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acid-ixx · 14 days ago

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seasons in the sun: goodbye, my love, please pray for me...

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

— masterlist ! ; related post !

you guys i'm sorry for literally dying from the feed all of a sudden but i need y'all to be as feral as i am for the idea of a romantic! yandere jason with his childhood sweetheart reader.

y'know, the dichotomy of what used to be softness in the past in your relationship with jason. you know him as the sweet, malnourished boy who trespassed in your house to raid your fridge, the kind protector of your apartment after you'd offer your leftovers when he'd invaded your house and you're the only one left, advising him to run off to the balcony to hide once your parents come back from their trip; the silly guy who laughs shyly at your jokes, who'd coincidentally became your classmate after he'd been taken in by his rich father, who recalled the story to you when you'd both sneak by the backyard of your school with no qualms for privacy because it's you who he first learned to trust when he's thrust into the cruel lifestyle of the streets, knowing only how to bare his teeth but never how to retract it at the hands of its owner.

he's your closest confidant, the smart, nerdy boy who reciprocated your blooming romance, read classics to you with his squeaky voice, who offers to share with you his lollipops to "make up for all the times i ate your dinner at home," who secretly shoves his assignment answers under your desk when you'd forgotten to do yours and whispers the answers to the questions you're forced to recite when he notices your tensed jaws and quivering lips, shy and unaware of what to tell the teacher. only he knows it when your confidence is at an all-time low, and he helps guide through your problems like how you've been the only light in his life.

jason is the sweetest boy, he has no idea how to hold your hands, whose face flushes when your lips kiss his cheeks and when you cheekily grin at him after. sweaty fingers interlace with yours while you both lay on the grass of the gardens, listening to him rambling about the stars, and magic, and fantasy worlds, after bruce had finally permitted you to enter the manor because even his father could see how lovely you've impacted his adopted son; both of you keeping secret of your first meeting, similar to how you bask under the moonlight, alone, as if your presence yearns to be worshipped, he thinks.

he's your childhood sweetheart, and nothing can ever shatter the reality that he's the only right one for you.

your first love, sure, and your first heartbreak too.

taken away from the world at the cruel hands of death, at the ripe age of 17. the details his father retold you, with his equally somber, mourning expression do no justice to what felt like sledgehammers breaking a dam in your heart, your entire world breaking, even bruce's hands weighing at you shoulders during the entire funeral process don't ground you at all, you've no thought other than just how truly lonely you are to the world without him by your side—

the burden only becomes heavier, the tears refusing to drip from your eyes, staring at the picture frame of your happy, chipped-tooth lover now in a casket, surrounded by mourning flowers, sun dipping below the horizon which only darkens your vision.he unmoving now, dead, actually, and your mind couldn't comprehend how you'll never hear the chirp of his voice on one side of his ears and feel the scabs on his skin slowly fading away each day under your care.

even if your chest beats too loudly in your ears, your sweetheart, for the first time in your life, wouldn't be able to grasp at your shivering hands and assure you that he's alright.

he's gone. your sweet, loving, jason is gone.

you wish he'd die in your arms instead, rather than left you aching, worried and senseless from the days he'd suddenly disappear, then suddenly dead from a bombing, as what his father had told you. and you're not there to witness the scene, you couldn't even fathom just how much your body — still locked in place watching the funeral proceedings from afar, you don't feel quite yourself anymore — wishes to run to his open casket just to take his cold, laying body in your arms to feel your warmth.

at such an early moment, from what had felt like an eternity spent with the young boy, yet such a short span of being together with him at the same time— your grief has you yearning for the past image of your sweetheart. you want him back, you want your jason back. the years you've wasted, trying so hard to repair, to fill the broken gaps in your heart, to overcorrect, finding and chasing the comfort from other people, yet reeling away when every other person felt so foreign in your arms instead. nothing could ever replace the sweet ache in your tooth back when you're with him, nobody could amount to the tears you've wasted over jason because nobody is jason.

not even him, not when he came back a hardened soul, with a different body now bigger and stronger than you, who'd visit you during the night, intruding in on your apartment which oh-so prompts you to recall the very first day you'd met him. you don't know of his hardships, you're given a different story and the entire situation perplexes you, but you couldn't deny the ache in your chest when faced with this burly man, standing in front of you, breathing heavily and gazing at you with the same, starstruck stare that pins you on the spot of your bed.

he doesn't look like the jason who died, but he feels so much like him that your tender tears finally dripped down your quivering cheeks after what felt like eons of grief.

when he was resurrected from the dead after two years, he's not quite the same jason that you'd known and loved. he's broken, crawling out of that disgusting pit with only rage in his heart and the inclination to plot vengeance on those who've wronged him. there shouldn't've been an ounce of softness left, no love nor desire, no fantasy of his ex-lover when it should only be violence that he'd have known. but even so, beneath every vile emotion he felt, was the drive, the passion to come back to you first after he'd come to his senses. he'd remember screaming in agony, at feeling the rickety bones grinding against one another, at feeling for the sinewy muscles now aching and bulging in its restraints.

he's in a body taller than when he'd pass away from, and he wishes, after gaining enough consciousness— he fucking wishes you're there with him during the recovery phase, from when he's left to the cavern of his thoughts, braindead and unable to comprehend ra's al ghul's words, not when he's busy drowning in the depths of his clawing memories of you. nothing, not even the silken sheets he lays on, compares to you kissing his wounds like you always do and comforting him with your hushed words. beyond the exterior of his violence, of his boiling rage, was the hope that you'd still think of him in every waking moment the same way his first thought directs at how your fingers would tenderly graze at his skin.

i'm just saying, the angst/comfort potential of having the only person closest to you stripped away from your grasps, now in a different image. he's the same man you've prayed every single day to come back, but being faced to face with him that moonlit night, while your eyes still take in the unfamiliar form of jason's body towering over you, when his hands couldn't keep itself plastered to its side that it just, reaches out to grab you so he could bury his head on your clavicle and take a whiff of your body— you couldn't ignore the sheer differences.

how he scrunched his body to meet your height unlike the past where it's you adjusting to him, how his hands take precaution to ensure you're not crushed by his deadly strength, palms bigger than your head, how he takes utmost consideration peppering kisses on your shoulders, mumbling his apologies, his "i miss you, baby,"'s and "i love you s'much, i'm sorry for being gone for too long, sweetheart"'s, his refusal to release you; all while your heart raises a mile a minute because this is the red hood in front of you, clad in heavy metal armoury and mercenary weapons; a danger to gotham's criminal kind. yet it's him who speaks to you like your beloved jason with his heavy accent and rushed words, now a deep tremor compared to the young boy who chirps your name.

the only thing closest to you which reminds you of your past moments with jason, was that ever-so dedicated look of love. his hazy gaze, disguised under marred skin and sunken piercing eyes, yet so delicately filled with love that fills your chest with nostalgia long gone: of nights spent together at your apartment when he'd read you your favorite fairytales, of days having picnics together, baskets filled with handpicked fruits and alfred's sandwich, of moments coddling each other, feeding off the warm buzz off both bodies, legs entangled, sharing innocent kisses behind the trees.

