#I'm doing shit tomorrow

[hyperfixation-tangentopia]

That's it if I don't wake up tomorrow and I'm not feeling better I'm going back to doing stuff regardless because I'm bored as hell and I need to do stuff

[pseudophan]

good morning happy election day to all you americans please vote if you haven't already or i'll hunt you down

[edgeray]

“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

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Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt. 

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes. 

���You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them. 

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here. 

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be. 

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead. 

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage. 

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly. 

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it? 

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form. 

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you. 

"Someone wants you." 

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight." 

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight." 

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else." 

"They're not someone you or I can refuse." 

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh. 

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living. 

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.” 

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking. 

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting. 

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both. 

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you. 

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken? 

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself. 

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch. 

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end? 

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face. 

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them. 

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face. 

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily. 

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount. 

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh. 

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client. 

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers. 

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk. 

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation. 

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice. 

“Sit.” 

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own. 

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin. 

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave. 

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly. 

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin. 

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson. 

“Doll.” 

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you. 

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by: 

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds. 

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger. 

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make. 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge. 

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste: 

They taste like sin. 

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them. 

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds. 

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody. 

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh. 

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact. 

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.  

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips. 

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you. 

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle. 

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf. 

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips. 

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting. 

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear. 

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward. 

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.” 

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

[bakuhatsufallinlove]

here’s the OTHER leaker translation I would explode out of existence

listen.

I know, okay?

I know everyone loves this. I know everyone lost their shit for it. But I hate it.

I will admit honestly that it is 70% abject fury over the misuse of one word. Another 20% is frustration over how the fandom reacted to the official translation with such vitriol and how the leaker fueled it with their smug comments. That final 10% amounts to what some might consider pedantic or nitpicky. But I don't care.

This translation sucks. It doesn't sound cool, it doesn't sound threatening, and the leaker's rookie mistakes ruin what makes this moment great for me.

Allow me to elaborate.

The emphasis is on the wrong part

I’ve talked about some of the pronoun differences in this line before, but did you know Katsuki also changes the particles every time?

‘Cause I sure don’t think the leaker noticed. Grammar particles are what determine the relationship between words in a sentence. They pack a lot of punch, denoting subject, object, indirect object, purpose, location, time, origin point, direction of movement, means or method—and a bunch more shit that can be hard to describe.

Word order and particles work together to direct our attention to specific parts of a sentence, emphasizing the importance of what is being said. They are some of the most difficult parts of Japanese for learners to grasp and use with the same ease that native speakers do. I’m acutely aware of this weakness, so I often pay particular attention to them. Let’s break down how each iteration shifts the meaning and emphasis of the base sentence.

First time

Chapter 322 おまえが拭えねぇもんは俺たちが拭う omae ga nuguenee mon wa oretachi ga nuguu

Katsuki uses ga with both the second person pronoun for Izuku and the first person plural pronoun for himself and Class 1-A. Ga emphasizes the word that comes directly before it, so this focuses not on the verb itself, but the persons doing the verb. Katsuki's first person plural pronoun oretachi of course means "we," but if you wanted to highlight his literal meaning, he's saying: "the things you cannot handle, me and the people with me will handle."

Second time

Chapter 323 てめーが拭えねーもんはこっちで拭う temee ga nuguenee mon wa kocchi de nuguu

Here, Katsuki retains ga for Izuku’s second person pronoun, but changes both his first person pronoun and its particle, giving us kocchi de. This shifts the implication of who is doing the act—the first time, Katsuki's "we" pronoun highlighted the classmates who accompanied him and acted with him to help save Izuku. But by the time he says this line again, a number of people outside their class have stepped forward to defend Izuku’s return to UA.

Unlike distinctly singular pronouns like ore, kocchi both refers to oneself and something greater than oneself. By switching to this, Katsuki expands that narrow “me and the people with me” into “our side,” presenting the people who support Izuku as a unified force.

You see, kocchi de subtly shifts the verb to being executed by subject(s) defined by a specific characteristic or condition.

Explanations of particle de from Mainichi Nonbiri. The heading and explanation read, "Subject: 'De' is used to denote the subject who deals with or engages in the action expressed by the predicate."

The first example uses jibun de (by oneself) to describe the conditions under which the listener is asked to execute the verb. The third uses gikai de (in the parliament or by the parliament, as a governing body representing many people) to explain the plurality and nature of the subject executing the verb.

