otp-after-dark

[otp-after-dark]

On Nick Blaine, Narrative Betrayal, and the Engineered Silence of a Fandom

This essay was originally posted on the private Osblaine subreddit. I'm posting it here in advance of the upcoming (final) AbovetheGarage podcast meta episode so it's accessible for anyone who wants to read the essay in full.

Spoilers for THT & lots of fan rage below the cut.

Sorry for the essay, but I feel so beside myself and gaslit by the whiplash of this experience that I needed to unload somewhere, and while it feels futile to even try to explain all of my thoughts at this stage, I feel compelled to share where I've landed. I'm so unbelievably down over this, guys. Gutted, as I know all of you are.

Nick Blaine wasn’t just killed, he was sacrificed on the altar of The Lesson™. An out-of-nowhere, contextually empty erasure of characterization, meaning, motivation, and continuity, all to teach the audience The Lesson™ we never asked for or needed to hear.

Nick wasn’t given a resolution. He wasn’t honored. He wasn’t even mourned! Not by the showrunners, writers, cast members, or other characters—and most painfully, not by the woman who we know loved him so deeply. Instead he was reduced to a message delivery device about evil MAGA Nazi incels or whatever buzzword is currently very popular on Twitter, in the most contrived and unearned narrative fashion possible. Once this utility was fulfilled for the whims of sycophants like Chang/Tuchman/Miller/Moss/Fagbenle et al these people just threw Nick in the trash where they claim he apparently always belonged.

And the worst part is that the show expects us to applaud. It expects us to look at Joseph "Pick three women June the rest die of radiation poisoning" Lawrence, and Serena Joy "But I never thought they'd take MY finger or MY child" Waterford with enormous pride and empathy and understanding. Don't even get me started on Lydia...I have PhD dissertations about that fascinating and deluded narcissist in my comment history, too.

To be clear, I love all these characters flaws and all, they engross me, and it's intriguing watching their dynamics unfold in this often hideous, violent sandbox. But in the end their arguably unnecessary redemptive arcs are heaped with praise and encouragement and the writers bait us with how terribly complicated and brave they are, while substantially less problematic Nick isn't offered the same consideration or forgiveness or grace (and now perhaps never will be) according to that very same moral framework. June herself generally gets a pass as the protagonist, even though she has long been a flagrant thematic and ethical mirror for all the considerable deficiencies we see in the antagonists. So who decides a character's worthiness for redemption or value then, and how? It is simply all SO INCONSISTENT. The framework gives everyone else the space to breathe, err and exist. Whereas for Nick, the framework is solely punitive. Why? Why is this?

Nick's actual unforgivable crimes: folding under Wharton's wall threats three episodes from the finale after YEARS of repeatedly saving June + Nichole's lives and helping them escape, being a lifeline for finding out Hannah's whereabouts, gathering intel for the American intelligence agencies, smuggling contraband to the Jezebels and also to Luke over the border, delivering Fred on a platter so June and the other handmaids could rip him apart, executing other wicked Commanders for their violence against vulnerable women....just a sample of his awful deeds. Keeping in mind that all of thirteen and a half minutes ago in the show's timeline he risked it all and was forced to murder two teenaged boys in broad daylight during a highly scrutinized diplomatic event, to save June's fucking idiot husband.

I'm so utterly baffled that I don't even know how to unpack the stupidity of the choices these writers have made. We are all such brain-dead slop consumers that a recent magazine interview had Chang confirming Nick's many atrocities, none of which are ever shown on screen or even alluded to in the dialog but which she assures us DEFINITELY happened, A LOT (trust me bro). This little blurb is apparently sufficient evidence for the narrative to unceremoniously dispose of Nick, his legacy, and all he meant to us. Have you ever heard of a TV show whose narrative coherence literally requires supplemental reading materials? It's fine. Just eat the slop you fucking morons. Eat it and like it.

This isn’t tragedy, this is didacticism. This is when a writer's room decides that making a point is more important than telling a good story. When characters stop being human and start being metaphors. When you trade nuance for shock, ambiguity for ideology, and call it brave.

Nick Blaine meant something to me. I saw myself in him. I saw my own passivity in him—I also saw my capacity for great bravery and connection in him. He was kind, vulnerable, morally gray, emotionally grounded, deeply tethered to June and thus to me, the viewer, experiencing her world. He was human. His gentleness, his love for June and Nichole was such a vital counterpoint to the monstrous cruelty of Gilead. But rather than explore that complexity and offer him the obvious arc his character had earned, the show retconned him literally at the finish line, flattened him, eliminated all of his human dimensions. At the end I actually laughed—horribly, in grotesque & amazed outrage—like these writers were saying to me, Hey idiot, he was the real baddie all along, believe us that he deserved this, we're the experts. And thought I would just gleefully swallow this and lap it the fuck up. I'm not exaggerating: I legitimately don't think any of them watched the show in its entirety before they sat down to write this season.

Narrative cohesion and character continuity was clearly not their focus, why? Because message-driven media no longer trusts its audience to feel anything honestly. It has to teach us. To scold us. And if a character has to die in an embarrassingly hamfisted way so we can 'learn' something about the cost of love, or the futility of hope, or that there's actually NO GOOD MEN ANYWHERE unless they are played by Bradley Whitford, or the strength of a woman alone and any romance be damned, then so be it. Our fault. We watched it wrong. Silly females with our silly hopes and love stories and delusions.

This is not storytelling. This is narrative punishment, and poorly disguised moral performance art. I half expected the episode to be dedicated to All The Antifascists Out There On The Right Side of History Like Us when the end credits rolled. Story? Nah. Preachy lesson for dumbass audience who can't think for themselves? Hell yeah. Nick exits stage left as a convenient device for the showrunners to serve up as a pawn in their thematic chess game, designed wholly to teach the audience The Lesson™. He was the sacrificial lamb for their bizarre in-script anti-Nazi rhetoric (so overt it was cringe-inducing, and included for whom? all those Nazis gleefully tuning in to THT every week?) This conclusion is the final heart monitor flatlining after a long meandering decline of the show's earlier great writing.

It's not edgy or profound to gut a character’s arc for shock value. You’re not feminist or radical for flattening moral complexity into black-and-white symbols. It's an absolute mess of lazy, trite metaphors for THE CURRENT TIMES, this story is IMPORTANT and RELEVANT! And Hi, writers? We also live in the world???? God, it's so patronizing. It's so condescending. I'm so exhausted from this cheap process of demoralization.

And I looked around for the outrage and confusion and anger that should have echoed across the fandom and instead I saw silence. Sanitized comment sections. Applause from brand-friendly fan accounts with lots of emojis and lots of "OMG LAWRENCE PUTTING HIS HAND TO HIS CHEST 😭 !!!!!" The algorithm drowning dissent like it’s inconvenient noise. Entire social media posts being deleted out of nowhere.

This isn’t fandom, and hasn't been an organic one since streaming took over the market, or even before. It’s narrative control via PR management and we are all witnessing manufactured consent in real time. I'm not trying to be dramatic or cynical, it's just the truth. This is how it works now. Delivering twisty shock content drives up engagement on platforms, and tracking that engagement data is an enormous factor when OTT platforms are considering each season-to-season renewal. But man is it still disheartening and mundane to see it happening after so many years of stupidly giving a shit.

