#6000+ words!!
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How Suika Found a Family
AO3 link • FF.net link
This is set in the same time period as the original Spy x Family—that is to say, the fictional and ambiguous 60s-70s. Also, as you’ll read, the plot is definitely not the same. But we do have pretend(-to-found) family, and that’s really what it’s all about.
Senku was regretting a few things as he ran through the facility, his precious cargo clutched in his arms.
To start with, he regretted going left instead of right at the last turn, because he was now being chased by a bunch of meatheads much faster than he was. He activated and tossed one of his smoke canisters behind him and slipped into a side corridor while the goons’ visibility was decreased. They ran right past him, and he quickly made his way back to the turn he should have taken.
Next, he was regretting not memorizing this portion of the map as closely as the part he thought he’d be working in. Not the company’s provided map, of course, but the actually correct one that Gen had sourced and sold to him for probably a whole lot more than it was worth. He still had the basics memorized, though, and quickly counted doors to the unmarked exit to the garage.
Finally, he regretted not bringing any kind of first aid kit. He usually did, but he hadn’t thought there would be anyone in need of rescue at the research facility.
He really should’ve known better.
He checked on the little girl clutching the front of his lab coat, promising himself he’d treat her as soon as he was able—but first, they needed to get out of there.
The open garage had a whole line of cars lined up and ready to go. Perfect. He’d have to work fast, but he could do it. In two of the cars, he attached the auto-drive modules he’d been working on recently. Working so fast meant their connection wasn’t ideal, so they wouldn’t last long, but it would be enough to distract and confuse any pursuers. He hopped into a third car, setting the girl on the floor in front of the passenger seat.
“Hang in there,” he said, fingers deftly hotwiring the car for him to drive. “We’ll be out of here soon.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lift her head a little bit before curling back into a ball. His heart ached at how quiet and accepting she was about all of this. Who knew how long she had been there. Had she ever even had the chance to be a normal kid?
He wouldn’t stand for it. She would live a normal, happy life and he was going to guarantee it. Enough kids’ lives had been ruined by this war.
The door back to the facility smashed open just as the car sparked to life. He hit the buttons on the device that would launch the other cars into motion as he shifted his car into gear and slammed the gas pedal.
He had to reach where his getaway bike was stashed, then get to the boat that would be waiting, then to the helicopter. They’d planned for this mission to go south.
At least he’d been able to grab the files he needed, too.
Actually…
He grabbed the tiny radio he kept hidden in a groove in the leather of his belt.
“06,” he said. Mission complete. “09.” Civilian rescued. “20.” Sufficient evidence to arrest. “19.” On route to evacuate.
He waited for the four ‘beeps’ that meant ‘four messages received,’ then tucked the radio out of sight again.
This wasn’t his most elegant success, but it was still a success. So far, at least. He just had to keep his wits about him until they reached a safe house.
He stopped at a spot about a quarter mile from his bike, quickly installing his last auto-drive module and grabbing the girl out of the car. The vehicle sped away as he wound his way into the undergrowth, and he found a good spot to hide until he heard his pursuers zoom past.
He breathed a small sigh of relief as the sound of their engines faded into the distance, then quickly refocused. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. (Literally.)
He checked on the girl now that he had a moment. “Is there anywhere that hurts really badly?” he whispered. She shook her head. He didn’t believe her for a second, but there wasn’t much he could do now anyway. “We’ve still got a ways to go. You’re doing so well.” He shrugged out of his lab coat and wrapped it around her, bundling her up before he started jogging to the bike. She was so skinny—he could feel her bones in a very unsettling way. And still so quiet, just hiding her face against his chest. The way her head was tucked did make one of the metal probes attached to her head poke him, but it was nothing more than an annoyance, so he ignored it and ran on. She did turn her head without him saying anything, though.
Later, after a stressful but ultimately uneventful escape, he sat the girl down on a cot in the safe house and stretched out his aching back. He pulled off his mask and wig, slightly regretting spending all that time on it for it to be used for less than a week, then refocused on the girl.
He didn’t want to call for Luna (that woman made his skin crawl), even if she was technically the doctor on call, so he decided to treat the girl himself.
She watched him as he gathered supplies he thought he might need—bandages, antibiotic cream, a pack of wipes—her brown eyes still so sad and lifeless.
He had the passing thought that this was probably how she was treated at the facility, if she was treated at all. In silence, in ignorance, possibly in fear. So he started talking, telling her what he was grabbing, what he was looking for. When he started examining her, he was sure to tell her what he wanted to do and then ask her permission. She was obviously baffled, but she nodded to any request he made.
He didn’t have a clue what to do about the two probes on her head. They didn’t pain her, if her non-reaction to his gentle efforts to clean around them meant anything (it might not), but he could see no obvious way to unattach them.
“They don’t come off,” said the girl in a very quiet voice. “They’re drilled into my skull.”
He froze, his heart dropping, his stomach turning. Bones were more sensitive than people realized—how much pain had she been in when he tried to clean them? Had she learned to hide her pain?
“They don’t hurt,” she continued
He still couldn’t find anything to say. He wondered what they were made out of, if they were somehow attached to her nervous system or full of tech that would harm her if removed.
“They’re just metal,” she said. “100% medical grade stainless steel. No tech.”
He looked at her.
She looked back.
“You’re reading my thoughts,” he thought, testing a hypothesis.
She nodded. “You’re really smart,” she said. “And kind. Thank you for saving me.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clearing his mind. He focused on stopping the thoughts that ran nonstop through his mind. Just…stillness. Peace.
The girl’s eyes welled up with tears. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, it’s quiet.”
How long had she been able to read minds? How long had she had to endure the nonstop mental dialogue of whoever had been in that facility?
“As long as I can remember,” she said.
“How old are you?” She looked seven or eight.
She giggled. “I’m ten.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I promise. I’m small for my age, but that’s just how I am.”
He didn’t let himself think anything else about it, instead focusing on checking the bandages around her ankles and wrists.
He got her some food and water, then had her lie down to sleep. She grabbed his hand when he went to stand after tucking her in.
“Please stay,” she whispered.
And so he sat there and waited until she had fallen asleep to unleash the absolute torrent of thoughts he’d been holding back, the absolute despair at how cruel people could be (she was a kid).
He watched her sleep, her hand still tightly gripping his.
He remembered being alone at ten years old. He remembered how much he wished that someone—anyone—would love him and take care of him, that he wasn’t an orphan of war. And he remembered how nobody had. Was he going to be the kind of person he had hated the most as a kid? Was he going to drop this girl off somewhere and hope someone else stepped up to the plate?
He had no idea what to do next.
—
Kohaku knelt in front of the traditional tea servicea, waiting for Hyoga to appear. She knew it was unusual for her to come in person and not wait for him to call her with a new job, but she had something important to say.
Eventually, Hyoga and his shadow Homura walked into the room. The man sat across from Kohaku while Homura took up her post near the wall, silent but observant.
Hyoga prepared and poured the tea. Kohaku continued to kneel. She had never really overcome her tendency to rush into trouble, but she had learned how to make herself sit still for a while if needed.
“I know why you’re here,” said the man. He did not, at any point, remove the mask covering his face, ignoring the cup he poured for himself. “But I want to hear you say it.”
She swallowed. “I…I wanted to let you know that I won’t be able to accept any more jobs from you.” She also ignored the cup in front of her, more from nerves than anything else.
“As expected.” He turned to look out a nearby window and let out a deep breath. “Yes, I suppose with your sister’s successful husband in the picture, earning money from all his inventions, keeping up with the hospital bills isn’t your task anymore.”
Of course he knew. It sent shivers down her spine, even after all this time.
“It pains me to see you want to leave, Kohaku,” said Hyoga. “You have an extraordinary work ethic and far-above-average skills.”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment but didn’t say anything.
He rose from his seat. “But an assassin that doesn’t want to be an assassin isn’t of much use to me. Besides, war has been avoided for now, partly thanks to your efforts.” He stared into her eyes, unnervingly still. “It goes without saying, of course, that we will eliminate you should you prove a threat to us.”
“I will not,” she says resolutely. “I just…want to make my sister happy and live a quiet life.”
At last he looked away, turning to leave. “Very well. I hope you realize I’m only allowing this because of what an asset you’ve been to us and how trustworthy I know you are. If you ever want to get in touch again, don’t bother looking—we’ll find you.”
And then he was gone. Homura stayed and watched her rise and leave, and Kohaku was careful to walk exactly in the middle of every hall as she left. No need to make them think that she stole anything.
Afterwards, she went to a cafe, got a pastry, and just…sat there.
It was done. She was…maybe not “free,” but more free than she had been before. She could start living a normal life, fitting herself perfectly into the part she played for Ruri’s benefit. A nicer job, a better apartment, maybe even dating or marriage. Normal Kohaku Weinberg, living a normal life.
She had no clue where to even start.
—
Tsukasa had not been impressed when Senku showed up late, even if there was a perfectly legitimate excuse in the form of a young girl clinging to his hand.
Senku didn’t even let him speak, though.
“I’m retiring,” he said.
Tsukasa stared at him.
“Effective immediately.”
Tsukasa’s eyebrow twitched.
“Is there paperwork I need to fill out?”
Tsukasa pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Does this gig even have retirement pay? Can I put you on my resume in case I need a new job?” he teased.
“Stone,” Tsukasa growled, using his code name as always, “are you kidding me right now?”
Senku felt Suika press her face into his leg and he put a comforting hand on her back. “No. I’m ten billion percent serious.” He swallowed. “I kind of fell into this work, you know? And now I think I’ve fallen into something else. Still important. Just different.”
Tsukasa looked at Suika with a critical eye. “This is the civilian you rescued from the lab?” he asked. “Why was she there?”
“Experiments,” he said, voice tight. He glanced at the bandages still around her ankles and wrists. “Cruel ones. It’s all in the report.”
Tsukasa still looked skeptical, but he sighed and rose from behind his desk to grab a file from one of the bookcases lining the walls. “Your stubborn determination is as annoying as it is inspiring,” the man muttered as he pulled out a few papers from the file.
He gestured Senku over to the desk, then handed him a pen. “This would be a whole lot harder if we were a recognized military branch, but as it is, all you need to do is read and sign these. Officially, you’re retired from the army science division. All the usual contacts will still be in place, if you need references for a new job.” The man leaned forward, his height lending him an ominous feel. “I think it goes without saying what will happen if you start spilling secrets.”
Senku snickered. “No one will get a single millimeter of information from me, I promise.”
“Hm.” Tsukasa sat back down, sighing dramatically. “The retirement pay is a pittance at best. You’ll want to start job hunting right away.”
That worried Senku a bit. No job meant no apartment, and no apartment meant Suika would have to sleep on the streets with him. He was used to it—he did not want Suika to get used to it.
Tsukasa must’ve seen something on his face, because he sighed even louder and then dug around in his desk drawer until he pulled out a key. “Here. The rent’s paid for the next three months. Just leave the key on the kitchen table when you find a new place.”
Senku was so shocked that he didn’t take the key at first.
Tsukasa finally cracked a smile, a very small one. “I get it. I know what wanting to protect someone is like.”
Oh. Tsukasa had had a younger sister, he remembered. Senku didn’t know what had happened, but that little girl wasn’t around any more. He set his hand on top of Suika’s head and hoped things went better for the two of them.
“Besides, when you’re not being a complete pain in my neck, you’ve been a good friend. We may not ever see each other again, so…here’s my thanks and ‘good luck’ and all that.”
Senku took the key, staring at it and the little tag with the address written on it. “Well,” he said, not quite able to muster his usual levels of sarcasm, “I appreciate it. Thank you, Tsukasa.”
There was nothing more to do, so he ushered Suika back to the elevator.
“Senku,” Tsukasa called, and it was startling to hear his real name from the man, but he turned a bit. “If you ever want to rejoin, go to the Berlint Hospital and ask to speak with Doctor Forger.”
Senku nodded. He didn’t think he ever would, but it was nice to know the option was there.
—
Kohaku was starting to hate her new job.
This was her second week of working at City Hall. She had been hit on three times, groped once, reprimanded for punching the guy that groped her (the guy got off with a “warning”), and to stop it off, her coworkers were catty and snide.
Her new apartment also sucked. Without the funds from her assassin gigs, she couldn’t afford her old apartment, and her current job didn’t pay enough for a nicer one. To keep up the charade she had built, she told Ruri and Chrome that she’d been fired from her job (and then she quit her old cover job).
And just because things weren’t bad enough, she’d panicked and told her sister she was dating someone to keep her from asking questions about a coworker’s dinner party, but of course Ruri wanted to meet the person, and now she had to find a someone to ask to go to a party she didn’t want to go to in the first place.
Once again, she didn’t know what to do.
She started by heading to the bakery to get herself a pastry.
“I can really get anything?” asked a small girl clinging to a man’s hand in front of the counter.
“Just one treat. But yes, you can pick anything,” said the man. He glanced back at Kohaku, then tugged the girl off to the side. “Go ahead,” he told Kohaku with a smirk. “I think we’ll be looking for a while.”
Kohaku couldn’t help but watch them in her periphery as she placed her usual order. They looked nothing alike, and the girl looked frightened of everything but the man holding her hand. All of her clothes were new—no scuffs or wear, the dress still crisp from being starched at the store, the shoes still shiny and uncomfortable, if the way she kept shifting her feet in them meant anything. And she was obviously overwhelmed and excited about going to a cafe.
Recent adoption or foster kid, or maybe a stepchild, she guessed. Father, rather than uncle or parent’s friend. She sighed as she paid. Too bad he’s married, then. He’s kind of cute. I was thinking of asking him to go on that fake dinner date with me.
The little girl gasped, then said, “I sure wish I had a mama who could get a treat with us.”
The man blinked down at her. “What?”
“A mama! I don’t have one, and I think it’d be nice to have one!”
Oh? Well, then. Maybe she did have a chance.
She couldn’t just barge in and ask him to go on a date first thing, though. Maybe a bit of conversation? She walked over to them, smiling at them. “Have you picked a treat yet?” she asked the girl.
The girl shook her head and half hid behind her father’s leg. “There’s so many! I want to try them all!”
The man laughed and put his hand on her head. “We’ll just keep coming back so you can try them all. One treat at a time, though.”
“Papaaaa,” whined the little girl, who sighed before mumbling, “alright.”
Looking more closely at her, Kohaku could see the pallor of the little girl’s cheeks. If Kohaku had to guess, the girl had been stuck inside until recently—maybe a bad orphanage or an illness. It…it reminded Kohaku of Ruri.
“Well, I can tell you my favorite so you have a place to start!” Kohaku said, gesturing for the girl to come over to the case so she could see more clearly. “This one,” she said, pointing to the treat. “It’s a chocolate croissant. I just got one myself!”
“Papa!” said the girl, grabbing her father by the sleeve. “Papa, I want a chocolate crows—cross—cress—um, that one!”
The man nodded. “Sure. Hot cocoa, too?”
The girl’s eyes widened comically large behind her glasses. “Yes! Yes, yes please!”
The man placed his order and started leading his daughter to a booth. Kohaku sighed. Well, so much for that.
“Wait!” said the girl, running back to her and grabbing her hand. “Miss, you gotta sit with us! So I can tell you if I like the crowsant!”
“Suika,” chided the man, “don’t bother her.” He looked up at Kohaku, his oddly-colored eyes meeting hers. “Sorry, ma’am. We’ll let you enjoy your croissant in peace.”
“I—I don’t mind!” Kohaku found herself saying, her shoulders creeping up to her ears. “It’s your first time trying one, right?” she said to the girl. Suika, was it? Suika nodded. “Then it will be fun to see what you think!”
The man eyed her, face expressionless.
“Please, Papa?” asked Suika. “I like her. I think she’s nice.”
The man sighed. “Well, alright then. Shall we?”
“I’m Kohaku,” she said after they sat down. “Kohaku Weinberg.”
“Senku Ishigami,” said the man, “and this is my daughter.”
“I’m Suika!”
Kohaku smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm. She really warmed up to people quickly, didn’t she? “It’s nice to meet you both.” She hadn’t seen them around before, and she wondered if they had moved in recently or were just visiting, but was that too intrusive for a first conversation?
“We just moved here!” Suika told her. “Papa’s going to teach chemistry at the university.”
Kohaku raised her eyebrows. He looked pretty young—he must be very smart. “Wow, congratulations. I hope you like it here.”
Senku nodded. “I’m sure we will. Everyone has been very welcoming so far.”
“What do you do?” asked Suika.
Her father looked pained by the girl’s candid boldness. Kohaku found it refreshing. “I work at City Hall.” I hate it.
Suika hummed and eyed her thoughtfully. “That sounds boring.” Senku covered his face with a hand and sighed. “What do you do for fun?”
I can’t say martial arts. Everyone thinks women who like to fight are strange. “I like to exercise,” she said instead.
The worker brought out their orders—both of them—and Suika was staring at her pastry with wide eyes.
Kohaku saw Senku take a sip of his coffee (a latte, rather than the straight black she would have guessed), and if she hadn’t been paying attention, she probably would have thought him ignorant or uncaring of his daughter’s moment with the pastry. He was keeping a steady eye on her, though, looking ready to intervene should this somehow prove too challenging.
“Papa,” she whispered. “How do I eat the whole thing?” Was she not used to treats at all?
“You don’t have to eat it all right now. We’ll take whatever you don’t eat home and you’ll have a good snack for later,” he said in an equally quiet voice. She continued staring, eyes glazing over, and Senku reached over to feel her forehead. “Doing okay?” he asked. “Do we need to go?”
Suika shook her head, but she winced like she had a headache. “I’m okay, I promise. It’s just…um, there’s a lot of people…”
Kohaku wondered if it was an anxiety thing. Whatever the reason, she could help with that, at least. She cleared her throat lightly to get Senku’s attention. “Have you visited the park just down the street from here? It’s usually pretty empty this time of day.”
Suika brightened, then frowned at her drink.
Kohaku laughed. “They have to-go cups here, if you want to bring your drinks as well.” Suika leapt from the booth to run to the counter.
Kohaku watched her wave to get the barista’s attention (maybe she wasn't shy with people after all), then turned back to Senku.
He…did not look especially happy.
“Your daughter is very sweet,” Kohaku said, face flushing. She was very aware of how she had just sort of butted into their day.
He stared a moment longer, brows lowered…then sighed and slumped down a little bit. “Yeah, she’s great. That’s nothing to do with me, though.”
Kohaku huffed. “No, it’s everything to do with you. You care, right? You’re here buying her sweets she’s never tried, making sure she’s okay. She’s not afraid to be a bit of a brat, but she’s so sweet-hearted that she wouldn’t anyways.” She bit her lip as she realized what she had said—was that weird? Too much? She needed to practice normal conversation.
Senku was looking at her with wide eyes, though, a hint of a blush on his cheeks. Was he…nervous about being a dad? Single parenthood was never easy, but he was obviously doing his best. Was he worried he wasn’t doing well enough? He cracked a smile, and it suited him—he should smile often.
—
Senku hadn’t expected to have a third person join their day, but Suika seemed determined to get the woman—Kohaku—to come with them everywhere they’d planned to go. At least she was nice.
Maybe too nice.
Suika squeezed his hand then, and he looked down at her. “Papa. I told you—I like her. She’s a good person.” And then widened her eyes meaningfully.
Oh, right. The mind reading thing. Well, what if Suika misunderstood? How did mind reading work, anyways? He wouldn’t be much of a scientist if he just took other people’s word for everything, and this was no different.
Suika grumbled but kept holding his hand. He gently squeezed back. Sorry. I want us to be safe.
But Kohaku just kept being nice, and being observant about what Suika was doing and feeling, and they had a nice day, all things considered.
It was at the end of the day, when Suika was looking through a shop window, that Kohaku seemed a bit nervous. “Say, Senku…I know we just met today, but I was wondering…ah, would you like to go to a dinner party with me?”
He quickly stepped away from her. No. No, no, no. He did not want any romantic nonsense happening in his life.
“It’s just…!” She sighed. “Look, I’m not looking for a relationship. My sister is worried about me, though, and she thinks I need a partner, and we’ve had a pretty good time today, so if you wouldn’t mind being my fake date to a party and maybe to meet my sister, I would really appreciate it. I’d pay you back somehow, of course.” She was tugging the sleeves of her coat, too nervous to make eye contact.
“Your sister, huh?”
Kohaku nodded. “Yes. She’s been sick since we were kids, and I’ve been trying to keep her from worrying about me, but then I panicked and said something dumb, and…even if it’s pretend, it will help her not worry about me, and that’s enough for me.”
He could respect that.
Kohaku continued with a small scowl, “And…people are weird about single women in their late twenties. If I show up to the dinner with a boyfriend, maybe they’ll leave me alone.”
Senku tilted his head, considering. Suika liked her…and there were benefits for both parties…
Well, that was a conversation for later. “Sure, I don’t mind.”
She beamed at him, her whole face lighting up. “Oh, thank you! The party is this Friday. Would you be okay to meet me there?” He nodded and she gave him the address. “Okay, I’ll see you then.”
The rest of the week passed quickly, and soon it was Friday. Only…well, he was running late.
A half-hour after he was supposed to meet Kohaku at the corner so they could walk to the party together, he arrived.
He saw the blatant relief on Kohaku’s face as she saw him. Had she worried he’d stood her up?
He also saw the moment she realized why he was late. Her lips pressed together and her eyes sparkled—because Suika was holding his hand, dressed in a nice party dress and matching beanie, looking completely innocent of any misbehavior.
“Sorry,” he said as they got close. “Someone insisted on coming with me.”
Suika smiled up at Kohaku.
Kohaku laughed. “Alright, that’s fine. Let’s get going, shall we?”
The party was…awkward. Kohaku’s coworkers were snide and gossipy, and he saw a few men leering at her until they registered his presence by her side. She was polite, though, even when some particularly rude words about her figure and relationship status were spoken a bit too close and loud to be unintentional.
Suika played with the other kids in a corner with some toys set out. Hopefully the thoughts of the kids would drown out the nonsense he was sure was happening in the brains of the adults.
When one man, obviously drunk, wandered over and started posturing like some exotic bird (flirting? With Senku or Kohaku? Unclear), Senku couldn’t help but laugh. He immediately regretted it when the guy proceeded to launch fists at his face.
Senku had had to do some physical training to be a spy, even if his work was usually in labs or hospitals or offices. He’d always been terrible at the physical stuff, and he’d always hated being beat up. He knew how to take a punch, though, and prepared for impact.
It never came. Kohaku did…something, and the guy was falling backwards with a bloody nose.
And then Kohaku was promptly asked to leave and not to bother coming back to work tomorrow.
Which is how he, Suika, and Kohaku came to be walking down the street, Kohaku muttering and clenching her fists.
Senku felt awful—this was supposed to be a favor to her. He’d do this, meet her sister, then bring up a long-term arrangement for both their benefit: her to avoid weirdos at work, him to avoid people who gave him trouble about being a single parent (like the group he’d rescued Suika from who were no doubt looking for him).
And now she’d lost her job because he’d laughed at a guy who took it way too personally.
“Kohaku,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I…I’ll help you find another job if you want, or just…maybe pay you? I know how tough the job market is right now.”
She waved his offers off, instead wandering over to a bench to plop down and hide her face in her hands. Suika looked between Kohaku and Senku before running over to the woman to give her a hug.
Kohaku laughed and hugged the girl back, but Senku could see her red eyes—she’d been crying, or about to.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said to both of them in a voice that could pass for cheerful. “I didn’t like that job much anyways.”
Suika was considering her thoughtfully and Senku wondered what she was “hearing” from Kohaku.
“You’re really strong, Miss,” Suika said. “I bet you could be a great gym teacher or something.”
What was Suika up to?
“Or maybe…uh, papa, what’s it called when you learn to fight back?”
“Self defense?”
“Yeah! A self defense teacher! A lot of ladies have to deal with gross men, right?” How did Suika know that? “So you can teach them how to beat them up or something! Or how to get away, or anything, really.”
Kohaku smiled at Suika and said, “Those are really good ideas, Suika. I’ll keep those in mind while I’m looking for a new job.” Then she sighed and turned back to the street. “I guess I’ll have to ask my sister if I can move in with her in the meantime.”
“Move in with us.”
Senku had a moment of disbelief that Suika would offer that before he realized he had spoken. Ah, crap.
Both of his companions were looking at him with wide eyes.
He cleared his throat. “Just for appearances. You said people made being a single woman near thirty a pain, right? Same with being a single dad. Not as bad, I’m sure, though. But we could…pretend to be in a relationship, to be married, live in the same house, like roommates.” He was aware this was out of the blue and he wouldn’t be surprised if Kohaku punched him in the face as well before storming off. “It would solve problems for both of us.”
Kohaku seemed to be considering it. She looked down at Suika and started to say something, but Suika cut her off, bouncing up and down. “Yes! Come stay with us! I’d love that so much!”
Kohaku laughed and rubbed her eyes. “Really? That would actually be great. Um…well, if you’re serious, then do you want to get married? I can meet you at the courthouse tomorrow. I’ll bring my sister and her husband. It’ll…be a whole little thing.” She squeezed Suika a bit closer. “We could even get a little cake or something to celebrate.”
And so it was that Senku was engaged to a woman he’d known for a week.
He spent Saturday morning looking at rings (he’d asked for her ring size before they parted ways the night before) and Suika helped him pick one that she thought Kohaku would like while he picked a plain, sensible band for himself.
As an afterthought, and since he had some time to kill, he stopped by Gen’s shop to tell him the news—both the fact that Senku had become a father and was getting married.
Gen invited himself to the wedding (“You’ll need a best man, won’t you?”), then won Suika’s affection with some tricks with some flowers. (She demanded he show her lots of times so she could figure out how he did it, which he obliged her with.)
When Suika ran ahead to pick her own flower to practice with, Gen hissed in his ear, “What mission requires both a kid and a wife?”
Senku shrugged. “None. I retired. I’m going to be a university teacher.”
Gen laughed, then seemed to realize Senku was being entirely serious. “Wait, so you got a kid and wife because you wanted to?”
Senku looked at Suika, now picking herself a little bouquet. “More or less.” When Suika ran back to him and asked if he thought Kohaku would like it for the wedding, he smiled at her. “I think she will.” It’s from you, kiddo. I’m sure she’ll love it.
—
Kohaku thought her sister was taking the impending wedding well, all things considered. That, or she’d gone into shock. At least Chrome brought a camera—she wasn’t sure Ruri was going to remember any of this.
Suika was absolutely adorable, as expected. She wore a fluffy dress that made her look like a flower, and Kohaku almost melted when the girl handed her a hand-picked bouquet.
Senku looked…Kohaku bit her lip to keep from laughing. He’d brought a friend, and that friend was fussing about Senku’s suit and hair. Senku, looking very harassed, quickly came to stand next to Kohaku.
“Quick, introduce me to your sister,” he hissed, “and maybe Gen will leave me alone.”
Laughing, she brought him over and made the introductions.
He and Chrome really hit it off once Senku mentioned his upcoming position at the university Chrome worked at, and the two of them were gabbing about minerals or something until Ruri started herding them inside. “It’s time for our appointment,” she said. “Let’s get you two married!”
Ruri knew they were getting married for convenience, but she was fully committed to making Senku and Suika feel welcomed and part of the family.
The judge married them quickly and they signed the register.
Oh. It’s not Weinberg anymore, is it? Kohaku Ishigami. Huh.
“Do you have any rings to exchange?” asked the judge. Suika stepped up to them, hands outstretched.
And Kohaku nearly had a heart attack, because the ring Senku picked up to put on her finger looked an awful lot like her mother’s old ring. It wasn’t—too new, the filigree slightly different—but they were very much the same style.
She hadn’t thought about her mother’s ring in so long (they’d had to pawn it for food money), and she’d briefly let herself imagine having it for her wedding when Senku asked her to marry him, but to have it be so similar…
“Do you not like the ring?” Senku asked in a quiet voice when she had stood unmoving for a bit too long. “We can return it—”
“It’s perfect,” she said, holding out her hand for Senku to put it on. “It’s absolutely perfect. Thank you so much.” She gave his hand a squeeze after he slid the ring on and blinked back the tears of emotion trying to escape her. Senku looked a little worried, but he didn’t say anything else about it and let her slide the plain metal band onto his finger.
And then it was off to Chrome and Ruri’s house to celebrate.
They walked there, and Suika held both Kohaku and Senku’s hands, swinging her arms back and forth and humming. Kohaku knew it was an act, a pretend family—but she decided she was going to make it work. She’d give her all, just like she always did, and do her best to be the mother Suika needed and a good roommate to Senku.
She didn’t know, of course, that Senku was thinking much along the same lines. I’ll give it ten billion percent, he promised himself. I’ll be the kind of man Byakuya would be proud to call a son, even if I don’t think this was how he ever imagined getting a daughter-in-law and grandchild.
As for Suika, she was feeling quite proud of herself for having found a dad, a mom, an aunt, and two uncles (she was counting Gen as an uncle—he was weird but nice) within a quarter of a year of being rescued.
Now all she needed was a dog, and she’d be the happiest girl in the world.
@senhaku-week
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My followers: And is this “writing” you’ve been “working on” in the room with us right now?
#writing#writeblr#writer things#writing humour#textpost#writing humor#relatable#funny#I genuinely am writing for the first time in a long while#but it’s uh it’s for an angst fanfic for a fandom one wouldn’t expect fic for necessarily#and I’m embarrassed but I’m not because it’s good but you’re never seeing it it’s between me and my ao3 when I finally do finish it#it’s at 6000 words but fr that’s the most I’ve written on a single thing in a long time and it’s still going!#last time I wrote/finished anything in forever was also for this fandom back in November <3 nature is healing#it’s slow going but I’m hoping to finish it before June 😭
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✨ Behind (Not So) Closed Doors✨
As promised, here’s a little story of the one prompt I got a little bit ago! Literally no one voted ‘no’ on the poll for this story and I think that’s hysterical, bunch of thirsty mfs (affectionate 💖)
Lucifer x f!sinner reader
Summary: You catch Lucifer acting out on his most carnal desires…
Warnings: 18+, smut, masturbation, voyeurism, fingering, hand job, (oral m & f receiving), p in v
You remember first meeting the King of Hell on the day you checked yourself into the Hazbin Hotel. And you remember thinking that Lucifer looked nothing like you had pictured. Of course he was beautiful, that wasn’t shocking, but he was so…unimposing. Not only that, but he was also kind, albeit a bit dorky as well. Not that it was off putting to you, it was endearing if anything!