of heartfelt promises, long forgotten yet still protected within jason's heart now guarded under lock and key, with only you having access if you just allow him to be loved by you once more. the man before you is a man who's changed, filled with contempt, jealousy, scorn for a mankind that scorches at every criminal, emotions so utterly complex compared to the boy you used to look at with ease, whose emotions used to be so easily distinguished from anger and adoration, who never beared hatred unlike now.

and you, who's just so conflicted, equally broken and unable to understand the entire situation. why, just why does the world want to torment you so much that it brings your old lover back— but different, hands now scarred, pinning you down with unfamiliar muscles bigger than your body, burying himself on your shoulders, mumbling and sobbing about his woes while your mind still reels itself back in to comfort him as you always do. this is the man you still love. his touch is all-knowing, he knows you loved it when his kisses reach the back of your ears, when his fingers fondle your waist.

he's different, yet the same. if it's not your dear jason coming back, if it was red hood, then why do you still recognize his presence so easily?

his aggressiveness to others you couldn't approve — the news labels him a brutal anti-hero, batman's new criminal enemy, he's a weapon of fear you should've resented — but why is it that it's his gentleness towards you that makes your heart ache at the memories of when he'd defend you from intruders, using his wits instead of his lacking strength? why do you feel like a completed puzzle piece in his arms?

he's here now. the red hood is here, but so is jason todd.

you could've called the gcpd, report them of his intrusion inside your house, forget all of this ever happened. but you should've also never brought your hands up to tangle itself upon the messy tresses of his black hair now streaked with white at the front, you shouldn't've hushed him and his cracking voice, taking his cheeks in your palms and having him look you straight in the eyes, drowning at dulled, blue eyes. once it reminds you of the blazing sky, now it's like the raging storms of the sea at night. without his red, gleaming helmet, he's reduced to your sweetheart; you cradle his head and stay silent.

still conflicted over brewing emotions, over the resurfacing love that you've forced yourself to bury the same time his casket was buried under the manor's soil.

in truth, you're tired of yearning, or constantly seeking a cheap, temporary replacement for jason. you've come to the stage of anger and withdrawal too, and your friends have told you that you should learn to rebound. but you're oh-so parched from love that no other could've given you, that you just couldn't fully relinquish your feelings, you can't.

in truth, you almost learnt to let go. almost.

but there's always the greatest fact: it's that as long as he's alive, even if resurrected and never the same, you'll still learn to love him over and over again, no matter if it takes years, he's yours and you're his. despite the cruelty he bears to others, he's your sweet boy, you miss him far too long, far too deeply. all is fair in love and war, they say, and all you wanted to do was to replicate those moments where it's just the two of you; even if his body is now bigger than you, you can still hold him, no? even if he knows how to wield guns better than how he held you shyly back then, he can learn—

thing is, you just wish things were simpler, you wish he'd have no other priorities, you wish the world didn't strip him away from his innocence. jason didn't deserve it, his death, and when he'd confess the truth: of his identity, of how he truly passed away, of his trials and tribulations to earn the path back to your place; you're left stinging with ache more than nostalgia, wishing you'd notice sooner.

so even if the man who lays in bed with you now is different, he's still the same man who held you tight in his arms, who remembers how to tuck you in the way you like it, who gazes at you filled with adoration, lips still quirking up hesitantly at your expectant stare. maybe it hurts, still, that he's not entirely the same jason who's smiles without bounds, who doesn't sport the same crinkle of mirthful eyes and jumpy actions, but he still retains the same love he'd carry for you all those years, even in death—

he's back, and that's all that matters.

a/n: yes do leave comments 🤩 idk what i just wrote honestly, srs about that. and i wrote it so that you do kind of have more... obsessive traits towards jason hehe. he's my favorite other than tim drake (well almost every character in dc is my fave, but i have my top spots), and tbh the reason i disappeared was because i was getting too invested in canon dc content that i forgot to write for it ngl.

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niccolites · 1 month ago

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i don't wanna break the heart of any other man (but you)

johnny (soap) mactavish x fem!reader, brother's best friend au. cw dub-con

read on ao3 here, originally based off of the very talented @ceilidho 's ask here

It starts with a ribbon in your hair, neat and pink, ripped out by Johnny’s hand. He laughs in your face, all gummy smile at the age of eight, grinning as you cry and try to get it back.

You are seven-years-old, and you don’t know why your brother hangs out with this bully. Even worse, the inaction. Your perfect big brother, reduced to a faceless bystander.

Lungs catch and then stutter, devastation as you learn and relearn the same lesson until it sticks. A boy can treat you how he wants, as long as he minds his ps and qs about it.

The world around you is defined in the short-term - the sky is blue, your mary-janes have a scuff on them that your mother is worried people are going to notice, and you hate Johnny Mactavish.

He becomes friends with your brother and steals him away from you. Best friends once, you and your brother. Now you've been replaced by some snotty little boy who is constantly yanking on your pigtails. In your own living room, your brother is silent when you run from the room crying.

He's your bully, a twist in your stomach when no one seems to understand this. You sit on the back step, hiccuping tears as you listen to Johnny and your brother have fun in the living room. Only Johnny seems to notice your tears when you come back in and sit, sullen, in the corner. His gaze is a living thing that crawls over you, something alive that shudders like a second skin over yours.

The defining story of your childhood is told like this, after the fact: Johnny keeps picking on you, one day he steals your ribbon and you cry. He keeps the ribbon to this day. Cue the hand on the heart and the coos from the audience. A hit every time, an instant classic.

(One part of the story that is always missed out when this is told and retold again and again is how you actually swing at him. The last time you’re on an even playing field because he unwillingly takes it on the chin.)

Respective parents swoop in, fussing and pulling the two of you apart. Injustice doled out swiftly as Johnny clings to that ribbon, as no one takes it off of him.

“Oh, honey, boys do that when they like you,” your mum coos at you. It's a pathetic attempt to comfort you, leaving you confused more than anything. Here is the sharp reality, your perfect hair undone and mussed. Here is the crack that distorts the image, smoothing over the edges and makes it more palatable.

Johnny catches this, mouth agape as he takes it in. There’s a red mark on his chin from your hand, blue eyes wide and watery.

You wonder if Johnny remembers this. You can see the exact moment that this registers with him, as if he had never considered the ‘why’ of what he was doing to you. And here was the reason, delivered to him from the woman who always gives him an extra cookie when he comes over to play. A click, the universe has righted itself. Something slotting into place according to some higher power. Path set, direction coordinated. Your ribbon clenched in his fist. Meaning applied, after the fact.

It matters to you, you suppose. A politically incorrect statement that alters the start of your life, for all intents and purposes. Here is the centre of it, tattered ribbon and throbbing knuckles, and a lie that is swallowed and turned into truth. Johnny probably doesn’t care. The centre of his entire infatuation does not matter as much as the gulf of the rest of it. Who cares about him snapping your training bra, what matters is the image of his fingers as they wriggle under the strap, the warmth of skin before the snap of plastic. Johnny’s vision of you seems to be half-eclipsed by what he does to you.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but Johnny is a lesson that the bitterness is quickly forgotten once the pill hits the bottom of your stomach. Well, then there’s just the acceptance of how things are meant to be, right?

