#edited because i can never leave things be

[delulustateofmind]

"It's All Your Fault, Isn't It?"

Yan! SatoSugu x Reader Sum: You've had the chances, why didn't you take them. In the end you'll always just lose the purest of love. Last part of: Can my friend join?, This is Love, Right? ** Can be read as standalone fics** TW: Yandere Behaviors (Obsession, Manipulation, etc), Death of Child Character, Blood, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Depression, Dubcon, Lactation, Pregnancy themes, SatoSugu, Angst No Comfort. MDNI WC: 7.7k

A/n: I got supperrr stuck in the loop of editing, so I am just gonna post it, I feel like rereading it after the tenth time. I almost just pressed delete lol. :) enjoy!

It’s all your fault, isn’t it?

You did this to yourself. You should have walked away when the chance was there, when the door was still open, even just a crack. You should have screamed, fought, run—anything to reclaim a sliver of your freedom.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

Was it the security? The comfort of knowing you’d never struggle to pay bills or scramble to find work? Was it the way Satoru promised, over and over, that you’d never go unloved, never feel the ache of loneliness again?

Or was it something darker? Something you couldn’t quite admit to yourself?

You told yourself it was love. You told yourself you were lucky. How many women could say they had someone who’d give them the world? Someone who, with a flick of his wrist, could bend the rules of life itself to ensure you had everything you could ever need?

So, you stayed.

Even before Suguru became part of the equation, you stayed. You even stayed when Satoru would come home in the dead of night, his footsteps a faint echo through the silent halls before his hands found you. You’d stir from your sleep as he pulled your panties down with barely a word, his breath hot against your neck.

There was no tenderness in those moments, no love—just need. A raw, consuming need he claimed you had to fulfill. And you let him, didn’t you? You let him push inside you with barely any preparation, your body yielding to him because he knew it so well.

Satoru knew the places that made you crumble, the spots where your body quivered, the way your breath hitched when his fingers grazed just right. He knew you better than you knew yourself, didn’t he? His movements were deliberate, practiced, the wet noises filling the room a cruel testament to how thoroughly he’d mastered you.

You’d given him permission. He reminded you of that often, didn’t he? That you’d said yes. That he worked so hard, carried so much, and that this was his right. That he had needs only you could meet.

And you understood. You always understood.

After all, he was the strongest, wasn’t he?

So, you let him use you.

Like a doll.

You’d lay there, staring at the ceiling, as he buried himself to the hilt one last time, his loud groans of release cutting through the stillness. A pathetic little whimper followed, muffled by the darkness, as he spilled himself inside you. And then, as if the act meant nothing, he pressed a sweet kiss to your temple, murmured something soft and indistinct, and rolled over to his side of the bed.

You stayed there, silent and unmoving, the lingering heat of his body beside you doing nothing to warm the cold ache between your thighs.

That’s when the thought would creep in. A sick, unwelcome whisper:

You didn’t even climax.

You hated yourself for thinking it. For letting it matter.

But still, you stayed.

Was it fear that held you there? Or was it hope—a desperate, foolish hope that one-day things would change? That one day, every day would feel like those rare, sweet moments when he pressed teasing kisses against your lips before dragging you out to get sweets. That he’d touch you with love, with the tenderness he so effortlessly showed to others—when he wasn’t breaking them apart piece by piece with that same teasing grin.

And now, looking back, you can’t decide what’s worse: that you didn’t leave when you had the chance…

Or that part of you still doesn’t want to.

You stayed, even when the small arguments started. The little spats about wanting him to open up more, to share pieces of his life with you, the pieces he always kept hidden. Perhaps it was selfish—maybe even naïve—but you wanted to know why he loved you.

Really, truly loved you.

But you never asked.

You saved that question, tucking it away deep into your heart, right alongside the cracks that had already started forming. You told yourself it wasn’t the right time. That maybe he wasn’t ready. That you shouldn’t push. Instead, you focused on the good times, clinging to them like lifelines.

Because they were good, weren’t they?

What other guy would give you the world like Satoru did? What other guy would bring you flowers every week—a different color each time, sometimes traditional, sometimes exotic, but always beautiful? What other guy would shower you with affection so openly, so shamelessly, pressing kisses to your skin, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded?

Satoru had told you he loved you. And maybe he did—in a way that wasn’t entirely built on desire, the need to keep you within his grasp, or the insatiable craving to hold you close for the rest of your days.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

That’s why you stayed.

Even when Suguru came into the picture—when those dark, calculating eyes lingered on you just a moment too long when his quiet, honeyed words wove themselves into your life like threads binding you to a tapestry you couldn’t escape—you stayed.

You had the choice, didn’t you? You could have said no. You could have walked away.

But you didn’t.

You stayed, and now there was no one else to blame.

So, truly, it is all your fault.

However, your heart’s at fault too, isn’t it? For leaning into Suguru's touches, craving his warmth, even when you knew deep down that he was a cruel and awful man. A man who veiled his darkness in sweetness, wrapping it in gentle words and tender caresses that made you doubt your own truths. He was a master of contradiction—soft hands and sharp edges, honeyed lies hiding an iron grip.

You could have left.

You could have said no to the whole relationship, shut the door before it ever opened.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

You told yourself that maybe this was the best you could hope for, the best kind of love someone like you deserved. Because it was love, wasn’t it? They loved you. Even if it was conditional. Even if you had to give and give, piece after piece of yourself, just to receive a sliver in return.

Love comes in many forms, after all. And this was love.

Or so you continued to convince yourself.

This is what you deserve. That you should have listened to your gut, back when every touch felt too heavy, too lingering, too much. Back when their words seemed to wrap around you like chains instead of promises. You should have left before the walls around you closed in. Before you realized that leaving wasn’t just difficult—it was dangerous.

You had your chances, didn’t you? If only you’d taken them.

You knew Satoru would tear the world apart to find you if you ran. He’d find you, no matter where you went, no matter how far. But… would he really?

If you’d left early enough, maybe it wouldn’t have been like this. Maybe it would have been nothing more than a bad breakup, a lesson in heartbreak you’d recover from in time. Maybe, if you’d left after Suguru’s return, Satoru would have leaned on him instead of spiraling further into obsession.

But you didn’t leave.

You stayed.

Such a stupid, stupid girl.

And yet…

It was never just about them, was it?

Because you craved love too, just as much as they did. You wanted it desperately—so much that you ignored the warnings in your heart, the creeping dread in your chest. You wanted to be loved, to feel wanted, to belong to someone in a way that was absolute, undeniable, and unshakable.

And that’s exactly what they gave you.

But love like that—it came with a cost.

And you paid for it in silence, in submission, in the pieces of yourself you’d never get back.

So now, here you are, locked away in the beautiful Gojo estate. A place so grand it should feel like a palace, yet it suffocates you like a gilded cage. Every corner gleams with wealth and power, every surface reflects the life you’re supposed to be grateful for.

The maids don’t meet your eyes.

To them, you aren’t Satoru’s wife. You aren’t a partner. You’re something lesser.

A pet.

Because you aren’t the one ensuring the estate runs smoothly while Satoru is away on his endless missions. That responsibility doesn’t fall to you—it belongs to Suguru, doesn’t it? He’s the one in charge. He holds the reins, commanding the household with a quiet authority that leaves no room for question.

And you?

You remain.

The pet. The wife. The child-bearer.

Barefoot and pregnant, with a swollen belly to show for it, you shuffle through the estate like a ghost. Your body aches, weighed down not just by the child growing inside you, but by the chains of a life you can’t escape.

Suguru sees to it that the estate runs like a well-oiled machine, all while maintaining his title as the second strongest. His responsibilities never seem to tire him, never seem to dull his devotion. If anything, they only make him more overbearing.

He adores pampering you.

He drapes you in the softest blankets, ensuring you’re always warm. He dresses you in the finest clothes, silks and satins that cling to your growing belly, showcasing the proof of your usefulness. He loves the way your independence has been stripped away, loves the way you’ve been forced to rely on him for everything.

When did you become so dependent?

When did you start accepting his affection like a loyal dog, start leaning into the way his rough, calloused hands would trace the curve of your stomach? When did you start craving the way he’d gaze up at you with that lovesick smile, his voice low and honeyed as he murmured sweet words about the future?

“I hope the baby looks like Satoru,” he’d say, his eyes dark and soft as they met yours. Then, after a pause, “I hope it’s a girl.”

The words always made your chest tighten, made your stomach twist.

You know he must miss the twins.

It’s not just the weight of their absence—it’s the way he’s filled that void with this child, this unborn life. You can see it in the way he touches you, the way he watches you. He’s more excited about this pregnancy than you are.

And that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?

Because to him, this isn’t just a child. It’s a legacy. A purpose.

To you?

It’s another chain.

And yet, you hate how loving he is. How he’s always there to hold your hair back when you’re bent over, heaving in the dead of night. How his large, warm hands find every knot in your aching limbs, massaging away the tension with a tenderness that makes your heartache.

It’s cruel, how gentle he can be. How he disarms you with care just when you think you might muster the strength to fight back.

There’s a constant mantra in your mind, a desperate hope that the baby won’t resemble either of them.

Because the thought of seeing their features reflected back at you stirs a fear too heavy to bear.

The thought of seeing their features reflected in those tiny, innocent eyes is terrifying. It brings the fear that every decision will feel like a mistake, that allowing any of this to happen will become an unbearable regret.

You tell yourself you hope, but it’s hard to ignore the possibility, isn’t it?

What if the child inherits Satoru’s piercing blue eyes—so crystalline they seem otherworldly, glowing even in the faintest light? The same eyes that burn and freeze you all at once, stripping you bare and exposing every secret, every hidden part of you.

Even his grin—boyish, sharp, too wide—lingers in your mind. A grin that could charm and cut in the same breath, leaving you unsure whether to lean closer or step away. What if that grin appeared on a smaller, softer face, just as devastating?

Or worse—what if the baby inherits Suguru’s gaze?

Those dark, soulful eyes that pull you in like the tide, gentle at first glance, inviting even, but hiding endless, churning storms beneath their surface. Eyes that promise escape is not an option. Unlike Satoru’s, Suguru’s smiles are quieter, softer—but no less dangerous. His smiles feel deliberate, like they’re slipping past every defense you didn’t even know you had.

Would the baby inherit Satoru’s arrogance? Suguru’s patience?

Or worse—would the child inherit both of their possessiveness?

The thought makes your skin crawl.

But the fear doesn’t end there.

Because it’s not just about the baby, is it?

It’s about you.

About how they’ve already carved themselves so deeply into your soul that you can’t even imagine a world without them. You hate that truth. Hate the way it festers inside you, a bitter root growing into every part of you.

You hate Satoru’s smirk when he strides into the estate after a mission, brushing off the exhaustion and blood as if it’s nothing. How he towers over you, his white hair catching the light in a way that seems almost ethereal, his fingers tilting your chin up with a mock tenderness that makes your breath catch.

You hate how he always knows exactly what to say to make you crumble, his voice dipping into that teasing lilt that makes your heart flutter in spite of yourself.

And Suguru—oh, you hate how he lingers. How his touch lingers. His hands are always warm, always deliberate, tracing paths across your skin as if he’s claiming you, piece by piece. Every stroke of his fingers feels like a silent reminder that you are his, that you belong to him. His voice, low and soothing, is a cruel contradiction—a balm against your nerves, even when his words are laced with quiet threats you pretend not to hear.

You hate them.

You hate the way they consume you, the way they’ve woven themselves into the fabric of your life so tightly that even your thoughts feel tangled in their presence.

And yet, as you sit in the vast, lonely expanse of the Gojo estate, the weight of your belly grounding you, you know the truth.

You’re not just afraid of the baby looking like them.

You’re afraid of what that child will mean.

Because if they look like Satoru, with his arrogance, his fire, his brilliance, how will you deny the pride swelling in your chest? How will you stop yourself from feeling that flicker of awe, even when you know you shouldn’t?