Although, you hadn’t spoken to him all that much since the time you’d moved in. Lucifer seemed so nonchalant and relaxed with everyone else in the hotel, save for Alastor, who you noticed always managed to get under the fallen angel’s skin one way or another. Even you knew the radio demon was playing with fire; probably wasn’t the smartest idea to piss off the most powerful being in Hell. Regardless, how he acted around you was a little odd to say the least. It seemed like Lucifer was always trying to avoid you for some unknown reason. Did he not like you?
When you had first spoken to him all those months ago, you could tell he was tense. He rambled, a lot. And he somehow managed to fumble every other word that left his mouth. He quickly left after your initial meeting, and ever since then it had been nearly impossible to get in more than five words at a time. He had an impossibly perfect disappearing act, what with his portaging abilities. One time you greeted him from across the lobby and his only response was “O-Oh! H-Hey you! Uhh, I just, umm…welp, gotta run!” and took off before you could even say goodbye. Truly bizarre.
You eventually went to Charlie, telling her that her dad was seemingly very distant towards you. “Oh, don’t worry about that!” Charlie explained. “He’s a pretty busy guy, so he’s usually popping in and out of here pretty frequently. And he’s told me on multiple occasions that he’s glad you joined the hotel! He can come off as a bit scatterbrained, but rest assured he’s more than happy to have you here! And so am I!”
You smiled and thanked her. From the few months that you’ve known her, Charlie was never one to lie, so you decided to take her words at face value. For now, at least. For some reason, you still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was up with Lucifer. You needed to find out.
A few nights had passed and you found yourself wandering through the lobby. The black nightgown you typically wore to bed didn't provide nearly enough heat, but you didn't want to change back into your normal day clothes either. So, you threw on your favorite pink robe before you left your room, it was more than enough to keep you comfortable. It was late, way later than you should have been awake. Even Husk was asleep, the bar sat devoid of any life. It was difficult to sleep most nights, you were still grappling with the fact that you were, in fact, in Hell. You thought you were a decent person in life. Never religious but you tried your best to while you were alive. But that didn’t seem to matter. Perhaps you should have attended church with your family more often, or donated to more charities, or not cut that one person off at that traffic light. Lying awake in your bed didn’t help these thoughts but getting up and walking around usually helped just a tad.
You glanced over to the fireplace, noticing the flames dancing against the walls. That was strange, considering no one ever used the fireplace, or at least not that you’ve seen. But then you noticed one of the large chairs in front of it wasn’t empty. A white sleeve laid across the arm rest. You walked over out of pure curiosity, just to see who was awake at this ungodly hour like you. You craned your neck to see Lucifer sitting there frozen, his head down and eyes closed with his free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked troubled. Before you could speak up, you heard him mumble under his breath.
“What the hell am I going to do…”
Worried, you outstretched your hand, but stopped short of touching his arm. “Sir?”
Lucifer’s eyes shot open instantly, turning his head to see you towering over him. He leapt from his chair completely startled and began stumbling backwards towards the fire pit.
“Watch out!” you warned, gripping his hand, and pulling him towards you. Lucifer held his breath, trying to process what had just happened. His head ended up flush against your chest, your face now feeling as hot as the flames in the pit. You let go of his hand and stepped away from him as fast as you could. Lucifer remained motionless. “I-I’m so sorry, your majesty! I didn’t mean for you to…I’m sorry!”
You finally heard Lucifer exhale. He stood up straight and fixed his wrinkled jacket, making every effort to not look you in the eyes.
“It’s alright, m-my dear,” he spoke softly, “no harm done. A-And please, call me Lucifer.”
“Okay. Lucifer,” you started, “I didn’t mean to startle you. I saw you over here and I heard what you said and…is everything alright?”
Lucifer was tense again. You noticed him clench his fists. “How much did you hear?”
“Not much,” you admitted. “you just sounded worried about something.”
The king let out a sigh, letting his hands relax. “Thank you for your concern, I-I appreciate it. It’s nothing…nothing that you need to trouble yourself with. It’ll be fine.” Lucifer waved his hand, a portal now swirling open behind him, leading to his bedroom. “I think we should both get some sleep now. And t-thank you for catching me. Although, fire can’t harm me…b-but I appreciate the rescue nonetheless!” He was about to step through the portal when you caught his hand once more.
“Wait,” you said quietly. Lucifer looked down at the ground, still refusing to meet your gaze. You frowned. “Sir-I mean Lucifer…I wanted to ask you something. I need to know.” You felt his hand squeeze yours; he was tense again. “I-I’ve been feeling like I’m not welcome here by you.” Lucifer finally lifted his head, his eyes almost piercing your soul. He looked distraught at your words. You never noticed how beautiful his eyes truly were, the soft yellow complimented his pure white skin nicely. You blushed slightly but shook your head and tried to remember what you were saying. “I-I just mean, you seem to avoid me every time I’m near. If I’ve done something to upset you, I’m very sorry. And if you’d rather I’d not stay here, then…”
“NO!” he shouted, now gripping your hand with both of his. “I-I mean, no. You haven’t done anything wrong! Please…Please don’t leave. I should be the one apologizing if that’s truly how you’ve been feeling. I never want you to feel unwelcome here, especially not from me. It…It’s just that…I…” Before he could finish his explanation, his eyes dropped for just a split second before returning to yours. His gaze had somehow shifted into a more panicked expression. He let go of your hands immediately and stepped through his portal in a hurry. “I-I have to go, I’m sorry!” You couldn’t get another word out before his portal disappeared from view.
You stood alone in the parlor, alone and confused. The fire had died out, and you felt a shiver down your spine at the realization of how cold it had gotten without it. But you couldn’t let the conversation end there. You needed to know what was going on with him. You wouldn’t sleep until you did. Luckily, Lucifer’s room at the hotel was very easy to find.
You made your way up to his tower, replaying the scene in the lobby over and over in your head. Things were going well, weren’t they? He seemed so apologetic when you told him how you felt. And then he just…disappeared like he always does. You really didn’t mean to push the issue, but maybe you came on a little strong. Plus, your rescue of him was a little more than awkward. Not that you minded the closeness, even if it was fleeting. The picture of his head resting against your chest flashed in your mind repeatedly. You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks once more now that you were now mere steps from Lucifer’s door.
Focus, you mentally scolded yourself, can’t think about that. It was an accident! It won’t happen again so just…focus. No wonder he ran!
You stood in front of his door now, your knees somehow weaker than they were a moment ago. Those mental images really didn’t help at all. With a deep inhale, you went to knock, but you stopped short when you heard something from beyond the door. You heard your name.
What?, you thought, How…How did he know I was here? Lucifer didn’t sound angry fortunately, but the inflection in his voice made him sound almost sad. And…breathless? You cracked open the door slowly, a little embarrassed at being caught. You went to open your mouth to apologize for the intrusion, but not even a whisper left your lips. Because what you saw in that room left you completely and utterly frozen where you stood.
Lucifer, the great ruler of Hell, was propped up against the obscene amount of pillows on his bed with his pants pooled at his ankles, his very much erect dick in his hand. His eyes were shut, he hadn’t seen you catch him in this extremely vulnerable state.
Run, run, run, RUN! your mind screamed. Everything in your brain was telling you to shut that door and get out of there as fast as you could. But your body refused to react, you remained motionless. You were completely entranced by the scene before you. You watched as Lucifer stroked his cock, mumbling a number of curse words with your name leaving his lips like a prayer.
“Hnng, G-God damn it-ffffuuuccckk….” Lucifer mumbled, his hand gradually picking up the pace as he stroked his shaft.
You tried to wrap your head around what you were seeing, but you were coming up blank. You couldn't believe this. He’s…He’s touching himself…to me?!? How is this…? Why would he…? Your brain was a jumbled mess at this point. It was really beyond your comprehension. You felt tension pool in your stomach at the sight of him becoming undone at the mere thought of you. The sinful sounds he was making went straight between your thighs, to the point where it became uncomfortable that you weren’t giving yourself any attention. The tiniest bit of you wanted to push open that door and give him what he really desired. But before you even begin to think about acting on your carnal instincts, you watched Lucifer's hips bucked up as he came all over his hand. It took every fiber of your being to hold in a whimper that threatened to escape your throat.
Lucifer’s breathing was labored, you watched him toss his arm over his eyes and throw his head back on the pillows. "What the hell is wrong with me?!" you heard him ask. "Why am I doing this?! It’s been months now and I’ve barely had a normal conversation with her! And of course, the only time I’ve really talked to her was after my damn head was forced against her…her…s-shit.” He waved his hand, a tissue appearing between his fingers. You watched as he cleaned himself up, thankful that he still hadn’t looked towards his door. Lucifer kicked himself out of his pant and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his head hanging low. “And what an absolutely fantastic exit I made! “Sorry, gotta go! My dick is hard as a rock right now because of you!” Great job, Lucifer! No wonder she thinks I don’t want her here!” He sighed heavily. “I can’t do this anymore. This isn’t right. I need to stop being a coward and just tell her how she makes me feel…”
A small gasp escaped your lips.
Fuck.
Lucifer's head shot up immediately, his panicked eyes fixating on the door. You didn't even close it behind you as you took off sprinting down the hall, praying to anyone who could hear you that he didn't see you. You didn’t stop running until you made it back to your room, slamming the door behind you. Your knees gave out from under you as you dropped to the floor. In that second, it all clicked for you. Why Lucifer avoided you at every turn, why he tripped over his words when he spoke to you, and why he practically begged you not to leave the hotel.
Lucifer liked you. Lucifer really liked you. That thought alone could have made you scream if you weren’t trying desperately to hold yourself together. And it’s not like you didn’t have passing thoughts about him. He was gorgeous after all. But not only that, you saw how he acted with the others at the hotel. He was sweet, and silly, and fun, even though you never got to experience it firsthand. Now you knew where Charlie had gotten it from.
But of course, those thoughts never stayed. He didn’t like you, right? So instead of wallowing in what could never be, you thought it best not to dwell. But now…now those thoughts were coming back in full force. The aching between your legs only grew as the very fresh images of Lucifer naked and moaning in his bed flooded your mind.
There was a knock at the door.
“H-Hey,” you heard Lucifer’s voice on the other side, “it’s me. Can we talk?”
You didn’t dare move. You hid your head in your lap, pleading silently that he would give up and go away.
You heard him sigh. “I can see your shadow, you know.”
God damn it…
Slowly you rose from the floor, your trembling hand latching onto the doorknob. But your brain wouldn’t let you turn it no matter how hard you tried. How could you possibly face him after what you saw?
“Please?…”
The way he sounded so desperate; it was impossible not to give in. With a heavy sigh, the doorknob turned and you cracked open the door just enough to see Lucifer standing just outside, his glassy eyes looking into yours. You looked away immediately.
“Hi…” you whispered staring down at the ground.
He lowered himself in an attempt to get you to look at him again. “Can I come in?”
You nodded, opening the door inch by inch until he was able to step inside. You shut the door behind him, folding your arms over your body. You still hadn’t looked at him. The silence between you two was deafening, but you knew he wasn’t going to leave until you talked.
“I’m so sorry!” you both shouted simultaneously. “Wait, what?”
"Hold on now!" Lucifer interjected, "You have nothing to apologize for!"
"Of course I do!" you retorted. "I invaded your privacy when I watched...uhh, n-never mind." When you glanced in his direction, his entire face almost matched the pink circles on his cheeks. You couldn't bring yourself to look at him any longer. "I-It was an accident! I came up to apologize for scaring you off again. But...I heard you call my name a-and I just assumed you already knew I was outside, so I opened the door and...I'm so sorry, I should have knocked, and I should have left immediately…I-"
You didn't notice Lucifer make his way towards you, throwing his hands onto your shoulders and snapping you out of your spiral. "Hey, no more of that," he soothed. "I'm not angry, and I didn't come here to scold you. This is all on me."
You felt tears begin to well up in your eyes. "B-But..."
"My dear, this is my fault, not yours," Lucifer cut you off, bringing his thumb up to cheek to wipe a tear that had fallen. He realized how close he'd gotten to you in his attempt to calm you down. Flustered, he stepped back, folding his arms over his chest. You already missed the closeness. "If you'd let me, I'd like to apologize and, you know, at least attempt to explain myself. Not that what happened was excusable. But if you'd rather I leave now, I'd more than understand. And I don't expect your forgiveness. I...just thought it best to apologize to you directly instead of continuing to avoid you and pretending like nothing happened. I'm deeply and truly sorry for everything."
You felt the sincerity in his words, and you saw the pain in his face thinking he had hurt you. You couldn't let him leave. Not yet.
"Stay...please..." you managed to respond. You made your way over to your bed and gestured for him to follow. You sat down crossed legged near the edge of the bed, Lucifer mirroring your actions. You took a deep breath before speaking once more. "I'm not angry with you either, you know."
A strange mixture shock and confusion flashed across Lucifer's face. "Y-You're not?"
You smiled wearily. "No, I promise. I mean, I'm a little taken aback..." Lucifer winced. "...but not in a bad way! If anything, I feel...flattered, you know?" Your face burned at your own candor. A quick glance at him showed he felt the same heat in his own cheeks.
"R-Regardless," Lucifer cleared his throat, "it was still wrong of me. I could try to give excuses about...my ex-wife being gone for more than 7 years now, or tell you that watching you from afar just sparked something in me that I hadn't felt in God know how long, or..."
"You've been watching me?" you teased, flashing him a small grin.
"Shhhhit, well, I uhh...only sometimes!" Lucifer tried to reason. "A-And not for very long! I just, umm, I just noticed how kind you are with everyone you come into contact with, and you're extremely helpful when it comes to the hotel! And your smile...I MEAN, uhh, C-Charlie absolutely adores you with the way she goes on and on about your progress! We both wonder how you even ended up down here in the first place. And well, you...you're," he gulped, "you're the most beautiful creature I've ever laid my eyes on..."
You sat there frozen, your body trembling slightly. Your mind raced a million miles a minute. You tried to get your mouth so form any sort of words, but nothing. Lucifer started to panic.
"I-I'm sorry! That was really forward of me! I shouldn't have-I uhh...God, this is the worst fucking apology imaginable!" Lucifer brought his hands to his face, covering his eyes and lowering his head. "Maybe it would be best if I just g-MMPH!"
You don't know what came over you, but somehow your lips crashed into Lucifer's. His hands flew from his face, now gripping the bed sheets beneath him. He sat perfectly still, but only for a moment. He couldn't help but give into you, letting his eyelids flutter closed and melting under the kiss. You pulled away after only a few seconds, Lucifer leaning his head forward slightly, still needing more. His crimson irises had grown into saucers, his face hot as the sun. Having the literal King of Hell flustered beyond belief from a single kiss was a sight you absolutely wanted to see more of.
"If you think I'm beautiful, then you are someone who is beyond beauty, your majesty," you cooed. You weren't completely sure where this sudden burst of boldness had sprung from, but you liked it. And from what you were witnessing, all signs pointed to Lucifer being completely enamored with it as well.
You went back to your seated position, but now Lucifer was on all fours, crawling ever so slowly towards you. "P-Please..." he begged, "I-I need more..." His face was now mere inches away. He rested his forehead on yours, waiting for your lips to touch his again. The faint smell of apples that hugged his skin was intoxicating.
"You want me to kiss you again?" you asked playfully. "Then you need to tell me something, darling."
Lucifer's breathing had picked up at the sound the pet name you'd given him, his eyes screwed shut. "A-Anything!"
"Tell me then," you said as you began to stroke his soft blond hair, "what were you thinking about when you were touching yourself to me?"
Lucifer whimpered against you. "Anything but that! Please! I-I can't..."
You pulled your forehead away from his, still patting his hair. "I think it's a little too late to be shy now, my king."
A low moan escaped Lucifer's throat as he inched towards you once again. "I...I was thinking...about how wonderful you would taste on my tongue...." He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I was thinking about how...how pretty your lips would look around my cock." A kiss to your left cheek. "I was thinking about watching you...fuck...watching you ride my cock until I have nothing left in me." A kiss to your right cheek. "But mostly...I was thinking about how badly I want you to be mine..."
Your lips met once more, and with even more vigor than before. His devilish tongue swiped against your bottom lip, begging to delve in further. When your lips parted, your tongues had clashed with such voracity that it had knocked you down onto you bed, Lucifer now completely overtaking you. His hand found the back of your head and pulled you closer into the kiss which you didn't even think possible. With his body completely flat on top of you and even through your robe, it didn't take long for you to notice a certain bulge pressing against your stomach. You chuckled lightly, causing Lucifer to pull away, knowing exactly what you had felt.
"Ha...sorry...my uhh, my body has a mind of its own," he laughed nervously. "If this is too much for you, w-we can slow down. Or just stop completely! It's...It's been a while for me a-and I don't want you to be uncomfortable..."
You placed your hand on his shoulder and gently guided him off of you, putting him on his knees. In an instant, you tossed your robe to the side, revealing your cute black nightgown that left very little to the imagination. Lucifer sucked in a breath as he frantically started shedding his own clothes as well, removing his jacket and dress shirt in a manner that really emphasized his desperation for you. You couldn't help but stare at his bare chest and how it almost glistened in the faint lighting of your room.
"Do you think you're the only one who's body is reacting to this?" You shoved him down gently onto his back, his head now resting against your pillows. "But instead of just telling you, why don't you see for yourself?" You crawled up his body, dragging yourself against home until you straddled his chest.
"Oh, fuck me..." Lucifer almost inaudibly. He snaked his hands up the skirt of your nightgown until his hands reached them hem of your panties. He looked up at you expectantly, and with a final nod from you, you felt him tug your underwear down your legs. He pulled them down slowly, lifting one leg out first and kicking them off with the other. You gazed at him seductively, your glistening entrance now mere inches away from waiting lips. Lucifer's hands grazed up your thighs before stopping just before where you needed him most. Lucifer's breath hitched.
"It's alright," you reassured him. "Touch me. Please, Lucifer..."
"Ahh, wait!" Lucifer stopped his movements entirely. With a quick snap of his fingers, you heard your door lock itself. "We don't want another incident now, do we?"
You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his theatrics, but it made you giggle, nonetheless. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're stalling!"
Lucifer laughed. "My sweet angel, if you've learned anything about me in last few minutes, it's that I couldn't wait another second longer for you even if I tried."
With those words, you felt his fingers finally find their way to your folds. It was like an electric shock had coursed through your entire body when he touched you. He'd barely begun and you were already soaking wet. His thumb found your clit instantly as he began to rub small circles around it, sending wave after wave of pleasure. You lifted your hips slightly so his figures could push their way inside of you. Words couldn't begin to describe how good he felt. He told you himself that it had been some time since he'd been with anyone, but there was no indication of this being the case as his two digits pumped in and out of you at a steady pace. He knew exactly what he was doing. You whimpered when you felt him pull his fingers out of you, only to watch him dip them into his mouth, cleaning off your slick entirely. "God, you're more delectable than I could have ever imagined! Please, let me taste you, all of you..."You blushed hard and nodded. You scooted yourself up further, hovering directly over his lips. "Still too far..." you heard him say before his hands latched onto your hips and forced you down so you were seated firmly on his face.
"L-Lucifer!" you cried weakly, trying to pull yourself up. You knew it was futile though. Damn him and his angelic strength.
"You won't hurt me, darling, I promise," he said with a wink. "Besides, breathing is overrated..." You felt his forked tongue immediately dart in and out of your drenched pussy. Your broken moans filled the room as he ate you out like it was his last meal. Lucifer switched between tongue fucking you and sucking on your sensitive nub at a relentless pace. That coil in your stomach was tightening with each movement he made.
"Lu-Luci-fer, o-oh my God, f-fuck, I-I can't." You tripped over every other word that left your lips. Your body started to tremble and your thighs shook violently as you felt your impending orgasm. "I-I'm gonna c-cum, gonna cum, oh SSHHHIIIIITTT-FUCKFUCKFUCK C-CUMMING!" You cried out helplessly as you felt your walls clench around nothing, your juices spilling out onto Lucifer's more than eager tongue. He rode you through your orgasm, lapping you up and not wanting to waste a single drop. You felt him release his hold on your hips so you could at last move back down to his chest. You stared at him wide eyed as he looked back at you with the biggest smile you've ever seen. You felt the heat rise up your neck and cheeks as you watched him lick up the rest of your release that hung on his chin.
"W-Wow, that was...fuck, that was amazing," Lucifer sighed. "Are you alright?"
"I-I'm fine," you breathed, "more than fine. You...really know how to use that tongue of yours." Lucifer flashed you a toothy grin like he had just told you the worst joke imaginable. You wanted to hide your face but damn it, he was too adorable when he looked at you like that!
"Well, you got your first wish. Allow me to grant your next one..." You shimmied down his body until your face lingered above the very obvious strain in his pants. "Let's make you more comfortable shall we?" You unhooked his belt in mere seconds, his pants following soon behind, leaving him in nothing but his briefs that already had a large wet spot in the front.
Lucifer managed to prop himself up on his forearms, his blush spreading to his entire face. "Sweetheart, y-you don't have to do that, I'm fiii-iiiiii-oooh fffffuck..." Lucifer's protest were cut short when you had brought your hand up to palm his very apparent erection through his shorts.
"Now that's hardly fair, Luci," you scolded him, "I think I deserve my fill too, don't you?" Before Lucifer could choke out an answer, you hooked your fingers along his waistband and pulled his briefs all the way down his legs, freeing his painfully hard cock at last. You stopped for a moment to marvel at his length, having to stop yourself from drooling. "O-oh wow, that's umm...that's big..."
Lucifer chuckled nervously above you. "Y-Yeah, sorry about that. I think? Like I said, y-you don't have to-GAAHHH!" Without warning, you delicately gripped Lucifer's shaft, stroking it lethargically. Even though you were moving as slow as possible, the king was already a moaning mess. "S-Shit, you-fuck...feels so good..."
"Is this what you imagined, your highness?" you cooed, now rubbing your cheek against his cock in tandem with your hand. "I wanted to help you out earlier, you know that? When I saw you stroking yourself, I almost pushed opened that door so I could give you what you really wanted. But hey, better late than never!" You chuckled lightly as you licked up his shaft to the very sensitive head of his cock. The taste of his precum was addicting, you craved more. Lucifer writhed under your touch as his whimpers became music to your ears. You circled your tongue around the tip, earning a guttural moan from the man beneath you. You glanced up and noticed Lucifer's eyes were squeezed tight, with his claws digging into your sheets.
"Look at me," you ordered him while you continued to pump his cock. His chest rose and fell faster and faster as he forced his eyes open. "Good boy. I want you to keep your eyes on me." You smiled at him wickedly as you parted your lips and sunk down on his shaft.
"A-AHHH, OOOH FUCK!," Lucifer yelped as he fought against throwing his head back in pure bliss. Your warm mouth enveloped him, the taste of him was nothing short of divine. Your head continue you bob up and down, taking as much of him as you could. Lucifer was a blabbering mess, only able to make incoherent noises. His ability to think had all but disappeared. All he could focus on was the immense pleasure your sinful tongue was providing. His breaths became shallow as your mouth lingered on his cock, refusing to move.
"I-I ca-FUCK...H-HOLY SHIT," Lucifer nearly screamed, his hips now bucking up uncontrollably, forcing you to take more and more of him. "CU-CUMMING, CUMMING...MMPH OHFUCKME!" With one final thrust, you felt his cock twitch, his hot seed filling your mouth. You sucked him off through his orgasm, taking in and swallowing every bit of cum he had. Once he'd finished, you finally let go with a small *pop*. You made your way up his body once more and hovered over his face with a giant grin. You opened your mouth to show him some cum you still had on your tongue before swallowing it down gleefully.
Lucifer's hands flew to his face immediately upon watching you. "I can't believe you just did that! How am I ever going to recover?!"
You laughed as you pulled his hands away from his face, leaning down to kiss him tenderly. He happily returned your kiss, his thumbs rubbing circles on your hips under your nightgown. Lucifer leaned his head back on the pillows and tugged at the hem. "May I?"
"Of course," you nodded. He helped raise your nightgown, lifting it up and easily tossing it over your head and onto the floor. You sat up straight, straddling his stomach and giving him a very nice view of your breasts. "I know you've already felt them once tonight, but I'll let you touch them again if you ask nicely."
"Oh, ha ha," Lucifer mocked playfully, "very funny. That was technically your fault! I didn't just lay on your chest for fun, you forced me there when you pulled me away from the fire!"
You smirked and took ahold of his wrists. "Do you want to touch my tits or not?"
"...Yes, please..."
Smiling, you brought his hands to your breasts. A soft hum emitted from both of you as Lucifer began to knead at your soft mounds, his thumbs running over your sensitive nipples. Suddenly, he started to roll them between his thumb and index fingers, causing you to squeak in surprise. He sat up quickly, pushing you back so that you were now kneeling on the bed and hovering over his thighs. He took one nipple into his mouth as he continued his ministrations on the other. You moaned at the sensation, taking your hand and holding the back of his head for support. He switched sides, making sure your other nipple got the same amount of attention. The feeling of his teeth grazing you nipple sent shivers down your spine.
"Luci," you whispered into his ear. "you had one more fantasy you told me about, did you not?" Lucifer pulled away from your breasts, his eyes wide and full of anxiety. You could feel his heartbeat racing as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"O-Only if you want to," his muffled voice reverberated off your skin.
"Yes, I do." You pushed Lucifer back down gently, noticing his cock was already hard again even without any further stimulation. "My, my, eager are we?"
"Very much so, yes," Lucifer whined.
"You're adorable, you know that?" you praised. Lucifer blushed hard and tried to cover his face once more before you pinned his hands above his head. "Don't you dare hide that pretty face from me, sweetheart. I want to see every single little cute expression you make once you're inside me." A small whimper left his mouth as you released your grip on his hands. You shifted yourself in order to line up your entrance with the tip of his cock, slowly rubbing it between your slick folds. "Are you ready?"
Lucifer gasped and threw his head back in response. "Y-Yes, please...need you...need to feel you..."
You began to sink down on his length, feeling him stretch you out beyond what you ever felt before. A beautiful mix of pain and pleasure coursed through you as you finally bottomed out on his cock, both of your moans echoing off the walls. Tears pricked your eyes as he filled you completely, as if you felt whole, now connected as one. You shifted your hips ever so slightly, but it was enough for Lucifer sit himself upwards and wrap his arms around you in a tight embrace.
"You really f-feel like heaven," Lucifer breathed. "P-Please...please say you'll be mine..."
A single tear drifted down your face, and your heart was threatening to burst out of your chest at any moment. You eagerly returned his embrace, wrapping your arms around him and bringing him as close to you as you possibly could. “I’m yours, Lucifer.” You cupped his face in your hands and brough your lips to his, sealing your promise. Feeling him twitch inside of you, you lifted your body off of him and gently sank back down. You swallowed Lucifer's moans as you continued your pace, bucking your hips and taking all of him with each sharp thrust. Lucifer's hands flew to your hips as he helped you up and down his aching cock.
"F-Fuck, y-you're killing me here, darling, I-HNNG...I'm close..." Lucifer sobbed was your pace became relentless. His hips were now rutting into you as he slammed you down onto him. Your eyes had crossed and drool began to pour down the side of your lips. You were absolutely and unashamedly cock drunk. The tightening in your stomach became almost unbearable, your release was fast approaching and so was his. "FFFFUUUUCCKK, g-gonna cum, g-gonna-ACK, c-can I?..."
"Inside L-Luci," you pleaded, "inside...fill me n-now-GAH F-FUCK, C-CUMMING!" Your walls clenched around his thick cock, pulsating relentlessly as Lucifer continued to pound into you making your vision blur. Your cries mixed with his as you felt him empty inside of you. The grip you had on him loosened as his wings suddenly sprouted out from behind him, catching you by surprise. Lucifer didn't seem to notice, too overtaken by his orgasm. He bit down on your shoulder harshly to keep himself from screaming while his hot seed continued to pour into you. Your muscles finally relaxed as you both came down from your highs. Lucifer's tongue lapped at the mark he had left on you, soothing the sore spot. But now that he'd given you your first mark, all you wanted to do was beg for more.
"S-Sorry about that," he smiled sheepishly. "I didn't mean to bite you so hard." He turned his head, finally noticing his ruffled wings. "O-Oh! Well...that's new."
You chuckled. "Your wings are beautiful, Lucifer." You ran your fingers over a few of his scarlet feathers; they were the softest things you've ever felt. His wing folded towards your touch, now almost fully engulfing the two of you. "Wait, are you apologizing for marking me? I'm yours, am I not? Now I have proof!"
Lucifer buried his face in your chest. "L-Love, you can't say things like that! You're gonna drive me insane!"
"Love?" you repeated.
He shot his head up in a panic. "I-uhh...is that okay?"
You kissed his lips tenderly. "It's more than okay, love."
You watched his wings puff up at your words, his smile wider than you've ever seen before. You then carefully pulled yourself from his lap and laid down ever so gently on his one set of wings while the other set wrapped around your body. Lucifer wrapped his arms around you once again, now feeling a double layer of protection and comfort.
"Thank you," he murmured against your ear.
"No, thank you," you whispered back. "It was wonderful, truly. And at least now I can stop worrying about whether or not you hate me!"
You heard a small hum leave Lucifer's lips. "That couldn't be further from the truth, my dearest." A placed a small peck to your forehead. "Do you...mind if I stay here tonight?"
You shook your head. "I wouldn't let you leave even if you wanted to," you teased. "You're mine now too." Fatigue flooded your body as you yawned and felt your eyelids fall. You snuggled your head against Lucifer's chest before unconsciousness had taken over.
"Forever," was the last thing you heard before drifting off to sleep in Lucifer's arms.
~~~
WHY THIS ENDED UP BEING SO LONG IS BEYOND ME, HOPE YOU LIKE IT ANYWAYS!
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Kabbalah in the Worldbuilding of Genshin Impact; Part 2: Descending to the Garden
Written by Sabre (@paimoff on twitter) and Schwan (@abyssalschwan on twitter)
This theory assumes you’ve completed the Fontaine Archon Quests, as well the Narzissenkreuz questlines. If you haven’t, you will be a) very confused and b) very spoiled.
A Tale of Four Descenders
Four entered the pardes (orchard/garden)...one looked and died, one looked and went mad, one looked and cut down the saplings (apostatized), and one came in peace and left in peace [1].
This Jewish legend appears in multiple locations throughout the Talmud and its commentaries, and is associated with two pre-Kabbalah schools of Jewish mysticism known as Merkabah (chariot) and Hekhalot (palaces) mysticism. Both depicted visions of the throne of God (chariot) and the heavenly palaces, and provided instructions for how one might ascend to heaven to receive some kind of revelation or knowledge. The orchard/garden represents esoteric Torah (Jewish law) knowledge; this is why the euphemism for apostatizing is to “cut down the saplings.” (I know he says “blasphemy” (which is different), but this is reminiscent of what Dottore says at the end of Winter Night's Lazzo.)