What starts off as the play fighting of a rough child in puppy love becomes the earnest approaches of a lovesick teenager. Supposedly.

Before, maybe someone would have eventually stepped in. Maybe there is a finite number of times that a girl can come home crying after having her hair pulled before someone does start to get concerned. Maybe you were a few hundred short when puberty hits and Johnny makes a sharp pivot.

Gone are the shoves, Johnny sticking his foot out to trip you up. Pulling your hair and dashing away, as if unable to stand being near you. His attention is an ugly thing that sits between you. Even he doesn't seem equipped to handle it, breath always coming a little bit too sharp when he steals your teddy, eyes on your reaction even as he tries to dart away.

Now, Johnny is always near. He doesn’t shove anymore, just stands, always too close. You start wearing a training bra and he is a bit too focused about it. Asks you how it feels, gaze hot on your face, like he wants you to say something hot. (You know it doesn’t matter what you say, he’ll likely think that anyway). Petty at the age of 13, you spit into his drink to try and gross him out and he downs it like he had been waiting for it.

Years are not defined by time passing, but rather Johnny and his relationship to you. Years pass with the deterioration of the two of you, scratches in the wall to track the history of how bad everything spirals out of control.

You’re thirteen, and Johnny is pinging your bra strap. He's fourteen, and now he's a few inches taller which he starts using to his advantage, leaning over you when you try to get by him.

You're fourteen, and Johnny is telling you that he jerked off to the thought of you last night before smiling at your mother while you scoff in disgust. He's fifteen, and deciding he wants to start heavy-lifting, wanting to get in shape for you.

You're fifteen, and Johnny is begging you to come swimming with them, hands smoothing over your hips while you try to shove him off. He's sixteen, and he’s holding an enlistment pamphlet and asking how much you would miss him if he went.

You’re sixteen, and Johnny is yanking up your jumper and his breath comes out as a wheeze when he sees the light blue cups that he is convinced match his eyes. He’s seventeen, and trying to get you to drink with him, pupils blown as he tilts the bottle to your mouth and some of it spills over your bottom lip.

You’re seventeen, and Johnny is shoving his hand down the front of your panties, won’t you let him see his favourite girl before he leaves? You don’t know if he’s even really referring to you anymore. He’s eighteen, and he’s almost gone. The weight on your shoulders is heavier, the way it must be before it’s lifted. Almost out, the crack of light in a tomb, mouth watering for it.

He’s trying to be gentle with you, he explains, nights before he leaves. Your nipples are raw under your shirt from where he had yanked your shirt up and ducked down to bite them with a groan. You scowl.

Sitting in your room, your family downstairs. He had asked for a moment with you, for the third time that day and your mother had been charmed. She had been blubbering since she found out that he enlisted, back bowing as you seem to lift higher with each hour that passes.

He needs to make you understand what is going on between the two of you. Needs to make it clear to you before he goes. “We’re meant to be,” he says, patient, even as his hands flex, smoothing over your knees. A creak of bone against muscle, seconds away from wrenching your thighs open and taking what he believes he is owed.

It seems like some kind of stupid honour code. You’re too wriggly. He can have his pound of flesh but he wants the full slab. Maybe he thinks he has to earn it, wants you to spread your legs and let him in.

Fat chance. You tell him as much, delighting for a moment at the way that dopey smile drops off his face. You imagine punching him now, wonder if you could break his nose this time, you think you have enough anger built up to really manage it.

Before you get a chance to really think it over, he grabs you, hands hard on your hips. Yanking your leggings down, and you think that you were wrong, if you didn’t bring over the full cow he was just going to and wrangle that fucker himself.

Minutes later and he’s puffing hot breath into the crook of your neck, the head of his cock between the gusset of your underwear and your pussy. He had gripped your hand and guided it around his dick, up and down. You would stop, but his hand is manacled around your wrist, palm hot against the pulse of your veins. Two layers of skin between your respective flesh, nothing really.

He whines when pre-cum aids the way, huffs a laugh when he nudges against your clit and you tremble. Barely any slick between your folds but he hones in on it like he does with everything to do with you. Dips the head of his cock further down to catch it, forehead thumping against your shoulder to watch as his cock shines with the slightest bit of your juices.

Here is the body’s natural reaction to stimulation. And here is Johnny taking the explanation that he has been waiting for.

“A knew it,” he mutters, feverish as his hips stutter, your hand tightening for a second as he nudges against your clit again. “Knew you were wantin’ it, lovey. But you had tae act like a right cow, eh?” He chuckles, dark before he yanks your chin up (you had been staring as well, you realise with a flush of shame), slants his mouth over yours.

He’s still angry, thumb digging into the soft flesh beneath your skin as he drags his tongue over yours, sucking it into his mouth until you hiccup.

He’s big like this, eighteen, and the puppy fat had shrank off years ago. Shoulders hunches to reach you, hand cradling your jaw in place, almost ear to ear.

He pulls back and you loll forward, pressure that had been holding you in place suddenly gone. You reel with it, almost falling forward before he nudges you back again. He huffs, a mean thing into your temple, hand sliding to the back of your neck. “Ye wantin’ it?” he asks. You wonder if he actually wants an answer, know that he already has his confirmation between your thighs.

His hand squeezes your wrist, and you clumsily twist your palm when you reach the top of his shaft, morbidly curious. He told you how he liked to jerk off two New Years ago, did it how he thought you would do it for him. Prophesied.

His shoulders shake, moaning wantonly as if you aren’t in your bedroom with your parents watching TV just downstairs. “Fuck,” he hisses, eyes on how your hand barely covers half of his cock as you stroke him. His hand thumps into the wall beside your shoulder, other hand flexing with his thumb on your wrist bone.

“Ah, fuck, dae that again,” he huffs until you do, again and again until he whines, head back into the crook of your neck as he drools into the collar of your shirt.

Both his hands are on your arse now, squeezing and kneading as he humps like a misbehaved dog into your hand. “I know you didnae mean it,” he mutters, pulling the spit soaked collar of your shirt down to kiss and lick and bite your collarbone. “You were jus’ missin’ me already, eh? A know, lovey, a know, there we are, just havtae show you the way sometimes, my poor wee angel, a forgive ye, a dae, a swear.”

He grips the backs of your thighs and squeezes when he comes, pushing until the head of his cocks kicks up near the entrance of your cunt, whining and shuddering through it. He pants as he comes back down, cock jerking idly in your now loose grasp, red hot against where you are now wet. Probably, mostly with Johnny’s cum.

He gives a heaving sigh, pushes his palms against the wall to look down at you. He likes what he sees - spit slick mouth, red neck, bare pussy with his cum staining you and your underwear.

“A willnae be gone long,” he says, as if you had been mid conversation. “A will come back f’ you, angel,” he promises, gaze hot on the crux of your legs.