And if they look like Suguru, with his quiet strength, his steadfast devotion, how will you deny the love? How will you stop yourself from melting beneath those familiar eyes, from imagining them crinkling with joy or softening with affection?

You can’t.

And that's horrifying.

You won’t be able to ignore how Satoru has changed, how he’s become softer, more attentive in ways that make it harder to hold onto your resentment. How he lingers closer to you than he ever did before, as if the mere distance between you might undo something fragile inside him.

How he’s started resting his head in your lap as you sit together in the serene gardens, his white hair catching the sunlight like spun silk, almost ethereal. His long lashes cast soft shadows over his cheeks as his half-lidded gaze flickers up to meet yours, brimming with a tenderness you don’t know how to process.

He murmurs lazy words of affection, his voice low and warm, the kind of sweetness that drips like honey and sticks to your skin. His fingers trace absentminded circles on your thighs, soft patterns that feel far too intimate, far too easy.

And you hate how much you crave it.

You hate the way his presence soothes something raw inside you, even when you tell yourself it shouldn’t.

You hate how he’s begun helping you with the small, intimate things you wish you could keep to yourself. Like the unbearable ache in your swollen breasts, the pressure building so much it leaves you trembling, whimpering in pain. How he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even ask.

The way Satoru's lips wrap around you with loud, deliberate suckles, the sound echoing in the quiet as he eases the pressure with almost clinical precision. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t falter. His hands grip your hips to steady you, his thumbs pressing reassuring circles into your skin.

You hate the sound.

You hate the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way it prickles, a constant reminder of just how close he always is—too close.

When he’s finished, he pulls back with a satisfied hum, his lips brushing against your collarbone with a lingering kiss. His voice low, almost tender, as he murmurs, “I love this version of you.”

The words settle into you like stones. His lips, still soft from the milk, press against yours, and the faint sweetness lingers, almost cloying. Satoru murmurs more words—gentle, saccharine things that would feel kind if not for the way his hands start to roam as they wrap around your waist.

“How nurturing you’ve become,” he whispers, his tone carrying a dangerous sort of reverence.

That’s what he loves. That’s what he says.

And the way he looks at you when he says it—those bright blue eyes glinting with something dark, something that sinks its claws into you—makes your skin crawl. Because you know exactly what he means.

He doesn’t love the nurturing in and of itself. He loves how it ties you to him. How it binds you to this role, this life, this carefully constructed world where you are his and only his.

The version of you he loves is one that has no room for defiance, no space for resistance—only the space to give, to sacrifice, to bend under the weight of his love.

And that’s what makes it so much worse.

Because even as you hate it, even as your stomach churns and your skin prickles, there’s a part of you that leans into his touch. A part of you that longs for the softness, for the fleeting moments when it feels like love instead of control.

And you hate yourself for that, too

Because you know how it goes. You’ve seen it now. Lived it.

How one pregnancy ends and another begins.

The cycle repeated itself after your firstborn, didn’t it? Barely a year after you gave birth, they had you pregnant again. You didn’t even have time to recover, to heal, before they decided it was time for another.

But they love you, don’t they?

Satoru’s affection is impossible to miss—the way he grins at you, almost childlike, as he cups your face with hands that can destroy worlds but hold you as though you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. How he showers you with gifts, flowers in every shade imaginable, rare treasures that sparkle as brightly as his endless energy.

How many times has he told you, in his low, teasing voice, “You’re my world, you know that? I could do anything, have anything—but none of it would matter without you.”

It sounds like love, doesn’t it?

And Suguru—Suguru loves you too, in his quiet, steady way. You see it in the way he watches you, his dark eyes softening when you enter the room, the weight of his gaze feels suffocating. He’s the one who stays calm when you cry, wrapping his arms around you and murmuring, “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

And you believe him, don’t you?

They love you. That’s why they insist on keeping you close. Why Satoru kisses your forehead every morning, why Suguru runs his fingers through your hair as he whispers sweet nothings you’re too exhausted to resist. That’s why they ensure you’re taken care of, why they never let you lift a finger, why they promise they’ll always protect you.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Satoru once said, kissing your swollen belly as he grinned up at you. “Just stay here with us. That’s all we need.”

“It’s not just for us,” Suguru added, his voice softer, more measured. “It’s for you too. We want you to feel safe. Loved.”

And in moments like that, when the weight of their words settles in your chest like a lullaby, you almost believe them.

You tell yourself that no one else would love you this much. No one else would care for you so completely, so unconditionally—because this is love, isn’t it?

The maids barely acknowledged your struggles. Their gazes were cold, dismissive, even as your body ached and your mind screamed for reprieve. They would gently pry your child from your arms with hushed whispers.

“You need more rest,” they’d say, their voices soft but unyielding. “We’ll take care of them. Don’t worry.”

And what could you do? You’d watch helplessly as they carried your baby away, leaving you empty-handed, empty-hearted. As if you were nothing more than a vessel, an incubator meant to bear and birth heirs for the Gojo family.

Your firstborn was a boy.

A son.

An heir.

He looked just like Satoru.

Those piercing blue eyes stared back at you from his tiny, cherubic face, wide and curious, already holding a glint of brilliance and confidence you couldn’t deny. His hair was the same stark white, impossibly soft beneath your trembling fingers as you brushed it back, memorizing every perfect strand. Even the little smirk he gave in his sleep mirrored Satoru’s—a playful, almost mocking curl at the corners of his mouth that made your heart ache with emotions you couldn’t unravel.

You loved him.

You hated that you loved him.

And when Suguru would cradle him in his arms, his dark eyes soft and filled with a devotion that seemed to crack the carefully constructed walls around your heart, you couldn’t deny the warmth blooming in your chest. He’d whisper promises to the child—vows of protection and guidance.

When Satoru would swoop in, effortlessly spinning the boy around with an energy that filled the room with light, the sound of your son’s uncontrollable laughter echoing like music, that warmth would return. It would swell in your chest, suffocating and undeniable, a cruel reminder of the chains you wore willingly and unwillingly all at once.

This is what they wanted, wasn’t it?

This is what they’d planned all along.

And now, with another child growing inside you, you realize something that terrifies you more than anything else.

You’re not sure if you stayed because you had no choice.

Or because you wanted to.

Again, it’s all your fault.

For trying to run, again.

For thinking, just for a moment, that you could escape them.

You were far too pregnant. Belly too far swollen, body heavy and slow, every step a reminder of how deeply tethered you were to this vast estate. But the thought wouldn’t leave your mind. The desperate hope of freedom burned too brightly, too wildly, even as your body betrayed you.

Even as you were dragged back to that sickening place, back to the people that you convinced yourself—desperately, foolishly—that this was love.

You’d screamed at Suguru, the words spilling out like a torrent you couldn’t stop. You told him the child was yours too, that you had the right to hold them, to sleep in the same room, to be more than a vessel. Your voice cracked, raw with frustration and desperation, as you hurled your defiance at him.

You remember the way his gaze darkened.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t snap. That wasn’t Suguru’s way.

Instead, he stepped closer, his movements slow, calculated, as though he were approaching a frightened animal. He tilted his head, his expression calm, disarming, the warmth in his dark eyes a stark contrast to the undercurrent of control they held.

“You’re upset,” he murmured, his voice soft, soothing. His hand reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears streaking your face. “And that’s okay. You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?”

The quiet warmth in Suguru's voice made it hard to breathe, made the frustration clawing at your throat turn to something else—something like shame.

“You need to calm down,” he continued, a warm calloused hand slipping down to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I don’t want you to hurt us.”

His words lingered, heavy with meaning, as he pulled you closer, his forehead pressing against yours.

“I know it’s hard,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “But I love you. We love you. Everything we do—everything I do—is for you.”

You wanted to push him away, to scream that it wasn’t love, that this wasn’t love. But as his arms wrapped around you, strong and unyielding, pulling you into his embrace as though Suguru could shield you from the very world they had trapped you in.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmured, soft lips brushing your temple. “Don’t you see that? You don’t need to run. You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”

A voice that was so tender, so achingly sincere, that it almost broke you. Suguru's words were enough to extinguish the fire of defiance burning in your chest, to leave you standing there, trembling and helpless in his arms.

The maids saw it, didn’t they? They whispered about you, their quiet voices slipping through the halls like ghosts. They called you ungrateful. Sick. They said you didn’t understand how fortunate you were.

“You should be enjoying this,” they murmured, their words laced with thinly veiled judgment. “No responsibilities, no struggles. A carefree life. Everything is taken care of for you. What more could you want?”

What more could you want?

No choices.

That’s what they meant, wasn’t it? No choices. No freedom. No you.

Was something wrong with you? Maybe.

Maybe there was something wrong with wanting more. For wanting to feel like a person again, instead of a vessel, a doll, a beautifully dressed incubator meant to carry their legacy.

It really is all your fault, isn’t it?

Because when labor came, it dragged you into hell.

Thirty-three grueling hours. Each contraction ripped through your body like a punishment, an unrelenting reminder of every fleeting thought of rebellion, of every moment you dared to imagine a life beyond them.

The emergency c-section was chaos—a flurry of hands, sterile lights, and voices rising above the incessant ringing in your ears. You were losing too much blood. Fever scorched your skin, your body trembling as the edges of the world blurred, your thoughts slipping between consciousness and darkness.

You couldn’t make sense of what was happening. You weren’t even sure whose tears streaked your skin as they fell—were they yours? Satoru’s? Suguru’s?

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know what happened after that.

All you remember are the words.

Suguru’s voice, low and steady, cutting through the haze. He leaned close, his hand resting on your clammy cheek with an almost painful tenderness. His dark eyes bore into yours, soft yet heavy with something that made your stomach twist.

“You shouldn’t have run,” he whispered. His tone was calm, soothing even, but the edge beneath it was sharp enough to draw blood. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself. You should’ve listened.”

And for a long time, you didn’t have the strength to argue.

The days that followed blurred together. Feeling like a ghost in your body, too weak to move, too tired to speak. Satoru and Suguru hovered, their gazes flickering between concern and something you couldn't quite place. The maids continued to whisper on with their rumors, their eyes darting to you with pity or disdain, as though you’d done this to yourself.

In their eyes, you were lucky.

Lucky to have survived. Lucky to have them.

And lucky, in their eyes, to not have another pregnancy until your first two boys turned five.

Five years of peace. Or something that resembled it.

Five years of watching your sons grow, of hearing their first words, of feeling their small, warm arms wrap around you as they giggled into into your neck. Five years where it was almost believable that this was normal, where you could almost convince yourself this was love.

Because it did feel like love, didn’t it?

Until the day you overheard Suguru speaking to them.

His voice was hushed, but not hushed enough.

“Mommy is sick,” he said, tone calm and soothing like he was explaining a simple fact of life. “Sometimes she says things she doesn’t mean. Sometimes she gets confused. But that’s okay. We love her, don’t we?”

A pang sent through your chest, breath catching as you froze in the hallway. Those cruel words lies carved like knives, each one slicing deeper than the last.

He was planting seeds, wasn’t he?

Teaching them to see you the way he wanted them to see you. Fragile. Dependent. Broken.

However with fists clenched, nails pressing into palms with a sting sharp enough to ground the swirling emotions within. The urge to scream hovered at the edge, to cry and storm into the room, demanding explanations with the desperation of a cornered animal. Words burned on the tip of the tongue—protests that it wasn’t true, that sickness and confusion weren’t the chains binding this existence.

But what would they believe?

Suguru’s steady, patient voice, rich and even, always laced with quiet authority? The father whose dark eyes always seemed to understand everything, who carried himself with calm, unshakable control, even when his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes?

Or you?

The mother who had tried to run, who had collapsed and bled and screamed, who had been scolded for her defiance. The one they saw as weak, frail, and ungrateful.

You wanted to run again. The thought burned in the back of your mind, relentless and wild.

But you didn’t.

You stayed.

Because, in the end, what choice did you really have?

