#maybe she's just violent and that's all there is to it

[lucygraysboy]

“you know exactly what i’m talkin’ ‘bout so drop the fuckin’ act and let’s get this over with!” the question alone would be enough to bring billy’s blood to a boil, but when paired with the tone of lucy gray’s voice, it has him seeing red. why is she yelling at him when she’s the one in the wrong? if he was a violent man, he’d be dragging her out of this very lake by the hair. and maybe he should, maybe that’s her type — someone who lays hands on her. maybe he should have let billy taupe have her. instead, he just stands, with gentle waves licking up at his calves, feeling so completely betrayed that he can’t stop the tears from coming. north carolina. fuck that guy. “i can’t believe you’re bein’ all sweet and lovey dovey and textin’ your ex boyfriend! i had no idea you two were doin’ this on a regular basis! i thought bein’ friends meant you sent him a merry christmas card once a year. does he send pictures of his cock, too, or just his filly?! but now i see why you don’t want to be with me! you can’t! you’ve already got one boyfriend!” hands clenching into fists, one around the towel, the other clutching her phone until his knuckles are turning white, but he doesn’t move towards her. he just shakes his head. she played him. she’d made him feel like a cheater countless times when in reality… she’s the only one doing the cheating. “hey, don’t bring my friends into this, we aren’t talkin’ ‘bout billy taupe and what happened years ago. we’re talkin’ ‘bout your cheatin’! cordial! fuckin’ cordial! now imagine if the roles were reversed! i’d be the worst of the worst! you shouldn’t have replied! you could’ve told him ‘got a boyfriend now. have a great fuckin’ life.’” he seethes, tearing his underwear out of her bag and dropping the phone back in. he briefly turns around from her just so he can get dressed but when she brings back his past, he’s spinning around and getting in her face again. “yes, you fuckin’ are! i hooked up with that woman and she was the one doin’ the textin’, not the other way ‘round! i wasn’t replyin’! i wasn’t gushin’ over her pets or callin’ her sweet names! there’s a big difference!” he’s tempted to start walking up the trail, back to the camper but can’t leave her out here alone so he waits. towel tossed over one shoulder, in boxers and stupid flip flops.

“what the hell are you talkin’ about?!” she yells, wide eyes going to her phone, thinking river has proposed some kind of question to make her look bad or something to the point billy’s in tears— but all that’s there is what she’s up to. almost feeling guilty for the north carolina part though, until she realizes it’s out of her control what river says, she can’t feel bad for this. “i told you i was still friends with him, i didn’t lie to you. he’s not billy taupe— so you don’t need to ambush him with your barn pigs for friends like a coward, too.” she hisses, “i wasn’t textin’ him behind YOUR back, i can be cordial with him. he sent me a message first, you should know that since you went snooping.” brows furiously creased, hand shoving his shoulder to push him out of her way, letting him keep the phone since he’s seen everything anyway. “i don’t need to tell him GIRL’s TRIP, thank you very much.” angrily slinging clothes as she digs into her bag, “i ain’t a damn liar. like you that time in the motel, i want you lucy gray! i want you! but you had a thing goin’ with some floozy you DIDN’T tell me about, so don’t tell me NOTHIN’ about NOTHIN’.” she rants, quickly dropping the wet cloth from her middle and grabbing her towel to wrap it around herself. “mhm, so i sure do have the audacity.” she adds, angrily sitting down on a log with her back to him, slipping on her clean panties over her legs.

[gothicfied]

hey... can you please make a part 2 to your squid game fic where the reader is a teen but.. like.. have her die? anyways your writing is so good!

Squid Game (S2/S3) characters with a teen (18) reader Part 2

(Read Part 1 here)

Pairing: Various characters x teen!fem!reader, !!platonic!!

Warings: Mentions of death, violence, choking, stabbing, implications of misogyny, canon character death, reader literally DIES, this is set in Season 3, the giving-birth situation, idk I'm very bad at writing violent scenes I'm sorry😞🥀, this is basically just angst, not proof read (English isn't my first language)

Tags: @katscloudy @applepie1000 @calijimenez @nightlark100 @okayiamkassandra

A/N: I'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK LONGER THAN I WANTED, but I was so busy with school and speaking exams and ahhhhh I was so stressed all week long. This is probably really, FOR REAL THIS TIME, the last Squid Game request I'll write for, because I can already feel my interest in it dwindle. So sorry, but I really enjoyed writing for it again! Stay tuned for the football fics I can now finally continue lololol

જ⁀➴ A revolution in this kind of setting, who were you kidding? You were stupid enough to believe in it, but maybe this proved that you actually were naive like everyone said. Young and naive, with not a clue how the real world actually works. Gi-hun immediately stopped you from taking a guards gun and said that you're way too young to be handling something like this. "The adults are going to handle it." You heard him say as a group of players advanced further into the building.

જ⁀➴ It all quickly came crashing down and mamy lost their lives. You were mostly just sitting in your bed uncomfortably, trying not to look at the gruesome sight of the dead pink guards. It was destined to fail, you kept telling yourself, there was no way you could make it out of there now. And for some reason, people still decided to vote 'O'.

જ⁀➴ Dae-ho wasn't talking to you (or anyone for that matter) anymore. Just a day ago he was so determined to free everyone here and get out alive, to give you your life back so you could actually enjoy your last teenage years, but now that people were starting to blame him for the failed revolution, he kind of shut down. You missed talking to him about your worries terribly, even though you've only known him for three days or so. You quickly lost track of time in this place.

જ⁀➴ Geum-ja was still the one that comforted you the most. She'd get it, right? She's a mother! And motherly she was to you. As you expressed your panic and fear, she was quick to calm you down with a tight hug. The overall mood was gloomy and silent. No one really dared to say a word and you resented everyone who kept putting money over people's lives.

જ⁀➴ The next game terrified you the most. Whoever was controlling this place already set the right mood by displaying a literal human chandelier of the dead rebels while everyone else walked to the next location. When you noticed Jung-bae you were sick to your stomach, quickly looking away to avoid any more trauma. Holy shit, what kind of monster would even do that? Yes, you were convinced, you're naive and dumb and too young to understand anything.

જ⁀➴ You didn't quite know what to make out of a game called 'Knives and Keys'. At first you were even to shy to up to the gumball machine that was standing in the middle of the room. All eyes seemed to be on you, like everytime. Before that, you took pride in being the youngest because you thought of yourself as strong and confident, but no you were not so sure anymore. The longer you hesitated the more comments you got thrown at your head:

"Come on kid, do something!"

"This is why you don't let a child participate..."

"How is she even still alive?"

જ⁀➴ The roles were pretty self explanatory. Red ones would chase the fuck out of the blue ones with knives like crazy people. The blue team had keys that could supposedly open the door to the exit. Bad thing is, the red team has to kill im order not to die themselves. The way your faced dropped at the sight of the blue sphere in your hand was no joke. "Don't worry about it," Hyun-ju said, who also was on team blue, "I'll help you with everything. You don't have to do this alone."

જ⁀➴ It was a frenzy of walking around, taking care of the very pregnant Jun-hee (who also sprained her ankle while tumbling down the stairs) and trying to unlock every door you saw. You were the quickest of all, which is why Hyun-ju told you to go ahead and see if any of the four keys you carried with you fit in any door. You had the scare of your life, quite literally, when you walkes into the hands of a red team member. His hands were trembling as he held out the knife to your throat, but he couldn't do it. "I can't kill a child!" He exclaimed and hurried away.

જ⁀➴ Secretly, you were also looking out for Dae-ho and Gi-hun, who became like father and brother to you and now just left, but to no avail. Everytime you heard someone scream, you were scared it was one of them. Hyun-ju showed you that it didn't mattwe if you were team blue or team red, she could kill anyone. If you get out of here, you swore to yourself you'd be more like her.

જ⁀➴ Timing couldn't have been better when Jun-hee's water broke as the four of you took a quick break in one of the rooms. What the fuck? That was probably the only thought that was existing in your head. You panicked at the sight of her giving birth because.. yeah, what the hell? Geum-ja quickly told you to guard the door outside and make sure to alert them if someone was approaching the door.

જ⁀➴ Oh, you wish you could've been strong enough. For them at least, if it wasn't for your own sake. Male players from the red team all seemed to hunt you down for one reason: You're young and vulnerable. When your back was turned, because you took a quick peek inside to see if Jun-hee was doing okay, it was foreseeable that someone would grab you from behind. The man choked you from behind, cursing you out at first because you voted 'X' and then because you're a woman. Your hands scratched violently at his wrists as you tried to wring yourself from his grip but the man, so you learned, will always be stronger.

જ⁀➴ When Hyun-ju ripped the door open, it was too late for you and too late to catch the guy who had stuck that stupid knife into your throat. You thought death would come gently for you, but in those last moments you finally understood what all the elders tried to tell you.

[exitingmusic]

▬▬ι════════════════════════════════════ι▬▬

When Suguru defected, everyone around was affected.

Everyone felt guilty, everyone repeated every encounter in their heads to try to find something they could've done to help.

Shoko closed herself off, smoking twice as much as she used to, concealing the bags under her eyes.

But who worried you the most was Satoru.

He tried to be bright and cheerful but the spark was missing, his shoulders were hunched and smile stretched too thin.

Now even more pressure was put onto his shoulders. Now, he had to support his separating friend group as well as deal with the betrayal of his best friend.

But still, he kept up the facade, always picking people up when they distanced and reaching out when someone started slipping away.

He saw Suguru in everyone, making it his personal mission to prevent a repeat, to notice the situation before it happened, making sure not to fail anyone else like he failed his best friend.

But you could hear him through the walls at night.

You could hear the muffled sobs as he buried his face into his pillow, violent sobs echoing through the papery walls.

Anytime you knocked or tried to help him or bringing drinks or snacks, he always put the mask on, laughing and changing the subject whenever you asked how he was doing.

Tonight was no different.

He left after dinner earlier than normal, dorm door shut tight, cries audible from the outside.

You knocked and the noise stopped, a rustle of sheets before the door slid open, revealing Satoru with his usual nonchalant smile on.

"Oh hey, how can I help you?"

You gave him a look. He had his blindfold on, but you could see the redness on his cheeks like he had scrubbed the tears off quickly.

His smile wobbles slightly and he sighs, "Don't look at me like that."

"Satoru, let me in," you say.

His lower lip trembles but he opens the door just enough for you to slip in.

It was a mess. Normally his room was messy, but this was different. There were scrapbooks and journals open randomly, pages torn out and scattered around the room. The picture frames were turned down, hiding the smiling faces of Suguru in each one.

Satoru scratches the back of his neck, "I've been looking through his stuff, maybe something would be in there that might've explained it."

You both knew there would be nothing.

But you nod, you knew Satoru needed something to do, some reason to blame this all on.

You watch as he sits on the bed, putting his chin in his hands and watching you as you pick up the journals, stacking them on the edge of his desk.

There was a long silence, only broken up by the sounds of your cleaning.

As you picked up the trash, you heard a sniffle coming from him and you turned around, glancing at him.

He was still in the same position, only now you could see a shiny tear track escaping from his blindfold.

Your expression softened and you kneeled in front of him, moving his hands away from his face and gently cupping his cheeks.

"You don't have to hide from me, Satoru," you say quietly, an offer.

His shoulders shake and he slides off the bed, sitting in front of you.

"It was my fault wasn't it?"

Before you could shake your head he interrupted you.

"No, it really was. I was his best friend, and I didn't notice it, I didn't try to help him. I was too focused on being the strongest that I ignored the signs," he lets out a shuddering gasp, his face scrunching. "And now I failed him."

You sighed, pulling him into you, "Suguru chose his own path, you did not cause him to change."

"But-" Satoru starts, getting cut off as you pull him into your chest, shushing him.

He lets out a shaky breath and presses his face into your shoulder, eyes shut tight behind his blindfold.

"It's not your fault," you repeat, arms threading around him as his shoulders shake, a choked sob coming from his mouth.

His arms wrap around you as he hunches into your form, hands clutching your shirt like it was grounding him. His whole body trembled as he cried, ugly, loud sobs that shook his whole body, snot and tears smearing on your shirt.

"He was my best friend," he chokes out, "He left me. He wasn't supposed to do that."

Oh.

You didn't know what to say so you just hugged him tighter, letting him hug you like a stuffed animal.

Gently, you rubbed circles down his hunched back, hoping it brought him at least a little bit of comfort. And judging by the way his shuddering sobs turned to quiet hiccups it was working.

"I- I just don't know what to do," he whispers, "I'm supposed to be the strongest but here I am, letting people around me down."

"Satoru Gojo," you said firmly, pulling back to look at him. His blindfold was half falling off his tear covered face, his hair was flat in some places and sticking up in others but he was still Satoru Gojo. "You are 17 years old. You can't save everyone."

He nods, looking more tired than you've ever seen him, leaning against you like you were the only thing keeping him up, "Okay." His head droops, falling against your shoulder.

A comfortable silence filled the room, the only sounds being the soft breathing of the boy next to you.

But you stayed, even as his breathing slowed and his weight became more apparent against you.

Because you'd be damned before he got abandoned again.

▬▬ι════════════════════════════════════ι▬▬

[agarafile]

shinyduo/gempearl nation we are SO BACK so it's time to overanalyze these freaks again

something about the genuine resignation and belief that gem has about how, no matter what she does or how she presents herself to be, her reputation as 'geminislay' always leads to her being perceived as dangerous and a target in the life series. so she has just kinda resigned herself to fit into the role and expects others to not like her from the beginning. i would say this is kinda character development for controlfreakazoid3000 (but also. it doesn't feel like it)

HOWEVER pearl's reaction when she heard gem say that was so important to me. it's such a little interaction but i think it speaks as how in pearl's eyes gem has always been more than geminislay and her 'all-knowing' competent nature. and it's not like grian's reaction who hears gem and accepts her words as the truth despite the skepticism. pearl hears her and she REJECTS the idea; at first, she might think it's gem just being silly and lying for the funsies, but by the end of the conversation when she quietly goes "what do you mean" before gem decides that they should be villains, i think pearl realizes that gem sorta does genuinely believe it. maybe we are finally seeing them take steps into resolving their issues and understading each other ESPECIALLY with that last conversation in pearl's episode (which is driving me up the wall the fact that it was INTERRUPTED-).

shiny duo your dynamic and storyline will never not be peak

YAY OVERANALIZING GEMPEARL!!!!

you are so right, anon!! i love how pearl takes gem serious with that small convo, bc it is a core trait of gem's character. she is paranoid over it. but also? pearl is the one that had to learn, from experience, that a previous season doesn't matter when starting anew. pearl being the one to guide gem through it? delicious food for thought, fr

i think it is really interesting how their dynamic is shifting this season. shiny duo really does graviate into each other's orbits naturally, so working together is a really rational next step for them. grian phrased it as looking for "the strongest members" but it is important how they are not only strong on their own, but how they work together. and shiny duo works so well together

their goals are aligned most of the time. they compliment each other's pvp style (gem is a sprint and crit, she shines best with close combat, while pearl is good at the long combat style, bows and timing and using resources in her favor, especially her common use of wolves). and they are loyal. omg shiny duo is a very loyal pair. obviously to their teammates, but especially to each other. even when in their "divorce era", you could see how dedicated they were

WHICH!!! BRINGS ME TO MY POSSIBLY FAVORITE DYNAMIC WE'LL GET THIS SEASON!!

shiny duo is protective of each other. pearl has already shown she heavily disagress with the way gem reputation follows ger through seasons when she hasn't done anything. gem is quick to defend pearl when it seems she is being even remotetly made fun of. all this while pearl says she is "going to take care of gem". all this while glorifying the violent impulses they have. all this while gem call her "my pearl"

i am very excited to watch them this season, really. i loved their toxic yuri, but i am so ready for the mutual support that will happen this time around. i still cannot believe they even teamed up!!!

narrativly speaking? shiny duo still has A LOT to work to do. i don't think they can fully trust each other yet. but by god, they want to. they want to so much they are willing to hold onto each other and ignore the dagger they are pointing into the other's back.