The second example uses socchi de, which is the second person "you" version of kocchi, meaning your side. With this, you can see the purpose is to highlight division: "you did that over there on your side of things without any input from me."

Kocchi de as Katsuki uses it likewise creates "sides" by highlighting connection.

These details emphasize Izuku as the person who cannot handle these things and the relationship he has with the people supporting him, a collective Katsuki aligns himself with.

If we maintain this emphasis and the conditions in a literal way, we have: "The things you cannot handle, our side will handle for you."

Third time

Chapter 405 OFA(あいつ)に拭えねーもんはこっちで拭うってなあぁああ！！！ OFA (aitsu) ni nuguenee mon wa kocchi de nuguutte naaaa!!!

I want you to look really close at the particle ni.

Then look at the way the first word balloon ends with the particle wa.

And hear me when I say that this does not emphasize Izuku.

Ni is not a particle for emphasis. If Izuku's personal inability to handle AFO were being highlighted, Katsuki could have used には, which I talk about briefly in this post:

The combination of the two particles ni and wa are used to emphasize, compare, and contrast. This is extremely telling just on its own. Izuku is emphasizing the fact that, compared to everyone he could possibly tell, he cannot tell Katsuki this. He might be able to tell other people, but when it comes to Katsuki, he cannot. Ienai does not specify where the limitation stems from, but ni wa sure implies it.

If Katsuki wanted to disparage Izuku in comparison to himself, like "that guy obviously can't handle you, so I'll do it," he would have said something like this. He even could have slapped his own singular pronoun and ga in there (俺が拭う) to emphasize himself as an individual actor. But that's not what he did.

The particle wa tells us what the topic is. Neither Katsuki nor Izuku are the topic in any iteration of this line; they are subjects engaging with the verbs. The topic is "the things OFA (that guy) can't handle."

Now, because every other time Katsuki said this line had ga in it too, wa wasn't quite as strong as it is this third time. If ga emphasizes what comes before it, then wa emphasizes what comes after. It tells us, "this is the topic, now hold onto your seats."

Katsuki is emphasizing the predicate and the verb. What's gonna happen and how it's gonna happen.

He's saying, "our side is gonna fucking crush you."

The wa particle and the separate balloons build tension, suspense, and excitement—which the leaker instantly deflates. By front-loading Katsuki as both topic and subject ("I'm the guy"), the emphasis is no longer on the promise of destruction he will deliver on.

The emphasis is indisputably on the part after the balloon break, so the mention of Izuku ("when that nerd can't handle it all on his own") reads weirdly like an insult. Hell, most of the words the leaker uses are about Izuku's inability to handle the situation, which bloat the second half of the line and effectively kill the momentum.

Fumbling the flow of a line is a common mistake for amateur translators. Sometimes, it's hard to avoid because Japanese grammar is often the inverse of English grammar; maintaining the original order may render it awkward or even unintelligible.

But that is not the case here.

pikahlua's literal translation

There's no reason to reorder the clauses. You can spruce up the wording, but the lines are perfectly understandable and effective in this order even at their most literal.

The leaker chose to reorder the lines this way, and their translation is worse for it.

Viz Comparison

Official translation by Viz

After what I've said about particles, pacing, and emphasis, I think you can plainly see that the official translator understood these details and made his own choices to highlight them.

Any time you get text with furigana (explained here), you have to decide how to incorporate those dual pieces of information into the text. He could have translated this as "that guy couldn't keep you in the ground," but instead he prioritized the reference to OFA.

By doing this, Viz's translation avoids the implication of insult towards Izuku that the leaker falls prey to.

He also made the choice to translate kocchi as "we."

First, I’m bringing this post back around to remind people that kocchi is a pronoun of ambiguous plurality. This means that an interpretation of “we” is just as correct as an interpretation of “I.” Readers may interpret it differently, but on simply linguistic grounds, they are of equal validity. You will often see this kind of ambiguous language used in Japanese, even with characters that are forthright. The reason is one part cultural expectation that the listener will read between the lines, and one part a willingness to accept two things as simultaneously true. This exists and is frequently found in English as well, there just isn’t a direct parallel for kocchi itself.

A number of people were infuriated by this, because they felt some sort of bkdk moment was erased by Katsuki saying "we" rather than "I."

Yet it seemed like these same people were also mad one week prior when the leaker and the official translator worded Katsuki's rallying cry slightly differently.