But by the time your third child—a sweet boy who looked like a perfect blend of you and Suguru—turned three, the illusion of peace began to crack.

Suguru was already leaning close, his voice soft and coaxing as he murmured into your ear, “I think it’s time we try for a girl.”

Satoru, of course, was on board almost immediately.

After all, your third child was different. A nonsorcerer, just like you, showing none of the abilities your first two boys possessed. Those two had cried in the dead of night, their small voices trembling with fear as they described the horrors only they could see—things you couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But that wasn’t why your husbands looked at Kiyoshi with quiet disapproval.

It wasn’t his lack of cursed energy that made them see him as an anomaly.

It was his heart.

From the moment Kiyoshi was placed in your arms, red-faced and wailing, he clung to you with a desperation that never faded. He didn’t want the maids to hold him, didn’t toddle after Suguru’s composed steps or reached for Satoru’s strong arms. He wanted you. Always you.

He was a mama’s boy through and through, and that was love.

A love so pure it felt like a lifeline in the suffocating world you’d been forced into.

While you loved your first two boys deeply—how could you not?—there was always a distance there, a reflection of the walls your husbands had built around you. The first two cuddled into your lap, their small hands clutching yours as they whispered things that broke you.

“Mommy, we want you to get better.” “We don’t like it when you yell at Daddy to let you leave.”

They were too young to understand, too innocent to see the chains tightening around you.

But Kiyoshi understood, in his own way. Even as a toddler, he refused to leave your side, refused to let the maids or his fathers pull him from your arms. He was always on your hip, his little hand clutching your clothes, his head resting against your chest.

“Kiyoshi,” Satoru had said once, his tone laced with false amusement, “means ‘pure sadness.’ Don’t you think that’s fitting?”

He smiled as if it were a joke, but you could hear the bitterness beneath it.

And maybe it was fitting.

Because Kiyoshi only stopped wailing when he was in your arms, as if he already knew the world outside of you was too cruel, too cold.

By the time he turned three, Kiyoshi would toddle after you in the gardens, small, sturdy legs working hard to keep up. His face—a blend of Suguru’s gentleness and your warmth—would brighten with the purest smile. When his eyes crinkled at the corners, just like yours, you couldn’t help but feel your heart swell.

“Look, Mommy!” he’d say, holding up a flower he’d plucked from the garden, his tiny fingers dirt-stained and clumsy. “For you!”

You’d crouch down, brushing his dark hair back as you took the flower, your voice soft and tender in a way you hadn’t heard in years.

“Thank you, my sweet boy.”

And for a moment, it felt like it was just the two of you.

Like you could breathe again.

But you knew better.

As the sound of approaching footsteps always shattered moments like these. Heavy and far too familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Suguru.

His softspoken voice broke the fragile silence, calm and even, as always. “Kiyoshi,” he said, warm and affectionate, though laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’ve been keeping your mother all to yourself again, haven’t you?”

Kiyoshi stiffened at your side, the little hand tightening its grip on your kimono as he glanced nervously toward Suguru.

Suguru stepped closer and crouched down to Kiyoshi’s level, dark eyes softening as they met his son’s. “Come here, son,” he murmured, holding out a hand. His tone was gentle, coaxing, but there was an unspoken expectation beneath it. “Let Daddy hold you for a little while. I’ve missed you.”

But Kiyoshi didn’t move. His small fingers curled tighter into the fabric of your kimono, his face pressing into your side as though trying to make himself small, invisible.

Suguru’s gaze flicked to you, lips curling into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So shy,” he said softly, his voice carrying a note of amused affection. “But you don’t have to be, Kiyoshi. Daddy just wants to hold you. You know that, don’t you?”

You felt your heart clench, torn between the instinct to shield him and the weight of Suguru’s presence. The tenderness in his tone, in the way his hand remained outstretched, made it all the harder to breathe.

“Kiyoshi,” Suguru said again, his voice dipping into a firmer edge, calm but unyielding. “Come.”

Reluctantly, your little boy let go of you, his steps slow and hesitant as he moved toward his father. Suguru’s smile widened, soft and reassuring, as he scooped Kiyoshi up effortlessly, cradling him with a gentleness that felt too deliberate, too controlled.

“There’s my good boy,” he murmured, brushing Kiyoshi’s hair back with careful fingers. His touch lingered, as though committing the texture to memory. “You love your mommy very much, don’t you?”

Kiyoshi nodded silently, his small face burying itself in Suguru’s shoulder.

Suguru’s gaze lifted to meet yours, a gentle smile, his tone almost playful. “You’ve spoiled him,” he said, a note of amusement threading through his words. “He’s too attached.”

You opened your mouth to respond, to say something, but the words caught in your throat.

What could you say?

That you were the only warmth in a world that terrified him? That his attachment wasn’t a flaw, but a desperate grasp at something safe?

Satoru appeared not long after, his presence impossible to ignore as he strolled into the garden, hands in his pockets and a grin that seemed too bright for the moment. His eyes, however, betrayed something softer—something that lingered only when they landed on you.

“Kiyoshi giving you trouble again?” Satoru's voice came out light, tinged with curiosity.

“No trouble,” Suguru replied smoothly, a hand still resting on Kiyoshi’s small back. “Just a little too fond of his mother.”

Satoru chuckled, shaking his head as he moved closer. His cerulean gaze flicked briefly to Kiyoshi before returning to you, that playful grin softening as he moved to brush a kiss against your temple. “Well, can you blame him?” he murmured, his voice low, meant only for you. “You’re hard not to love.”

The warmth of his affection made your heart twist, and your stomach flutter. For a moment, it was easy to forget the way his words often carried double meanings, easy to believe he was simply being sweet.

He straightened, turning his attention back to Suguru with a teasing smile. “But we’ll fix that soon enough, won’t we?”

They didn’t mean to hurt him, you told yourself. They wouldn’t.

But you knew better.

Because Kiyoshi was different. He didn’t fit into their world the way your first two boys did. And in their eyes, difference was something to be controlled.

For now, they let him cling to you. They let him toddle after you in the garden, offering flowers and dirt-streaked smiles that made your heart ache with both love and dread. For now, they allowed him to stay close, to hold onto the warmth you gave him, to believe he was safe in your arms.

But you knew it was only a matter of time.

Because your sons didn’t belong to you. Not really. They never had.

And no matter how much you wanted to shield Kiyoshi, no matter how fiercely you loved him, you knew one simple, devastating truth:

They’d let you have this for now.

But they would take him, too.

Because, after all, it’s all your fault.

For fleeing in the middle of the night.

The day was supposed to be perfect—a rare moment where Satoru and Suguru had taken the older two boys to the school, their voices filled with excitement as they promised to teach them more about the world they were destined to inherit. Your sweet boys kissed you goodbye with a tenderness that felt almost cruel, leaving you behind with Kiyoshi in the quiet, sprawling estate.

You had been on your best behavior. Smiling more, laughing when Satoru teased you, letting Suguru hold you a little longer than usual. You’d made them believe you were finally settling, finally accepting your role in their carefully constructed world.

And it worked.

So when the sun set and the house fell silent, you made your move.

You bundled Kiyoshi up in the softest blanket you could find, the small body warm and sleepy against your chest. He stirred only slightly as you slipped out of the estate, his tiny hands clutching onto your clothes.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t make a sound.

It was as if he understood. As if even at three years old, he knew that silence was the only thing keeping you safe.

He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his soft breaths warm against your skin, and you couldn’t help the tears that welled up in your eyes.

The highway stretched out before you, an endless black ribbon under the faint glow of the moon. The lights of the city sparkled in the distance, a beacon of hope, a promise of sanctuary.

You walked for miles, the cold night air biting at your skin, legs aching with every step. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Not with the faint echoes of paranoia whispering at the back of your mind.

Were they already looking for you? Did Satoru sense you slipping away even from miles away? Did Suguru wake in the middle of the night with the suffocating weight of intuition, already calling for their forces to track you down?

You didn’t know.

And you didn’t care.

The city limits were closer now, the glow of neon lights growing brighter, sharper. The faint hum of life and sound buzzed in the distance.

Kiyoshi stirred in your arms, his little head lifting just enough to peek out at the world around him. His dark eyes, so much like Suguru’s but filled with an innocence his father could no longer claim, glanced up at you with quiet curiosity.

“Mommy,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the soft hum of the wind.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, your tears wetting his soft hair. “We’re almost there, my sweet boy,” you murmured, your voice trembling under the weight of hope and fear. “Just a little farther.”

Sanctuary was so close you could taste it.

But it’s all your fault, isn’t it?

Born a nonsorcerer.

Blind to the horrors that lurk unseen. Powerless to fight them off. Too weak to keep that sweet little boy safe.

You always imagined curses as massive, grotesque creatures—monsters so obvious that the very air would change in their presence. That the world would stop, that everything would smell of death and decay as they loomed closer.

But when a curse appears, nothing changes.

There’s no warning. No shift in the wind.

The only thing you feel is the sudden weight of your child going limp in your arms.

And then the blood.

And then the blood.

It coats the ground—dark and endless, pooling around your knees and seeping into the cracks of the earth. Sticky and warm, it clings to trembling hands, staining your kimono, your skin, your very soul.

You can’t move. Can’t breathe.

Your little boy—your Kiyoshi—lies limp in your arms, his small body growing colder with every agonizing second. Tiny fingers, once so eager to cling to you, now dangle lifelessly. His dark lashes rest softly against pale cheeks, unmoving.

He looks like he’s sleeping.

You tell yourself that, over and over, as if saying it enough times will somehow make it true. Shaking hands brush back his dark hair, trembling as you whisper his name. Softly at first, then louder, your voice splintering with every syllable.

“Kiyoshi… wake up, baby. Please.”

But nothing changes.

The world around you feels wrong—too quiet, too still. The city lights in the distance mock you, their glow a cruel reminder of the sanctuary you’d been so close to reaching. You’d promised him, hadn’t you? Promised that everything would be okay. That you’d make it there. That you’d keep him safe.

You lied.

“Kiyoshi,” you choke out again, pressing a desperate kiss to his cooling forehead. Hot tears streak down your face, wetting his soft hair as you clutch him tighter, as though you could anchor him to you—keep him here, with you.

A wail tears through the night, raw and broken, shattering the oppressive silence. The sound is unrecognizable, guttural and full of despair. It takes a moment before you realize it’s coming from you.

The blood stains everything—your hands, your clothes, the ground—but it’s the loss of his warmth that destroys you.

How did this happen?

Your mind races, replaying the moments in broken fragments. You’d been walking, your legs aching, his small body cradled against your chest. He’d been so quiet, so trusting, his head nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

You were almost there.

Then the air shifted—just slightly—a subtle wrongness you hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

You didn’t see it.

You didn’t even know it was there until his body jerked in your arms, a sharp, unnatural movement that stole his breath—and yours.

And then he went limp.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

You rock him back and forth, tears falling freely, your voice hoarse as you beg him to wake up. Leaning to press your cheek against his, murmuring his name over and over, as if the sound alone could bring him back.

Because you failed him.

Because this is your fault.

Suguru’s arms wrap around you, their weight unbearable. His warmth presses against the chill of the night, suffocating in a way that makes the air harder to pull into your lungs. He cradles you like something precious, something fragile—like he cares, even as his words twist the knife deeper into your chest.

“We’ll take care of this, just like always,” he says, his voice soft, almost gentle. His lips brush against your hair, lingering, and the tenderness in the gesture makes your skin crawl. “You just need to stop fighting us. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Satoru stood frozen, head bowed, white hair catching the faint glow of the city lights. Kiyoshi’s lifeless body was pressed tightly against him, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he held him close. For a moment, you thought you saw something crack in his expression—something raw, something human.

But it was gone just as quickly as it appeared.

When he finally turned his gaze to you, his blue eyes were as hollow as you’d ever seen them. “You shouldn’t have done this,” he said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “Why couldn’t you just stay?”

