If Fumiko is monstrous then Fujimoto should start presenting her as such
Fumiko is written to remind us that Denji is a child, and I repeat, she is the symbol of a child's sexual trauma in all its horror and "paradoxes".
Touching Denji without his consent, catching an adolescent who hasn't yet discovered himself off guard, is the most obvious way of proving the link between the theme of sexual assault and Fumiko, but it doesn't stop there.
The fact that Denji accepts only proves this point: it shows just how much he's someone who needs boundaries and protection. He passively listens to what he's told without question simply because Fumiko has the upper hand.
She has one, but spends her time pretending she doesn't, in particular by disguising her age like a predator, calling him "senpai" when she's 22, and playing up her protective role as a "bodyguard" when she's only there to stop Denji thinking for himself
As can be seen in the dialogue between Miri and Denji, she positions herself as an interlocutor, standing in Denji's shadow, influencing his decisions and distracting the boy from the substance of Miri's message.
But she's a complete paradox, still trying to make Denji believe she's protecting him, she refers to Chainsaw Man as a "child", which rather than demonstrating a good intention shows that she's well aware of what Denji is and that she's abusing him head-on.
Who protects a child by attacking him?
Once again, I insist, these are two pages from the same chapter. Dare you tell me that Fumiko doesn't present any contradictions?
Above all, she makes it seem as if she only wants what's best for Denji, even when he hasn't responded to her pleas for help. Once again, there's a paradox: the predator blames her victim for not having seen her own vulnerability, whereas she’s only abusing those of her victim.
Fumiko is a metaphor for the very dangerousness of sexual assault, gentle on the surface but insidious, its violence only made clear and felt after the event, rising like a tide.
When Yoshida convinces Denji to give up his normal life, he leaves him in the hands of Fumiko, a public hunter, who symbolises the extent to which, despite the monster in front of them, danger also exists among men, and that the milieu of public hunters is a harmful world for a child.
I think the reason Fujimoto doesn't immediately place Fumiko in a position of condemnation is to instil a feeling of frustration and powerlessness at seeing Denji unprotected, to make it clear that "he's missing something", a parental figure.
But I think that for the writing to be complete, the author has to take a clear stance on the subject, in his own way of course, but explicitly
Seeing Fumiko next to Denji makes me anxious, it's such a common form of violence that it pulls me out of my reading.
Fumiko is a monster, so I pray that Fujimoto will have fun explicitly detailing her dark side and her horror.
If he doesn't, then she'll remain an unfinished and confusing chimera, the result of lazy writing and a fear of commitment.
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Please note that this fic is going to take the better part of 2024 and probably 2025
(and given my track record might never be done):
Sansa
"Do you like the taste?" asked Littlefinger, watching her closely as she tried the wine. He always watched her closely.
They had stopped at the Inn at the Crossroads; she hadn't wanted to, but she would have had to explain to Littlefinger why. So she had choked down a meal and refused to think about the last time she had come through this way, where the first member of her family had been murdered in the stable while Joffrey had sniveled and lied and shown her, for the first time, who he really was.
"I don't see what all the fuss is about," she answered. "Why do men love it so much?"
Littlefinger shrugged. "It gives some men courage."
"Does it give you courage?"
He smiled, the way he did when she had stung him. He would take his revenge on her somehow, she knew. He was nothing like Joffrey, but there was a smallness to him that reminded her of the king.
The dead king, now.
A flash of armor to her right made her look up; a familiar woman, tall and broad of shoulder in a suit of armor, had approached their table.
"Lord Baelish. Lady Sansa. My name is Brienne of Tarth."
Sansa opened her mouth to reply, to tell her she knew who she was, of course she knew. Tyrion had mentioned her often, usually after rebuffing yet another request by the lady of Tarth for an audience with Sansa. I hope you don't mind, and Jaime vouches for her, but Cersei has made it clear she's to go nowhere near you and frankly this giantess makes me a bit nervy. He'd been glad to recount the tale of Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime, traipsing through the Riverlands on their way to King's Landing.
Before Sansa could speak a word, Littlefinger had made some cutting remark, the sort he was so good at. She'd yet to be on the receiving end of any of them but she flinched all the same, watching Brienne's face. Littlefinger was something like Joffrey — and something like herself, too, when she'd been young and pleased at her own wit. Looking back, she knew now that she had only ever been cruel.
Lady Brienne seemed not even to hear Littlefinger; as though he were no more than a gnat to be tolerated until such moment as he could be swatted. She knelt, awkward but not clumsy, and looked earnestly up at her. "Lady Sansa. Before your mother's death, I was her sworn sword. I gave my word I would find you and protect you. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for you if needs be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."
Would she have given the answering vow? She would never know, because once again Littlefinger was talking, sliding his glance over to Sansa to see what remarks might prompt a reaction. Sansa stayed still and watched as Lady Brienne's attention was at least drawn away, glaring at Littlefinger.
"Strange," Littlefinger was saying. "I knew Cat since the time we were children. She never mentioned you."
"It was after Renly's murder," said Lady Brienne, direct and blunt. She and Sandor would get along well, Sansa thought suddenly. Pity they had never met.