Chapter 404. Leaker, left. Official, right.

The claim there was apparently that the official translator was ignoring Katsuki's character development.

And like, which is it, guys? Do you want him centering the collective or himself?

The fact is that the official translation's characterization of Katsuki in the final battle is internally consistent with itself, while the leaker's is all over the goddamn place. Let us never forget that the leaker was just straight up WRONG here while the official got it exactly right.

Chapter 408. Leaker, left. Official, right.

People were losing their shit that Viz made Katsuki "insult himself" and "expect failure" as though he's never used temee to refer to himself self-deprecatingly before.

And then the leaker just had to pretend that didn't happen in the next fucking chapter, while the official got to correctly reiterate their interpretation like they were taking a victory lap.

Chapter 409. Leaker, left. Official, right.

All of this makes it unbelievably rich for the leaker to go and say shit like this:

The leaker is an amateur translator. They spent ages stealing an artist's work and releasing it illegally for a profit with shoddy translations and misleading, even outright false "summaries."

Based on the nature of their translation mistakes, it is obvious to me that they are not fluent in Japanese, yet here they are bragging about their inability to understand how kocchi could mean "we."

Right before the line in question, Katsuki emphasizes himself as an individual in declaring himself to be the final boss.

Chapter 405 俺がラスボスだ AFO!! ore ga rasu bosu da AFO!!

And then, by using ってな, Katsuki is basically quoting himself.

"I said we were gonna handle what that guy couldn't, didn't I!?"

This suggests he is repeating the established meaning for emphasis, not changing it. If kocchi was plural when he said it in chapter 323, it's reasonable for it to still be plural here. Katsuki is not ignoring himself as an individual by doing this; he is rubbing it in AFO's face that neither he nor Izuku are solitary actors fighting this battle alone, they both belong to something greater than themselves.

I'm gonna step up on a soapbox for a bit.

I am kinda tired of people calling Japanese vague. I often see it used to imply Japanese is inherently hard to understand or that doesn't have the capacity for specificity. Like any language, Japanese can be used to express specific, clear, and direct information. While it is true Japanese culture values indirectness as a way to maintain harmony, I would like to challenge the ethnocentricism I feel sometimes goes unaddressed in this topic.

Japanese is less tolerant of repetition and verbal excess than English is; information that has been established should only be repeated for a purpose. Japanese speakers expect their conversation partners to maintain awareness of context, social expectations, and specific interpersonal information to grasp the intended meaning of their words. Specificity is doled out when it is warranted or desired.

Specificity divides one thing from another, drawing lines in the sand and saying "this is this, and that is that." English often requires repetitive specificity to even be grammatically comprehensible. And while this might not be directly related, many English-speaking countries tend to have a more individualistic outlook on society than collectivist countries like Japan.

To me, "vague" often smacks of a value judgment: "there should be division here, and there isn't."

I said earlier that kocchi creates division by highlighting sides, us vs. them, but when people press on and ask, "but did he say we or I? which did he REALLY mean?" I just want to say that really? truly? he meant both. all of the above.

I think it is unproductive to think of Japanese as vague just because it doesn't exclude possibilities as often or as strongly as English does. I think it is a lot more useful and interesting to think of Japanese as expansive.

Why should there be division between Katsuki and the people fighting by his side? Why should he separate himself from the people who saved his life and risked their own in relentless pursuit of their common, heroic goal?

Why is it unacceptable to imagine an "I" belonging so sincerely and wholly to a "we" that their voices are one?

Katsuki's words reflect the fact that this fight being fought by a collective, a team.

In this context, OFA is a weapon in their arsenal, just as Katsuki himself is.

He is a force of nature, an agent of their willpower.

Chapter 404

He rode upon the winds of their prayers, ushered on by Izuku's hopes

and his own regrets,

to change the course of fate itself.

For much of the series, Katsuki is our beacon of individualism, of defiant refusal to bend to the will and expectations of others.

But Katsuki is also our image of victory. He shows us how to face our failures and change our hearts. He is our proof that rejecting others only hurts us in the end—his love for Izuku and Izuku's love for him is the story's greatest proof that as human beings, we are not better alone, we are better with each other. Other people change us, inspire us, and we do the same for them.

We need each other. We belong to each other.

It is in this final battle where Katsuki becomes his truest self, overcoming every obstacle in his path, making up for every painful regret in his heart, and utilizing every single thing in his grasp to save and win.