You stare up at him, hand still loose around his shaft before you let go. A curdled desire settles in your stomach. Always for Johnny, and always half ruined at inception because it’s for Johnny.

Hours later and he’s gone. You sit at the breakfast table, your mother fussing in her upset about him being gone. Your brother is quiet as always, gives you a strange look. Johnny’s cum is dried out in your favourite pair of panties upstairs. You bite into a piece of toast, feel each crumb as it digs into your gums and dirties you.

It gets worse again after he officially enlists in the army. Before Johnny is the cute teenager that trails after your every move, intent and so so sweet.

Now he is Johnny, the childhood sweetheart. Before both of your parents had viewed you as scorning a poor lovesick puppy. Now you are a couple, constantly bickering about something or other. You insist that he is not your boyfriend, and are met with rolled eyes and knowing looks.

Johnny’s mother confesses that half of his calls to her are asking for you. You briefly consider moving to another country.

He sends pictures of his cock while he is away, the head red and you hate that you know how hot it would be to the touch. You reply and tell him to cut it off and he tells you that you’re the one.

Your mum doesn’t understand when you complain so heavily about him. Every complaint is met with a rebuttal, as if Johnny’s hand is at the back of everyone’s throat, puppeting everything that they say.

He’s too touchy. Because he loves you sweetheart, my god, I wish someone would want me that much.

He’s too close. God forbid someone enjoy your company.

Don’t you think he’s a little bit strange? He’s in the army, you dick, don’t you think you could be just a little bit nicer about it?

You feel half insane, the only one protesting the way that he treats you, the way he has always treated you. The capacity for cruelty has just shifted. Johnny has always worked within the parameters that were available to him. Sure, he can’t get away with yanking on your pigtails anymore, but biting a bit too hard at your neck has the same result. Tears in your eyes, and everyone tells you that this is how Johnny shows you he likes you.

After his first deployment, he gets so close to fucking you that you get spooked. Eighteen now, and suddenly ten years younger, Johnny taking something that doesn’t belong to him. You let him fuck up the length of your cunt, let him lick his cum off of you. He keeps his head between your thighs, eats you out like a man starved until you shake, tears in the corners of your eyes. Shame again, at how sloppy he is, spit and slick and cum everywhere. He likes it, likes how shameful you get about it. Laps that up too, tongue buried in you like he wants to get to the back of your throat. He always wants more of you than you think you have to begin with.

He lies back, barely sated but will at least lie still now and pulls you over to drape over his chest. He’s getting bigger, you think. Maybe he’s taking parts of you, squirreling them away in himself, until you don’t know you unless you find it in him.

You curve one hand over his barrel chest, barely any give in the muscle. He hums, a booming noise beneath your ear. “Tha’s all it took,” he murmurs, hand smoothing over your head like you’re a cat. “A bit ae missin’ me and yer as sweet as a kitten.”

You’re too tired to give a snarky response, though you briefly wonder if you can get away with pinching his side a bit too hard in retribution.

You know he’s going to be even more pent up the next time he gets back, that he’s going to think he’s owed your virginity. You refuse to give him another reason to tie the two of you together indefinitely. You think he’ll propose if he does, he has already been messaging you about it, asking when the two of you were finally going to walk down that aisle that he’s been building around you for years.

You go to a pub the next time he leaves, ignore his messages to call because he misses you so much. Sit at the counter until some sleazy guy who looks double your age saunters up and offers to buy you a drink. You shouldn’t, it is so dangerous. You barely have to cut your eyes towards him before he’s taking this as forwardness. Offers to take you home and immediately starts pawing at you in his truck.

You let him bend you over, the clink of a belt and its all over. You rock with each thrust, hating yourself for catching sight of the man’s hand on yours and knowing that Johnny’s is bigger.

You bring a hand down to rub along your clit, but the first whine that leaves your mouth brings the entire show to a close and you stand up, furious. The man wheezes in the seat as you barely say goodbye, wrenching your panties up and storming home.

Johnny’s been calling you, must be on whatever type of break he gets wherever he is, and you answer after the third missed call. Low timber floods your ear and warms your bones.

He’s so excited he caught you, been missing you so much, baby. Thinking about you all the time, he got in trouble for not being able to focus. Asks if you’ve been taking care of his pretty girl for him?

You let him yap in your ear the whole way home, wanting desperately for your vibrator. “You missin’ me too, baby?” Johnny huffs in your ear. You hum, absentmindedly in response. He’s on it, scenting blood.”Aye? Tell me, how much, eh? You been petting yourself thinking of me?”

You’re home, Johnny still trying to goad you on over the phone, the connection is bad but he seems to overcome it. Hulking, even over a wire to get to you. Maybe you could get him to talk through getting yourself off. It’s disgusting, but maybe you could give yourself a pass this one time. He’s allowed to do whatever he wants, where are your allowances? Johnny gets to hop back and forth over the line of propriety, you’re allowed one slip up before you return to your factory settings.

Your vibrator, hidden in the back of your bedside table, gone. You know it was him, know he binned it. Know he probably didn’t want anything getting you off except him.

You stare at the empty space in the back of your drawer, cold water down your spine that douses any flames of arousal you think you have ever felt and maybe will ever feel again. Anger is back, and so beautifully familiar. Johnny is still droning on, something about letting him see a picture of how much you’re missing him.

“I fucked someone else,” you say, voice gritty.

The line goes quiet. Small buzzes that make up the distance between the two of you, the call dropping and reconnecting. Universe bringing you back together again.

“That’s not fucking funny,” Johnny says, voice low in a way that you don’t think that you’ve heard before.

“Good thing I’m not joking,” you snap back. You feel frightened, eyes darting to the window as if he is about to start running in your direction, all the way across the globe. You wouldn’t put it past him. But never let it be said that you wouldn’t put your hand to the snapping teeth of a rabid dog.

He’s silent, breath heaving before the line goes dead.

You drop your phone to the floor and stand in the quiet of your room. A bird chirps in the distance, life reinstating itself even in the absence of Johnny. You crawl into bed and refuse to get off tonight. A competition where you are the only participant and the only loser too. Fitting.

You don’t see Johnny for months after that. Which makes sense, because he is across the globe. But the silence feels eerie, the way you imagine it might be for him. The thunder of a gun and the shutter after. Silence ringing, not due to quiet but because of the absence of sound.

He doesn’t message you at all during this period. Clearly he says something to his mother, because she gives you a frown at church that Sunday. “You must’ve done something,” your mum hisses at you, embarrassed that the story of childhood sweethearts that she gave birth to has become a story of a surly woman who cannot appreciate the man who loves her as he risks his life for his country.

You don’t bother replying. There’s no point, really. Everything has been set in motion and everyone had climbed on board. You were the one that derailed the track and upset everything.

You refuse to admit that you miss Johnny. That your phone buzzes and there is a moment where you think it could be him. For months, it isn’t. You feel like you’re floating out in orbit and your lifeline has gone silent on you. Drifting, the cold slowly creeping in, nothing around to propel yourself off of. Gain some momentum, do something.

You sit and wait for Johnny’s judgement day.

