by a tiny, curly-haired menace.

The heavy oak door of the bedchamber creaked open, and Holo paused, her wolf ears twitching sharply as a foreign scent drifted down the hallway. It wasn't the smell of roasted meat, cheap ale, or even Lawrence’s relentless merchant ledgers. It was thick, greasy, and undeniably canine.

A low, warning growl rumbled deep in her throat. Her golden eyes narrowed into thin, predatory slits. Sheepdogs.

Pushing the door open with a soft shove, she beheld an absolute outrage. There, curled squarely in the center of her large, freshly made feather bed, was a mother Rough Collie. The dog possessed a long, pointed snout, a thick, tawny coat, and eyes rimmed with wary intelligence. Surrounding the mother—and currently using Holo’s favorite woolen blanket as a chew toy—were half a dozen roly-poly puppies, yipping and tumbling over one another in a chaotic furry heap.

The mother collie scrambled to her paws instantly, hackles rising, letting out a sharp, protective bark that vibrated through the floorboards.

Holo bared her teeth, her tail lashing the air behind her with lethal grace. For centuries, she had despised sheepdogs—the yapping, snapping, obedient tools of shepherds who drove her from her pastures and interfered with the natural order of the wild. To find one nesting in her very bedchamber was an insult of the highest magnitude.

"Out," Holo snarled, her voice carrying a chilling, ancient authority that made the mother dog flatten her ears. "Get your wretched, wool-brained progeny off my linens this instant, or I shall turn the lot of you into winter pelts."

The collie didn't need to be told twice. Smart enough to recognize a true apex predator when she saw one, the mother grabbed the scruff of the nearest squirming puppy, bolted across the room, and vanished down the corridor toward the safer, noisier bustle of the village streets outside the inn.

Left behind in the bedchamber were six abandoned, blinking puppies, tumbling over the edge of the mattress and letting out pathetic, high-pitched whimpers.

Holo crossed her arms, glaring down at the miniature nuisances. "And good riddance," she muttered, brushing imaginary dust from her shoulders. Yet, as she stared at the wriggling mass of fur left stranded on her rug, a sly, wicked grin slowly spread across her lips. Well now... why should I dirty my own paws with the cleanup?

The Delivery

Ten minutes later, the heavy wooden doors of the inn swung wide, and the bustling town square fell into a sudden, baffled hush.

Standing on the cobblestone steps was Holo, her tail flicking with theatrical amusement. In her arms, she held a large wicker laundry basket overflowing with a squirming, yipping avalanche of golden puppies. A knot of local children, who had been playing a game of knucklebones near the fountain, stopped dead in their tracks, their jaws dropping.

"You there! Boy with the dirt on your nose!" Holo called out, pointing a dainty finger directly at a bewildered urchin named Pip.

Pip blinked, stepping forward tentatively. "M-Milady?"

With a dramatic flourish, Holo hoisted the basket and dumped its entire contents right into the center of the children's circle. The puppies spilled out onto the cobblestones like a furry waterfall, immediately scampering in six different directions, chewing on shoelaces, and licking muddy boots.

"Consider this a generous civic donation," Holo declared, tossing her long auburn hair over her shoulder with an air of immense nobility. "These foul-tempered, wool-chasing little beasts have unceremoniously invaded my quarters. Since I have no patience for farm-bound mutts that require shepherds to think for them, I am bestowing them upon you."

The children didn't need a second invitation. Within seconds, the initial shock melted away, replaced by shrieks of absolute delight. One chubby-cheeked girl scooped up a particularly clumsy pup that promptly began gnawing on her sleeve, squealing with laughter. Another boy grabbed two by their soft paws, spinning around as they barked happily.

"Are they really ours to keep?" Pip asked, looking up at the wise wolf in sheer disbelief, his arms already full of wriggling fur.

Holo rested her hands on her hips, her tail swishing in absolute satisfaction as she watched the chaotic scene unfold. The puppies were entirely out of her bedroom, out of her hair, and now entirely someone else's problem.

"Every last one of them," Holo smirked, her golden eyes glinting with mischief. "Take good care of your new masters. Try not to let them chew on anything valuable—though if they destroy the blacksmith's boots, pretend it was my idea."

With a haughty flick of her tail, the wise wolf turned and strolled back into the inn, leaving the children to the glorious, deafening anarchy of a half-dozen hyperactive collie puppies.

The grand, echoing halls of the Parisian canine exhibition were a sensory nightmare for a demonic butler.

Sebastian Michaelis walked down the immaculate aisles of the international dog show, his pristine black coat stiff with restraint, his ruby-red eyes narrowed in sheer, unadulterated disgust. Around him, hundreds of pedigree canines barked, whimpered, and shed an apocalyptic amount of fur into the French air. Every fiber of his demonic being screamed at him to flee, yet he was forced to march forward simply because young Master Ciel insisted on inspecting the venue for a peculiar Phantomhive toy contract.

And then, things managed to get worse.

Sauntering a few paces ahead, looking thoroughly amused by Sebastian’s thinly veiled misery, the young Earl of Phantomhive decided to test the absolute limits of his servant's patience. Ciel casually shoved his hands into his pockets, tilted his head back, and began to cheerfully, loudly hum an absurdly catchy, upbeat tune—launching straight into Akon's infamous chorus:

"I'm feeling like a big dog! (Big dog!) Barking at the moon, yeah! Got the whole pack rolling with me, howling in the room!"

Sebastian stopped dead in his tracks. A vein visibly throbbed on his temple.

"My Lord," Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, demonic register as a nearby Poodle barked loudly in response. "If you do not cease this atrocious caterwauling immediately, I may accidentally misplace your soul somewhere in the French countryside."

Ciel only smirked over his shoulder, continuing his obnoxious serenade as a pack of confused Golden Retrievers eagerly trotted up to sniff Sebastian's polished leather boots.