If Katsuki ever truly belonged to something bigger than himself, it is in this moment right here.

English divides the one from the many, and while that has its benefits, I think there is real, honest beauty to be found in a word that smooths those lines in the sand until there is no distinction at all.

That's who the fucking "we" is, rukasu.

Now onto my next gripe.

Katsuki is supposed to sound badass here

Frankly, the fan fury surrounding Viz's use of "we" completely overshadowed the fact that the phrase "One For All couldn't keep you in the ground" is fucking metal.

It rules. I'm fucking jealous I didn't write those words. It is such a good translation and it packs so much punch and I wouldn't have thought of it in a thousand years.

The official translator focuses his efforts on genre-specific tone translation, and sometimes he really nails it. I will freely admit that I find his style grating or overwrought at times, and indeed, one of his key weaknesses is that the flavor of comic-book dialogue he pulls from can sound one generation too old to be cool.

One of the most damning examples of this is him having Katsuki utter the word "bub"—

Chapter 406

—which I think no English-speaker under the age of 30 had actually heard before Deadpool & Wolverine came out.

Honestly, if you just read Wolverine comics from the 80s, 90s, and early 2000s, you can see the character archetype he leans into for Katsuki's dialogue. 405's tagged-on "—and then some!!" is straight out of American action movies.

But the main point here is that Katsuki is taunting AFO and threatening him. He blows up AFO's face, announces himself as the final boss, then vows to kick his ass to death on behalf of everyone. It's amazing.

The line sounds cool as fuck in Japanese. The "naaaa" flourish at the end is nearly untranslatable in any direct way that still captures the appeal and impact of it.

I tend to think of sentence enders like this as flavor text or tone tags. To properly convey them in English, you may have to add a bunch of words, and you have to choose them carefully.

All of this is to say, the official translation tries pretty hard to make Katsuki sound cool. Do they succeed? I think to an extent, they do.

I actually think it's possible the translator did recognize the callback, but wasn't satisfied with the effect of repeating it. You can see that "finish the job" is supposed to link Izuku's actions to theirs, while also sounding grandiose and final.

The Viz translator might've simply prioritized showcasing the cool-guy threat while maintaining the collectivist angle, rather than matching the callback word for word. I don't really think that's the best choice, but I can see why it might be made.

The leaker's translation doesn't make any real effort to up the ante. Maybe this line is cool to somebody, but it ain't me.

In fact, are we ever gonna acknowledge that the leaker's translation just scoops up most of its wording from the official release of chapters 322 and 323?

"I'm the guy who steps in when that nerd can't handle it all on his own!!"

The leaker was not responsible for these translations, but just look at how other people tried to grapple with Katsuki's metaphor.

In fact, the only person whose choice of words prophetically matched Viz was pikahlua, four days before the official release:

And even then, you can see that "step in when" is unique to Viz.

I'm not saying that similarities in translation are unacceptable or that directly referencing the official release is bad, but I do find it truly incredible they had the gall to shit-talk the official translator after cheating off his damn homework.

The leaker basically contributed six words: "I'm the guy who" and "that nerd." I personally disagree with "the guy who" as a translation addition, just because I think it too strongly isolates him in a way that using "I" and "I'm" by themselves do not, but it wouldn't have been terrible if they had also maintained the original clause order: "One For All couldn't handle you... but I'm the guy who—", something like that.

This brings us to my final gripe.

Katsuki did not say “that nerd.”

The leaker made that shit up, they inserted it for no reason and ignored the two pronouns the original text actually provides, OFA and aitsu (that guy).

In the manga, Katsuki has never called Izuku a nerd to villains, not once. It is rare for him to use it while speaking to someone other than Izuku, period. It’s an insulting pet name he uses towards Izuku or while muttering angrily to himself about Izuku.

To be clear, the narrator who uses "shitty nerd" is not Katsuki, they merely validate the accuracy of his nickname for Izuku. Yes, I just linked to my tag for the whole damn 348 chapter, because I've argued against this theory a lot, just read 'em all, it's a good time.

By my count, he only uses it once while talking to Todoroki in chapter 42 and once to Ochako in a 5-page bonus chapter for the first character guide, set shortly after chapter 65. Both take place very early in the series and both are examples of his intense grudge against Izuku.

Did you know that the last time Katsuki uses "nerd" towards Izuku directly is in chapter 320?

Who's ignoring Katsuki's character development again?