He gets back on a Friday, and he doesn’t come to see you. You know he’s back, because you can hear your brother on the phone to him, asking if he got back alright. You skulk around the corner, waiting for any mention of your name. If there is any, you don’t hear it.

You sit in your room, uncertain. The thing that you hadn’t considered is that while you had been complaining about how you and Johnny had been set up in the direction that you were going in, you hadn’t thought about what you would do if you weren’t doing this. You have derailed the train now, but you don’t remember when you got on, or how to get back there.

You mull this over, legs tucked to the side as you lean into the large bear on your bed. Won for you, by Johnny of course, at some fair when you were kids. Maybe you could leave. Nothing as drastic as another country, but another town maybe, escape the suffocation that comes with being here and everyone knowing you as Johnny’s girl.

Daydreaming, imagining yourself in a place where no one knows who you are, you are startled out of your thoughts when your window slams open. Soap hoists himself up and into your room, with an ease you imagine he must not have had before.

You blink at him as he stands next to your open window, gaze hot on you without saying a word. You shuffle a little, uncertain, refusing to speak first. You feel bizarrely guilty, as if you have done something wrong. Even though you know you haven’t. Just because a man decides he is owed your virginity, doesn’t mean you’re in the wrong for not giving it to him.

Still, you swallow an apology on the back of your tongue and it tastes like ash.

Johnny quietly reaches over and slams your window shut, making you jump.

“Y’know, a went around town and tried to figure out who ye cheated on me wae,” he says, at last, face darker than you have ever seen it. His hair is slightly grown out along the sides, mohawk less stark like this. Hair like he had when he was ten, almost.

“I didn’t cheat on you -” You try to interject, remembering your indignation more than anything.

Johnny lunges for you, hand hot around your ankle as he yanks you down the bed. “Who fuckin’ was it, huh? Y’ know, ave been tryin’ so hard wae you, thinkin’ that you’ve been missin’ me just as much as a have you, but instead you’ve been tryin’ tae hurt me, whorin yourself fae anyone -”

You reel your arm back to punch him in the face, and he catches your wrist just before you can make contact with his jaw. “I didn’t fucking whore myself out, I’m sorry that you’re fucking delusional -”

A hand in the length of your hair and he wrenches your head back, slamming his mouth against yours. It’s sore, all teeth as you both hiss and spit at each other. It feels like an even playing field again, even though you feel swallowed up in his bulk. His hand leaves your hair and grips you everywhere he can, like everything belongs to him already.

You feel white hot, letting him lick across the back of your teeth like he doesn’t want any part of you untouched by him. You hold onto his shoulders, letting him pull you all over, leans back and hooks a finger over your jaw. Pulls your mouth open. You realise what he’s going to do a moment before he does it, spit landing on your tongue. Instinctive to swallow it.

He moans wantonly at the sight, a sound that flushes you in embarrassment. For god’s sake, you’re in your mother’s house. He’s licking into your mouth, spit everywhere and making you feel sticky.

His hand slides between your thighs and you feel the moment that he finds out how wet you are, his hips stuttering a quick grind against your hip. “Jus’ for me, huh?” he asks, feverishly hot. He pulls back as he yanks your shorts off, panties dragged along with. Groans at the sight of you, wet and swollen between your legs. “Eh? Is this what ye did wae that fuckin’ boy?”

Your thighs shake, hands trying to catch his wrist as he slides two fingers into you, thumb mean against your clit. “What?” you croak, blinking up at him.

“Whatever loser you took home with you,” Johnny asks, hawk-like focus on your face. Strange for him, when your pussy is on show. “You take him back here and did ye let him dae this tae y’? Ye think aboot me when he brought his small dick oot?”

You don’t respond and he pinches your clit until you squeak, trying to buck away from him.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he coos suddenly, eyes no longer on your face but between your legs. “My pretty girl, you just need someone to show you, right?”

He fingers you, thumb intent on your clit until you start to shake, voice getting higher, Then he stops, fingers slipping out of you (when did it become three?), with a wet noise that if you were more in your mind, you would flush about.

You start to whine, and he flips you over onto your front, hikes your ass in the air and coos of the sight of your cunt throbbing at the injustice of it all. “A know, angel, A know. A want to give ye what yer wantin, but a don’t know if you deserve it,” he hums. Fucking liar, if the clink of his belt is anything to go by, then the hot stroke of his cock between your sticky folds that has you arching your back like a cat in heat. He’s trying to be teasing, but his voice shakes, restraint held together by a thin chain and he is a big man.

He holds you still with a hand on your hip, the heat of it sinking into your skin. You can hear him beating off, using your slick to aide the way as he stares at your holes. You feel like you want to cry, sitting on display for him to get off on. You do, but it also makes you feel piping hot all over. There’s a sickness in him and he’s been dosing you up on it for years. Viral disease, his spit in your mouth until it clogs the back of your throat and finally takes root in your bloodstream.

“Was thinking about this so much,” he murmurs, as if caught up in a dream. “Wanted tae be the one to make y’ a woman - “

“It was bad,” you manage, throat dry, gaze on the opposite wall. The slick noise behind you stops and you can only hear the sound of his breathing. His scrutiny of you on the back of your skull pulling you down. You don’t know why you’re saying this. There is a cliff edge and you want to say you stepped off of it with your next words, but you’re already freefalling, and you’re hoping for the crash into him rather than the cold dirt. “I didn’t know him, I didn’t get off, and I thought about you and how good that you would have made me - “

Half a sentence in and he sinks in, cock splitting you open. He groans, loud and shameful as you whine, thigh kicking until he stills it, pushing down to get further into you, It may as well have been your first time, it takes a few shallow thrusts and Johnny reaching down to rub at your clit to ease the way before he manages to get balls deep into you.

“Oh fuck,” you wheeze, full. At capacity. You can’t think beyond the stretch of yourself around Johnny, air knocked out as he pushes more weight onto you.

“Fuck, this fuckin’ cunt,” he groans. Hands smooth over your arse, spreading your cheeks to better view what he’s doing to you. “Knew ye would be so good, dreamed ae this - ah - you just wanted tae deny yerself. Don’t worry, angel, I’ll give ye what ye need.”

Then it starts, the pulling out just bottom out again, fast and hard and any air you manage to suck in is immediately shot out.

Your head lolls to the side, you think you might be drooling onto your sheets, but can barely find it in you to care. His balls slap against your swollen clit, so loud and yet you cannot remember why you should care about that beyond getting him to keep doing that. You realise that your muttering please, over and over again, not even aware of it.

He shifts to the side, and suddenly his thrusts are deliberate, and you tense up even more. No pause, no grinding out, you come and he keeps going, grunts as you tighten up and spasm, sobbing into your sheets.

It’s like a point is being hammered into you. You suspect if you hadn’t admitted that you didn’t come with the other guy, then Johnny wouldn’t have given a shit. But this is purposeful, a lesson being taught until only the whites of your eyes are showing. It always did so many times for you to take a telling, Johnny coos in your ear. Thank god he’s here, he’s got you.