[writteninessence]

Backstage Pass pt. 7 idols!Hyunjin x Felix x Chan x Han x manager!reader

“I suggest you decide soon, angel,” he murmured. “Because I don’t like sharing what’s already mine.”

And then—he leaned in. Not for a kiss.

But to whisper right against your skin:

“Next time he puts his mouth on you…he better pray I don’t walk in.”

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, 18+, poly relationship, power imbalance, possessiveness, jealousy kink, vocal domination, light degradation, non-violent physical intimidation, voyeurism, overstimulation, Tension Between Consent & Ownership Language (though all actions are consensual, the language used by characters leans possessive and commanding), verbal confrontation, Manipulative Tenderness (Chan/Hyunjin use emotional leverage to assert control), implied group sex (mmmf), probably some that I missed Word Count: 5k+ Tags: @chasinghxran @aria-again @skyearby @jinniesgirl @imagine-all-the-imagines @sammhisphere @femaholicc @hpnsfwaddict @ari4ari Enjoy <3 Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6

That evening, you found Jisung sitting on the roof, hoodie pulled over his head, legs dangling over the edge like he’d been waiting for someone to come find him.

You stepped out with two cups of hot tea, sliding one into his hand before sitting beside him in silence.

“I was mostly joking earlier,” he said, not looking at you.

You sipped your tea. “Only mostly?”

He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You know me. Loudmouth deflection king. It’s easier to make a joke about wanting what you have than admitting I’m just… jealous.”

You turned to him gently. “Jealous of what?”

He finally looked at you. “You have people who see you. Who know how to hold you, how to touch you without taking from you. I’ve never had that.”

You reached for his hand and held it tight. “You deserve it too, Sungie.”

He looked down at your fingers entwined with his, eyes a little glassy. “I know I’m not part of your little… setup or whatever. But sometimes I wonder what it’d be like, just for a second, to be in the middle of that kind of love.”

Your heart ached. You leaned your head on his shoulder.

And you said, quietly, “Maybe one day, when you’re ready.”

It happened late one night.

The dorm was quiet. Jisung had headphones in, working on a demo in his room, when he realized his external hard drive was in the shared media room.

He padded out barefoot, hoodie low over his eyes, thinking everyone else was asleep or out. The door to the media room was cracked, and light flickered inside.

He pushed it open casually.

And froze.

You were there, pressed against the wall, lips parted, body trembling—as Chan held your wrists above your head, murmuring something low and sinful against your throat.

Hyunjin was kneeling between your legs, lips worshipping the skin just above your inner thigh, his hands spreading you wider.

And Felix was behind you, shirtless, whispering praise into your ear like a spell.

Jisung didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Because what he walked into wasn’t sex. Not just sex. It was devotion. Feral, reverent, dangerous love.

Chan was the first to notice.

His head turned slightly, that calm, collected voice cutting through the heat. “You’re not supposed to be here, Jisung.”

Jisung backed up immediately. “I—I didn’t mean to—I swear I thought—”

“Close the door.”

Hyunjin’s voice, low and velvety, sounded unbothered.

Jisung’s breath hitched. “What?”

Chan looked up, eyes dark. “You want to know what she looks like when she’s ruined?”

Felix turned his head slightly. “Then watch.”

You whimpered—whether in protest or arousal, even you weren’t sure. But your body was on fire.

“Eyes on her,” Chan commanded, never breaking rhythm, dragging his fingers down your chest slowly. “Not us, just her.”

Jisung stayed frozen in the doorway. Eyes wide, and lips parted. Watching as your head fell back, a moan ripping through you when Hyunjin’s mouth finally met your core.

Your body arched.

Felix’s hands kept you grounded, murmuring, “You’re okay, angel. Just let him see how good we make you feel.”

Chan leaned into your ear. “Tell him, princess. Tell him how you like being watched.”

You tried. You really tried.

But all that came out was a trembling, breathless, “I—I can’t…”

Hyunjin looked up, lips wet, eyes glittering.

“She’s close.”

“Then don’t stop,” Chan said. “Let him see what it looks like when three people love one woman just right.”

And you broke—body clenching, a cry leaving your lips as your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing through every inch of you.

Jisung stood there, stunned silent.

Until Chan looked at him again and said, low and final:

“Now you know.”

Later that night, Jisung couldn’t sleep.

He wasn’t shaken. He wasn’t even embarrassed. He was moved.

Because what he saw wasn’t dirty. It wasn’t some casual hookup or chaotic tangle of limbs.

It was love.

Unapologetic, and messy, and beautiful.

He knocked quietly on your door, not expecting anything.

You opened it in one of Chan’s shirts, hair tousled, eyes heavy.

And behind you, Hyunjin and Felix curled together like satisfied cats, and Chan leaned against the wall with his arms folded, smirking softly.

“You here to ask questions again?” Chan teased, voice low.

Jisung looked at you.

And he said, quietly and honestly: “I think I finally understand why you glow.”

You smiled.

Then you held your hand out gently. “Come see for yourself.”

You awoke the following morning and padded into the kitchen, wrapped in one of Chan’s crewnecks that fell halfway down your thighs. A mug of tea cupped in your hands, the perfect picture of calm.

But inside?

Your chest was still fluttering.

You could still feel the weight of Hyunjin’s lips on your skin, the warmth of Felix’s praise in your ear, the firm grip of Chan’s hands holding you down.

And Han’s eyes.

God, those eyes.

He’d watched you fall apart. And now, he couldn’t unsee it.

He wandered into the kitchen about fifteen minutes later, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, hair messy, jaw set like he hadn’t slept much.

“Morning,” he said, voice raspier than usual.

You turned, offering him a soft smile. “Hey, Sungie.”

He hesitated. Then crossed the room and leaned against the counter beside you, his gaze fixed firmly on your mug. Not your eyes, not yet.

“Didn’t mean to walk in on anything last night,” he said quietly.

You sipped your tea. “Didn’t seem like you hated it.”

That made his head snap toward you.

You just smiled into your cup.

He laughed—nervous, boyish, a little stunned. “You’re not what I expected.”

“No?” you asked, turning to face him now.

Han shook his head. “You’re… soft. But terrifying. Like… like a blanket that could strangle you.”

You burst out laughing. “That is the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“I’m serious,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “They all orbit you. And I get it now. I get why. But I also—” he paused, eyes flicking up to yours, “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

Your heart stuttered.

And from across the living room, where Hyunjin was pretending to sketch, his pencil froze.

Chan, sprawled on the couch behind him, set his phone down slowly, watching the kitchen with dark eyes.

Felix, who’d been curled up with his Switch, blinked fast and stared, like he could feel something shifting.

You tilted your head. “What exactly have you been thinking about, Jisung?”

He didn’t shy away from it this time.

You watched his throat bob. Watched the way his eyes dropped to your lips and how he swayed just slightly closer, like your gravity was pulling him in.

“About how it felt to be in the same room while someone was loving you like that,” he whispered. “And how bad I wanted to know what it felt like to be that close to you. Not just physically. But… inside your world.”

The silence that followed was electric.

Hyunjin finally broke it, sharp and soft: “You falling for her, Jisung?”

Jisung blinked, startled by the directness—but didn’t back down.

“I think I already did,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

Chan hummed low. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

Jisung looked at you again. Then back at them. “I don’t know yet. But I’m not walking away.”

Felix smiled—small, knowing. “We didn’t either.”

You reached out and took Han’s hand.

His fingers closed around yours like he’d been waiting.

Han brushed your hair out of your face, fingers lingering a bit too long, eyes dipping just a bit too low. He wasn’t being bold. Just… soft. Curious..

And they noticed.

They always noticed.

So when Felix caught your wrist and said, “Angel, come help me pick out snacks from the vending machine?” you didn’t question it. You followed, his fingers gently laced with yours, leading you out of the dorm altogether.

What you didn’t see was the look Hyunjin gave Han the second the door closed.

Something cold. Calculating.

Hyunjin didn’t even raise his voice.

“You planning to fuck her and walk away?”

Han’s entire body stiffened.

“Excuse me?”

“Exactly what I said.” Hyunjin stepped forward slowly, jaw set, lips in a thin line. “You want to touch her? Then say it with your chest. Otherwise? Back off.”

“I’m not here to play games with her,” Han said sharply, hands curled into fists at his sides. “I didn’t even ask to be pulled into this.”

“Didn’t have to,” Chan said, entering from the hallway with that low, quiet weight to his voice. “Your eyes said everything.”

Han swallowed, hard. “I know I want her. And not just like that.”

“Then tell us why.” Chan crossed his arms. “Because we’ve given everything to her. We know what she sounds like when she’s afraid, what she looks like when she’s falling apart. We earned our place with her. You want to stand next to us? You better be ready to earn yours.”

Hyunjin circled behind Han like a shadow, voice dipping lower.

“Tell me her favorite tea,” he whispered. “Tell me what she does when she’s overwhelmed. What her hand does when she’s lying.”

Han hesitated. Just a beat.

Hyunjin scoffed, pulling away. “Thought so.”

But Han spun fast, hurt flashing across his features.

“She rubs her thumb against the edge of her nail,” he snapped. “When she’s lying. And she hums when she drinks jasmine tea. Always forgets she’s doing it.”

Both men stopped.

“And when she’s overwhelmed?” Han’s voice cracked a little. “She gets quiet. But not empty. She tucks everything down in her chest and tries to smile through it. And if you listen close enough? Her voice shakes.”

Chan stared at him, hard.

Han stepped forward, jaw clenched. “I know I’m not one of you. I’m not perfect, but I see her. I care about her. I didn’t plan this, but it happened. And now I don’t know how to walk away.”

Hyunjin looked at Chan. Something unspoken passed between them.

Chan tilted his head. “Then prove it.”

Han blinked. “How?”

Hyunjin stepped in close, brushing Han’s jaw with the back of his fingers—not teasing. Testing.

“Let us see how far you’re willing to go to make her feel safe.”

Downstairs, Felix held your hand gently as he traced the edge of your wrist with one finger.

“You trust him?” he asked softly.

You turned to him slowly. “Yeah, I think I do.”

His eyes searched yours.

“He’s got feelings,” you said. “Not just heat.”

Felix leaned in and kissed your temple. “Good.”

You smiled. “Why?”

He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Because if he ever hurts you, baby… they’ll make sure he never gets close again.”

The van ride to the studio the next day was quiet.

You were back in manager mode: phone in hand, earpiece in, checking the schedule for the fifth time that morning. Today was choreography and interviews, two back-to-back shoots, and an event brief later tonight.

You had no time for feelings.

Which was why it was so damn unfair that Han wouldn’t stop watching you.

Not openly. Not dramatically.

Just… constantly.

When you handed out call sheets, he was the only one who said thank you without looking down.

When you fixed the collar of Hyunjin’s shirt, Han’s eyes dropped—not to your hands, but to your face. Like he was wondering what it would feel like to have your attention for even two seconds longer.

And when you brushed past him to reach your bag, barely touching, he inhaled like it burned.

The boys noticed.

Felix was the first to comment—softly, while the others changed.

“You see the way he looks at her?”

Hyunjin snorted. “Like he’s afraid to blink.”

Chan, sitting in the corner, tying his boots, didn’t look up. “He should be.”

On set, the tension got worse.

You stood off to the side, reviewing set notes. Han passed behind you, and without saying a word, reached out and fixed the hem of your blazer where it had bunched at your waist.

Just one quick tug.

Gentle, silent, intimate.

Your eyes flicked to him.

He didn’t even look back. Just walked away.

But your skin tingled where he touched it.

Later, during a break, you found a protein bar tucked into your bag.

No note. Just the exact one you always grab from the vending machine.

You turned around, scanning the room.

Han caught your eye from across the set and gave you one small nod.

Like: Yeah. I remembered.

Like: I see you, Angel.

Like: Even here, in the middle of chaos—I’m paying attention.

You bit your lip, heart thrumming.

That night, in the van again, it was late.

You were exhausted and cold. You hadn’t realized you left your jacket at the last stop until you were already halfway home.

“Here,” Han said suddenly.

He tugged off his hoodie and passed it to you, silent. No fanfare.

It was warm. Smelled like him. Soft and worn, sleeves too long.

You stared at it. “Han—”

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just mumbled, “Don’t want you shivering. S’not a big deal.”

But it was.

It was the biggest deal.

And you felt it deep in your chest when Chan’s eyes lifted from his phone and landed on Han.

Saying nothing, but everything in the look he gave.

The next day started like any other midweek promo shoot—high ceilings, cameras flashing, stylists fluttering like bees. You were checking over the timing with production, hair pinned up, face sharp, attitude sharper.

You looked good.

You always did.

But today… you looked like his.

Hyunjin saw it before Han even did.

The moment you stepped back from the lighting tech, tucking your tablet under your arm and biting your lip like you always did when you were focused, Hyunjin saw the way Han’s eyes tracked you across the floor.

He didn’t even blink.

And that?

That was enough.

Hyunjin rose from the makeup chair without a word.

He made a lazy path toward you, like he was just stretching, like he had no purpose. But the moment he reached your side, he stepped into your space, close enough that your arm brushed his chest, your breath caught.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low. “You look a little tense.”

You turned slightly. “I’m not, I just—”

But his hands were already sliding up your arms, slow and smooth, thumbs brushing your shoulders like he owned them.

“You sure?” he asked, voice just for you.

You swallowed. “Hyunjin—there’s people—”

“I know,” he said softly.

And then he wrapped his arms around you.

Slowly, steadily, from behind.

One arm around your waist, the other sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your neck.

His lips brushed just behind your ear.

“I just missed you a little,” he whispered. “That allowed?”

Your hands twitched, tablet nearly slipping from your grip.

And across the room, Han stared.

He had been trying to keep his distance.

Trying to earn his way in the right way.

But watching Hyunjin press into you like that?

Touch you like he knew your every breath?

It burned.

And Hyunjin’s voice never lifted.

He stayed close to you, hands unmoving, breathing steadily against your shoulder.

But his eyes?

Locked on Han.

Like a silent warning.

Like she’s mine. Don’t dream too loud.

Later, while the others reset the lighting, Hyunjin found Han by the water cooler.

He didn’t smile.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, voice casual.

Han froze. “What?”

Hyunjin stepped closer. “You keep watching her like you’re not sure if she’s real.”

“I wasn’t—” Han started, but Hyunjin tilted his head.

“Don’t lie to me. I’m an artist. I know how people look at what they want.”

Han swallowed.

“I get it,” Hyunjin continued, voice softer now. “She’s… impossible not to crave. Especially when she smiles at you like she doesn’t know she’s the center of your world.”

He leaned closer.

“But if you’re gonna crave her like that? You'd better be ready to make her feel seen. Because we already touched her the way you think about.”