The pardes legend first appears as a warning to scholars about the consequences of teaching about the “chariot” to disciples who are not ready. Though it's not mentioned in this specific text, this process of meditating to ascend to the palaces of God is referred to as “descending” in the writings of the Merkabah mystics [2].
In other words, this legend tells the story of four descenders.
In the conclusion of the Sumeru Archon Quests, Nahida tells the Traveler about the existence of the “Descenders." Based on the information she got from Dottore in exchange for her Gnosis, she shares that:
Descenders are “external beings, ones that don’t belong to this world”
There are at least four of them, and the Traveler is the fourth
According to the Fatui, the Traveler's twin is not a Descender
The Traveler is not recorded in Irminsul, but their twin is
Nahida speculates that the First Descender is the Heavenly Principles, but the identity of the second and third are unknown to her. At that point though, we still didn’t know what it was that Descenders do, or what the exact criteria for being one is, only that it couldn’t be as simple as just being from outside Teyvat.
The Fontaine World Quest series about the Narzissenkreuz Ordo fills in some pieces of the puzzle; specifically an additional criterion to be a Descender: they must be someone with a will “that can rival an entire world.”
In retrospect, Inversion of Genesis also hinted at the role of a Descender; The Traveler witnesses the results of someone attempting to change fate and/or the world and failing.
Nahida: Changing the world, changing the past, changing the fates of other people... These are not simple things to accomplish.
Nahida: What you were looking for is complete annihilation... But this is just a fantasy. Even if The Balladeer is removed from existence, the world will not heed your will. (Inversion of Genesis)
For most people, actually “changing the world” is impossible. But for a Descender, it might be different.
Will
...Though the results are nothing impressive, this is because the object they chose was pure elemental force, which lacks any will whatsoever. Like the difference between the Director (Lyris) and a Hydro Slime, perhaps?
...Actually thought of a possible breakthrough during the process... Even though the calculated result is unchanged, but if the refinement method is reflected... If the power of... then maybe we can extract the "will" within. Using this method... resist the impact… (Excerpts from Rene's Investigation Notes)
...The true source of the mysterious power unique to this place that the locals call Khvarena is unknown. But based on its ability to eliminate or reverse the influence of the Abyss (in fact, it is a type of annihilation reaction), the two powers are of the same level, that is to say, they are of the same order in terms of rules...
...In other words, both possess the power to "re-write the rules"...
...Regrettably, be it Abyss or Khvarena, all current users are stuck in an "unconscious" stage of being influenced and overwritten by their power… (Bizarre Transcript)
The Gavireh Lajavard region of the Sumeru desert introduced us to the writings of Rene, a precocious researcher with world-saving ambitions and not nearly enough adult supervision, as well as his only slightly Abyss-corrupted bestie Jakob. Like the Khaenri'ahns before him, Rene was searching for a power that had a “will,” believing it necessary to save Fontaine from an unspecified disaster that we would later learn is The ProphecyTM. During their time in the desert (which was right after the cataclysm), Rene determined that both Abyssal and Khvarena power have a will, but pure elemental energy did not.
Some time after their trip to Sumeru, Rene and Jakob would found the Narzissenkreuz Ordo, with the goal of finding a way to save Fontainians from being dissolved in the primordial sea-laced floodwaters. They would do this by dissolving all humans in Fontaine with primordial seawater in a controlled manner, melding everyone together into one Oceanid-like being to survive the apocalypse (think Human Instrumentality Project from Evangelion).
Rene had predicted the coming apocalypse with something he called his “world-formula,” and in addition to predicting the doom of Fontaine, it also informed him that “unlike the world depicted in these ancient texts, there will be no more new civilizations born.” The only way this could be changed would be by introducing a new “‘variable’ from outside the system” into the formula (Enigmatic Page 1). Rene’s goal was to become this variable, i.e., a Descender.
Four Worlds
The Tower of Ipsissimus comes from an old concept from the ancient Fontainian kingdom of Remuria, and was used to describe a powerful will that could rule, sustain, and destroy the world.
This tower was designed by the Narzissenkreuz Ordo, and it represents the evolution of the human soul and the infinite mysteries of the world.
The Narzissenkreuz Ordo believes that people continuously refine themselves through samsara cycles. These include Hyperborea, Natlantean, Remuria, and the first half of the fourth samsara (Khraun-Arya), which we are presently experiencing. Please take note that these are just names given to these eras by the Ordo based on ancient texts, and this evolution refers to spiritual evolution. There is no intent here to antagonize any research results obtained by the Akademiya. The human spirit undergoes the loss of paradise, the defeat of evil dragons, the original sin and baptism, and finally, freedom from the gods.
The term samsara is typically used to refer to the cyclic nature of reality, and can be used to describe concepts like reincarnation. It is not, however, referring to time loops. There is A Lot to unpack about this note, but for the purposes of this theory we will be focusing on the concept of these “four samsaras” and their relationship with the concept of a Descender, specifically that there seems to be the same number of samsaras as Descenders.
You may be wondering - this is Kabbalah world structure theory and we’ve yet to discuss Kabbalah. Well, it’s time now! But before we can get into specifics, we first need to review some terms discussed in Part 1 and then go through some basics of Lurianic Kabbalah.
Ah, the irony of calling anything about Lurianic Kabbalah “basics.” Caveat that what follows will be a simplification of concepts that are very difficult to grasp (I definitely don’t know what’s going on).
Creation of the World, Kabbalah Edition
Previously, we compared the “limitless light” emanated by God to create the world to the power of elemental energy, and compared the sefirot of the Tree of Life to the seven elements. The sefirot are components of this divine light (like light passing through a prism and refracting) and represent attributes of God that are used to create the world. The sefirot are traditionally depicted together in the form of a tree, which maps out their relationships with each other. For more details on the similarities between Kabbalah and Genshin worldbuilding, consult Part 1 (link) if you haven't read it yet.
Kabbalah focuses on describing the relationship between the infinite God and the finite universe and how it was created, with variations between different schools of thought. In this theory, we’ll be primarily focusing on the ideas of the Kabbalist Isaac Luria. The central idea of Luria’s philosophy was a concept he called Seder Hishtalshelut, or “Order of Evolution,” which refers to the cycles of “exile” and “redemption” (creation and destruction) the world is eternally experiencing. In the Lurianic system, time isn’t linear; the world was created in the past, but it’s also being created now.
The beginning of this Order of Evolution is referred to as the Tzimtzum, or Contraction. This refers to the contracting of the infinite God to make a space where reality could be created. Once this is created, a ray of divine light enters the void and begins to emanate reality. This is similar to the concept of the Pleroma in Gnosticism. The further the divine light gets from the source, the more it starts to break down into separate parts. More specifically, it breaks down into the Four Worlds, which represent stages of the evolution of reality, but also stages of the spiritual evolution of the human consciousness.
The Four Worlds are:
0. Adam Kadmon - Primordial (Original) Man
1. Atziluth - Emanation
2. Beriah - Creation
3. Yetzirah - Formation
4. Assiah - Action
Material reality is distinct from these four worlds; the ‘real’ world emanates out of the fourth world, Assiah. Each of these four worlds have their own sefirot structure, which in themselves contain additional sefirot, on and on, like a fractal. Luria called these recursive structures “tree systems” [3]. In Genshin terms, this is like how we have Irminsul, the world tree, but also the other smaller Irminsul trees in domains.
(Fun Fact: this schematic is sometimes called Jacob's ladder)
The system of the Four Worlds and their nuances are very interesting in themselves, but for the purpose of this theory, we’ll be focusing on the 0th world, Adam Kadmon, and the symbolism associated with this concept in both Kabbalah and general Jewish philosophy.
Primordial (Hu)Man
The concept of an ‘original man’ is discussed in Philo’s commentary of Genesis, where he describes this being as androgynous, connected to the concept of Logos, and the Idea/Form of humanity in contrast to the ‘earthly man.’ Philo’s definition of the Logos was something closer to the concept of a demiurge-a being responsible for creation of the world. Logos literally means ‘word’ or ‘reason’, and otherwise typically refers to divine reason, or the word of God.
It’s important to note that here the use of the word ‘man’ refers to a human being, not specifically a male person. Though often described as a man, the Primordial Man of Kabbalah is considered androgynous (like the Primordial One of Genshin).
The Zohar (a foundational work of Kabbalah) describes the Primordial Man as the “image of everything that is above [in heaven] and below [upon earth]; therefore did the Holy Ancient [God] select it for His own form.” The Primordial Man is the personification of the 10 sefirot together and represents a microcosm of the universe (macrocosm) [4].
Narzissenkreuz: I... I sense "reason." Visitors, are you the successors to Narzissenkreuz, or are you a threat?
Narzissenkreuz: Is "Reason" that which grants you such strength?
Narzissenkreuz: No, I have noticed. Have you always been in that realm that I pursue? O, you who are equal to a world! (Waking From the Great Dream)
Man, as he was before his fall [first sin], is conceived as a cosmic being which contains the whole world in itself (Trends in Jewish Mysticism, pg. 215)
Lurianic Kabbalah considers the Primordial Man to be the highest level manifestation of God that can be conceptualized by humans. The world of Adam Kadmon precedes the emanation of the lower Four Worlds, but each of these worlds have their own corresponding anthropomorphic figure as well [5]. In contrast to the worlds that follow Adam Kadmon, the sefirot of Adam Kadmon are not in a Tree of Life configuration, but rather in the configuration known as “upright,’ arranged in the shape of the human body.
The concept of a Primordial Man exists in other religions and mythologies as well. There’s the Gnostic Anthropos, Adam Kasia of Mandaeism, the ‘Universal Man’ (al-Insān al-Kāmil) of Sufism who functions as an Axis Mundi, the world-soul of Platonism, Gayomart of Zoroastrianism, and more. The symbolism of the human body as mediator between the divine and the material world is not unique to Kabbalah. Kabbalah’s version of the World Tree and Primordial Man both function similarly to the Axis Mundi; they are the same emanations of the divine, just arranged in different configurations.
Will and the Primordial Man
In Kabbalah, Adam Kadmon represents the will of God, specifically the will to create. The blueprint for the creation of the world is contained within this being/world, all superimposed together into a “primordial thought.” Within Adam Kadmon, there is no distinction between the individual sefirot, or rather, between anything at all. Everything is contained with this world/thought, but there is no time, no space, and no limitations. WIthout limitations, individual beings and concepts cannot be created. Therefore, the unity of Adam Kadmon had to be broken; specifically into the 10 sefirot, which could then assemble themselves into new configurations and continue the process of creation [6].
Narzissenkreuz: The witness of all, the recorder of all, the designer of all.
Narzissenkreuz: Only one who is worth a world can bear that title. (Waking From the Great Dream)
If the righteous wish to do so, they can create a world.
(Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 65b)
Back in Part 1, we compared pure elemental energy to Kabbalah’s divine light of creation and the ten sefirot to the seven elements. If we apply this analogy to Adam Kadmon, doesn’t a being that could (theoretically) resonate with all elements and would eventually meet their end by being broken up into many pieces sound familiar?
At the end of Act V of the Fontaine Archon Quest, Skirk tells Neuvillette that the Gnoses are actually the “remains of the Third Descender.” Neuvillette, the Traveler, and Paimon speculate that this is possible because as a Descender, they would have also had the same unique compatibility with the elements as the Traveler. Neuvillette’s character stories refer to the remains of the Third Descender as the “seven remembrances,” which were used to create a new “order” for the world, with “all fragments of the primordial…driven to devour each other.”
Rene’s notes in the Tower of Ipsissimus directly tell us that there is a connection between the concept of the Primordial Man and Descenders:
"Lies beneath the great sea" is, itself, an interesting phrase. It comes from ancient Sumeru texts, and should be read as "Narayana*," which also means "primordial human."
This, too, is my goal, for not all that comes from beyond may be as one that "descends." That title belongs only to wills that can rival an entire world.
That is what I seek, the way to become just such a will, one that can protect the world, sustain the world, destroy the world, and create the world.
[*Narayana (Sanskrit: नारायण, romanized: Nārāyaṇa) is one of the forms and names of Vishnu, depicted as sleeping under the celestial waters, and is associated with creation. This reference aligns with Rene’s goal of using the power of the Primordial Sea to make himself a Descender. ]
In summary, we have four Descenders, we have four samsaras, and we have four symbolic worlds that are only able to exist due to the destruction of a 0th world known as the Primordial Man, who represents the totality of the divine Will to create the world and the Idea of humanity.
Keep all this information in mind, because before we can discuss the connections between samsaras, Descenders, and the Primordial Man, we must take a detour into alchemy and psychology.
Primordial God Impact
Genshin Impact has always been about the primordial - it’s literally in the name: 原神, or yuan shen, which means ‘original god.’ Many other in-game items share this descriptor, including primogems (原石), Primordial Seawater (原始胎海之水), and the Primordial One (原初的那一位). The same characters are also used in the note from the Tower of Ipsissimus when referring to the ‘primordial human’: 原初之人, which as it turns out, is exactly the same word used for the Primordial Human Project.
The Primordial Human Project has been mentioned exactly once, in a cutscene from the Shadows Amidst Snowstorms event in version 2.3. There, Albedo refered to his doppelganger who had been wreaking havoc on Dragonspine as the “failure of the Primordial Human Project.” Albedo implied that he is the “survivor” of an experiment associated with the Primordial Human Project and considers it to be related to his origins as a creation of Rhinedottir, aka the alchemist Gold.
We know very little about Rhinedottir and her motivations. She’s a practitioner of the Art of Khemia, a member of the Hexenzirkel, is labeled a sinner and blamed for the appearance of monsters during the Cataclysm, made a dragon named Durin and sent him to Teyvat during said Cataclysm, where he caused destruction everywhere he went while thinking he was playing, and might have also made Elynas, who had a similar fate. According to Skirk, she, like Skirk’s master, is “pursuing some form of perfection.”
The Great Work
Rhinedottir’s alchemical research was focused on the creation of new life and she was familiar with an alchemical text called the Opus Magnum, which she left behind for Albedo to study. The Opus Magnum is a reference to the real life Magnum Opus, or Great Work, which refers to the alchemical process of creating the philosopher’s stone from the prima materia (original matter). The process typically goes as follows: nigredo (blackness), albedo (whiteness), citrinitas (yellowing) and rubedo (redness).
Later Western alchemy would merge the citrinitas and rubedo steps into just rubedo, or include additional steps, such as the peacock’s tail stage between nigredo and albedo. Notably, the order of the last two steps in this process is reversed in the version of the process Albedo learned from Rhinedottir: rubedo is third, with citrinitas last.
This reordering isn’t universal in Teyvat: Rene’s notes disparage this choice, saying that Khaenri’ah is distracted from the true goal of the process:
..."Red" is the foundational principle, the philosopher's stone*, while "yellow" represents gold and mortal temptation. Yellow is simply bait. Red is the final goal. However, Khaenri'ah would likely seek the truth for gold's sake before turning that truth into a bread production pipeline…
[*This is the first and so far, only, time the phrase “philosopher’s stone” has been directly mentioned in-game.]
Rene has a somewhat ironic take on the Khaenri’ahn alchemical philosophy, given that Albedo’s character stories specifically say “Khaenri'ah was an underground realm, with precious few natural fauna. As such, its alchemy focused more heavily on the creation of life.” Rene often has strong opinions - but why would he care about the order of the Magnum Opus?
The Chymical Wedding of Rene de Petrichor
A recurring motif of the Great Work is the ‘chemical wedding.’ This refers to a union of opposites; male and female, sun and moon, fire and water, sulfur (Red King) and mercury (White Queen), etc, and is often depicted as taking place in a fountain. Here, in this drawing from a copy of the Ripley Scroll, sulfur and mercury wed and form the androgynous (like the primordial man) ‘philosophical child,’ which is philosophical mercury.
Philosophical mercury is the underlying principle or “divine flow” that makes alchemy and transmutation possible. Therefore, the goal of the Great Work was to pin down this mercury into matter through the four (or more) stages of the Great Work and make the philosopher’s stone [7,8].
"The Stone that is Mercury, is cast upon the Earth, exalted on Mountains, resides in the Air, and is nourished in the Waters." (Michael Maier's Atalanta Fugiens. 1617.) The cubes represent prima materia. ;)
The chemical wedding is also used as a motif throughout the story of the Narzissenkreuz Ordo. The Book of Revealing includes a schematic of the “Seal of Chymical Marriage,” which consists of a “Tree of Emanation'' and the “Four Orthants,” and was used to seal the Primordial Sea. The Tree of Emanation component is, of course, a version of the Kabbalistic Tree of Life - for more ramblings, feel free to check out my twitter thread here.
The Narzissenkreuz Ordo is likely intended to be a reference to the real life Rosicrucian Order, and the name of the seal a reference to an important text for this order called the “Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz.”
Other possible references to chemical weddings include Lyris being referred to as the ‘Red Empress,’ Rene using her power to dissolve himself and be reborn through the water, and Mary-Ann and Lyris fusing and eventually producing “pure water” aka Ann.
Actually, when you dig into it, there are many suspicious interactions between sun and moon-coded gods in Genshin lore, as well as the doomed wedding of the Seelie and the traveler from afar. My Name For Now made a really interesting video about this, so if you would like more information and speculation, check it out here.
The Philosopher’s Stone and the Self
The philosopher’s stone is the Holy Grail of alchemy: an alchemical substance that can transmute base metals into silver or gold, make someone immortal, cure all illness, make a homunculus, and more. The stone represents perfection and spiritual refinement, either of nature through alchemy, or of the self (the alchemist) [8].
Carl Jung, the founder of analytical psychology, considered the steps of the Magnum Opus to represent the process of the individuation of the self from the collective unconscious. The similarities between his interpretation of alchemical symbolism and the ideals of the Narzissenkreuz Ordo deserve their own separate analysis, but in brief: Jung defined the collective unconscious to be the shared unconscious mind between humans, full of basic instincts and archetypes, which are primordial symbols that exist in many mythologies throughout the world. Jung compared the collective unconscious to the alchemical symbolism of water, which he describes as “wisdom and knowledge, truth and spirit, and its source was in the inner man [9].”
The process of individuation separates aspects of the personality from the unconscious (the water) and then eventually integrates all components together, to form the individual self, which can now bring “order” to the unconscious (at least on a personal level)[10]. In other words, the Jungian interpretation of the Magnum Opus is that the final product, the philosopher's stone, is the Self.
If we apply this symbolism to Rene’s journey, it appears he was attempting to refine himself into a philosopher’s stone, which would explain why he was so interested in the work of the Khaenri’ahn alchemists. As he stated multiple times, his goal was to become a “primordial human,” whose will “can rival an entire world.”
Rene’s philosopher’s stone is a Descender.
The Primordial Human Project
After Rene’s failed attempt to dissolve himself in Primordial Water and be reborn using Lyris’s power, Jakob turned to his own research to try to save Rene and complete his rebirth. In his log of this time period, Jakob wrote:
...I've been interpreting the data in search of a solution and sharing the results with Rene. There has still been no response, but I can already envision his response with perfect clarity: criticizing the Universitas Magistrorum for putting the cart before the horse, neglecting the fundamental principles underlying everything, and diving straight into the details of how to put those techniques to use... How they inverted even the alchemical stages for other purposes…
...It seems that there was an alchemist from Khaenri'ah named "R" who joined a secret order. From what fragmentary records exist, it appears that they made significant headway.
There are two items of note here; the first is the mention of Universitas Magistrorum, which previously had only been mentioned in a namecard description.
The card description reads "O Almighty Sovereign, the Universitas Magistrorum has provided the predictions you requested: The two stars have been captured by the world's gravity…” which may be referencing Khaenri’ah’s summoning of the twins (Inversion of Genesis).
From the context of Jakob’s notes, we can infer that this organization was also utilizing some form of the Magnum Opus for an unknown purpose.
The second item of note is the mention of the alchemist “R,” who is almost definitely Rhinedottir, and the “significant headway” that she and this mysterious “secret order” made. It’s very likely that Jakob is interested in Rhinedottir’s work simply because he wants to make a new body for Rene; the log also mentions Remurian golems and experiments with prosthetic limbs. However, the mention of her and the Universitas Magistrorum in the same context, with Jakob’s commentary on the reversed order of the Magnum Opus, gave me the idea that sparked this whole theory (descent into madness):
Is it possible that Rhinedottir’s Primordial Human Project was intended to make a Descender?
Sometimes, very important lore gets buried in character stories. For example, the first time the term “primordial (hu)man” shows up - which is in Albedo’s fifth character story.
This art of creation was known as "The Art of Khemia."
Albedo had learned of this in his youth from reading his master's notes.
The next stage after "soil" is "chalk," which was also something his master had mentioned.
"Chalk is the spotless soil, and was used to make primordial man."
Now, Albedo understands alchemy in far greater depth than he did in the beginning, and his knowledge on the subject is far more comprehensive.
"From soil was birthed chalk."
The profundity of this statement is well understood by Albedo now.
Albedo is also the “chalk”; Rhinedottir gave him the title of Kreideprinz, or Chalk Prince. She seems to have a habit of naming her creations after types of soil. Durin was ‘humus,’ the Riftwolves are ‘alfisol,’ and Albedo is ‘cretaceus’. According to her, earth is “the basis of all life” and the “accumulated memories of time and lives,” so it makes sense she’d use soil as the starting material for her alchemical creations.
Albedo seems to be aware of the Traveler’s unique status, although he never names them as a Descender. During his Story Quest, Albedo studies the Traveler to get insight on how to help an alien flower bloom.
Albedo: The only other life form that, like you, has come here from afar, is the seed that I mentioned. Under the effects of Teyvat's natural laws, it isn't even able to sprout, let alone bloom.
Albedo: But after I observed you, I had another idea.
Albedo: Imitating you helped to inspire my alchemy, and so...
Albedo: Is not nurturing otherworldly life also nurturing the world itself?
Following the experiments he performs on them, he reveals to the player that he lied about some of their test results, and even compares himself to the Traveler.
Albedo: I made a point throughout of telling them how ordinary the results were...
Albedo: But what was that sediment I saw forming at the bottom of the vial? It should not have been there... What could it mean?
Albedo: Those born of earth are bound by its imperfections, but those born of chalk are free of impurities... You and I are alike, both composed of a substance that has yet to be fully defined...
This leaves us with questions. Assuming Albedo is similar to the ‘primordial human’, what is his role? Is he a Descender, or is he meant to work to become one eventually, like Rene tried to do?
Let’s return for a moment to the Primordial Man and Adam Kadmon. Earlier, we discussed the symbolism of Adam Kadmon; this being represents the divine will to create, also known as the “primordial thought,” as well as the Idea of humanity. Adam Kadmon is the potential for creation unified together, with no distinctions between any concepts. Hermeticism and alchemy have a similar concept, succinctly summed up in the phrase “the all is one,” which can be found written on one of the earlier alchemical drawings of an ouroboros by Cleopatra the Alchemist [11].
In Gnosticism and alchemy, this symbol refers to unity of all material and spiritual things, as well the eternal cycle of destruction and re-creation as things change form [12].
Rhinedottir shared this philosophy, as evidenced by the description for Cinnabar Spindle, Albedo’s sword.
Separate the dust in the flames with joy, and extract the exquisite from the crude.
For all in the universe comes from a single source, and all things may be derived from a single thought.
The weapon description also contains instructions for Albedo that likely tie into his expected role as a success of the Primordial Human Project.
You must pursue that which your elder brother, the one-horned white horse, could not accomplish.
Reach the far side of philosophy, and create a new destiny for myself and your brothers…
Albedo’s final assignment from Rhinedottir is to learn the “truth and the meaning of this world,” a phrase echoed by the Abyss Twin in We Will Be Reunited. Knowledge is literally power in Teyvat: both Nibelung the Dragon King and later, Deshret, utilized Forbidden Knowledge, also referred to as a “power of darkness from outside of this world”, believing it to be the only effective power to defeat the Heavenly Principles. In fact, it’s even possible that the Dragon King was one of the Descenders despite presumably being native to Teyvat. The process of acquiring the Forbidden Knowledge could have evolved him to true Descender status, although this power appears to be incompatible with Teyvat, especially in the wrong hands.
The power of the Forbidden Knowledge is similar to the metaphorical garden of the pardes myth, where out of four “descenders,” only one was able to safely leave, with the esoteric knowledge gained. The philosopher's stone also represents knowledge-it is the lapis philosophorum; literally the 'stone of wisdom'. Knowledge is also how one ascends in Gnosticism, i.e, achieving gnosis.
Perhaps this is the true method to create a Descender and Albedo’s future role: once he reaches the far side of philosophy (learns the truth and meaning of the world) and ‘evolves’ and ‘refines’ himself from albedo through rubedo and citrinitas to the philosopher’s stone, he can change destiny.
This sounds familiar…
Fortuna and Evolution
Rene’s calculations of the world-formula predicted that following the fulfillment of Fontaine’s prophecy, there would be no new civilizations formed from the ruins, as there presumably had been in the past following similar disasters. Rene believed the only way around this was for him to become a Descender, and save Fontaine from the disaster, beginning a new age. It’s implied in the text of the Book of Revealing (the version in the WQ) that the fulfillment of the prophecy would spell disaster for all of Teyvat, not just Fontaine, but even if that were not the intent of Celestia, we can use this example as an analogy for the world-formula of Teyvat.
Rene directly compared the world-formula to the Remurian concept of Fortuna:
Kingdoms rise and fall, and when a civilization is annihilated, a new one will be born after from the ashes, which these books refer to as "Fortuna"... It's somewhat rudimentary, but theoretically at least, it bears striking resemblance to the computational scheme I have formulated and termed "world-formula"...
Let’s spin the wheel of Fortuna and return to the beginning, where we first discussed the four samsara cycles of spiritual evolution and the Four Worlds. Although the samsara cycles don’t refer directly to actual historical events, their names are based on ancient texts. It’s not a large leap in logic to suggest that each of the four samsaras refers to eras in Teyvat’s history- what others in the lore community have been referring to as ‘root-cycles.’ For example, the defeat of evil dragons associated with the Natlantean samsara could refer to the war between the Primordial One and the vishaps described in Before Sun and Moon, or the war between the Heavenly Principles and the Dragon King (which might be the same thing!). The events associated with each samsara must be what ends the samsara, since the fourth, Khraun-Arya, is the current, and represents freedom from the gods, which has not happened yet.
Given that the Descenders can (theoretically) change the result of the world-formula/Fortuna, it can’t be a coincidence that there are the same number of Descenders as there are known samsaras. In addition, if the four samsaras of Teyvat function like the Four Worlds of Kabbalah, that means that a samsara-ending event would be something that results in the evolution of the world. Apep says that during the war between the Dragon King and the Heavenly Principles, Teyvat was in danger of collapsing, and that the victor of the war would “inherit the right to shape the world”. This sounds a lot like Rene’s definition of a Descender: one that can protect the world, sustain the world, destroy the world, and create the world.
The death and disassembly of the Third Descender led to a significant change in the “order” of Teyvat when the Gnoses were created to replace the “ruined” functions of the Heavenly Principles. Put another way, Descenders are able to evolve Teyvat into its next stage of evolution.
The fate of the Third Descender and ruined functions of the Heavenly Principles suggest another, alarming component to the relationship between samsaras and Descenders. It could be that as part of the process, a Descender must replace or repair an aspect of the mechanisms that maintain Teyvat. Don’t worry about the Traveler though; the fourth descender of the pardes legend gets to leave the garden in peace.
On the other hand, the first Descender in the legend is the one who dies, and in Genshin it’s the third, so maybe the list isn’t exactly in order. Of course, this comparison to the legend is partly a joke, but it is very interesting that the metaphor for apostatizing is uprooting trees….
Khaenri’ah’s World-Formula
We know from Rene’s notes that Khaenri’ah had their own version of a world-formula, or at least, their records contained information Rene could use to reverse engineer their predictions. We don’t actually know what he found there, but based on the name he gave the fourth samsara and the whole “freedom from the gods” thing, it seems they were trying to evolve Teyvat into the next samsara and make this freedom a reality. We also know that the Khaenri’ahns were searching for a specific kind of power, a power they referred to as both a “perpetual” energy source and a “secret from beyond the skies” that could “throw off the shackles imposed by this world's laws.” This power from “beyond the skies” is thought to be some form of Abyssal power, and the Khaenri’ahns who used it seem aware of a will contained in that power, a “dogma from beyond the heavens.” In fact, it’s possible that this power is the same as the Forbidden Knowledge brought in by Nibelung, which also had an influence on Apep’s behavior when they were infected with it after eating Deshret.
It appears that Khaenri’ah was familiar with something similar to the concept of a Descender, which makes Chlothar’s words to the Traveler in Caribert all the more impactful.
Chlothar: I never imagined that you, of all people, would deny the Abyss... How ridiculous!
Chlothar: We once believed that you would bring new strength and hope to Khaenri'ah.
Chlothar: To us, you were the Abyss... A wondrous mystery far beyond our imagination and comprehension...
Chlothar: ...And the one who controls the Abyss can control everything!
Chlothar: We yearned for that future. We looked to you to take us there.
The Future
As mentioned previously, the Four Worlds of Kabbalah are all precursors to the actual material reality, which will be emanated (created) from the fourth world. Luria believed that our world was not yet completely realized and needed another spiritual push from humanity to be actualized. (The mechanics of this won’t be discussed here - so consider this a teaser for Part 3 of Kabbalah theory.) Therefore in Kabbalistic terms, this fifth samara, this fifth world, would be the final and true reality for Teyvat.
This would be why Khaenri’ah needed a Descender or even merely a power that could defy the Heavenly Principles. That was why they summoned the twins, and why projects like the Primordial Human Project existed. It’s ironic that in their desire to remake the world in the image of their dreams, where they were free from the gods and the Heavenly Principles, they chose in the end to bind themselves to a will from beyond the sky, which ended up in catastrophe.
As the letter in the Khaenri’ahn ruins of Gavireh Lajavard says: “The gods are untrustworthy and the demons, ineffable. If there is one thing that can pry open the corners of this hollow world, then it can only be human will.”
Congrats on making it to the end! As you can see, this was already reaching a ridiculous word count, so there were some things I had to leave out, or only briefly touch on. So here are some people and concepts I pretended didn't exist so this didn't get (more) convoluted, but you should read about them:
Crowley and True Will, Nietzsche and the overman, Zoroastrianism as a whole, but particularly their version of the Primordial Man, William Blake's prophecies (his Auguries of Innocence is a big inspiration for the artifact lore), Schopenhauer and Will, Atman and Brahman, Plato's concept of the world-soul, SWORDS (in Genshin lore), the Holy Grail legend, and shoutout to Otto Apocalypse the real First Descender.