He comes with a groan, mouth hot against the back of your neck as he mouths at your nape, teeth a little bit too sharp for your liking. Damning, feeling his cum in you. No part of you, untouched.

You want to say it gets worse from this point again. You think that it has actually just always been the same level of awful, the scale has just broadened.

Johnny tells everyone that you’re engaged after you let him cum in you again. There’s not even an engagement ring. Spitting in anger at your future being decided for you again, Johnny interprets this as you being upset he didn’t take you ring shopping. Drags you to the bathroom and fucks you on the sink with your ankles over his shoulders.

It’s relentless. There is a hairline fracture along the tender tissue of your brain and Johnny has pried it open to fit himself, crawled in and made himself at home.

He tells you that you were made for him. That he had came first, that he had wished for you and you were delivered to him. Guides your hand to his ribcage, tells you there is one missing. “Would give that an’ mare,” he vows, hands swallowing up the arch of your torso, a perfect ring made with the circle of his hands.

He’ll probably marry you the next time he’s back. He can barely be held back from it just now, that leash he places in your hand even if he yanks so hard that the control is all just for show. Just another link between the two of you, his neck yanked back to you up at you.

He sleeps in your childhood bed, muscular arm a band around your waist. There’s a version of you in the corner. She’s still weeping and now only you know. A tear against Johnny’s shoulder and he shuffles closer, tucking you under his chin. “Ave got ye, angel,” he slurs, half-asleep.

You feel restricted, unable to move. And it soothes you to sleep.

(Johnny begs you to suck him off just before he leaves for his next deployment. His come tastes bitter as you swallow. Go figure.)

#johnny mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #cod x reader #nic writes #johnny mactavish #cw dub con #definitely could have been more catholic. an improvement for next time haah #let me know ur thoughts !

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apoloadonisandnarcissus · 16 days ago

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“Sacrifice” and “Covenant” in “Nosferatu” (2024)

Or: how Robert Eggers took the “bride of Dracula” theme to the next level, and no one noticed? And how his adaptation of “Nosferatu” is so widely different from the previous ones? Let's make cinematic comparisons.

First things first: “Nosferatu” and “Dracula” are the same thing. The silent 1922 German movie “Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror” was an unauthorized version of Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel “Dracula”, and Stoker’s widow even sued the film makers and won, and all copies should have been destroyed but made its way to the US, and the rest its history.

Count Orlok is Count Dracula; Ellen Hutter is Mina Harker; Thomas Hutter is Jonathan Harker; Knoch is Renfield; Bulwer/Von Franz is Van Helsing; Anna/Ruth Harding is Lucy Westenra, and Friedrich Harding is Arthur Holmwood.

The relationships between these characters are the same in the 2024 adaptation; Mina/Ellen and Jonathan/Thomas are married, Lucy/Anna and Arthur/Friedrich too. Von Franz/Van Helsing is called to help against Dracula/Orlok. And Renfield/Knoch is Dracula fanatical servant who wants immortality. Why Dracula wants the female characters (Mina and Lucy) varies from story to story: in some he only wants their blood, in others he wants them as his brides.

In the 1922 version, Orlok brings plague and rats to an European city, and unlike Dracula, his victims don’t turn into vampires, they just die. There is also no “brides of Dracula” here. This is also the case in the 1979 adaptation.

To analyze the 2024 adaptation of “Nosferatu”, we need to have this in mind.

Cinematic context

"Nosferatu" adaptations

The climax of the “Nosferatu” story is Ellen Hutter (Mina Harker) sacrificing herself to save Wisburg, because she reads a book that says a vampire can be defeated if a pure-hearted woman distracts him from the approaching dawn with her beauty and by offering him her blood of her own free will.

This is what we see with the 1922 and 1979 adaptations (yes, I’m ignoring the 2023 remake because it’s almost a rehash of the 1922 film):

Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922)

This woman is already dead. Rest in peace in advance. She’s on her back, she completely accepted she’s not getting out of this alive, and she’s selflessly sacrificing herself.

Nosferatu the Vampire (1979)

The same vibe as the first + unnecessary boob grab. This adaptation uses the Bram Stoker names, but she’s “Lucy Harker” (not Mina), and is married to Jonathan Harker (Thomas Hutter).

These women are metaphorically and literally “sacrificial lambs” in these scenarios, there’s no doubt about it. They just lie there, at the mercy of Orlok/Dracula, waiting to die, and for the sun to rise and kill him. But more on that later.

"Dracula" adaptations

There have been so many “Dracula” adaptations in cinema and television, it’s impossible to address them all in this post. This story has been told and retold so many times already, from horror to comedy to drama to romance. We had the brides, the daughters, the sons and even the granddaughter of Dracula. The list is endless, cinema and television has gone through all of Dracula family already.

The most iconic cinematographic adaptations of “Dracula” in cinema history (even though some have no resemblance to the actual book), besides 1922 “Nosferatu” are: “Dracula” (1931); “Horror of Dracula” (1958); “Dracula” (1979) and “Bram’s Stoker Dracula” (1992).

Béla Lugosi 1931 Dracula pretty much solidified Dracula iconography in pop culture

These films are considered cult classics mostly because of their cast (Béla Lugosi, Christopher Lee, Frank Langella, Gary Oldman) and legendary directors (Francis Ford Coppola).

In this story, Dracula is usually killed by a hero male character (Van Helsing, Jonathan Harker, Arthur, Quincey, etc.), which is what happens in the novel. “Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror” (1922) introduced his death at the hands of a female character (Ellen/Mina), even if indirectly (distracting him until dawn so the sun can kill him). “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992) is the exception to this rule, with Mina being the one to kill Dracula at the end, to give him peace (which probably explains why there are so many references to this film in Robert Eggers’ adaptation).

"Her willing sacrifice thus broke the curse"

The main differences between the 2024 adaptation and the previous ones is, indeed, Ellen Hutter and Count Orlok psychosexual connection (like Robert Eggers himself has said) and Ellen’s entire character.

In previous adaptations, Orlok took an interest in Ellen because he saw her portrait (which Thomas Hutter carried with him). In 1922, he wanted her blood, because she’s pure of heart (metaphorical “sacrificing a virgin to the Devil”, probably), and in the 1979 adaptation, he wants the love Jonathan has, but he, himself, can't ever have.

In the actual novel, Dracula bites Mina and wants to turn her into a vampire as revenge (she’s the one who uncovers his plans). Mina Harker is also the literary antithesis to the “she-vampire”, she represents the pure and virginal Victorian woman.

This is also the case with Ellen Hutter’s character in the original 1922 “Nosferatu”, and the reason why she’s the one who selflessly sacrifices herself to save the world from Nosferatu curse. It's her purity which allows her to do this. She’s almost Christ-like, taking this role for herself after reading about it in a book.

In the 1979 adaptation, Lucy/Ellen is the one who can defeat Dracula/Orlok because he’s in love with her, and she weaponizes that to bring him to his destruction. Like the 1922 film, Lucy is also the one who discovers how to defeat Nosferatu. But unlike 1922 Orlok, this vampire is a tragic, depressive and pitiful creature, tired of immortality and loneliness, who takes no joy in the destruction and death he brings.