The emotional response to this episode should have been explosive fury and instead we get this eerie illusion of consensus, because anything that challenges The Lesson™ and inversely How Good They The Holy Virtuous Writers Are As People For Teaching It To Us Deluded Plebs gets buried or deleted. They want you and I to feel alone in our bewilderment, and to doubt our own perceptions of the show we've been watching and analyzing for an eon straight—it makes them feel better about the god-awful job they have done in the hopes they win some meaningless self-congratulatory accolades at the Emmys. And if you dare to feel betrayed or express that, you’re told you’re missing the point and somehow have been for an entire decade along with the majority of the fanbase with two eyes and a functioning brain in their skulls. It's so absurd it's almost satire. Someday it will be satire I think. But this is how it is right now, and I'm telling you, it's entirely on purpose.

To the writers, showrunners, social media managers + Hulu press interns:

I see exactly what you did, and what you are currently doing to manage the fallout.

You killed a beloved character not for plot or for truth or to honestly serve the story's natural conclusion, but for theater and for social media engagement. For a moral takeaway. For prestige TV applause. And worse—for the proud, smug, holier-than-thou sniffles of liberal feminists who require all media to pander to the current political 'thing' rather than just telling a good goddamn story. Congrats, the whole IP has been permanently ruined by this type of short-sighted shallow garbage and will never recover its early reputation. This could have been a timeless piece of television with some hiccups; now it will forever remain a preachy manipulative product of one particular era. An ode to our fragile cultural psyche and its associated political catchphrases and ego interference. It's limp and it's finished, like GOT was at the end. No one will care or remember or rewatch this trauma-porn soap opera when all its nuance and ambiguity and soft edges have been snuffed out in the most incomprehensible way. THT will be forgotten, like every other show before it that has gone on too long only to totally blow it in the last inning. The Testaments is probably dead in the water too, and will be canceled lightning fast without a doubt if this tripe is any indication of this team's ability to go meaningfully off-book. It gets proven over and over and over again with zero room for doubt that audiences don't like to be lectured and morally grandstanded to, but here we are yet again.

In conclusion, this absolute swill is what happens when writers try to write at the audience rather than for the characters.

Nick Blaine somehow became the worst villain amongst these brutal, sadistic people, all the social architects, economists, rapists, abusers, traffickers, slave-owners, murderers. Not because he was actually always that way 'off-screen' of course, but because the people who were compelled time and again to watch his complex character evolve and grow had to be taught The Lesson™. Nick Nazi, Nick Complicit, Nick Evil Forever, Nick Dies A Coward, durrrrr. Just stop. Stop caring! Just eat our slop. They turned a living, breathing character (who we loved and puzzled over for years and paid their bills to spend time with) into a morality lecture to tell you how goddamn dumb you are, they replaced his arc with a sermon and then expected us to clap.

But I’m not clapping. I’m grieving. Because it's all just such an awful, incredible waste.

I'm grieving the time and energy I've wasted on a product that the creators stopped caring about and lost interest in understanding. I’m grieving a character who mattered more than this, and a profoundly loving relationship that moved my heart amidst all of that darkness, and a story that once knew how to hold pain with complexity instead of turning it into hollow, curated shock.

They didn’t write an ending, they wrote a manipulative virtue signal to make fools out of all of us who actually dared to give a shit. I won't pretend that it's important art with something to say, and I will never again give them the benefit of my dollars, attention or engagement.

[otp-after-dark]

MAKE IT MAKE SENSE: Bruce Miller re-read Atwood's book before season six and somehow still ended it like that?!!!!!!

I’ve read Bruce Miller’s foreword to the series finale script of The Handmaid’s Tale three times now and I still can’t wrap my head around it. This man claims to have re-read the novel — in detail — as he crafted the final episode. He invokes Margaret Atwood. He quotes his early conversations with Elisabeth Moss. He talks about wanting to follow the “tonal spirit” of the novel and do no harm. And then he turns around and delivers an ending that does exactly what the book warns us against: reducing a woman to her biological function, erasing the revolutionary power of love, and pretending that silence is some kind of feminist triumph.

I’m sorry, what book did you read?

Because I read the one where Offred says:

“But this is wrong. Nobody dies from lack of sex. It’s lack of love we die from.”

I read the one where the Commander smugly says:

“You can fulfill your biological destiny in peace.” And Offred — just like June in Season 1 — says: “Love.”

That one-word answer is the thesis of the entire story. It’s the refusal. It’s the rebellion. It’s what makes The Handmaid’s Tale not just a dystopia, but a fight to remain human inside it. Love isn’t a luxury in Atwood’s novel — it’s oxygen. It’s the one thing Gilead can’t fully regulate or control. And Offred clings to it in the only form she can have it: Nick. 

And Bruce Miller read that, and still decided to end the show with June betraying that love, not because she had to, not because it cost too much, but because now, apparently, she’s too feminist for it. Too self-actualized for desire. Too “strong” to need passion. So instead of choosing the love that saved her, the love she repeatedly chose in Gilead, she goes back to her “first home,” takes up a pen, and becomes… a mother. A recorder. A symbol. Alone. Again.

I can't with these writers.

He calls it “bittersweet.” He says he didn’t want to leave viewers asking “what happens next,” and yet… we’re not left wondering. We’re left feeling gutted. We’re left with a story that once championed autonomy and complexity and love and now says: actually, it was always about the children. Always about the womb. Always about going back to tell the tale so other women can do better while the woman who lived it is left with nothing but the role Gilead gave her in the first place.

What makes this even worse is that he clearly knows what the book says. He quotes it. He reveres it. He says it made him want to be a writer. So how do you admire something that much and still miss its entire point?

Because you can’t read “We make love each time as if we know beyond the shadow of a doubt that there will never be any more” and think love is incidental.

You can’t read “That word, made flesh” and think Nick was just a placeholder.

You can’t read “It’s lack of love we die from” and then kill the love and call it feminist.

And don’t tell me it’s to set up The Testaments. Don’t tell me the love story had to die to make room for the “real” revolution. Love was the revolution. June and Nick’s love was the only thing in Gilead that wasn’t arranged, coerced, or broken. It was the last real thing they had. And the fact that this show walked all the way up to that truth and then turned away is what makes this ending feel not just wrong, but cowardly.

Bruce Miller read The Handmaid’s Tale, and instead of writing a finale where June lives her truth, or chooses her heart, or even just acknowledges that what she had with Nick mattered. He wrote her back into the house where it all started. Alone. Reflecting. Recording. As if that is justice. As if that is enough.

It’s not.

[otp-after-dark]

Atwood Gave Us Love. The Show Gave Us Motherhood. (plus: lots of book references about love)

It’s weeks later and still unbelievable to me that after everything, after five seasons of resistance and rage and survival and pain, the THT writers chose this path. That The Handmaid’s Tale, which once fought so hard to dismantle Gilead’s ideology, is now echoing and affirming it. That it dares to let Fred Waterford be right.

“You can fulfill your biological destiny in peace. What else is there to live for?” June answers with one word: “Love.”

It felt like the clearest rejection of Gilead’s entire philosophy: a moment that reaffirmed the show’s feminist spine. June wasn’t choosing safety or submission. She was choosing herself. She was choosing love. And to see that truth now being unraveled, to watch the narrative quietly suggest that her real fulfillment lies in motherhood, not in passion, not in resistance, not in choice. I’m still in utter disbelief. It’s not just disappointing. It’s fundamentally anti-feminist.

