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king571 · 10 hours ago

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Arcane Analysis: Season 2 Episode 8

The Symbolism behind the famous Jail Cell and how Jinx, Caitlyn and Vi “break the cycle."

Hi all, this is a long post, so thank you everyone in advance for taking the time to read this. Over the past few weeks, I have seen many well done analyses for the love scene between Caitlyn and Vi. I am not here to break down that again, but I would like to focus on the events that lead up to that and the symbolism behind Silco’s speech and the famous jail cell.

Before I get into my humble analysis, I would like to emphasize that Arcane is an artistic piece of media that constantly makes these bold and unexpected creative decisions to communicate something deeper in its story, whether this is through character designs, their actions, animation, or the music. And symbolism is part of that. It is a storytelling device that connects characters and plot points for us to see a larger theme. Not everything in Arcane is meant to “make sense” to you in the way you expect; it’s meant to “intrigue” you, to push you to ask questions and find the answers yourself. That’s part of the process of analyzing and understanding the media. Therefore, most of the “criticisms” made for this episode do not seem constructive to me, as it destroys the essence of the artistic storytelling of this show by applying some personal logic, morals, and expectations on these characters. The love scene between Caitlyn and Vi did not “come out of nowhere.” It was thought through for the story the writers wanted to tell and well-animated. Whatever you felt about this scene personally simply does not change these facts from the professional media perspective. After that little rambling, let’s get into the real deal:

Recap:

Although I believe the symbolisms that I am going to explore in this post may apply to the other characters of Arcane since they are the main themes of the show, I will solely focus on what they mean to Jinx, Caitlyn, and Vi. Therefore, I will only focus on the set of events that happen around these characters.

Episode 8 kicks off with Vi waking up from her recovery and going straight to Caitlyn to confront her about Jinx. Their argument is centered around their lack of trust in each other, something that they built in season 1 and lost in the following events. Those of you who think Vi does not hold Caitlyn accountable simply need to rewatch, I do not know what to tell you. Vi lets her anger out on Caitlyn in this scene and corners her because of her alliance with Ambessa. She gets a powerful reaction from her: “I KNOW!”.

This delivery portrays Caitlyn’s anger with herself. She continues by explaining that Jinx was the one who surrendered, and Caitlyn didn’t know what to do. She was simply waiting for Vi to recover. These are the footsteps that show her growing willingness to listen and allow Vi to take the lead. Caitlyn’s response calms Vi down, and Vi shares that Jinx has changed. Caitlyn’s reply essentially says that even though Vi might be right, it doesn’t matter. What's done is done: "We can't erase our mistakes, none of us,". She includes herself in this, aware of her own faults. In contrast, Vi responds by asking, “Who decides who gets a second chance?”

This exchange is important because it illustrates their different perspectives on forgiveness. Caitlyn thinks that no matter what they do, they cannot fix their mistakes. Vi, on the other hand, believes in second chances and believes that Jinx has changed. Yes, this is such a Vi thing to believe and say. We leave the scene with Caitlyn contemplating that. Vi’s insistence on seeing the good in people she loves is important for Caitlyn to move forward.

After her conversation with Vi, Caitlyn makes her way down to face another confrontation. At this point, it's important to remember that both Jinx's and Caitlyn’s perspective on each other has shifted after episode 6. Jinx saw how Caitlyn betrayed Ambessa to help save Vander and Vi. Caitlyn saw how Jinx acted around Isha and her family. Their small reunion before the chaos ensued humanized Jinx in Caitlyn’s eyes. This is why instead of taking actions against her, she decides to wait for Vi to recover.

The way Caitlyn and Jinx address each other in this conversation shows that they see each other as equals now ("Both you and I know…") and they are aware of the destructive paths they took (No amount of good deeds can undo our crimes). They are both honest with each other. The scene ends with Caitlyn admitting to the person she has been desperately trying to catch that she hated herself for everything she did, showcasing her vulnerability, remorse, and regret. Jinx replies with the only thing she knows, that she did not know her mother was there when she attacked the council. It was not personal; it was not her intention. It is not a "sorry", but the only thing that she can share with her to make her understand the situation. The zoomed frame on Caitlyn’s ear shows me that Caitlyn does not only hear her but also listens to her with attention. This exchange is not for them to build any kind of relationship, but it is enough for them to let each other go. Caitlyn walks away and starts the process of breaking the cycle for all of them.

Now let’s get to the real stuff.

Jinx and Silco:

There are two important monologues in this season that really summarize the whole concept of Arcane for me. The first one is Viktor’s speech about humanity and human emotions being two sides of the same coin. And the second one will be this scene. Silco reminds us about 'the cycle of violence.' It is so interesting that there is an element of hallucination in this scene but Jinx is not manic or fully psychotic here. In fact, she is more aware than ever, which makes her suicidal thoughts more dangerous and real than ever as well. The speech that Silco gives her is both symbolic to her and symbolic to the viewers. After Caitlyn’s visit, she is stuck in her head about what is next, and it's so normal that her thoughts come to her in the shape of Silco, her adoptive father. The only person that guided her as Jinx and supported her during her path to destruction. Let’s remind ourselves of the conversation and break it down:

Silco: Oh, it's a hell of a place. It says something about the late Marcus that he found imprisoning your sister to be a greater mercy than killing her.