This is not the case in the 2024 adaptation. Eggers’ Ellen does not represent the “pure and virginal Victorian woman” and as such her “sacrifice” at the end can’t possibly have the same meaning as previous adaptations of this particular story. Because that’s not how storytelling works, and why many are scratching their heads at this ending. The film itself talks about “sacrifice” to “redeem” the townsfolk of Wisburg and save them from Nosferatu curse/plague, but why?

Eggers’ Ellen is a subversion of Mina Harker/Ellen Hutter character. She’s not the God-fearing, devoted and pure-hearted Mina, neither she tries to be. She’s ostracized by society, she doesn’t fit in, she’s been diagnosed as a “somnambulist hysteric melancholic” (hiper-sexual depressive sleepwalker), it’s implied she has been institutionalized (probably in an asylum) before. She outright rejects God and His intervention when talking to Anna about life (it’s destiny, not God). There’s a lot of crosses in this film but none are around Ellen’s neck. She loves Thomas but wants more passion and hunger from him. This is a completely different character from the OG Ellen Hutter/Mina Harker.

On a superficial level, it appears Ellen takes advantage of Orlok sex blood lust to bring him to his own destruction (he’s an appetite who can’t be satisfied without her… blood?), a mix of the 1922 and 1979 adaptations? However, this explanation is not “it” because of a not so smaller detail: their covenant (almost everyone keeps forgetting for some reason). Which didn’t exist in the previous films, this is a plot Robert Eggers introduced but has no pay off?

To me, it’s clear. This talk of “sacrifice” is a red herring and a MacGuffin in the narrative, and it doesn’t mean anything, it’s irrelevant. It’s just there as a Easter egg and reference for previous adaptations of this story. And the true Chekhov's gun of the story is the covenant between Ellen and Orlok. What is a narrative “Chekhov's gun” you ask? It’s a plot that’s introduced early in the story, and whose significance will only became clear later.

Why not the other way around? Because all the foreshadowing of the story points to Ellen joining Death (Orlok), not only freely (out of her own will), but how happy she is in doing this. Hence her dying alongside Orlok at the end can’t possible be an actual selfless sacrifice to save Wisburg or Thomas, nor is she a “sacrificial lamb” like the previous adaptations of this story. There is zero foreshadowing for this happening. Them both (physically) dying in a context of a covenant has to mean something else in this story.

Also the fact that Eggers’ Ellen and Orlok have an entire backstory going on between them, which is also unique to this adaptation. Here, it’s Ellen who “awakes” Orlok from his grave with her summoning prayer, in her teenage years. The guy has been dead for centuries until she brings him back, basically.

She develops a spiritual connection with him, which turned sexual (what we see in the prologue is their relationship already developed, when Orlok reveals himself).

“At first it was sweet, I had never known such bliss. Yet it turned to torture, it would kill me. [...] He is my shame! He is my melancholy! He took me as his lover then, and now he has come back. He has discovered our marriage and has come back!”

“Remember how once we were? A moment. Remember?”

We also have the whole ordeal with the lilacs, throughout the film, which are meant to represent Ellen and Orlok's relationship.

A little historical context here for “Ellen’s shame”: this story is set in the Victorian era, where women weren’t supposed to have any sexual desire whatsoever, and even within marriage they were supposed to be modest and restrained. Ellen engaging in sexual activity without being married is highly scandalous for Victorian society (it has nothing to do with “abuse” or whatever wild inaccurate historical interpretations are out there.)

In the novel, Mina does develop a mental connection with Dracula as a consequence of him biting her and feeding her with his blood (cursing her to vampirism). This allows the heroes to track down and destroy Dracula. In the “Nosferatu” adaptations, this connection is more related to Jonathan himself. The only adaptation I can recall that has this sort of astral fuckery going on is “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992), with Lucy's character.

The Covenant

Orlok: “You are not for the living. You are not for human kind. And shall you be one with me ever-eternally. Do you swear it?” Ellen: “I swear."

The thing is: vampires in this “universe” (sort of speak) aren’t made like in the original “Dracula” novel and every vampire story ever since (where the vampire bites and feeds his blood to another, and turns them into a vampire). Orlok victims don’t turn into vampires, they just die. So, what does this “covenant” mean, and implies?

We have to look into the other character in the story, who also wants to make a “covenant” with Orlok, and is his fanatical servant: Herr Knock (our Renfield).

“The compact commands she must willingly re-pledge her vow. She cannot be stolen.”

First piece of information: this "covenant" ("compact"; "pact") has to be made of free will.

The next clue we got is when Von Franz and Dr. Sievers break into Herr Knock’s office and find books and a cryptic writing:

“His thunder roars from clouds of carcasses, I feedeth on my shroud, and death avails me not. For I am his.”

“Thunder roars” and “clouds of carcasses” appear to be a reference to Orlok? Or to other deity? “I feed off my shroud and death is of no use to me, because I’m his”: seems to be what this means.

Von Franz also finds out Orlok is Solomonari, student of the Devil (from Romanian folklore).

Later, Von Franz studies the book he took from Knock’s office, which contains the instructions in how to defeat Orlok: “And so the maiden fair did offer up, her love unto the beast, and with him lay, in close embrace until the first cock crow. Her willing sacrifice thus broke the curse, and freed them from the plague of Nosferatu.”

When Thomas, Von Franz and Dr. Sievers go to Grünewald Manor to destroy Orlok’s sanctuary, it’s Knock on the sarcophagus, and Thomas stabs him with the iron spike before he can see him. And he wants to be killed, as he pushes the stake deeper into his body:

“I relinquished him my soul. I should have been the Prince of Rats – immortal... but he broke our covenant... for he cares only for his pretty bride [...] She is his! [...] Strike again. I am blasphemy!”

Knock's final words are: "Deliverance." Which is... odd to say the least, because “deliverance” has Christian religious meaning with “salvation”, or even “exorcism” (“deliver us from evil”). But it also means “to be set free”. Interesting enough it’s what Von Franz tells Thomas to do, before they open the sarcophagus: “Go forward Thomas. Set free the daemon’s [demon] body!”

In 1922 “Nosferatu”, Knock remains loyal to Orlok until the bitter end, and even tries to warn him about the rising sun while he’s feeding off Ellen. He also dies as a consequence of his master’s death. In the 1979 adaptation, he leaves before any of this happens, so there's no point talking about that in connection to this.

This leads me to a few questions:

Why would this fanatical follower of Orlok have a book in how to destroy his master, on his own office? In previous adaptations, this knowledge was with "good" characters, not with the second antagonist of the film;

Why does Knoch wants to be killed? Nothing in his character suggests he had a "chance of heart" or is seeking punishment for his “sins”, or absolution, or anything of that sort;

And if 2024 Knock is loyal to 2024 Orlok, until the bitter end (like his 1922 counterpart), what does this mean for the narrative?

The obvious explanations are: (1) Orlok ordered Knock to have that book there for the “vampire hunters” to find and let him have Ellen; (2) or it’s one of those extraordinary coincidences where one of the villains just “kind of forgot”, which seems extremely unlikely in a movie that has been in preparation since 2016.

