bellebelle⁷

reading books & watching tv ☆ occasionally writing ☆ queer ☆ '01 ☆ aussie ☆ music lover ☆ language learner ☆ virgo ☆ INFP ☆ you are more than enough to be loved

[belleeebelleee]

Writing and recommendations

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Other

Politics and other issues

I do not tolerate hate of any kind on my page.

I own nothing unless stated otherwise.

I do not use AI. I am against the use of AI.

Masterlists are currently under construction, but all my writing can be found under the tag "° braindead writes"

Requests open

Information about requesting

Prompts

I’m currently working through the requests I’ve received—thank you for your patience.

[im-your-nan]

The reason that I fell in love with Rocky as a character, as a physics student, was during Grace's first in-person meeting with him, and there is just one small area of clear material that Grace is able to look through.

I can't remember where I first saw this information, but apparently Rocky's aim was to make the wall to the tunnel out of many different materials to find out which one Grace is able to see through easiest, not based on opacity - like a human or something that evolved to see light does - but based on acoustic impedance. For anyone who doesn't know what that is, it's a way of measuring how easily sound passes through a material - usually used in ultrasound scans. Therefore, for a species who uses echo-location, he's working out which material is easiest for Grace to see through - and from what I can tell he just got lucky with the clear Xenonite. I'm also fairly sure that he was completely unaware about species that see through light waves rather than echo-location, based on his reactions to Grace in the movie.

Basically, Rocky wanted to make things as accessible as he could for any alien that he could come across with the limited knowledge that he had of how different species see things. He is essentially setting himself up to be as accessible as he can for anyone he could possible meet out there. Whether its due to desperation for connection, or just because he's Like That, that's why I think he's so neat. His first interaction with Grace is just him trying to make Grace as comfortable as possible.

I LOVE ROCKYY

[vllevalo]

JOSH HARTNETT as DANNY WALKER

PEARL HARBOR (2001) dir. Michael Bay

[belleeebelleee]

[another-supernova-girl]

It's not just Jody who will be so jelly. I, in fact, am also...significantly jelly.

Cooper Abbott // Trap (2024) // Josh Hartnett (aged 45) // my gifs

[bagheerita]

I love that Kwei calls Genna the "death planet." Practically everything Dek meets on the planet will literally die for him as long as he feeds it first. The only trick is not being the food. Guess most yautja don't travel with snacks.

[belleeebelleee]

[vampirejuno]

Can you imagine being stuck in space completely alone with only the corpses of your friends for company, and the first living thing you meet after 46 years of that misery is a fucking weird alien creature who just rolls up with crazy advanced tech and goes "hi let's work together" and makes it possible for you to save your world through the power of friendship and molecular biology. AND THEN you find out that in this creature's language, its name means "mercy". Happened to my good friend Rocky btw

[rovermcfly]

rocky's crew dying from radiation exposure, something humans go to great lengths to prevent and are very scared of and grace's crew dying in their "sleep" with nobody watching, something eridians go to great lengths to prevent and are very scared of. cool book that is easy to read through your tears.

[wildminti]

Rocky was going to say "fans of PHM" but Grace panicked! 🏳️‍🌈

[belleeebelleee]

Project Hail Mary

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️.5/5

“Rocky fix.”

Why am I emotional over a bug-like rock?? Explain that. He’s so cute. A little rock puppy with a genius brain and he’s over 180 years old?? I would die for him immediately.

I won’t lie—before Rocky shows up, I was struggling a bit. The concept is great, but it dragged for me. Lots of science (love that for it), but it took a minute to hit.

And then Rocky appears and suddenly I’m locked in, emotionally attached, and refusing to blink.

The friendship?? Stop. The communication?? STOP. The way they figure each other out despite literally not speaking the same language?? That’s cinema. That’s love. That’s everything.

It gets so sad out of nowhere. Like you think you’re just here for space science and then BAM—feelings. Hope. Sacrifice. Loneliness. Connection. All of it at once.

And the ending?? Incredible. Perfect. No notes. Had me sitting there like… yeah. Yeah that’s exactly how it should end.

Came for the science. Stayed for the rock puppy. Left emotionally compromised.

[belleeebelleee]

Jeon Jungkook (BTS) x fem!reader

Jungkook notices how people look at you when you’re around him. He gets scared—not of you, but of what comes with him. So he becomes distant in small ways: short answers, fewer texts, fewer “accidental” meetings. You think you’re being gently let go. He thinks he’s protecting you from a life you never asked to be protected from.

The first time Jungkook noticed it, he pretended he didn't.

You were standing beside him outside a small café at nearly midnight, your hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold, laughing at something ridiculous he had said, and for a moment he wasn't looking at you.

He was looking at everyone else.

At the couple whispering while glancing in your direction.

At the person across the street subtly lifting their phone.

At the group of fans who had clearly recognized him and were now staring openly.

You didn't notice.

Or maybe you did, and you were simply too kind to mention it.

The thing was, Jungkook had spent years becoming numb to being watched.

People photographed him when he was tired.

When he was happy.

When he was grieving.

When he was simply existing.

Being observed had become another layer of breathing.

But you—

You hadn't signed up for that.

You hadn't asked for strangers analyzing every expression on your face.

You hadn't asked for people creating stories about you.

You hadn't asked to become collateral damage in someone else's fame.

And standing there beside him, smiling so freely, looking so comfortable, Jungkook felt something unfamiliar crawl beneath his ribs.

Fear.

Not fear of commitment.

Not fear of love.

Fear of ruining your life.

Because somewhere between late-night conversations and endless texts and accidental touches that lingered a second too long, he had fallen in love with you so completely that the idea of hurting you felt unbearable.

And suddenly every future he imagined came with consequences.

Photos.

Rumors.

Articles.

Comments.

The loss of privacy.

The endless scrutiny.

The possibility that one day you'd wake up and realize loving him wasn't worth the price.

So he made a decision.

A stupid one.

A painful one.

A decision that felt noble at the time.

He would let you go before the world could hurt you.

It started small.

Small enough that you convinced yourself you were imagining it.

His replies took longer.

Not hours.

Just enough longer to notice.

Where he once answered immediately, now thirty minutes passed.

An hour.

Sometimes more.

His messages became shorter too.