"Ah, yes," said Littlefinger. "You were accused of killing him."
Lady Brienne blushed, a splotchy red spreading across her cheeks. Shame, Sansa thought, but not guilt. "I tried to save him," she spat out. She did not glance over, to see if Sansa would believe her.
"But you were accused."
"By men who did not see what happened."
"And what did happen?"
"He was murdered by a shadow. A shadow with the face of Stannis Baratheon."
"A shadow? With a face?" Littlefinger turned to Sansa, and that was when she knew whatever he was about to say was a lie. "This woman swore to protect Renly. She failed. She swore to protect your mother. She failed." He smirked up at Lady Brienne. "Why would I want somebody with your history of failure guarding Lady Sansa?"
Lady Brienne made a face. "Why would you have any say in her affairs?"
"Because I am her uncle. I married her Aunt Lysa shortly before my beloved's untimely death. We're family now. And you are an outsider. Forgive me, Lady Brienne. But experience has made me wary of outsiders."
She gaped at him, then looked back at Sansa. "Lady Sansa," she said, and paused, as though at a loss for how to convince her. "If we can have a word alone?"
"Yes." Sansa rose, knocking into the table. The goblet of wine spilled and ran down her dress, but she was on her feet at last. The sellswords Littlefinger had brought with him moved in, one of them putting a hand on Lady Brienne's shoulder. She tensed and in just a few seconds there would be bloodshed, there would be someone dead on the floor and it would be her fault.
"Uncle Petyr," she said loudly, her heart rabbiting out of her chest, "Thank you very much for understanding. I will speak with Lady Brienne as you suggest, and then we shall resume our journey."
The sounds of eating and talking died out as faces turned toward her. A round-faced boy came bustling up, a wide, customer-friendly smile pasted on his face. "Is there anything I can help with, milord?" he chirruped.
"A room for the ladies," said Littlefinger, still watching her. She nodded very slightly and his mouth twitched.
"Have you anything on the floor above?" she added, addressing the boy with a nervous glance toward Lady Brienne.
"Er," came the reply, "Yes? Right this way, milady. Miladies."
Sansa leaned toward Littlefinger. He smelled of wine and the oils he used on his hair. "Could some of the guards watch the door?" she whispered. "And some near the stairs. Just…in case."
"Of course," he said, though his eyes were on her mouth.
The way Littlefinger had spoken of her mother, there had been a great rivalry between himself and Ned Stark; and before that a rivalry between himself and her uncle Brandon, who'd been betrothed to Catelyn before his murder. Littlefinger had always sounded like the defeated lover, the man who had nearly won his beloved's hand.
Mother had never mentioned Littlefinger. Father had, once they were in King's Landing and he'd been forced to admit an acquaintance. He'd sounded irritated more than angry; her mother had never loved him, had hardly ever thought of him. Her parents had lived and loved each other and all the while Littlefinger had stewed in his own curdled affections, imagining a love story that had never existed.
She could never decide what had moved her to kiss him on the cheek. Perhaps it had been a clever ploy to distract him, or a way to tell him she would return. She would have liked to have been that clever. But in the moment she could remember only how sorry she felt for him. "I'll just be a few moments," she promised him, lying.
Minutes later she was in a small bedchamber, with two dirty windows on each outside wall and the ominous creak of leather and metal just outside the door, signaling that Littlefinger's sellswords had taken up position. Lady Brienne, for her part, looked as uncomfortable as she had downstairs. "Thank you for speaking with me, my lady," she said.
"Can you fight them all?" Sansa asked her, keeping her voice down. They would need to be overheard soon, but they had a few seconds. Enough time, perhaps enough time. "If there's four in the corridor, and four downstairs."
"What? Yes, of course," said Lady Brienne, expression torn between confusion and offense. She fought off a bear once, Tyrion had told her with glee. Even beat my dear brother in a sword fight. When he still had both hands.
Sansa went to the first window. A long drop onto hard ground, and it faced the road as well as the hitching posts. The second was more promising: hay bales stacked haphazardly next to the wall, and the wood only twenty hards away.
"Start talking," she hissed at Lady Brienne.
She frowned. "I'm sorry?"
Sansa mimed opening the window. "Start talking. About anything. Honor or duty or what my mother was like. Whatever you'd say if you were trying to convince me."
Lady Brienne's eyes widened in understanding. "I…am not much for speeches, my lady," she said slowly, then more loudly as Sansa pulled open the window slowly, mindful of any squeaking. "But I found your mother an honorable woman, and your brother too. I brought Ser Jaime Lannister back to King's Landing at her request, so that you might be returned to your mother in exchange."
It would never have worked; she'd known that even then. The Lannisters did not understand the notion of letting go of an advantage, once they'd sunk their teeth into one. Even Tyrion had never offered to take her to her family once they'd been married. He'd had his reasons, and they had been good ones, but she'd learned another lesson that day. "So you sacrificed your oath to protect my mother for an oath to protect me?" she asked, making sure her voice carried as she swung her legs over the sill. "How can I know you'll not abandon me, too?"
It was important not to think. If she thought about it, she wouldn't do it.
She held her breath, put her hands over her mouth, and fell.
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