That’s why that scene in Season 1 haunts me. It’s not rhetorical. It’s not idealistic. It’s a visceral rejection of everything Fred stands for. June isn’t trying to win an argument. She’s reclaiming something sacred. Something Gilead tried to erase. She’s talking about Nick. About a love that refused to die even when everything else was stripped away.

And that moment wasn’t just powerful in the show. It directly echoes the original exchange in the book, where the Commander says nearly the same thing:

“This way they’re protected, they can fulfill their biological destinies in peace. With full support and encouragement. Now, tell me. You’re an intelligent person, I like to hear what you think. What did we overlook?” “Love,” I said. “Love?” said the Commander. “What kind of love?” “Falling in love,” I said. “Oh yes,” he said. “I’ve read the magazines… Was it really worth it, falling in love?”

Atwood gives us the answer with everything that follows. Through the way Offred holds onto Nick, not because he is a hero or a savior or even safe, but because he is real. Because what they have exists outside of role and function and fear. Because he sees her. Because love, in a world like this, is resistance.

And yet, in the show, they’re walking that answer back. June’s love for Nick, the thing that made her human again, that brought her back into her body, her desire, her agency, is being quietly pushed aside. Not because it stopped meaning something, but because it’s inconvenient. Because it doesn’t “fit.” Because Luke is the man who represents family and healing and safety and fatherhood. And Nick? Nick is chaos. Nick is longing. Nick is choice.

It’s the same choice she makes in the book. Over and over again, Atwood writes about love as something radical. Something terrifying. Something that gives you back to yourself. There’s that beautiful line:

“But this is wrong, nobody dies from lack of sex. It’s lack of love we die from.”

June doesn’t cling to Nick because she needs sex. She clings to him because she needs love. Because that’s what Gilead stripped from her, not just bodily autonomy, but emotional truth. And Nick gives her that back. Not perfectly. Not without pain. But honestly.

Atwood makes that point again and again: that love is remembered not just as a feeling but as something felt in the body, something vivid and grounded and alive:

“I kneel on my red velvet cushion. I try to think about tonight, about making love, in the dark, in the light reflected off the white walls. I remember being held.”

That’s what love is under Gilead: not a fantasy, not an escape, but a memory you fight to keep. Something that tethers you to your own humanity. A flash of being seen.

There’s also this:

“We make love each time as if we know beyond the shadow of a doubt that there will never be any more, for either of us, with anyone, ever… Being here with him is safety; it’s a cave, where we huddle together while the storm goes on outside. This is a delusion, of course.”

Even when it’s not safe, even when it’s built on delusion, it matters. Because that’s what it means to choose love in the middle of collapse. That’s what June and Nick always were. They were the cave. They were the thing that made the pain bearable.

So how can the show now pretend that motherhood was the point all along?

That what June needed was not passion or partnership or desire, but a stable household with a man who didn’t know her in the dark? How is that feminism?

It isn’t.

Because what they’re doing now, whether they realize it or not, is elevating motherhood at the expense of womanhood. They’re saying June is fulfilled not because she found love in a hopeless place, but because she returned to her “destiny.” And that is a cruel message for any woman but especially for the ones who’ve already had their personhood erased.

It says: you can be complicated, but not too complicated. You can burn it all down, but in the end, you better come home. And what does “home” mean? Luke. Family. Safety. Function. Motherhood. A box.

It raises up the white mother. Again. It centers her journey, her pain, her peace, and leaves everyone else behind. It positions June as exceptional because she gets to go back. She gets to “choose” the right kind of womanhood, the kind that’s quiet and soft and digestible.

But June wasn’t supposed to be digestible. She was supposed to be a flame. A scream. A woman who wanted and didn’t apologize for it. Who believed that survival without love wasn’t enough. And now? The show is telling us it was. That in the end, Fred was right. Love was just a myth. And peace is when you stop asking for more.

And worst of all: in the end, she betrays that love. Not with heartbreak. Not with sacrifice. But with a kind of self-righteous, untouchable performance of feminism that’s been completely stripped of its emotional core. She lets Nick go, not because it’s too hard, not because it’s too dangerous, but because the show has decided she doesn’t need love anymore. Just motherhood. Just survival. And that’s what she’s left with. A man she doesn’t really see. And nothing else.

Ick. Ick.

But that’s not what the book says. That’s not what the story was built on. Love was always the thing. Even when it hurt. Even when it faded. Even when it was only there in the margins. Love was the refusal to become numb. It was what separated you from them.

“The more difficult it was to love the particular man beside us, the more we believed in Love, abstract and total. We were waiting, always, for the incarnation. That word, made flesh.”

Nick was the incarnation. He wasn’t abstract. He was real. And now the show wants to tell us that wasn’t enough?

I can live with ambiguity. I can live with tragedy and heartbreak. I can even live with June and Nick not ending up together, if that choice were rooted in character, in reality, in the mess of love and loss. But I can’t live with this story ending by saying love didn’t matter. That it was a phase, a detour, a narrative inconvenience. That a woman’s purpose begins and ends with what her body can do. That desire, freedom, and selfhood are indulgences, and motherhood is the only path to redemption.

That isn’t nuance. That’s a return to the very ideology this story once existed to destroy.

And it’s not just about June. It’s about what the show is saying to all of us. That in the end, we’ll all come home to the same role. That no matter how much we burn or scream or fight, we are just vessels. That our “destiny” is written in blood and womb and silence. That love, the kind that upends you, defines you, liberates you, is less important than being someone else’s stability. Someone else’s idea of safe.

As women, we are more than our biological destiny. We are more than mothers, more than partners, more than sacrifices. We are allowed to want. We are allowed to choose love. We are allowed to choose ourselves.

And I will never accept a story that asks us to forget that.

[otp-after-dark]

"Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief." —Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 2x17

On Buffy, The Handmaid’s Tale, and the Feminist Power of Tragic Love

I went back to rewatch Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 2 with all this revival talk in the air — and because I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what I think the writers of The Handmaid’s Tale were trying to do with Nick and June. It seems clear they were aiming for a tragic, star-crossed love story — one rooted in impossible choices, moral ambiguity, and a deep, wordless bond that could never quite be fulfilled. They wanted June’s love for Nick to be the emotional cost of her revolution — something that defined her but also had to be left behind. But the execution never matched the ambition. And I say trying, because despite their intentions, they just couldn’t pull it off — not because of the concept, but because of the writing. 

Buffy, on the other hand, succeeds brilliantly. Season 2 — especially the episode “Passion” — is the blueprint for how to tell a feminist story that embraces tragic, complicated love without compromising the strength of its heroine. And the fact that I'm talking about this show and season all these years later tells you about the legacy it left behind.

I don’t believe Atwood ever meant for June Osborne to carry the burden of saving the world or being the face of the revolution — but the TV writers clearly did. And yet, in giving her that weight, they refused to give her the emotional honesty that comes with it. They made her a martyr, a mother, a soldier. But they stopped letting her be a woman who loves deeply, irrationally, completely — and who is allowed to fall apart because of it. Buffy lets its heroine feel everything. And then it hands her the sword.

“Passion,” episode 2x17, is arguably the emotional thesis of the entire series — and unquestionably the heart of Season 2. In it, Angelus delivers a monologue about the nature of passion — what it gives us and what it destroys. It’s chilling, poetic, devastating. And it’s not just about Buffy.

It’s about love that consumes you, grief that rewrites you, and the part of yourself you lose when it’s gone.

"Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. Passion is the source of hope and the cause of despair. It is the source of life and the cause of death. If we could live without passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion, we'd be truly dead.”