Instead of paragraphs, you got sentences.

Instead of sentences, you got fragments.

Instead of "Tell me everything about your day."

You got:

"How was work?"

Instead of:

"I miss you."

You got:

"Hope you're doing okay."

Tiny changes.

Tiny absences.

Tiny losses.

The kind that accumulate quietly until one day you realize something beautiful is disappearing right in front of you.

You told yourself he was busy.

Because he was.

You told yourself he was tired.

Because he was.

You told yourself a thousand excuses.

But every explanation failed to silence the growing ache in your chest.

Because the truth was simple.

You missed him.

Even when he was still technically there.

Jungkook hated himself.

Every single day.

Because every message he didn't send felt wrong.

Every invitation he declined felt wrong.

Every moment he stared at your name on his phone without pressing call felt wrong.

But then he would remember the comments he'd seen.

The speculation.

The invasive articles.

The strangers who thought they were entitled to every piece of his life.

And he would imagine you caught in the middle of all of it.

Then he'd force himself to stay away.

For your sake.

At least that's what he told himself.

Three months later, you stopped asking him to meet.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because despite all the distance he'd created, there had always been one reassuring constant.

You.

You kept reaching.

Kept trying.

Kept showing up.

Until suddenly you didn't.

And when the realization hit him, Jungkook sat awake until sunrise staring at his phone.

No good morning text.

No random photo.

No "Look at this dog I saw."

Nothing.

Silence.

The kind of silence that feels earned.

The kind you create yourself.

The kind that hurts anyway.

You cried that night.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

Just quietly.

Alone in your apartment.

Because at some point you'd finally accepted what your heart had been refusing to admit.

He was leaving.

Maybe not all at once.

Maybe not cruelly.

Maybe not intentionally.

But he was leaving.

People didn't become distant by accident.

People didn't stop showing up by accident.

People didn't slowly disappear unless they wanted to.

And if Jungkook wanted space, then you would give it to him.

Even if it broke your heart.

The next time he texted, three days later, your reply came six hours after he'd sent it.

His stomach dropped immediately.

Not because of the delay.

Because of how polite you sounded.

"Sorry. Busy day."

Sorry.

Busy day.

No teasing.

No warmth.

No little heart emoji.

Nothing.

For the first time, Jungkook experienced what he'd been doing to you for months.

And it felt awful.

A week later he saw a photo online.

You.

At a bookstore.

Smiling.

Standing beside a male coworker.

Nothing romantic.

Nothing inappropriate.

Just two people talking.

But something ugly and irrational exploded inside his chest.

Jealousy.

Pure jealousy.

The realization hit him so hard it nearly made him sick.

Someone else could make you laugh.

Someone else could walk beside you.

Someone else could become important to you.

Someone else could take the place he had been abandoning.

And suddenly his carefully constructed logic started collapsing.

Because if his goal had really been your happiness, why did the idea of losing you hurt so much?

Why did he feel like he couldn't breathe?

Why did every instinct scream at him to run to you?

The answer came from the least expected source.

Namjoon.

Of course it was Namjoon.

Jungkook found himself sitting across from him one evening, speaking in half-sentences and frustrated silences until eventually Namjoon looked at him and said:

"Did she ask you to protect her?"

Jungkook blinked.

"What?"

"Did she ask you to decide what's best for her?"

The question landed like a punch.

"No."

"Then why are you making decisions for her?"

Jungkook opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Because for months he'd been framing this as sacrifice.

As protection.

As love.

But when stripped down to its core, what had he actually done?

He'd been afraid.

Afraid of losing you.

Afraid of hurting you.

Afraid of the future.

And instead of trusting you enough to choose, he'd chosen for you.

The realization was unbearable.

Because suddenly he saw every unanswered text.

Every cancelled plan.

Every moment you'd probably wondered what you'd done wrong.

And none of it had been your fault.

He called you immediately.

You didn't answer.

He called again.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

His panic grew.

Then finally a message appeared.

"What is it, Jungkook?"

Not "Hey."

Not "What's up?"

Just:

"What is it?"

And for the first time he understood how far away you'd become.

"Can we meet?"

Several minutes passed.

Then:

"Why?"

His chest tightened.

Because you had every right to ask.

Every right to doubt him.

Every right to say no.

So he typed the truth.

For once.

"Because I've been an idiot."

You agreed.

Reluctantly.

One hour later.

When you walked into the park, Jungkook almost forgot how to breathe.

Not because you looked different.

Because you looked exactly the same.

The same eyes.

The same smile he hadn't seen in months.

The same person he'd fallen hopelessly in love with.

And suddenly all the distance he'd created felt ridiculous.

Painful.

Pointless.

You stopped several feet away.

Not close enough to touch.

Not close enough to pretend everything was okay.

And that hurt more than anything.

"What did you want to talk about?"

Formal.

Polite.

Careful.

Jungkook hated it.

Because he'd put that distance there himself.

For several seconds neither of you spoke.

Then finally he said:

"I thought I was protecting you."

Your eyebrows furrowed.

"What?"

"I saw how people looked at you."

His voice cracked slightly.

"Every time you were with me."

You stared.

Confused.

So he kept going.

Because there was no point stopping now.

"I saw the photos. The comments. The speculation. And I kept thinking about what would happen if we..."

He swallowed hard.

"If we became something real."

Your expression softened.

Just slightly.

"So you pushed me away."

Not a question.

A realization.

Jungkook nodded.

Shame flooding every part of him.

"I thought if I made you leave first, you wouldn't get hurt."

The silence that followed felt endless.

Then you laughed.

A small, disbelieving laugh.

And tears immediately filled your eyes.

Which somehow hurt even more.

"You idiot."

His throat tightened.

"I know."

"No, Jungkook."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"I spent months thinking you didn't want me anymore."

Every word felt like a knife.

"I thought I was bothering you."

Another tear.

"I thought maybe I'd imagined everything between us."

Jungkook's eyes burned.

Because he had done that.

He had created that pain.

Not the media.

Not the public.

Him.

"I love you."

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Raw.

Broken.

Honest.

Your entire body froze.

Jungkook stepped forward.

Just one step.

"I love you so much that I got scared."

His voice shook.

"I love you enough that the thought of someone hurting you made me panic."

Another step.

"But I should've trusted you."