The question stabbed deeper than you thought possible, the shame and guilt coursing through you like poison.

Why couldn’t you just stay?

The image of Kiyoshi’s bright smile flashed, his tiny hands offering you flowers from the garden, his laugh ringing out like music in the suffocating silence of the estate. He’d been your light, your tether to something good.

And now he was gone.

Because of you.

You sagged further into Suguru’s hold, the fight draining out of you entirely. The tears wouldn’t stop, falling silently now, soaking into the front of Suguru’s shirt as he held you tighter.

“There, there,” he murmured, his hand stroking your hair in slow, deliberate motions. “That’s better. You don’t have to fight anymore. We’ll make it right.”

But there was no right in this.

The car waited nearby, its door open like an unspoken command. Suguru’s grip on you didn’t waver as he began guiding you toward it, his movements gentle but unrelenting. Satoru followed behind, cradling Kiyoshi’s small form like he was made of glass.

Your legs moved on instinct, numb and heavy, the metallic scent of blood lingering in the air.

The city lights grew fainter as the car doors shut behind you, locking you away from the world you’d been so close to reaching.

You told yourself you’d tried. That you’d done everything you could.

But deep down, you knew.

You’d never escape them.

And as Suguru’s fingers intertwined with yours, as Satoru’s empty gaze lingered on the horizon, you realized something that hollowed you out completely.

It wasn’t just that you had nothing left.

It was that you no longer cared to try.

It really was all your fault.

[curlysfist]

Wounded Warsong

Synopsis: Your head's a mess, and Jimmy's there to make it worse. (TW manipulation, medicine, "normal pills" moment, lightly edited, MINORS DNI.)

Word count: 2.1k

Notes: need Jimmy to crawl into my chest when I'm having a manic episode and carve a hole only he can fill! Had fun writing this hehe. Also send reqs pretty please. I'm out of ideas 😮‍💨

Credit: This fic was inspired off of this post by @psuedosugu --- tysm for allowing me to use it bookie 💚

“Do you really need those pills? I thought you stopped taking them.”

Limp in your hands was a lone anti-psychotic pill you'd fished from your bedside table, just after shoving on the scattered pieces of clothing on the ground. 

“Why are you still here?” You look at Jimmy with nothing beyond a soft scrunch of your face. He stood by the open door, arms folded, in his sweatpants. Where was his shirt? 

“Why? Am I expected to leave? It's still late. Why are you taking those?”

“You never stay. I'd assumed…” you shake your head. “I'll do as I please.”

“No, you won't, because you're drugging yourself again. I thought you said those meds fuck you up?” Though he steps closer, you brush past him, making your way down the flat to get a cup of water. Immediately, the stretch of nicotine hits your face, and you could only sigh when you saw the ashtray on the table.

The “tray” was an expensive fine china tea plate. 

Predictably, Jimmy trails after you. “You're wearing my shirt, by the way.”

“And you smoked in my apartment again. Quid pro quo, or whatever.” It was hard not to keep the edge out of your voice. It was, what, 4 in the morning and he's already grating your nerves. Telling you what or what not to do. Staying. Looking at you like that.

What the fuck is wrong with him? 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He drawled. 

Your head snaps to him. “What?”

“You. What the fuck is wrong with you.” 

“You're asking me that?”

“What, are we hallucinating again? Of course I'm asking you.”

God. 

Your fingers quiver as you pull a cupboard open, grabbing a glass.

He says your name. “You don't need that. Didn't I tell you to throw them away a couple months ago?”

You ignore him in favor of the faucet, awkwardly pushing it open with your wrist as your hands keep a tight clamp on the glass and pill.

“I guess you can't help it. You're barely functioning, to begin with.”

The water slowly filled the cup.

“I mean, seriously, you start crying when we're having sex. Or when we're cuddling. The only reason it's not a turn-off is because you're… somewhat attractive.” 

The overfill of water sparks fire to your senses, spilling over your fingers. 

You can feel him step closer. “I just don't get it. Hours of therapy and whatever else you do, and it's barely helping.”

Over your shoulder, he reaches over and closes the faucet, the other hand sliding down the length of your arm to find your clenched hand, containing the pill. A calloused thumb pressed against the curl of your index, and your fingers slowly loosen.

The smell of faded nicotine and salt filled your senses, alongside a familiar perfume. The one you gifted him on his birthday, you think. 

His chin set on your shoulder, and he finally coaxed the pill from your hand, tossing it into the sink and pouring the cup over it, dissolving it.

You quiver, cheek scratching against Jimmy’s stubble as you try to stumble back, pressing deeper into his chest. 

It was warm. You yanked yourself away abruptly, making both of you stumble as you stared at him. 

Scary is what it was. It was heavy.

Your feet scuffed against the floor as you took a step back, only to realize there was nowhere to go. The kitchen was a box, and Jimmy had you cornered, though he hardly looked like he noticed. He leaned against the counter, relaxed, like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

"You’re so… dramatic," he said, not looking at you. His hand reached for the faucet handle, the rhythmic dripping of water silenced with a sharp turn. "Always making everything a thing. It’s exhausting, you know that?"

"Get out." Your voice felt too small, like it belonged to someone else.

He finally glanced at you, one brow raised like you’d said something absurd. "What? It’s 4 A.M. Where am I gonna go?"

"Anywhere. I don’t care. Just go."

Jimmy didn’t move. Instead, he let out a soft laugh, low and tired, the kind that made you feel stupid. "Relax. Jesus. I’m not exactly crashing your party here." He gestured around like the emptiness of your apartment proved his point.

Your hand tightened around the counter’s edge, nails digging into the cheap laminate. "I’m not joking."

"Neither am I." His eyes met yours, steady and unblinking. "What’s your problem tonight?"

"My problem," you repeated, tasting the words sourly. This again. "Are you serious right now?"

He shrugged, but there was something razor-sharp in the curve of his mouth. "I’m just saying, you’re a little all over the place. It’s fine, though. I get it."

"Get what?"

Jimmy didn’t answer right away. Instead, he crossed the tiny space between you, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough for you to feel the faint heat of his skin. "You don’t have to explain it," he said, voice dropping to something you could only assume was an attempt at soothing. It sounded condescending. "I’m here, aren’t I? That’s what you need, right? Me, here, keeping you steady?"

"I don’t need—"

"Yeah, you do." His hand lifted, brushing against your arm, and you flinched before you could stop yourself. His fingers lingered for a beat too long before retreating. "It’s okay. You don’t have to say it. I don’t mind staying."

You felt your throat tighten, words clawing to escape. "I don’t want you here."

Jimmy tilted his head, studying you like he was trying to solve a riddle. "Yeah, you’ve said that before."

"I mean it."

"And I mean this," he said, leaning back just slightly, the smirk fading into something unreadable. "I’m not going anywhere."

The weight of his words settled over you like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. Your chest throbbed, and he just kept looking at you, waiting for you to crack.

"Why do you do this?" you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"Do what?"

"You know what I'm talking about. You're playing stupid again."

"Doing what?" He repeated, stepping closer, his voice low and even, but his presence filled the room like smoke. "Looking out for you? Caring about you?” He scoffs softly. “I guess you’re just not used to it."

"You’re… you're not looking out for me."

He gave you a long, slow look, his lips pressing into a thin line. "You really believe that?"

"I—"

Before you could finish, his hand found yours again, prying your fingers away from the counter. His grip was tight and firm, unwavering. 

"Hey," he said roughly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "You don’t have to do this. Not with me. You know that, right? Why do I need to keep reminding you?"

The words twisted in your chest, pulling you in two directions at once. You wanted to believe him, to believe there was something safe in his presence. But the undercurrent of his tone told a different story, one you didn’t want to hear.

"I need you to go."

Jimmy shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, well. We both know that’s not gonna happen."

You stared at him, your pulse pounding in your ears, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t move.

And in that moment, you realized it didn’t matter what you said. It never did.

“What the fuck are we?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and for a moment, you hated yourself for even saying it. 

Jimmy didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flickered, unreadable, as if he was piecing something together that he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand. After a long pause, he sighed, just loud enough for you to hear. “Is that really what you’re asking me right now?”

“Yeah,” you said, almost quietly. “Why not?”

Jimmy leaned against the counter, eyes half-lidded like he was bored with the whole conversation, but you could tell it was more than that. He was thinking. Trying to get it under control. Trying to find a way to make it yours, even if it was just to make you stop asking.

“You always ask questions,” he said after a beat, “like that’s gonna fix anything.”

“That’s… Not what I’m trying to do.”

“You sure about that?” he said, his tone soft but sharp at the edges. It wasn’t a question—it was a push. “You don’t seem so sure right now.”

You stared at him, frustrated, but you couldn’t quite form the words. He was right there, but he was so damn impossible to get through. His eyes didn’t waver, but you could feel him pushing at you. Waiting for something. But what?

“I just want to know what this is,” you said, a little too raw. “I want to know where we stand.”

Jimmy’s eyes darkened, and he pushed himself off the counter, closing the space between you without making a sound. He was so close now, his breath brushing against your skin, and something about it made your chest tighten.

“You never know what you want,” he muttered, his voice low. “One minute, you want me gone. The next… you want me here.”

Your pulse quickened, the heat of him seeping into you, and you didn’t know if you wanted to pull away or stay still. Maybe both. “I don’t want you here,” you managed, but even to your ears, it sounded fragile.

“Yeah, you do,” he said. “You always want me around. Doesn’t matter what you say.”

You shook your head, but there was a tightness in your chest that wouldn’t loosen. You didn’t want to feel this way, but somehow he had you trapped in it, caught between wanting to push him away and wanting him to stay, needing him to stay, even though you didn’t want to admit it.

“Stop,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

He ignored it. His hand moved, slow and deliberate, until it was brushing against your arm, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. Your breath hitched, and you wanted to pull away, but you couldn’t. Something in you was pulling in the opposite direction. It drifts slowly across your exposed sternum, finally sliding around your neck. He squeezes gently. 

“You’re a mess,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “You know that, right? But it’s not like I don’t get it.”

“Don’t,” you breathed, throat bobbing against his palm. “Don’t say that.”

“You need me,” he said, his voice cutting through you with a sharp edge. “Even when you think you don’t.”

Your hand clenched at your side, the edges of your nails digging into your palm. “I don’t need you,” you said, but it came out weaker this time.

Jimmy took a step closer, closing the distance between you. You couldn’t back away anymore. He was too close, and somehow, he made it feel like you didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“You need me to stay,” he said, his voice thick, like it wasn’t a question anymore. It was a fact, something he knew even though you weren’t saying it out loud. “You need someone to keep you steady.”

“I don’t need anyone,” you spat, but it didn’t sound right. 

“You say that now,” he said, his voice low. “But you’ll change your mind. You always do.”

Your chest tightened as he leaned in just a little more. You wanted to push him away, to tell him to leave, but something in the way he stood there made it feel like he was pulling the strings and you were just following the motion.

“You don’t get to do this,” you said, more desperate now.

He didn’t answer, just leaned in further, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his skin against yours. His nose bumped against your temple, breath beating against your face. Stale cigarettes.

You froze, feeling every nerve in your body hum with a twisted mix of fear and something else you couldn’t identify.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, the words absolute, a subtle pressure that you couldn’t ignore. “Not now. Not ever.”

And somehow, as he stood there, it became clear. You had said it. You had made the mistake of saying it out loud.

And you would stay. Because that’s what he needed. Even if he wouldn’t admit it. Even if you didn’t understand it.

Foreign and breathing, squirming against your chest like an exposed nerve. 

“Don’t make me say this again,” Jimmy said softly, a quiet command that you didn’t know how to fight.

And you didn’t. Not this time.