I do want to point out that some of the (real) people on this list, like Crowley, either were terrible people who believed terrible things, or had their philosophy used for terrible things. This also applies to other inspirations for the Narzissenkreuz Ordo. Please keep that in mind when engaging with these people's work.
On a lighter note:
Sabre’s Fun Fact Science Corner aka Miscellaneous Stuff I Need to Put Somewhere
I didn't want to have to get into explaining the lore of another piece of media but yes, this theory was inspired by a binge watch of the last arc of Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, transmutation circles and philosopher’s stone and all
On the topic of FMAB, the The Black Serpent Knights archive description states: “The long years and a curse seems to have robbed them of their reason and memory. Now, all that remains within that armor is the will to ‘fight for something, someone, and some matter.’” Funnily enough, the subtitle of the Knights is ‘Aldric’ - Alphonse Elric, anyone?
Caribert becomes the Loom of Fate to “weave his own destiny anew”, Albedo has the Cinnabar Spindle and instructions to create a new destiny - I’m sensing a theme here
Rene believed that getting a Vision was a bad thing in the process of actualizing your Will, and resulted in you selling your fate to the world. So he developed a ritual to remove a Vision from an allogene (this is only mentioned in passing by Caterpillar). So even though Albedo has a Vision, he’s not out of the running to become a Descender. But also Rene was wrong about stuff so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
The anthropomorphic imagery in Lurianic Kabbalah can get pretty bizarre, but in a fun way if you're into Genshin lore. Adam Kadmon is described as emanating divine light out of his face, specifically his eyes, to create the next world. Genshin eyeball lore is my roman empire.
As a full elemental dragon, Apep had a “world” inside their body. Rhinedottir seems to like dragons a lot; I wonder if she considers them to be similar to the primordial human. Also, there's evidence that the Traveler's elemental abilities mimic those of the elemental dragons, rather than the archons.
References:
Toseftah Hagigah 2:2 Babylonian Talmud Hagigah 14b, Jerusalem Talmud Hagigah 9:1.
Introduction to Kabbalah and Jewish Mysticism - Part 3/14 - Merkabah Shi'ur Komah & Sar Torah
Introduction to Kabbalah and Jewish Mysticism - Part 10/14 - Christian and Lurianic Kabbalah
https://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/articles/761-adam-kadmon#anchor10
https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/adam-kadmon
https://www.chabad.org/kabbalah/article_cdo/aid/380321/jewish/Chaos-and-the-Primordial.htm
https://dpul.princeton.edu/alchemy/feature/the-chemical-wedding
https://www.scribd.com/doc/11441835/The-Four-Stages-of-Alchemical-Work
Jung, Collected Works vol. 14 (1970), Mysterium Coniunctionis (1956), ¶372 (p. 278) via Wikipedia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Analytical_psychology#Individuation
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chrysopoeia
https://www.britannica.com/topic/Ouroboros
https://www.gla.ac.uk/myglasgow/library/files/special/exhibns/month/april2009.html
https://alchemywebsite.com/rosary0.html
https://www.alchemywebsite.com/rscroll.html
#geshin impact#genshin lore#albedo#narzissenkreuz ordo#rene is my poor little meow meow#tfw you write a 6000 word theory because you miss albedo so much
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The Firstborn Son (part II)
Read the first part here!
dp x dc | Batman 👻 tw for: canon-typical violence, threats against children, purposeful exacerbation of triggering events
****
Dick is sick.
It started out as a cold, but the symptoms keep shifting—Dick’s been vomiting periodically, but not frequently enough to encourage them to fetch a doctor; Dick is too cold, then too hot, and then freezing all over again.
Alfred, of course, provides ‘round the clock care, but…
Bruce can’t help it. He’s Bruce Wayne’s ward, not Alfred Pennyworth’s, so Bruce makes himself busy reading children’s books and tucking in pillows and delivering small sips of blue Gatorade to the most miserable child in the whole wide world.
(According to Dick, anyway).
(Considering the keening whimpers and constantly cleaned sheets Bruce has been replacing, Bruce is inclined to believe it.)
Bruce is down the hall, fetching Zitka from the wash, when he hears the scream.
It’s too high to be discomfort—it’s too loud to be anything but fear.
Or pain.
“B!! B B Beebeeebeebee—!!”
Bruce has never been faster in his life. Not training with the league of assassins. Not flinging himself off rooftops.
He slides into the room just in time to see a sobbing, struggling Dick leave it. A clawed hand drags the nine-year-old by the arm out of bed, across the hardwood floor, and into a toxic green rift floating in the air. And then he’s gone.
Bruce’s world melts around him.
He needs—he needs his armor. He needs his gear. Dick is gone and he needs gear—
He hurtles towards the cave so fast that he almost bowls over Alfred in his desperation. He’s practically on all fours down the stairs. Bruce nearly rips the hands off the antique grandfather clock he’s fashioned into a door trying to get it open that much faster, and he’s shoving himself into Kevlar and thick black boots as soon as he reaches his gear locker. His belt is packed. His weapons are loaded—he needs to go before that green rift closes—before Dick gets anything farther—before anything happens to him—
Alfred is going to be upset down the line for the grapple-marks on the bannister, but all Bruce can think of is how quickly he can get back up to the boy’s bedroom. He lands, he launches himself off the railing, and lunges back towards Dick’s room.
(Again, blowing past Alfred.)
“Master Bruce, what on God’s green earth—“
“Something kidnapped Dick!”
“What?”
Bruce lands with all his considerable weight on the floor of Dick’s room, ignoring the colorful circus posters and world flags tacked to the walls for the sake of a green ripple burning through the center of the room. Bruce makes to jump through.
Alfred’s grip on his arm holds him back.
Bruce can’t even process it for a moment. That his parent—who knows how important Dick is, and cares for him too—is stopping him from going in after him. And then Bruce’s ears tune back in and Bruce begins to understand a little more.
“—throwing yourself into danger with only a moment’s notice and no back-up! We need more information before you go careening, head-first—“
Bruce would normally agree.
But he can see the tattered edges of reality closing in on the green wound. There won’t be much time to go through before the rift—whatever is it and wherever it goes—closes, and his nine-year-old-ward is left alone in a secondary location.
Bruce really hopes he’s not going to leave Alfred alone in Wayne manor if he goes through this. But he has to go through with this. Bruce has always been weak to stray pets and people in need, and this boy is—he’s—he’s Bruce’s responsibility.
He doesn’t say anything. Alfred raised Bruce—he knows how to read him. Bruce uncurls Alfred’s hands from around his arm, shifts his weight, and lunges through.
The world turns uranium green.
Kryptonite green, even. Everything has this odd, incandescent glow to it; considering that he can’t see the sun, Bruce—Batman—has to guess that the ever-present light is the only substitute for solar energy.
He’s going to investigate it more. Later.
When there isn’t a huge, periwinkle dragon with Dick clutched in its lime green claws.
The dragon is as long as a school bus, with the expected claws and teeth, red eyes, and ridged spines along its back to deter predation. It looks, in a way that is almost comical, like a living, breathing version of what a child might think a dragon looks like. It isn’t a color that can camouflage even in this green environment.
There’s no ground, but—somehow—Bruce is able to launch himself forward after the beast. He’s treading…air. Or something like it. Whatever this atmosphere’s glowing substance is. Dick is scrabbling against the unyielding surface of the beast’s claws, and Batman has to fetch Dick back before something worse than sudden transportation happens.
He’s not fast enough to catch it. It can fly, and Batman cannot.
Bruce flings batarangs at its foot. With any luck, it will have to drop Dick, and he can—who knows—dip down and catch him.
It flips a wing. The batarangs are harmlessly batted away.
But its mobility is compromised as it does, unable to pump its wings as it defends itself. Interesting. There isn’t anything in particular holding Bruce up in the air, a speck in an array of floating island, but when the dragon’s wing-beats are interrupted, it no longer moves as it ought to.
The reason why doesn’t matter. It’s an exploitable weakness. Bruce hurls another two batarangs at its foot, and when it ducks a wing to hide Dick from him, he hurls another two towards its other wing.
Bingo. The dragon’s wings stutter. It doesn’t fall, as Bruce worried it might have, miraculously. There doesn’t seem to be anything but abyss below or above them.
He strides forward. Dick is miserable, snotty and sobbing in his little elephant jammies, and all Bruce wants to do is pick him up and bring him home. He’s so close. Dick is reaching out with his little, fragile hand. Bruce has to grab it back.
He’s so close. All Dick has to do is reach out and grip his black glove—
A sonic blast propels Batman back.
“Come on, Bat-boy!” Bruce hears. His head snaps upwards. A blue-haired woman with a guitar and studded black clothing floats above him, pleased to be between him and Dick.
Bruce’s eyes narrow. Finally, he gets someone verbal. “Who are you? What do you want with the boy?”
The woman’s smile is all teeth. “It’s not about what I want, Bat-guy. Care to dance for a spell?”
The guitar in her hand changes shape; the fist-shaped body of the instrument precedes the fist-shaped beam sent his way, her fingers on the strings as she summons the musical blast.
Bruce dodges the first one. The second— the third one is too close, as Bruce tries to fistfight the woman as quickly as he can to get her out of the way, and takes a sonic punch to his Kevlar-padded chest instead.
He can’t breathe. The woman takes full advantage of his breathlessness by lifting her guitar, swinging it back, and giving him a hit that would have concussed him without his cowl.
Bruce can’t move. Dick’s captor is getting away. Dick is getting dragged away and he cannot make himself move.
“Golly G, Bat boy, I thought this would be harder!” the woman laughs. “Let’s try something smoother, instead. What do you think about a love song?”
There’s no point in engaging with her. She’s actively trying to stall him from going after Dick. However, despite knowing that she’s stalling, there isn’t a great way to disengage from the fight. Dick’s cries are tapering off with the distance, and Bruce can feel his heart stuttering for reasons not related to the thoracic injury he’s just endured.
(Her fingers flick across the strings, and her guitar flickers into the shape of a heart.)
So he takes a risk. And feints. Jumps back, gets distance between them, and tries to go after his kidnapped ward fast enough that the dragon won’t escape his sight.
Bruce dodges the first few blasts, but the lack of cohesive planes of movement are disorienting. He gets hit in the side with a blast, and—
Everything does fuzzy. Concussive-fuzzy, even. Where is he going? Ember (that’s her name?) is right here. He was…looking for her. Wasn’t he? Yes. Right. He was looking for Ember.
She floats down to his height. (Perfect control of her flight, a dim part of him notices.) “You with us, Bat-boy?”
Bruce. Nods. He wants to give her good information. She’s the important thing he’s looking for.
Her smile is electric. She’s the center of the world. “Good work! If you love me, you’re going to stay here and be patient. I’ll come get you in a minute, ‘kay?”
Bruce nods. He’s getting better at making his body move. He has to listen to her; how could anyone not listen to her, when her voice is so hauntingly beautiful?
Her laughter is the sunlight. And then she’s off.
Bruce is patient.
He will wait.
He will wait.
He will…
Oh God.
Dick is gone.
Bruce doesn’t quite wake up, but—Dick is gone. His ki—his ward, the bright little bird, the light of his house is gone. He’s sick and—Alfred isn’t here, and—
His looks around the area are frantic. There won’t be footprints or dust or debris left behind, but there has to be something. There has to be something he can use to get Dick back.
Focus. He needs to focus. Whatever rip he had broken through to get here, the spatial rend that was used to take Dick, is already gone. There is no way to go back and gather intel or get help. The woman that had trapped him in his head is already gone, with no trail to follow. Neither does the dragon have a trail.
He takes a—step. Whatever the equivalent is of stepping. And then another. If he triangulates the positions of the islands he had seen the dragon fly past, he might be able to approximate a direction. Maybe. It’s all he has—
—And something cracks against the back of his cowl. Bruce staggers.
A second blow and he’s out.
****
Bruce wakes up.
He’s still in the majority of his Batgear, which is a sign that 1) there has been little attempt to frisk him, and 2), that Dick’s naming conventions have worn off on him. Bruce is in an approximately 6’ by 6’ stone cell. His limbs are free.
Still. He automatically checks his belts for his equipment. Sure enough, his belt—smoke pellets, last of his batarangs, grapple gun, lockpicks, rebreather—and everything in it is gone.
There’s still a knife in his boot, though, so that ought to count for something. His captors aren’t used to trained operatives, nor deeply-entrenched criminal elements. Likely more used to common abductions; Bruce would be embarrassed to be taken by surprise by such amateur elements, but. Well. It’s not as if he can hear the footsteps that weren’t there in that vast green wasteland.
And, just like the outside green landscape, there is no central light. Everything simply…glows.
So he wasn’t removed from this new…dimension. He is only trapped in a building within it.
The cell has bars, but not bars big enough to slip through, cowl or no cowl.
Guards flicker past in concentrated routes. They’re just as liquid and green as their uranium homeworld. Their body armor places them more closely to a riot squad than to usual prison sentencing, but it’s not as if Bruce knows why they’re here or what their role is. They’re identical, from their helmets down to their wispy…tails…
A larger, bone-white build makes its way into his field of view. “Make way,” it announces to the guards, authority barely softened with a southern twang. “I’m going to speak to the prisoner.”
Great. Batman is a prisoner.
The huge build reveals itself to be a huge, broad-shouldered man, clothed entirely in white. Black boots. Black hat. His nose is…rotted away.
“Prisoner,” the man addresses him.
Bruce says nothing.
“You’re in here for the maximum sentence of a hundred years for bringing real-world items into the Ghost Zone. There’s no trial for this sentence: the King,” the man spits, “Demanded this personally. I am Walker, and I am the warden here. Cross me and you will regret it eternally.”
A warden.
Not an active member of the legal institution, but the end of it. Interesting.
Batman draws his cape around him. “I am only here for the boy. He is nine, he is ill, and he was kidnapped from his bed. Help me find him, and I will be out of your…”
Bruce takes a look at the man again.
“…Hat.”
“No can do,” the man says, firm. “Boy’s scheduled for a private execution with his Majesty. You’re in my custody now, and the boy’s going to find himself a permanent house in the Zone somewhere. Sit tight, or else your sentence is getting a few years’ extension.”
An exec— “He is nine,” Batman snarls, more his armor than he is the man within. “He is a nine year old with a hundred degree fever—why does he have an execution date?”
The warden, Walker, gives Batman a look. “Common practice for breaking your contract with the Ghost King,” the—ghost?—explains. “No reason for you to worry about it; you certainly can’t make any contracts from in here. Nothing comes in. Nothing comes out. Get comfortable—you’re not going anywhere.”
Not going anywhe— Bruce hurls himself at the barred door and the man within it, needing to go get his ill nine-year-old as soon as physically possible. He is getting out of here, and he is getting out of here this instant. The need to get his boy back is overwhelming. The thought of Dick, aching and fevered, in his pajamas and not even his armored suit, in the hands of someone who wants to kill him—
Bruce manages to wriggle past the first two guards, but a fourth and third manage to get him in the side with electricity. He doesn’t scream. The electricity doesn’t end—Bruce grits his teeth together and he tastes copper in his mouth but he does not scream, he has to get to Dick.
“Get him back in there!” the warden barks. The hall swarms with guards, and Bruce is pushed back into the cell, slammed onto the floor.
He rolls to his feet and lunges back up, fists outstretched.
The guards are too smart to fight him, and it burns, because he wants to repay this threat to his child with blood and broken bones. (Do ghosts even have bones to break? The best way to find out is to try. The barred door is slammed in his face.
Bruce heaves all his weight against it. pushes it with all the force in his body. Tries to pick the lock with the clawed tips of his gloves.
It doesn’t move.
A hundred-year sentence. A hundred years. It doesn’t even matter that Bruce could be stuck here forever, if Dick is about to lose his life in mere hours.
He wants to bang on the bars with his fists. He does. He wants to scream. He doesn’t scream, because one action might actually damage the bars and the other will only alert the guards to his state.
A hundred years. An execution date.
Bruce has to think. He has to get his way out of here. He has to think.
Someone is accusing Dick of a crime. The punishment is execution. It’s a pressing matter, but not helpful in the first problem of finding a way out of the cell.
Bruce has accrued a hundred year sentence. This is because he has brought “real world” items into the “Ghost Zone”. His tools and gear are all from his world, ergo, the world Bruce and Dick come from are the “real world”. This makes the world Bruce has fallen into the “Ghost Zone”. Ruled by the “Ghost King”, Bruce recalls.
He buries his face in his gloves. He needs to get out. There has to be something he can use. There are guards crawling everywhere and the prison is on high alert. The bars are drawn over the door.
This world is not the real world. There must be something exploitable in its occupants, in its functionality, in its physics—right?
Bruce knows—something—about ghosts. He tries not to worry about the supernatural in his work but he’s read a little of everything in his life. They are afterimages of people. More concept than personhood. If Walker is the warden, and the guard is the guard, that is all they are. There is no personal detail to exploit.
Not going through people, then.
Ghosts… Bruce has been hit and smashed on the head a lot, but they’re not famous for combat, they’re famous for their ethereality. For being able to walk through walls, float, disappear, reappear… They have done none of that. Ghosts, if that’s what they are, while they are in the Ghost Zone, are very tangible. Bruce has taken enough hits to the head and to the ribs to prove it.
Real world objects are forbidden, for some reason, but ghost objects lack the intangibility that would be expected of them in the real world. Ghost objects in the Ghost Zone retain real world physics.
Would real world items in the Ghost Zone retain real world physics…?
Bruce takes his face out of his hands. Looks at them.
This ought to work, he thinks, and punches the wall with no intention of meeting it.
His hand goes through. Hm.
Bruce is going to get his gear, and he is going to get it now.
****
Outside the prison is a large swathe of blackness. Gone is the green sky and floating islands.
All the better for Batman’s escape, then; since he doesn’t glow, there’s no easy way to notice him in the blackness of the all-consuming atmosphere.
In the distance is a stark red castle. The towers rise in the murky atmosphere, with its own red glow seeping into the rest of the zone around it.
If Bruce would have to guess, it’s pretty likely that the Ghost King lives in the giant castle. Dick is probably there. He’s lost his ward for a few hours, so reclaiming the lost time has become essential.
Bruce strides towards the castle. Or. Flies? He’s trying not to pay attention, to be honest; it seems that one of the rules of this Zone is that if Bruce starts thinking about what ought to happen, he’ll simply impose physical laws of his own world to apply to this one and start falling. It’s not helpful.
He has to focus on getting his ward. Making a plan—to ferret his kid out of wherever they’re holding him. To make diplomatic reasons as to why his nine year old shouldn’t be executed. To get down to the bottom of the issue… At his furthest, to take the fall for whatever Dick’s been blamed for as his guardian.
That Dick might not be alive is…not something Bruce is willing to consider.
He’s going to get Dick and figure out a way home. Bruce promised to take care of him, the same way Alfred promised to take care of Bruce.
So Bruce struggles his way through the wasteland. He keeps his eyes out for stray dragons he does not see. He makes his way to a red castle, unsure of how long it’s taken or how long it’s been since Dick was snatched away.
Bruce tests the durability of the outer wall. It flows around him like water, the same way the prison cell walls had. Batman ducks inside the fortress. And—
Bruce wakes up in bed.
Alfred is there. He looks…younger. For some reason, the bed is too big for Bruce to comfortably get out of on his own, so Alfred offers his hand and helps him down.
Oh. This room is his childhood bedroom. It’s so large. Why doesn’t he remember this blue-striped wallpaper? He doesn’t think he’s changed it.
Alfred supervises as Bruce washes his face and brushes his teeth (tasks which require a stepstool), and then they go down to breakfast.
Mom and Dad are there. Dad’s dressed for work, of course; Wayne Enterprises can solve its own problems, which means that today he’ll be in his clinic’s office. Mom is still in her sleeping robe. She probably has charity work today.
Bruce only lets go of Alfred’s hands for good morning kisses from his parents.
They have breakfast.
He doesn’t seem to have school today; Alfred dresses him in his much-smaller-in-Alfred’s hands peacoat, hands him a wrapped lunch, and waves goodbye as Mom takes him in her taxi to the city.
Everything seems….warm. Fuzzy. Mom’s hand holds his as they walk through hazy city streets on their way to her charity work. Her smiles are painful and familiar in Bruce’s heart. Although he can’t remember why, he’s missed them. He plays packed games and toys with her desk pens as his mother’s office does work around him.
He blinks, and they’re at dinner. His mother is in evening dress, although his father looks like he’s rushed here fresh from work. Bruce’s shed peacoat is on the chair behind him. They’re having his favorite meal. Alfred is plating Bruce’s seconds.
Bruce thinks he’s going to cry. He doesn’t know why all the quiet domesticity hurts like a wound to the stomach. Dinner is the same as it’s always been. Bruce goes to bed with goodnight hugs and kisses and I love you!s and it feels like something has been ripped out of him and he is bleeding. All his strength is leaving him.
Or, perhaps, Alfred is right, and he’s just tired. Alfred leads him up the stairs, cracks open his door. Waits for Bruce to enter before him.
Something is wrong about the room placement. Bruce can’t put his finger on it. Bruce is supposed to be in the other room. (His parents’ room).
No, he’s not… Yes, he is. This is supposed to be Dick’s room.
The bleeding sensation in his stomach gets bigger. Deeper. Bruce presses his hand there, and looks to see if he’s bleeding. He’s. Not? But the sensation of wetness is there. He just can’t see it.
Alfred is asking for him. Bruce can’t see his face anymore—just the spot where his face is supposed to be. The colors of the walls fade. There’s water covering his socked feet. When he looks down, there’s nothing there, not even a puddle?
Where is Dick? Where did he go? He’s supposed to be in this room—this room hasn’t been Bruce’s in years—no, he just work up in it this morning. Where’s—
Batman claws out of his dream with heaving chest. He swallows back bile before he accidentally leaves evidence of his passage, because—
Right. He’s after his ward. He’s retrieving Dick from his captors. His clawed gloves dig into the castle’s plush carpet as he tries to gain back a semblance of balance. He’s trembling. He’s no use to the rescue mission if he’s trembling.
Pity, a voice slithers out. Bruce’s neck cracks as his head jerks up. Up above his bent form is an indistinct body of stars. I was hoping I could feed on you more. Never mind your breaking and entering; I’ll inform the King of your attendance. I believe there’s a special moment for a special bird in the throne room.
Bruce feels his wan face grow paler yet. This is—worse than he thought. They know whose Dick’s second identity is. At the very least, they feel comfortable implying who Dick’s second identity is.
The body of stars slides down and away. It convalesces into some sort of elegant form, a goat-shaped face topped with ram’s horns.
It doesn’t matter. It does because it reveals Bruce’s location to the entity who wishes his ward ill, but it doesn’t because it does not change that Bruce has to get to the throne room and fix this. Whatever this is. Whatever’s going on.
Whatever. Bruce hurls himself through walls and looks for the throne room.
He finds one room entirely swathed in blackness. Bruce would withdraw himself from it, except. There’s a ping on his comm. His finger goes to click it automatically. “Ro—“
There’s no further sound. The lights around him click on—blinding in their intensity, until his cowl cycles into its sunglass lenses and Bruce can finally see.
He wishes that he hadn’t.
Skyscraper-high above him, scraping the rounded ceiling at its height, is a platform. On it—surrounded by colorful ghosts flipping and walking midair—is Dick.
No. Is Robin.
Dick is clearly still sick. He’s clutching himself, taut and shaking, and Bruce thinks he can hear sniffles over the comm in his ear. But there is a domino on his face and he is dressed in the bright colors and cape, a hundred thousand feet in the air.
Bruce’s heart races. “DICK!”
“B?” Dick shouts back, faint as the wind. His head tilts around. Bruce realizes that Dick can’t see him. Probably can’t see anything with the stage lights. The entire floor would be a swath of darkness and a deadly drop. “B-Bee? B, are you there?”
“I’m here,” Bruce reassures loudly, just in case Dick’s comm isn’t working. “I’m here.”
“That’s right, the guest of honor is here!” one of the colorful ghosts shouts, and lights play on the arched dome of the ceiling above them. “Now, for the star of the show! Everyone welcome Robin, last living son of the Flying Graysons! Round of applause from the audience!”
The room is empty of everyone but the performers and superheroes. Still, applause echoes hollowly from the walls, as if there are beings living in them, or the memory of what applause is meant to sound like.
There isn’t a clear answer as to how Dick got up there—there is neither a ladder nor a net to have climbed up to reach the platform. What is clear is that there is only one way down, and Dick’s yellow-caped form is surrounded by hostile spirits in diamond unitards, all grinning identical, captivating smiles at audiences that aren’t there.
“Tonight, we celebrate the reunion of a family! This little bird is going to meet his parents again at long last. Round of applause for the petit Robin, getting his wings at long last!”
The applause goes on and on. The sound thunders in Bruce’s ears. His veins go cold. There’s a burst of noise—and then confetti begins its descent, fluttering around them in a cloud of colors.
“B?” Dick whimpers over the comm. His usual confidence is gone. There is no grapple gun. No trapeze. No wires, no edges. No nets. Only hungry ghosts at his back, ready to end the life of a little bird. “I’m scared.”
“Don’t—“ Bruce doesn’t want to lie to his son. So he doesn’t. He will simply have to succeed. He holds out his hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll catch you.”
“Bee?”
“I’ll catch you, Robin. Focus on me, okay?”
The comm crackles. “…Okay.”
Bruce swallows. The voices and the applause swallow him down just as equally, and he fights to stay present and focused. He holds out both hands. There isn’t a choice. He has to catch Dick. There is no acceptable alternative.
“I love you,” Dick says, suddenly, and that’s the only warning before Robin’s small form begins to plummet from the platform. Bruce isn’t close enough. He sprints, arms outstretched. The sight is—it’s hauntingly reminiscent of the night they met—the plummeting, the gravity, the inability to breathe, but now it’s worse because Bruce has dared to care and he loves this boy more than he can stand to rationalize his feelings for—
Bruce catches his boy around the waist. Dick is in his arms. Thank God.
Bruce sobs. Dick one-ups him by bursting into tears. There’s some functioning part of Bruce that approves of age appropriate expressions of emotion; meanwhile, the rest of him has joined Dick in his tears.
It’s instinct and immediate to pull Robin’s shivering, crying form under Batman’s cloak. Not a moment too soon: the acrobatic ghosts on the ceiling whoop and cheer, dropping from their midair revelry to descend upon them. Bruce curls up around his child. He’ll have to be the wall between Dick and the world once again.
“Love you,” Bruce mumbles, just to verbalize the emotion. Just once.
And then everything goes quiet.
There’s only the sound of Dick’s labored breathing. Bruce peels back the cloak to only see what’s in front of them.
There’s a child in the room. No one else. The colors, the lights, the confetti are all gone. He looks like Dick. He has the wrong colors—white hair, blue pajamas to Dick’s red ones—but the features are close enough to be…eerie. The effect is likely on purpose.
“It’s okay,” the boy says. An echo layers over his voice. “It’s over. No one is coming to get you.”
Bruce doesn’t move. There is no evidence to prove the statement as fact.
“There were statements made about a hundred year sentence. And an execution.”
The boy doesn’t move. And then, like the corner chipping off an ice cube, a small smile cracks through a serene façade.
“…I mean either of you. He was never in any danger. And besides, it’s over.”
Bruce needs answers. “What is over?”
“The test.” The boy is succinct.
“A test.” It’s certainly not one Bruce had opted into. “Elaborate.”
The boy’s head tilts. Bruce notices for the first time that his eyes are the same unsettling green that he had been forced to swim through to find Dick. They have the same glow as well, casting green light on his cheekbones that flickers as he blinks. “Your son says that you are a good guardian. That he trusts you to care and protect him as needed, that you would fetch him if he were in any danger far from you.”
…All of which Bruce had done. He doesn’t quite let up from his crouch. There’s no guarantee that the danger actually has passed. But it’s easy enough to rearrange his stance, to lift a quietly hiccupping Dick onto his hitched leg, to put the boy’s head on his shoulder.
The little ghost looks…fond. “I see that he was correct. As such, I have something to entrust to you.”
Bruce is rather tired of the games. “Not interested.”
The white-haired boy smiles. Little fangs protrude from white lips. “See it first. I will return you home despite either decision you make.”
And then he’s off—skipping towards the back of the room, the ethereal glow following him. The spotlights are gone, if they ever existed. There is no sign of the absent audience, the acrobats, the Ghost King that had been teased in other conversation.
There is something in the back of the room. Bruce can’t make out what it is. But the boy lifts the top and dips his arms down into it, retrieving a green-wrapped bundle from inside.
The ghost boy darts back.
In his arms is a human infant. Bruce would recognize the look and feel of real flesh anywhere. This is a newborn. So new, in fact, it’s almost purple.
“You might recognize his mother’s name,” the boy offers, bouncing. It is very clear, suddenly, that this conversation was the end game. “She gets the Al-Ghul name from her father, who sold the baby to me.”
Bruce’s lungs choke. No, Talia wouldn’t have—would she—?
The ghost doesn’t even ask before putting the baby on top of Dick, careful to balance the baby and his ward both until Bruce’s arms are around one each.
The baby grouses ever so slightly in its sleep. Dick opens gummy eyes to wipe shaking fingers across the emerald swaddling cloth.
“Baby,” Dick breathes. The grabby hands should have been expected at that point.
“Robin. You are ill.”
More grabby hands. God help them both.
The ghost laughs. Bruce would dare call it a giggle. “I cannot keep him here, or he will be dead in all the ways that matter to the living. I’ll trust you to raise this precious thing of mine, Bruce Thomas Wayne. When he becomes his own man, we may speak of his role between worlds.”
And with that alarming statement, the floor around them becomes dotted with dozens of bright points, speckled amongst the carpeting and tile. The floor dips down, drags itself out from beneath them. They are surrounded by a floor of stars, floating. Floating, until—
Bruce wakes up in bed.
****
He thinks he had a bad dream last night. Bruce doesn’t remember it all, but he isn’t sure he wants to, either; his time in the league has taught him how unsettled nightmares can make him.
Bruce washes his face. Brushes his teeth.
He has a vague memory of being worried about Dick in his dream the night before. It’s probably related to his ward’s sudden illness, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t check in on him. Just that he has an understanding how the dream originated. Bruce might ordinarily be the first downstairs and meet Dick at the breakfast table. For now, he exits the master bedroom and looks for his ward.
Dick, unexpectedly, finds Bruce first—slamming his door open, spotting his guardian in the hallway, and electing to make a running leap into Bruce’s chest.
Bruce stands there and takes it, of course. Moving might disrupt the boy’s trajectory and put him in danger of collision. Dick nearly smacks his skull against Bruce’s in his haste.
“Good morning, Dick.”
“BRUCE!” Dick shouts, which is…not unusual, but is rare so early in the morning. He clings to his guardian’s broad shoulders. “Bruce—B, I had a bad dream!”