Jinx: Killing isn't mercy.

For Silco, killing and violence were always justified as long as it had a “good” cause and purpose, they were necessary for him. Jinx finally goes against that mindset that says no killing is not a merciful act. Nothing “good” comes out of it.

Silco chuckles: A spark of rebellion still burns inside that husk, I see. No. Killing is a cycle. One that started long before Vander and me. And it will continue long after the two of you.

Jinx: I'm done running in circles.

Just like Caitlyn, Jinx does not have the will or energy to keep contributing to this cycle anymore. Once again in this conversation she is turning her back to it.

We build our own prisons. Bars forged of oaths, codes, commitments. Walls of self-doubt and accepted limitations. We inhabit these cells, these identities, and call them "us." I thought I could break free by eliminating those I deemed my jailors. But... Jinx... I think the cycle only ends when you find the will to walk away.

This is the symbolism that I will be paying attention to later. But for now, let’s look at it for Jinx. Similar to Silco, Jinx’s method of coping with her walls of trauma and self-doubt was unleashing violence on the ones who she deemed as her jailors. Vi, Caitlyn, the topside.. And after all that destruction, she gained nothing from it and all of that violence just contributed to more violence. She finally comes to the realization that in order to make a change, she has to break the cycle and walk away.

Unfortunately, in this state of mind Jinx sees herself and her existence equal to “violence” and “destruction”. I don't think Jinx wants to die particularly, but she has been ready to die this season because she thinks she needs to.. to stop the violence and suffering, to break the cycle. There is a difference between her wanting to die and simply thinking she needs to. It is a very difficult mindset to get out of on your own. That’s why I believe Ekko’s role will be important for her later. I know that it is not confirmed whether she is alive or not at the end of the show, but if she is, this also explains why she fakes her death. She still has a will to live but she wants to remove her existence from Piltover, break the cycle, and also let Vi be happy.

Jinx’s dialogue with Silco ends with Vi’s entrance to the scene. I love Vi, but she has never been good with connecting and understanding Jinx’s mental state (not her fault obviously). Her point about Jinx using all her potential to be good, makes Jinx realize that no matter what she does, Vi will continue to love her and see the “good” in her.

Except.. Jinx does not think there is any good in her, she knows that letting Vi stick with her will only lead her to unhappiness. Knowing that Vi cannot give up on her by herself, she locks her in the cell and tells her explicitly that she deserves to be with Caitlyn. The sisters' dynamic has been shifting this season ever since Vi saw her with Isha. Remember what Vi said to her in the mines: 'Why did you come get me? You actually don’t need my help. You haven’t for a long time.' Vi knows that Jinx is a grown up now and can take care of herself. During their time in Viktor's commute, Vi has started to see Jinx as more like an equal and asked for her input from time to time. Jinx simply knows that Vi would never leave her if she does not lock her up.

Their dynamic flips this season from Vi being the protector of her to Jinx being the protector of Vi and her happiness (as we see and compare the intros of both seasons as well.) And that's change and growth, people. Therefore, anybody saying that Vi should have followed Jinx, they just want to continue Vi’s role as a sacrificial sister and have everything continue to revolve around Jinx. It is a bad faith comment for this story and ruins their character arcs. Jinx does break the cycle here, removes herself from Vi’s life to pave the way for her happiness.

Although this scene between the sisters is important for us viewers, what it really does to Vi is put her back into a spiral. No, she does not know Jinx is going to try to take her life (another bad faith comment), she thinks Jinx left her again, that she made the wrong choice, and now she is going to lose Caitlyn again, too. She deals with her frustration of being trapped again (both mentally and physically) with her punches. And that is the state Caitlyn finds her.

Caitlyn and Vi and the Jail Cell:

Let’s rewind back to understand the symbolism of what Silco said and what that means to our characters.

“ We build our own prisons. Bars forged of oaths, codes, commitments. Walls of self-doubt and accepted limitations. We inhabit these cells, these identities, and call them ‘us.’ ”

So what is Caitlyn’s prison?

We see the cycle of violence taking shape in the context of the two cities, but we also see it in character dynamics with Jinx and Caitlyn. Jinx spent the entirety of season 1 suffering from attacks on her, ended up losing her mom to this violence, and then took a similar path down and contributed to the cycle of violence herself. Caitlyn’s prison is her hate and vengeance. Her identity as a Kiramman, the expectations and responsibilities she carries by that name. Her sense of justice.

How does she break the cycle:

Caitlyn’s will to break free from her entrapment is both Vi and herself. She abandons her strict sense of justice she had built in her mind, choosing to see the bigger picture and her mistakes. She finally finds the strength to forgive Jinx and shifts all the guards to the Hexgates, clearing the path for Vi to free her. Aware that she may never see Vi again, she lets them go. Like Jinx, this is a selfless act, driven by the belief that it is the right thing to do and that it will make Vi happy. In the final episode, I believe Caitlyn stops being the Kiramman that everyone expected her to be and becomes the person she truly wants to be. Caitlyn and Jinx’s breaking the cycle moment mirror each other. While Jinx locks Vi up to stop it, Caitlyn frees her both physically and mentally.