Another.

"I should've talked to you."

Another.

"I should've let you decide."

By then only a few feet separated you.

And tears were falling freely down both your faces.

"I love you too."

The words shattered whatever remained of his restraint.

Because despite everything.

Despite the confusion.

Despite the hurt.

Despite the months of distance.

You still loved him.

The sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

Then he crossed the remaining distance.

His arms wrapped around you with desperate relief.

As if he'd finally found oxygen after months underwater.

And when you hugged him back just as tightly, Jungkook felt something inside him heal.

The future would still be complicated.

There would still be cameras.

Rumors.

Speculation.

Fear.

Difficult days.

Uncomfortable conversations.

Nothing magical had erased reality.

But this time they would face it together.

Not separately.

Not in silence.

Not hidden behind misguided sacrifices.

Together.

Exactly as it should have been from the beginning.

Months later, Jungkook would still occasionally catch people staring when the two of you were together.

He would still notice cameras.

Still notice whispers.

Still feel that instinctive fear trying to creep back into his chest.

But then your hand would find his.

A gentle squeeze.

A silent reminder.

And every time, he would look at you.

Really look at you.

At the woman who had chosen him despite knowing the risks.

The woman who refused to let fear make decisions for either of you.

The woman he loved beyond reason.

And he would squeeze your hand back.

Because love wasn't protecting someone from every possible hurt.

Love was trusting them enough to walk beside you anyway.

And as you smiled at him beneath city lights and endless skies, Jungkook realized something beautifully simple.

The world could stare all it wanted.

You were still there.

Still choosing him.

And this time, he wasn't letting go.

[belleeebelleee]

Murphy MacManus (Boondock Saints) x fem!reader

“you are the prettiest person that has ever existed.” “that’s a bold statement.”

There were very few things in life Murphy MacManus considered absolute truths.

One: Connor was incapable of minding his business.

Two: Doc’s bar smelled permanently like whiskey and old wood no matter how many times the floors got cleaned.

And Three:

You were the prettiest person Murphy had ever seen in his entire goddamn life.

Not “one of.” Not “probably.” Not “objectively.”

No.

The prettiest.

It wasn’t rational.

Murphy knew that.

There were actresses on movie screens and women in magazines and strangers on the street people stopped to stare at.

Didn’t matter.

None of them were you.

None of them laughed like you did. None of them tilted their head when listening closely. None of them looked at Murphy like he was something worth keeping.

That alone made the rest of the world lose automatically.

The problem was that Murphy had absolutely no ability to keep thoughts to himself when it came to you.

Especially after you started dating.

The man had spent years bottling things up while he loved you from a distance, and now that he actually had you?

Christ.

It was like a dam breaking.

You’d be doing completely normal things and Murphy would suddenly look personally wounded by how attractive he found you.

Sometimes he just said it out loud.

Actually, most times he said it out loud.

Which was how the argument started.

“You’re staring again.”

Murphy blinked from where he sat at the kitchen table.

You stood at the counter making coffee in one of his shirts, hair messy from sleep, sunlight spilling gold through the apartment windows behind you.

Murphy had been watching you for at least ten straight minutes.

He didn’t even deny it.

“Aye.”

You snorted softly without turning around.

“Creepy.”

“Can ye blame me?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You smiled despite yourself.

Murphy’s chest tightened immediately at the sight.

God.

That smile.

It genuinely made him feel insane sometimes.

You glanced over your shoulder. “What?”

Murphy leaned back in his chair slowly.

Still staring.

“Ye are the prettiest person that has ever existed.”

You froze halfway through pouring coffee.

Then turned fully toward him with narrowed eyes.

“That’s a bold statement.”

Murphy shrugged like this was simply factual information.

“It’s true.”

“There are literally supermodels.”

“Don’t care.”

You laughed once. “Murphy.”

“What?”

“You cannot just say things like that at eight in the morning.”

“Why not?”

“Because you sound insane.”

Murphy considered this.

“Aye.”

You shook your head, smiling helplessly as you carried two mugs over to the table.

Murphy tracked your movement the entire way.

You noticed immediately.

“There you go again.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Murphy.”

“Sweetheart.”

You slid into the chair across from him and pushed his coffee toward him.

Murphy ignored it completely.

Still staring.

You tried not to smile.

Failed.

Murphy’s eyes softened instantly.

“There,” he murmured quietly.

“What?”

“That look.”

Your cheeks pinked immediately.

Murphy nearly lost his damn mind.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered.

“And yet ye love me deeply.”

“Unfortunately.”

Murphy grinned.

Then pointed at you with complete seriousness.

“See, that right there.”

“What?”

“That face ye make when ye’re tryin’ not t’smile.”

You covered your face with one hand instantly.

“Oh my God.”

Murphy laughed softly.

“Exactly my point.”

The thing about Murphy was that his compliments never sounded smooth.

That would’ve been easier to deal with.

If he sounded practiced, maybe you could laugh it off.

But Murphy always sounded painfully sincere.

Like every compliment left his mouth before he could stop it.

Like he physically couldn’t hold the thought inside.

Which was why they always hit you directly in the chest.

Three days later, you were both at Doc’s during a slow afternoon.

Connor sat at the bar arguing loudly with a man about hockey while Murphy leaned against the counter beside you.

You were writing inventory numbers into a notebook.

Murphy had been quiet for several minutes.

Too quiet.

You looked up suspiciously.

“What?”

Murphy blinked slowly.

“I was thinkin’.”

“That’s never good.”

“Aye, probably not.”

You returned to your notes.

Thirty seconds passed.

Then:

“Yer eyelashes are ridiculous.”

You looked up again.

“My what?”

“Yer eyelashes.”

Murphy looked genuinely annoyed by them.

“They’re too long.”

You stared at him.

“…What does that even mean?”

“It means they should be illegal.”

Connor physically gagged from across the bar.

“Oh my God, can ye two get a room?”

Murphy ignored him completely.

Still staring at you.

“You know what yer problem is?” he asked.

You narrowed your eyes cautiously. “What.”

“Ye don’t understand how pretty ye are.”

Connor barked out a laugh.

“Jesus Christ, he’s startin’ again.”

You felt heat crawl up your face instantly.

Murphy noticed immediately.

And smiled.

Not smug.