And then, a whisper, just for Han:

“And she loves to be touched.”

The day ended later than planned.

The boys had already shuffled into the van, laughing and exhausted—except Han.

He lingered behind, pretending to double-check his bag, but really?

He was waiting.

And you… stayed too.

You leaned against the back hallway wall of the venue, arms crossed, tablet tucked against your chest like a shield.

You didn’t speak right away.

But when you did, it was sharp.

“You keep staring at me like I’m some kind of dream.”

Han blinked, caught.

“I—no, I wasn’t—”

You pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “You think I don’t feel it? Every look? Every time you hold your breath when I pass?”

Han opened his mouth, before deciding to close it again.

You tilted your head. “What exactly are you waiting for, Han? Me to hand myself over just because you’re soft with your words and nervous with your hands?”

“I’m not—” he started, but your gaze pinned him still.

“Because I’m not a prize,” you said lowly. “I’m not something to prove you’re worthy. And I don’t belong to you. Not even close.”

Han’s voice broke on the next word. “I know.”

You paused.

That honesty? That ache in his voice?

It disarmed you.

“I know I haven’t earned anything,” he said, stepping forward slowly, “but you’re wrong about one thing.”

“Oh?”

He met your eyes, serious now. No stammer. No boyish charm.

Just truth.

“You’re not the only one watching. I see you too. Every little sigh. Every time you fold your arms when you feel overwhelmed. Every time you pretend to be fine when you’re cracking in half.”

That… stunned you.

Stopped you cold.

Han stepped closer. Not touching, but nearly.

“I’m not asking for you,” he whispered. “Not yet. I’m just asking you to look at me the way I look at you. Just once.”

You swallowed.

And before your head could talk your heart out of it, you leaned in.

The kiss was slow.

Tentative.

A breath held too long and finally let go.

His lips brushed yours like a question, and you answered it with a sigh, fingers curling into his jacket just for balance.

You wanted it.

But the moment it deepened—his hand on your waist, your mouth opening to let him closer—

The door clicked open, and you broke apart like lightning.

Felix stood frozen in the doorway, wide-eyed, blinking.

Han backed up, already flushed.

You opened your mouth, but Felix held up a hand.

“Nope. Don’t even start,” he said, voice calm but sharp. “I’m not mad, or even surprised.”

You stared. “Then—”

“But he will be,” Felix added, tone dropping.

Your stomach dropped right along with it.

Felix stepped forward, eyes locked on yours. “You think you can kiss him in secret and Chan won’t feel it?”

You flinched. Just barely.

Felix’s voice went soft. Not cruel and not judging.

“Angel… Daddy doesn’t share lightly. And he definitely doesn’t like being the last to know.”

You didn’t mean to make it so obvious.

At least, not to anyone but Han.

The way you smiled across the room during rehearsals.

The way your eyes lingered a little longer after he nailed the verse in practice.

The way you bit your lip when he grinned at you, like maybe he was finally allowed to hope.

You thought it was subtle.

But Hyunjin saw everything.

He saw the way Han practically vibrated with hope after every look.

He saw the shift in your energy—how your gaze darted around now, calculating, like you were waiting to be caught.

Like you wanted it.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t interrupt.

Just watched.

Watched and boiled.

It wasn’t until later, after rehearsal, when the others had gone ahead to change, that he cornered you.

You were still checking over the schedule, clipboard in hand, alone in the hallway.

Until Hyunjin appeared.

He didn’t say a word at first.

Just stepped in front of you and closed the distance—fast.

You looked up, startled. “Hyun—”

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low.

You blinked. “Do what?”

“That look,” he snapped, jaw tight. “You know what I’m talking about.”

You paused, heart racing. “Hyunjin, I—”

“I see you,” he said, stepping closer, his voice like a wire pulled too tight. “I see the way you look at him. Like he’s something delicate. Like you want to learn him.”

Your back hit the wall.

He didn’t touch you, didn’t need to.

“And the worst part?” he said, eyes burning into yours. “That’s our look. That’s how you look at me.”

You swallowed hard.

“You think I don’t notice the way your lips part when I get too close?” he whispered, head tilting. “The way you lean into my hand when I touch your neck, even when you act like it’s nothing?”

His breath grazed your cheek. Your knees threatened to buckle.

“I was patient,” he hissed. “I let him breathe, I let him try. But I swear to god, Angel…”

His hand finally lifted, ghosting the curve of your jaw, soft as silk, possessive as a snare.

“If you give him what you’ve already given me, without making him earn it? I will lose my fucking mind.”

You didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

Your breath stuttered in your throat.

Because he was right.

Because part of you wanted Han.

But another part of you… The part Hyunjin had wrapped around his finger?

That part ached for him.

He leaned in, lips barely brushing your ear now.

“You want to be curious, fine. But don’t you ever forget who you started this with.”

And then he stepped back.

Just far enough to look at you properly. To make sure the words landed.

He didn’t wait for you to speak.

He just walked away, leaving you breathless, trembling, and one second away from falling to your knees.

It was late.

The others had left hours ago.

You stayed behind, trying to keep yourself occupied—organizing schedules, replying to sponsor emails, typing out setlists that didn’t need to be checked again.

So you didn’t hear him walk in.

But you felt him.

That shift in the air.

That calm weight, low and heavy like a storm cloud at sea.

You turned—slowly—and there he was.

Bang Chan.

Still in his stage clothes.

Sweat dried at his collar.

Jaw tight.

Eyes unreadable.

And Hyunjin, leaning against the wall in the far corner, silent.

He didn’t move, didn’t need to.

Because this wasn’t his moment.

This was Chan’s.

“Princess,” Chan said quietly.

Your breath caught. “Chan, I didn’t know you were still—”

“I was,” he interrupted gently. “I’ve been here. Watching.”

Your mouth went dry.

He stepped forward, slow and steady.

“Been watching the way Han looks at you. The way you look at him.”

You tried to speak, but he raised a hand.

“I’m not mad,” he said, and somehow, that was worse.

His voice dropped lower. “I’m just wondering when you were planning to tell me.”

You swallowed hard. “It wasn’t—it’s not what you think—”

“Did you kiss him?”

His voice was a whisper.

But it stopped the whole room.

Your lips parted, but the words didn’t come.

Chan tilted his head. “That’s a yes.”

You flinched.

And from the corner, Hyunjin shifted, arms crossed, face unreadable—but his eyes?

On you.

Chan stepped closer.

“You let him touch what’s mine,” he said, voice still calm. Still soft. “You let him taste what the rest of us have bled for.”

“Chan, I—”

He stopped right in front of you. Not touching. Just towering.

“You think because he’s sweet with his words, he won’t break something?” His eyes burned into yours. “Because I’ve seen boys like him. I used to be him. And if he doesn’t know what he’s holding, he’ll drop it the second it gets heavy.”

Tears threatened to sting—but you blinked them back.

“I’m not some toy you all pass around,” you whispered.

He smiled—not cruelly. Just tired, deep, knowing.

“No, angel, you’re not. But you are ours. And I’m not letting you forget that just because you got curious.”

Silence stretched.

You tried to catch your breath.

And then—quietly—he stepped even closer, one hand lifting to tilt your chin up.

“You want him?” he asked. “Say it.”

You didn’t answer.

“You want me to let him in?” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “Then tell me why I should.”

From the corner, Hyunjin finally spoke.

“She won’t say it,” he said softly. “Because she hasn’t decided.”

Chan didn’t even look at him. His eyes never left yours.

“I suggest you decide soon, angel,” he murmured. “Because I don’t like sharing what’s already mine.”

And then—he leaned in. Not for a kiss.

But to whisper right against your skin:

“Next time he puts his mouth on you…he better pray I don’t walk in.”

Your breath still hadn’t steadied.

Not since Chan walked out.

His words still rang in your head.

It echoed down to your spine. Made your palms sweat and your chest tighten.

You didn’t even know how long you stood there, back pressed to the cool studio wall, until soft arms wrapped around you.

Until familiar perfume—vanilla and something stormy—curled into your senses.

“Hey, hey, Angel…” Hyunjin’s voice, warm and careful, brushing your ear as he pulled you into his chest.

You sank.

Arms around his neck, body curling into his. He held you like glass, forehead resting on yours, whispering, “He didn’t mean to scare you.”

You mumbled, voice hoarse, “Didn’t mean to own me either.”

Hyunjin just exhaled and kissed your temple. “You’re not a thing, baby. You’re the whole world. That’s why it hurts him.”

Then:

A door creaked.

A sharp inhale.

Han stood at the threshold—eyes wide—taking in everything.

You. In Hyunjin’s arms.

Your hand clinging to his shirt.

Hyunjin not even flinching—just watching him, calm, unreadable.

Felix appeared seconds later, behind Han. His steps slowed. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressed together like he was already bracing for what was about to happen.

Han’s eyes didn’t leave you.

Not for a second.

“Tell me to stop,” Han said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Tell me to walk away. To back off. To stop trying to earn a place in a world that already has three kings.” His voice cracked. “I will, if you say it.”

You didn’t say a word.

And that was all he needed.

In three strides, he was in front of you.

Hands at your waist.

Eyes burning.

Lips parted.

“You don’t have to give me everything,” he whispered. “But I need you to know—I’m not backing down. Not from them, not from this.”

And before anyone could stop it, he kissed you.

Hard and deep, like he needed it to breathe.

Your hands shot to his chest, not to push, but to anchor.

He meant it.

All of it.

All that yearning, that patience, that quiet devotion—

Right there on your lips.

Felix’s breath hitched in the corner.

Hyunjin didn’t move.

But then—

a soft click.

A shifting shadow.

A voice like thunder whispered through the room:

“Enough.”

Han was yanked back by the hair.

Hard and sharp, a hand wrapped tight in his locks, neck craned, breath stolen.

Chan stood behind him. Calm.

Dead calm.

Too calm.

One arm gripped Han by the hair.

The other rested behind his back, knuckles white.

You froze.

“Hyunjin,” Chan said. “Take her.”

Hyunjin stepped in immediately, wrapping you in his arms, pulling you gently but firmly out of the scene. Felix followed, hand on your lower back, guiding you behind them.

But you watched.

You watched Chan lean into Han’s ear, voice so low it felt like a threat wrapped in silk:

“You think kissing her in front of us proves something?”

Han gasped, fingers digging into Chan’s wrist.

“She’s not a flag you plant in the ground, Sungie. She’s a fire. You don’t claim her—you earn her, every day.”

And then—

He let go.

Han dropped to his knees, chest heaving, hand still tangled in the air where Chan had been.

Chan turned to you slowly.

His voice was soft..

“You ready to let me remind you who you really belong to, angel?”

You stood your ground.

Still breathless. Still trembling from the kiss Han just left on your lips.

Chan’s grip had already left your skin, but the heat of it lingered.

You stared straight into his eyes, chin lifted.

“I’m not a prize,” you said low. “And I’m not a possession. You don’t get to put me in your pocket until you decide I’m convenient again.”

Felix inhaled sharply behind you.

Hyunjin went still.

Chan?

He smiled.

Slow.

Dark.

Knowing.

“You done?” he asked softly.

You didn’t answer.

And that was enough.

He stepped toward you, slow, unhurried. A hand on your jaw, another at your lower back.

His touch was guiding, reclaiming.

“You think this is about control?” he murmured. “It’s not.”

His voice dropped, breath brushing your mouth.

“It’s about care. About keeping you whole when you don’t even realize you’re falling apart.”

Hyunjin moved in from the side, slow like smoke.

He brushed your hair behind your ear, lips grazing your cheek.

“You forgot whose you are,” he whispered. “So now we’re gonna remind you.”

Your knees wobbled.

Felix’s voice was a whisper behind you, hands already on your waist.

“Baby… just let go.”

Chan leaned down, his voice the only anchor you had left.

“Say it. Say you need us to put you back in place.”

You trembled. “I—”

“Say it, Princess.”

“I need—” your voice broke, eyes fluttering shut, “—I need you.”

Hyunjin tilted your chin toward him.

“Which of us?”

You gasped. “All of you.”

Felix kissed your shoulder. “That’s our girl.”

And then—

They moved.

Chan stepped behind you, arms strong and warm as they wrapped around your middle.

Hyunjin pressed into your front, hands pinning your hips, his mouth brushing the corner of your lips.

“You let him touch you like you forgot we were the ones who taught you how to breathe,” he said.

“I didn’t forget.”

Felix slipped in beside you, soft and steady. “Then let us remind you slowly, baby. Let us reclaim you.”

Hyunjin smiled darkly. Let us make you forget anyone else’s name but ours.”

To be continued. -E

[bewitched-hours]

Can we get a pt2 if that mafioso x bartender reader maybe someone tried kidnapping the reader away from his mansion/hide out the reader woke up in a basement with 2 men in there but the reader was calm but pissed and mafioso caught the reader and killed the two men

Of course~ How can I say no to people wanting more parts to a story~?

Once more~ She/They reader~

As exhausting as it can be to be this isolated, Mafioso and his goons still treated you like family.

They helped your sanity greatly as you began to accept that you were stuck with them.

You were Mafioso's treasure and his goons respected you as your own person. You were the 'second boss' but not because of your relationship with Mafioso but because they witnessed your strength firsthand.

While it wasn't comparable to Mafioso's strength, it was definitely still greater than the goons were able to do so you earned their respect through time and patience.

And after just a week of showing no real protests or complaints, Mafioso allowed you to leave the base under the condition him or one of his goons was there to keep you safe. It was pretty nice, all things considered.

But oh, if only you knew how badly his mind had been screaming at him not to let you roam... To keep you to himself all alone...

But he knew better than to listen to such voices in his head. He knew it would be unfair to let you go insane over being isolated and seeing you smile after your first outing with him, he felt like he did it right. His plan was coming together and you showed no resistance to his affections.

It was like you had already accepted him into your heart without him having to try... Like you were made to love him...

No no, he couldn't let his obsession with you take over him. He was willing to go insane for your sake but for crying out loud, he had to take your comfort and sanity above such useless and violent urges.

If the voices ever got too loud, he knew he could go and find you and your affectionate touches were enough to temporarily melt away any doubt or fear he might've felt.

You were perfect for him and he was trying to be perfect for you too... Did you notice that?

Tonight was just getting him busier than he would've liked as he had to take another life. Poor guy was trying to talk his way out of paying his debt and Mafioso was getting frustrated with the same spiel over and over again...

The only thing that kept him from snapping at the next guy who owed him money was his goons reminding him that you would be waiting at home with Gubby to ease all his stress. It brought him some warmth, imagining you napping on the couch in the 'living room' and waiting for him with Gubby to keep you company. What more could he ask for?

Apparently your presence, that's what-

Yeah, turns out you were nowhere to be found when he got back and the place looked like a fight had broken out.

Gubby was in a panic and squeaking frantically, the couch was slightly torn up with pillows lying around the floor and a blanket lazily hanging from the couch...

Broken glass, dirty footprints... And a mark...

A mark Mafioso knew all too well...

In the meantime, you were tied up to a pole in some basement. Your captors were two men who were delighted to have stolen "Mafioso's Treasure", even if you put up a pretty good fight in the process.

Mind you, you weren't scared, just pissed off that these idiots thought you could be kept here and get away with their bullshit.

"I can see what Mafioso sees in ya, dollface." One of them chuckled, making you gag. "You're a feisty kitty, ain't'cha?" They laughed a little at each other, watching your death glare with amusement.