Huh. “So did I, chum,” Bruce validates, wrapping his arms around Dick so he doesn’t fall. “Coincidental. You’re feeling better this morning.”
“Yeah!” Dick agrees with a grin. “That’s because I wasn’t sick! It was a ghost.”
Bruce’s mood does a 180. “It was a what?”
“A ghost,” Dick reiterates, impatient. His bony knees dig into Bruce’s ribs. “He gave me a ghost disease. But ghosts aren’t real so now I’m all better.”
Bruce wants to ask more questions. He really does. But then there’s a faint little cry from behind one of the shut doors of the family wing, and Dick beams like the sun has come out from the cloud. “Put me down!!”
Bruce, numb, does. Dick scampers off after the sound in his jammies, popping open the door across then hall, and then the one next to it, before ducking into the room with the door ajar.
Dick screams like a bird, and the cry grows louder. Bruce darts into the room after them.
In a previously untouched family bedroom is a walnut-brown cradle. Dick is leaning over the side and cooing like a dove, one hand in and on his tippy-toes as he tries to reach…something.
Bruce’s deja vu of his dream gets stronger. He thinks he knows what he’ll find, but…
He approaches slowly. Lets his gaze fall inside.
Inside is a tiny, Talia-brown baby boy, swaddled and grouchy.
He’s probably hungry, Bruce’s brain says. He probably needs diapers, ASAP. The rest of brain promptly lights itself on fire.
“B it’s your baby!” Dick crows, as if he was in on this. “Look, we got it back! Ooh! Ooh! Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?!”
Bruce carefully sits down on the floor before his legs lock. The nine year old takes the opportunity to climb atop his lap to reach the crib better.
There’s no clear path out of this one. So, of course, Bruce shouts back into the hall: “Alfred?”
Alfred, who has clearly had a morning of his own, rushes up the stairs and into the room without his coat, only to find his previously-missing employer, his previously-kidnapped ward, and an infant on the floor of an unoccupied bedroom.
“What have you done now?” Alfred asks, more out of gross curiosity than genuine interest. Bruce shrugs.
“Actually, do not tell me. Young Master—yes, pass the little one here, please. Thank you, Master Dick.”
There is a lot of tender memory of a younger Bruce that he must have once been in Alfred’s care; the unwrapping of the swaddle, the gentle check of limbs, of the stomach, the hands and feet. The baby is in good health, if a little lethargic.
Dick peeks into the makeshift changing-table bed as Alfred attends to the infant. “It’s a boy!” Dick shouts two inches away from the butler’s ear, startling Alfred, the baby, and a too-sensitive Bruce all at once.
Bruce opens his arms, and Dick obligingly hops in them. He’s clingier this morning than usual. Bruce isn’t sure why, but he does feel the same, so he resolves to selfishly accept all the hugs Dick is willing to spare today.
“Thank you for checking,” Bruce says, and makes a not to remind Dick about body privacy again.
“Having a first son is important,” Dick announces, apropos of nothing. “Pop Haley used to talk about it all the time. How do you feel about it?”
Bruce thinks. Gives the question its due consideration. Opens his arms, just to see what will happen, and isn’t surprised to see Dick fall into them, relieved to be wanted.
“Well,” Bruce says. “I think I already have one.”
This is clearly the wrong thing to say; Dick looks at him, stares deep into his guardian’s eyes, and promptly cries loudly enough to compete with the baby.
(Hours later, Bruce will run his hands over the new cradle while putting his son to sleep, and find Damian Al-Ghul Wayne etched neatly into the crib railing.)
#ooky spooky!!#I thought this might be like. a cool few hundred words.#nope#6000#dp x dc#danny phantom#dc#dcu crossover#batman#more the fool am I#all's well that ends well I suppose?
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RACEBENDING NATIONAL PERSONIFICATIONS: A TREATISE
DISCLAIMERS:
I AM NOT WHITE, I AM A POC. I am not writing this because I’m a butthurt white person who gets pissy when someone makes my white faves nonwhite and thus unrelatable to me for ‘some’ reason.
I AM NOT PERSONALLY ATTACKING ANY INDIVIDUALS WHO RACEBEND OR IMAGINE THEIR NATIONS TO HAVE A DIFFERENT ETHNICITY THAN WHAT THEY DO IN CANON; ON A SIMILAR NOTE, DO NOT ATTACK SUCH INDIVIDUALS FOR ME. This is a discussion of general fandom trends and a larger phenomenon, the issue I am talking about cannot be solved on an individual to individual basis.
I AM NOT TRYING TO STOP FIRST NATIONS PEOPLE FROM RECLAIMING THEIR NATIONS. As I am not First Nations myself, I would not wish to deny what these individuals emotionally and mentally reap from reclaiming their nations.
I AM NOT THE “POC AREN’T ALLOWED TO HAVE FUN AND SEE THEMSELVES IN THEIR FAVES” POLICE; I AM NOT YOUR MOM, DO WHATEVER YOU WANT. Again, this is a discussion of fandom trends and a larger phenomenon. I think it’s almost always worth examining why we do the things we do and the reasons behind a trend.
I AM NOT AGAINST RACEBENDING IN GENERAL. This is specifically an essay on racebending in nationverse Hetalia and other personified nations fandoms.
PREFACE
As stated before in my disclaimers, this essay is not intended to be a condemnation of individuals who participate in racebending. Rather, I intend to make a macro-critique of wider structures and patterns. For this reason, this essay is not accusing anyone engaging in racebending of holding any specific belief. I cannot stress enough how much I do not know you, the hypothetical reader who engages in racebending.
Again, my intent is to critique wider structures and patterns.
This essay is a conversation I would like to have with other POC and other marginalized groups, especially POC based in white, Western countries. Thus, I ask people not included in the above groups to refrain from weighing in on this.
ALTERNATIVE GOOGLE DOC LINK HERE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Difference in Reception for Racebent versus Non-Racebent Characters
The Inherent Politicism of Personifying Nations
The State of POC Representation in Hetalia
The Assumption of Interchangeability in POC Experience
The Myth of Multiculturalism
“It’s Just Fandom, Why Are You Trying to Control POC Who Just Want to Have Fun and Want to Represent Themselves?"
Conclusion
The Difference in Reception for Racebent versus Non-Racebent Characters
I will start this essay off with an acknowledgement of my station in the Hetalia fandom and how it uniquely equips me to talk about this topic – I am very fortunate to enjoy a follower base that primarily follows me for non-Western characters, whether they be canonical or my own original characters. As someone who mostly posts non-Western characters, I can confirm that there is a wider disparity in reception between drawings of my white characters and non-white characters. The following example is not from myself, but from the artist miyuecakes who similarly focuses on predominantly non-white, non-Western countries. You can see there is a drastic gap in the amount of notes that post focused on five nations considered to be non-Western versus a drawing of Female America.
Stating this fact of the fandom is fairly noncontroversial. I would also assert that the following statement is equally true, however given recent reception, is far more controversial: “There are far more instances of racebent canonically white/Western characters, which receive far more traction than their non-racebent counterparts, whether canonical or not.”
I want to make clear what my statement is not saying:
Racebending is only done by white people seeking to score clout and diversity points without having to care about canon non-white characters. In fact, the vast majority of racebending in the fandom is done by POC looking for representation; given the amount of white canon nations compared to any other nation, POC who engage in racebending see it as a way of “evening” the disproportionate overrepresentation of white countries.
POC who engage in racebending are doing so to score clout and diversity points with a white audience. Refer to my above point.
Racebent canonically white characters are met with no controversy or racist/bigoted vitriol. It is fairly well known that there have been multiple harassment campaigns, particularly on Twitter, against artists and editors who’ve engaged in racebending even outside of the Hetalia fandom: see the Black Anya edit, Thumin’s artwork and resulting hate. POC being visibly POC in online spaces will always garner backlash.
On a similar note, I am not including POC cosplayers cosplaying white or light-skinned characters in my definition of racebending. Being angered by POC who cosplay characters of a different complexion is blatantly racist; anyone who is angered by this has nothing of value to add and not worth arguing with.
I am a bitter artist who is mad that I don’t receive enough notes on my posts with non-racebent characters compared to posts about racebent white characters. As stated earlier, I am grateful for the audience I’ve cultivated who specifically follow me for non-racebent non-Western content; I am also more than aware that my content is not what people who seek out racebent content are looking for, and have no interest in changing either my content or their tastes. The last thing I would wish to do is to label POC creators who engage in racebending as “the enemy” and POC creators who don’t as “my side.”
With that out of the way, I bring up this observation because I think it’s worth asking ourselves, POC specifically, the following questions: Why? Why is there this discrepancy in frequency and reception between these kinds of characters and content? Why do people racebend in lieu of focusing on existing POC and creating their own non-white characters?
The easy answer most would give is because white characters are over-represented and given more screen time and attention in the canon, so people, especially POC, will become attached to them and create variations of them that hit closer to home for them; this is especially the case if you are a POC who has had experiences living as a minority in a Western country. Some POC may also use racebending as a way to subvert national myths that have historically excluded people of color for a variety of racist, imperialist reasons. I know I used to subscribe towards a depiction of non-white passing America and Canada for this very reason.
In the rest of this essay I would like to examine and critique the practice of racebending national anthropomorphisms traditionally and typically depicted as white in the context of Hetalia and by extension other media involving similar premises. This essay argues that while racebending may be harmless for most other anime, Hetalia – by virtue of its content centering real life nations – carries political implications that are not necessarily appropriate.
I stress again that I can’t stop you or what anybody in the Hetalia fandom does. I do not have that kind of power nor the will to do such a thing. All I ask is for you to listen to the following with an open mind, and if there’s only one thing you take away from this, I hope it’s to realize that POC in particular have valid reasons to dislike racebent depictions of white nations; holding such a stance does not make them anti-POC representation and somehow no longer POC and instead, a member of the white oppressor class.
The Inherent Politicism of Personifying Nations
Firstly, I repeat that a series about personified nations is deeply political and every creative choice carries political and socio-cultural ramifications, whether intentional or not and made by the creator or the fan. Even if you mostly interact with Hetalia in a depoliticized context, others may not, and given that nationverse Hetalia is about personified nations, this is perfectly reasonable.
Let us look into the canon material of Hetalia- It is shown that nations on average have close ties to their governments, viewing them as their bosses and carrying out actions for them. We are shown that there are nations who go against the orders of their governments, such as Germany; this does not mean all nations follow in that pattern, however, and there are many who are in lockstep with their governments and their actions.
Therefore, for individuals whose ethnic groups and nations have suffered great harm from oppressor nation-states (Philippines v. United States, Indonesia v. Netherlands, India v. England), it is not irrational for them to be unsettled by their oppressor being racebent- especially when said oppressor nation-state is depicted as being the same ethnicity as the very group(s) they marginalized. This is uncomfortable for multiple reasons:
There is an implication that a member of a marginalized group possibly chose to take part in atrocities and misdeeds that the said marginalized group historically not the major perpetrator behind. In more egregious cases, a member of a marginalized group willingly chose to commit atrocities and misdeeds on a large scale against their own group.
The oppressor state personification was forced by their government to commit these grievous acts of harm against members of other marginalized groups/their own marginalized groups; thus, the personification of the nation-state, the people, has little to no culpability as an oppressor, and is instead made into a fellow victim of their own government.
This deflects blame from the embodiment of the state of being an oppressor. The suggestion here is that the state is somehow completely separate yet intertwined with the government – it was simply the government who perpetrated the crimes… the people were just unwillingly complicit. This can come across as an erasure/rosewashing of the very purposeful policies used to harm and disadvantage colonized/oppressed groups.
This can also erase the fact that in many cases, the people gave the government’s actions their tacit approval whether it was through whole-hearted enthusiasm or apathy towards the suffering of others.
In the case that the racebent nation’s minority ethnicity was historically involved in such acts, this involves highly sensitive conversations about minorities’ complicity in crimes and assimilation into the white/majority order (e.g. Chinese and East Asian settlers in Hawaii after America’s illegal annexation, Korean collaborators with the Japanese annexation of Korea, African American soldiers in the Philippines); these are extremely touchy subjects that should be had within the relevant ethnic groups, and should not be appropriated by outsiders, particularly white people, especially for fandom purposes.
(I will discuss insiders racebending nation-states to their ethnic group that have suffered mistreatment and oppressed by said nation-states in “The Myth of Multiculturalism.”)
Additionally, racebending may end up justifying those very same crimes, especially in the case of settler colonialism. For example, during French rule of Algeria, the French government began a program of confiscating Algerian land from indigenous Algerians and giving them to French and European settlers. Over the course of two centuries, more and more land was taken away from indigenous Algerians, forcing them to move to the margins of society, where they were barred from accessing employment, higher education, and the other societal amenities.
Many would be able to identify how personifying Algeria as a white, French individual would be erasing indigenous Algerians and implying that the French settlers represent all of Algeria. However, conversely, making France an Algerian man is also playing into colonial French propaganda. The French viewed Algeria as part of France and the French homeland itself, unique even among other French African colonies, and made plans to make Algeria a full-fledged French province, or department. To make the national personification of France Algerian then, is to suggest that this belief was and is correct, that the Algerians are a part of the colonial core of France, even if the intention is to represent the modern day Algerian diaspora in France.
IMPORTANT: I will expand on the politics of representing diaspora populations in the section “The Myth of Multiculturalism.”
Given all of these reasons for why POC may justifiably react negatively to a racebent white nation personification, some may argue against these with:
“Why is it that when the nation is white, they never have to deal with any of these heavy discussions of imperialism, bigotry, oppression, etc, but when they’re racebent they suddenly have to? Why are they suddenly politicized when they’re racebent?”
My response to that is that they were politicized, even when they were white because the act of personifying a nation is inherently political; to ignore a white nation’s history of oppression is a politically charged move in of itself. Are we really depoliticizing POC when we racebend a white nation and try to maintain that same ‘depoliticization’ and omission of historical oppression but this time for a POC face? To racebend a white nation is to refuse to contend with the contradiction of transforming an oppressor class to the very group they marginalize - making racebending an inherently political act. It is not necessarily that whiteness is unpolitical but rather that an active refusal to deal with this contradiction makes the political implications much more obvious.
Additionally, this rebuttal raises another question- Were we to completely forget about a character’s background as the personification of an oppressor state and the political weight of that, would that truly solve the problem of POC being politicized? I don’t think so- In the current world we live in, POC are always political. But exclusively racebending oppressor states makes no attempt to depoliticize non-Western POC states, creating a divide between POC that get to be “depoliticized” and POC who don’t based on their proximity to the West.
The State of POC Representation in Hetalia
Some would argue with the points of my last paragraph saying that I am not including POC who both engage in racebending but also create non-Western POC OCs; if equal attention is given to both, there would be no division between racebent Western POC who get to be humanized and non-Western POC who don’t, right?
To answer this we must acknowledge wider trends in racebending in Hetalia. Consider the following: When somebody has a North African! Romano, how many other North African nations (canon or non-canon) do they show appreciation for? Create content for? Expound the same amount of mental and creative energy for? Furthermore: If they do have another North African nation(s) they create content for, are they allowed to exist as their own separate beings, and not purely exist to be North African! Romano’s tie to North Africa?
Chances are, Romano is reduced to being the token brown character in a largely white cast and isn’t allowed to ever exist without whiteness surrounding him. This is a very diaspora experience, but I find it unfortunate that in a piece of media that enables us to explore any number of cultures and experiences over all of time and history, we (and I’m including myself as another POC who grew up in a primarily white environment) are unable to imagine ourselves outside of this setting and celebrate ourselves without having to exist against a white mainstream. Stories about white engulfment are allowed to exist and should be told, but why is this so common? Why do these stories disproportionately outnumber POC stories where whiteness is minute or absent?
As my audience is intended to be mostly POC, I will not elaborate on the following scenario too much, but I will ask us to scrutinize the ethics of it. What about cases where white individuals racebend some of their white favorite characters and position them as POC representation in lieu of actually focusing on POC, non-Western nations, canon or not? Does this not have implications about what kinds of POC and diversity are considered more palatable and appealing?
Furthermore, when another North African nation does exist alongside racebent Romano, their character and depiction is almost always heavily dependent on their relationship to Romano, a Western nation. This still perpetuates the same inequality I was talking about earlier where POC nations are humanized based on their proximity to the West, whether because they personify a Western nation or happen to have a relationship with a Western nation.
We should not just be talking about having “more” non-white representation, but also the quality of it. It is completely understandable why some POC may not be satisfied with the representation most racebent content provides, even beyond the reasons outlined previously; this type of representation excludes POC who do not have a relationship to the West, and is still largely focused on the West.
IMPORTANT: I am not saying that contact with or influence from the West makes POC somehow “less POC” or that stories from Western-based diaspora are a “diluted” form of representation. I will expand on this in the section “The Myth of Multiculturalism.”
“Well if it’s not good enough for those POC, then they should just mind their business and make their own representation! There’s plenty of non-racebent content out there!”
Many POC do exactly that- creating their own representation without racebending. However, as established earlier, racebent white characters receive far more attention and feedback compared to canonical non-white characters, despite the fact that both depictions fulfill the purpose of “representation.” This can be especially disheartening in a fandom that already heavily tokenizes canon POC nations, whether it’s India being presented as the “nanny”/surrogate parent in Commonwealth group art or Seychelles as the “adopted child of color” in FACES family. To POC content creators, it feels insulting that the wider fandom, rather than developing POC canon characters (or taking advantage of the source material’s potential by making OCs) and viewing them as representation, the fandom chooses to racebend Western nations and celebrates them instead.
I want to make clear again what I am not saying with that statement:
POC who engage in racebending are doing so to score clout and diversity points with a white audience. Again, it’s a fact that the vast majority of racebending is done by POC looking to create their own representation.
POC who engage in racebending should all go stan Seychelles and Cuba instead. This is an extremely individualist solution to what is a wider phenomenon. I do not blame POC based in Western countries for feeling disconnected to the few POC nations we have in canon.
Racebent POC content is more popular than content of non-racebent white characters.
What I am describing here is how an audience (the Hetalia fandom) receives two creations, both made by POC in the pursuit of creating more representation, and the difference in reception. The difference, it seems, is that the wider fandom deems certain kinds of POC representation more appealing, and thus, certain kinds of POC worth focusing on.
The Assumption of Interchangeability in POC Experience
Earlier, I mentioned that one of the possible reasons for POC to engage in racebending is the desire to see an iteration of their favorite character that is closer to their own reality and lived experience. Therefore, some may choose to racebend a white character to embody a marginalized minority in the country instead so they can share more experiences with the formerly white characters.
Here, I will not be dealing with the practice of POC racebending their own country to their own ethnicity, which is the focus of the next section. Instead, I will be delving into the practice of POC racebending another nation to embody a minority (one which they do not belong to) for the purposes of ‘putting themselves in their interpretations.’ I argue that to do this requires assuming a certain level of interchangeability between POC experiences.
First and foremost, POC are not a monolith- we lead drastically different lives depending on our ethnic backgrounds, where we live, our socioeconomic class, our political and racial context, and etc. Therefore, we cannot presume that our experiences of marginalization mean we’ll always succeed in properly representing other minority groups elsewhere; in fact, the goal of projecting our own life experiences onto them means that there will be an obstacle to properly representing these minority groups.
Take the following example: Imagine a Chinese-Malaysian individual greatly enjoys the character of Spain. Wishing to better relate to him, the individual racebends him to be also Chinese. However, a great deal of historical, cultural determinants and nuances separate the experiences of Chinese people in Spain and Chinese people in Malaysia. There are similarities, yes, but this Chinese Malaysian cannot hope to properly represent the Chinese population in Spain if their primary goal remains self-projection. Now imagine that our Chinese-Malaysian individual wished to racebend England to be Indian; an even wider gap separates the experiences and history of Chinese people in Malaysia and Indian people in England, making it even less likely that our individual will succeed in representing the experiences of Indian people in England.
Another point to consider is that attempts at racebending certain national personifications to represent minorities in the country end up erasing representation for the majority population of the country. For example, there has been a historical Japanese community in Peru that dates back to the 1800s and made a large impact on Peruvian culture. However, it would still be inappropriate to make a Peru OC that is mostly Japanese in race, because besides just being not representative of the 99.9% of non-Japanese Peruvians, it would also be taking representation from Peruvian mestizo and indigenous peoples, who make up over 80% of Peru’s population.
This isn’t even taking into consideration cases where nations are racebent to personify ethnic groups that do not have a numerically significant or historically significant population.
“So what if it’s inaccurate? I just want to self-project onto my favorite character!”
If that’s your response, then I encourage you to read the section “It’s Just Fandom, Why Are You Trying to Control POC Who Just Want to Have Fun and Want to Represent Themselves?” where I address assertions of "fandom is not activism" and similar points.
For now, I will ask you to consider the feelings of those very minorities you are ostensibly representing, even if your primary intention is to project your own experiences onto a character. Chances are, they also suffer from little to no representation that depicts them in inaccurate and unflattering ways.
Hetalia is a media property supposedly centered around exploring and learning about other cultures, but so often fails to accurately and sensitively depict many cultures and nations. Should we not show them the grace that canon Hetalia fails to provide?
The Myth of Multiculturalism
Multiculturalism is typically defined as a celebration of a nation’s ethnic diversity. This is generally considered to be a good and progressive value to have, but a closer and more critical look at multiculturalism in practice suggests that not even a value directed at xenophobia is immune to in-group out-group biases. When enacted by the state, multiculturalism is less an acceptance of diversity as it currently exists (especially in regards to non-indigenous ethnicities) and more an assimilation of these “foreign cultures” into the dominant national one.
For example, Singapore has built much of its national identity as a “multicultural” society. This is shown through government policies in language and education, where the languages of the 3 ethnic groups (Chinese, Tamil Indians, Malays) are all officialized and the government promotes education for ethnic minorities in their mother tongues. However, the label of “multicultural” hides the reality of power inequality between the various ethnic groups. Minorities face pressure to display literacy in the language and culture of the Chinese majority for greater societal acceptance and inclusion. In fact, the assertion that Singapore is a multicultural society that treats its ethnic groups all equally, is often used as a cudgel to shut down any allegations that Singapore fails to live up to this national identity. As my audience is intended to be predominantly POC, especially those living as minorities in Western nations, members of my audience are of course familiar with insistences of “But Canada/United States/etc is a melting pot society! Racism isn’t a serious issue, POC can’t be treated poorly in those countries.”
By racebending a national personification to be part of a marginalized population, this is making a political statement by asserting that the marginalized population is in fact a part of that nation, and has always been, despite historical exclusion. The act of racebending is an overly idealistic and uncritical agreement with multiculturalism, without considering how the value actually applies in practice. It rosewashes the reality and existence of cultural imperialism enacted on immigrant/outsider groups.
Racebending can therefore accidentally act as multicultural propaganda, especially when the invokement of multiculturalism is used to stamp out valid critiques of othering and racialization by ethnic minorities. (E.g. “Singapore can’t have problems with racism against Malays! Singapore himself is Malay!”)
IMPORTANT: If you want to argue that nation personifications are not inherently representative of their government, refer to the section, “The Inherent Politicism of Personifying Nations.”
“Well, POC based in Western countries will naturally feel more connected to their Western countries than their homelands, often because of those policies intended to break their connections to their homelands. Why can’t they racebend to reclaim? To feel connected to their Western countries in contrast to their realities of ostracization and othering?”
I have already discussed why other POC (those affected by a white regime’s actions) would be uncomfortable with the implications of tying a POC/marginalized group with said white regime’s misdeeds in the section “The Inherent Politicism of Personifying Nations” so I will not discuss it here beyond mentioning it.
Firstly, I must acknowledge that this argument is fundamentally an emotional one. I do not want to deny what POC in Western countries emotionally derive from racebending the nation-state, even as a fellow POC based in a Western country. Instead, I will approach this argument from another angle.
I ask the following: When trying to represent our experiences as diaspora and minorities, why is personifying a diaspora/minority community not a popular option? The act of choosing to personify a community is inherently political, and we can use it to empower ourselves as diaspora or minorities. For example, by personifying diaspora communities, we can acknowledge that diaspora experiences are different enough from those in the ‘homeland’ to warrant another personification, and also avoid accidentally justifying colonial possession of those ‘homeland’ states.
Additionally, by personifying diaspora/minority communities, we can 1) better reflect our unique day-to-day experiences of being racialized and separated from the mainstream, 2) avoid many of the earlier uncomfortable implications of minority collaboration in majority perpetrated acts and condoning colonialism, and 3) stress our independence and autonomy despite the efforts of the state and majority population to take that away.
To put it another way, why are there so many stories of minorities striving towards being included, or from another angle, subsumed, into the white nation-state despite its frequent rejection of them? Again, what does it say that these narratives of “inclusion into a historically white nation-state” disproportionately outnumber POC narratives where whiteness is minute or absent?
IMPORTANT: I am not singling you, the hypothetical POC diaspora individual who engages in racebending, out. I am asking about wider patterns of representation in media.
“But by personifying diaspora and minority communities separately from the personification of the nation-state, isn’t that basically saying that minorities will never be seen as part of the nation-state? That we will never be included when people think of our nation state?”
I believe this response takes too narrow a perspective on what multiculturalism is and “being part of a nation-state means,” and thus views having separate personifications as ‘justifying’ or ‘promoting’ our exclusion from the nation-state when it may not be the case.
Look at it from this way- Is it not also problematic to have only one avatar for, say, America, and thus imply that there is one true way of being “American?” Having multiple American personifications, in contrast, is a more true depiction of the realities of being American, and more true to the values of multiculturalism; it instead suggests that there are many ways to be American, that we don’t have to be subsumed into the mainstream to be considered “American.”
“Isn’t that functionally the same as different interpretations of the same nation-state coexisting? Why can’t fans just all have a different Alfred/America specific to their own experience who are all equally considered American?”
Once more: I am not trying to stop anyone from doing anything. That’s not within my power to do so. I agree with this statement that largely, having multiple American personifications and multiple America/Alfred fulfills the same purpose of showing that to be American means something different to everyone. However, the reason I advocated for the former approach is because it achieves the same goal with a lot less uncomfortable questions and unique benefits (minority autonomy), as detailed above.
“It’s Just Fandom, Why Are You Trying to Control POC Who Just Want to Have Fun and Want to Represent Themselves?”
First off, I am presenting this essay as a conversation with other POC because I want to make it explicitly known that my position here is not that of a white person seeking to silence POC and lecture them about what is and is not good for them. Secondly, it's because I want to talk about racebending as it currently exists in the Hetalia fandom, something mostly done by POC who wish to represent themselves and create the diversity missing in the source material. I believe pointing out that white people who are uncomfortable with POC characters or only racebend for self-centered reasons likely have a racial bias is obvious, especially to other POC, and wish to progress the conversation beyond this. This is why my discussion on racebending is moving beyond white bias.
As part of centering this as a discussion among POC, I am also assuming good faith from my interlocutors, that their desires for representation and diversity are sincere, and that I don’t look down on them. I hope then, that this assumption of good faith can be afforded to me as well- that my interlocutors believe me when I say that the last thing I want to do is control POC, as a fellow POC.
Having gotten all of that out of the way, let's address some rebuttals to the arguments I've made thus far.
"Who are you to decide what kind of representation resonates with POC?"
You're right. I can't decide what kind of representation resonates with POC. Again, I am not intent on controlling POC, and again, I recognize that many of the arguments in favor of racebending white nations come from an emotional place; I can’t control how POC feel, even if I wanted to do that.
However, it's precisely because of this that I've made my arguments based on factors other than emotional ones, such as the political implications and questioning the inclusivity racebending provides us with. POC joy and happiness is crucial in the face of a system that seeks to crush and suppress us. But from one POC to another, it's not much of a discussion if your response to my points is simply, "Well, it makes me feel represented and happy, and that's what matters most." If we argued based on that, we could go all day. Am I not a POC myself? Do the feelings and happiness of POC who are uncomfortable with racebending not matter? For that matter, who are you to tell the people whose families and people have been historically affected by white imperialist states to stop disliking racebent versions of those imperialist states?
For white people, it is easy for them to shut down racebending, because they don't understand the experience of never seeing yourself in any form of media. I have asked white/non-marginalized people to refrain from this discussion for that very reason. But in exchange for that, we should be able to discuss the ramifications of racebending national personifications, and look deeper at the arguments for and against racebending.
"You're taking this too seriously. People giving more attention to racebent versions of Western countries versus non-racebent POC countries doesn't say anything deeper about someone's political beliefs. People just like the silly anime about personified countries, and that silly anime happens to give more attention to the canonically white countries."
To a certain extent, I get this rebuttal. We cannot solve racism or the privileging of the global north by reblogging Hetalia fanart of Seychelles and Cameroon. Everything I have described here is symptomatic of much, much larger issues that affect billions. But it's symptomatic: fandom is not immune to the ills of wider society. We do not shed our innate biases and prejudices when we enter supposedly apolitical spaces like fandom. In a series about personified nations, our prejudices and biases are naturally magnified because the source material’s nature is deeply political, dealing with history and personified nations and states.
Again I ask: What does it mean that the POC representation made by POCs is so often limited to racebending canonically white characters, in the context of the world order we live in where proximity to the West automatically confers certain privileges?
IMPORTANT: Refer to the section “The Myth of Multiculturalism” if you respond to this with “Are you saying depictions of Western-influenced POC experiences are a lesser form of representation?”
If that fails to convince you, and you still believe the inequality in reception between racebent and non-racebent nations doesn’t say anything deeper, I respond with the following- Isn’t it still worth it to try and show the same support and energy to the non-racebent, non-Western countries and their creators, regardless of whether that content speaks to you or not?
One last time, I’ll clarify what I’m not saying with that:
Stop liking America and Russia and England. I repeat, I cannot control what POC like or feel or do, and I repeat, what characters you personally like is a very individualistic view on a wider, systemic issue.
In the section “The State of POC Representation in Hetalia,” I discussed how disproportionately giving to racebent countries versus non-racebent non-Western countries is not an intersectional form of POC representation, and fails to address the underrepresentation of non-Western countries and cultures given the global colonial hierarchy. My above statement is therefore saying that if we POC want to achieve a more intersectional form of solidarity and representation, to create a fandom that’s more non-Western friendly, to generally support all types of POC creators, we should not neglect certain kinds of POC content just because it doesn’t personally resonate with us.
You don’t have to. Fandom is not activism. For many, fandom is an escape from the grim realities of the outside world. But in a media property all about exploring other countries’ cultures and histories, can we not strive for the spirit of the source material, and be a little more open-minded in exploring other countries and other forms of POC representation? Even in this miniscule way?