What is Vi’s prison?

It's her responsibility to her family. She is stuck between her loved ones, Jinx and Caitlyn, and failing to choose one over the other. Her self-blame for making the wrong choice all the time. Her lack of self-love and always prioritizing what others need from her.

How does she break the cycle:

Vi breaks the cycle by doing the opposite of what she has been doing and makes a choice for herself. She has had enough. I LOVE how Caitlyn walks into the cell and literally joins her in her spiral, revealing that she let all of this happen because she sees her now, she knows her heart, and accepts her for who she is (“sorry to say, you have grown a bit predictable”). For the first time, someone joins Vi in this fight and stands by her unconditionally. She feels unburdened, free, and encouraged. She is overwhelmed by her emotions that she kisses Caitlyn and decides to be with her. I don't care what everybody else thinks, but this act from Caitlyn and what it means to Vi is much better than a cheap “sorry”. After holding back for such a long time, this is an impulsive “screw this” moment for Vi. She wants to leave the past behind, her imprisonment, and move on. She says it herself with the “I don't f*cking care” line. And Caitlyn, being receptive, gently lets Vi take the lead and have whatever she wants.

Making love in that cell, their joy, happiness, and giggles create a juxtaposition to all the messed up stuff that they had been through and reflect their state of mind. They are rewriting their story. From a psychological perspective, it still makes sense as there are techniques similar to that to work on your traumas. But Arcane is an art piece, the creators are not here to scientifically prove something or break down how to overcome trauma with realistic therapy sessions. They are here to tell us a story, and they are doing exactly that.

This is why this scene shows and symbolizes the culmination of Caitlyn and Vi character arcs. They are coming full circle at the place they met. This scene shows two lovers “breaking free” from their prisons and running to each other. Finally choosing each other although they don't add up on paper. Running away from their personal worlds and commitments to be together. I do not know what is more romantic than that. This is a story that I will cherish forever.

If you have read this far, thanks again. It means a lot. If you have any questions, drop down below. I am happy to discuss it. (Excluding haters and antis, I don't tolerate them anymore.) Also, thanks to my best friend who helped me co-write this. She is a psychologist working in the field. Her specialty is forensic psychology, and her experience really makes her a great source to analyze a complex character like Jinx. A lot of you and your analyses encouraged me to put this out here, so thanks for that too. Arcane means a lot to me, especially season 2. And I will never, ever stop loving or talking about it.

#arcane #caitvi #vi #caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane #arcane caitlyn #piltover's finest #arcane jinx #arcane silco

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clonerightsagenda · 23 hours ago

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To celebrate space archives getting published I might as well post an abandoned short story from 3 years ago that deals with a lot of the same themes in a more concentrated way. This is my toxic yuri for 2025. Enjoy and see if you can remember the post I made about it back in 2022.

This Story Was Made Possible By Viewers Like You

I never liked confession cams.

You know, someone sits in a soundproof room with just the cameras and talks all teary-eyed about how they’ve struggled, and how they really feel, now that no one can hear. But of course someone can hear. You can. You’re there, in the room with them, a few months in the future and a hundred miles away. It’s all a performance. Everything is.

I’m not doing that, ok? This is for me.

They came to the house with bags full of clothing and artificial smiles. They came with extra toothbrushes and half-constructed plans. They came with high hopes and already dented dreams.

I came with nothing. I was already there.

It started the same as always. They jumped when I greeted them and then stole glances at each other’s reactions. No one said anything back. I didn’t expect them to. I’d been getting everything ready. Twenty bedrooms, names on the doors. Lights on, temperature tweaked up there, down here, never quite comfortable. I’m very good at that part of my job.

That first arrival scene goes through a lot of editing. Cut out the boring bits, highlight the quirks that make contestants stand out. The details we highlight set the audience’s perception of each player. Create heroes, villains, characters. No one on these shows presents themselves as they really are. You get the construct.

Me? I get a little bit more.

Let’s skip the boring parts. They milled around for a while before finding their rooms. Most unpacked their clothes. One placed a photograph on her dressing table, angling it so it would be in easy view of the camera. A bid for sympathy, I figured, but my opinion wasn’t the one that mattered.

The files would have told me that her name was Gloria Martina Sosa, contestant ID seventeen, age twenty-nine, pronouns she/her. Employed in finance and competing because her mother needed to pay for a medical procedure. The files would tell me that, but I already knew.

This time, there was a container of chocolates on the table when Gloria inched down the hallway to the dining area. She was good at finding her way around the floorplan already, even though it was designed to send them circling in the wrong direction and bumping into each other. I wondered if they noticed.

She approached the chocolates cautiously. She knew it had to be a test. I knew she liked chocolate.

“Can –” She paused before old-fashioned manners asserted themselves. “May I have one?”

“Yes,” I said.

She slid her hand in. Then she hesitated again, fingers still reaching. “Would you like one?”

I checked to see if someone else had entered the room. Nothing on the visuals from any of the dining room cameras. She was the only one there.

She was talking to me.

“No,” I said, after an obvious pause. Then, because of the manners, “No thank you.”