"You two have no idea what I'm going to do once I-"

"Once you what?" One of the men quickly shut you up by roughly pushing your head against the pole.

That pain is gonna follow you for days, oh stars...

"As much as I'd love to hear you spit venom, we'd much prefer you on your knees." They grinned proudly, attempting to force you to your knees by pushing your head down and you held yourself up as much as possible.

You were not interested in finding out what horrible things were going through their minds when you heard the faint sound of a car squeaking to a halt and a door being thrown open just seconds later.

The two men were quick to panic and grab their guns to head upstairs and you let the noises from upstairs turn into background noise as you started taking deep breaths...

You hadn't been scared. You knew Mafioso was here now to get you out but you still couldn't help but shiver at the thought of what would've happened if you failed to stall your kidnappers for long enough.

You barely even noticed when the door to the basement kicked open and one of the goons had rushed down to help you out. Though, your roughed up state did worry him...

"C'mon, let's get you home..." He spoke softly, sounding concerned as you both headed upstairs to see the mess that was left.

The men were on the floor and clutching at the boots of Mafioso and Mikey, his 'right-hand man' as you called him.

Mafioso seemed to soften up as soon as he took notice of your presence but that softness just as quickly turned to madness when he saw how you looked.

He wasn't mad at you, but mad at your kidnappers for even daring to cause you harm.

"Sweetheart, how about you do the honours?" Mafioso offered you, holding out his gun as the men on the floor were struggling to breathe. You weren't even gonna try to pretend you didn't find yourself excited at the idea and blew those suckers into their own hells with pride radiating off of your beloved.

Something about that bloodlust in your eyes made him realise you were even more perfect than he thought. Were you trying to make him any more obsessed?

But now that had little effect on the situation as his goons tended to you the whole way home and you made sure to reward Mafioso for your rescue with a sweet and loving kiss that had him wondering how he got so lucky...

Oh well, he would just have to tighten the security measurements a bit and stay with you a lot more to make sure you healed properly and would feel safe by his side.

Any debt-ridden filths were spared for now. All that mattered was your hands soothing his stressed mind and your affectionate words making him fall even more in love with you...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[arthurmorganrp]

"Nah, Ashe didn't tell me, I assumed you couldn't read because how you looked at my journal at the saloon, you losed so damn confused, it was adorable-" Arthur shut up- he didn't mean to say it- and that had been the last phrase that came from him before he went to the cabin.

"I don't think nothing, Cass." Arthur's tone was....weird. It was almost as if he was someone else. All serious. He left Cass talking to the lady, took a bag and started to fill it with all the money and jewels he could find. "And ya even know if she can ride? And if she goes alone, what if another one of these bastards show up on their way back here? What if there was more of them." He seemed brute and violent and he robbed the place, searching the drawers and chests he could find. "It's a gang hideout, Cass, there has to be more of them."

He sighed, finally finding a clean sheet folded in a drawer. "Come here, ma'am. Easy now. I'll take you home, where do you live?"

Cole was right, no way she would trust a man ever again, but even so, Arthur seemed to want to trample any logic that didn't involve getting that poor young woman home. "I...don't wanna know I'm taking her home. Playing hero...? For real...? I just killed five bastards in cold blood."

She took the knife back, holding it down with both her hands, slowly raising it and pressing it against Arthur's throat, but without hurting him, he kept his hands up, holding the sheet. 'C...can I keep holding it like this? Can I keep holding it??' The woman asked and Arthur just nodded as he wrapped the sheet around her. 'I live in a small town not very far...there's a road through the woods, north from here.' He allowed the woman to keep the knife against his neck the whole time, if it would make her feel a bit safer. The confusion and fear in her eyes, so scared but having to trust the murderer in order to have a chance. 'Please don't leave me here, I can't even look at them.' She tried to walk, but her legs were shaking so hard, she was so sore and hurt. Arthur then just picked her up in his arms and took her outside, she kept holding the knife with her shaky hands against his neck, his eyes full of hope and fear, both emotions fighting each other. Due to her shaky hands, she cut Arthur's throat a little, so superficial, but it bled, and she dropped the knife, realizing she didn't want to harm him, and he wasn't reacting. 'I live with my mom...'

"Come on, let's go, I'll take you home." He went up the stairs carrying her and helped the woman sit on the saddle, and soon he followed. "What's your name?"

She said Laura, and then curled against Arthur's chest, closing her eyes, as if accepting whatever fate she was destined to reach.

Arthur turned to Cole adjusting his hat. "I'm taking her home. You know these parts better than I do, come on." His eyes were so different. They were dark and severe, as now he was so protective of that young woman.

After a long pause, he finally said something. "I'll tell you later. Just...come on, let's go. Her life is way more worth than mine, if you wanted to help me then help her, boss." Arthur insisted using 'boss', to poke Cassidy a bit harder, maybe to remember him what he was. A savior to lost people.

"Yeah, I like to write and draw stuff to help me sort my thoughts. Sometimes there's just toooo muuuch to think about, so I let the pencil wander." Arthur smiled a little. Just talking to Cass was fun, and now he got to travel with him. If only their aura got light and fun like the other day...- damn, that day...- so dreamy. Just remembering made Arthur's heart beat faster.

"When we have some time, I can teach you how to read and write. There's tons of books you can read, I think you'd enjoy." His features were gettinf softer again, happier. "Okay, let's go then. Let's enjoy while there's sun, it's always safer to travel during the day."

Riding with Cass felt like a dream. The weather was perfect, the trees, the fields, the animals in the distance, the clouds...- the sky was so beautiful. And all that reflected upon Cass...- he was so pleasant to the eyes too. He couldn't help but smile from time to time- it was such a special ride. He never imagined he would have moments like that again, and he appreciated every second.

It was almost near the lake that Arthur heard a woman screaming, and then distant loud noises, they weren't gunshots, sounded more like the noise of doors being slammed, tables being turned.

Arthur didn't even say a word, he changed route right away, diving into the fields where he could see a cabin far away, in the middle of nowhere, a soft yellow light far away, hanging by the door of the place. As he got closer, he could hear loud crying and men yelling, and then laughing. As he got closer, the noises seemed to be getting more distant- but it had to come from that cabin.

He left Pegasus outside the cabin, the animal wouldn't run, he just waited, and the man pulled his bandanna up to hide his face, broke into the cabin with an angry powerful kick. "WHERE IS SHE???" Arthur seemed like a brute monster, grabbing one of the men who were in the living room, pressing his gun against his head. "YOU GOT A WOMAN HERE, WHERE IS SHE???" He was yelling, eyes so full with rage, as if something forbidden had been triggered.

One of the men moved to draw his gun, so Arthur quickly shot his head, a bullet right in the middle of his forehead, and then executed the one he had threatened. Whatever blood spilled didn't even show on his clothes, since they were all black.

Behind the living room, he heard steps and voices. There was a trapdoor, and it was open.

'This is what you get for trying to run away, bitch!!' 'Hey, shhh quiet, I think I heard something!!'

Arthur went down the stairs and found two men, considering all the guns and bullets and money with stolen jewels spread among cards and drinks, they were bandits. They were holding a woman, who was nude, crying, beaten up, her clothes all ripped on the floor, her wrists marked with handcuffs.

'HOLY SHIT-'

Was the last thing one of the men said before Arthur literally blew a hole in his head- the other one too panicked to do anything, tried to go for his gun but Arthur shot him dead as if it was nothing.

It was over. She was crying, so afraid of all the blood, screaming hugging herself, in despair she grabbed a knife from the table and pointed to Arthur, shaking.

"Calm down....it's over. Listen, it's over." Arthur pulled the bandanna down, revealing his face, placed his gun into his holster and raised both his hands.

She was too stared though.

"Where do you live? Where are you from? Tell me and I'll take you home."

[orellazalonia]

Our Little Monster

Summary: You were taken by Steve and Bucky, two men obsessed with you; only for them to discover you’re just as twisted and devoted as they are. Treated like a pet and adored like a treasure, you thrive in captivity, craving their attention, punishment, and protection with feral affection. (Dark!Yandere!Stucky x Yandere!Darling!reader)

Warnings/Disclaimer: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Dark Stucky. Kidnapping/Captivity. Stalking. Self-H!rm. Psychological manipulation. Yandere themes/obsessive love. Pet play dynamics (non-sexual). Implied violence. You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 2.7k+

A/N: A part of me wonders how I can write this but not smut, then another part of me is like, there’s enough great smutty fics out there for me to focus on non-smut stuff. Ngl, I held back more than I thought on this. A lot of it is just backstory, but that’s potential for another part maybe. Happy (hopefully) reading!

They keep you in the softest cage imaginable.

Velvet blankets, silk ribbons around your wrists instead of handcuffs, though sometimes they do use handcuffs, if you’re having a particularly wild day. You sleep curled on a mattress in front of the fireplace, a fluffy pile of pillows stacked like a nest when you’re not in bed with them and a collar around your throat with a silver star charm containing their initials on it.

Steve says it's symbolic. Bucky just likes the way it jingles when you crawl.

They never leave you alone for too long. Not because they're worried you'll escape, but because they know you'll do something stupid. Like rearrange all the knives in the kitchen into the shape of a heart. Or carve their initials into your thigh again, just to feel them with you.

“You can’t keep hurting yourself like that,” Steve scolds gently one morning, cradling your leg in his lap, pressing gauze to your newest love letter.

You pout. “But I missed you.”

“You saw us last night,” Bucky says from the other side of the room, arms crossed, and watching you like a restless predator.

You grin at him. “It felt like forever.”

He stalks over, grabs your chin, and forces your head back to look him in the eye.

“You know what happens when you act out.”

Your eyes sparkle. “You punish me?”

Bucky sighs. “No, doll. We sedate you.”

“Oh.” You look genuinely disappointed.

Steve presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re not bad. Just…” He pauses, smiling tightly. “Unstable.”

They love you more than anything. They just can’t trust you to act like a person anymore, not with them around.

You eat from bowls they bring you, sometimes in their laps or spoon-fed if you behave. You wear the dresses they choose, usually soft, oversized things that you can move around freely in without flashing too much. You sing to yourself in the middle of the night, lullabies and humming, and sometimes scream just to see if they’ll come running.

They always do.

You once bit Steve hard enough to draw blood. You had a mouthful of copper and tears in your eyes, not from fear, but devotion.

“I want to live inside you,” You whispered, licking the blood from your lips. “Tear open your ribs and curl up in your heart.”

He didn’t even flinch.

Bucky just chuckled and muttered, “She’s getting more poetic.”

They tie bells to your wrists now, soft chiming things, so they always know where you are in the house.

And you? You love it. Being theirs. Their little monster. Their pet. Their perfect, twisted darling. Because they don’t want to fix you. They want to keep you just like this.

Unhinged, dangerous. Beautiful. And utterly, violently in love.

But it wasn’t always like that.

The first time they saw you was at a coffee shop. A quiet, tucked-away place just off the main street. You were sitting by the window, legs crossed, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands like a girl trying to be invisible.

You weren’t though, not to them.

To Steve, you were a fragile thing trying too hard to be normal. The way you tilted your head when the barista spoke to you; perfectly polite, but with a delay, like you were mimicking empathy instead of feeling it. The way your eyes didn’t stay on people long. The way your smile looked rehearsed.

To Bucky, you looked dangerous. Not in the obvious way. You looked like a pretty little porcelain doll someone forgot to glue together properly. Cracks beneath the surface, painted over in pink gloss and shy giggles. Something about the way you stirred your drink; viciously, rhythmically, made him watch you for ten full minutes.

They were both obsessed by the time you left your name with the cashier.

You didn’t see them the first time they followed you home.

You lived alone in a small apartment with curtains drawn halfway. You locked the door twice then sat on the floor in your bedroom to eat dinner, even though you had a couch. You hummed while cutting up fruit, but the notes were wrong, off key and unfinished, like lullabies hummed in a padded cell.

Steve watched you through the scope of a surveillance camera he planted across the street. Bucky liked to perch on the rooftop opposite yours and track your movements through the cracked blinds.

“She’s faking it,” Bucky muttered one night, half to himself. “That sweetness. It’s just packaging.”

Steve grinned. “She’s like us.”

They started leaving you gifts.

A scarf one day left on your doorknob in your favorite color. A flower next, pressed perfectly between the pages of a used book that appeared on your doorstep.

You always took them inside, always smiled like someone had handed you a secret.

Once, they heard you whisper to the scarf, “I hope you’re watching.”

They knew then they wanted you. They just had to wait for the perfect moment.

You made it hard. You stayed hidden, kept up the act in public: the sweet girl with kind eyes and gentle manners. The girl who always helped carry groceries for her elderly neighbor. The girl who smiled just a little too long at knives in the kitchen aisle.

And Steve, impossibly patient Steve, started to twitch.

“I can’t keep watching her walk around like she isn’t ours.” His voice cracked as he stared at the monitor, your image flickering in soft lighting. “She’s begging for it.”

Bucky tilted his head. “Tonight?”

Steve didn’t answer. He just stood up, rolled his sleeves, and grabbed the syringe.

They found you waiting.

Not consciously no, you didn’t know exactly what was coming. But some part of you did.

Because when you stepped out of your apartment that night and saw the empty street, the quiet buzz of the street light above flickering overhead, you smiled.

And when the needle sank into your neck and the world tilted sideways, your only words were:

“Took you long enough.”

Steve caught you before your head hit the wall. Bucky cradled you like you were made of glass and ash. And in that moment, watching your lips curl in the dazed, drugged haze of recognition, they knew you belong to them.

You wake up slowly.

The world comes back in pieces of soft light, low humming from the floor vents, and the brush of cool cotton against your bare legs. You’re lying on a bed, not your bed.

The ceiling above is unfamiliar: wood-paneled, rustic, with the faint scent of cedar and something… darker. Leather? Metal? Men’s cologne?

Your wrists are unbound, though you’re too heavy to move just yet. The drugs are still swimming in your veins, fogging up the edges of your thoughts.

But even through the haze, one thing is clear.

You’re not afraid. You should be. Anyone else would be. But your first thought isn’t where am I or how do I escape–it’s finally.

Finally.

There are footsteps before the door creaks open.

Steve steps in first, carrying a tray of oatmeal, tea, and toast with strawberry jam. He’s still wearing black gloves and there’s blood on the edge of one boot. Not yours though. You hope it was someone who tried to stop them. You hope it was messy.

Bucky follows behind, quieter, but heavier. His metal arm glints in the warm light. He’s watching you like a soldier trained to assess threats but there's a softness there, too. A sense of hesitation.

“Hey,” Steve says gently, like he’s trying not to startle a fawn in the woods. “You’re safe. You’re okay now.”

He sets the tray on the side table and crouches by the bed. His hands hover near your arm but don’t touch yet. He’s careful and controlled. The image of comfort.

You blink slowly, letting your eyes roam over his face. He looks tired, unshaven, and obsessed.

Honestly, it suits him.

“I know this is confusing,” He continues, voice low and soothing. “You probably don’t understand what’s going on yet, but we’re gonna take care of you. Alright?”

“She hasn’t said anything,” Bucky murmurs from the doorway. “She’s not panicking. That’s… weird, right?”

“She’s in shock.” Steve glances back. “It’s normal.”

You smile then barely. Just the corners of your lips, enough to make them both freeze.