That’s what The Handmaid’s Tale forgot in its later seasons. Nick and June had passion. They were passion. But instead of allowing it to be the fire that defined her, the show reduced it to a side plot — something vague and unresolved, buried under guilt and duty.

Buffy makes it the point. The pain is the story.

Buffy’s love for Angel is not treated as something to be corrected. It is sacred. Tragic. Complicated. She never apologizes for it — not when it ruins her, not when it’s questioned, not when it ends in death. Even when it brings her to her knees, she owns it. She chooses it. And when she loses it, she mourns it fully.

Buffy and June are both tasked with impossible things. Buffy is chosen to save the world. June is thrust into a revolution. Both fall in love with men who live in darkness, who complicate their missions, who are defined by restraint and danger. But Buffy’s arc never punishes her for loving Angel. It deepens her. It sharpens her. It lets her be both soft and unyielding.

June never gets that kind of clarity. Her love for Nick is tiptoed around, whispered through half-glances, denied even in the moments when it’s undeniably real. In Buffy, the truth is always spoken. In The Handmaid’s Tale, it’s withheld.

Angel and Nick are emotional mirrors. Both are watchful, quiet, tortured. Both fall in love with women far braver than they feel they are. Angel gets the arc of redemption, of confession, of meaning. Nick gets a marriage to a woman he doesn’t love and a handful of cryptic lines about how he can’t move on. Angel gets Whistler. Nick gets silence.

Whistler: “She’s gonna have it tough, that Slayer. She’s just a kid. A world full of big, bad things.” Angel: “I wanna help her… I want… I wanna become someone.” Whistler: “Oh geez, look at ya. She must be prettier than the last Slayer.”

We watch Angel fall in love with Buffy instantly and then lose himself — literally. He becomes a monster because of that love, and then is saved by it — only to be killed by the very girl who gave it back to him. But the show never takes that love away from him. Or from her.

Angel: “Where are we? I don't remember.” Buffy: “Angel?” Angel: “You're hurt. Oh Buffy. God, I feel like I haven't seen you in months. Buffy, what’s happening?” Buffy: “Shh. Don’t worry about it. (kisses him) I love you.” Angel: “I love you.” Buffy: “Close your eyes.”

That scene lives in my bones. Buffy stabs him not because she stopped loving him — but because she still does.

Buffy saves the world and loses everything. That is her tragedy. But it is also her triumph. Because she does it on her terms. And she never once has to say that her love was a mistake.

June deserved a sword moment. Instead, she gets confusion. Ambiguity. A narrative that tries to convince the audience that what we saw and felt for five seasons somehow no longer matters.

Buffy falls apart after she kills Angel. And the show lets her. She isolates. She cries. She leaves town. And when she comes back, she’s not okay — but she’s trying.

Giles: “Do you want me to wag my finger at you and tell you that you acted rashly? You did. And I can. I know that you loved him. And he’s proven more than once that he loved you. But if it’s guilt you’re looking for, Buffy, I’m not your man. All you’ll get from me is my support. And my respect.”

That is how you treat a female lead with gravity. With respect. With emotional continuity. Buffy is not diminished by what she’s lost. She is deepened by it.

In one of the most iconic moments of the show, Angelus tries to strip Buffy of everything — her friends, her weapons, her hope. And she answers with what should have been written on June’s heart:

Angelus: “No weapons, no friends, no hope. Take all that away, and what’s left?” Buffy: “Me.”

That is what The Handmaid’s Tale forgot — that passion is not weakness, that love is not shame, and that a woman can still burn the world down with both in her chest. And that's feminist as hell.

Buffy didn’t need to renounce her feelings to grow up. She didn’t need to suppress her history to keep fighting. She loved Angel. And she always will. That truth is never erased.

Whether they end up together or not doesn’t matter. The love remains.

June Osborne deserved that kind of ending. Not a happy one, necessarily — but one that told the truth. One that honored her heart.

Buffy let the girl love, lose, break, bleed… and then stand up anyway.

And that’s how you tell a feminist story. That’s empowering.

[otp-after-dark]

The one positive note in all the season 6 madness is I’m now hopelessly in love with max minghella. Can’t wait to watch season 4 of The Industry. Which I just binged over the last week or so and is fabulous. He is gonna be such an awesome addition to what they were building in season three with kit harrington. Swoon.

[otp-after-dark]

I am trying to live in peace with fanfics and book canon, but these writers make it so hard 😩 The more they talk, the more I want to scream.

Like HOW does any of this make sense:

“He chose Gilead for power but would’ve chosen June if he could.” Okay?? Which is it?? Because those are fundamentally incompatible motivations unless you're writing a complex antihero—which you are very much not anymore.

It’s almost like they want him to be the villain and still the love of June’s life. Which is totally possible to do—just not like this. Buffy/Angel nailed that balance. Angel had a full dark arc, became the literal villain, but they never abandoned the heart of their love story. It was believable, tragic, and only made you love them even more. But you cannot do this in the last hour of the show with lazy, half-baked writing. It’s not earned. It’s not believable. AT. ALL.

“June wouldn’t have respected him if he left his wife and kid.” But she’s apparently fine with never seeing her kid again and also fine if Nick dies?? Make it make sense.

Every single scene in 6x03 and 6x06 completely falls apart under this new lens. Like genuinely—what was the point of those if this is the story you were telling? Just to piss Nick and June fans the hell off?

Which is why, in my head, the Paris proposal is the last scene of the series. They are in Paris. THE END. That’s the show canon. Or 4x10. Take your pick.

I mean, how hard is it to write Nick as the double cop he was always destined to be and give us some emotional payoff for the main love story of the show? Forget a happy ending—just follow the Atwood blueprint. That’s all they had to do. I've read tons of fan fics that have done this beautifully.

And the idea that the “winners” line came off that way because no one was paying attention on set??? 😭😭 That is embarrassing. The bar is on the floor and somehow they’re still tripping over it.

I’ll go back to my delusions now.

Fanon is the only canon that matters.

New Bruce Miller interview on The Red Resistance podcast. He starts talking about Nick at 29:40. He said the winners quote on the plane was meant to be something Nick says in front of his father-in-law and the other commanders, but in the filming they weren’t paying attention so it made it come off not as intended. And he’s doubling down that June wouldn’t have respected Nick if he had left his wife and kid…like he just hadn’t asked her to go to Paris and as if June wasn’t quick to abandon Nichole every chance she gets.🤦🏼‍♀️ To me, nothing they say will make it make sense.

[otp-after-dark]

At least they are acknowledging why fans are pissed off and the betrayal of the book ending. Like there’s even a question - bad fucking writing.

“Since then, many fans have been debating and arguing whether the finale was a fitting end for Gilead's ultimate enigma. Or was it a tragic example of bad writing? Nick was a very complex character; his entire journey was a tightrope walk over a pit of moral questions, and his final moments forced everyone to ask, one last time: Who exactly was Nick Blaine, and did he get the ending he deserved?”

“In the book, he’s described to Nichole by a Mayday contact as being “so deep underground he needs a breathing tube,” painting a picture of a dedicated, almost legendary, resistance hero. This image of Nick as a committed Mayday operative stands in stark contrast to his end in the television series, where his final act on that plane reads, at least on the surface, as a reaffirmation of his Gilead allegiance. This divergence is a major reason many fans felt his TV ending was a letdown or a betrayal. After the final season aired, some fans even started online campaigns, like a Change.org petition titled "Save Nick Blaine — Bring Him Back as a Double Agent in The Testaments," showing just how much they wanted to see this more heroic, book-aligned version of Nick on screen.”