Her fingers curled around a chocolate. “That was stupid of me.”

I didn’t need to answer that, so instead I thought about her motives. I couldn’t show favoritism; she should know that. Did she want to look empathetic for the audience? She wouldn’t win any points cozying up to me.

Maybe she meant it as a genuine kindness. It was early enough that she might not know better.

“Do you ever wish you could eat?” she asked. The chocolate was in her mouth, but her fingers folded and refolded the square of foil.

Why was she still talking to me? I couldn’t tell her it was against the rules – it wasn’t, officially. So I said, “This won’t make good television.”

Her eyes widened. She was thinking of all the time she’d wasted here, the time her competitors might have been using to build alliances or look for clues. She yanked the container of chocolates off the table and ran back toward the hallway. She’d use them as an offering, maybe, or a bargaining chip. She didn’t say thank you, or goodbye.

Why would she? I’m not a player. I’m the host.

I know how this sounds, so let me set the record straight. I’m not an artificial intelligence. People love to claim they’ve invented a thinking machine, but when you drill down to the bones of one you’ll always find an algorithm. Sure, this place runs on all sorts of automation, but at the end of the day, you need a human to come up with a wicked twist or make sure the tracking software doesn’t mix up Mateo and Benjamin because there was a mishap in the laundry room and they’re wearing each other’s clothes. AI doesn’t have the flexibility a project like this demands. I don’t think it ever will. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking, since if it happens, I’ll be out of a job. It’s not a great job (I’m making minimum wage here) but I don’t have to pay rent or buy groceries, so the money adds up.

There used to be a whole team – six-hour shifts, front-end and back-end crews – but budget cuts hit everywhere. It gets quiet sometimes, but at least I don’t have to make a big production of hiding when I’m going to the bathroom with a tampon. I do the best I can, drink a lot of coffee, and chalk any delays or mistakes up to a buggy operating system. There are surgeries you can get to keep you sharper – some employers insist on them – but I wouldn’t let anyone stick neurotech in my brain even if I could afford it. Too many horror stories. It’s easy to keep them thinking I’m a machine. I slap a voice filter on, and my disinterest in everyone’s drama means I don’t have to fake sounding inhumanly bored.

But enough about the woman behind the curtain. That’s not what anyone tunes in for.

About half the guests roamed the halls after dark the first night, which meant prowlers skulking around corners and smacking into each other. I downed two energy drinks and kept an eye out for the most entertaining close calls so I could cut them together later. On other nights I’d feel safe sneaking some sleep, but the first was always busy.

Gloria stayed in her room. Instead of climbing into bed right away, she knelt and whispered something in Spanish. The translation software would handle that for anyone who wanted to know what she was praying for. I could guess.

When she finished, she looked up. They’re never sure where to focus when they talk to me. I’ve learned to read that lost expression as a sign I’m about to be on call. “If I need something, do I just ask?”

“That’s correct.” When she didn’t say anything else, I continued, “Did you need something?”

“Not right now.” Not from me.

The next few weeks passed the usual way. Dean found an immunity stone hidden behind the false back of the pantry. Three different groups swore ill-fated alliances while pretending to be preoccupied with their laundry. The first contestants were voted off, mostly because of dismal challenge performances and in one case because Heather kept stealing other people’s toothpaste. (Luckily for me, I didn’t have to listen to them moping about being eliminated. The losers’ quarters had cameras, of course – everywhere does – but none of those feeds went to my workstation.)

Most of the time the participants treated me as so much background, but there are always exceptions. One afternoon Haruto and Farah were arguing about an inane piece of early twenty-first century pop culture trivia and wanted me to tell them who was right, and Anna was asking about the latest sports scores, and one of the microphones in the dining room wouldn’t connect right even though I’d run troubleshooting, and –

“Is Corey busy?”

I pressed the intercom button for Gloria’s room and said, “One moment, please.” Then I switched channels (click). “The home team won their last game 4 to 1.” Click. “Yes, it was the same actor; they used CGI to make him look younger.” Click. “Sorry for the delay.” I punched in Corey’s ID to pull up the last place the cameras had seen him. “A lot of guests are requesting my services right now.”

I don’t know what did it. Maybe a hint of exasperation crept into my tone, or the keystrokes filtered through the speakers, or a real sentient computer program wouldn’t apologize. Whatever tipped her off, Gloria’s eyebrows pulled down. It wasn’t an expression of surprise as much as it said, ‘I knew it’.

“You’re not an AI,” she said. “Are you.”

Damn. I could have lied. The producers would’ve wanted me to, but they left me there to play the game however I chose. Besides, I’d already paused too long. A machine wouldn’t have to think about it.

“A lot of the answers are. There’s a library of canned responses for the most predictable questions. I’m here for the more complicated problems.”

“Here?” She spun her eyes around the room like I might pop out of a closet.

“On site. Behind the scenes.”

“But you can see and hear me?” She hunched in on herself. “I don’t like that.”

“You signed up to be on a TV show.”

“That’s different.”

Because I wasn’t an adoring fan. “Did you want an answer to your question?”

“You can see him too?” She was hung up on that considering the position she put herself in. The contracts they signed asked them to give away all sorts of control.