The fact is the word doesn't exist in 405's text, and there just isn't precedent for him to say it to All For One.

Trash-talk doesn’t work if your opponent has no clue what the hell you’re talking about. AFO would have no idea who “that nerd” is even supposed to be, because they were not already discussing Izuku, unlike both canon instances of Katsuki using it in conversation with others. The audibly-pronounced aitsu just means "that guy over there (physically near neither you nor me)" and you could argue that is unclear, too, but it's relatively neutral and context clues everyone in to the fact that he means Izuku, with whom he just did an explosive, flying duo move.

I think some bkdk fans were keen to see him use the tsundere insult we all love so much, but it just doesn't read right to me. Writing an insult towards Izuku into this kind of line, even an affectionate one, misdirects the aggression and fails to highlight how Katsuki makes a mockery of AFO during their fight.

I really do think it undercuts how, in his big moment of taunting the greatest villain in history, Katsuki brings up making good on a vow he made to Izuku.

And let's not forget that there is a definitive moment where Katsuki references his relationship with Izuku while taunting AFO:

Chapter 406

To roast the villain for his stupidity in misidentifying him, Katsuki loudly announces himself to be Bakugou no Kacchan.

Katsuki proudly identifies himself with the cutesy nickname his childhood friend has used for him their whole damn lives. That's a far cry from somebody who'd insult Izuku just to hype himself up.

So, no, I don't accept "that nerd." I think the leaker just added it to make their translation sound cooler, but they did so at the expense of Katsuki's character. It's tacky, cheap, and not based in any honest reading of the text.

Put the nickname in your fanworks however brings you joy. Really, go for it, I know I sure do!

But let's not pretend Katsuki said it here.

In conclusion

Katsuki's dialogue offers a unique array of challenges to translators. I would never argue that he is easy to translate, and so much of his characterization is expressed in the minutiae of what he says. Much of his dialogue contains layers of meaning, and any translator is going to have to make a call about how to interpret those layers and what to highlight.

I made this post to say my piece about a translation tons of English-speaking fans love. In the process of dissecting what frustrated me about it, I researched and studied and learned so much.

And to be honest with you, I don't know that I have a solution for this line. I thought of a ton of options:

One For All couldn't keep you in the ground... but we're here to step in and finish the job once and for all!!

I promised we'd step in when that guy couldn't handle it on his own... and I fucking meant it!!

After all, what One For All can't handle... he's got us here to handle for him!!

One For All couldn't stop you… so it's a good thing that guy's got us here to step in and finish the job!!

If the guy with One For All can't get it done alone... then we're here take you down for him!!

Maybe One For All couldn't handle the job alone... but our side is still gonna kick your ass!!

Some of them are very fun, and each highlights a different set of priorities: collectivism, connection, coolness, intimidation, and so on.

But you could pick apart my words the same way I picked apart the leaker's and Viz's.

There will never be a one true translation. There can't be. For as many readers as there are, there are just as many interpretations to what Katsuki's words mean and what is important about them.

In every translation, you face loss—loss of information, loss of specificity, loss of ambiguity, loss of emotionality, loss of cultural meaning. Your job as a translator is to lose as little as possible, and to make sure you can stomach the things you do lose.

You also gain things in translation. New meanings, new layers, new cultural implications. By showing the audience what you see and choosing how you say it to them, you add something of yourself to the work. You can't not.

As a translator, I want to keep learning and trying and going beyond. I want to do right by the things I translate. I want to share the things I love with other people and figure out, as best I can, how to make them see what is beautiful about it.

Unlike Bakugou Katsuki, we translators can never achieve a perfect victory.

But it's always worth trying.

[slyandthefamilybook]

Who is the antisemite?

I've made many a post about the nature of antisemitism, and I don't expect I'll ever stop. But I've made relatively few posts about antisemites, who they are, and why they are. I don't mean to make a list of every antisemite in the world; I wouldn't be able to finish it before I died at my keyboard. Instead I want to explore a bit into the nature of antisemitic belief and what draws people to it, in the hopes of helping people recognize their own behaviors. This won't be a thorough taxonomy, but will focus on something I believe is at–or close to–the heart of the issue.