[transmutationisms]

(restrains myself from making this a leading question) what did you think of ellen's relationship with her father?

alright so first of all just to be clear about my like, immediate response to this film. at the very beginning, when there's that scene of ellen in the garden and she's being raped by nosferatu, but at first it's a physically pleasurable moment and then it cuts to orlok and she's horrified -- my immediate association there visually was to the scene in the twin peaks movie where laura being raped by bob/leland is filmed and edited in what i remember being very similar ways.

i don't really think eggers was probably drawing from that lol nor do i care, but i do actually think it's an illustrative comparison because these scenes are accomplishing a few similar things. for laura, seeing bob in leland defamiliarises her father, and conversely knowing that it's leland who's being piloted by bob also familiarises the demon. so much of the horror is carried by that tension between a man she's supposed to know, love, and trust, and a supernatural being who is violating her. analogously, ellen says that her initial encounters with nosferatu felt positive: she called out for love and companionship, and believed that's what she was getting until the violence was too escalated and undeniable, at which point she suddenly perceived nosferatu for what he was and became horrified not just at him but also at herself. i'd suggest that even though both these works textually portray rape as being perpetrated by an otherworldly element, there IS a legitimate reading in both as allegorically referring to father–daughter incestuous rape.

with nosferatu, much of this hinges on what i think eggers draws out pretty well re: the overlap between property ownership and patriarchal sexual ownership of wives and daughters. the line between buying a house and buying a woman is so blurred that thomas cannot tell the two acts apart when he goes to see orlok; it's ellen who pieces together the manner in which she is being traded from one man's household to another. indeed, the roles of husband and father are conflated and continuous throughout the film. after ellen's mother dies, she is the sole property of her father; it is in his emotional absence that she initially seeks out nosferatu, unknowingly, and although the childhood sequence is somehwat perfunctory, we can certainly read this as ellen seeking a replacement father figure who turns out to be simultaneously her rapist and her accursed betrothed. ellen dreams of her marriage to nosferatu in the guise of death, a vision in which he murders and thus replaces all other social and familial ties. we never even see ellen as anything but the property of a man—she goes from her father's household to hutter's, with the interlude where he essentially leaves her in custody of friedrich—and in these family structures, the type of property role that characterises the wife is always perilously close to that of the daughter. even when anna dies and is interred, she does so alongside her children, such that there is no functional difference between how friedrich grieves his wife and how he grieves his children.

additionally there is the fact that one of the few concrete details we know about ellen and her father is that he threatened/tried to send her to an asylum when he found her outside naked in conjunction with one of orlok's assaults. with the above in mind i think there are a few significant things to make of this detail:

again, it is specifically the implication that ellen has had sex—this is, has been sexually unfaithful to her nuclear family—that prompts this threat.

given that ellen first called to nosferatu because of the loneliness and misery she was experiencing, textually the rape she has been enduring is at least partially, or indirectly, caused by her father. in other words, he bears responsibility, as patriarch, for having made ellen hysterical (traumatised), and, when confronted with this fact in the flesh, can only respond by trying to pass her off to an even more repressive institution than the family—which fate, it is at least implied, she was spared specifically because meeting thomas temporarily stopped her 'fits'.

to her father's mind, ellen can be either a virginal bride, sound (pure) of mind, or she is defective and of a social underclass. in other words, the evaluation of ellen as a sexual possession runs continuously from her father to her husband to her husband's friend (who fears her presence is so contagiously corrupting as to threaten his own marital and filial property), and thru nosferatu the entire time.

arguably then this designation her father makes of ellen, her purity, and her 'defiled' body becomes an originary template for her subsequent intimate-partner relationships (where nosferatu's rapes are another such template, pertaining more specifically to her experience of sexual pleasure and desire). both thomas and friedrich later react to ellen with disgust and fear that mirror her father's; the only character who is steadfast at her side is anna, who is killed for it (and so also, in what is only barely the subtext of the vampiric act, raped).

i've already seen a few reviews that suggest eggers sees female sexuality in itself as the corrupting force here—i disagree, and i think paying more attention to the father/husband and daughter/wife roles here clarifies this. i think it's quite clear that the tragedy here is that ellen is someone who is not supposed to desire sex, even in the naïve and completely uninformed way of her childhood self, and is instead configured in her relationships to her father and husband/s as simultaneously a pure (white) object to be won and as an unruly (brunette) epileptic and hysteric. i still don't like the ending and wish eggers had changed it—but, i do think that what he was trying to accomplish there was to show ellen at last breaking from the daughter/wife position that demands she stifle all externally aimed desires, while also showing that in her social context, this break cannot happen without the definitive loss of her personhood in the form of actual death.

there is no escape valve for desire here—neither her joy at the dream of marrying death, nor her horror upon waking up from it, can save her—there is no way to configure the wife/daughter role as compatible with the 'deviant' desires that the role itself engenders, or the rape it enables/causes. in the grand scheme of this film, ellen and her father are a relatively tame example of violence, sexual and otherwise. but, the pattern and power differentials between them are both continuous and overlapping with the more 'extreme' or overt violence of the rest of the film.

[beautysurvives]

The Idealized (Cloth Mother) Mary As A Representation Of Dean’s Soul

*warning, I’m gonna use a lot of gendered terms and stereotypes, but these don’t reflect my real world way of thinking. I’ll be saying things like “divine feminine” and “feminine” in general not as material absolutes, but just as shorthand to discuss the recurring themes and use of male and female archetypes in supernatural*

having thoughts I can’t yet fully articulate connected connected to this edit

Amara representing “the divine feminine,” the Darkness to Chuck’s Light, being the thing released by removing the mark of cain— the whole mark of cain arc being triggered by Dean’s inability to kill Abaddon, but also his inability to let Sam die in s8 and his choice to save him against his will in a way that denies his autonomy and leaves them both at the mercy of an abusive parental figure (Gadreel) — the moc itself symbolizing the idea of masculinity as strength and independence.

And then Amara, the fact that, without the mark, Dean can’t kill her, even though he wants to and believes that he should. Dean’s connection with Amara being rooted in their roles as narrative foils. Amara herself being revealed to be extremely empathetic, to be acting out of grief and rejection, being very old and powerful but also young and unknowledgeable about the world. And her believing that the thing Dean needs the most is Mary — so that he can see that she’s just a person. That she’s flawed. That she’s a lot like him.

Mary coming into the world in the same year as Jack — Jack who never would’ve been conceived if Cas hadn’t freed Lucifer — if Cas hadn’t been dealing with his own feelings of physical inadequacy and powerlessness — if Cas hadn’t similarly been struggling with an overabundance of empathy, the thing that made him decide to spare Metatron, the thing that made him feel intense guilt over the times that he hurt Dean, pain over the way that Dean hurt him — and if Cas hadn’t hesitated to kill Kelly and her unborn baby even though he believed it was the right thing to do.

The soul representing empathy, kindness, the ability to feel — traits associated with femininity. How the soul, like Amara to Chuck, represents the female self. How Dean felt that he was never allowed to be a child, because he was being both a father and a mother to Sam. The way Dean — who, at his most comfortable state, is childlike — associates his memory of Mary, the feminine/maternal ideal, with his own state of childlike innocence and ignorance.

And then Jack’s birth — Crowley is the first to die, then Cas, at around the same time as Kelly— and then Mary is taken away. And this is a Mary who, in Dean’s perspective, has finally come around to performing her motherly role by protecting him and Sam. All season, Dean has been advocating for keeping Jack and Kelly alive, finding a way to save them. Cas was the one who wanted to kill them but ultimately couldn’t go through with it. Like Mary — like Kelly — he goes on a journey that leads him to empathy and faith in Jack. Leads him to see Jack as his son.

After losing these softer, idealized parental figures, Dean immediately reverts to his moc self — the kind of person he was in Hell, the kind of person he became after John died, the kind of person John encouraged him to be while hunting —

The self that preferred not having a soul — the self that preferred to not feel. This version of him believes that Mary must be dead, that Cas can’t be brought back.

Once Jack achieves these things for him, Dean’s metaphorical soul is restored. Mary is back in their lives, and for the first time she’s committed to staying —

But, like Dean, like this whole family, she is still so empathetic that it becomes a fatal flaw within the narrative. She was willing to stay in Apocalypse World, apart from her children, because those people needed her too. Dean, when the moc enabled him to ignore his soul, killed the Styne kid (an obvious Sam parallel) without hesitating — but without the mark, he risked his life to save baby Amara.

Amara, like Mary, is the part of Dean that he inherited or modeled after his mother. It’s the thing that drove Delphine to sacrifice herself in The Vessel — the thing that made Dean offer to stay and use the Hand of God himself — her warning that its power would corrupt him, her decision to use it herself because she knew she was supposed to die anyways. The reason that she needed Dean to be the one to kill her to remove the warding — she wasn’t “strong” enough to do it to herself. She wasn’t strong in the stereotypically masculine, unfeeling, reckless way that Dean is expected to be — that Sam often is, especially soulless Sam (who, interestingly, relied on Dean to be his conscious/soul)

Mary’s constant presence in the narrative — what Mary believes a good person and especially a good mother and wife should be — self sacrificial — is the reason that Dean says yes to Michael, the reason that he plans to lock himself in a box without telling anyone, the reason that Cas makes the empty deal, and part of the reason that Jack uses his powers to kill Michael even though he knows that it will cost him his soul.

So yes, it makes sense that it’s Jack who kills her. It makes sense that she’s even here with him in this scene — because she’s been trying to make up for her absence in Sam and Dean’s life, and he’s her chance. And, as she always does, she throws herself in harms way to protect them — and to protect Jack. Her final death scene has always annoyed me, because it felt so out of character and forced, but I can accept the idea that this was her doing what she was never able to do with Sam and Dean. Being there.

And why does Jack unintentionally kill her? Because she’s making him feel things, like a pesky soul. Her behavior — her actively caring about him — is making him feel afraid, weak, out of control. So he gets rid of her.

Everybody wants the cloth mother, but in this world of extreme violence that requires you to not feel and not empathize and be completely self sufficient, her presence is a hindrance. When she dies, suddenly it’s a no brainer for Dean to convince Sam to do to Jack what he wanted to do to himself all season — to lock him in a box, where he can’t hurt anyone. What Chuck ordered his sons to do to Amara. Dean has lost this symbol of his soul — like accidentally freeing Michael from the closet in his mind — being weak and letting your enemy surprise you, letting your guard down, failures that Dean always beats himself up for the way his father did with him.

Which is why Dean’s betrayal of Amara in season 15 is so so interesting to me. Lying to her is a risk to his own safety, that he knows can end badly. But it is also a test of his strength and his ability to kill the thing inside him that Mary represents — because remember, he’s angry with Amara for even bringing her back. He decides that it was meaningless, not real — like Jack’s failed attempt to resurrect Mary, empty. So trying again to kill Amara through deception and betrayal is a test of his ability to do “the right thing” no matter the personal cost. Even if it hurts. Just wanting his mother back led her to die again. Just that scene of emotional honesty and mutual understanding between himself and Amara in the s11 is the reason that any of this happened — it’s the part of the story that he blames on himself, and his weakness.

It’s not just that he’s willing to kill Jack, or willing to shoot Sam, but that, even after being told that he would die, that everyone he loved would die, he’s still willing to do it. He has to be. It’s not anger at any of these individuals that’s fueling his choice — because he does love them. It’s Mary’s death, and the symbolic death of his emotional, vulnerable, child self that, like Jack, wants to be loved and accepted and forgiven. It’s giving into the other child self — the side of him that is like Chuck, the masculine half of creation — that, like soulless Jack, or occasionally Sam or Cas, denies responsibility and looks for someone, a more powerful figure, like Mary or Amara, God, Heaven, Cas (pre 15x09) — to blame.

Doing all this for the sake of killing Chuck, but especially killing Amara along with him (which Sam was onboard for UNTIL it became clear that he and his loved ones would also die, because for him Amara’s freedom means “the monsters win” and that he and Dean would turn into monsters) — is a denial of Dean’s inner truth.