“I can see everyone. I’m not watching all the time, though. That’s part of the automation. I get notified when there’s activity that might be interesting.” I checked the relevant screen, which showed me the feed from camera 251. “He’s brushing his teeth.”

“Is that interesting?”

“Not according to the system.” Showering would be, because the system’s a pervert. So are the folks back home, although the editors make sure to frame things just right so that we can deny we’re showing anything explicit.

She sighed. She kept her head angled toward the floor, like denying the cameras eye contact preserved some sliver of her privacy. “I guess I can’t opt out.”

“Not until you go home. You could try to be less interesting, but it’ll cost you.” That strayed dangerously close to advice. “I’ll delete this conversation, though. Have to preserve my image.”

That got her head to pop up. “You can do that?”

I wiggled my fingers over the keyboard, a pointless gesture since she couldn’t see me. “As long as you’re in this building, I’m basically God.”

“God.” Her lip curled. I’d seen her praying earlier. Maybe my boast sounded like blasphemy. “What’s your name?”

“I can’t tell you. I’ve got rules. Sorry,” I added, repeating that human touch that betrayed me.

“I don’t know why I asked.” She looked away from the camera again. “Don’t watch me sleep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She was pretty. But watching a pretty woman over the cameras isn’t automatically creepy. If it is, what does that say about you?

I tried to keep my word. Gloria wanted to believe she still had boundaries, and unlike our loyal viewers, I don’t get my kicks spying on people. Every so often, though, my eyes crept back to her square on my monitor. I knew so much about these people, and she was the only one who knew I existed. That knowledge was like a blinking notification that never went away.

I didn’t expect Gloria to talk to me again, and for a few days she didn’t. She sat in silence while I announced the day’s events or when other participants asked me questions, a frown mostly smoothed off her face. I saw it, though. That’s what she was frowning about.

Four days after our conversation, she was tearing her room apart looking for something. It’d been twenty minutes, and she wasn’t going to find it. I was waiting for her to figure that out. She groaned, tilted her head up, and asked, “Do you know where my charger is?”

“Under the sofa in the living room.”

She jumped. “That was fast.”

“Pretty good AI impression, right?” I hadn’t been watching her sleep, but I’d been paying attention. So sue me. If she decided to spill my secret, I’d have to… well, I didn’t know. It had never happened before.

“Is anyone else there right now?”

“Haruto and Farah.” Still arguing, somehow. Getting worked up about each other’s vintage cinema opinions was their version of entertainment.

She sighed and sat on the side of her bed. “I don’t want to get sucked into whether we need any more live action remakes. Can you tell me when they leave?”

“Sure.” Informal. I was slipping.

She drummed her ankles against the floor and then, with a huff, hopped up again and began straightening the mess she made. She wasn’t a woman who liked to be still. I wasn’t surprised when she broke the silence. “Does anyone else know?”

“If they’ve guessed, they haven’t said anything. This isn’t a test, or one of the puzzles you’re supposed to solve. You weren’t supposed to notice.”

She slammed a drawer. “Do you like spying on people?”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” She snorted. “It’s a job. A boring one, most of the time. Alerts tell me when any of you do something relevant, and then I cut the best footage together and send it back to the real editors. I’m not watching you every second. Who would want to?”

That got her to stop folding a shirt and look up at camera 387 so I’d be sure to see the disgusted expression on her face. “The fans?”

Fair point. “I forget about them sometimes.”

“I doubt your bosses would be happy to hear that.” She moved on to stuffing toiletries back into her bag, but her movements were less ferocious. “How did you end up working here?”

“I worked as set crew on a few smaller projects. I didn’t get training for it, but I’m good at picking up just enough to make myself useful.” That’s what kept me around through round after round of layoffs. I learned the bare bones of other people’s jobs, and upper management decided bare bones was enough. That kind of approach doesn’t make friends in the workplace, but neither does getting fired. And hey, it worked out that I’m not a team player. The only one on my team now is me.

“Do you like reality TV?”

“Hell no.” I couldn’t believe anyone would put up with the genre without getting paid for it. “But a job’s a job. Did you always dream about starring in something like this?”

She paused, clutching a bottle of perfume. “Not like this.” She took a bracing whiff – the label said orange vanilla, but smell is one thing I can’t piggyback on. “You’ll delete this?”

The start of our conversation was already flagged. “Speak freely.”

“I liked the romantic ones when I was younger. The fairy tale element; I read a lot of fairy tales growing up. Later I realized how artificial they were, but you keep hoping.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I told you that.”

Neither could I. Then again, they were encouraged to bare their souls for the cameras. It must be a hard habit to break. “Given the data I’ve collected, I think Anna is your one true love.”

Instead of laughing, she shoved the perfume into her bag. “I’m not here for that.”

“I know.”

She zipped up the bag, stood, and looked right at the camera, hands on hips. It was the closest I’d come to eye contact with someone in months. “How much do you know about me?”

“Mostly what’s in your files.” I reread them after she caught me. I had her entire application packet, every official scrap of information the network collected.

“And I don’t know anything about you.”