[otp-after-dark]

Veronica Mars: The Movie — The Ending That Should’ve Been

I know I shouldn’t be surprised anymore. I know Hulu has a habit of resurrecting the things I love just to watch them burn.

But the way Veronica Mars Season 4 ends? It still feels like betrayal.

Not because it’s dark. Not because it’s bold. But because it undoes everything the movie gave us: growth, connection, the rare sense that after all the chaos, Veronica finally chose something—for herself. Chose someone.

It took us years to get that ending. Years of heartbreak, near misses, epic quotes, and almosts.

And then Hulu blew it up.

So yeah. Sometimes I pretend Season 4 never happened.

Sometimes, in my head, this is how Veronica Mars really ended.

Not with a bomb. Not with grief. Not with Veronica hollowed out by loss. But here—with the fight still in her, with her heart still beating wild, and with Logan on the other side of the door, steady and sure. Finally choosing each other not in desperation, but with certainty.

This movie isn’t just a reunion. It’s a reckoning. A return. A love story told in winks and bruises and a final voiceover that feels like truth.

Big Shot NYC Lawyer Veronica Is Not Our Girl

We meet her again and she’s... polished. Controlled. Respectable. She’s traded Mars Investigations for Manhattan law firms. Traded vengeance and justice for corporate clients and spotless suits. She has a “nice” boyfriend. A safe life. A job offer everyone’s proud of.

And she looks miserable.

The best way to describe her current state: “You know that the guy is going to ask you to marry him. And you’re going to say yes. But not to him—you’re going to say yes to the idea of him.”

Because that’s all it is—an idea. A fantasy of what adulthood is supposed to look like.

But Veronica was never supposed to be clean. Or quiet. Or safe.

And then Logan calls.

And she picks up.

The Addict Metaphor: Logan as Her Vice, Her Truth

Veronica: “Do I get a chip for this? Pouring the drink? Swishing it? Smelling it? Leaving the bar without taking a sip? Is this what getting clean feels like?”

The film leans into the metaphor hard—and it works. Because Neptune is a drug. Chaos is a drug. Logan is a drug. The case, the thrill, the pull of everything she tried to leave behind—it’s all calling her back.

And she wants to resist. She really does.

But addiction isn’t about logic. It’s about gravity. About what pulls you even when you know better.

Dick: “I wish Logan could quit you.”

He can’t. She can’t. And when they finally stop pretending they can—it’s electric.

Why Logan Was Always the Right Choice

After her dad is injured, Veronica is shattered. Silent. Spent.

And Logan just... takes care of her. No demands. No speeches. He carries her to bed. Covers her with a blanket. Sits beside her. Watches over her.

And when she wakes?

She asks him to stay. Then runs to him. Kisses him like nothing in the world has ever made more sense.

The passion. The chemistry. The raw, undeniable need. This isn’t just love—it’s gravity. And they’ve been circling each other for years.

Here’s the thing. Veronica never needed someone to save her. She needed someone who could stand next to her in the fire.

That was never Duncan. And it was never Piz.

Duncan was the fantasy of normal. Sweet, distant, emotionally walled off. He loved the girl Veronica used to be. He never really saw the one who rose out of the wreckage.

Piz was safe. Nice. Soft edges and good intentions. But Veronica could run intellectual circles around him without breaking a sweat. He was easy—but he wasn’t an equal.

Logan? Logan challenged her. Matched her. Met her in the mud and never once asked her to get clean for him.

Veronica (in Season 3): “You know who I am. You know what I do.” Logan “You know who I am, and you’re constantly expecting me to change.”

That was always their tension. And that’s why the movie works: because now, they’ve stopped trying to change each other. They’ve just chosen each other.

Not despite the fire. Because of it.

Logan: “Listen. It’s 180 days, Veronica. What’s 180 days to us? Our story is epic. Spanning years, continents.” Veronica: “Lives ruined, bloodshed.” Logan: “Yeah.” Veronica: “Come back to me.” Logan: “Always.”

Not a promise to change. Not a dramatic plea. Certainty. Presence. Mutual fire.

The Final Voiceover: This Is Who She Is

At the very end, Veronica sits alone, drink poured, untouched. She’s not trying to get clean anymore. She’s not pretending to want the life everyone else laid out for her.

She’s choosing Neptune. The fight. The fire. The mud.

Veronica (VO): “Dad always said this town could wreck a person. It's what happens when you're playing a rigged game. I convinced myself winning meant getting out. But in what world do you get to leave the ring and declare victory? This is where I belong— in the fight. It's who I am. I've rolled around in the mud for so long, wash me clean and I don't recognize myself. So how about I just accept the mud and the tendency I have to find myself rolling in it? My name is Veronica, and I'm an addict. Hello, Veronica.”

Because this is the Veronica we always knew.

The girl who doesn’t walk away from a mystery. The woman who loves with teeth. The survivor who doesn’t want saving. She’s not perfect—but she’s real. And Logan is the only person who ever stood in her storm without flinching.

This wasn’t about choosing a boyfriend. It was about choosing the life that matched her fire.

And she did.

This was the ending. The only one that ever made sense.

[otp-after-dark]

Veronica Mars Season 3, Part 2: "It is easy to be happy all the time when you are eleven. You talk to me about love when you know something about it.”

They’re broken up.

But it doesn’t feel final.

Because loving each other was never the hard part. Letting go is. And even when they try—when they run toward other people, other choices—it never sticks. Not really.

This arc isn’t about falling out of love. It’s about what happens when love isn’t enough to keep them from hurting each other. When the wounds start to feel heavier than the reasons to stay.

Logan makes a mistake. Veronica walks away. But the story doesn’t end there.

Because the love? It’s still there. Twisting in every glance, every fight, every forced smile when one of them walks in with someone new.

They’re broken up. But they’re not over.

Logan tries to be honest. But he still loses her.

They’re in bed. Curled together in one of the only moments of true softness they ever get the rest of the season.

He’s doing his best. Opening up. Letting her in. He’s honest about the escorts, about how broken he’s been. About who he is when she’s not around.

“That was me knowing there is a landmine and trying to figure out where to put my foot.” “It’s a slippery slope to ‘have you ever been’ to ‘how many and how often."

He’s not being cagey. He’s being careful—with her heart, and with his own.

In that moment, he’s as emotionally naked as we ever see him. Letting her glimpse the wreckage and trusting she might still stay. And she does—for a while.

“Well, I guess you picked your spot. Look, why not dispel any romantic notions? If we see each other, warts and all, and still like each other, that's a real connection.” “Well, maybe I enjoy my romantic notions. Maybe I don't care to see any warts, you know, yours or mine.”

The Madison thing comes later.

And it’s the one thing he doesn’t tell her—because he knows. He knows she can forgive a lot, but not that. Not her.

So when it comes out anyway, it doesn’t matter how much he loves her. Or how much he’s tried.

She walks. Because she can’t unsee it. And Logan doesn’t chase her.

Not because he doesn’t care. But because he knows—this is the one thing he can’t come back from.

Veronica walks away. But she doesn’t move on.

She tries.

She goes through the motions. Kisses Piz. Smiles at the right times. Pretends Logan is part of her past instead of the ache in her chest that won’t go away.

But she never stops showing up for him. Never stops watching him. Never stops feeling him in the room.

Even when she’s dating someone else.