CONCLUSION
I would like to conclude this essay on the matter of irithnova, and the recent controversy she’s been embroiled in for stating many of the points I have made. Yes, our tones were different. But no amount of harsh tone warrants the outrage and rather racist backlash her post received. irithnova has been one of the most active voices in the Hetalia fandom speaking out against racism, from the exclusion of POC in j-ellyfish’s character polls to myrddin’s behavior. However, as soon as she, a Filipino, expresses personal discomfort with certain depictions of a nation that’s caused great harm to her people, other POC were the first to get mad at her for seeing the political implications of a POC personified America, to the point of trying to deny her reality as a feminized and racialized member of the diaspora living in a colonial European country and calling her functionally white.
POC solidarity doesn’t mean we have to all agree with each other, or even like every other POC. But I want to note the irony here of people committing the very act they accused irithnova of doing- telling her, a Filipino, that she wasn’t allowed to criticize racebent depictions of America, thereby trying to control POC.
If your response to this is “Well, sure irithnova didn’t deserve the harassment, but she was still wrong to criticize racebending because it wasn’t her place!” I would like to remind you of the following points:
Scroll up to the top and read this essay again. Regardless of tone used, there are valid reasons for POC to dislike and criticize depictions of racebent countries.
irithnova, as a Filipino living in the West and has Filipino relatives in the USA, is intimately aware of the nature of American imperialism and racism against POC. The United States promised to help the Philippines achieve independence but instead robbed it of its sovereignty, putting down resistance to its takeover and instituting American rule because they viewed Filipinos as “lesser” and incapable of governing themselves because of their race. If it isn’t irithnova’s place to feel uncomfortable (and thus criticize) racebent America, then whose is it?
Finally, I want to emphasize one more thing- First Nations/Indigenous individuals have a unique relationship to the colonial settler states that occupy their land. Like I’ve said so many times, I cannot tell any POC how to feel or what to do, and even more so in this case because I myself am not First Nations/Indigenous; I’ve only provided arguments about the pitfalls of racebending and the merits of other forms of representation. But just as how I cannot tell you what to feel or do, nobody can stop other POC feeling put off by a racebent America.
At the end of the day, despite the who-knows-how-many paragraphs I’ve spent articulating the reasons against racebending canonically white nations, I cannot stop anyone from racebending nations if they wish to. But I do hope readers come away with a better understanding of the flaws of racebending, and the benefits of looking away from the Western mainstream and looking elsewhere to represent our experiences as diaspora and minorities. If you’re someone who engages in racebending, but still chose to read this 6K word long essay on the Hetalia fandom, I can’t express my gratitude enough for hearing me out. Honestly, anybody who read through this entire post deserves an award- Thanks for reading 💖
#jazzed about getting to use the word 'treatise' for the first time#hetalia#// disk horse#// racism#// colonialism#alternative title: a 6000 word long defense of irithnova
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A Tiger on the Mountain (a @semisolidmind Fanfic)
Here it is ! Another one. I made up a creature specifically so I could play out a scenario in my head and lead into another fic after this one. This is not a two parter but it leaves it open for a follow up!
TW: Blood and Violence and allusions to torture at the end. (Not of Peaches SHES fine)
“Get out before you become a new rug for me to wipe my feet upon.” Sun Wukong snarled over the table, his staff in his hands. The Nine Tiger Demon took a step backward at the fury. The expedition to this kingdom of monkeys and flowers had been a fools mission. Zari, The Nine Tiger Demon- Lord of the Eastern Waste and Terror of the Snowy Steppes, dipped his head cordially.
“As you wish, my Lord.” The tiger smiled and stepped out of the council room, his great black cape swirling as he exited in a flourish. He had made a jab at the Monkey Kings pride by calling him Lord. He knew that his patience was wearing thin with him. Especially after he had eluded to the weakness of mortal Ally’s.
“It is necessary to procure some of the goods they produce.” Wukong had waved the complaint aside. As if waving a fly. Zari was a lord of a snowy country where resources were few and blood was spilt as common as the snowfall. His kind had been hunted by poachers for their pelts. For the magic quality in their stripped bodies. Bones, blood, tendons, fur, claws… Everything in a tigers body was hunted for medicine, magic and mayhem. To hear that the most feared creature west of his kingdom, the great demonic Monkey King who had challenged Heaven, had made treaties with humans…
Zari had licked his muzzle sensing weakness.
“Why treat when you can take?” The tiger lord had questioned. His attendants beside him fidgeted, their hands straying to the scimitars belted to their sides. A twitch of his tail tip called them off. A tiger was playing with a monkey to see what sort of prey it had between his claws.
“And cause further disharmony around me ? Mortal men are easily placated. It leaves me free to put my resources into more important things.” Here the monkey leaned forward, eyes glowing with the torchlight. “Like seeking new territories in the east.”
The threat was received but Zari didn’t rise to the bait. He was a patient creature. The scars on his stripped hands and body proved how many battles and hunters he had outwitted.
Of course Zari had only come to sieze up the competition in the West. He never had any intentions of swearing allegiance to the ape. To debase himself to an ape? Never. So it only took Wukong a few more verbal jousts to also know the game was at an end. He had dismissed the tiger with a threat. Zari kept his claws velveted. For now.
As he stepped out of the corridor he let the slightest bit of agitation show in his whiskered face. A twitch of a tail brought one of his attendants forward.
“Gather the lower Claw.” Zari whispered. “They need a good hunt.”
“Of course my King.” The lesser demon bowed and raced off, light as a feather in the wind. At least that would humble the foolish ape—
Zari came around the corner and bumped straight into something soft, and pliable. His claws caught it reflexively before the thing fell completely onto his black armor and ruined his perfect complexion. He hissed, about to snap at this new weaker underling of a foolish king when the scent hit the top of his mouth.
Human.
“I’m so sorry!” It was female. The women pulled from the tiger claws. Her eyes remained cast down. Simple peasant clothes. Hair tied up in a messy updo. Flushed cheeks, good proportions. The tigers eyes had been blown wide.
“Are you alright miss?” Zira smoothed the twitching of his whiskers, kept the lashing of his tail to a minimum. But his instincts roared and his mouth pooled. “I did not mean to bump into so harshly.”
A captured peasant girl? A pet of this monkey kings?
“Oh no it was my fault!” The women said. She finally looked up and the tiger demon got a good look at the curve of her throat. The hot pulse just inches from his fangs.
From further down the corridor someone called “PEACHES!” The girl stiffened a bit then smiled sheepishly.
Zira felt as if he was a wolf in the sheep pen.
“I should have been watching where I was going. Carry on!” She bowed and then quickly scuttled off.
“Well well well…”Zira smiled to himself as another monkey ran past and after the fleeing women. He felt his grin widen, the drool threatening to slip. “Look like I have some entertainment myself…”
For Zari, The Nine Tiger Demon- Lord of the Eastern Waste and Terror of the Snowy Steppes, was whispered and feared by mortals across his snowy slice of the world. Legends told of how he would slip in as silent as a ghost. How he would visit families and paint their walls in red crimson and spattered gore. For Zari was a man eater, a enjoyer of mortal flesh. And his favorite prey that he enjoyed devouring most was women.
This conquest just got a bit more interesting.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“I Demand compensation.”
The threat would have come off more terrifying from the Monkey King if he had been dressed in his armor. However he was… not. Instead Wukong was at the present moment, begging on Peaches lap beneath a cherry tree. His face was a storm cloud as he lifted Peaches hands up to his head.
“I am afraid you won’t be getting any.” Peaches let her hand fall limply off. The stormy face broke into a beggars crocodile tears.
“PEACHESSSS!”
Macaque would have snickered at his sworn brother begging but he was also not getting any sort of touches from Peaches. He didn’t know why she had decided today of all days to deny both of them.
Why was she withholding scratches from her husbands? Well. For many reasons. For one, one of them startled her awake this morning by swooping her into his arms because he got a little too excited and woke her from her dreams. It also triggered a huge sort of panic because she has had enough of nightmares on being snatched away thank you.
Of course telling the one begging at her knees right now that his over exuberance this morning had been one of the reasons for no pats, would only lead to more exuberance.
A second reason she was including both and not just the one who scooped her ? Well because the day before Macaque thought it would be funny to pop one of his shadows beneath her while she was trying to brush her hair and in the fall the hairbrush - still tucked into her hair- wrenched. It had been painful and she had lost several bits of her own hair in it.
And thirdly? Because these two had, for all intensive purposes of the words, kidnapped her and forced her to live here upon the mountain. Yes she was still bitter about it. No she wouldn’t get over it. At least not today. Too many tricks were tugged and her personal space breached for her to simply let it go. A little bodily autonomy and boundary would be nice. Instead her two lovers would look at her as one would a family cat and go “awwwwwwww!” and scoop her up.
So two very peeved simians sat cross legged staring her down. Wukongs tail was lashing back and forth, his eyes narrowed like a cats. He reached forward and grabbed Peaches hand again. She had learned long ago that giving them the satisfaction of her resistance- how cute! They would say as she practically threw all manner of pellmell closet clutter at them- would only prolong their inevitable smothering of her.
Being impassive was her best weapon.
So she let her hand be limply lifted.
Just as limply it slid off the Monkey Kings head.
“Peaches! Come on!” Wukong groaned. He sounded like a kid begging for sweets. Peaches sniffed. The day was nice at least. She had made her way out of Water Curtain Cave and out onto the mountainside before her attendant could shove and stuff her into royal courtly attire. Not today! Peaches hadn’t wanted to attend court. She hadn’t wanted to be near that council room. Her accidental bump into that demon had been as close as she had gotten. A tiger demon? Now that was something she hadn’t seen yet.
Wukong laid himself over her lap, his face pouting up at her. He looked… adorable. It was almost enough for her to forget about his transgression this morning. It wasn’t enough. She turned her head away.
Only for Macaque to be there. He had somehow snuck up, as was his silent way, and pressed himself to her back. He slipped her into his lap, and Peaches felt a little spark of unease. Macaque was the slower of the two when it came to affection, sneaking it in or trying to tease it from her. Wukong was all action and joyful tugs and play. His was earnest and forward. Macaque was… sly. Teasing. A fox inside the chicken house.
“Sweet peach, come now.” His hands settled around her. His breath tickled the shell of her ear and Peaches fought the blush from rising in her face. Think of rocks and birds. What you will eat tonight. Anything but how his voice and how it feels rumbling against me.
“We just want to have a little comfort.” The dark furred monkey lifted her hand. He entwined his fingers in hers. They were so large. The practically swamped her own. The claws slide along the fingers as he lifted her hand and tugged it into his fur onto his cheek.
“Come on, little plumb.” His smile was as sweet as honey, as soft as downy feathers. If it had been any other day she would have mussed his fur and teased him back. However Macaque made a mistake of touching her hair with a free hand. Reminding Peaches that this little trickster had yanked some of her hair out.
She let her hand remain lax.
“No.”
“Then you leave both of us no choice.”
Macaque leaned back and with a woosh and gasp of air and black- they were back in their room. The pillow pit cushioned their fall, as did Macaque who lay beneath her. Peaches let out an indignant squeak as the demon monkey growled playfully in her ear.
“You have only a few moments before Wukong gets here. Do you want to tell me what’s up?”
“No.” Peaches sniffed. His hand was trailing along her skin, almost walking up her arm.
“Are you mad at him?” Macaque asked.
“Yes”
“Are You mad at me?”
“Yes.”
“Is it … a mad kind of day?”
She didn’t respond.
He tutted and tugged her hands free of where she had shoved them beneath her arms. He placed one against the side of his head, eyes gently closing. He kissed her palm, her wrist, her arm.
“Come on my sweet… just indulge us both..”
“No.”
“Little minx.” The purple eyes flashed along with that sharp toothed smile. Peaches felt her face flush. Macaque leaned in and over her now, his free hand twining in the hair on the back of her neck. The demon was angling her from being the one on top, to sliding her into the pillow pit with the dark haired monkey hovering above. He pulled her up and into him, and Peaches had the startling realization that she was so very very small and he was so very very large all of a sudden.
“What sins do I have to whisper into your ears ? What marks should I leave upon your skin to earn your affection again?” His eyes dipped to her lips. Peaches face felt like it was afire. “Should I sing your praises into your skin with my teeth?”
Oh dear.
And then the moment of tension was broken by a furious orange blur bursting into the room and tackling both of them. Peaches cried out while Macaques face looked deadpan at his sworn brother. The moment of tension, of turning Peaches pink as a lychee fruit, was over.
“MACAQUE! THATS NOT FAIR!” The monkey king was entangled with both of them as he grabbed the other hand and shoved it into his fur. Peaches only held onto them now as they jostled her. “HOW MANY HEADSCRATCHES DID YOU GET?”
“None…” His face was exasperated, his tail twitching at the tip.
“None?” Wukong echoed.
“None!” Macaque slammed his head closer to Wukong. Peaches was perfectly sandwiched between her husbands very bare and very exposed chests as the two brothers bristled at each other. She was loosing her own power of wills because … well. Peaches was only human. She could barely stay mad at one Monkey half dressed. Two half dressed and practically pressed cheek to pec against either side of your face ? It was a marvel her body didn’t burn up on the spot from how much she was blushing.
“Why you shouting at me then?!”
“You spoiled my sport before I could tease some out of her.”
“Oh?” Wukongs eyes shot downward. Peaches looked away, feeling like she got caught watching.
Oh no.
The two demons looked down on her. And Peaches felt like she was in danger. Not a you-will-die-and-be-disemboweled way. More of you-will-be-turned-into-a-second-sun-from-how-much-we-will-tease-you kind of way. They loomed over their mortal wife, ears perked forward and grins becoming sharp and feral.
Another burst through the door however saved Peaches from being turned into a puddle beneath the attentions of her husbands.
“Ugh what is it now?” Macaque sighed.
“My King! We are under attack!”
The two warlords changed from flirting devils to stiff and immovable stones as they stood. Macaques ears swished, forward and back, each set twitching as he confirmed it.
Wukong was across the room, his armor back on his body in a flash. His staff was plucked free from his ear, elongating in a flourish.
“Where?” The Sages voice was a silent rumble.
“Off the south slope- a band of panthers by the look of it.” The sentry’s tail was puffed in fear. Wukong nodded and was off in a flash of fur and fury.
Someone was attacking the mountain? They must be crazy. Insane. Or have a death wish.
Macaque set Peaches firmly in the Pillow pit, eyes somber.
“Love don’t move. Don’t leave this room. Understand ?” His face was pinched in worry bordering on fury. He was trying to maintain his composure for her, to hold back the anger that was threatening to bubble upward. Peaches may think of her boys a lot of way. They were selfish when they wanted her attention. They had taken her away reluctantly from her home. She had been forced to live her for the past decade or so. Her husbands were warlords, murderers and Demons.
They also cared for her a great deal, in a way that no mortal could compare. They clothed her in the finest garb but also gave her the option of comfort. They brought her to the Palace and laid laws down among the fellow demonic ally’s that she was to be respected and treated as an extension of Wukong and Macaques power. They brought her gifts from the outside world when they came back from expeditions, made her foods from the finest ingredients, told her stories of their travels. On nights when the past came back to rear it’s head she could find comfort in one or both of their arms.
And at times like this, she felt thankful that, of all the kidnapping creatures in the world, at least it had been these two.
That didn’t sound like a plus at all.
Macaque was waiting for her response. Peaches shook herself free of the cobwebs, of the past and back into the present. The mountain was under fire. Something was trying to earn the ire of the Monkey King and his People. As a very soft once mortal immortal now, Peaches had no sort of power to defend with or help. She was a liability, at least until she began her own cultivation, on the battlefield. So Peaches nodded.
“Yes.”
It was all Macaque needed. He pressed a kiss to her temple and whispered “Good girl.”
And he was gone, falling into shadow.
“Hellooooo?”
Peaches started awake at the voice. Disoriented she disentangled herself from the soft fur and pillows she had been wedged between. She must have fallen asleep some time in the day. The light coming from the windows was a burnished gold, sunset settling on the
“Someone help! Help me please…”
The voice was disjointed, the sound echoing from beyond the closed doors. It set her skin to crawling. Shouldn’t there be guards ? Shouldn’t there be someone outside the doors?
“HELP. SOMEONE HELP!”
The voice sounded like a baby! The shrill high note cut through the last hesitation Peaches had. She opened the door and rushing out into the corridor.
The echos of her footfalls bounced back to her from the stone walls. The cry came again, a baby monkey hooting in distress. It came from around corridors, downs passageways. Peaches raced forward until she had burst out of the cavern and into the dying light of the sun.
The grass swayed in the breeze. The shadows danced across the field, like stripes on a great tigers back.
She felt a shiver go up her spine. Something was terribly wrong. It felt off - the world felt off. The mountain was usually brimming with life and sound. Birds would be calling even at this late hour when day turns to night. The cicadas would be sonorously screaming their complaints to the night air. However…
Everything was still. Not a insect nor a bird called out. There were no generals or other monkeys present on the mountain. Usually sentries were littered about the fields and slopes. There was no one here at this moment.
That’s wrong. Completely wrong…
A faint gurgle, a dying cry of a baby monkey from somewhere just ahead.
“Where are You?” Peaches called. The child sounded in pain- and the sooner she got them inside the cave, the better. “You have to tell me where you are so I can help you.”
“Typical mortals.” The voice came from behind and peaches whipped around. A tiger demon, a creature of immense size and with terrifying teeth, toward behind her. Zira held the languid look of a cat with a full belly, tail swaying in the grass and claws meticulously being groomed. The blood from those long claws was the fresh scarlet of new blood.
“Your kind always come when lured by another— I was wondering if I should do a human baby or a mortal imitation but, seeing as you’ve been collared and tamed by monkeys, I thought that would be the easiest way to lure you out.” The tiger lord grinned. Peaches saw that he was fully armored. The black leather of his body was painted in dark splotches of red.
He’s … killed people. Who has he killed?? Where’s the baby ??
Peaches stepped cautiously back into the grass, heart racing. The tiger lords eyes grew round.
“Are you trying to run?” His voice was practically a pur as he stood straighter. “Please do. The chase will be good for me and clear this monstrous smell of ape blood.”
“What do you want?” Peaches needed to stall. To find a way to keep the beast talking. He liked to talk to full the silence. “Why are you here?”
“Those are boring questions dear morsel. Boring indeed. You mortals think all the same- but at least you taste better then your little brains think.” Zira stepped forward and into Peaches bubble- forcing her backward and further away from the cave. “Why am I Here ? Well to play. It’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to play with another demons pet.”
Another slow pace forward. Another hasty retreat from Peaches.
“I can understand. I play rough. It’s hard when you all … scream at the slightest break of bone. At the sudden loss of limb…” the tiger lords body seemed to grow, a secondary face appearing from its left cheek. The new muzzle opened and in horror peaches heard people crying, of mortal women begging for their children. The voices of men pleaded for wives and sons and daughters. Anguished cries, cries of pain. Voices from the past.
Dead voices.
“They never last long.” The tiger smirked, that new face along his left side turning upward as well.
“So when I came to see this terrifying demon lord who has challenged heaven I expected him to have a show of strength. What I didn’t expect was a pet like you.” Those eyes flashed.
“Why? Wukong is the strongest Why—“
“Why did I not expect you?” Zira snorted. “Because demons forget themselves when they stop consuming lesser beasts and start befriending them.”
Peaches looked about her. She wouldn’t be able to make a dash back to the caves. This tiger was driving her further and further from safety. She had been a fool to try and help, a damned fool. The next best thing she could do was to try and stay alive long enough. Long enough for her to call out. Wukong or Macaque would hear her. She had no doubt on that. There was also the willow tree just ten feet behind her. If she could get to it and climb she may be able to stall out this demon.
“Now dear. How would you like to die?” The tiger was closer now as Peaches kept stepping back. She was almost back pedaling, trying to stay out of the range of those claws. Of those red teeth. “I could kill you by fang or claw. Or maybe a sword would be better. But then… where’s the fun in it for me if you die so quickly ?”
Peaches spun on her heel and ran.
“HELP!” Her lungs filled with more air, to shout to the Heavens above. The grasses bent beneath her flight. She had almost made it to the tree, almost got enough air to scream again when something slammed into her shoulder. Bright hot pain bloomed and she fell to the dirt. Her hands reached up and came away with sticky blood.
“Calling for help is useless.” Zira licked the fresh blood clean from his claws, enjoying the taste of terror on his tongue. “My men have them busy against the farthest side of the mountain.”
Peaches rolled, to get up to get away she did not know. Her movement was stopped by a booted heel to her shoulder. The new pain elicited a scream to peak from her lips. It rang eerily off the mountain that was so still. So awfully still.
“The pain will only be temporary.” Zira knelt. The tiger reached down with his clawed hands. He cupped her face as she fought him. He smiled and opened his jaws wide to close over her throat.
The suns last dying ray cast a shadow as black as night over the grassy floor. It pooled beneath the mortal women and then, with a slip and tug, Ziras prey was swallowed by the black. The tiger snarled claws raking the soil in a vain attempt to dig her back out.
“So it was you.”
Zira turned.
There, leaning against his staff was the Monkey King. His clawed hands and golden armor were covered in black blood. Zira felt a worm of unease creep into his calm and cocky smile. Those warriors had been the best of his Claw- the best in the Snowy Steppes. There was no way they had failed—
“Ah King Wukong!” The tiger Lord began. If he could stall him out, lead him into a false sense of security, then that would be better. It would buy him time to get closer, to steal into range and pounce. “So nice to see you agai—-“
The tiger lord didn’t even see the moment. On second the orange monkey was standing before him and the next he felt a blooming pain cut along his secondary face. He roared in confusion as the sight from those eyes was lost in a shower of blood. The tiger had no time to reorient himself however. The neck blow was to one of his hands. Sun Wukong clasped one in hand and with a terrible crunch, shattered all the bones within.
Panic came traipsing up the tigers spine. This was not good. The monkey was moving incredibly fast - too fast- for him to counter. He reached for his Scimitar- the blade of Nine Tigers- to end the fight. This blade could cut mountain in half- it could cleave souls from bodies and leave the flesh whole.
“You come to my mountain…”
The staff slammed into the side of his head, casting several of the tigers teeth from his jaws. He was unbalanced but determined. He just had to grab his sword —
“You attack my home…”
Another blow to his middle sent him slamming into the willow tree. The force of it snapped the bark and collapsed the Willow behind him. Zira felt stars float in his vision, tasted his own blood. He had a hand on his sword now though. He drew the blade, cutting it across the insolent ape that towered over him. Wukongs soul would be cleaved, his body left behind for the flies to lay eggs in. He would be dead. The blade sliced —
And snapped in half.
“You tried to devour my wife…” Fear is not something a tiger experienced often. It raced over his stripes, twitched his crushed whiskers, and made his eyes widen. That had been his wife ? That common little dustmote ? Zira had miscalculated. A pet was one thing. But a wife —
“You took… a mortal… as a wife? Pa—“ Zira tried for bravado, tried to spit into the monkey lords face. The tiger was desperately clinging to what remained of his pride. He had chased a rabbit into a ravine and found wolves.
Zira opened his jaws to cast his last disrespect. Only for the claws of Wukong to cut along his jaw and crush it closed before he could finish.
“I will break every bone in your body before I let you die. You will wish you were dead before I’m done with you.”
The shadows swallowed Peaches and arms wrapped around her but she was still flailing. She grabbed at fur and skin and battered her fists and nails against it.
“Ow - PEACHES - PEACHES ITS ME!” Macaque voice cut over the adrenaline that floated high and fast in her blood. She blinked at him. They were back in their room, back inside Water Curtain Cave. Peaches hand was still curled in a fist, still raised up to beat along her captors face. Only. This wasn’t the tiger anymore. It was Macaque.
“It’s just me.”
“I’m not dead am I?” What stupid words to say but it was the first thing her numb mind could think on.
“What? No.” Macaques face was a sea of worry lines as he gently turned her shoulder to him. The blood was sopping beneath the cloth of her shirt. He gave it a sniff and murmured in soothing tones. Mostly to himself. “But I’m concerned for your shoulder. Let’s get that looked at alright ?”
Peaches nodded. Macaque used his claws to rip free the ruined cloth of the shirt and gain better access to the claw marks.
“It’s an ugly scratch but nothing deep.” She felt his hands, paper soft press along the skin. She hissed at the fiery pain as damaged nerves and sore skin protested. “Peaches you will have to be brave for me and let me stich it closed ok?”
She nodded. Her mind was still processing the events just moments ago. Of tiger teeth flashing to bite her throat. Of claws cutting her skin. Macaque returned to her and tugged her into him. She didn’t protest. Didn’t stop as he pulled her hand up to his face. She twined her fingers into the fur, needing the grounding almost, if not more, then he did. Macaque made soothing chirps and soft noises as he worked, pulling needle through flesh and closing it up.
It was only after a time, when Peaches own fear began to fall away, that he asked her.
“Why did you leave the room Peaches ?”
“I heard … it sounded like one of the babies Mac.” One of the little monkey babies all alone and crying for help. The haunting sound echoing off the stone and always just out of reach. “One of the littles in pain and hurt. I didn’t think. I just … acted.”
“Mmm.” Another stich pressed into her skin and she flinched. “You know this means you will have to have a day guard now yes?”
“Are you putting more restrictions on me after I almost got devoured ?” It was a bad attempt at humor but Peaches tried anyway. Whenever something happened to her - if it was an imagined insult from a courtier, a threat to her life because she tried something new and it didn’t agree with her- the boys would set new limits, new conditions. Macaque scowled at her and she bit her tongue from adding to the humor.
“Precautions. If I hadn’t heard you—“ His voice chocked at the end. Peaches looked back. Macaques ears were all low, dropping like flower petals. For all their faults, for their transgressions in taking her choices from her, they loved her. Peaches could see that love in Macs eyes as he imagined the possible outcomes that could have happened. She twirled her fingers around s patch of his fur, soothing him and herself with the confirmation that this was the reality now and not those flashing teeth.
“We can’t loose you Love. I — we — we were so afraid.” When Macaque had heard the strangled help in the heat of battle he had stopped. He had felt his heart give a lurch and Wukong had been of like mind. That battle was practically won. Between the two sworn brothers, nothing much could stand in their fury. But hearing Peaches— Peaches who they left back safe in their room, in the palace, calling for help—
“I was too.”
“When I tell you to stay inside - stay inside. Understand?”Anger laced Macaques words as he pinned her with a look.
“Yes.” It wasn’t good enough though. Not for him. It wouldn’t be for Wukong. The next time the mountain was under attack—if there was a next time— Macaque would lock the doors and the windows. He would shudder the room in shadow if he had to. But. A yes for now was the best he would get from her.
“Good. That’s all the chewing out I’ll give you because when Wukong gets here he’s going to have some very harsh words with you.” Peaches shoulders flinched a little.
“He’s mad at me?” There was genuine hurt and dismay in her voice. Wukong and Peaches had the toughest days when it came to their relationship. Some days she could forget he had taken her without her consent from all she knew- had wiped her village clear off the map. Other days she only saw the blood soaked Warlord in all his fury. On those days arguments ensued and the kings mood was ever sour.
“Never mad at You.” Macaque reassured. Wukong never was genuinely upset at their peach. How could he be when he was enamored with her so? Macaque couldn’t even keep his own anger at her negligence of self after todays events. All she had to do was look at him with that puppy dog look and he was wanting to tease and soothe her into smiles and comfort. “Never. Afraid for your life ? Absolutely. He has half a mind to keep you indoors from now on.”
“He said that ?”
“As we were racing to come get you yes.” Macaque finished the stitches with a pull and tug. The cord came free in his claws. He set about binding cotton gauze around the area to protect the stitches. In the morning he would let them breathe.
“But I think if you let him coddle you for a few days and you agree to a guard, he won’t take your outside privileges away.” Macaque teased and gave advice. Wukong could get a bit … territorial when it came to their Peach. He understood how important it was to give some sort of semblance of freedom to her. Peaches was like a flower- she needed light and air to thrive. If Wukong took that away, he wouldn’t like how she would wilt. Even though Macaque himself had half a mind to keep her inside forever. Especially after today.
Peaches head brushed beneath his chin suddenly and the monkey was jarred from his thoughts. She was nodding off, fighting sleep. Macaque gathered her up easily and set her into the bed they shared. He took care to arrange the pillows, to settle her into her most favorite blankets and soft things. It was a distraction from the rage that now was bubbling upward. For though Macaque had the calmest demeanor- he was just as bloody and furious as his brotherly counterpart.
“Go to sleep.” He commanded. Peaches yawned, catching the trailing end of his tail.
“You won’t leave me … will you?”
“I will be right here till Wukong gets back.”
It was hours later when Macaque heard his brother step into their rooms. Wukong had bathed and cleaned himself elsewhere from the smell of the water and floral oils coming off of him. They both knew how Peaches had an aversion to the scent of blood. The monkey king was across the room and hovering over the pillow pit where she slept.
“How is she?” Wukong asked. All the rage had gone from him. Only worry remained. His tiny little wife… he could still see the Tiger hovering above her, his jaws parted wide over her throat to devour. It made Wukong wish to break his muzzle again.
“Worn out. The cuts are superficial at best. I stitched them up.” The sheen of white medical gauze and cotton took over one lovely shoulder of Peaches back. Wukong felt his teeth beginning to grit in a threatening smile.
“Why would she go outside?! Peaches isn’t a fool.”
“And she wasn’t one.” Macaque soothed. He was standing now that Wukong was here, making his way to the door slowly. “She went outside because she heard the bastard imitate a baby cry.”
“A baby?”
“She thought it was one of the babies.” Wukongs heart gave a shudder. Of course she would throw caution to the wind. His Peaches loved the children of the mountain almost as much as he himself did. “Peaches said she went out to look and that’s when he leapt at her.”
Wukong felt a bit of his anger ebb. He was never angry at Peaches. He could never be. But anger around how she acted ? … yes. That was a possibility. Hearing how she didn’t go out until she thought it was a baby- well. He couldn’t fault her for that.
“The sentries are dead.” Wukong had come across their bodies after restraining the tiger demon. Seeing his peoples cut throats and crumpled bodies had not soothed his anger. He hoped the tiger healed quickly enough so he could repay them for each of his peoples lives. “The tiger killed them. He thought he could kill me by swinging his fancy sword. Too bad it snapped on the first try.”
“Did you leave him alive?” Macaque was at the door now, his fists uncurled.
“He’s somewhere beneath us in a wet cave. I broke all the bones in his body. But … I Left the tail for you.”
“Good.” The door opened and his brother was gone.