“You know I don’t like reality TV.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

She shot the question at me, and I responded reflexively. “Blue. At least it is now. I don’t see the sky much on this job.”

“Blue.” She digested that and looked past the cameras, up to the ceiling and the sky beyond that she’d only see through windows until the game was over. “I miss it too.”

“Now you know one thing about me. Happy?”

“Can I ask more, later?” She sucked her lower lip between her teeth; I think the question surprised her as much as it did me. “I don’t like being watched by a stranger. I can’t stop you watching, but I can stop you from being such a stranger.” A crafty spark entered her eyes. “You are here to answer our questions. That’s what they told us in orientation.”

They did tell them that. “I’ll do what I can,” I said. “But be careful. I don’t want everyone in the house asking me for my biography.”

Gloria was the one on camera, but she was the one who forgot herself. She was standing in the kitchen running a plate under the water when she looked toward a camera and asked, “What do you eat?”

“Uh,” said Benjamin, waiting for his turn at the sink. “Are you talking to me?”

“Based on existing data, Benjamin enjoys soy-based products and fresh fruit,” I said in my best automaton voice.

At least she caught on quick. “Thank you,” she said, and went back to rinsing pasta sauce off her dishes.

After she retreated to her room, she said, “I’m guessing I’m not supposed to socialize with you.”

“There aren’t any rules against it,” I said, which wasn’t a no, and then followed it up with, “It’s not the most strategic use of your time,” which wasn’t a yes.

“I need a break from everything out there sometimes. At least I know what you’re lying about.”

Safer not to comment on that one. Besides, she was still going.

“Mateo is always trying to make sure the cameras get his good side; you know he’s here to make a name for himself. And Anna keeps talking about how she wants to buy her own automated mansion, like she can’t imagine going back to having to manually turn on the lights. They’re so trivial. It makes me want to toss them out a window and tell them to come back when they have something serious to compete for.”

I didn’t comment on that either, but I could’ve. The truth was, at least half the participants needed the money for reasons beyond popularity contests or tech upgrades. It didn’t matter. If I told her, she wouldn’t think they deserved it as much as she did. Even without the files, I could have read her life story in her unblemished skin and name brand outfits. She’d never sweated through record-breaking summers because during surge periods companies always cut off the poorest neighborhoods first. She wrinkled her nose at the cricket flour crackers in the pantry like someone who had the luxury to leave food on her plate. She had no idea how many people watched her and wished they could take her place – not for a chance at a cash prize or fifteen minutes of fame, but just to have a safe place to sleep and enough to eat. When people watch shows like this, it’s not about rooting for an individual, not really. It’s about constructing elaborate narratives about themselves. Wanting participants, wanting to be them: there’s not much of a difference in the end. They’re all different flavors of consumption. Some players catch on faster and embrace being the product.

But Gloria was used to being on the other side of the equation. She’d been comfortable her whole life, and this medical bill was the first time she hadn’t had enough to make the world work the way she wanted. So she came running here for a fairy tale ending, because of course she was entitled to that along with everything else.

You’d think people like me who’ve been struggling their whole lives would fight hardest, but people like that? They get vicious.

Instead I said, “So you’re saying it’s nice to talk to me.”

“It’s a change.”

I minimized camera 16’s window where Richard and Destiny are gearing up to either start a fight or swap spit. Hard to tell with those two. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What do you think of us? You watch us all day.”

“Not all day, I told you. Honestly it’s – did you ever work customer service?” Her eyebrows jumped. I could’ve guessed that too. “Well, in that kind of job, you don’t pay much attention to individuals. You’re all one big crowd. Of course, you’re also my only live entertainment. Could you do anything more interesting?”

“Any suggestions?”

“Steal Corey’s watch.”

She laughed. Corey told everyone who would listen how expensive his custom-made timepiece was. His audience hung on to every word, although they were mostly hanging on to his cheekbones. “That won’t get me any votes.”

“I’d vote for you.”

“You mean you’re not charmed by him?”

“Not my type.”

“Not mine either.”

I know, I thought, but I didn’t say it. She didn’t like to be reminded.

Gloria didn’t steal Corey’s watch. The next time he made a production of giving someone the time she looked right at the nearest camera, and I almost choked on my protein bar laughing.

After she left that conversation, she slipped into her room and leaned against the door. “You always delete the video when I’m talking to you, right?”

“It wouldn’t do me any good to send it on.”

Her shoulders loosened. It was surprising, and a little gratifying, that my presence now made her relax. “In the real world, you’re pressured to be doing something useful with every second of your life. In here, every second you’re performing for the cameras. It’s nice to be able to stop.”

I covered a yawn with one hand and reached for my coffee. “At least you get regular rest periods. I can’t give you details, but some people were keeping me up last night.”

She frowned. “Would you rather I let you go?”

The frown was also gratifying. “No, there’s enough I need to monitor right now anyway. Just keep your activities within regular business hours. That’ll make you a model participant in my book.”

“I’ll try.” She settled onto her bed and stretched her arms over her head, bending back the wrists. Then she asked, abruptly, “Do you have a favorite guest?”

“I’m not supposed to pick favorites. I won’t name names, but my least favorite is someone who starts whistling when they’re trying to concentrate. I always get the tune stuck in my head.”