Soft.

Fond enough to hurt.

“There she is,” he murmured.

Connor pointed dramatically. “See? SEE? She still blushes!”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely fuckin’ do.”

Murphy looked delighted.

“Every time.”

You glared at both of them. “You’re exhausting.”

Connor snorted into his beer.

Murphy just leaned closer against the bar.

“Still true though.”

“What is?”

“The prettiest person alive thing.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“We are STILL on that?”

“Aye.”

“That’s objectively untrue.”

Murphy looked genuinely offended.

“Says who?”

“Reality?”

Murphy scoffed loudly.

“Reality’s stupid.”

Connor nearly fell off his stool laughing.

“You’re whipped beyond repair.”

Murphy didn’t even look embarrassed.

“Aye.”

Then he looked directly at you again.

Worth it.

The expression on his face made your stomach flip helplessly.

Because Murphy wasn’t joking.

Not really.

He looked at you like he meant every word.

Like somewhere in his head, this wasn’t even romantic exaggeration.

It was just truth.

And somehow that was always worse.

Later that night, you asked him about it seriously.

The apartment was quiet except for rain tapping softly against the windows.

Murphy lay sprawled across the couch while you sat curled against his side beneath a blanket.

His arm rested around your shoulders automatically.

Comfortably.

Like it belonged there.

You tilted your head up slightly.

“Can I ask you something?”

Murphy looked down immediately.

“Aye.”

“Why do you say stuff like that?”

His brows furrowed.

“Like what?”

“That I’m the prettiest person alive.”

Murphy looked confused by the question itself.

“Because ye are.”

“You know what I mean.”

Murphy studied your face for a long moment.

Then his expression softened slightly.

“Ye really don’t see what I see, do ye?”

You looked away instinctively.

Murphy noticed.

Always noticed.

His fingers curled gently beneath your chin, guiding your attention back toward him.

“Hey.”

You sighed softly. “I’m just saying it’s dramatic.”

Murphy snorted.

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen ye cry over dog commercials. Neither of us gets t’complain about dramatics.”

You laughed reluctantly.

Murphy smiled faintly at the sound.

Then his thumb brushed softly across your cheek.

“I mean it though.”

Your chest tightened.

“Murphy…”

“No, listen.”

His voice got quieter.

Rougher.

“When I look at ye, I don’t compare ye t’anybody else.”

You stilled.

Murphy’s gaze stayed fixed on yours.

“I don’t care about actresses or models or whatever the hell else.” His mouth curved slightly. “None of them are you.”

Something warm and aching spread through your ribs.

Murphy continued softly:

“Yer face is my favorite face.”

You physically stopped breathing for a second.

Murphy noticed immediately.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“That look like I just knocked the wind outta ye.”

“You kind of did.”

Murphy smiled gently.

“Good.”

You shoved his shoulder weakly. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Aye.”

“You know normal people don’t talk like this, right?”

Murphy shrugged.

“Maybe normal people aren’t in love right.”

That—

That was unfair.

Your face burned instantly and Murphy laughed quietly under his breath.

“Christ,” he murmured affectionately. “Still blushin’.”

You buried your face in his shoulder immediately.

“I hate you.”

Murphy wrapped both arms around you at once.

“No ye don’t.”

“No, but I should.”

“Probably.”

His lips pressed into your hair.

Warm. Lingering.

Then softer:

“Pretty girl.”

You groaned into his shirt.

Murphy looked deeply pleased with himself.

A week later, the situation escalated dramatically because Connor decided to get involved.

Which never improved anything.

Ever.

You were all sitting in Doc’s after closing.

Connor played cards badly. Doc complained about everyone equally. Murphy sat beside you with one arm hooked lazily around the back of your chair.

Normal night.

Until Connor looked up suddenly and asked:

“Alright, I gotta know.”

You immediately looked suspicious. “That sentence never ends well.”

Connor ignored you.

“Murph. Honest question.”

“Aye?”

“If some famous actress walked in here right now and flirted with ye, would ye actually care?”

Murphy didn’t even hesitate.

“No.”

Connor blinked.

“That was immediate.”

Murphy looked confused why this required thought.

Connor pointed toward you. “You’re sayin’ you’d pick her over literally anybody?”

“Aye.”

Your face heated instantly.

Connor noticed and cackled.

“Oh my God.”

Murphy frowned slightly at him.

“What?”

“She’s goin’ red again!”

“I am not.”

“Ye absolutely are.”

Murphy turned toward you automatically.

The second he saw your flushed cheeks, his entire expression melted.

Like someone had lit a candle inside his chest.

“There she is.”

You covered your face instantly while Connor laughed himself breathless.

Murphy gently tugged your hands down again.

“Nah,” he murmured. “Don’t hide from me.”

“You are both menaces.”

Connor pointed at Murphy. “Tell her the thing again.”

Murphy grinned immediately.

“Aye, alright.”

You looked horrified. “No.”

“You are the prettiest person that has ever existed.”

Your face burst into flames instantly.

Connor screamed laughing.

Doc yelled from across the bar:

“Will all of you shut the fuck up?”

Murphy barely heard him.

Because you were smiling now.

Embarrassed. Flustered. Beautiful.

And Murphy—

Murphy looked at you like he’d never recover from loving you.

He hoped he never did.

[belleeebelleee]

Happy Lowman (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader

Happy tries to romance you. Unfortunately, he's Happy. So it goes.. interestingly. Luckily for him, you're a lil gone for him.

The first time Happy tried to romance you, he handed you a zip tie.

Not flowers.

Not your favorite candy.

A zip tie.

You stared at the little black strip of plastic in your palm while the garage behind you echoed with the sound of tools and loud music and someone—probably Tig—yelling about stolen onion rings.

Happy stood in front of you with his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he regretted existing in real time.

“They’re useful,” he said finally.

You blinked at him.

“...Thanks?”

He nodded once like the matter had been settled. Romance achieved.

Then he walked away.

You watched him disappear back into the garage and smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

Because the thing was—unfortunately for everyone with functioning judgment—you were a little gone for Happy Lowman.

Not in a normal way, either.

Not in the “he’s kinda cute” way.

No.

You were gone in the “his terrifying dead-eyed stare makes me feel weirdly safe” way.