Wukong stared at Peaches as she slept for a moment. He had almost lost her today. He half wanted to wake her up and shake her and the other half just wanted to keep her tucked away and safe inside the mountain. Wukong would pull promises and such from her tomorrow. In fact, he may have to teach her some basic self defense. She would never be able to stop a full demonic beast. It would ease his mind however - it would sooth him and settle the fur that kept rising along his back- if she at least had an understanding of what tricks and traits demons used to tempt food out of hiding.
Wukong slid into the nest, settling himself so he didn’t jostle her awake. Tomorrow he could sit her down and tell her the new precautions he would have to merit out. A new guard, lessons in defense, maybe even a copy of him nearby or in the shape of some common item… Wukong could gift her a hairpin each morning and do her hair with a copy of himself. A magical copy that would have ears out for any mischief she may wind up falling into.
It would give her the illusion of freedom without telling her I put a spy on her person. That made Wukong feel better. For the next few days however, she wasn’t leaving his side. He didn’t care if she cried out or pouted or started to throw things. They had almost lost her.
Peaches half woke with a start as Wukong adjusted the blankets about her. Her face came upward, staring and trying to see all about.
“Wukong?”
“It’s just me… you can go back to sleep.”
To his astonishment Peaches shifted, settling herself into his chest. Wukong welcomed her tangle, twining has hands into her hair as she tugged on his fur. Her cheek was pressed to his chest where his heart must be hammering beneath. The Monkey king made soothing chirps and soft calls to her, a reassurance of safety and care. Soon enough her fingers relaxed again as she fell into sleep.
He kissed her temple and nose, twirling his fingers through her hair. It was just as soothing for him as it probably was for her.
Wukong was glad the tiger had been able to survive him. He couldn’t wait to gift his pelt to her when he was finished with him.
If Macaque didn’t kill him after all.
#hcwrites#hcfanfics#fanfic for semisolid#twice as bad au#bad end wukong#HERE YOU GO#again I could have made this longer but I was already at 6000 words and I did NOT want to go too overboard in detail#did I make up a tiger demon just to have an excuse for other things to come ? maaaaybeee#poor peaches#this probably is the only time this ever happens where the mountain is just not expecting some upstart demon to come swaggering by#you can bet Wukong laid waste to the snowy steppes#those are gone#and yes this one is a bit darker so read with a bit of caution#six eared macaque#jttw au#sun wukong#jttw tag#jttw fanfic#I See Mac as very support in times Like this while Wukongs gotta get his energy and rage out.#doesn’t mean that Mac isn’t capable of being a murder boy#just means he has more control#there is fluff in this I Promise I just wanted to write about a murdery tiger#and give peaches a reason to be afraid of tigers for#for future things 👀#jttw x reader#lmk#idk how to tag lmk stuff#lmk macaque#lmk wukong
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Gonna lose?! It’s Gojō Satoru!!
Karma and consequence in Jujutsu Kaisen
With the release of chapter 235 of Jujutsu Kaisen, the King of Curses has been defeated and Gojō Satoru has cemented his title as the 'Strongest’. The war isn’t over yet, but the battle is won, and I think the outcome of this fight is by far the most interesting for both characters.
Truthfully, at the start of the Shinjuku Showdown arc, I wasn’t particularly rooting for Gojō or Sukuna to win. However, as the fight developed (alongside the release of the anime adaptation of Hidden Inventory/Premature Death), I found myself becoming more and more invested in Gojō Satoru as a character and, consequently, theorising about what a ‘satisfying conclusion’ to his story might look like.
Shortly after the release of chapter 232, I saw an interesting post suggesting that ‘gain and loss’ is the theme of the Gojō vs Sukuna fight. Of course, ‘Gain and Loss’ is the title of chapter 221 when Gojō finally gets out of the Prison Realm only to learn that Sukuna has taken over Megumi’s body. I’d like to go a step further and suggest that ‘gain and loss’ — and by extension, karma and consequence — is actually a key theme of Gojō’s character (and maybe even Jujutsu Kaisen on the whole).
For full disclosure, I wrote about 90% of this before chapter 235 was released, operating on the belief that Gojō would eventually win this fight. It is a long post, so buckle up and let’s get into it!
Gain and loss in Jujutsu Kaisen
The idea of gain through loss was developed very early on in Jujutsu Kaisen with the introduction of binding vows. From Nanami’s ‘overtime’ to Sukuna's open barrier domain, a self-imposed binding vow offers a sorcerer an advantage in combat in return for an increased level of risk. In other words, sorcerers can ‘gain’ strength in exchange for a ‘loss’ of security. When it comes to binding vows, the bigger the risk the bigger the reward.
The idea of gain through loss was further developed through the introduction of Heavenly Restriction. Similar to a binding vow, a person with a Heavenly Restriction is ‘gifted’ with enhanced abilities in one area in exchange for limitations in another. However, unlike a binding vow, Heavenly Restriction exists from birth (although it remains unclear whether it occurs due to mere chance).
There are numerous powerful examples of both binding vows and Heavenly Restriction throughout the series. For Gege Akutami, they are key to maintaining a balanced power system where intelligence and tactical thinking can lead an underdog to prevail in the face of a more powerful opponent — think Yūta beating Getō or Toji beating Gojō. Through these mechanics, we can deduce that understanding gain and loss, give and take, risk and reward — however you want to put it — is crucial to mastery of jujutsu sorcery.
Naturally, if gain and loss are embedded in the laws of the Jujutsu Kaisen universe, it makes sense that the theme exerts a heavy influence over the narrative, too. Of course, consequences are an important way to create compelling characters in any story, but this rings especially true for Jujutsu Kaisen which draws deeply on Buddhist themes and traditions.
In Buddhism, karma is not a deterministic system of retribution, but the natural law of cause and effect. It is directly referenced in Jujutsu Kaisen when Fushiguro Megumi explains his personal ideology using ‘因果’, a Japanese Buddhist term meaning ‘karma’ or ‘fate’ which can be more literally translated as ‘cause and effect’. The second kanji means ‘fruit’, hinting at the underlying agricultural metaphor behind karma in Buddhism: plant a seed, later receive a harvest — or, to use a saying derived from another religion with an important role in Jujutsu Kaisen, ‘you reap what you sow’.
However, an important characteristic of karma which is commonly misunderstood is that the relationship between a cause and its effect is not necessarily linear, but rather part of an intricate network that spans past, present, and future. In other words, the ‘consequences’ of one’s actions might arrive much later.
This can lead to mistaking the effect of one cause for the effect of another, creating a reality where ‘bad’ things happen to ‘good’ people and vice versa. The resulting circumstances may make it easier to do ‘bad’ deeds but, importantly, the freedom always remains to choose the path of ‘good’.
Thus emerges a system where liberation from suffering (in Buddhism, the endless cycle of rebirth known as samsara) is not determined by the judgement of some higher power, but by an individual’s continued choice to do ‘good’. In other words, you can create your own destiny, but only if you understand karma.
The beginningless karmic cycle is rooted in actions performed in ignorance. Therefore, breaking free of it — enlightenment — can only be achieved through knowledge.
Gojō Satoru: the embodiment of enlightenment
As a character, Gojō Satoru is symbolically tied to these concepts. We’re told that his birth altered the balance of the world, causing curses to grow stronger in response to the sudden injection of power into the ecosystem. However, while Gojō’s birth might be the cause of the imbalance, his very existence is itself the effect of something else.
Supposedly, the Star Plasma Vessel, the Six Eyes, and Tengen are all connected by fate. However, the term that Tengen uses — ‘因果’ — is the same one that Megumi uses for ‘karma’, suggesting a cause and effect relationship. This is confirmed when Tengen implies that the Star Plasma Vessel and the Six Eyes always appear in response to the merger — the irrepressible effect to the merger’s cause.
Kenjaku cannot contend with the immense strength of the Six Eyes nor the universal law of cause and effect. However, Fushiguro Toji, who possesses no cursed energy due to his Heavenly Restriction, is not bound by fate and is thus able to interrupt a cycle of cause and effect which has existed for at least a thousand years.
Tengen actually suggests that karma (因果) and cursed energy are one and the same so — if we take Tengen’s words at face value — Toji is an anomaly who is free from its bindings.*
However, the characters whose lives he touches are not. Toji sets another chain of cause and effect into action when the events of Hidden Inventory lead to Gojō’s ascension to 'the Strongest'.
There is much debate in the fandom about whether Gojō’s moment of ‘enlightenment’ is legitimate, especially in light of his fight with Sukuna — the only other character associated with the phrase supposedly uttered by Buddha Shakyamuni at birth.
However, if enlightenment is understanding of reality that transcends conceptual thought, then Gojō Satoru is its physical embodiment in Jujutsu Kaisen.
His given name, Satoru (悟), is a verb meaning ‘to know’ or ‘to understand’, and the root of the Japanese Buddhist term for ‘enlightenment’. His innate domain — a representation of one’s innermost self — is a flood of infinite knowledge that constitutes the ‘truth’ of the universe. His Six Eyes are reminiscent of the all-seeing Eyes of Buddha or the Six Transcendental Powers or the Five Eyes — or perhaps all three!
Gojō is steeped in symbolism not only relating to Buddhist enlightenment, but to the founding Buddha himself, right down to his world-altering birth — the divine event which sets the modern-day story in motion.
Although he may have spoken Buddha Shakyamuni’s words in a moment of euphoria, the suggestion Gojō had reached a higher state of being was never intended to be called into doubt. The pertinent question, instead, is why the unimaginable strength that accompanies his ascension to almost godlike status seems to bring Gojō more loss than gain — especially when, in a twist of irony, he was only able to gain that strength through loss.
‘The Strongest’ : an allegory for enlightenment
As the two strongest sorcerers battled it out in Shinjuku, the question on everyone’s lips during the weekly chapter discussions was, ‘Who will win?’ However, Jujutsu Kaisen has already established that ‘winner’ is not necessarily always interchangeable with ‘strongest’. Perhaps that’s why, in the aftermath of the fight, the discussion has turned to arguments about which character is the strongest instead — from cursed technique to battle IQ.
Even now, we don’t know much about Sukuna’s abilities nor his character, so it’s always been difficult to accurately judge his strength against Gojō’s. However, a surprising number of people went into this fight believing that Sukuna would win without much trouble.
Some made the reasonable argument that ‘the strongest sorcerer in history’ using the Ten Shadows technique while inhabiting the body of his dearest student presented a no-win situation for Gojō. Others made the much less reasonable argument that Gojō’s claims about his strength were little more than arrogance born from a cushy life in an era of ‘weak’ sorcerers.
Indeed, Sukuna himself echoes that sentiment in chapter 230, going as far as to call Gojō ‘unenlightened’ (凡夫) — before being immediately humbled.
This isn’t the first time that Gege Akutami has directly challenged readers’ assumptions through his characters. However, Gojō in particular lends himself to reader speculation, because Akutami deliberately makes it difficult to know the character by maintaining a narrative distance from him that mirrors his Limitless technique.
This leads to a wonderful phenomenon where the reader falls into the same trap as the characters in the series by assuming that, while other sorcerers are struggling dreadfully, Gojō is having an easy time of things — because that’s what it looks like most of the time. Nanami might be right when he suggests that Gojō could take care of everything by himself. However, just because he could do it, does that mean he should?
The problem is, with Gojō kept at a distance, it’s easy to forget how he became 'the Strongest’ in the first place. It’s true that, even before he becomes a fully realised Six Eyes user, Gojō’s abilities dwarfed those of any other living sorcerer. For people like Getō and Megumi whose techniques require a very steep learning curve to master, I can imagine that it feels like Gojō’s unimaginable strength was handed to him on a silver platter at times.
However, both things can be true: Gojō was born with innate strength that most sorcerers can only dream of and Gojō is an exceptional talent in his own right.
We all saw the suffering and sacrifice that Gojō went through on his path to becoming a sorcerer strong enough to face the King of Curses. In a series where the primary power source is born from negative emotions, perhaps it makes sense that tragedy promotes strength. Yet, Getō — whose technique is the epitome of strength through negative emotions — experienced the same tragedy as Gojō. So why did they head in opposite directions after the events of Hidden Inventory?
If Gojō is the embodiment of enlightenment in Jujutsu Kaisen, then Getō is his opposite. Where Gojō achieves understanding, Getō is blinded by ignorance which shackles him to a cycle of suffering — the marathon game of jujutsu sorcery.
In blaming non-sorcerers’ inability to regulate cursed energy — rather than the negative emotions that generate cursed energy in the first place — Getō mistakes one cause for another. Following the natural law of cause and effect that is karma, the solution should lie in shedding negative emotions altogether — just like Gojō at the moment of enlightenment.
Sadly, in his quest to find liberation from suffering, Getō actually condemns himself to it. Where Gojō chooses to let go of hatred and anger, Getō chooses to cling to them. This is ultimately why 'the Strongest’ changes from plural to singular. However, all of this assumes that Gojō did things the ‘right’ way when it’s very possible that Gege Akutami actually seeks to criticise a religious doctrine that separates the ‘honoured’ ones from everyone else.
Getō’s response to the horrors he endured evokes sympathy because it feels fundamentally human. In contrast, enlightenment seems so unattainable to the average human being that it becomes almost inhuman — the reserve of gods.
Indeed, Gojō is often accused of having a ‘god complex’, and Gege Akutami’s continued references to the divine don’t do anything to help. However, the series more often paints its strongest characters as closer to weapons of mass destruction or natural disasters, making the reality of ‘the Strongest’ less like reverence and more like dehumanisation.
Although Gojō achieved ‘enlightenment’, he’s ultimately still a human being — something that’s easy to forget. In fact, one of my favourite things about Gojō’s character is how he exists on an almost metatextual level. Too often, characters and readers view Gojō Satoru as 'the Strongest’ first and a human being second — a notion embodied by this notorious panel.
Thus, rather than having a ‘god complex’, I interpret Gojō as a character who struggles with his place in the world. His strength is what keeps him at a distance from the people around him — from the literal distance maintained by his technique to the metaphorical distance that separates him from the ‘unenlightened’.
Even the blindfold he wears to avoid discomfort hides his eyes, shutting off the ‘window to the soul’ and making him a less approachable figure. Thus, the thing that makes Gojō more comfortable around other human beings is ironically the thing that makes others less comfortable around him.
With the power at his disposal, Gojō is frightening at times, and Gege Akutami goes to great pains to show us the brutal potential of such strength — for example, in Shibuya when he ruthlessly dismantles 1000 transfigured humans with the precision of a machine in less than five minutes.
However, this display of violence comes off the back of Gojō’s most compassionate moment in which he bends the laws of jujutsu sorcery to preserve as many human lives as possible. Each time the curses attempt to force his hand, he does the inconceivable, even going so far as to limit his own strength by fighting without his technique to avoid collateral damage to humans caught up in the chaos.
Importantly, he doesn’t agonise over his decisions like the curses expect. Instead, when presented with a choice between two options that fundamentally violate his ideals, he forces another path without thinking. This is Gojō’s ‘overwhelming sense of self’. His commitment to upholding the ‘meaning’ he inherited from Getō is so unshakeable that it’s instinctive; so engrained that it’s unconscious.
Despite his inhuman strength, Gojō’s actions in Shibuya exemplify his firm stance on the side of ordinary human beings. From his technique to his blindfold, he removes the physical barriers that separate him from the rest of humanity. The result is that, although his display of power in Shibuya is godlike, Gojō never seems more human.
Of course, it’s his humanity that ultimately makes him vulnerable to the Prison Realm, and many suggested that this ’weakness’ is why he would lose to Sukuna — a character who has wholly relinquished his humanity.
Humanity in opposition to strength
The unexpected appearance of his ‘best friend’ in Shibuya causes Gojō to falter for a heartbeat, but it’s long enough to make his brilliance look like foolishness in hindsight. His decision to save innocent people at B5F ultimately leads to the deaths of many thousands more over the course of October 31st and the following Culling Game. Among the casualties of the chaos are some of Gojō’s friends, colleagues, and students — as well as the Fushiguro siblings who were under Gojō’s personal care.
Of the Hidden Inventory arc, Nakamura Yūichi, Gojō’s voice actor said:
‘Even though Gojō had power, he failed his mission, he failed to protect Amanai, and he lost his best friend. He lost everything, and the only thing he succeeded at was awakening his abilities.’
So, it certainly seems true that Gojō’s choice to hold onto his humanity has brought him more losses than wins. In fact, at this point in the story, can we honestly say that Gojō has ever truly ‘won’?
Despite this, the characters in the series never stop thinking of Gojō as ‘the Strongest’. The narrative doesn’t ridicule him for his sentimentality in Shibuya, because it’s perfectly reasonable in the face of Kenjaku’s mind-boggling scheme. Even Sukuna recognises Gojō’s strength in the immediate aftermath of the event.
Aside from Kenjaku themselves — who has never suggested that Gojō is anything but immensely powerful — no one has ever criticised Gojō for his humanity. In fact, even prior to the Shinjuku Showdown arc, I’m not convinced that humanity is ever reliably situated in opposition to strength in Jujutsu Kaisen.
Many point to Uro Takako’s conversation with Okkotsu Yūta as evidence that tossing out one’s humanity is the only way to achieve ultimate strength. However, putting aside the fact that the translation warps Uro’s meaning somewhat, it’s unwise to assume that Sukuna’s is the only way to reach that level, simply because he’s the only example in history of a sorcerer with comparable strength to Gojō.
This is even more true when you take into consideration that everything about the context surrounding Uro’s assertion suggests otherwise. After all, this prideful, vicious sorcerer has just been beaten by a teenage boy who fights solely to protect the people he cares about.
‘Overwhelming sense of self’ — the more accurate translation of the above panel — is about having absolute conviction in who you are as a person. The quality of your ideals is irrelevant as long as your commitment to them surpasses all else, and this has never been Gojō’s issue.
To say that Gojō’s humanity makes him weak misses the point, because it’s never been a question of strength. There’s no need to invent a weakness in the form of his humanity, because we already know his weakness — he told us himself.
Perhaps this starts to get at the the truth of ’the Strongest’ and the solitude that comes with ultimate strength. In Gojō’s own words, ‘When granted everything, you can't do anything.’ Despite being strong, he simply cannot save everyone. So, if being ‘the Strongest’ doesn’t help Gojō towards his goals, then what’s the point in his strength?
Of course, this is why Getō’s parting words hit Gojō so hard. When the boy who taught him that ‘protecting the weak’ is important tells Gojō that he has the power to commit the biggest act of genocide in history, the title of 'the Strongest’ is transformed from a blessing into a curse. I can’t imagine that Gojō ever feels more powerless than when he realises that he’s trying to save people using a body that’s built to destroy — a contradiction that’s illustrated to us in our first introduction (chronologically) to Gojō as a character.
If that wasn’t enough to cause an existential crisis for Gojō, Getō’s follow-up question guarantees it. In challenging Gojō’s assertion that Getō’s goals are impossible to achieve, Getō simultaneously questions Gojō’s identity beyond ‘the Strongest’, unintentionally (or perhaps intentionally) dehumanising Gojō by reducing him to his strength. This is especially painful coming from Getō of all people.
By the end of the conversation, Gojō’s entire worldview has been called into question by the person he trusted most. Getō, who always impressed upon Gojō the importance of meaning, leaves Gojō searching for the meaning in his strength — and, over 200 chapters after Getō asked the question, the answer still isn’t clear. This, I believe, is where the Shinjuku Showdown arc comes into play.
A reason to fight
From a narrative point of view, Getō isn’t entirely wrong to insinuate that Gojō lacks an identity beyond ‘the Strongest’. His primary role in the story has always been to act as a power ceiling from which the reader can extrapolate information about Gege Akutami’s world and its mechanics. Even his absence from the story is meticulously set up to illustrate the anarchy that breaks out due to the power vacuum he leaves behind.
Prior to the Shibuya Incident, Gojō Satoru’s overwhelming strength presented an obstacle to other characters’ growth. In order to create a more balanced playing field and an opportunity to explore creative techniques and fights on a previously unseen scale, it’s understandable that Akutami needed to get Gojō out of the way — at least until Sukuna could join the story as a fixed member of the cast.
As expected, even the strongest sorcerers we encountered during the Culling Game pale in comparison to the prowess on display during the Shinjuku Showdown. It all serves to show that Gojō and Sukuna are on an entirely different level — to the point that, even after Gojō burns out the part of his brain responsible for his domain, his strength still doesn’t dip below that of Okkotsu Yūta and Hakari Kinji.
To paraphrase Megumi, I shouldn’t try to find logic in a powerscaler’s behavioural patterns, but I can’t deny it’s immensely frustrating that week after week fans get caught up in arguments about who is the better sorcerer when it’s the least interesting thing about this fight.
The only reason ’the Strongest’ even existed as a neatly defined category up until this point was because of the lack of any viable opponent for Gojō. Now that he’s fighting someone on his level, comparing these two behemoths of jujutsu sorcery is the same as any other powerscaling exercise: reductive, vulnerable to bias, and ultimately missing the point.
Gege Akutami has never written a fight simply for the fun of seeing two characters go at it. There’s been a greater purpose behind every carefully created match-up in the series, either in the form of high stakes or an important lesson for the characters involved — or sometimes both.
While Akutami clearly enjoyed writing this back and forth between two masters of their craft, carefully balancing the scales to ensure that neither gained the upper-hand for too long, there is a great deal of character development staked on the outcome of this fight.
There are parallels between Gojō and Sukuna as characters but, more than anything, the Shinjuku Showdown arc has exposed some fundamental differences between the two — namely, why they fight in the first place. While it’s true that Gojō is fighting Sukuna partly because there’s no one else who can, it’s also true that the stakes have never been higher for Gojō. He has a lot to gain and a whole lot more to lose, so his reason for fighting feels tangible to the reader.
Conversely, Sukuna’s reason for fighting is considerably less clear. While we don’t know the nature of Sukuna’s binding vow with Kenjaku — or anything about his motivations in general — it doesn’t seem like there’s much at stake for Sukuna except for, perhaps, his pride. Beyond advancing the plot, this poses a lot of interesting questions about what Sukuna would have to gain from winning this fight.
Since Gojō’s return, Sukuna has recalled Yorozu’s words about love multiple times. Their purpose — and Sukuna’s initial reaction to them — are still shrouded in mystery. However, through Gojō, we can learn something about ‘love’ and how it relates to the ‘the solitude of ultimate strength’.
Gojō never wanted to be ‘the Strongest’ alone. In fact, his entire motivation as a character is raising up ‘strong and intelligent allies’, constantly chasing the companionship he felt as one half of the strongest duo and trying to ensure that his students never feel the same isolation that’s plagued him and Getō before him.
In the recent chapters of the manga, Gege Akutami has made it clear that Gojō isn’t really alone at all — Shōko reminiscing on their friendship in chapter 220; Gojō’s comrades rallying around him during the send off in chapter 222; the wonderful ‘my students are watching’ callback in chapter 230.
What’s more, for the first time in his adult life, we see Gojō — who’s famously in his element when he’s alone — start a fight with people at his side, leaning on three characters who we’ve previously been led to believe he looked down on.
The distance that’s always existed between Gojō and the people around him is closing. He has removed his mask and he is open to the world — the blindfold is gone; the shapeless, oversized jacket is gone; Gojō even removes his technique to let people in during his sendoff. Akutami makes it explicitly clear that Gojō’s allies have got his back, and he’s got theirs in turn — they’re his reason for fighting.
On the other hand, his opponent only has a single ally in all the world and, although Uraume is a devoted servant, there is no suggestion that they would tag in when the going gets tough. Sukuna has already told us that, for him, losing and dying are the same thing — a curious contrast to Gojō who does not put ‘winning’ and ‘dying’ in opposition, and this creates an interesting situation where both fighters could ‘win’ by their standards.
If Gojō saves the people he cares about (and the world at large) but dies in the process, he wins. Equally, if Sukuna is the sole survivor of the fight, he wins — but what would that actually mean for him?
One approach embodies overwhelming selfishness, the other embodies overwhelming selflessness, but only one of these approaches has been established as the most powerful form of binding vow in Jujutsu Kaisen. With all that said, many people believed that Gojō dying to win was the most likely conclusion to the fight — but that’s what a small fry would think!
In Jujutsu Kaisen, it has always come down to one question: how much are you willing to risk — not sacrifice — in order to win? This is the lesson that Gojō impresses upon Megumi, and it’s why I was always in the camp that believed Gojō would win and survive. I didn’t expect his victory to be quite so clear cut, but it seems obvious in hindsight — and it’s all thanks to the power of love and friendship.
In chapter 234, Kusakabe suggests that Sukuna is keeping something in reserve, because he knows that if Gojō loses, he’ll immediately have to fight a number of other powerful sorcerers. Gojō knows that there are strong allies ready to back him up if he fails, so he can go all out.
Meanwhile, Sukuna is truly alone — to the point that he has to create allies in the form of shikigami in order to contend with Gojō. In the end, the explanation for Gojō’s victory is simple. Where Gojō gave it his best, Sukuna didn’t — and that was a grave underestimation of his opponent for which he paid the price.
So, the Shinjuku Showdown arc has come to an end and Gojō has reaffirmed that he is, in fact, 'the Strongest'. However, his story isn’t over yet, so what would a satisfying conclusion to his character arc look like?
Are you Gojō Satoru because you’re the Strongest?
Although Itadori Yūji is the main character of the series, Gojō Satoru is foundational to the story — despite how much Gege Akutami jokes about hating him. Gojō’s story is the thread that ties the series together, so landing the ending is crucial for completing not only Gojō’s character arc, but also that of many other characters. For Gojō, everything consistently comes back to Getō Suguru and Fushiguro Toji, but there remain unanswered questions regarding both.
Toji’s presence during the clash of the strongest sorcerers is too large to ignore. Aside from the allusions to Toji himself, his son plays a pivotal role in Gojō’s story as the human representation of gain through loss — the blessing born from Gojō’s curse. Taking Megumi under his wing marked Gojō’s first step towards a brighter future after the tragedy brought on by the failed Star Plasma Vessel mission, but there’s one major plot thread left unresolved.
I wouldn’t have thought that Megumi learning the truth about his father was important after he dismisses Gojō’s attempt to tell him during the Hidden Inventory arc. However, the combination of Megumi’s interaction with Toji in Shibuya, his visible cluelessness when Tengen mentions Toji, and the numerous ways Gojō references Toji during the Shinjuku Showdown arc has convinced me that Akutami plans to follow this up at some point.
Right now, Megumi’s fate is still hanging in the balance. Although many people are waiting for something terrible to befall Gojō — losing his Six Eyes; burning out his technique permanently; dying — I’d like to believe that, if we look at Jujutsu Kaisen through a karmic lens, Gojō isn’t owed any more losses. At the very least, he certainly doesn’t have to die to progress the story as some people have suggested.
Our heroes, including Gojō himself, have been on a major losing streak for a long time now. Gojō being freed from the Prison Realm represented a shining beacon of hope at the lowest point in the series. To extinguish that light by killing Gojō almost immediately after he’s returned to the story would be another major blow to the characters and the readers.
I wouldn’t put it past Akutami to send some more pain our way before the end of the story, but if Gojō is going to die on December 24, I don’t think it’s before a number of other things happen.
If Gojō inherited Getō’s ideals in a symbolic ‘passing of the torch’, then his death before he has confirmed the safety of the people who depend on him is a depressing end to his best friend’s legacy. Additionally, up until now, Gojō has never had the opportunity to answer Getō’s question once and for all.
I would argue that Gojō has proven multiple times during the fight against Sukuna that he’s 'the Strongest' because he’s Gojō Satoru, but is he Gojō Satoru because he’s the strongest? He can’t discover that unless he experiences what it’s like not to be 'the Strongest' — either by losing his strength or by sharing the burden with the strong and intelligent allies he’s been raising for the entirety of his adult life.
Of course, there’s one more glaring thread to tie up, and it might be the most important of all when it comes to the completion of Gojō’s character arc. His first thought when he bursts out of the Prison Realm is a desire to lay Getō’s body to rest — a desire to rectify the mistake which threw the entire world into chaos.
As we’ve already discussed, despite his strength, Gojō has racked up a collection of costly failures. Thus, his entire character arc is about learning from the mistakes of his past. He’s taken every cruel loss that the universe has sent his way and, instead of lashing out with all that power at his disposal, he has grown from his experiences and chosen the path of ‘good’ time and time again.
If Gojō dies before retrieving Getō’s body from Kenjaku’s clutches, he has failed his best friend at the very last hurdle, and this would be a truly bleak way to end his story.
Concluding thoughts
At the conclusion of the Shinjuku Showdown arc, I’d like to see Gojō Satoru step back from the fight after inspiring hope in his students by delivering a final lesson in the form of his win. It is impossible to predict what Gege Akutami will do next, but I would like to see the reins handed back to the students for a while, as I feel Gojō has played his part against the King of Curses.
It is Sukuna, not Gojō, who presents the most interesting possibilities for character development after the conclusion of this fight. I am genuinely excited to see how he grapples with this loss that has the potential to challenge his entire view of himself and others. He disrespected Yorozu and treated his fight against her as a ‘test drive’, and thought he could get away with treating Gojō the same way. I think Ryōmen Sukuna might be about to learn some important lessons, and I would love to see him in conversation with Gojō before the latter bows out of the story.
Of course, we can always trust Gege Akutami to surprise us, and it’s entirely possible that the story will veer in a completely different direction than I expected. However, I have faith that he will deliver something profound, no matter what lies ahead.
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*This is a very interesting concept in and of itself, especially in relation to the goal of the Culling Game, Yuki and Kenjaku’s battle of ideals (i.e. ‘breaking free from’ versus ‘optimising’ cursed energy), Maki’s ‘enlightenment’ in the Sakurajima colony, and the understanding that true enlightenment lies in breaking free from all karma — both good and bad. After all, golden shackles are still shackles. Perhaps I’ll write about this another time.
#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk 235#呪術廻戦#jjk meta#jjk analysis#jujutsu kaisen meta#jujutsu kaisen analysis#jjk spoilers#jjk manga spoilers#jujutsu kaisen spoilers#gojo satoru#sukuna#ryomen sukuna#fushiguro toji#fushiguro megumi#geto suguru#kenjaku#can you see why this took so long???#it's almost 6000 words 💀#and maybe it's all bullshit haha!!#but i'll hate myself if i wasted all that time for nothing#so enjoy i guess!!#my writing#fushiglow
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James ran. He ran faster than he’d ever run in his whole life. He hurtled out the door of the apothecary, slamming it shut with his wand as he went, lest the others try to follow him into the fray. He weaved and dodged through spell and smoke, flinging up a shield charm just as a masked man raised his wand — the curse hit the invisible barrier in a cascade of sparks. James paid it no mind. Kept going. Distantly, he was aware of someone shouting at him through all the chaos, recognized adult figures that weren’t masked or dressed in black — he ignored them all. Only one thought filled his brain, drowning out everything else amidst this swirling hurricane — only one word, one idea, one purpose commanded his mind’s eye: Lily.