But what I can’t get over is the fact that not going through with that is what makes them miss their chance to defeat Chuck this time. Billie appears and berates them, and informs them that Jack might’ve survived — it reminds me of Rowena’s sacrifice at the top of the season, how her death led her to go to “the right place,” as the queen of hell — and how Sam was, initially, somewhat okay with the idea of Mary dying, because he knew that she was back in Heaven, at peace. That Billie just wants everyone to go where they belong (where they were originally, or where they were predestined to be) that, for many seasons, they’ve been toying with — getting close to — sealing the gates to Heaven and Hell. That the series culminates with Jack — a symbol of union, a thing that keeps the tfw family, especially Cas and Dean, together —but also a symbol of the three of them being unwilling to let each other go — disappearing. Sam and Dean going to Heaven. Cas being in the Empty, never able to see them again. Not even conscious — feeling nothing. Not existing. This coinciding with not only the AU hunters being erased from the narrative, but also everyone who has been family to them (mostly, female characters like the wayward sisters) just… out of sight out of mind

It still just makes me wonder about the way that Sam and Dean are positioned in this season, because I’ve always felt like Dean gets the short end of the stick here. And going back to the way that Sam was motivated by his fear of Chucks bad ending where the monsters/Amara win — Amara being a symbol of Mary, someone that Sam had never really gotten to know up until her return from apocalypse world, except through Dean’s memories of her. How the thing that Sam really wanted was any sort of relationship with her — something Dean had that he never got. Sam doesn’t treat Mary as a mother as much as a colleague / friend — maybe even a coparent to Jack while Dean is missing/possessed. But Sam is more at peace with her death after he gets this. For me it just connects to how Sam has always sort of viewed Dean, as sort of specter of Mary — which is both a good and bad thing, but more often than not is bad. Dean is his obligation to stay in the life, to stay with his family, his soul when he doesn’t have one — and often, the person he blames when he makes choices with world ending consequences— or choices that put innocent people at risk, like freeing Dean from the mark at the expense of Cas and Charlie, ultimately freeing the Darkness.

The fact that Dean himself says that his death is good. Like Cas, like Jack, like Mary, he either dies or happy or becomes happy in the afterlife. The fact that the whole story for Dean and Sam, could start with Mary’s deal to save John — that she is a God to them, and that Jack, who brings Cas back to life and saves Mary, becomes God — I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know.

[nothingenoughao3]

I will say this forever as long as there is breath in my body, and couching my observations with love for Titan AE overall:

This movie's first two acts feel like Draft 3, but the final act feels like Draft 1.

There is a stark difference in quality and characterization. This is true across the board, although the biggest sins were committed against Korso. Here, let me count the ways:

Cale's arc from a cynical dope to a hero feels like it's missing a vital beat to tie it all together. I understand that Bluth and Goldman were experimenting with "less is more" storytelling, and overall I respect the approach, but this one comes off as an omission of editing and not a deliberate storytelling choice. They did remove a bit where Cale visits a human drifter colony for the first time. That is, I think, where his turnabout was supposed to happen. The "my brother has a photograph of Earth" scene is a poor substitute for him being surrounded for the first time by other people he's previously dismissed as scum. Those people welcoming him in would make him feel shame for his prior behavior. Unlike the bit where he tries to skip the human line and flat-out deny his own humanity, he embraces it. There's your impetus for him to transform into a full hero... an impetus that isn't really there in the finished film.

Gune feels stupider in Act 3, and does things we never imagined him doing based on the first half, such as piloting the entire fucking ship AND operating weapons (two separate systems that required two operators before) while screaming "WHO'S YOU'RE DADDY". it's korso btw

Stith has more lines in Act 3. She spends most of the movie growling, grunting, and being borderline nonverbal compared to Preed's snark--then she starts snarking along with everybody else. I don't mind this change, but it is a change, an inconsistency which points to a major change having been made in earlier parts of the film unreflected in the later parts. (I assume Joss Whedon was responsible for this.)

Akima's job in Acts 1/2 is different than in Act 3. Assume for the sake of argument that the inconsistencies are not "because her job is to be the girl" and are from the same issue as the rest of this list. Akima starts out hanging around the pilot's area of the Valkyrie, but only while Korso's not there--which is consistent throughout Acts 1/2. She CAN pilot but it's not her job; I'd say her job is probably supposed to be a medical officer (which is why Korso leaves Gune and Preed to watch the ship, why would you NOT leave your best pilot to keep the engines warm, and also why she recognizes the Gaoul when nobody else does--because girls have empathy she's into biology). All of the above goes away in Act 3, where they lean super-hard on her being the pilot to end all pilots and forget that she's supposed to be a medical officer. This all points to Akima's job having changed at least twice during the script editing process, and said process was arrested before they really settled on her purpose. Also she's a girl who serves any purpose so long as she has purple hair and flirts with the MC.

Hey remember how Gune built this device with a button on it that he didn't know the purpose of in his very first scene? Remember how he tries to run an analysis of this device in his next big scene? I do and you probably do, BUT THE MOVIE JUST FORGOT ABOUT IT. We had a Setup scene, a Reminder scene, and no goddamned Payoff scene. It should have come up when Gune was blasting at Drej ships! He should have hit the button and launched it into space and taken out a bunch of Drej! Or hey, what about it being used in an attempt to kickstart the Titan, only it doesn't work and they have to engineer the Drej Energy idea by the seat of their pants? But it never comes up again, because they didn't finish editing the script and forgot about including the Payoff!

And now Korso. Oh Korso. Look how they massacred my boy.

There is the shape of something great here. Korso being a nihilist pretending to be an optimist has great dramatic potential! Him melting down because he realizes that Cale's taking all this rah-rah New Earth bullshit seriously could be great. There are even other tacks they could have taken up where this could still conceivably make sense.

What if Korso thought he could manipulate Cale into going along with the mission, then appear to agree with what Cale's been saying this whole time just as Cale changes his own mind? Imagine that conversation! Korso quietly saying that Cale's right and there's no hope and maybe they should just give up, Cale having to fight against his boyfriend mentor and his own words being thrown back in his face. Great fucking cinematic potential.

Or, or! Korso thinks he's saving humans from the Drej by destroying the Titan. What if he sincerely believes the best way of helping humans is disarming them so the Drej have no reason to kill anyone else? That would be in line with the caring, heroic man we met in Act 1 and saw throughout Act 2. And it's always more interesting to have an antagonist who thinks they're virtuous or heroic.

What if Korso doesn't view his betrayal as a betrayal? What if Cale and Korso are fighting over who is the proper Savior of Humanity and how humanity should be saved?

Great shit. Dramatic. Delicious fodder for ficcing. And tragically not what happened. Instead Act 3 kicks in and suddenly Korso only cares about money and grabbing what he can. Okay. Who do I sue for whiplash.

There's still a decent story to tease out of this--his "World blowin' up changes a man" line highlights that it's not so much money motivating him as trauma. This feels like the direction Act 3 leans into by the end. Korso telling Cale that it's fine if Cale kills him, Korso running to rescue Cale when he really didn't have to, Korso sacrificing himself (whether you think he's dead or not)… these are the actions of a reckless man who does not care about his own life. A traumatized man still haunted by the Earth being destroyed, feeling responsible for said destruction in ways he can never actually make up for, okay, also delicious, good stuff, but.

But that's Korso on the Titan, who feels very different from Traitor!Korso on the Valkyrie. Traitor!Korso punching Gune, threatening the the crew, talking casually about murdering Stith, fistfighting Cale, abandoning Cale and Akima at New Bangkok, being so determined to murder Cale and Akima that he risks everyone's necks and his own ship in the Ice Rings… this feels like a guy who is in fact just motivated by grabbing whatever he can and fuck everyone else.

We can and should apply whatever Watsonian explanations we can devise for Korso's inconsistency here. But the reality, I think, a Doylian one: Korso's inconsistent because his character arc was supposed to have a major editing-related alteration, riiiiiiiight around the point when they stopped editing the script and had to put it into production.

I'm probably totally off-base with this claim but it sure does feel like it's true.

Brought to you, exclusively, from me and my “still-bitter-about-the-shitty-writing-for-Korso-in-the-second-half” ass!

[abstractfrog]

Happy 1 year anniversary to Mr Sherlock Holmes! Here's a litttleee celebratory comic from me

[rustedleopard]

I feel like if Chujin was still alive during the events of Undertale Yellow, his and Clover's relationship would be incredibly rocky. Pacifist!Clover could bring him around to tolerating them (after all, they have that sort of effect on everyone), but it would be more in a "this human is the only 'good' human" manner than a "maybe I should reevaluate my opinions on humans overall because you can't judge an entire group based off (very biased) stories and one bad experience." Even then, that opinion would be subject to change should Clover ever get frustrated or behave "too aggressively" or act in any manner that isn't perfectly docile. If Clover ends up attacking a monster then it's "humans are just as horrible as they were in the war stories, I should've known better" regardless of the circumstances that could've pushed Clover to fight. Suffocating expectations and endless demands for patience when he wouldn't ask the same of a fellow monster.

And heaven forbid he ever meet Clover on a No Mercy Run...

[bonebabbles]

I keep starting and abandoning posts that go into my drafts, as I try to stay tasteful about how fucking revolted this part makes me. Like, I'm legitimately unsure if the very relevant trauma I have is making me see things that aren't here

But first we see that Star Flower is trying to ingratiate herself to the group, just after she reappears from chapter 5. Chapter 5 is about how Clear Sky is still abusive towards his son, and she comes in after stroking his ego, stressing how alone she is, and appealing to how she'll be loyal unlike his child. (She glances over at Thunder, directly implying this.)

Now in Chapter 9, she's babysitting and trying to care for Milkweed's kits (in spite of discomfort from Milkweed), taking a wet sleeping space away from the others, and pulling more than her own weight "without complaint." Putting herself through harsh sitations to prove her worth.

All while trying to appear extra attractive to Thunder, and later Clear Sky. Basically every man in power who can "protect her"

Like, am I going fucking crazy? With how we later find out that Star Flower was "promised as a mate" to One Eye's subordinate Slash, is... is that hypersexualization? One of the extremely stigmatized symptoms of sexual abuse?

She goes to find Clear Sky alone to throw herself at his paws, and he's very quickly attracted to how she promises to perfectly obey him, have no needs of her own, and finally be the perfect servant that he desires

"I don't deserve your trust because I am dirt. I understand you because I also regret something. I'd die for you. I'll never betray you unlike those who have."

This isn't manipulation. She means this. The story is playing their romance sincerely. She's comparing "betraying" Thunder by telling her own father about an assassination ambush to Clear Sky's history of child abuse, physical assault, and murder

She believes she's on the same level as this; a monster who murdered a childhood friend in a fit of entitled rage. She was a victim of One Eye who really believes that the way her father used her means she "understands" this monster, deserves this treatment.

And Clear Sky LIKES that.

He likes that she will have COMPLETE FAITH in him. That she will follow him WITHOUT QUESTION. That she will OBEY his orders. That's fucking verbatim, that's THE TEXT!!!

WHILE HE'S STILL CRYING ABOUT "ive tried to atone every day" FOLLOWING THE LAST TWO BOOKS WHERE THE ONLY SHITTY THING HE DOESN'T DO IS MURDER INNOCENT WOMEN

Am I insane?? Am I wrong??? Am I missing something here???? Why the fuck is the fandom takeaway "haha sexy girl steals his dad." Did I read the same book

[mania-sama]

I cannot BELIEVE that you would leave all of this in the tags because all of this is brilliant and a wonderful edition to my post and I have to talk about it.

First, before I talk about anything else, I want to address the whole Venessa ascention thing. Now, I may talk a big game, but I do not know a lot of the "deeper" Genshin lore. I know pretty much the baseline stuff, along with some of the slightly more in-depth knowledge that I've acquired reading the Webtoon comic and watching specified videos. So the exact timing of everything gets very confusing very fast because all of the wars kind of mix together for me.

However, in terms of Venessa ascending and becoming a Wind, I don't think the timing changes much at all about her status. Even if the Winds started with her, it doesn't take away from the fact that she still is pretty much a Saint. She can be the first saint. Or something idk.