In the “he threatened a guy for calling me sweetheart and I thought about it for three weeks” way.

In the “he says maybe five words a day but I treasure every single one like a woman receiving war letters” way.

So the zip tie?

Honestly?

Kind of worked for you.

The second attempt came two weeks later.

You were sitting in the clubhouse kitchen at nearly midnight eating cereal out of a coffee mug because all the bowls were dirty.

Happy walked in silently, like some emotionally constipated cryptid.

He opened the fridge.

Stared into it.

Closed it again.

Then turned toward you.

“Come outside.”

That was all he said.

No explanation.

No emotion.

Just come outside.

You probably should’ve been more concerned by that.

Instead, you put your spoon down and followed him like an idiot.

The air outside was cool, heavy with gasoline and cigarette smoke. Bikes lined the lot under flickering lights.

Happy led you around the side of the building.

And there, parked crookedly near the fence, was a motorcycle.

Not his.

This one was smaller. Lower to the ground.

Your favorite color.

You looked at him slowly.

“Happy…”

He rubbed the back of his neck once.

“Mentioned wantin’ one.”

Your heart immediately started acting stupid.

“You bought me a motorcycle?”

“Needs work.”

“That does not answer the question.”

A shrug.

Which, from Happy, apparently meant yes.

You stared at the bike again.

It was old. A little beat up. Definitely used.

But he’d remembered.

Months ago, during some half-drunk conversation, you’d admitted you missed riding. That you’d wanted your own bike someday.

And Happy—who communicated primarily through violence and grunting—had apparently filed that information directly into the sacred vault of Important Things.

You looked back at him.

“You’re trying to woo me, aren’t you?”

Happy’s expression went immediately flat.

“No.”

“You bought me a motorcycle.”

“Found it.”

“You’re lying.”

Another shrug.

God, he was terrible at this.

You stepped closer, smiling helplessly now.

“This your version of flowers?”

“They die.”

“That is the most Happy thing you could’ve possibly said.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth for exactly half a second before lifting again.

“I could get flowers.”

The seriousness in his voice nearly killed you.

Like he was fully prepared to march into a gas station at midnight and aggressively acquire roses if that’s what was required.

You bit back a grin.

“I like the bike better.”

Something in his shoulders loosened.

Tiny.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

You did.

Always did.

The guys at SAMCRO figured it out before either of you admitted anything.

Mostly because Happy started hovering.

Not obviously.

Not sweetly.

Just… there.

If you were at the clubhouse, Happy was somewhere nearby cleaning guns or smoking or staring at people hard enough to make them nervous.

If someone annoyed you, they mysteriously stopped doing that.

If you mentioned liking something once, it somehow appeared later.

You said your apartment lock stuck?

Happy replaced it.

You complained your car made a weird noise?

Happy disappeared with the keys and returned three hours later with it fixed.

You mentioned some guy at the gas station creeped you out?

Happy asked for the address.

You very quickly learned not to mention men behaving badly around him unless you wanted them psychologically destroyed.

“You know he’s in love with you, right?” Tig asked one afternoon.

You nearly choked on your drink.

Happy, sitting across the room cleaning a knife, didn’t even look up.

“No he isn’t.”

Tig stared at you.

Then at Happy.

Then back at you.

“Sweetheart, he carved a guy’s tire open because he flirted with you at the mechanic.”

Happy finally spoke.

“He touched her shoulder.”

Tig threw both hands up dramatically.

“SEE?”

Your face burned.

Happy looked entirely unbothered.

Like that was a perfectly reasonable reaction.

Maybe for him, it was.

The actual confession happened because Happy got shot.

Not badly.

A graze to the shoulder during a run gone sideways.

But you still nearly vomited when they brought him back bleeding.

Happy, annoyingly, seemed fine about the entire thing.

You, however, were furious.

“You could’ve died.”

“S’fine.”

“You were bleeding in a truck!”

“Part of the job.”

“You are impossible to talk to.”

Happy sat on the edge of the bathroom counter while you cleaned the wound with far more aggression than necessary.

He hissed when you pressed antiseptic against it.

“Easy.”

“No.”

His eyes stayed on your face.

Steady.

Quiet.

“You scared me,” you muttered.

That did something to him.

You saw it happen in real time.

A shift.

Small but devastating.

Happy reached for your wrist suddenly, stopping your movements.

His hand was warm. Rough.

“You care.”

You stared at him.

“Obviously I care.”

His brow furrowed slightly like he genuinely didn’t understand why that would be obvious.

And there it was.

Underneath all the tattoos and violence and unsettling eye contact—

Happy was terrible at believing people could love him.

Your chest ached.

“You absolute idiot,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed once against your wrist.

You don’t think he even realized he was doing it.

“I ain’t good at this.”

“At what?”

“This.” His voice had gone quieter. “Wantin’ somebody.”

Your heart folded in on itself.

Because this terrifying man looked genuinely uncertain.

Like he expected rejection.

Like he thought maybe caring about you was something he should apologize for.

You stepped between his knees slowly.

Happy’s hands immediately settled on your hips by instinct alone.

Careful.

Always so careful with you despite the brutality in him.

“You bought me a motorcycle,” you said softly.

A pause.

“Yeah.”

“You gave me a zip tie.”

“They’re useful.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Happy’s gaze locked onto your face like the sound had hit him somewhere vulnerable.

“You hover around me like a homicidal guard dog.”

His fingers tightened slightly against your hips.

“Yeah.”

“And you scared Tig by threatening to staple someone’s hand to a bar.”

“He called you babe.”

You smiled so hard it hurt.

Then you cupped his face gently.

“Happy?”

“Hm?”

“I like your weird little romance attempts.”

For the first time since you’d known him, Happy Lowman looked completely caught off guard.

You leaned down and kissed him before he could recover.

And for a second he didn’t move.

Like he short-circuited.

Then his hands suddenly slid around your waist and he kissed you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

Not polished.

Not practiced.

But intense in that terrifying, wholehearted way only Happy could manage.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

Silent.

Processing.

Then:

“I got you somethin’ else.”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh my god, what is it?”

Happy reached into his pocket.

And proudly handed you—

A pocket knife.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the knife.

“It has your initials engraved,” he said, almost defensive now.

Your heart basically exploded.

“I love it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

A long pause.