He was nearly to the bookshop, just a few more paces. The fire was growing — roaring, spitting, spreading; it circled the shop like a snake about to squeeze its prey. If he didn’t make it through, the shop would be cut off — and Lily trapped inside.
A burst of heat blossomed behind him; he pushed harder, ran faster.
Skid of heel against cobblestone; air hot with smoke and ash. He slipped through the circle of fire just as it closed upon itself, a flaming ouroboros. James paused for half a second to catch his breath, sweat pearling on his brow in the heat of the blaze. Then the fiery snake flicked its tail, and a wall of flame crashed into the shop.
Read on AO3.
#tle2#the last enemy: dark marks#james potter#jily#i would like the world to know that i wrote 6000 words today#my back hurts and it's way past my bedtime and i barely edited but#let's fucking goooooooooooooooo
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so my method for writing is: write ficlets until something feels right.
it can’t just be me. right? right????
this drives my creative writing teacher crazy pls tell me i’m not alone 💀
#writing#fanfic#writing advice#writing help#i’m so scared to tell him i’m changing my story AGAIN#like 6000 words is effortless if i care abt what i’m writing#but it’s like pulling teeth if i don’t
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Distraction
This work is 18+. MDNI!!
Summary:
Rafe, Topper and you are in an established poly relationship and you live together.
One evening, Rafe and you need to distract Topper. The best way to do that is with s e x. And action.
Warnings: light dom/sub dynamics, pure smut basically with very, very little plot
@maybanksbabe Libra, this is for you. you wanted to be tagged. proceed with caution. this is nearly 6000 words of sex, completely un-betaed, hardly proofread... you have been warned.
Read on AO3.
All three of you have problems with your family: Ward Cameron is a fucking psycho, Cynthia Thornton is an authoritarian dictator and your parents are... well... you know best what your parents are.
Fact is that parents and family are a sensitive issue for all three of you which is why you don’t talk about it very often. It is also why all three of you revel in this sweet little safe space that is your relationship and why none of your parents are ever allowed to set one foot into the apartment that you share.
You are chilling on the couch, your legs draped over Topper, both of you scrolling through social media, showing each other posts and reels, while Rafe is working on his laptop at the kitchen table, smiling over to the two of you every now and then.
"You should have finished work this morning when we both were at work, too," Topper teases him with a sly grin.
You raise your eyebrow at Topper, "Careful," you say amused, "You know he'll make you pay for comments like this once he's done."
Topper wiggles his eyebrows at you and you realize that this is what he’s hoping for - you should have known.
He opens his mouth to say something else, when the phone in his hand starts ringing. He looks at it and his expression darkens immediately at the sight of his mother's name on the screen. "Oh great," he mumbles and gets up.
"Don't answer it," you advise half-heartedly although you already know that it's in vain because Topper accepts every single call, especially if it's from either of his parents.
"Is it Cynthia?" Rafe asks from the kitchen table a couple of feet away. You nod silently. "Tell her I say hi!" He calls after Topper.
Topper just flips him off as he leaves to his room.
Cynthia does not approve of your relationship in the slightest and although it's been several years since Topper legally became an adult, his mother still tries to control every aspect of his life and uses every opportunity to let him know how little she thinks of his life choices. She doesn't like you but maybe she would accept you at some point if it wasn't for the fact that there is still is Rafe - and Rafe and Topper had a connection way before you and Topper did.
Rafe and you share a long, meaningful look before Rafe shrugs and goes back to his work. You look right through him, though; you see his worry how his shoulders are all tense now and how his eyebrows are drawn together. The atmosphere has shifted in the room. It was all cozy and relaxed before and one call of one of your parents just changed everything. Now it is heavy and tense. You hate it.
You pick on your nails and try not to listen to the muffled sounds coming out of Topper's room that sound a lot like Topper defending himself non-stop. After a while, everything is silent. You wait for Topper to come back out but he doesn't. A couple of minutes later Rafe notices it as well. He closes his laptop. "Do you think they are still talking?" He asks.
You shake your head. "He's been quiet for a while."
Rafe pushes the laptop away from himself and gets up. "I'll check on him."
That is when Topper's door opens and Topper comes back into the living room. He is clearly upset, his hair all tousled from constantly running his hands through it, his jawline tense and he is avoiding eye contact which is always the biggest sign for him.
Already standing in the middle of the room on his way to Topper's, Rafe reaches out for him and pulls him close with a soft "Hey there." Topper almost melts against him. Rafe kisses his head with so much love and you wish it would be enough to take away all of Topper's worries.
You lock eyes with Rafe again, silently asking him what to do. When it comes to Topper's emotions, it is usually best to follow Rafe's instincts. They have known each other since they were kids and their emotional connection was way stronger than yours and Topper's was when Topper first came into your relationship. This is something that is really hard to catch up on.
Rafe jerks his head very subtly and you immediately get up from the couch and approach them. "We're here for you," you mumble against Topper's shoulder, kissing it softly as you start stroking his back in comfort.
Topper takes a step back from the two of you and grabs Rafe’s belt. "What are you doing?" Rafe asks bewildered. He takes a step back himself when Topper opens his belt with trembling fingers. "Don't," he says when he grasps what Topper is up to.
"Let me -" Topper starts explaining but cuts off and tries to open Rafe's pants instead.
"Top, stop," Rafe insists, pushing Topper's hands away. "Stop it!" Topper doesn't stop though, taking a step closer to Rafe, trying to kiss him demandingly.
"Topper, he said no," you try to step in.
"Come on, you love it when I suck you off, so just let me-" He tries to palm Rafe's dick but Rafe takes another step back, shoving Topper's hands away, forcefully this time, and when this still isn't enough for Topper to try to get his hands on him, Rafe explodes.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?" He growls.
Topper finally looks at him, his eyes just as angry. "What is your problem? We fuck all the time, why not now?"
"Because you're upset," you say, stepping in between the two of them.
"Yeah, I know, thank you for reminding me," Topper snaps.
"Talk to us," you tell him.
Topper just looks at you angrily. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it." He turns around, too agitated to stand still. "You guys never understand!"
"Oh, we don’t understand what's it's like to have fucked up parents?" Rafe shouts, "We?" He motions between you and him. "Fuck off, Topper! Have you fucking met Ward?" Rafe turns to leave the room while Topper opens his mouth for whatever he wants to say next.
"Stop, both of you," you insist loudly. When both of them look at you, you continue, "Rafe, this is not what Topper meant, I'm pretty sure, he meant that we don't understand what he needs - and Topper, how the hell do you want us to understand if you don't talk to us?" Topper and Rafe stare at each other, clearly still frustrated over what has just happened. "Stop being idiots, both of you. We were all fine before Cynthia called so this is just because of her and I refuse to give her so much power over us that we are fighting because of her." You turn to Topper and see him swallow thickly. "Rafe wanted to comfort you, and even if you needed something else, you can't just use him as a distraction whenever you like - no matter if you blow him or not. You really should know that! You need to tell him or us what you want - if you don't want to talk, fine, if you want to have sex, perfect, but you need to fucking tell us."
Topper rakes his fingers through his hair again. "I know," he whispers, very vulnerable now, "Fuck, I'm sorry." He presses his hands against his eyes, trying to force down tears. He swallows again and takes his hands from his face, looking directly at Rafe now. "I'm sorry, I just... I wanted to make you feel good because she... yeah..." Because Cynthia probably did nothing else but bash Rafe the entire time. Topper doesn't say that though, he doesn't want to talk about it and that is fine as well. It is nothing new anyway. He swallows again. "I'm sorry for overstepping."
Rafe steps forward into Topper's space and wraps his arms around him. "It's okay," he mumbles into his hair and kisses him comfortingly. "Apology accepted."
You smile at the two of them. Those are your boys. You step closer again, gently rubbing both their backs for comfort. "I love you two so much," you whisper and before you know it you're in the middle of a triad hug and everything is fine again.
"So, what do you want to do now?" You ask when you all let go. "Are you done with work, Rafe?" Rafe nods. "Are you hungry?"
"Um..." Topper tries, looking a little embarrassed, and Rafe's and your attention is immediately on him. "I would love to have sex if the two of you are in?"
You look at Rafe who is definitely in by the way his pupils dilate instantly. You exchange a single glance and that's all you need to know. "We're so in," you say and let your hand run down Topper's chest suggestively. "You gotta tell us what you want though." Topper is not good at communicating and maybe this is one way to help him improve his communication skills.
"I..." he stutters, physically responding to your touch.
"Do you want to watch me and Rafe?" You ask teasingly because you are positive that whatever he has in mind, this is not it. Having to watch you is almost like a punishment for him.
Realizing what you are up to, Rafe grins at you, amused.
Topper grimaces. "No," he shakes his head, looking at you, almost offended.
You take your hands off of him and get your hands under Rafe's shirt, letting your nails trail across his stomach in a way that instantly sends goosebumps all over his arms. You smirk at him, clearly enjoying yourself, before you look back at Topper. "I don't know what you want if you don't tell us, Christopher," you tease him.
You realize your mistake almost before the name leaves your mouth.
Rafe tenses beneath your fingers and Topper's expression hardens again. "Don't call me that."
It really is stupid of you to call him by the name only his mother calls him right when he is upset about her. "Sorry, I didn't think," you apologize immediately and for a second you think that you ruined everything and Topper will retrieve back into his head, but then Topper takes a deep breath and looks straight at you.
"I want you two to use me to get yourselves off," he says matter-of-factly and you think that this is the first time you actually hear him say these words in the two years you've been together now. He swallows before he continues to clarify, "And I want one of you to fuck me, I don't care who. You can decide. Just... distract me. I don’t know, I'm gonna go shower." With that, he turns on his heels and leaves the living room. You both look after him, both visibly impressed.
"Fuck that was hot," Rafe hisses next to you, "You have to make him say it out loud more often." You nod.
"How do you think we should do this?" You ask him as the two of you walk over to your bedroom, "Anything in mind? Anything you want to do?"
Rafe shrugs.
"I have an idea but that would be more your kinks than his," you say, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.
He looks at you, all ears. "Tell me?"
You look straight into his eyes, curious about his reaction. "I thought about bending him over the kitchen table, spanking him until he barely can hold himself up anymore, and then fucking him." His reaction doesn’t disappoint.
Rafe just stares at you for a second, mouth open, unable to swallow. You were so right, this is rather for him than it is for Topper. He palms his cock and adjusts his pants. "I'm so hard right now." Anything that involves impact play is usually more up Rafe's ally than anyone else's. He loves pain - Topper and you not so much.
"Aw," you tease him, giddy about how easy it is to rile up both of your boys. "Told you it was more for you than for him."
"You're making me sub way more than I want to," Rafe complains.
You start laughing, holding your hands up in defense. "I'm not making you do anything, Rafe. This is a free country."
"Mh," He pouts, grabs you around the waist and pulls you closer. Quietly, as if it pains him to say it out loud, he says, "Do that to me next time it's only the two of us?" He tips his forehead against yours and breathes in your scent.
You smile up at him, invading his space, kissing him affectionately on the lips. "Sure - although I think we could find a way to include Top."
Rafe pouts again, for real this time. "Please don't let him do the spanking, he's too soft."
You can't help but laugh. "Alright, I won’t. But right now we need an idea for him. What do you think is best to distract him from that evil witch?"
"Let's keep it simple," Rafe says with a shrug, "Top on his back, you sit on his face and I'll fuck him - and then we switch, you ride him or you use a strap-on, I don’t know, and I’ll have him blow me." Simple. Huh.
Now it is your turn to stare at him, your mouth dry, making it difficult to swallow. That sounds fantastic.
"Alright, then," you say as cool as humanly possible while you watch Rafe take his shirt off. "Do you want to lead today?" And he looks at you with wide eyes because your offer is a big deal to him.
With a shake of the head, he declines. "Nah, let's take him like we're used to." What you are used to is you as a domme, Rafe as a switch and Topper as a sub.
"You sure?" You ask.
He comes closer, cups your face with one hand and kisses you softly. "One hundred percent."
"What is one hundred percent?" Topper's voice comes from the bedroom door. His hair is wet now, styled half-heartedly to the side and he only put his trunks back on.
Rafe reaches out to him and coaxes him forward, "That we're gonna distract you ," he says softly as Topper steps closer. Rafe wraps one arm around him, pulling him close, and presses a soft kiss to Topper's forehead.
"Are you sure you want sex?" You ask carefully, just to make sure. "We could also do something else? Whatever you want."
Topper just shakes his head and looks up, eyes bright now with anticipation. "No, please, I really want to." So that's settled then.
"Alright then," Rafe says, a smirk forming on his lips. He looks at you expectantly and that is your cue.
"How about, you undress Rafe now that he really is in the mood for it?" You ask Topper, kissing his shoulder. Topper goes red immediately, clearly embarrassed by how he behaved earlier. You take off all of your clothes except for your panties while Topper undoes Rafe's belt and pulls down his pants and his underwear at the same time.
You order Rafe to sit on the bed, propped up against the headboard while you let your hands travel all over Topper's body. You kiss the nape of his neck, letting your teeth nibble over the skin there. It makes him gasp immediately. "Go and make Rafe feel good, get him hard," you whisper into Topper's ear demandingly and Topper obeys promptly. You follow him onto the bed and begin to kiss down his back as he begins to kiss Rafe's torso. He smells good, a mixture of freshly showered skin, his body wash and his personal smell that you fell in love with a long time ago.
You kiss down his back until you reach his tailbone. You give the skin there a lot of extra love, his tailbone being a not so secret sweet spot of his. At the same time, you pull down his trunks and guide him out of them. He is hard already.
You hear Rafe hiss as Topper takes him into his mouth for the first time tonight. "That's nice," you tell him, your eyes fixed on the expression of pleasure in Rafe's face, as you put lube on your fingers, "Get Rafe hard so that he can fuck you later." Topper moans at your words which in turn makes Rafe moan because of the vibrations around his cock. You love all of this so much. Everything is more fun when it is the three of you.
You watch mesmerized as your first finger enters Topper without a warning. It is so hot, you will never get used to this sight. Topper moans and immediately clenches around your finger, pulling his mouth off of Rafe with a gasp. "Feels good," he murmurs.
You smack him hard on his left buttock. He groans and rocks his hips backwards. "I didn't say you could stop sucking Rafe, did I?" You ask.
"No," he answers, "Sorry." And with that he swallows Rafe down again, almost making Rafe come on the spot.
"Jeez," Rafe swears, "You really mean it tonight." He brushes the still damp hair out of Topper's face and watches him fondly as Topper puts everything he has into this blow job.
"Keep his head right there," you tell Rafe as you start moving your finger. You twist and twirl it until you can feel Topper's knees shaking a little bit and the moans and gasps that come out despite the presence of Rafe's cock in his mouth are nothing but beautiful. You work in a second finger and continue stretching him.
Topper always stretches easily, his hole being used to it. It doesn't take long until three of your fingers fit easily and he is worked up enough.
You move forward on the bed and replace Rafe's hands on Topper's head with yours. "Look at you," you say softly to Topper, "Making Rafe hot all over. Making him sweat. Making him feel good. Like the good sub that you are." Topper moans at your praise and continues to work his mouth and hand over Rafe. You look up at Rafe shortly to see how worked up he is already. He could probably come right then and there if he didn't hold it together. Topper sure knows what your boyfriend likes.
You decide to make it a little harder for the two of them. "Fuck him, Rafe," you command and hold Topper's head steady so that Rafe could thrust his hips upwards. "Keep that mouth wide open, Top. If it gets too much, tab my hand." Rafe watches his dick slide in and out of Topper's mouth with each slow thrust of his hips, eyes wide with arousal.
"That is so hot," Rafe pants out.
"Someone wanted to get used, didn't he?" You ask seductively, "So, let's use him." And you continue to hold Topper steady, watching Rafe buck up his hips, listening to Topper gag every now and then. So hot.
Rafe stops thrusting upwards when he is close. Not wanting to come just yet, he stills his hips, panting heavily and gets up onto his knees. "Lay back," he tells Topper and gives him a little push.
With one swift motion, he has Topper flash on his back and Topper's legs up in the air, propped up against his shoulder. Topper can't do much but gasp, completely out of breath.
"No break for that filthy mouth of yours," you tell him as you lean over his face and kiss him seductively, holding his chin tight to assert control.
He moans obscenely when Rafe pushes three fingers into him. You watch mesmerized as they sink deeper into Topper. The muscles of Rafe's arm twitch which means that he must be working those fingers inside Topper's ass. "My fingers are different from Y/N's, hm?" He teases Topper and you almost get jealous as you suddenly crave having these fingers and their skills inside you.
Rafe then pulls a condom over with dick, lubes it up and pushes the tip of his dick inside Topper.
Topper groans and wiggles a little in discomfort but between the two of you, you manage to keep him still. You continue to kiss him and swallow most of the noises that would otherwise leave his mouth.
"You feel so good," Rafe praises him and continues to push in further.
"Do you hear that?" You whisper against Topper's lips, "You're making Rafe feel good."
"Yeah," Topper replies needily and tilts his hips so that Rafe can enter him more easily. He gasps against your lips when Rafe hits a certain spot deep inside of him.
"Such a good boy," you whisper softly before you continue to kiss him relentlessly, giving him as little time to breathe as possible.
Once Rafe is inside Topper entirely, he waits, giving Topper some time to adjust, breathing deeply as he has trouble keeping his hips still. You stop kissing Topper and straddle his chest, facing Rafe. "Tell Rafe how he is making you feel, Topper," you order, remembering how hot Rafe thought it was when Topper outright told you what he wanted from you tonight.
"So good," Topper pants, "I'm so full."
You reach out and touch Rafe's chest, letting your fingers brush over his torso, down his stomach, all the way to his crotch and back up again. You watch his muscles flex underneath your fingers. "Do you enjoy being full?" You ask and brush your fingers across Topper's cock while watching Rafe's face where his arousal is so openly on display.
"Yeah," Topper whispers as Rafe's fingers replace yours on his dick and Rafe starts to stroke him up and down the lengths of it.
"Do you like being touched like this?" You continue to ask and signal Rafe to start moving.
"Yes," Topper whimpers, "I do, it's the best thing in the world."
You grin at Rafe. "The best thing in the world?" You ask, your tone mocking now.
"Yes," Topper gasps as Rafe's hips pick up speed. "By far."
"Ah, Top," Rafe groans. He is slamming his hips into Topper but you know that it is Topper's words that arouse him so much.
"You enjoy hearing that?" You ask Rafe as you move backwards a little so that Topper can eat you out. He knows exactly what you want from him, bringing his hands to your thighs, his mouth immediately getting to work as soon as your vulva is close enough.
"Yeah," Rafe grunts, "So much."
You smile at him, a loving expression on your face as you bend over to kiss him.
It is a mixture of moans and gasps in your bedroom for a little while and you just love it. It is so incredibly intimate. Taking the whole scene in, almost makes you come just like that. Topper's tongue is doing the rest. You are so riled up already.
Rafe is incredibly close ever since he first started fucking Topper's mouth, he is panting against your lips, barely able to respond to your kisses. You make it more difficult for him by using one hand to hold his face close and the other to let your nails trail all over his body, leaving scratch marks behind.
And Topper is getting fucked just like he likes it best, Rafe steadily fucking into him with hard, deep thrusts, his fist stroking Topper's dick, the rhythm of his fist mirroring that of his hips. He is eating you out well, but he is lucky that the frequent breaks, he has to take in between licking you, only add to your arousal.
“May I come?” Topper asks completely out of breath.
“You can come whenever you want,” you say and scratch his hard nipples with your nails. “But Rafe will keep fucking you until he comes himself, keep that in mind!”
Topper groans and you know that he wants to fight it, keep it in a little longer, but Rafe is playing dirty, pushing all his buttons, so Topper comes not even a minute after asking for permission. His whole body spasms with the force of his orgasm.
You give him a little break from eating you out until he regains control over himself to some extent, but then you decide to take matters into your own hands. You lift your hips higher up so that you can actually see Topper’s face. "Tongue out," you order and reach around to grab his hair, holding him steady as you first slide your pussy over his tongue, back and forth, and then push down onto his tongue, making it enter you as deep as it goes. "So good," you praise him as he gasps for breath. "So, so good." You do the same thing again, sliding your pussy back and forth in a rhythm that feels good, from your clit all the way to the entrance of your vagina. Your hand is tangled into his hair, keeping him there so that you can literally use him just as you wish until your orgasm washes over you.
“Oh thank god,” you hear Rafe whisper and you open your eyes to see him thrust into Topper a couple more times before he comes himself.
When he comes down from his orgasm, you all collapse onto the bed, breathing heavily. You take a cloth from your nightstand and hand it to Rafe who cleans Topper and himself a little bit. When he is done, Topper snuggles up against Rafe’s chest almost immediately and Rafe lets him, closing his arms around him.
You scooch a little closer, your fingers tracing patterns on Toppers back and Rafe’s arms.
“Did you wait until I came?” You ask Rafe. He looks at you over Topper’ head.
“Yeah, I wanted you to come first,” he replies, his voice soft and low, fully sated.
“That’s hot,” you say, voice impressed. "How are you?" You ask Topper, patting his shoulder so that he knows you’re addressing him.
"Good," he whispers against Rafe’s chest, "Better, definitely."
You smile up at Rafe.
The three of you lie there for a little while, enjoying each other’s company, cuddling silently, until Rafe asks, "Ready for round two?"
Topper looks at him in surprise. "We wanted to hit the gym tomorrow morning."
“Yeah, but we’re not done with you quite yet,” you tell him and push his shoulder down so that he is lying on his back once more.
"I'll reward you for every extra rep," Rafe wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
That sentence goes immediately to Topper's dick. "Alright, I'm in," he says.
A minute later, Topper finds himself on his back again, with you on top of him this time, riding his dick, while Rafe holds him down.
"I want to come twice before you are allowed to come again," you tell Topper as you fuck yourself on his dick.
Topper groans, unsure of whether that is realistic, as he could probably come again already.
"Oh, is it too much?" You ask viciously and let your hands trail down his torso, "I could always ignore your dick," you let him slip out and sit down on one of his thighs, "and use one of your thighs instead." You begin to rub your pussy over his thigh, stimulating your clit.
"No," Topper whines, "Please, I'll be good."
You slide over his thigh faster. "You sure you can take it?" Your words are addressed at Topper but your gaze is fixed on Rafe who watches you in awe.
"Yes, I'm sure, I promise," Topper nearly shouts in his desperation.
"You better hold that promise," you say and let yourself sink down on his cock again.
You reach behind, steadying yourself on his thighs as you begin to thoroughly ride him. He feels so good in you and the position hits just the right spots. You shamelessly rub your finger over your clit, stimulating as many nerves as possible, until you explode with an orgasm so intense, it takes you a while to come back to your senses.
When you open your eyes again, you look into two heavily aroused faces.
You take in one last breath before you bend forwards. "That was the first one," you tell Topper. "It's not gonna get any easier from here. You love some good cockwarming, don’t you?" You tease and Topper's eyes get glassy with tears.
That doesn’t stop you or makes you go any easier on him. Topper knows his safe words, he will use them if it ever gets too much.
"You wanted to get used," you say, "Now this is us using you."
You remain sitting on his rock hard cock and tell Rafe to fuck his mouth again.
You are bent forward slightly to be able to hold Topper's face steady and watch for any clues of discomfort. You do it so often that each of you is used to it on the receiving end and practiced and careful at the giving end but you still like to make sure everyone is safe, especially in Topper's position right now, lying on his back with you on top of him.
Plus, you love watching a throat bulge from a dick.
Rafe comes down Topper's throat raw and dirty and Topper swallows it so eagerly you almost feel bad for letting him wait until you come another time. Unfortunately for him, you never back down on what you say though.
You watch Rafe kissing Topper, probably tasting himself on Topper's tongue. You know how much he loves this.
"You did so well," you hear Rafe whisper praise against Topper's lips and Topper can't do anything but weakly smile at him, completely out of breath.
You brush over Topper's nipples to get his attention. He nearly flinches at the touch.
"Almost done," you say with a smirk. You decide against riding him again as he would probably not be able to make it until you reach another orgasm.
Instead you lift yourself up a little and turn around so that you are sitting on Topper's lap with your back towards his face. When he slides in you again, he gasps for air so much that you know you made the right decision. Hopefully he will make it until you come again because he's so exhausted already that you really don’t want to punish him on top of that. Would it be fun anyway? Sure.
You remain sitting on his lap and you spread your legs wide, his cock deep inside of you, as hard as ever.
"Come here," you say to Rafe. You're in desperate need to watch these fingers again. "Make me come," you tell Rafe and he doesn't have to be told twice, massaging your clit in a way that could make you squirt if you wanted.
You watch his fingers the entire time, and you know by Rafe's smirk that he sees right through you. "My eyes are up here, gorgeous," he whispers and tilts your face up towards his to kiss you.
"I know," you reply and kiss him back, "Not what I want to look at though."
Rafe leans closer, probably to force you to look at him so he can watch your face while you come but you take the opportunity to work your mouth over his body. You mouth along his chest, lick his nipples which still overstimulates him a little since his last orgasm was a few minutes ago - but he loves it, so he lets you. Feeling encouraged, you use your teeth and nibble and bite at everything that comes in your way.
It is when Rafe takes his own mouth to your neck, doing the same, that it is over for you. You come hard, breathing against Rafe’s neck, moaning shamelessly into his ear.
You give Rafe a soft thank you kiss before you finally turn your attention back to Topper for the last time today.
You order him to draw his legs up and hook your arms over them to manage to keep them as still as possible.
"Finger him," you tell Rafe next and Topper's immediate loud whine is the prettiest noise you get to hear all night. Once again you watch in awe as Rafe's fingers disappear inside Topper, making Topper pant and shout and tremble.
You kiss Rafe passionately as you grind your hips against Topper's dick and Rafe fingers him like there is no tomorrow.
It doesn't take long before a hoarse voice behind you croaks, "May I come?"
He may.
You stop grinding your hips, but simply clench around him while Rafe keeps fingering him and he comes with a cry.
His cock twitches inside of you and you keep working him, massaging his balls, until he's all soft and sensitive and spent.
You remove Topper's condom for him, the poor guy absolutely boneless.
The three of you lie intertwined in a tangle of limbs and bedsheets, your breaths gradually returning to a tranquil rhythm.
You rest your head on Topper's chest, while Rafe nestled against you from behind.
Fingers gently trace patterns on bare skin, expressing affection that words alone can not convey. There is an unspoken understanding between you, a bond that goes far beyond physical intimacy.
Topper is the one to softly break the silence, his voice filled with appreciation, "That was incredible, thank you."
You smile, your heart swelling with love. "I'm glad we've made you feel good."
"That is an understatement," Topper sighs happily.
Rafe kisses the top of your head and says, "I guess he would feel even better after round three."
You start laughing when Topper's head shoots up, looking at him incredulously. Rafe grants him a sly smile.
"Chill, Top," you laugh and pat his sides, "Rafe couldn’t go for another round right now."
Rafe protests immediately although he knows best you are right. He just loves to tease Topper.
"Be nice," you say and pinch his nipple for his trouble, "Or I'll make you go another round."
Rafe fake pouts. "Always so strict."
"Someone has to keep you in line and god knows that someone surely isn’t me," Topper mumbles and pulls you close. You chuckle at his words and drape one leg over his body.
"What are you doing?" Rafe asks, sitting up now two feet away from the two of you, "Cuddling without me?"
"You were being mean," Topper says playfully, "So, no more cuddles for you."
Rafe just scoffs and lays down on Topper's other side, nestling up against him, an arm thrown over the two of you. "I love you two so much," he mumbles against Topper's neck but you hear him just as well.
"I love you two so much," Topper answers before you can say anything, pulling both of you closer now. "I would lose my mind without you."
"We're so good together," you say against his chest.
#so one reason why I'm so much behind the kinktober stuff is that a certain blog has gotten me into poly!rafe#this is what happens#I'll write 6000 words of pure sm*t#rafe cameron#topper thornton#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x topper thornton x reader#polyamory#poly!rafe
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*flash-bangs y'all with a new not fine fic chapter* HA. GOTCHA BITCH
#bones of a rabbit#bones of a rabbit fic#not fine fic#fnaf fanfic#it was in reality not fine fic#fnaf sun/moon#fnaf sun/moon x reader#fanfic update#not fine fic update#this took way too long for it to just be basically 6000 words of sibling bickering im so so sorry y'all#sjdfhsdfsdfj crying#anyway. lays down in a puddle
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Or read from the first chapter
Fic Summary:
Daniel loves to fly, but he needs to race. Every F1 driver joins the grid knowing they have a choice to keep their wings or trim them for less weight, sacrificing flight for race pace. Daniel has always promised himself he will never trim his wings. Until he comes to McLaren, and the choice is made for him. In which the most-loved driver of the grid has a long, slow fall, and nobody notices until it is too late.
Chapter 34/?: An Earnest Promise
Nico and Lewis go after a deeply hurt Jenson. Fred Vasseur makes a horrifying discovery about how Ferrari have been treating their drivers.
#Max and Daniel are going to have to wait til next chapter their upcoming section will be at least 6000 words long#the charlos and princess cake and slagclaren in this tho#I had so much fun#f1#icarus#f1 wingfic#f1 wing au#f1 fanfic#brocedes#princess cake#slagclaren#charlos#nico rosberg#jenson button#lewis hamilton#charles leclerc#carlos sainz#my post#fanfic
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🔞The Echo Garden🔞
Chapter 44: "Bittersweet"
Chapter length: a little over 10,000 words
Total fic length: 271,945
Handy link to Chapter 1!
Enjoy! 🎁
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(juliet dont look until u finish good omens trust)
writing my essay about how aziraphale thinks crowley sinned by kissing him
#THERES SO MUCH HERE#sorry i never shut up about this actually.#for 6000 years aziraphale felt this way about crowley yeah?#but he didnt really understand what it was (cough cough religious trauma cough cough)#he knows crowley is his everything but he doesnt understand#you see this towards the end of s1#when crowley says ‘we can go off together’#and azi goes ‘go off… together?’#he doesnt believe him and crowley can happen. in any universe#and then crowley starts confessing and he starts to realize it (if he hasnt already)#but he doesnt understand the length of it#until crowley kisses him#he feels something deep inside him#something he may never be able to put into words#aka : LUST#he wants crowley and he hates himself for it#he touches his lips because he hes in shock but also?#he wants it to happen again#aziraphale is supposed to be holy#he cant think like this#but he is#and he hates himself for it#aziraphale#crowley#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#good omens
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i think iterators need to constantly infodump i dont care if it makes all my comic panels ugly they need to never shut the fuck up once they start
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