“I’d hate that too.” She dropped her arms down and rested her hands in her lap. “It doesn’t seem fair. You get to see all of us, and I don’t get to see you.”

“It’s for the best that you can’t.” I shifted in my chair where I was sitting cross-legged in sweatpants I’d been wearing for three days straight. “I don’t have to be presentable to anyone back here. My hair’s a mess.”

She shrugged. “It would be nice to see any new face. Can you tell me what you look like?”

“Better not.” There weren’t any rules against that either – no one would’ve thought we needed them. But I wasn’t there to be looked at. “Just… imagine me. Whatever you’d like.”

She thought for a moment and then said, “You look nice.”

“Thank you.”

For the next month, I watched from my hundreds of cameras and listened through my hundreds of microphones. I scoured test banks for trivia questions and rearranged the responsive floor plan to build obstacle courses. I beamed everything back to our viewers, and the network compiled data to send back. Their demands were predictable. So-and-so is popular; be sure to get close-ups. Contestants X and Y don’t get along. Trap them in a room together with a malfunctioning door. Sometimes the instructions were specific, but often they just told me what the audience wanted. By now, I knew how to get it.

While I did that, I watched Gloria. She was average, as these things go. She lasted longer than half the participants in a challenge where I cranked the temperature lower and lower. Then she flopped when asked to identify the fake headline in a social media feed. She nodded to cameras with a half-smile, and although she could be doing it for the viewers, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing it for me.

She stayed kinder than I expected, even as everyone dropped the niceties and the game turned into a bloodbath of votes and eliminations. I’m not usually wrong reading people. I have so much to go on.

She kept talking to me late at night. Participants are promised some privacy in their bunks. (If they read their contracts line by line they know better. Viewers get very interested whenever a player invites someone else in. That was happening in two locations, so it was easy to cover up my own indiscretions.)

“Do you know what’s happening back home?

“Only what the network sends me.” I didn’t miss it. Participants signed up for fame or money, but escape would work as well. At least locked in this house, the problems weren’t real. You knew the challenges were fake, and everyone went to bed with a full stomach at the end of the day. It’s not a bad gig, really.

“I don’t know how my mother’s doing.” She was staring at the ceiling instead of making virtual eye contact with me. “Sometimes I’m afraid I won’t get back in time. It feels like it’s been longer than a few weeks.”

She didn’t seem to be waiting for a response. They were encouraged to think out loud for the cameras.

Nine weeks into this round of the game, she was in trouble. We didn’t talk about it. I was supposed to be her refuge from all that. Ridiculous, if you think about it, but we all have our illusions. She didn’t have access to viewer opinion polls or other players’ confessions, but I could tell from the way she held herself that she knew. If she didn’t win this week’s challenge, she was gone.

That shouldn’t have bothered me. I don’t pick favorites. Players come and go and nothing changes. Except…

I used to talk to my coworkers’ empty chairs to hear my own voice. I erased crosswords and started them again. The job without Gloria would be… boring. I didn’t want to look across all my monitors and not see her there.

I’ve never related to the viewers who root for their favorite contestant. This was different. They’re behind a screen watching the edited version of a woman from miles away, a woman who doesn’t even know they exist. I knew her. She knew me.

She didn’t ask for my help. I’d like to imagine she respected my integrity or didn’t want to risk my job, but I saw the way she threw herself into trying to shore up shaky alliances, too little too late. She’d rather rely on herself. I might be the all-seeing eye and the voice in her ear when she went to sleep, but when it comes to playing the game, no one pays attention to the help.

My inbox dinged. The network was responding to my latest batch of video. I skimmed through it: suggestions for contrived scenarios to start people fighting, instructions to let the showers break down, standard stuff. Then, at the end: We need new topics for this week’s trivia challenge. Any ideas?

The challenges got repetitive after a while. Production was always looking for suggestions. I opened a reply, started typing, and then paused.

I could help. No one would know. Gloria would be here, with me, for another week.

It wouldn’t be my first case of workplace dishonesty. I’d fibbed on timesheets and extended my breaks like everyone has. I’d kept my mouth shut and let coworkers take the fall for my mistakes. This was interference with the outcome of the show, though. I could get fired.

Who was going to catch me? Me?

I typed, What about fairy tales?

Gloria was exultant. She won the trivia challenge, securing her place for the week and spurring a nasty double cross in an alliance that had been planning on forcing her out. She paced back and forth in her room, rehashing her triumph. I responded with customer service hmms. It didn’t occur to her that I might be behind the convenient choice of topics. Which was fine. If she realized, she might let it slip, or expect more favors, and I’d risked enough already. It was fine that I was everywhere controlling everything and she still acted like she had no idea. People like her are the same everywhere. They assume the world runs itself.

“If I win next week’s challenge and Richard and Destiny stay on bad terms, I have a chance,” she said. “I could win.”

I didn’t say much in response. Maybe she thought I was being careful not to spill any show secrets, or maybe to her I was just another audience member witnessing her triumph. I’d had so much time to watch and still had trouble reading her.

I’m not omniscient, is the point. I never had the power to read her mind or control her or even save her in the end. I was only ever buying time.