“No,” You murmur. Your voice is hoarse yet soft. “I’m not in shock.”

Steve’s jaw flexes. Bucky steps closer, brow furrowed.

You sit up, slow and unsteady, like a puppet testing her strings. Your hands tremble as you reach for the tea, not out of fear though, just the remnants of the sedative. You sip carefully, then look at them both over the rim of the cup.

“I’ve been waiting,” You say simply. “For one of you or both. Didn’t care which.”

The silence that follows is thick.

Steve’s mouth parts, but no words come out. Bucky just stares.

“You’ve been watching me,” You add, as if it isn’t obvious. “For weeks, I thought you’d never do it.”

Steve finally speaks. “You… wanted this?”

You nod. “You think I smiled at that scarf because it was cute? I slept with it under my pillow.”

Bucky lets out a low, incredulous laugh. “You knew?”

“I hoped,” You correct him.

The tension shifts, coiled anticipation tightening in the air like a held breath. Steve rises slowly, jaw clenched, looking down at you with something unreadable behind his eyes.

“You’re not scared,” He says.

You shake your head.

“You’re not trying to run.”

You tilt your head. “Why would I run from the people who love me?”

Bucky walks over, crouches by your other side, his dark eyes sharp with suspicion and awe.

“You think we love you?” He murmurs.

“I know you do,” You whisper, smiling wider now. “I feel it. In the walls, in the things you left, in the way you followed me home six times and never got caught. That’s devotion.”

Steve sits beside you. His gloved hand finds your thigh.

“And you love us?” He asks, voice rough.

You meet his gaze, unwavering.

“Deeply.”

There’s silence. Heavy and unnatural. Then the slow curl of something terrifying in Steve’s grin. The soft, shaky laugh from Bucky as he exhales like he’s been holding it in for too long.

They don’t believe it completely yet. They think it’s the adrenaline, the trauma. They think it’ll wear off, but it won’t. Not ever.

They don’t know you yet, but they will.

The second day, they find the first note.

It’s under your mattress, scrawled in something too dark and sticky to be ink. The paper is a torn scrap from the back of a cereal box, edges curled like you’d been sleeping on it. Written in jagged lines, crooked and pressed deep into the cardboard, it reads:

”If you ever leave me, I’ll chew off my tongue just so I never say another name but yours.”

Steve stares at it in silence.

Bucky leans against the wall, arms crossed, brow furrowed.

“She’s just acting out,” Steve mutters eventually, turning the card over like there’s more to read. “She’s adjusting.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He’s already seen the second note, tucked behind a book on the shelf.

“I like the sound your boots make when you come home.”

He doesn’t mention it. Not yet.

Honestly, they expected more crying. Braced themselves for withdrawal, maybe rage.

But instead… you clean.

You hum under your breath like a little homemaker while stacking dishes. You ask questions in a soft, dreamy voice. Things like:

“Do you think you’ll bury me together or separately?”

And, “What would happen if I tried to drown myself in the bathtub with your shirts?”

When Bucky says “No,” you pout. Genuinely disappointed.

Steve tries to keep things “normal.” He brings you books, gives you structured days, and talks to you in that calm, quiet tone like he’s trying to keep a hostage from snapping.

You stare at him with shining eyes the whole time, not blinking.

“I love you so much it hurts,” You whisper one night, forehead pressed to his chest.

Steve freezes.

You tilt your head up, smiling.

“Sometimes I imagine you cutting me open just to see if my heart beats faster for you.”

His hands tighten around you just a little too hard and he can’t lie.

Part of him wants to check.

Day four, Bucky finds the drawings.

They’re hidden under the floorboard you pried up in the corner. Crude sketches, dozens of them. Drawn in charcoal. Some in lipstick. Some, worryingly, in what looks like dried blood.

All of them are of them. Steve’s face. Bucky’s face. Their hands, their clothes, their knives.

One of Bucky in the middle of choking someone, your little note scrawled beneath it: “He looked so calm here. So beautiful.”

He doesn’t tell Steve about the drawings. He folds them all neatly and puts them in a box, wondering why a part of him feels proud.

By the end of the week, they stop waiting for the crash. You don’t break down. You don’t beg to leave.

Instead, you start folding their clothes when they’re in the shower. You trace hearts into the foggy mirror and write “Mrs. R + Mrs. B” in the steam. You trace the bruises they leave on your neck and whisper, “Deeper next time, please.”

Steve starts watching you with narrowed eyes. Not suspicious. Just… curious. He starts to wonder who really took who.

Bucky catches you one morning licking a little blood from a paper cut and whispering “Offering.”

You don’t see him and he says nothing. He simply watches you from the doorway, heart pounding. You are a storm they hadn’t prepared for and they’ve already built a home in the center of it.

The collar comes on the morning of your seventh day.

It’s soft leather, black, with a silver ring at the front and a buckle at the back. A tiny charm dangles from the center: two initials carved into the metal. One S. One B.

They bring it to you wrapped in velvet.

“You’ve been good,” Steve says gently, kneeling at your feet like a knight offering a crown. “You deserve a reward.”

Bucky stands behind him, arms folded and watching your reaction carefully.

You sit on your heels in the nest of blankets, hands in your lap like you’ve been trained to wait. You have, though they never had to teach you. You were born for this.

“Is that for me?” You ask, wide-eyed.

“It’s not just a collar,” Steve explains. “It’s a promise. You wear this, you’re ours fully. No more testing, no more watching.”

“No more doubt,” Bucky adds.

You reach for it slowly, reverently. Your fingers tremble when they brush the leather.

“You’ll put it on me?” You whisper.

Steve nods.

“Then do it,” You breathe. “Please.”

And from then on, they begin treating you exactly the way they want.

They don’t lock the doors anymore. Not because you’re free, because they know you won’t run.

Bucky teaches you to sit when told. Not because he needs to, but because he loves the way your knees hit the carpet in half a second flat. He calls you darling girl when you do it right. Little creature when you squirm.

Steve reads to you at night, military memoirs, mostly. You don’t listen to the words. You just stare at his mouth and wonder how it would feel to bite down hard enough to leave a scar.

Sometimes, you ask permission. Sometimes… you just do it.

They love you either way.

The first time you’re allowed outside is after two weeks. They take you to the edge of the woods behind the house. You wear a harness beneath your dress, hidden under a cardigan. A leash clips quietly at your back but it doesn’t pull. You wouldn’t try to stray anyways.

The sun is warm and the grass soft beneath your feet. You twirl once, smiling.

“I could run,” You say playfully, glancing over your shoulder.

Steve looks up from the blanket, where he’s unpacking lunch.

“You won’t.”

You grin. “I won’t.”

“Good girl,” Bucky murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple as he tightens the clip.

The wind rustles the leaves. You hum to yourself while picking flowers as Steve watches you with his hands curled into fists.

“You’re perfect,” He says, voice low.

You tilt your head, smile sharp and soft all at once.

“I was made for you.”

And they believe you because you were.

[fir-fireweed]

trying to build up a complicated relationship with violence for my mc, in the sense that she has grown up with the idea that violence is only acceptable against those who deserve it, but she also firmly believes that she has no right to decide who deserves it. now, after coming to terms (sort of) with the attack on her home, she appears to be more accepting in terms of violent acts she may need to do for survival, (and the ones that are done to her) and im thinking that from an outside perspective, her doing something violent with little/no outward reaction to (letsgooo repressing emotions) comes as a HUGE surprise, based on how calm she is. I imagine it would make people see her calmness in a new light, sort of?? i dont know, im just ranting about my mc because i love the opportunity that i've gotten in terms of customization here.

my MAIN point is what would the RO's and maybe evelyns reaction be to an mc thats outwardly very calm, stoic, maybe even charming as a way to ward off their inner very disturbed thoughts (regarding the perpetrators of the attack, and other things in general), but in a rare moment those thoughts shine through? sorry if this ask is too specific i just imagined this

Heya! I love receiving rants about MCs! It’s impossible to account for every personality iteration a reader could want. So it feels like a small victory when readers take those building blocks and make an MC uniquely their own. ☺️

Your question is fairly specific and was a little tricky to wrap my head around, but here you go…

Calliope would be very upset; she’d want to comfort MC but she’d be a little scared, too. Calliope wants to be happy and trust people, but she’s also conflicted over what happened with her father, which she hasn’t fully come to terms with. An MC breaking like that strikes a little too close to home.

Corinne knows that feeling all too well. She’s been there before, probably will be again. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t reprimand. She’d ask you what you need? An extra axe to help break stuff? A moment alone? Whatever it is, it’s valid.

Vicente would say you’re doing it wrong. If those emotions shine through in rare moments, you haven’t killed them sufficiently yet. There’s no room for emotion in plotting revenge, because then you’ll make mistakes. They may be a little jealous, though, that MC still has the capacity to feel.

Bayram would be deeply saddened—not so much that MC is having murderous thoughts, though he would frown upon that, but because he’d sense it’s against their nature.

Tellus would feel extremely conflicted. He’d tell MC they have every right to want to hurt those responsible, he might even encourage it. But deep down, that’s not what he wants. It’d hurt him to see that in MC, knowing the way they were before.

[dr-litcrit]

The Dangerous Myth of Redemption: June’s Forgiveness of Serena

In The Handmaid’s Tale, one of the most troubling narrative choices of the final seasons is the framing of June’s apparent forgiveness of Serena Joy. Serena, June’s abuser and rapist, a central architect of Gilead’s terror, receives not accountability but empathy — an empathy the show encourages viewers to share. This choice does not merely distort character arcs; it sends a dangerous message about abuse, complicity, and the nature of forgiveness in the face of oppression.

Serena is not just another woman surviving within a patriarchal regime. She is one of Gilead’s foundational architects — a woman who advocated for the removal of women’s rights in a book entitled A Woman’s Place, while never living by the doctrine she helped create. She was not a passive wife but an active political operative: writing policy, speaking publicly, and even participating in the planning of violent attacks that led to Gilead’s formation — including assaults on the Capitol, the White House, and the Supreme Court. She is portrayed as believing wholeheartedly in Gilead’s ideology, continuing to support it well into later seasons. In every instance where she could have escaped or defected, she instead chose to stay — or, when temporarily exiled, to return.

The fact that she is ultimately trapped within the world she built should not compel viewer sympathy. Her rare and self-serving attempts to change aspects of the regime are always motivated by personal stakes — not empathy or principle. Even after Noah is born, she shows no interest in full-time motherhood, entrusting his care to Marthas while seeking status and influence. Her arc is not one of awakening, but of strategic adaptation. The show’s portrayal of her as a tragic mother or fallen believer whitewashes the very system she created — and the cost of that narrative leniency is paid by characters like June.

A Mother First, a Monster Second: Serena’s Self-Justification

Since Season 1, Serena has been portrayed as both victim and perpetrator, but crucially, she remains ideologically aligned with Gilead’s core principles. Though she occasionally expresses personal regret about how she treated June — moments that the show highlights as supposed growth — Serena never truly repents for building the regime or enabling its horrors. Her emotional center remains tied to her own desires: power, recognition, and above all, motherhood. Even Yvonne Strahovski, who portrays Serena, has expressed skepticism about her character’s redemptive potential, stating in an interview: “I mean, it would take a lot to make her redeemable ... maybe she should become a nun or something. … It’s all for her own sake.” She elaborates further, acknowledging that while Serena may be aware of her wrongdoings, “she justifies them constantly because of her own personal circumstances… It’s a selfish survival mode, it’s not for the greater good of others.” (AwardsRadar, 2021). This actor’s insight aligns with the show’s textual portrayal: Serena’s choices are never truly altruistic, only strategic, and motivated by self-interest

Serena’s justification for Gilead’s terror crystallizes in her belief that “maybe it was all worth it.” This chilling admission reveals that, for Serena, the suffering of others — including June — was a price she was willing to pay to achieve her goal. Gilead, in her eyes, made her a mother, and that personal fulfillment absolves the system’s crimes.

She may have deeply wanted to become a mother, but she never showed any desire to be a full-time caregiver; her priority was always power and influence. Serena only pursued surrogacy via Handmaids after "window shopping" for kidnapped children — a chilling flashback in Season 5 shows her and Naomi evaluating children as if they were accessories. When her first Handmaid dies by suicide, Serena doesn’t mourn her — she’s angry that her reproductive plans have been disrupted. And even after Noah’s birth, Serena hands off most caregiving duties to household staff, contradicting her supposed maternal ideal.

As feminist theorists like bell hooks have noted, the tendency to excuse women’s complicity in patriarchal systems by framing them as victims of their own circumstances is deeply problematic. It shifts the lens from responsibility to sympathy, allowing women like Serena — women with power and agency — to hide behind sentimentality and strategic tears.

When Forgiveness Becomes Betrayal: June’s Survivor Story Undermined

June is often portrayed as a deeply Christian and forgiving woman — a trait the show emphasizes throughout the series. And yet, this identity is at odds with some of her most reckless decisions, many of which have led to unnecessary deaths in the name of her personal mission. That contradiction becomes especially glaring in her selective forgiveness. She extends empathy and grace to Serena, her abuser and rapist, but withholds it from Nick — the father of her child, the love of her life, and the man who risked his life repeatedly to help and protect her.

Nick’s so-called betrayal, which June condemns without hesitation, involved him revealing vague information about the Mayday plan under extreme duress. He never exposed names or concrete details. In fact, according to Max Minghella’s interview and the subtext of the scene, Nick assumed Wharton already knew about the plan and was merely testing him. It wasn’t betrayal — it was survival. Had Nick refused to speak, he likely would have ended up on the Wall. The choice was no choice at all. And yet, June’s response is not understanding, but condemnation.

This double standard reaches its peak when June lets Nick board a plane she knows has been planted with explosives — an attack orchestrated via Lawrence. Meanwhile, she embraces Joseph Lawrence, who refused to help her find Hannah, stood by as commanders plotted to kill her, and was complicit in shooting down the planes that were meant to raid Hannah’s school and rescue the children. She also grows closer to Aunt Lydia, who tortured her and her friends, mutilated Janine, and remained loyal to Gilead’s ideology for years.

This selective moral logic undermines June’s arc. It asks the audience to accept a distorted sense of justice where charismatic abusers are forgiven, while allies who falter under impossible conditions are discarded. It’s not only unrealistic — it’s narratively irresponsible.

When evaluating Serena’s role in June’s brutal rape, carried out at nine months pregnant, the show’s creators themselves emphasize that there is no ambiguity in Serena’s culpability. In an interview, writer Yahlin Chang makes clear that Serena actively “helped Fred rape June to make the baby come faster,” saying the brutality reflects Gilead’s normalization of assault:

“They don’t see any problem with that… I wanted to get it to the truth of sexual assault.” (The Washington Post, 2018)

This branding of the act as political realism underscores Serena’s moral agency: she does not hesitate to weaponize June’s body to satisfy her own longing for a child — even as June nears full term. That level of direct orchestration leaves no room for the sentimental forgiveness the narrative later grants her.

Serena’s cruelty is not limited to a single episode. She has a long record of physical, psychological, and sexual abuse toward June. After suspecting that June was pregnant — and then discovering she wasn’t — Serena punished her by confining her to her room for two weeks. She slapped, pushed, and physically assaulted her repeatedly — once smashing her head into a doorframe. She drove her fingernails into June’s hands during the Ceremony. She arranged Nick’s forced marriage to Eden and showed excitement at a wedding where visibly underage girls — no older than 13 or 14 — were married off. She paraded Hannah in front of June like a hostage and repeatedly used the child as a threat. Her cruelty was not incidental or coerced; it was sustained, intentional, and fueled by possessiveness and rage.