When I tell people antisemitism can have a racial component the response I usually get is, "but Jewish isn't a race so you can't be racist against Jews!" Now it's true that "Jewish" is not (currently) one of the accepted racial categories (up until some time in the 1950s you could list your race on U.S. censi as "Hebrew"), but that's not exactly what I mean. What I mean is that there's a pattern of thought that's part-and-parcel of racism and racist ideas, even if it's not always deployed against what we would consider a race. That pattern is bio-essentialism–the belief that there are certain inherent and largely invariant differences between discrete groups of people. This, for example, explains the significant overlap between racism and transphobia, if not always in practice than in thought. If you believe these differences exist along racial lines, it's simple enough to map them onto sex as well. Bio-essentialism is not the only driving force behind racism, but it is a significant one, and one that can be reasonably used as a predictor of racist thought. In this sense, focusing on phenotypes common among Jews (prominent noses, dark curly hair, olive skin) can have a racial component, and can result in behaviors and attitudes that behave like racism, even if Jews aren't a "race".

So we have racial antisemitism, and from here we can sit around and postulate on other alchemical combinations; the intersection of antisemitism and sexism, for example, resulting in stereotypes about nagging Jewish wives, overbearing Jewish mothers, and the Jewish American Princess. The intersection of antisemitism and patriarchy, creating anxieties about weak or effeminate Jewish men. Antisemitism and classism; antisemitism and homophobia; antisemitism and anti-theism; and on and on. But what about anti-Jewish antisemitism? What do we find that makes people hate Jews for being Jews?

I'm going to lean fairly heavily on Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition by intellectual historian David Nirenberg. It's a fantastic albeit excruciating read, and I highly recommend everyone–Jewish and not–pick it up from their local library.

Much like the habits of bio-essentialism characterize much of racism, obsession with blame is (I believe) the core driver of anti-Jewish antisemitism. Specifically blame of the other, although that's generally merely step two in the process. Jews occupy a fairly unique position in the world in that in the vast majority of places where we live we don't really belong. We're treated as guests, reliant on the grace and magnanimity of our hosts to ensure our protection and survival. Part of this is our own doing; throughout the Diaspora our struggle to cohere to our identity has set us apart from everyone else. We don't like to assimilate any more than we have to. But it would be wrong to place the blame for our status entirely on our shoulders, so I will not do so. For the purposes of this post let us take it prima facie that Jews maintain a role of perpetual outsiders–among the nations of the world but not of them.

Throughout history this status has allowed our hosts to define themselves in opposition to us. Jews, who never really belonged, became emblematic of whatever ill the current society, religion, or philosophy decided was most pressing. We gave people opportunity to externalize their own faults, to shift blame from themselves and their comrades to nefarious interlopers. To recontextualize their responsibility to themselves into a Manichaean (I use the word deliberately) struggle between darkness and light. If the anxieties of the day centered around hypocrisy, Jewish Rabbis were the hypocrites you should strive to be unlike. If it was infidelity, it was the Jewess temptresses who were to blame. If it was greed, it was certainly the Jewish bankers who were at fault.

Perhaps my use of past-tense verbs is misleading; this is still the nature of antisemitism today. But this is certainly also how it began. The urge to excise culpability is a fairly common one. It crosses cultural boundaries and expresses itself in toddlers the world around. And so whither the Jews went, childish vindictiveness followed.

When we understand how antisemitism is used as a tool, we can begin to understand the work it does for those who use it. Antisemitism is the antidote to critical thought, to skepticism and self-reflection. It creates a "them", not in reality but in the mind. It explains failure not through any self-conscious rumination, but in the creation of vagrants, infiltrators, and saboteurs.

It now becomes clear why nearly every conspiracy theory is antisemitic, or rapidly hurtling in that direction. One of the cornerstones of conspiratorial thought (as expounded by Michael Barkun in A Culture of Conspiracy: Apocalyptic Visions in Contemporary America) is the belief that the conspiracies are composed out outside forces. When neo-Nazis compose their "Every Aspect of _____ is Jewish" flyers, they can hardly focus on the fact that the vast majority of the people they blame are American. Americans are the in-group and as such cannot be at fault. Jews are an easily accessible out-group, in part because Jewishness is so "sneaky" (you can be Jewish and not even know it! Even Wikipedia can't seem to decide when someone is Jewish or not!). When people believe that the CIA was responsible for assassinating John F. Kennedy, it's never in their capacity as red-blooded patriotic Americans; it's always the result of insiders from Russia, China, and ultimately, Jews. Even conspiracy theories that don't explicitly name Jews are engaged in antisemitic thought, so long as they seek to pin events on the actions of "them". There's a reason "they" has become memetic in neo-Nazi circles; those who are "them" are most assuredly not "us".