But you ALSO bring up the really good viewpoint that the cross thing may not have started until her, or at least until all of the Four Winds had been accumulated. I will talk about this more in a second

Second point: I like your interpretation as the cross being representative of the Four Winds. It's corroborated by the actual designs of the crosses in Mondstadt, which aren't exactly to a T the Christian cross (with the exception of Barbara, who does have a normal Christian cross hanging from her book. Which would imply that it's a Bible. Which is CRAZY). The crosses in Genshin actually curve at the ends of the horizontal line, kind of like how a gust of wind would.

Honestly I think it's a design meant to replicate the Holy Roman cross with a bit of a fantastical flair to it. But that also means I am willing to accept other interpretations. What I presented in my OG post is but one possible implication (and also, in my opinion, the funniest); there are plenty of ways to go about understanding the Mondstadt cross. I, personally, think there is only one flaw with the cross being the Four Winds, and that is this:

It isn't equal.

I don't know what the thought process of the original Mondstadters would be to make the cross uneven in its four lengths. East and West are equal, but North and South are not. In the case that it is using the Four Winds, I would like to think that it would more closely resemble a compass rose than it would a Christian cross.

Which is why I present this alternative theory, that eliminates the idea of someone being crucified and then their crucifixion becoming the symbol of religion: the cross design is meant to represent Barbatos.

I want you to look at the big Barbatos statue in the middle of Mondstadt, in front of the Cathedral. If you really look at it, he can be simplified into a lower case t. Or, you know, a cross. The wings would be the horizontal line splitting the upper and lower half, which means that the cross has to have a longer lower half due to the statue design. Or, rather, the position they modeled the statue out of looked like that, and so on and so forth.

This is also seen in the way that the cross curves (again, sans Barbara. Why does she have that normal cross); the curves are the ends of Barbatos' wings.

I would also like to suggest, then, this: a cross is meant to be presented upright at all times. The horizontal line is near the top, not the bottom, making the lower half longer than the top. When you flip it over, making the horizontal line on the bottom, you have suddenly presented the symbol of the Anti-Christ.

(People can argue that all day; yes it was the matrydom of a saint, but it is also used in modern times is an Anti-Christ symbol so there isn't much I can do about it. ANYWAY)

As another reblogger point out to me: we never get back around to that upside-down Anemo Statue of Seven, did we?

Hm, an upside down Barbatos statue, which earily resembles their cross, the cross that indicates either Christ (upright) or Evil Incarnate (upside down)..........

Hm.....

LOVE this. I love you and I love everyone who has reblogged because this has reignited my love for all that has yet to be unexplored in Mondstadt's insane lore.

Mondstadt and Its Religious Implications

One thing that I will NEVER get over about Genshin Impact is the iconography used in the designs for Mondstadt and the implications it has. Now, don't get me wrong, as a rule of thumb, Hoyoverse has done a really good job in creating unique environments for Genshin's nations that more or less accurately portray a real-life cultural region. Liyue is based on China, Inazuma on Japan, Sumeru on India and Egypt, Fontaine on France (and Australia, if you squint), and Natlan on African and Native American tribes.

Mondstadt is based on Germany. More specifically, many of the designs and icons seem to resemble the Holy Roman Empire. Now, an important thing to note is that most of Western and Southern Europe was some denomination of Christianity at this time, with some exceptions due to various holy wars that occurred kind of all of the time. Anyway, the point is that the Holy Roman Empire was an established Catholic nation (and Germany still is predominantly Christian in modern-day). One thing about the Catholic denomination is that they proudly display religious symbols anywhere they can or in ways that they can carry with them, usually coming in the form of a rosary or a cross. When it came to specific places of holy worship, they would obviously spend no small amount of effort to completely embellish the place with gold, art, and symbols. Catholic churches are known to be the most extravagant of the denominations for a reason.

When a design team looks at The Holy Roman Empire, they will see this religious imagery everywhere. Namely, they will see the cross, because that is kind of, you know, THE Christian symbol. So it makes complete sense for them to note that down and underline it in red; for a mostly-accurate portrayal of the region they are taking from, a church and crosses HAVE to be included.

Places of worship are obviously not unique to Christianity, nor is the "cross" as a religious symbol even born from Jesus Christ. There are a few cases from different regions in which crosses and cross-like images were used for their gods. HOWEVER, with the specific cross that Mondstadt displays, and with the fact that not only is it based on Germany/Holy Roman Empire but that it is the ONLY Genshin region to use the cross in its designs (along with the usage of distinctly Christian/Catholic roles like nuns)... it is safe to assume that this is representative of the Christian cross.

You can see the issue we are about to have.

The fact that Mondstadt displays crosses as a religious symbol in CHURCHES and on the KNIGHTS' ARMORY (because most knights were historically Christian), that characters like Barbara are seen wearing in their designs, implies two things:

Crucifixation is/was a method of cruel execution in Mondstadt's history.

SOMEBODY of high esteem and worship had to be crucified, and thusly held up as the ultimate symbol of religion...

For the first point, while it IS still crazy to think that Genshin would imply this, I can, indeed, believe it to be true to canon. Why? Well, Mondtadt's history is already rife with the same abuses as Europe's actual history. From slaves to gladiator fights to rebellion to cruel monarchs, Mondstadt has not had a pretty life. Crucifixion honestly fits right in. I can imagine, in failed revolts against the aristocracy, those rebels who survived were later crucified. Other victims may be those who try to falsify gods or improperly worship Barbatos in a manner that the ruler doesn't agree with, those who commit treason, etc. etc..

Is it insane? Perhaps a little. But if we really get into it, Hoyoverse has done some crazy things with their lore so it's not really out of place, no matter how cruel the actual punishment is.

The second point is a little more complicated. Let's first rule off Christianity being a thing in Genshin - while you could consider the most of the nations to be monotheistic because they technically worship one god, the respective one of their nation, they most certainly do not obey/follow one god holistically, nor is there one mortal representative that god, nor is there a specific spirit that lives on in every believer who follows that god. So, there is no Holy Trinity; no Jesus Christ, no Holy Spirit, and there is no God, so to speak. No Christianity.

However.

One thing about Genshin Impact is that it takes from biblical mythology heavily, for some reason (and I say mythology because modern denominations don't consider the demonology stuff canon). For example, Paimon is the name of a demon who was more or less a servant of Lucifer (interpretations may vary). It is well known that the Archons are based on demons from biblical demon mythology. Even in the latest Natlan Archon Quest, Ronova, the Ruler of Death, looks unnervingly like Ophanim, the one everyone draws when they make "biblically accurate angels" or whatever.

Mondstadt accomplishes biblical references in two ways: one, that Barbatos, the demon, had four main kings/knights that rode with him. This can be seen represented in the Four Winds. Two, that these Four Winds can be viewed like how the Catholics would view a saint. Saints were, in simplistic terms, mortals who achieved great things and helped many people, and were then canonized after the death (usually). The church essentially declares them a Saint and worthy of worship. Idols and imagery are produced of these saints and hung like one would a cross or other images of Jesus Christ.

The most clear representation of that in Genshin would be in Venessa, who is a mortal who dies and then ascends to Celestia. She then becomes the Falcon of the West, one of the Four Winds of Mondstadt. So, a saint, essentially. Even though Mondstadt isn’t Christian, it certainly is Catholic.

The reason why I am going over all of this is to say that, well, it may not be necessarily implying that Venti was the one who was crucified. That is the popular opinion when discussing the crosses - that somewhere along the way, Venti was crucified. I am here to say that that really might not be the case. While the Holy Trinity is interpreted by many denominations to all be one and the same as each other, it is still a fact that it was Jesus Christ who was crucified, not God Himself. Jesus is the son, not the God.

Which is to say that it could be anyone, really. The most clear "child" of Barbatos that comes to mind is Venessa, who we could interpret as someone who could have been, at one point, crucified (though she was not). Rulers and people of high esteem also claim her titles and name like monarchs would claim holiness and divine right in Europe. Again, the problem with this is that she was not crucified and lived a very successful life post-rebellion.

The other option that comes to mind is the Unnamed Bard. He also could have been crucified. Even though we know he died in battle, it is not unreasonable that his corpse would have been strung up by pissed-off nobles upon the defeat of Decarabian. But, again, the problem being is that a. the timelines don't match up (Barbatos was not yet the Anemo Archon), and b. they won the rebellion so he still probably wasn't crucified.

So, it could be someone we haven't heard of, or someone deep in Genshin lore that I don't know about. Or, you know, perhaps Venti really was crucified. I don't know.

THIS is what Hoyoverse is implying. AND I DON'T LIKE IT (it's fucking hilarious).

[carouselunique]

Is it true that there's no animosity between you and... you know, you know who. You never talk about her in any way. I guess I'm curious. You guys seemed like really close friends and then just weren't friends at all. And there was some stuff she said that seemed very targeted at you...

I don't know if she feels any animosity toward me or not any more. Our mutual friends have said she doesn't and I take them on their word in that regard, assuming that if they have an answer for me it's because they're aware how she feels. I wouldn't know and it's not my place to put words in her mouth.

I haven't spoken to her/about her in a long time and the only time she even crosses my mind is when people bring her up to me. As for me feeling any animosity? I'll admit my feelings on her these days are complicated and way too nuance-core for people who aren't my friends to hear about but I wouldn't call them animosity in any way. I inherently want people my friends care about to live well because I care about my friends, and anyone my friends care about by proxy and I still share friends with her. I would never wish ill on people my friends care about so animosity doesn't fit into that by definition. I'd say I'm hurt more than anything and even then I've worked through a lot of it with trusted friends who have helped me deal with my emotions in a healthy way.

(Besides, my own life struggles keep me from even being able to invest time into animosity. I have to expend that energy loving my family, doing my best to support them during our struggles. And I've never been a hateful person it isn't in me. I would rather play 'Hot To Go' by Chappell Roan and teach my dad how to do the hand gestures to help him strengthen his muscles again than focus on hating anyone...)

I try not to think about her because it hurts. I often think that people forget that I'm a real person outside of her sphere, and that I wouldn't want to talk about what happened because I truly did consider her a friend for a long time. And when someone I consider a friend appears to not regard me with care any more suddenly and I don't even have closure on that... well... it hurts... A lot. Of course I never talk about it.

And I'm not stupid, I have seen some stuff she's said that I've gathered was about me. I remind myself that she has a right to vent in her own spaces and I truly mean that... it's just a shame that her own spaces have people who then have taken these things to me to show me (after all, I wouldn't have even seen these things myself if not for third-party anons going 'this u?') saying it is my own fault because I was a terribly cruel friend or my own fault for not listening to warnings about her when I had the chance and that makes me a stupid gullible bitch. You lot haven't seen some of the awful shit about me from some of her more ravenous fans and haters I've seen over the years that I've had to let roll off my back in the fear it would bring backlash - not even to me, to her. I don't want to be the cause of any hatred going to anyone.

Also I'm just not going to ever talk about the details of our fallen friendship or our fallen relationship. That's private. She might be a public person to some extent but I never was, even if I do gain some measure of small fandom for my work one day I'm just private about personal matters especially raw ones. I almost deleted this ask entirely but Idk I never stated that it bothers me when people talk to me about her from my own mouth, so I guess that's what this ramble is.

If you send me anything about Lily Orchard it will not be addressed. I am not a part of her life not even through our mutual friends. I do not know or care what's going on with her public/personal life. I haven't kept up. I will never keep up. Don't treat me as an extension of the situation because I am not in the situation. In the most plainly stated sense of the word: Leave me the Hell alone. (...pretty please.)

All I've wanted this entire time was to be left alone to process everything in a healthy, peaceful way. I'm workin' on it.