Then Happy smiled.

Tiny.

Crooked.

Rare enough to feel like witnessing a solar eclipse.

“Alright,” he murmured. “Good.”

Dating Happy Lowman did not improve his flirting skills.

If anything, it made them worse.

Because now he was confident you liked him.

Which apparently meant he no longer felt the need to pretend to be normal about it.

You woke up one morning to find a dead flashlight on your kitchen counter.

Not broken.

Dead as in the battery had died.

Happy had taken it apart completely and laid the pieces out with surgical precision beside a brand-new industrial flashlight still in the packaging.

There was also a sticky note.

In shaky block letters:

THIS ONE WON’T DIE.

You stared at it for a full minute before dissolving into helpless laughter.

Later that day, you found Happy outside the garage smoking.

“You left me a flashlight.”

He nodded once.

“The other one sucked.”

“That was a romantic gesture to you?”

“You complained about it.”

You walked right up to him and kissed him square on the mouth.

Happy looked mildly startled every single time you kissed him first.

Like despite the fact you were literally dating, part of him still expected this to be temporary.

It did something painful to your chest every time.

“You’re insane,” you informed him fondly.

His hand settled automatically on your waist.

“You like it.”

Unfortunately.

You really, really did.

Other gifts included:

A tire iron because “the grip’s better on this one.”

An entire first aid kit he assembled himself after you got a paper cut and he decided your apartment was “medically irresponsible.”

A lock knife with tiny pink flames on the handle because Chibs told him girls liked customization.

Happy had stared at the flames for a long moment before giving it to you.

“You hate pink,” he said suspiciously.

“I do.”

“Tig said chicks like pink.”

“Tig is banned from helping you romance me.”

“Yeah,” Happy muttered. “Figured that out.”

But the thing about Happy’s strange little acts of devotion was that they never stopped being genuine.

He remembered everything.

You liked your coffee too sweet? He made it before you woke up.

You got cold easily? His hoodies started appearing around your apartment like emotionally repressed mushrooms.

You had nightmares? Suddenly Happy slept with one arm wrapped around your waist every night like he was anchoring you to the bed.

Not clingy.

Not soft about it.

Just there.

Solid.

Constant.

Like he’d decided you were his favorite thing and that was the end of the discussion.

The guys found the whole thing hysterical.

Mostly because Happy was terrifying to everyone else while acting like some deeply unwell stray dog with you.

“He brought her motor oil once,” Tig said one afternoon, still sounding offended about it.

“It was the good kind,” Happy replied.

“YOU CAN’T WOO A WOMAN WITH MOTOR OIL.”

You looked up from where your head rested in Happy’s lap on the clubhouse couch.

“You actually can.”

Happy looked smug immediately.

Tig looked devastated.

Chibs nearly choked laughing.

The girl at the bar made the mistake of not knowing.

You were sitting with Gemma and Layla during one of SAMCRO’s louder nights at the clubhouse while Happy played pool with Kozik and Rat across the room.

Well.

“Played” was generous.

Mostly Happy just stared at people until they missed shots.

A brunette in a tiny black top slid up beside him while you were mid-conversation.

You noticed her immediately because every woman in the room noticed Happy immediately.

He had that dangerous sort of magnetism that made bad ideas seem appealing.

Tall.

Broad.

Covered in tattoos.

Eyes like violence wrapped in exhaustion.

And unfortunately for the general public, he got even hotter once you realized he was secretly obsessed with you.

The girl leaned against the pool table saying something with a smile that was probably meant to be seductive.

Happy looked at her.

Blankly.

She touched his arm.

And oh.

Oh no.

You saw it happen instantly.

The visible disgust.

Not annoyance.

Not temptation.

Not even awkwardness.

Pure, immediate revulsion.

Like someone had offered him expired milk.

You slapped a hand over your mouth before you laughed.

Happy physically leaned away from her.

His face had gone completely flat in that terrifying way he got.

The girl either didn’t notice or disastrously thought she could recover.

“You wanna buy me a drink?” she asked.

Happy stared at her hand still touching his arm.

Then slowly looked across the room directly at you.

His expression somehow became even more offended.

“She’s touching me,” he said.

You lost it immediately.

Gemma barked out a laugh loud enough to shake the room.

The poor girl blinked. “What?”

Happy looked genuinely disturbed.

“She keeps touchin’ me.”

Now Kozik was laughing too.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart,” he told the woman unhelpfully.

The girl finally followed Happy’s line of sight to you sitting across the room openly cackling into your drink.

Realization dawned on her face.

“Oh my god,” she muttered.

Happy removed her hand from his arm like it was hazardous material.

Not aggressively.

Just very firmly.

“M’with her.”

His voice softened on the last word without him even realizing it.

Your stomach immediately flipped.

The girl looked between the two of you and sighed.

“Right. Okay. Sorry.”

Happy nodded once like she’d finally started making sense.

Then he crossed the room directly toward you while everyone else still laughed.

“You looked personally offended,” you wheezed when he reached you.

“I was.”

“She flirted with you, Happy, she didn’t stab you.”

“She touched me.”

You grinned up at him. “Tragic.”

His eyes narrowed.

Then he hooked a hand around the back of your neck and pulled you closer until your knees bumped his.

“Don’t like people touchin’ your stuff.”

Gemma made a loud gagging noise.

“Jesus Christ. You two are disgustingly cute.”

Happy ignored her completely.

Still staring at you.

Still holding your neck gently in that possessive, careful way that made your pulse stutter every time.

You smiled softly.

“My stuff?”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“Yeah.”

The sincerity in his face hit harder than any grand declaration ever could.

Happy didn’t flirt.

Didn’t charm.

Didn’t know how to do pretty speeches or flowers or smooth lines.

But he looked at you like you were something precious he’d found accidentally and still couldn’t believe he got to keep.

And honestly?

You’d take the zip ties and motor oil over roses any day.

[belleeebelleee]

Jack Abbot (The Pitt) x fem!reader

Jack feels like a dirty old man. He's 50. You're 25. He should not be thinking about you like this. And yet.

Jack Abbott knew better.

That was the problem.