Despite Serena’s unrepentant stance, the show increasingly positions June as a figure of compassion toward her. The narrative aesthetic — soft music, tender close-ups, Serena’s tears — encourages viewers to see Serena primarily through the lens of her maternal suffering rather than her role as an oppressor. June’s gestures of empathy, from aiding Serena in childbirth to comforting her in moments of vulnerability, are framed as signs of June’s strength and healing. But this depiction misrepresents the realities of trauma and recovery.

As trauma theorists have argued, genuine healing does not depend on — and is often undermined by — offering forgiveness to an unrepentant abuser. On the contrary, forgiveness that is premature or demanded by social or narrative pressures can retraumatize the survivor, deepening the harm. The Handmaid’s Tale, however, seems to valorize June’s capacity to empathize with Serena as though it is a necessary step toward her own liberation — sidelining the need for justice and accountability.

The Perils of Sympathizing with the Oppressor

By romanticizing June’s forgiveness of Serena, The Handmaid’s Tale undermines its own feminist foundation. The series was initially celebrated for exposing patriarchal violence with stark clarity, offering little comfort to those complicit in oppression. Yet in its later seasons, that clarity erodes. The moral weight of the story shifts from the survivors of Gilead’s cruelty to the emotional struggles of its enforcers.

Elisabeth Moss herself describes the June-Serena dynamic in strikingly intimate terms, calling it “the centerpiece of the show. It is the love story of the show. They’re the heroes and the villains of the show, and they often trade places in those roles.”  (Vanity Fair, 2025) This framing lays bare the series’ approach: Serena and June are positioned as moral equals whose bond transcends their history of violence and abuse.

But this interpretation is deeply troubling. By romanticizing a relationship born of exploitation and cruelty, the show risks blurring essential moral lines. What began as a tale of survival and resistance against oppression transforms into a narrative where the abuser and the victim are cast as co-protagonists in a mutual drama — their power dynamics softened, their crimes reframed as mere chapters in a complicated love story. In doing so, the series undermines its own critique of patriarchy, offering redemption where none was earned and asking viewers to invest in an emotional arc that obscures the need for accountability.

Serena’s redemption arc is not earned through transformation or accountability, but through the emotional labor of her victim — a dynamic that feminist philosophers like Kate Manne have identified as central to the maintenance of misogynistic systems. The cultural narrative that emerges suggests that women’s participation in oppressive regimes is forgivable, even understandable, so long as they conform to familiar roles of suffering or maternal devotion. This is a dangerous message, as it not only distorts the ethics of the story’s world but also risks normalizing similar patterns in the real world, where abusers are often shielded by sentimentality and the myth of personal redemption without accountability.

In the end, June’s forgiveness of Serena is framed as a triumph of compassion over hatred, but in truth, it represents a failure to honor the survivor’s story. It offers a fantasy of absolution for the unrepentant — a dangerous myth that serves neither justice nor healing.

The implication is chilling: redemption is not about moral reckoning or change, but about who the narrative chooses to protect. Charisma, motherhood, and suffering become shields for cruelty — even as quiet, loyal resistance, like Nick’s, is punished or forgotten.

Beauty, Youth, and Sympathy: How the Show Shapes Our View of Serena

Another subtle yet significant way The Handmaid’s Tale distorts the moral clarity of Serena’s character lies in its casting and characterization choices. In Margaret Atwood’s original novel, Serena is an older woman, her power diminished not only by Gilead’s patriarchal structures but also by the way those structures devalue women past their reproductive prime. The novel’s Serena embodies the consequences of a system that punishes all women, even those who helped build it — a bitter, discarded architect of her own cage.

The show, however, deliberately alters this dynamic. By casting a younger, strikingly beautiful actress as Serena — and by crafting the character to be closer in age and life stage to June — the series invites a different kind of viewer response. The age gap that symbolized Serena’s loss of status in the book is erased; instead, Serena becomes a figure of misplaced potential, a woman viewers are encouraged to see as still vibrant, desirable, and emotionally complex. This is compounded by the charisma and vulnerability that Yvonne Strahovski brings to the role — traits that, while a testament to the actress’s skill, contribute to the moral confusion surrounding Serena’s actions.

This choice taps into a well-documented cultural bias: audiences are more inclined to empathize with attractive characters, particularly when their suffering is framed in familiar, humanizing ways. As feminist thinkers such as Naomi Wolf have argued, beauty functions as a kind of currency within patriarchy — one that can grant power, obscure culpability, and manipulate perception. In The Beauty Myth, Wolf describes how cultural narratives often conflate a woman’s value with her appearance, conditioning audiences to see beauty as a proxy for virtue or worth. Similarly, Laura Mulvey’s critique of visual culture notes how cinema trains viewers to find pleasure — and thus sympathy — in looking at beautiful women, even when their actions warrant moral scrutiny.

By making Serena younger, more beautiful, and emotionally layered through casting and scripting choices, the series not only departs from Atwood’s sharp commentary on the cost of complicity but also reinforces antifeminist tropes. It suggests, however unintentionally, that oppressive women are more forgivable — or at least more worthy of our sympathy — if they are attractive and charismatic. As Susan Bordo has pointed out, this dynamic reflects a deeper cultural logic that binds women’s moral and social value to their bodies, inviting audiences to forgive or excuse when those bodies conform to certain ideals.

The result is a narrative that prioritizes Serena’s humanity over the dehumanization she inflicted on others — and ultimately, over the humanity of those who were never granted the same narrative grace. This is especially striking when contrasted with the show’s treatment of Nick — a character who, despite his emotional restraint and consistent moral compass, is given significantly less screen time and far fewer opportunities for emotional framing. His sacrifice is quiet, his pain internal, and his love expressed in subtle, selfless gestures. His stoicism may be misread by some as detachment, but to viewers with literary, psychological, or visual literacy — or simply higher emotional intelligence — it’s clear that Nick is one of the most tender, brave, and quietly heroic characters in the series. Serena, on the other hand, remains emotionally volatile and fundamentally self-serving. Apart from Fred — already dead by the final season — she is perhaps the coldest main character, yet her beauty and vulnerability ensure that she is constantly rehumanized by the narrative. In the end, the show teaches us that redemption is not earned — it is framed.

Rather than exposing how systems like Gilead exploit and discard women, The Handmaid’s Tale risks reinforcing the very ideologies it set out to critique: that a woman’s worth, even as a villain, remains tied to her appearance and ability to evoke desire or pity.

Conclusion: The Price of Selective Forgiveness

The Handmaid’s Tale has always been a story about moral ambiguity — about the impossible choices people make to survive within a system designed to strip them of power, agency, and integrity. Its early power came from its unflinching portrayal of these complexities: how even small acts of defiance carried enormous risk, and how survival often required compromises that blurred the line between victim and collaborator.

Yet in its later seasons, the show loses sight of that moral subtlety, offering a fractured vision of justice that undermines the complexity it once honored. June’s journey — once defined by the brutal reality of surviving and resisting within a system designed to strip her of power— becomes clouded by selective forgiveness that follows no ethical logic, only narrative convenience and emotional manipulation.

Elisabeth Moss framed June’s forgiveness not as something she offers to Serena, but as something she does “for Noah“.

„June knows that Serena does need that forgiveness, and June is big enough to give it. She’s a pretty great person.”  (Vanity Fair, 2025) This framing highlights the show’s attempt to portray June’s forgiveness as noble — but it sidesteps the question of whether such forgiveness is just. The moral weight shifts from Serena’s accountability to June’s capacity for empathy, erasing the need for genuine atonement.

We see June extend compassion and even trust to characters whose hands are stained with the very crimes she fought to survive. Commander Lawrence, the architect of Gilead and the inventor of the Colonies, orchestrated the bombing that killed innocents in Chicago, ordered planes to be shot down as they attempted to raid Hannah’s school, and stood by silently as Gilead’s leadership plotted June’s death. Aunt Lydia oversaw torture, mutilation, and humiliation of handmaids for years, burning hands, gouging out eyes, and enforcing the regime’s ideology with zeal. Serena subjected June to relentless cruelty: physical violence, orchestrated rape, psychological torment, and the exploitation of June’s own daughter as a weapon. And yet, June forgives them. She comforts Serena, allies herself with Lawrence, and accepts Lydia’s supposed change of heart — without any of these figures ever fully reckoning with their actions.

By contrast, Nick — who repeatedly risked his life to protect June and Nicole, who worked quietly against Gilead, who fathered June’s child without ever asserting ownership or control — is cast out. His loyalty is questioned, his presence is rejected, and no forgiveness is offered. The show frames him as somehow tainted — not by his actions, but simply by the uniform he wears, or the role he plays within Gilead’s ranks, despite his resistance from within.

Bruce Miller acknowledges this tension, admitting, “Serena’s done unforgivable things. I don’t think there’s any forgiving her as a human being. But can June forgive her? Redemption just doesn’t seem like something that exists in the world. It’s a nice idea in a fictional story, but if our story is going to help the audience navigate the world, it can’t be that picture.”  (Vulture, 2025) Yet, despite this, the narrative does seem to present a picture of redemption — or at least of softened judgment — for Serena, using motherhood and vulnerability as shields. This contradiction mirrors the show’s broader inconsistency: it claims to eschew simplistic redemption arcs, yet writes them into its fabric through emotional manipulation.

This inconsistency reflects, and reinforces, a dangerous cultural message. As feminist thinkers such as Kate Manne, Naomi Wolf, and Susan Bordo have shown, societies are conditioned to excuse harm when it comes wrapped in beauty, maternal longing, or charm. The Handmaid’s Tale — perhaps unwittingly — participates in this dynamic. The beauty, charisma, or proximity to parenthood of Serena, Lydia, and Lawrence becomes a shield that softens our view of their crimes. Serena’s biological motherhood, Lydia’s self-fashioned maternal role toward Janine, and Lawrence’s growing bond with Charlotte each provide a veneer of humanity that the show uses to invite sympathy — even in the absence of true atonement. Meanwhile, Nick — who longs to be present for his daughter but is denied that opportunity — is left without such narrative protection, his loyalty overlooked and his isolation reinforced.

What’s most troubling is not that June’s feelings are complicated — true complexity would enrich the narrative. It is that the show offers no coherent moral framework for forgiveness or condemnation. It invites us to sympathize with unrepentant abusers, while isolating those who resisted. In doing so, The Handmaid’s Tale ceases to critique the dynamics of power; instead, it becomes complicit in the very patterns of selective empathy it once sought to expose. A show that began as a searing portrait of resistance ends by asking its heroine — and its audience — to do the emotional labor of forgiving the unforgivable. That is not catharsis. That is capitulation.

[dirtyl0ver]

Omg I loved your headcanons of Brian and Tim so much <33 can you please expand on their types because I swear when I read ‘love a woman who can cook’ I cheered LMAO- I love to cook it’s my hobby and I’d NEVER cook for a man, but I’d make Masky an exception. Or Brian with a feminine girl, nails, hair and all PLEASE I BEG FOR MORE 🙏 it might not cater to everyone but your headcanons gave me such silly validation and I’m greedy for more IM SORRY I BE KICKING MY FEET AND EVERYTHING

I love this question so much omg 😭 First of all - why wouldn’t you cook for a man?? They love that stuff. Feed a guy right and suddenly he’s doing chores and giving you the best d of your life 😩🙏 aaaanyway...

Yes. I definitely see both Tim and Brian being drawn to more "feminine" girls, and not just because they find it attractive, but because that kind of energy is missing from their lives. Pls let me explain!

CW: mentions of trauma, misogyny (discussed, NOT endorsed), power imbalances in relationships. Please read with care!

Tim and Brian x Feminine Reader: A Rant

Tim/Masky

Tim, to me, is someone who’s experienced very little real affection in his life. I imagine he grew up in a broken home, possibly with an alcoholic or emotionally unavailable father, maybe even domestic violence. I think his early environment shaped not just how he sees the world, but how he sees women. And unfortunately, that means he may carry some internalized misogyny.

Not in an overt hateful way. It's this subtle ingrained belief system that tells him women are weaker, overly emotional or just not as capable. He's not malicious, this is just the result of never being taught otherwise. Combine that with years of psychological trauma, violence and being surrounded by other damaged men, and you've got someone whose understanding of relationships is deeply fractured.

I think in his earlier years, especially before ever being in a meaningful relationship, Tim likely viewed women as something to use for sex, or distraction, rather than as true partners. That doesn't make him an evil person, he's just never seen a healthy relationship dynamic in action.

That said, once he is in a relationship, and especially if he really cares about someone, he’s extremely protective. He will go to terrifying lengths to shield you from harm, and he genuinely wants to give his girl a better life than what he’s known.

However, and this is key, I don’t think he views romantic relationships as “equal partnerships” in that sense. Brian is his partner - as in his equal, his right hand, the only one he trusts at eye-level. His romantic partner, especially if she’s more feminine, is someone he wants to protect. He puts her on a pedestal, but not as an equal - more as someone who needs to be looked after.

This isn’t necessarily healthy, but it is consistent with who he is. And I think there’s another layer to this too - Tim is starved of femininity.

He lives in a house full of violent, messy, filthy men. The kind who never clean, never fold their laundry, never wash dishes. There’s nothing soft in his day-to-day life. So when he meets a girl who brings that, who’s gentle to him, who smells nice, folds his clothes without being asked, cooks for him, it knocks him flat. It reminds him there’s still beauty and kindness in the world.

So yes, he eats that shit up. He might not know how to show it, but trust me, he appreciates everything.

Brian/Hoodie

Brian’s perspective is similar, but more internal and more quietly layered.

His environment is just as brutal and isolated as Tim’s, but in a colder way. Brian is a man who’s very much in his own head. He’s stoic, calculated and emotionally repressed. So the presence of something overtly feminine in his space, whether that be perfume, nail polish, nice clothes, a girl in a silk robe - it feels like relief to him.

But here’s the thing: I do think Brian also struggles with certain views of women that could be labeled misogynistic. Not in that aggressive hateful sense, but more in the form of pity. He sees women (especially feminine ones) as delicate, maybe even helpless. He doesn't want to demean them, but he sees them as needing protection. He assumes softness means fragility.

That said, unlike Tim, Brian views femininity as something beautiful and rare. He doesn’t always understand it, but he deeply respects it. There’s almost a reverence to the way he views girls who embody it. A girl with her nails done, her hair brushed back, wearing soft fabrics - to him, that’s not frivolous. That’s power and peace and something worth preserving.

It makes sense when you consider his background. I imagine Brian grew up in a deeply conservative, religious home that was quiet, strict and emotionally closed-off. There may have been pressure to be silent and obedient. No space for softness or expression. So now, as an adult, he secretly craves the very things he was denied: warmth, scent, color, intimacy.

And I personally love the headcanon that Brian had a younger sister. Someone he was responsible for and protected. Someone who taught him how to be gentle. I think that’s the one place he did learn how to understand femininity without objectifying it.

So when he falls for someone who embodies that kind of energy, she’s not just a girlfriend, she’s also something sacred. He may not say it, may not even show it half the time, but that protectiveness and quiet attentiveness of his, that's his version of love.