Even when he is.

Veronica to Parker, when she runs to her over Logan:

“I told her that’s just how you are.”

She knows him better than anyone. She just doesn’t always know what to do with that knowledge.

Piz is safe. But Logan is real.

Piz is sweet. Respectful. Kind.

Wallace means well when he says:

“He’s a good guy, Veronica. Try not to rip out his heart.”

But we all know how that ends.

Piz is the easy choice. Logan is the complicated one. But Veronica’s never been afraid of complicated—she’s just afraid of being hurt again.

Still, she tries. Because Piz feels like safety. Like someone who won’t leave scars.

But love doesn’t always come wrapped in gentle hands. Sometimes it comes in bruised fists and broken silences.

Logan tries to let go. But he never really does.

He dates Parker. Smiles politely. Plans beach trips. But even Parker sees it:

“Just so you know… the best way to show that you're still in love with your ex-girlfriend is to beat up her new boyfriend.”

And that’s exactly what happens.

When Logan sees a sex tape of Veronica, he loses it. Not because he thinks she’s moved on. But because it confirms the one thing he’s been trying to deny—she’s not his anymore.

It’s ugly. It’s impulsive. But it’s honest.

Logan doesn’t know how to love in half-measures. He never has.

They try to move on. But they can’t.

Everyone around them starts to see it too.

Parker breaks up with Logan because it’s written all over his face: he’s still in love with Veronica. Piz watches Veronica react to Logan defending her and knows he never stood a chance.

Because the story keeps repeating: even apart, Logan and Veronica find their way back to each other. In moments of crisis. In moments of silence. In punches thrown and apologies whispered.

They orbit. They collide. They come undone.

But they never really let go.

This isn’t a love story with a clean break. It’s a love story with aftershocks.

They try to stay away. To do the “mature” thing. To heal.

But LoVe was never just a romance. It was impact. It was gravity. It was a connection built in warzones and motel rooms and middle-of-the-night confessions.

They hurt each other. Over and over.

But they still choose each other—in the ways that matter.

Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s over.

Because the truth is, it’s not.

Not really.

[otp-after-dark]

Veronica Mars Season 3, Part 1: “I can’t take feeling like a disappointment anymore.”

They’re finally together. No more longing looks across hallways. No more secondhand heartbreaks. No more pretending they’re fine apart.

Logan and Veronica are in it. But being in it is harder than either of them thought it would be.

Because love isn’t the hard part. They’ve always loved each other. The hard part is everything else: communication, trust, identity, healing. Learning how to be in love without tearing each other apart.

The season opens with a sense of hope. They’re in college, they’re in a relationship, and for the first time—it feels light.

Logan: “Stop it. You know there’s no one else. I only want you.” “What, no quip?”

The banter is still there, but so is the softness. He gives her a room key. They sleep together for the first time onscreen, and it’s not just physical—it’s vulnerable. Palpable in a way that feels nothing like Duncan and everything like LoVe.

And Piz? He’s introduced as the Nice Guy™, sweet and safe.

Piz: “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Okay, but Logan’s both. And that’s always been the problem—and the pull.

For a little while, they’re good. Logan shows her off.

Logan: “You all know my girl Veronica. I have your picture on my cell. It gets me through the long nights.” He’s proud. He’s trying. And it shows.

But then the cracks begin to form.

Logan still parties. Veronica still doesn’t trust easily. She questions where he is, what he’s doing, and yes—she almost puts a tracking device on his car.

Veronica: “Darling, do whatever weird crap you like. Just don’t be late for the booty call.” Logan: “I think it sounds romantic.”

Logan wants to be let in. Veronica wants control. He makes mistakes. She anticipates them. And slowly, they both start to wonder if they’re really enough for each other as they are.

Still, there are moments where their connection feels unshakable.

Logan: “I got it. No calling you bobcat.” The dinner scene with her dad is peak awkward-charming Logan, trying to play by the rules and failing adorably.

She helps him track down a long-lost brother. He opens up about how alone he really is. That ache in him—that “I don’t have a real family” ache—is always right beneath the surface. And being with Veronica makes it bearable. Until it doesn’t.

The fight is coming. You can feel it.

Logan is reckless. He protects his friends but doesn’t always tell Veronica the truth. She wants to know everything. He wants her to trust him without conditions.

Logan: “You know who I am. You know what I do.” Veronica: “You know who I am, and you’re constantly expecting me to change. Even right now, as you’re thinking ‘crap, he’s got a point,’ you still think you’re ultimately right. I love you, Veronica.”

And that’s the tragedy of this version of LoVe. They love each other. But they love in different languages.

She doesn’t need to be protected—she needs honesty. He doesn’t need to be fixed—he needs acceptance.

Then it breaks.

Logan: “I can’t do this anymore, Veronica. I don’t think I quite measure up to the person you want me to be. And I just can’t take feeling like a disappointment anymore.”

“I think we have a choice. We can take a tough but survivable amount of pain now… or stay together and deal with unbearable pain later.”

“But I’m always here if you need anything. But you never need anything.”

Logan walks away. Not because he doesn’t love her—but because he does, and it hurts too much to feel like he’s always falling short.

And Veronica? She cries in the shower. Silently. Alone. Because she knows he’s right. And she doesn’t know how to fix it.

But even apart, they can’t let go.

Logan tries to go back to being that guy. Party boy. Emotionally unavailable. But it doesn’t fit anymore. He hooks up with someone in his car and immediately looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

Meanwhile, Veronica talks to Piz.

Veronica: “Why bother with something not good just because it’s something?” Piz: “90% of life is knowing the difference.”

He’s hoping that means him. But it doesn’t.

Because at the end of the episode, Veronica shows up at Logan’s door.

And when they look at each other—it’s not fireworks, it’s not chaos—it’s ache. Quiet and honest and immediate.

They don’t say a word.

They just kiss.

It’s not about passion. It’s about pain. About history. About not being done.

Logan still loves her. She still gravitates toward him when she can’t hold herself together. They haven’t figured out how to make it work—but they haven’t stopped trying.

This season is about growing pains. About learning that love isn’t always enough unless you know how to give it in a way the other person can receive.

They got what they wanted. But they weren’t ready for what that would demand.

Still, they keep coming back.

Because some loves don’t go away. Not even when they break.

[otp-after-dark]

I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that they’re still trying to gaslight us about Nick Blaine, or that maybe… they actually believe this crap.

I just read this ELLE piece declaring that Nick’s betrayal in Season 6 “proves” men will always choose power over love, and that his confession—about trading June’s plan to protect himself—was the ultimate confirmation that he’s no different from the rest of them. On the surface, the episode wants you to see it that way. The writers clearly want the audience to feel the gut-punch of betrayal. To close the door on Nick Blaine as the last “good guy” in Gilead.

But the thing is—it’s how blatantly the show rewrites its own history to sell us on this “lesson.” How do these fools not see that?! And proceed to continue to sell this complete and utter crap.

Because if you’ve actually watched the show—if you’ve sat through six seasons of this man quietly, consistently risking himself for June—it doesn’t add up. This whole storyline is wildly out of character. It isn’t earned. It doesn’t track emotionally. It doesn’t even make logistical sense given what we know about Nick and where he’s been leading up to this moment.

And let’s not pretend June doesn’t play a role in all of this either. Can someone please acknowledge that? Ugh. She’s not some innocent, passive victim of Nick’s choices—she’s part of this dynamic. She knows who he is. She’s made her own compromises. She’s lied, killed, manipulated people too. She understands him. That’s why their connection has always worked—it was never built on fantasy. It was built on recognition. And the audience knows that.