It also becomes clear how and why antisemitism traverses political boundaries, and infects discourse left, right, and center. The extremes–the far-right and far-left (for all the usefulness of the political spectrum, which is not much)–are more prone to antisemitic thought precisely because they are so far from the norm. The more you see wrong with society the more you seek those who are responsible. (Again it's important to note that "antisemitic thought" in this context refers to the habit of looking for outsiders to blame, and does not always map perfectly onto open bigotry toward "real Jews".) When England is close to being a perfect country, it is only through the actions of the Jews that it is prevented from becoming so. When Sovyet communism begins to collapse in on itself, it is certainly the Jews who are accused. It is never "us" or "we"; it is always "they" and "them". And in a fit of cruel irony, when antisemitism becomes un-fashionable, the "no-true-scotsman" fallacy is often deployed, assigning the use of conspiratorial bigotry to impersonators and pretenders.

So what can we do? What can we learn, and how can we change? We can start by resolving to think critically, to not take the easy answers. We can look inward, not outward, and find things to improve in ourselves, rather than assuming that our faults are not our fault. We can be skeptical of conspiracy theories, of people who want to direct our anger in ways that serve their own goals. As always, we can protect and uplift Jews and Jewish communities worldwide. We can orient ourselves toward finding solutions, instead of finding reasons for why we can't. We can unlearn the thought patterns, cliches, and habits of antisemitic thought, or that lead to antisemitic thought. We can stop trying to look for the bad people, and start trying to be the good people.

[willowser]

you invade bakugou's thought process so smoothly when he's starting to grow fond of you and he doesn't even realize it at first, he's just so—

work 😒 work 😒 work 😒 gym 😒 gotta buy more protein 😒 work 😒 work 😒 check on repairs for costume 😒 work 😒 the reports that are due TONIGHT MOTHERFUCKER don't forget 😒 you 😒 work 😒 work 😒 you 😒 what kirishima said offhand, that made him sound a bit down 😒 figure out what that's about 😒 work 😒 work 😒 work 😒 market to buy fresh veggies 😒 gym 😒 gym 😒 call dad back 😒 reports 😒 you 😒 dinner 😒 shower 😒 work shit for tomorrow 😒 shut up and go to sleep 😒 you 😒 you 😒...........you ??? !!!!!!!!!!!!! ?????????????? akfbfidhfhsiak

[wardingshout]

Family for day 6 of SpeSilverWeek! Edition uuh found biological and crime I guess...

[thechibilitwick]

happy birthday shidou cheers to a unchanging tomorrow blah blah blah i hope you fall face flat into your cake

[hickeygender]

[zebratimw]

2021

[septimusmoonlight]

You doing ok?

hi

[lemm-moxx]

random UTMV oc crap ( expression practice and nightshade info #01 )

He brings a sort of unstable mold creature vibe to the multiverse that everyone doesn't really like

[bookwyrminspiration]

i cannot emphasize enough how much my entire academic situation is currently hinging on receiving an email from one (1) person

[chittychittyyangyang]

Between waiting for V10 news, my own personal stuff, and the US now being on fire (partially) literally, I know I've been pretty quiet here. Even before all of this I was pretty shut down emotionally, and I am just very absent as a person right now. I feel like many are struggling, and I wanted to share something that has helped me some:

What I find myself thinking about the most is like that she was out there and brave and looking for love at a time when her existence was criminalized. It's hard to remember that there was all of this light in the dark ages, but there was still these brazen romances. And I don't know that love was still stronger than fear, at least at times.

You're Wrong About - Kitty Genovese and “Bystander Apathy”

Stories about existing and loving in a world that wants you gone. It's not that horrible things didn't happen or won't happen, but that we will make do. Loving who you love, and being you matters. All of us matter. Our stories and lives, big and small matter.

Take care of those close to you. Find little moments of joy. Disconnect when you can. Read, create, and rest when you can. If you feel like nothing you do can change anything, volunteer. Sure, you can't fix a broken system right now by yourself, but you can help people have a hot meal they might not otherwise get.

As for the RW/BY stuff here, that's not going to change, other than maybe less in part because I just use this as an archive between volumes. I've been here for so long it would feel weird not to at this point. I know some people have found some level of comfort that I'm still here keeping up this blog, and I hope I continue to provide that for people (and, of course, bees).

[apnourry]

🖤🩶🖤

[naamahdarling]

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