So yes! Tim and Brian both carry damage. They both have flaws. They weren’t raised with good examples of women, or love, or balance. So having a girl who's nurturing to them, who brings them comfort - it can quite frankly be healing to them.

[callme-naomi]

Wait For Me, Will You?

MANGA AND ANIME SPOILER ALERT. DEATH AND BLOOD MENTIONS.

I have nothing to say in my defense. This is angst aka me being in depression and y'all bearing it with me. I was just thinking, what if he had died some other way and his body was still intact? I know, I torture myself.

Walking five levels underground by stairs took lesser time than crossing the last stair to the group of people sitting around the white blanket, faces devoid of expression.

It had been an hour since Kenjaku had fled, and that was when you, upon being told by Yuji about the terrible news that your love was no more, insisted to him to tell you where he is. His body was still intact, and you wanted one last look, one last goodbye, even it meant you'll have to live without a soul. You told him he didn't need to come, just point you to where he is. That kid had seen enough for a lifetime.

He had immediately rejected, saying it isn't a nice sight, and he was trying to be considerate for you, but then upon your tearful pleas, he gave in, on the condition that he'll go with you.

So here you were. Your tears silently dripping, the corridors echoing with occasional sobs, your entire form trembling at the sight you'll have to see. At the last staircase, you saw the teenager halt for a while, head bowed.

"Thank you, Yuji," you whispered close to him. "I'll take it from here."

Sitting down on the staircase, face white and eyes numb, he nodded, and you walked inside. You nearly threw up at the blood smeared across the floor, the carcasses littering your feet, when you found the haggle of people - Shoko, Yaga, Todo, the Nitta siblings, Ijichi - closing him in their circle.

Hearing your footsteps behind them, they turned, and immediately stood up, all holding the same thought: you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't see him like this.

Unable to hold back any further tears, you let them fall, while Shoko ran up to you. "Y/N, you have to-"

"Ieiri-san, please. Just..." you choked on your sobs. "Just one time. Please."

"Y/N," her eyes were wide, as if begging you not to break yourself, when the principal called her. "Let her see him, Ieiri. She deserves to see him one last time."

Before taking everyone out of there for privacy, Yaga put a hand on your shoulder. "I'm really sorry."

You merely shook your head. It wasn't their fault. Nor was it his. Or maybe it was. He was just too selfless for his own good, from what Yuji told you.

Shoko was the last to leave, handing you his coat. "He left it before going in," her voice shook slightly. That's all of him that we can give back to you. "If you need any of us, we'll be right here."

Sure nobody was there anymore, you dragged yourself to the corpse covered in a white blanket, already dyed by the red of blood, and fell to your knees, shaking, sobbing.

At that moment, you decided to bolt for it. You can't see his lifeless face, a face that doesn't light up seeing you. But you needed it, you needed one last look at his face, his beautiful face. You weren't there when he fell. At least you could give him a farewell.

You closed your eyes, put your violently shaking hand on the cover near his head and pulled back, daring to open your eyes.

The moment you did, every sob, every scream, every tear you had held inside as the 'dignified wife of Kento Nanami' broke your bounds, the station's walls being the only witness to you crying with hiccups over him, begging to any who may listen for him to embrace you, wipe your tears away.

Still tears streaming down, you raised your head to get a clear look at his face. When you had heard the news, rage was all you felt. How dare they take what's yours from you?

Now all you had was grief and pity. Pity for the savior who couldn't be saved when it counted.

His eyes were closed, his face half burned but still beautiful to you, still yours, even in death, so peaceful and serene it felt as if he were just sleeping. You wanted to die just to see exactly what made him so peaceful right now.

A wave of panic fluttered through you. For an instant, seeing his closed eyes, you felt as if you had forgotten the color of his eyes, and in that desperation, you slid open his eyelids. The tears didn't stop as you peered in those honey or hazel colored eyes, the ones who taught you what the look of love is like, the ones who lit up seeing you, and here, seeing you cry over him, those eyes were cold, unseeing, fixated somewhere far away, somewhere you can't reach.

You had never thought the coldness of death could be this evident, that the same pair of hazel eyes could be so devoid of emotion. Keeping your gaze in his eyes, trying to combine the pictures of the living and dead eyes, you slid them back.

But there was something missing. You pulled his shattered glasses out of your pockets - the one Yuji found for you - and put it on his face. "You don't go anywhere without your glasses, do you?"

Taking your time, you saw the rest of his face, occasionally wiping your tears off your sleeve. And that's when your breaking point came: his mouth. Even when his face was leeched of life, his eyes unfocused, his mouth still curved into a soft smile.

You might never know what he was smiling at. Was he peaceful at his end? Was he thinking of you and his students and all the times he had? Or was it the afterlife that made him this happy?

Memorizing his smile for the last time, you could see in your mind, him running across the white sands of Malaysia, the water rushing to keep up with him, his eyes brighter than ever. Maybe he was telling all about you to Haibara, his friend. Maybe he was telling you that wherever he is, it's beautiful.

Maybe it was the wind that had tossed his hair out of style, you thought as you brushed the stray strands out of his forehead, taking your time in making the 7:3 hairstyle for him one last time. You tried not to think of how he loved you running your fingers through his soft hair, the one that was now crusted with blood through the blonde strands. With one last look at the love of your life, with a kiss on his white-covered hand, you pulled the white cover on him.

*****

Even with years passing, you had not forgotten him. How could you forget the one who held your heart like the greatest treasure ever?

You had learned to live with the pain. Though the initial times had been rough, you tearing up at every thought, every mention of his name, you found a way to patch it up, not heal. This wound was never going to.

When it all became too much, and nothing felt worth living, you'd drape his coat around you, envisioning in some part of your mind him embracing you, keeping you close. And then you'd tell him.

Wait for me, will you? In the land of your dreams, the beautiful promised place you're in. In the house you always wanted, keep a place by your bed for me. Read all those books so when I come to you, I'll be the one who's behind and you know all the spoilers. Maybe find me a tree, or a seashell for me to make a necklace of. Wait for me, my love. I know you don't want me to come sooner, but I will, some day or the other. I won't take long. Don't forget me. I still have your coat to return to you, remember? And I still have to spend an eternity with you.

We promised each other. You waited this long to meet me and be mine, so wait a little while longer for me to catch up and be yours again.

[slow-burn-sally]

If you have a child with medium or high support needs autism, and you deny the fact that you or the other parent could also possibly be on the spectrum without researching it thoroughly or going for an assessment yourselves, what you're actually doing is making sure your child feels isolated and alone with their disorder, while you get to dodge all the stigma they experience, and get to distance yourself from your child as their beleaguered, exhausted, self-sacrificing, sympathetic, neurotypical caregiver.

I told a coworker I had autism earlier this year and she said "Oh, my son has that. He touches walls to calm down." And she said it with this slight veneer of mockery in her voice as if she couldn't understand why her adult son would do such a kooky thing. Maybe it was a habit she'd developed to get out in front of other people making fun of him by gently doing it herself? Then, not thirty seconds later, she casually mentions that she has trouble recognizing faces. She has ADHD and was open about that with me, but ADHD is (somewhat) less stigmatized, and the well known symptoms involve being chatty, hyperactive, risk taking, spending too much money and being forgetful. Autism by comparison makes most people very uncomfortable every time you bring it up and involves issues with personal hygiene, extreme social problems, often violent or loud or messy meltdowns, trouble making direct eye contact and a whole host of misunderstandings (like that we can't feel empathy or don't lie) etc. etc.

Not saying ADHD doesn't carry its own stigma, but the difference is pretty obvious if you have both and experience telling people about one or the other (like I do and have done).

Two of my Facebook friends swear up and down that their child's autism is the "environmental kind" that "came out of nowhere", yet both are heavily into D&D, cosplay, science fiction/fantasy and come off as blunt and socially awkward. I think a lot of autism parents who swear up and down that autism is caused by vaccines or gluten or other shitty theories, just want to make it clear that though their child has this awful thing (being sardonic here) they have been thrown clear of also possibly having it.

Autism is something like 85% heritable (I postulate that it's likely 100% heritable because stigma means statistics will be heavily skewed) and co-occurs with ADHD at a similar level (if you discover the autism first). If you have an autistic child and claim that there's no way you could also be on the spectrum just because you like a wide variety of foods or have lots of friends or because you don't act exactly like your high support needs kid, you're being both willfully ignorant and ableist, where you could be standing in solidarity with your kid. I have 500 friends, dated polyamorously for 15 years, was a massage therapist for a decade and adore touch. I love sushi and vegetables and spicy food, and am autistic as fuck. Just my opinion.

[trayzen-the-infinite]

Fear and Courage

That’s what I think over overall narrative is in the game. While theirs a more overt theme of escapism, why do people crave that escape? It comes from a place of anxiety, of fear. Chapter 4 lays into this but you see it everywhere when you start looking. In Chapter 4 is really nails into us Susie is the way she is because she’s afraid. In the last place she lived she was afraid to stand up for herself and afraid to try the piano, in Hometown she was afraid of rejection and so decided to torment people so if she was alone it would be in her terms, she was violent in Card World because she was scared of what was happening. She found her courage because their were people that refused to be scared of her

Kris is full of Fear and is probably why they related so much to Susie when no one else did. Kris was orphaned and adopted at a very young age, grew up in a town with no one else like them. When Asriel started growing their horns Kris became self conscious in their own home. Kris saw Noelle as a friend but if Noelle’s words are to go by that feeling was never shared. Kris was just the neighbor that kept scaring her. Kris was Noelle’s bully even if that wasn’t their intention.

Kris much like Susie feels powerful when they torment others. Even Eram calls this out in Chapter 3 if on the normal route Eram will point out how this secret game, where you hurt everyone you know, even if it feels bad theirs a part of them that enjoys it. If encountered on the Weird Route they push it harder saying how Kris can deny it all they want but the events of Chapter 2 made them feel a little good. Eram can see the dark inside of peoples and Eram knows the darkest part of Kris they’re not even comfortable admitting.

We show up and we give Kris a light in the dark, in Chapter 1 we give Kris a secret power called Courage for the final fight, Kris slowly comes out of their shell over the course of the story and even though they still do the bidding of Darker forces they’ve been getting the courage to stand up to them more often. Willing to defy greater forces to protect their friends

I think The Roaring Knight is also Fear but like Eram and The Titans it’s not that they’re afraid it’s that they’re fear itself. In the codes you can hear Dess calling out for help but if the Knight is Dess then maybe what’s happening is that The Knight is a dark inverse of what we are to Kris. We help Kris and give them the Courage and Power to fight through the Dark. The Knight is the fear that has literally overcome Dess. The Fear that has overtaken her and held her prisoner and wishing to spread that fear to others like Kris and Susie once did.

[romanczukowsky]

What I Forgot About Us part. II

Pairing: Fred x Reader

Summary: After everything that has divided them, fate brings Y/N and Fred face to face again.

Content Warnings: Explicit content / Smut / Soft smut /Public-ish settin / Angst / hurt/comfort

I spent nearly the entire day talking with my best friend. After she left, I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, and my mind circled around just one thing: him.

Every conversation, every smile, every touch… everything that had happened over the past few days suddenly took on a completely different meaning.

Stripped of illusion, it was terrifyingly empty. Artificial. Fake. No one knew I had woken up. No one but him. And he… took advantage of that.

I felt pain not only in my body — but deep inside. A burning, furious heat beneath my skin that grew stronger by the minute. It was fury, laced with disappointment and something else. Something hard to name but gripping my throat like a vice.

And then I heard footsteps. He walked in just like before — nonchalant, confident, with the face of a boy who knows he’s welcome. He held a new bouquet in his hand. Tulips. Carefully chosen, arranged, tied with a ribbon. My favorite color. He stopped a few steps away from me.

“Hey, you,” he said, smiling slightly, certain he’d hear a “hey” in return. Like nothing had changed.

But it had. I didn’t respond.

My eyes locked onto his face — I didn’t feel that warmth anymore. I looked at him like a stranger. Like a boy I never really knew. He saw it. His face grew serious.

“I brought you… tulips,” he lifted the bouquet, searching for a way in. “You said they reminded you of home. Remember?”

“No.” My voice was as sharp as a knife. “I don’t remember. Not the tulips. Not you.”

His brows drew together slightly, as if he was trying to understand.

“Y/N…” he said cautiously. “What’s going on? You’re… different.”

„I have one question.” I stood up slowly, never breaking eye contact. “Did you tell anyone I woke up?”

He blinked. “Not yet. I thought that—”

“You thought you could keep lying to me?” I cut him off, my tone calm and measured. “That since I didn’t remember anything, you could just say whatever and use me?”

He turned pale. “It’s not like that. I just…”

“Just what?” I stepped forward. “Make me believe in something that wasn’t real? Because you knew you wouldn’t win me over without games and manipulation?”

He didn’t answer. He looked at me like he already knew he couldn’t fix it.

“You know, the worst part is that I actually believed you.” My voice trembled at the end. “I thought something had changed. That maybe… maybe you really wanted me.”

“Because I do.” He whispered it. “Y/N, I… I panicked. It was supposed to go differently.”

“Oh really?” I laughed bitterly. “And how exactly was it supposed to go? I wake up, believe everything you say and… spread my legs?”

I saw his face twist in pain. But it wasn’t guilt. It was wounded pride.

“What you did was pathetic. Pathetic beyond measure. You’re a liar, Fred. A liar. A manipulator. And if you hadn’t messed with my head that way… If you hadn’t lied to me… I would’ve never touched you, Weasley.”

Word by word, I spat out all the anger, all the bitterness that had been building up in me since I discovered the truth that morning.

He said nothing. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. Everything disappeared from his face — the boy with flowers, the smile, the boyish charm. Only a boy who lost remained.

He turned and left. Without a word. The door slammed loudly but not violently — it was a blow he dealt to himself.

Days passed. First came the anger. It consumed me from the inside like a fire that refuses to go out, even though everything had already burned. But now… there was only ash.

Fred didn’t come back. Not that day, not the next, nor the one after. He didn’t leave a note. He didn’t try to explain. Didn’t try to fix anything. He disappeared. Just like that.

Each day, more and more friends came. The room was filled with questions. Everyone asked how I was doing. They were happy I was better. They promised to help me catch up on classes. Said they missed me.

But no one asked about Fred. And I didn’t say a word either. I was with them — smiling, nodding, joking — but only halfway. Because the other half of me sat silently in the corner of my thoughts, listening to the silence and asking the question I hated: What if I overreacted?

I remembered his face. That moment when he didn’t answer. That flicker of pain in his eyes. That one moment when he looked like he really felt something. And I couldn’t erase it.

Because in all of it, between the lies and manipulation, there was something else. Something real. In his gaze, his touch. The way he held my hand. The way he said “hey, you” like the world outside that bed didn’t exist.

And even though I wanted to hate him forever, a part of me — soft, quiet, and defenseless — missed him.

It was strange to miss someone who lied to you. But even stranger to miss moments that… despite everything… had felt real.

Madam Pomfrey came to me after breakfast. “You can return to regular classes tomorrow,” she said gently, as if giving me good news.

I nodded. But I didn’t feel normal. Not at all.

Everything in me was different. I heard my breath differently, the scent of the sheets felt strange, even the sound of footsteps in the hallway seemed too loud, too real.

I couldn’t stop wondering… What if, instead of yelling — I had listened? What if I had let him say everything? Would things have turned out differently? Would he still be here? But I couldn’t turn back time.