This also tells us, Orlok might have prepared his own physical demise (because not even demons want to be a rotting corpse, probably), so his soul is set free and returned to Hell? the Underword? Some astral place other than the material/physical world, where he's forced to be a walking corpse. And he wants to take Ellen with him.

As the abbess tells Thomas:

“A black enchanter he was in life. Şolomanari. The Devil preserved his soul that his corpse may walk again in blaspheme.”

This is a horror supernatural film, physical death means nothing in this context, where demons, ghosts and vampires exist. Physically killing Orlok, will only set free his spirit, really.

Harding: “I cannot yield to being haunted by some ghost!” Von Franz: “No, no, no, please, no. It is no mere ghost, for it can manifest physically, and with the most foul intent.”

And so, we return to the cryptic text Von Franz found in Knock’s office (“His thunder roars from clouds of carcasses, I feedeth on my shroud, and death avails me not. For I am his.”). Like Orlok, he sold his soul to the Devil and isn’t afraid to die, because he knows he’ll return as a vampire. And death appears to be a part of this pact, as well. Only, he’s killed by a iron spike and his corpse set on fire, so… there’s no coming back from that.

“Clara asked me today if Aunty Ellen has become a ghost.” Anna tells Friedrich, foreshadowing Ellen’s fate (these kids are like “foreshadowing bombs” in the narrative)

Bride of Dracula/Orlok

“He cares only for his pretty bride [...] She is his!”

“And shall you be one with me ever-eternally.”

Come on, it doesn't get more obvious than this.

Orlok: “Do you accept this, of your own will?” Ellen: “I do.” Orlok: “Then the covenant is fulfilled. Your oath re-pledged.” Ellen: “Yes.” Orlok: “As our spirits are one, so too shall be our flesh. You are mine.”

I already explored why Ellen and Orlok are “fated” and why she’s “promised” to him in another post, so I’m not going to talk about that topic here.

It’s “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” (1992) that established Mina as Dracula’s lover and bride (and reincarnation of his wife) in pop culture (not sure if it was the first film to actually do this, but in previous decades it was Lucy’s character, not Mina, because she’s the one who’s more progressive and liberal). Not only that, but this Mina is more complex and "grey" than previous adaptations: “Perhaps, though I try to be good, I am bad. Perhaps I am a bad, inconstant woman.”

This film had such an impact and it’s so iconic, it has spawned several similar stories in its aftermath.

"I've crossed oceans of time to find you." Dracula to Mina, "Bram Stoker's Dracula" (1992)

“I have sought a creature from the depths. A Eve that remembers her Eden. You are such one.” Orlok to Ellen, "Nosferatu" 2016 script (too bad Eggers didn't keep this)

There is no way Robert Eggers wasn't inspired by Coppola's adaptation of “Dracula” to create his own version of “Nosferatu” (even if he doesn't acknowledge it, publicly), only more demonic and macabre, and less "on-your-face-romance". He went with the dark and gothic route. Dracula tells Mina: “Then I give you life eternal [...] Walk with me, to be my loving wife, forever.” Plus: “to walk with me you must die to your breathing life and be reborn to mine.”

And Van Helsing very dramatic line about Lucy: “She is a willing recruit, a breathless follower, a wanton follower. I dare say, a devoted disciple. She is the devil's concubine!”

And both Ellen and Mina saying “I’m unclean!” because of their connections to Dracula/Orlok.

Only Orlok's “eternal life” is death, in this adaptation. So, Ellen must die in order to join him and be one with him “ever-eternally” aka complete and fulfill their covenant. She's relinquishing her soul to him, she is the “devil’s concubine”. "You are mine."

Ellen is very much aware of what’s she’s signing for here. She knows she’ll die and she’ll be with Orlok forever, in the spiritual world. Odd thing to do if hatred is the only feeling she has for him, or if she’s doing this to save others.

Yes, her “willing sacrifice” saves the world from “Nosferatu curse” but that’s not exactly the point, it’s more of a colateral, a consequence. But at no point in this film this “sacrifice” is described as “selfless” from her part. She’s the one who says to Von Franz she “needs no salvation” and all of her life she has been true to her nature. Which is what happens at the end, as she embraces her own wickedness (“does evil comes from within or from beyond?”).

2024 Orlok is unapologetic evil. He makes no excuses for his behavior, nor he rationalizes his own actions. He’s not a tragic, romantic nor a tormented figure. He’s an appetite, a beast, a devil, and he doesn’t conceal his own nature. Which is what Ellen herself reconciles with, at the end. By accepting him, she’s accepting herself.

2024 Ellen entire demeanor and behavior in her final scene with Orlok is completely different from previous adaptations. She’s not lying there like a “sacrificial lamb”, at all. Not only she’s getting sexual pleasure out of this, she embraces him as the sunlight kills his physical form, and he’s suffering, and in terrible pain, until they die in each other’s arms. It doesn’t get more horror gothic romance than this.

She wouldn’t have any reason to act this way if this whole ordeal was a mere “selfless sacrifice” to save everyone else, like in 1922 and 1979: where Ellen and Lucy are just there waiting to die and not caring less about Orlok/Dracula pain under the sun, because they want to destroy him. In the 2024 adaptation, Ellen is silently and tenderly comforting Orlok as he dies, instead, compelling him to look at her. They are acting like lovers in a suicide pact, nor as prey and predator.

And I have to laugh when I read folks saying this film finally made justice to Mina/Ellen and Jonathan/Thomas love story from the “Dracula” novel, because Robert Eggers not only made another cinematic addition to the whole “Dracula x Mina” universe, but he took it further than Francis Ford Coppola by having them actually ending up together, forever united in some spiritual realm.

“The VVitch”

And this ending of "Nosferatu" is not surprising coming from Eggers, because this is almost the same ending as "The VVitch" (2015), and he started to working on this script after that movie.

“The Devil is in thee and hath had thee. You are smeared of his sin. You reek of Evil. You have made a covenant with death. You bewitched thy brother, proud slut! Did you not think I saw thy sluttish looks to him, bewitching his eye as any whore? You took them from me! They are gone! You killed my children! You killed thy father! Witch! WITCH!” Thomasin's mother accuses her.

Black Phillip/Devil: “Wouldst thou like the taste of butter? A pretty dress? Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?” Thomasin: “Yes.”

Thomasin was accused of being a "witch", a “whore” and having a pact with the Devil by everyone around her, until she actually became one at the end. It's pretty much the same with 2024 “Nosferatu” Ellen: she was also seen as “deranged”, “diseased” and often compared to supernatural beings ("changelling girl", "sylph", "fairy", etc.) until she became just that at the end, too.

#Nosferatu #nosferatu 2024 #Nosferatu 1922 #Nosferatu 1979 #count Orlok #Ellen hutter #Thomas Hutter #dracula #Bram stoker Dracula #Robert Eggers #bram stoker #francis ford Coppola #lily rose fell #bill skargard #ellen x orlok #orlok x ellen #mina x dracula #dracula x mina #the vvitch

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