And oh yeah—let’s not forget in the end, he chooses her. He gives up his marriage. He walks away from the carefully constructed life he built to stay close to her. His last act is loving her, choosing her, and letting her go because he thinks it’s what she wants. So… what are these people watching, exactly?

You can’t spend seasons showing us a man who helped orchestrate Fred’s murder, who saved June over and over, who stayed in Gilead specifically to keep protecting her from the inside—and then suddenly flip the switch and say, “Actually, he just did it for himself.” That’s not a twist. That’s a rewrite. And it’s a lazy one.

You want to talk about tragic? How about a man who was trafficked into war as a teenager, weaponized by Gilead, radicalized by Lawrence, and then trapped in a cycle where every choice he made was a lesser evil. And still—still—he found a way to protect June. Still, he held on to love. Still, he looked at her and said, “It’s always been you."

What this article calls betrayal, I call exhaustion. A man pushed to the brink, cornered by a regime he’s been trying to escape for years, reaching for the only leverage he has left. And even then, he tries to explain it to June. He tells her he loves her and chooses her. He begs her not to look at him like that. To open her eyes and face it.

But sure. Let’s flatten all of that into “men will always choose power.” Let’s ignore six seasons of emotional complexity because the show suddenly decided it was time to close the door on him. Let’s pretend June didn’t see herself in Nick’s compromises, or that she didn’t understand them because she’s made them too.

Here’s the truth: this isn’t a story about men being irredeemable. It’s about writers who no longer understood the story they were telling—and needed Nick to fall in order to prop up the version of June they chose to end with.

Nick didn’t betray June. The show betrayed Nick (and by extension, June). And it betrayed us for ever believing they’d honor the soul of this character instead of using him as a scapegoat to make June’s “freedom” look clean.

So no, I don’t buy it. I never will. And I’m not clapping. And I’m definitely not rewriting history just to fit the finale’s hollow, cynical message.

[otp-after-dark]

Reason number 1000 I'm glad I cancelled Hulu.

They already ruined two of my favorite ships and male characters of all time - june/nick and logan/veronica. Zero interest in how they will now ruin buffy/angel. Some shows like this should not be revived you'll never do it better. Also joss whedon does tragic emotional storytelling better than any hack writer hulu will get.

And given their recent unraveling of Junes character as "feminist" can only imagine what the character of Buffy and this new slayer is in for in this revival. No thanks. You'll never get my money again Hulu.

[otp-after-dark]

Let’s Talk About Who Really Ruined THT Season 6

It wasn’t the fans. It wasn’t the book. It was the people who made the choices.

It’s been a few weeks since The Handmaid’s Tale ended its sixth and final season. Enough time to move past the initial disbelief. Past the collective mourning. Past the desperate hope that maybe we missed something. I’ve had time to sit with the wreckage.

This final season didn’t fail because the show had nowhere to go. It failed because the people steering it chose the wrong direction and refused to course-correct. And no, I don’t just mean the writers. I mean Elisabeth Moss too—who, as star, executive producer, and director, had more power than anyone else in the room.

Let’s start with the big miscalculation: they built the season—and especially the finale—around June’s identity as a mother. But not in any meaningful or inclusive way. They elevated biological motherhood into a sanctified ideal, turning June into a figure of moral purity only because she gave birth. They leaned into a version of feminism that centers white, “natural” mothers above all else—while other women, especially childless or infertile ones, were demonized, erased, or sacrificed along the way.

This show began as a response to the rise of Trump and the far right. It aired its first season in the wake of his election, when women donned handmaid cloaks in the streets as a symbol of protest. But instead of deepening its political critique over time, the show distorted it—mutating Margaret Atwood’s feminist dystopia into a regressive maternal melodrama. One where womanhood and virtue are equated with fertility. One where characters are only redeemed if they become mothers.

They hung the emotional arc of the final season on June’s longing for Hannah—a child we barely know, in a story they knew would never resolve. That was the gamble. And it didn’t pay off. Instead of turning toward the emotional threads that could have delivered meaning—love, loyalty, grief, resistance—they clung to a narrative about motherhood that was always out of reach.

And while June’s desperation is treated as righteous, other women are judged. Infertile women like Lydia and Serena are softened only when they become surrogate or actual mothers. Adoptive mothers are shown as awkward, cold, or cruel. Black women are pushed into the margins—Marthas, servants, sidekicks—elevated only when they serve June’s purpose, then quietly pushed aside when she ascends to savior status.

That’s not progress. That’s not feminism. That’s hierarchy in red robes.

Meanwhile, the parts of the show that did still have life—the emotional relationships, the character arcs with fire and risk—were sidelined.

Which brings us to Nick Blaine.

Nick wasn’t just a love interest. He was the quiet, morally torn, emotionally complex counterbalance to June’s fury. Their connection was intimate, tragic, defiant—and human. Nick represented something real in a world built on brutality. And Max Minghella? He delivered Nick with subtlety and depth even when the script gave him nothing. He carried whole arcs in a look, a pause, a single “hey.”

And how did the writers handle him?

They buried him. Shuffled him into a glass room with Lawrence. Reduced his role to a narrative footnote. No resolution. No catharsis. No emotional payoff. A character who should have stood at the heart of the finale was boxed out of it entirely.

And they seemed to think no one would notice.

But we did. And we still care. Because Nick wasn’t just popular—he was essential. He was a reminder of the cost of love, the pain of survival, the danger of feeling in a world that tells you to be numb.

But the greatest betrayal wasn’t just to Nick—it was to June.

Because the June we saw in Season 6 is a ghost of the woman we first met. Not changed. Not evolved. Diminished.

She spends most of the season avoiding truth. Dodging conversations. Speaking in riddles and voiceovers while refusing to say the things that matter—to the people who matter most.

She’s never honest with Luke. Period. Everyone knows she should end it. Even he knows. But she clings to the performance of their relationship instead of facing what’s actually broken. And when it comes to Nick? She doesn’t talk about him. Not really. They circle around his name like it might detonate something—but never say what he meant, what he still means, what she chose to bury.

And maybe most frustrating of all—she lies to herself. She rewrites the story in her own head so she doesn’t have to face the full weight of what Nick has always been to her. Because to admit the truth would mean making a choice. It would mean saying, out loud, that she didn’t just fall in love with Nick because he was there. She chose him. Because he saw her. Because he loved her as she was—angry, violent, volatile, hurting—and she loved him for the same reasons.

But instead of owning that, she buries it. Pretends it’s simpler than it is. Pushes him into the past and calls that maturity, when it’s really just avoidance with good lighting.

She pushes people away and pretends it’s strength. She performs resilience instead of actually confronting the wreckage of what she's been through—or the people who stood by her through it.

And here’s the thing: I don’t need June to be perfect. I never did. I wanted her to be messy. Raw. Brave. Human. But this June is none of those things. She’s judgmental. Emotionally distant. A symbol of “strength” that says nothing, risks nothing, changes nothing.

She’s not leading us anymore. She’s running.

And the show calls that liberation and feminism and empowerment.

So yeah—we canceled our Hulu subscriptions. We dropped the IMDb score to 5.7. We checked out.

Not because we didn’t understand the ending. But because we did.

And the real question is: why did they choose to end it this way?