[sysig]

New toys ✨ (Patreon)

[tunedtostatic]

[Additional Image Description: On a grey background, there are five small black line art illustrations lined up across the center. The first is a sword with a hooked blade pointing upwards, the second is a hand with magic curling up out of it, the center is a castle with wavy lines extending from it into a dark sky, the third is a beaker with steam curling up from it, and the last is a shortsword pointing downwards. The sword has a few dark red shading lines. In the lower right corner of the fanmix cover is the title, "heart of my own," in dark red medieval calligraphy font. End Additional Image Description.]

HEART OF MY OWN - A FANMIX FOR CASSANDRA DE ROLO IN THE TIME OF THE BRIARWOODS

Overgrown - machineheart // Edge of the World - Within Temptation // Ashes and Rust - Wynnie Stone // Take Me Home - The Paper Kites, Nadia Reid // Nobody (Live) - The Crane Wives // The Tangled Tree - Josienne Clarke and Ben Walker // Heart Of My Own - Basia Bulat // Don't She Run - I Draw Slow // Murder City - Abigail Lapell // Until the Fire - Ladytron // Control - Halsey // Lament - Mount Moriah // Catch the Light - Haroula Rose

Fanmix on YouTube

Fanmix on Spotify

[maythevoidnotscreamback]

First, I'd like to say that it's alright. I don't mind that some things have been mistranslated or misspelled because of Google Translate, nothing to be done about that. It's a computer after all. I just figured you'd like to know in the event you wanted to fix it by going back and editing it. I just ask that you let me know so I can delete my posted reblog so I can reblog your edited one, with edits to my own post because I'm a little weird like that. You don't have to if you don't want to though, it's your choice. :)

Second, I apparently didn't explain Zoi's situation properly in my original post, I apologize for the confusion, in that it was meant to be implied that while he's being "healed", Beryl does away with him while alone. I was thinking of how she seemed to be the one most hovering over Mamo while he was being converted to their side. She heard his fevered ramblings after being purified of the DK's taint/brainwashing, heard him talk about how 'This is wrong. We're loyal to Dymi, not Beryl. We serve a Prince, not a Queen. Where is he?' and made plans because she'd rather lose the General than waste the energy re-brainwashing him while Mamo is also being brainwashed. Kunzite's not a witness, just told in the aftermath that Zoi died due to complications of whatever the newly revealed Princess had done to him to leave him weakened and "delusional". That way Kunz is kept low-key scared of what the Princess might be able to do to him if she caught him in a moment of weakness, distraction or off guard. So that he never stuck around long enough or kept far to the back so that he wasn't healed even accidentally.

Third, I love your HC regarding the accident Mamo and his parents were in being so damaging that his memories were sacrificed to keep him alive. That's so cool if really sad. I'd also love seeing more foreshadowing of Dymi, the Shitennou, and how Sen/Shi became a thing in the first place. The reasons for the animosity between the two despite being such close neighbors, how they all got together despite that and their individual senses of duty maybe messing or working with their relationships because they love one another while also loving their Liege-to-be just as much, if not more.

Thank you for the compliments and additions to my posts. I'm happy to interact with you and make more of What Could Have Been regarding SM 90s anime canon and how it could have been better if the mangaka had been given the time to get further in her story before the animators got started on said anime and had actually talked to her regarding her plans about her story.

Stay safe and don't forget to be awesome.

My outrage given voice: The Shittenou were done so dirty!

It's very damn annoying to me and I hate it! Why the hell were the Shittenou not given a chance for a 'normal' life like Usagi wished for in the 90's anime; especially with the implication of the time of the first season repeating for the second and thus meant that they hadn't been nabbed for Beryl's/Metallia's purposes? Or even in the manga/reboot rather than kept as the stones they became after their deaths?

Like, what thoughts went into that? Why were the various relationships of the Shittenou changed so drastically, and not just between each other but their Prince and their Love Interests too? Especially when Mamo got a, technically, third chance to be with Usa after the first season's finale. The girls themselves have other love interests, I know, but you'd think that they'd at least be given the option to see if they were still compatible and part (hopefully) amicably if they weren't, rather than just have the view that they'll never have love or even a family. And, no, I don't count the "Parallel" world of the manga because it seems that they're right proper clones of their mothers rather than their own persons with thoughts, feelings and dreams like Chibi is. Yes, she's annoying and a frickin' Obnoxious Brat, but at least with that we know she's not Usa's clone just with pink hair and red eyes.

I remember watching the show growing up and never, not once, thinking they used to be love interests of the Senshi during the SilMil. Just that they were at the front of the invading army once that episode aired. Not to mention how my perceptions were fucked with beforehand because two of the four were in a relationship with each other (after one of them had been 'gender-bent'. Just...why?!) and a third was romancing a side character that had disappeared after the one episode she was in during the third season. Hell, the only reason I found out Sen/Shi was a Thing was due to the internet a while after watching the 'last' (for the North America viewing audience) episode of the fourth season. That pissed me right the fuck off.

I believe that shouldn't have happened. They could've done so much foreshadowing, maybe even a bit of character development, about the tragedy that would've been the Shittenou being killed off as the season went on once the SilMil's Last Day came about.

Like, think about it.

With Jad's constant disguises and schemes, it could've been that Rei, being a trained Miko, always seemed to find and flirt with him, because he was cute no matter his disguises, and then get mad about it because why?! is it always him?! she does that with?! The fuck?! And Jad's just like, 'How the hell does she keep doing this?!' before putting together that she must be an informer to the Senshi with the way they always show up when she does so he tries to keep her distracted in one form or another so his youma can do its job because she's too passionate and fiery to want to hurt or drain despite getting in his way so much. Beryl actually kills him off after his showdown with the Senshi, not listening when he says how he knows who they are, instead of being iced for his constant failures. (I never did get why he was singled out like that.)

With Neph's civilian identity of Sanjoin Masato, instead of Naru being the 'victim' of his 'manipulations', Makoto could've been brought in earlier and get to experience being treated like the young woman she is despite how other guys were put off by her strength and stature and just discovered she could transform just as or after he died. He still dies to Zoi's schemes but it's because, due to being around his Lady so much more than Jad was with Rei, he's starting to question what once he hadn't, especially if some dormant memories he hadn't known about break loose from their shadowy bonds, and so Beryl made out that he was defecting or losing sight of their goals so she didn't have to get her hands dirty.

With Zoi, 'cause I found it real annoying that only he could extract the Nijizuishou when the Moon Wand could also track them down but not get them out, Ami could've used her palmtop to scan whatever residue might've been left on the Wand, to also help look for the Carriers as Zoi did the same with his own tracking crystal. It could go that, because she does take her duties as a Senshi seriously and she's not all about school/studying despite her grades and work ethic and she's gonna prove it, she might get in trouble for 'stalking' while Zoi's just wondering what this cute but annoying brat is doing following him where she could get hurt - the Great Demon he awoke might very well kill her! - when in all reality she's trying to get close to the Carrier but this jerk-wad with the beautiful blond waves, because those are not curls as far as I'm concerned, in a ponytail keeps getting in her way! Shenanigans are had where they try to outsmart, trick or distract each other to get to the Nijizuishou first without outing themselves or her comrades. Zoi's killed by Beryl because when Ren's revealed and Zoi takes that hit with the Ginzuishou it purified him and, like Mamo is later in the season, left weakened and considered 'delirious' by Beryl who doesn't care she'll lose another of 'her' Generals because it means she'll have enough energy to get Dymi onside and keep Kunz loyal to her and scared of the Moon Witch's power.

With Kunz, well... we all kinda-sorta saw how many times Minako seemed to fall into his traps meant to nab Usa, not to mention their own history while she was in London. And he's killed as in canon because he would not be tricked by the images and lies the Witches from the Sky tried to force into his head, an unintended side-effect of how the SilMil's Last Day was shown, especially regarding her (Venus), into betraying his Liege; completely unknowing that he, technically, already has!

[b-blushes]

looking at planning out room organisation and how am i ever going to top this crocodile wall hanger tbh.

[inkskinned]

i got rickrolled today but it didn't work because i have adblocker installed, so youtube just told me i violated the terms of service. yesterday i was trying to edit a picture as a joke for my girlfriend, and google made me check a box to prove i'm human because i wasn't "searching normally".

it isn't just that capitalism is killing fun and whimsy, it is that any element of entertainment or joy is being fed upon by this mosquito body, one that will suck you dry at any vulnerability.

do you want to meet new friends in your city? download this app, visit our website, sign up for our email list. pay for this class on making a terrarium, on candlemaking, on cooking. it will be 90 dollars a session. you can go to group fitness, but only under our specific gym membership. solve the puzzle, sign up for our puzzle-of-the-month-club. what is a club if not just a paid opportunity - you are all paying for the same thing, which makes you a community.

but you're like me, i know it - you're careful, you try the library meetings and the stuff at the local school and all of that. the problem is that you kind of want really specific opportunities that used to exist. you are so grateful for libraries and the publicly-funded things: they are, however, an exception - and everything they have, they've fought tooth-and-nail to protect. you read a headline about how in many other states, libraries have virtually nothing left.

do you want to meet up with your friends afterwards? gift your friends the discord app. you can choose to go to a cafe (buy a coffee, at least), a bar (money, alcohol) or you can all stay in and catch a movie (streaming) or you can all stay in bed (rent. don't get me started) and scream (noise complaint. ticket at least).

you want to read a new book, but the book has to have 124 buzzwords from tiktok readers that are, like, weirdly horny. you can purchase this audiobook on audible! your podcast isn't on spotify, it's on its own server, pay for a different site. fuck, at least you're supporting artists you like. the art museum just raised their ticket price. once, they had a temporary exhibit that acknowledged that ~85% of their permanent art galleries were from cis white men, and that they had thousands of works by women (even famous women, like frida! georgia o'keefe!) just rotting in their basement. that exhibit lasted for 3 months and then they put everything away again.

walmart proudly supports this strip of land by the street! here are some flowers with wilting leaves. its employees have to pay out-of-pocket for their uniforms. my friend once got fined by the city because she organized a community pick-up of the riverfront, which was technically private property.

no, you cannot afford to take that dance class, neither can i. by the way - i'm a teacher. i'm absolutely not saying "educators shouldn't be paid fairly." i'm saying that when i taught classes, renting a studio went from 20 bucks an hour to 180 in the span of 6 months. no significant changes to the studio were made, except they now list the place as updated and friendly. the heat still doesn't work in the building. i have literally never seen the landlord who ignores my emails. recently they've been renting it out at night as an "unusual nightclub; a once-in-a-lifetime close-knit party." they spent some of those 180 dollars on LEDs and called it renovating. the high heels they invite in have been ruining the marley.

do you want to experience the old internet? do you want to play flash games or get back the temporary joy of club penguin? you can, you just need to pay for it. i have a weird, neurodivergent obsession with occasionally checking in to watch the downfall and NFT-ification of neopets. if i'm honest with you all - i never got into webkins, my family didn't have the money to buy me a pointless elephant. people forget that "being poor" can mean literally "if i buy you that toy, i can't afford rent."

you and i don't have time to make good food, and we don't have the budget for it. we are not gonna be able to host dinner parties, we're not made of money, kid. do you want some kind of 3rd space? a space that isn't home or work or school? you could try being online, but - what places actually exist for you? tiktok counts as social media because you see other people on it, not because they actually talk to you.

there was a local winter tradition of sledding down the hill at my school. kids would use pizza boxes and jackets and whatever worked, howling and laughing. back in september, they made a big announcement that this time, rules were changing, and everyone must pay 10 dollars to participate. when im not scared shitless, i kind of appreciate the environmental irony - it hasn't gone below 40. so much for snow & joyriding.

i saw a bulletin for a local dogwalking group and, nervous about making a good first impression, showed up early. the first guy there grimaced at me. "sorry," he said. "there's a 30-dollar buy-in fee." i thought he was joking. wait. for what? the group doesn't offer anything except friendship and people with whom to walk around the city.

he didn't know the answer. just shrugged at me. "you know," he said. "these days, everything costs money."

[itsalwaysdark]

ok sry last one. sry