If he were a younger man, maybe he could blame it on stupidity. Maybe he could shrug it off as some immature fantasy and move on. But at fifty years old, with decades spent working emergency medicine, decades spent watching people make terrible decisions because they confused attraction with something deeper, he knew exactly what he was doing every time his gaze lingered on you for a second too long.

Which was why he hated himself for it.

The age difference alone should have been enough.

Twenty-five.

You were twenty-five years old.

A resident rotating through the ER, bright-eyed despite the brutal schedule, somehow managing to smile at three in the morning after six ambulance arrivals and two traumas.

If Jack had children, you would be closer to their age than his own.

The thought made his stomach twist.

And yet.

And yet he noticed when you walked into a room.

Not because you were beautiful.

Although you were.

Not because you laughed at his jokes.

Although you did.

No.

It was because you looked at him like he wasn't old.

Like he wasn't the exhausted attending with graying hair and permanent lines around his eyes.

You looked at him like he was still interesting.

Still worth listening to.

Still worth seeking out.

And that was dangerous.

"Jack."

Your voice pulled him from a chart.

He looked up.

Big mistake.

You were standing beside the desk, sleeves pushed up, hair escaping from a ponytail after fourteen straight hours.

Tired.

Beautiful.

Human.

His pulse betrayed him immediately.

"Yeah?"

You held out a tablet.

"I wanted you to double-check something before I put the orders in."

Professional.

Normal.

Easy.

Jack forced his attention onto the screen.

You stepped closer so both of you could see it.

Close enough that he caught your shampoo.

Close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.

Close enough that every instinct screamed at him to move away.

Instead he stared at the chart.

"Looks good."

"That's it?"

A grin tugged at your lips.

"You don't have six additional teaching points?"

"I can get six additional teaching points."

"You always have six additional teaching points."

Jack snorted despite himself.

And there it was.

That smile.

The one that made him feel twenty years younger and infinitely more foolish.

The problem got worse during night shifts.

There was something intimate about surviving overnight emergencies together.

Not romantic.

Not really.

But close.

The world narrowed.

The fluorescent lights.

The constant beeping monitors.

The exhausted staff.

The moments between disasters.

The quiet conversations at four in the morning when everyone else was running on caffeine and stubbornness.

One night, after a particularly ugly trauma case, you both ended up in the staff lounge.

Neither of you spoke at first.

You sat on the couch.

Jack sat across from you.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

Just tired.

Eventually you sighed.

"Do you ever get used to it?"

He looked up.

"Used to what?"

"Losing people."

The question hung in the room.

Jack considered lying.

Instead he said the truth.

"No."

Your expression softened.

"No?"

"No."

He leaned back.

"You just learn how to keep going afterward."

For a moment neither of you spoke.

Then you smiled sadly.

"I was hoping you'd have a better answer."

"So was I."

That earned a laugh.

A small one.

But genuine.

And suddenly Jack realized he was watching you instead of the television playing muted news in the corner.

Watching the curve of your smile.

The exhaustion in your eyes.

The warmth there.

Watching too closely.

Again.

Always again.

He looked away first.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

The attraction never disappeared.

If anything, it grew roots.

Which was worse.

Because attraction could be ignored.

Respect couldn't.

Admiration couldn't.

The way he genuinely looked forward to seeing you couldn't.

You challenged him.

Made him laugh.

Argued with him when you thought he was wrong.

Listened when he taught.

Called him out when he was being stubborn.

The worst part was that he wasn't sure when wanting you had become caring about you.

Somewhere along the way it happened.

And that terrified him.

It happened after a brutal overnight shift.

The rain was coming down hard outside.

The parking garage echoed with distant thunder.

Jack was halfway to his car when he heard footsteps behind him.

"Hey."

He turned.

You were jogging to catch up.

Holding your jacket over your head.

He frowned.

"What are you still doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"I'm old."

You rolled your eyes.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The old joke."

"It's not a joke."

"It absolutely is."

Jack laughed despite himself.

Rain hammered against the concrete around you.

The garage was mostly empty.

Quiet.

For the first time all night, there was no emergency waiting.

No patient needing something.

Just the two of you.

The realization landed heavily.

You seemed to feel it too.

Because the conversation faded.

And suddenly you were looking at him.

Really looking at him.

Not at your attending.

Not at your mentor.

At him.

Jack's chest tightened.

Dangerous.

This was dangerous.

You took a step closer.

His heartbeat stumbled.

"Can I ask you something?"

His voice came out rough.

"Sure."

You hesitated.

Which immediately made him nervous.

Then—

"Why do you always pull away?"

Jack froze.

The question hit harder than any trauma pager.

"What?"

"You do it all the time."

Your gaze never left his.

"We'll be talking. Laughing. Having a good time."

You swallowed.

"And then suddenly it's like you remember something and you put a wall back up."

Jack couldn't breathe.

Because you had noticed.

Of course you had noticed.

You noticed everything.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You do."

The quiet certainty in your voice was devastating.

Rain echoed around you.

Jack looked away.

That was his mistake.

Because your voice softened.

"Jack."

God.

The way you said his name.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Then opened them again.

"You shouldn't ask questions you already know the answer to."

The words came out before he could stop them.

And your expression changed.

Not surprised.

Not shocked.

Something else.

Something warmer.

Something hopeful.

Which terrified him even more.

"Why not?"

Because you're twenty-five.

Because I'm fifty.

Because this is a terrible idea.

Because I think about you far too much.

Because I haven't felt like this in years.

All of those answers crowded his throat.

None emerged.

Instead he laughed once.

Humorless.

"You deserve someone your age."

Your eyes widened slightly.

And then—

"That's not your decision."

The words landed directly in his chest.

Neither of you moved.

The rain kept falling.

The garage remained empty.

Jack stared at you.

You stared back.

Every sensible thought he had was losing the fight.

"You don't understand."

"Then explain it."

"I am explaining it."

"No."

You stepped closer again.

"You keep telling me why you shouldn't want this."

Your voice dropped.

"But you never tell me whether you do."

Jack's pulse roared.

Because there it was.

The question he'd spent months avoiding.

The truth he'd buried beneath professionalism and distance and self-control.

You deserved honesty.

Even if it ruined everything.

So he gave it to you.

"I do."

The words barely escaped.

Yet they seemed to fill the entire garage.

Your breath caught.

Jack looked away immediately.

Ashamed.

Relieved.