Why did a show that began as a feminist warning turn into a celebration of white biological motherhood at the expense of everyone else? Why did the writers flatten June into a statue of silence, erase the love story that made her feel alive, and push every other type of woman into the shadows?

Maybe they thought this was prestige. That ambiguity is better than feeling. That if they kept everything quiet enough, we’d call it profound and empowering. Maybe they were afraid of real emotional payoff—of letting a woman actually choose love, or actually say what she wants, or actually burn something down for herself and not just for her kids in this political climate.

Or maybe they never understood the story they were telling.

This isn’t what bold storytelling or real feminism looks like. This is what fear looks like in expensive lighting.

And we’ll remember that.

[otp-after-dark]

I don't know this June. She's a heartless bitch. If you watch season 1-2 you can't even believe it.

The Handmaid’s Tale — S6E10: The Handmaid’s Tale

[otp-after-dark]

Finally an outlet that acknowledges how they failed the feminist movement. 🙏🙏 what I love about this is it's putting a spotlight on it's biggest issue: if you don't have kids you aren't happy, if you do have them you are redeemed or fulfilled. This is a bad bad bad message for women.

"In particular, the series idealises white biological mothers, while demonising or marginalising other female figures. Here are three examples of how it does this."

"This evolution can be seen to reinforce the idea that infertile women are unfulfilled, unhappy women who can only be redeemed through pregnancy and childbirth."

"For these reasons, although The Handmaid’s Tale succeeds as a compelling female-centered drama, unlike Atwood’s novel, it foregrounds the rights of biological mothers over the issue of women’s reproductive choice. While Atwood criticised forced impregnation, Hulu’s Handmaid’s tale became increasingly invested in an idealised view of white “natural mothers” that is oppressive to many women."

[otp-after-dark]

These type of people in the fandom of the show are the worst.

First I highly doubt they’ve read the book. And their comment about “it’s a story about women” well…..while the statement isn’t false it’s not the whole truth either it neglects the deeper current running through this story… it’s about desire, love, reclaiming your body, love as resistance. So many of these folks want to keep hammering home motherhood and sisterhood as central themes which only tells me they didn’t comprehend the story’s thesis. They are present, yes, but they are not core themes.

And finally we all look for characters that are relatable and truth be told most can’t identify with characters like Lydia or Serena but Nick has many qualities that even women can relate to, deeply human qualities. Those qualities show up far less for characters like Serena or Lydia. And early seasons of June had them and then they abandoned them which is why people are off her ship for the show.

This poll is open to everyone. So everyone can vote for who they want. I didn't mention Nick's character in any way, so people are free to choose.

I must ask. Why being so disrespectful ? You don't like Nick's character ? That's totally ok actually. I respect that and I won't try to change your mind. But why shamed us for caring about him? Why shamed us because we actually liked him ? So I'm asking again, why being so disrespectful ??

Then you said you choose to vote for Serena. Great! She was a huge part of the show and Yvonne is a wonderful actress and she did an amazing job. But let me ask you : did you actually vote for her just to piss everyone off ? Because she is a woman ? Or because you actually liked her character ? Feminism should be about equality, not superiority. Yes, this show is supposed to focus on women, I agree. But does it mean that every men in this show are bad ? Does it mean that, because we choose a character who isn't a woman, we support patriarchy ? That because we didn't choose June as our favorite character, we project our own fantasies onto some guy ? I don't think so. But the poll remains open to everyone. People can vote for who they want. So it would be nice to be respectful. Thank you.

[otp-after-dark]

Veronica Mars Season 2, Part 2: “I thought our story was epic, you know? Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed. EPIC.”

Season 2 is a slow ache.

By the midpoint, Logan and Veronica are no longer in each other’s arms—but they’re still orbiting the same emotional sun. They bicker. They smirk. They flirt. But the truth is written in every look: they aren’t over it. They never were. He’s still the fire she can’t fully extinguish. And she’s still the only person he lets see him.

They don’t say they miss each other. But it’s in everything they say.

Logan: “Look Veronica, can you just once save my ass without comment?” Veronica: “No, because saving your ass with comment just works better for me.”

That’s the dynamic. Snark as currency. Need disguised as sarcasm.

But then he goes after Hannah.

Yes, Logan’s playing a long con—using Hannah to help beat the charges against him—but there’s more beneath the surface. He likes her. A little. She’s soft. Safe. But she’s not Veronica.

Logan (flirting): “What’s your poison?” Veronica: “Emotionally unavailable men.” Logan: “You had me at ice cold.”

They’re still dancing around each other, pretending they’ve moved on. But the jealousy is thick in the air.

Logan (teasing): “You’re cute when you’re jealous.” And then he touches her nose. Just a tap. But it’s intimate. Familiar. Like they haven’t really stopped being something.

Veronica sees him with Hannah. She knows exactly what he’s doing. She’s trying to be above it. She’s failing.

Veronica: “If true love comes looking for me, I’ll be by the espresso machine.” And of course—Logan is standing right there.

Logan’s journey this season is messy. He wants to do the right thing, but he self-sabotages. He makes reckless choices and then feels gutted about them. He knows Veronica sees the worst and best of him—and he hates how often he proves her right.

Logan: “You’re a really sweet girl, but I’m not a sweet guy.” To Hannah, but meant for Veronica. A warning label he can’t stop slapping on himself.

Veronica keeps showing up anyway.

Their connection never really fades—it just gets redirected. When she needs a lead, she goes to Logan. When he needs to talk, he finds her. They circle each other through quips and fake indifference.

Logan: “God, you are a pest.” Veronica: “And you’re stalling.”

But when they dance—when she pulls him away from doing something stupid—it’s clear: the spark hasn’t gone anywhere.

Logan (deadpan): “When I’ve dreamed of this moment, ‘I’ve Had the Time of My Life’ is always playing.” And the way they look at each other? You can’t fake that. You don’t dance like that with someone you’re over.

There are flashbacks too—back to the summer when they were happy. When they were in love.

Veronica: “Remind me—why did we break up again?” Logan: “No way it was you. You were too much man.” He deflects. She probes. But the question lingers in the air like a challenge.

And Wallace, who’s spent most of the season side-eyeing Logan, finally sees it.

Wallace (to Veronica): “Maybe you should cut him some slack sometimes.”

He gets it now. Logan’s not perfect—but he loves her. And she knows it.

Then comes the beginning of the end.

Logan: “She smelled of marshmallows and promises.” He says it while describing Veronica. He still loves her. Always has.

And then the alternative prom speech.

He’s drunk. Vulnerable. Unfiltered.

Logan: “I thought our story was epic, you know? Spanning years and continents. Lives ruined, bloodshed. EPIC.”

It’s maybe the rawest moment he’s ever had. And when she walks away, his face crumples. He’s wrecked. Because that was real. And she left.

But later—when she shows up at his door—the heartbreak hangs between them. Quiet. Honest. Still unfinished.

The season closes in chaos. Aaron Echolls walks free but dies in the end. Veronica nearly dies—again. And Logan?

Logan shows up.

Because that’s what he does. When she’s in real danger, when the world is collapsing, when it counts—he’s there.

He holds her. Stays with her. Keeps her grounded. And it’s effortless, the way she leans into him. Like her body knows something her brain still isn’t ready to say out loud.

And in her dream—when she imagines the life she didn’t choose?

It’s not Duncan she’s with. It’s Logan.

Of course it is.

Logan still loves her. Veronica still leans toward him when things fall apart. And every unresolved moment feels like a promise:

They’re not done. Not by a long shot.