And that’s why… I knew I had to do something. When I leave tomorrow, I’ll talk to him. I want him to tell me everything — in detail — explain himself, make my heart feel a little lighter.

Coming back to normal wasn’t easy.

It was colder than I expected. Autumn had started biting at the air, and my fingers clutched at the rough sleeve of my school sweater like it was the only thing anchoring me.

I walked into the Great Hall. Our eyes met.

He — in that exact moment — stood up from the table and left through the back exit, not even finishing his tea.

My heart stopped. I wanted to believe it was just a coincidence. That he just had something to do.

In class, he chose seats on the opposite side of the room. Sat low, almost hiding. When I walked past, he turned away. He didn’t look. Didn’t speak. Didn’t exist.

And I don’t know what hurt more: his silence, or the fact that I could still see something in his eyes I knew all too well. Something he tried to hide, but couldn’t quite erase from his gaze.

At night, when I tossed and turned, my fingers brushing the empty space next to my pillow — I thought only of him.

Winter came.

I felt empty — during lessons, when I heard his laugh echoing from afar, but it no longer belonged to me.

I wanted to be angry with him. And I was. But the longing tore me apart from the inside.

And when I saw him today, in the corridor — I couldn’t stop myself.

He was walking to class.

I pulled out my wand. “Diffindo” — and the handle of Fred’s bag tore, spilling its contents onto the floor.

“Damn.”

Fred was alone.

I took the first step. Because I knew he wouldn’t take any.

“Fred,” I said quietly, but loud enough for him to hear. He lifted his gaze slowly.

In his eyes, there was none of the boy who walked into the hospital wing with tulips and a smile. Now he was guarded. Closed off. Ready for an attack.

“What do you want?”

I wanted to back away. Really. But I made my legs stay still.

“To talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“But I do,” I said quickly. My voice only shook a little. “Please.”

I saw his jaw tighten. His shoulders pressed against the fabric of his sweatshirt. But he didn’t walk away. That was already a win.

“I know what I said in the hospital wing… was harsh,” I started, every word weighing a ton. “But I was hurt. And angry. And scared.”

“You had every right,” he said coldly.

That wasn’t how I wanted this to go. I didn’t want him to shut down. I wanted… him to understand.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to talk to you,” I said. “That I don’t want… an explanation. That I don’t want to understand you. Because I do. And… I’m afraid that if we leave it like this now, we’ll never come back to what we had.”

“What did we have, Y/N?” His voice carried anger, but also… pain. “It was a lie. I lied to you. You believed in something that didn’t exist.”

“That’s not true.”

He looked at me, surprised. “What?”

“It’s not true that nothing existed,” I repeated. “The way you looked at me. Touched me. Spoke to me in the middle of the night, when you thought I was asleep… That couldn’t have been a lie.”

He looked down. “I didn’t know how else to do it,” he finally said, barely audible. “From the beginning, I felt something for you, but you… you were out of my reach. You were above me. And I acted like an idiot because I didn’t know how to handle how much you intimidated me.”

I stepped closer.

“And then the accident happened,” he continued. “I came to see you every day. I prayed for you to open your eyes. I didn’t care what your friends said, I couldn’t deal with the thought that it was my fault. For 47 days. I was terrified I’d lose you. And when you didn’t remember… ah… I thought I wouldn’t back out of what I’d said.”

I stopped in front of him. A minute passed. Maybe two. Maybe an eternity. And then he sighed, softly, with resignation and sorrow.

“I know I lied to you. I’ve thought about it every single day. Really… But after what you said to me in the hospital wing… It was like a slap in the face. I don’t have the strength to fight with you anymore. I give up.”

“Fred, I can’t keep wounding my heart over and over. I don’t want to judge you anymore. And lately, all I hear in my head is you. I feel your touch. Smell your scent.”

Fred lowered his gaze. For a moment, I thought he’d leave. That everything we said would disappear in the hum of the hallway.

But then… he looked at me. With a mix of shock and disbelief. Like he didn’t know if he could step closer. Like his heart wanted to, but his mind told him not to.

But we took a step — together. Two steps. Maybe three. And suddenly, we were only inches apart.

I saw everything. Every shadow under his eyes, every scar from sleepless nights. I could feel his heartbeat — pounding like it was calling mine back.

I don’t know who leaned in first. Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe both. But our lips met slowly. Cautiously. Like we were learning each other all over again.

Like we were piecing something back together from fragments.

And then… it wasn’t just a kiss. It was everything at once — relief, anger, hunger, regret, and love. Lips begging for forgiveness. Hands that never wanted to let go again. Breaths mixing and speeding up, like the world’s air belonged only to us.

I leaned back against the wall. His body pressed into mine, his hands tangled in my hair like he needed to touch me to believe it was real.

“I missed you,” he said into my mouth. “I missed you so damn much.” He pulled me closer, tighter, as if he wanted to melt into me.

He led me backward, breathless, through the corridor — to the bathroom. He shut the door with a kick.

I leaned against the cold tiles, and he pressed into me like he wanted to fuse into my skin. His hands moved to my hips; my fingers tangled in his hair. We kissed like we were trying to erase all the pain. As if a kiss could fix a broken heart.

As if we existed nowhere outside that moment — the tight space, the steaming air, our breaths and whispers heating it.

Fred pulled back for just a moment, looking into my eyes. His fingers undid the buttons of my sweater, trembling, determined, as if he didn’t want to rush but couldn’t stop.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion.

I didn’t answer with words. I leaned in and kissed him again — firmly, decisively. My hands slipped his hoodie off his shoulders, then his shirt.

Every inch of his skin beneath my fingers felt like the touch of a memory returning.

He slid my skirt down — slowly, reverently. As if every undone button meant something. As if he didn’t want to miss a single detail. When his hands touched my thighs, I sighed — deeply, needfully.

I felt something more than desire in that moment — as if he were trying to reach deeper, beneath my skin, where all the wounds we carried were hidden.

He pulled me closer, like every inch between us was unbearable. He breathed near my ear, and his breath was hot and trembling, restless. His hand traced down my back, along my spine, until it stopped at the nape of my neck. In that moment, it felt like the world truly stopped.

He kissed me everywhere — slowly, attentively, with a tenderness that broke something in me and, at the same time, pieced it back together. There was no room for haste here. There was only us — our trembling bodies and unassuming acts of affection that suddenly meant more than any words ever could.

When he lifted me, I placed my hands on his shoulders, trusting him completely.

His movements were sure but gentle, as if he were carrying something fragile. And he was — we both were, back then. Bruised. But in that one moment, we let ourselves forget.

When he entered me, I felt not just the physical — I felt a return. As if something that had been empty for so long was finally being filled. As if the longing I had carried under my skin, for months, from memories, from glances that ended too soon — had finally found peace.

I tightened my fingers on his shoulder. Not because it hurt. But because I felt too much. His closeness was like warmth spreading slowly, staying in every cell. In his touch, there was something familiar, something I knew only with him. With no one else.

Every movement of his was like an attempt to say, “I’m here. I’m still here.” I answered him with my breath, the tension in my muscles, the way I clung to him harder, deeper. I didn’t just crave his body — I craved his presence. The thing that erased the world: the cold, the loneliness, the fear.

It was more than physical. It was the silence between heartbeats. It was finding something I thought was lost forever.

I closed my eyes, wanting to remember everything. The texture of his skin beneath my hands. The warmth of his breath on my cheek. The rhythm we created together — calm, intentional, one that said, “Don’t rush. Stay.”

And for a moment, I truly believed we could save each other. His forehead rested against mine, and his breath mingled with mine — warm, uneven, real.

With every moment, with every motion, something inside us was closing. Not in the sense of an ending, but of relief. As if our bodies spoke for us, without lies, without evasion.

I felt the tension fall from my shoulders — tension I hadn’t even realized I was carrying. As if this closeness, so long awaited, was the only thing I really needed. It didn’t solve our problems. But for a moment, for a few breaths, it let me forget them.

Fred pulled me even closer, as if he feared I might vanish. And I — I wanted to stay in him. In this moment. In his body. In the feeling that, even if just for a while, we were whole. When our movements slowed, and the silence between us began to hum again, I opened my eyes.

He looked at me — without words, but with everything in him that broke me whenever I saw him.

He touched my face gently, as if needing to make sure I was real. “— You’re here,” he said softly, barely audibly.

I nodded, too overwhelmed to reply.

I was. For a moment. With him. Whole.

[gardengnosticator]

muddy.

1.4k words. a prequel to my other ellabs post canon stuff just to set up just why the two of them have ended up together. plus i wanted to write something a bit more grounded.

She never imagined it would still be this much work. 

That Abby, emaciated, weathered, the weight of unspeakable horrors carved across her body, shorn into her matted hair, her withered frame could still put up a fight. Maybe it’s the blood loss, maybe it’s the dulling haze of adrenaline that’s pooling out of Ellie’s limbs, but Ellie can feel Abby’s thrashing reaching a violent crescendo. 

She’ll stop soon. The water will stop splashing, the bubbles stop rising, Ellie can feel it. She’s had enough blood on her hands to know when the body goes limp, when the muscles of the throat seize up under her grip and human being underneath her stops.

She wonders if Abby’s eyes are open, if she can see her, if she can feel the difference between the water covering her head and the tears streaking down Ellie’s cheeks, if she can hear the broken sobs coming from her throat. 

Ellie isn’t even facing it but she knows he’s there. The boy. Weak. Dying. So limp and fragile Abby had trembled when she picked him up, as if she was going to shatter him to a million pieces if she moved wrong. Would she need to kill him too? Close up this wound emphatically? Do him a mercy and let him bleed out unconscious and unaware of this. 

She thinks back to herself. She thinks of flames. And screaming. Of a machete hacking itself back and forth before warm hands and a gravelly voice pulled her free. She thinks of the cold floor of that basement, she thinks of screams, of bone crunching under metal. Of a guitar and a porch and a conversation that shouldn’t have been held off on for so long. 

She can’t remember his face. She can barely remember his voice. 

Why is she here? Why is she doing this? What fucking good is this going to do? 

He’s not coming back.

Ellie lets go. Collapses back into the water. She doesn’t care if Abby gets up, gets a second wind and pounces, she doesn’t care about anything because for Ellie, there isn’t anything left to care about. All taken from her, like Joel, or abandoned. 

She faintly remembers the warmth of Dina’s body, the way she held onto her like she was the only thing in the world that matters. The way JJ would cradle her thumb between both hands like she had hung the stars in the sky just for him. 

She wants to be sick but instead she just speaks. 

“Go. Just take him.” 

If Abby hears, Ellie doesn’t care. Her eyes shut tight as the world washes away around her. She weeps. It’s over. It’s all over. The being that once called herself Ellie Williams, that knew love and warmth and joy and laughter was dead. Abby might’ve well have beaten her to death along with Joel. Caved her skull in to spare her a life without him. A life of this. 

A life where everything she feared had come true for her. 

There’s noises behind her. Fallout from her accidental prison rebellion she assumes. It doesn’t matter. She just hopes she’s dead in the water before whoever wins finds her. 

Hopes the waves wash her corpse somewhere far far away and that all this can fade away. 

It would never be that simple. She should have died before. Died with Riley. Died on a hospital bed all the way back in Utah so Abby’s father could dice her brain to mush and the world could move past all this. All the pain, all the misery, all the death and loss. If Ellie screams and cries her voice is too hoarse, too tired and too worn at this point to register a sound other than a strangled guttural wail. 

Abby’s hand is in her hair at this point, but it’s fine. Ellie doesn’t care. She’s ready for whatever Abby will swing at her, fist, knee, maybe she’d return the favor and actually follow through. 

“You wasted it.” 

Yeah, Ellie thought, she really did but instead she’s hefted, yanked forward like the dead weight she knows she is and is shoved over the edge of the boat and right inside it. She thrashes for a second, unsure of what’s happening, why she’s here of all places until firm hands grab at her wrists, holding her still. 

“Will you just… fucking stop! Just fucking stop. Fighting. We.. we are leaving. Do you hear that? Leaving. So please… just fucking calm down.” 

Ellie doesn’t want to open her eyes, doesn’t want to parse the reality of who is telling her this, who is showing her mercy, just who is dragging her kicking and screaming into a future without Joel. 

“Just leave! Leave me alone! Just let me fucking die here!” Ellie can feel it again, the anger, the bile, the rage burning inside of her. If her switchblade wasn’t buried beneath silt and seawater she would be trying to swing it into Abby’s eyes but Abby does not budge, does not yield. She pushes forward, restraining Ellie back against the wooden floor of the shaking boat.  

There’s a groan and both women go quiet. It’s the boy. He’s trembling. Face contorted, cheeks hollow, skin burnt and peeling Ellie can feel Abby’s grip begin to soften. But she doesn’t lash out. She goes quiet. Curls up. Knees to chest and eyes shut tight as she feels the boat begin to roar to life and the shores of Santa Barbara fade away. 

Neither of them know how much time passes before either of them speak again, but Ellie is first to break the silence. 

“Why are you doing this?” Ellie manages to mutter, barely loud enough to be heard over the dulcet hum of the boat’s engine. She hears Abby’s breathing hitch. Guess the reality of what she’s done has finally hit her. Ellie wants to laugh. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

“Why didn’t you kill me at the pillars? Would have been a hell of a lot easier than…” Abby’s voice trails off and a loud crescendo of spitting and hacking follows. Ellie knows exactly what Abby is trying to expel from her throat, her mangled stumps tucked tight against her chest to compress what’s left. 

“Than all that.” Abby continues to dry heave on and off for several seconds before her voice shakily returns to her. “You could have killed me back there. I could have killed you back in Seattle. Back in that basement and I didn’t.” 

Ellie lashes out, venom is all she thinks she is capable of. “Yeah and look where that’s gotten you.” She spit, and for the first time since being dragged aboard she looks up, watching the arch of Abby’s shoulders descend as her words hit. Good, Ellie thinks for a second before the reality of the woman in front of her hits her once again. Almost a living corpse but still trying to stand tall. Ellie wants to reach out but stops when Abby resumes speaking.

“He’s alive. I’m alive. You’re alive. That’s where it’s gotten us. And right now that’s all that matters.” 

Ellie feels like she should argue. Like she should sneer and roll her eyes akin and she would if not for the quiet sounds of life off to the side of her. It’s the boy. His eyes are open and he’s either in shock from the fact that she’s here or that they’re all alive but she can tell how unsteady he is. She sighs, shuffling out of herself so she jab Abby in the side. Abby whips around like she’s going to toss Ellie overboard before she notices Lev and for a few awkward seconds her eyes dart between the two. 

“Go to him. I’ll steer. Just don’t go crying too hard, I don’t want us capsizing because of some waterworks.” 

He laughs. Not a full one, a weak, emaciated, hacked one but a laugh nonetheless and Abby clambers over to him quickly, helping him sit up and placing an arm around him to rub his back. 

“You… you two have the same bad taste in jokes.” He mumbles, leaning over to rest on Abby’s shoulder and the look Abby and Ellie exchange is almost too strained for words. They both just choose to shake their heads, Ellie turning away to stare out to the open expanse of water ahead of them, sun rising over the horizon and casting a golden lattice over the waves. She can hear the two of them behind her. Abby admonishing him because “... her jokes are way better,” before soft relieved sobbing follows. 

They are alive. And right now, that is all that matters.