Terrified.

"I do," he repeated quietly. "That's the problem."

For a moment there was only rain.

Then he felt your hand touch his.

Gentle.

Careful.

Like you were giving him the chance to pull away.

He didn't.

Couldn't.

Your fingers slid between his.

Warm.

Certain.

"Jack."

He met your eyes.

And found affection there.

Not pity.

Not curiosity.

Affection.

The real kind.

The kind he'd stopped expecting for himself years ago.

Something inside him cracked.

Not painfully.

Just enough to let hope inside.

You smiled.

Small.

Soft.

Beautiful.

And Jack found himself smiling back.

For once not worrying about tomorrow.

Or the age difference.

Or what anyone else might think.

Just this moment.

This impossible, wonderful moment.

Your forehead rested lightly against his shoulder.

His arm settled around you.

The gesture felt natural.

Easy.

Like something he'd been wanting to do for far too long.

The rain continued outside.

The hospital waited behind you.

Life would still be complicated.

There would be conversations.

Boundaries.

Questions.

A thousand practical things to figure out.

But not tonight.

Tonight was simple.

Tonight you stood together beneath the dim parking garage lights, exhaustion and affection tangled together after months of denial.

And for the first time, Jack allowed himself to believe that maybe wanting you wasn't the same thing as losing his mind.

Maybe it was just falling in love.

And judging by the way you smiled up at him, he wasn't falling alone.

[rita-moreno]

And there were a few other things I did to maximize how intimidating he would be to Richie. Like the fingernail polish: My girls are constantly painting my fingernails and I thought, that’s something Frank would be proud of as a stepdad.

How Josh Hartnett Became a Surprise Guest Star on ‘The Bear’ The Hollywood Reporter

[belleeebelleee]

Obsession (2026)

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️/5

THIS REVIEW CONTAINS SPOILERS

First of all, Nikki was 100% the victim here.

The horror of Obsession isn't just what happens around Nikki. It isn't even primarily about the violence she commits. The horror is what happens to her.

It's the complete loss of autonomy.

Being trapped inside your own body. Being aware of what's happening. Watching yourself move, speak, and make choices that aren't yours. Knowing something is wrong but being unable to stop it. Unable to fight back. Unable to even be yourself.

That is nightmare fuel on a level that genuinely got under my skin.

And that's why I find Bear so difficult to sympathize with, despite the film seemingly wanting us to view him as a tragic romantic figure.

Bear consistently puts what he wants ahead of what Nikki wants, needs, or would choose for herself. He claims to love her, but almost every major decision he makes serves his own desires.

Nikki literally gives him a chance. She directly asks whether he likes her. He could have been honest. He could have risked rejection. Instead, he lies to her face and later chooses the one option that guarantees the outcome he wants.

The wish itself reveals everything about his character.

He doesn't wish for a chance with Nikki.

He doesn't wish for mutual understanding.

He doesn't wish for the courage to confess his feelings.

He wishes for Nikki to love him.

The wish is entirely about what Bear wants.

The second he snaps the One Wish Willow and removes Nikki's ability to choose, everything that follows becomes horrifying. Any relationship that exists afterward is built on the destruction of Nikki's autonomy. She is no longer capable of freely choosing him, rejecting him, or even being herself.

And once Bear realizes something is wrong, he doesn't immediately rush to undo the damage.

Instead, he spends an alarming amount of time trying to preserve the fantasy.

Even after learning that Nikki is trapped against her will, he asks whether the wish can be altered rather than canceled. Even then, some part of him is still searching for a way to keep what he wants.

The most revealing exchange in the entire movie might be:

"Would being with me really be that bad?"

"I was never with you, Bear."

That line should have ended everything.

Nikki tells him directly, with complete clarity, that she never chose him.

Yet Bear continues trying to maintain a relationship with the version of Nikki created by the wish rather than accepting Nikki's actual feelings.

At multiple points, he demonstrates that what matters most to him is not Nikki's freedom but his access to her.

Even when Nikki is suffering, his response is centered on his own loss.

Even when he learns she is trapped.

Even when he learns she does not want him.

Even when she is begging for release. For him to kill her.

The film repeatedly shows Bear choosing possession over respect.

And then there is the reality of what Nikki endures.

She is forced to live through events she never chose.

She loses control of her own body.

She loses control of her own actions.

She loses control of her own future.

By the end of the film, Nikki may spend the rest of her life in prison because of actions committed while her agency was stripped away. The ending is horrifying regardless of interpretation. Either she remembers nothing and wakes up to a destroyed life she cannot explain, or she remembers everything and has to carry memories of events she was powerless to stop.

Bear creates the circumstances that ruin her life.

Nikki is the one left paying the price.

Even smaller moments reinforce the same pattern. Bear leaves medication unsecured where his cat can access it, resulting in the animal's death. Rather than treating the loss with care or dignity, he throws the body in the garbage. It feels less like an isolated incident and more like another example of someone avoiding responsibility for the consequences of his own actions.

As for Ian?

Ian sucked.

Bear sucked more.

Ian sucked marginally less, but the bar is so low it's somewhere near the Earth's core.

And Bear, respectfully, I understand. I too would be in love with Nikki.

You are not special.

What elevates the film beyond its frustrating characters is the execution.

The sound design is absolutely incredible.

Every creak, distortion, silence, and unnatural noise feels carefully engineered to make the audience uncomfortable. Not startled. Not simply frightened.

Uncomfortable.

The movie gets under your skin and stays there.

And Inde Navarrette delivers an astonishing performance.

The fear.

The desperation.

The helplessness.

The moments where you can see Nikki fighting to hold onto herself.

It's genuinely impressive work, and the entire movie would collapse without a performance capable of selling that internal struggle.

By the end, I wasn't scared in a fun horror-movie way.

I wasn't sitting there thinking, "That was creepy."

I was sitting there feeling profoundly unsettled.

The film left me with the uncomfortable sensation of not feeling safe in my own skin.

I wanted to curl up in a blanket and stare at a wall for a while afterward.

Which is probably the highest compliment I can give a horror movie.

Obsession disturbed me because its monster isn't just supernatural.

It's the idea of losing ownership of yourself while everyone around you keeps treating that loss as secondary to what they want from you.

And that horror lingered long after the credits rolled.