I’d built a habit of letting emails pile up and answering them when I felt like it, but now I never closed my inbox. I took my phone with me on bathroom breaks or rare trips outside. Of course, if the network found out what I’d done, they might not bother with professional communication. They might send a crew in with no notice to throw me out on my ass.

That dampened my enthusiasm as Gloria dreamed of making the final three. Household malfunctions rose. I got jumpy. Anna asked me a question, and I froze, because for a moment I thought I’d been caught. A spam email snuck through my filter, and I spilled my energy drink all over the keyboard when I heard the notification. I wanted to scream through the intercoms, Don’t you know what I can do? What I’ve already done? You don’t even know that I’m here.

Instead I turned the heat up two degrees and reassured Anna that she’d buttoned up her dress correctly.

In the end, I didn’t get caught. The shutdown order came for different reasons. Mateo, a fan favorite, had settled into a committed relationship. The move wasn’t popular with viewers. They liked him as a heartbreaker with someone else in his bunk every night. I don’t get the appeal, but ratings are ratings.

End the game, wipe their memories, and start over, the message said, with a list of new parameters to try. Just like the last four times I got this email. Neurotech sure has expanded the boundaries of reality programming.

Like I said, I’ve got horror stories.

I flicked through the changes. The bulk were new living arrangements and challenges tailored to different participants’ skills. The true appeal was more pathos for viewers to sigh over, as former lovers betrayed each other and friends met again as strangers. They eat it up so much I wonder if the game will ever end.

Maybe I should be happy about that. It’s job security.

I could see Gloria out of camera 43. She was selecting a meal packet and humming to herself. I wanted to warn her, to say that every time before this she’d become someone shut off or brittle or cruel, and that I liked her better this way. I wanted to tell her it’d been thirteen months since she saw her mother, not two. I wanted to ask if she had any idea. But I signed a contract too.

Instead I waited until after lights out and said, “Let me show you something.”

Gloria trusted me enough by now that she waited until I’d directed her to a blank stretch of wall to ask, “Why did you bring me here?”

“If you compare the interior to the outside of the house, this can’t be an exterior wall. There’s too much space. You didn’t notice?”

“I didn’t.”

She did in three of the other versions. Gloria had rarely been a model participant. She’d explored more, discovered more, when she wasn’t talking to me. “When people do, I tell them it’s not part of the game. It’s where we keep some of the machinery used to run the facilities.”

“What’s really on the other side?”

“Me.”

She started at that, looking from the camera to the wall and back again, like she assumed I lived in the fiber optics. “You’re there?”

“In my own set of apartments. It’s roomy now that I’m the only one. There’s a side door, so I even get a little sun sometimes. There’s a lot of machinery back here with me, though. We try not to lie when we can tell part of the truth. Makes it easier to keep track of everything.”

She reached out and presses her hand to the chipped paint of the wall. “You were always right here.”

“Hang on, I’m at a different terminal.” I hopped out of my chair and squeezed myself between my desk and the one that used to belong to Paulo before the last round of cutbacks. “Now I’m right there.” I was simplifying things, of course. There was at least a foot of wires and paneling between us, but it was still the closest we’d ever been. I reached out to press my hand to the wall and imagined the touch of another human’s skin against my own.

This was my last chance to tell the truth. I could reveal everything, lead her to the emergency exit only I knew about, and invite her to run away with me to… what? We were both there because we needed something, and the world won’t give you anything for free. In this house, blasphemy or not, I was basically God. I could steer her away from danger. I could construct a narrative. Outside, I couldn’t create a happy ending for either of us.

From what I knew of Gloria Martina Sosa, the many possible Gloria Martina Sosas who had walked under this roof, she would hate me for keeping this from her.

It was a good thing she didn’t know me at all.

“Why did you decide to tell me now?” she asked.

There were a lot of things I could have said. Because this version of you dies tomorrow. Because there are bigger rules I won’t break, and I want to believe I’m a person who would break some of them, for you. Because I’m saying goodbye, and you don’t even know it.

“Because we’re getting close to the end now,” I said. “You’ll be too busy soon to think about me.”

“It’s hard to not think about you when you’re watching all the time. Especially now that I know exactly where you are.” She ran her fingers across the paint before pulling away. “Maybe when this is over I’ll be able to see you face to face.”

I couldn’t hesitate. If I hesitated, she might guess something is wrong, and my entire job relied on returning polished answers with mechanical precision. “That would be nice.” I was using my work voice, all business. “You should get back to bed before anyone wonders why you’re up.”

She smiled – at the wall rather than the camera. She might have been looking toward me, but that means she didn’t meet my eyes. “Are you worried about my beauty sleep?”

“Rest is important,” I said. “I’m not supposed to have favorites, but I’m rooting for you.”

Thanks to my instructions, she made it back without running into anyone, turning corners and ducking into rooms without a word of protest. Once I delivered her to her room, she dimmed the lights and slipped into bed to while away the last few hours this version of her would ever see.

I watched her fall asleep, and I didn’t say a word.

Maybe next time.

They were called in for a medical check-up the next morning. “Is this a challenge?” Gloria asked while getting dressed.

“No,” I said. “It’s perfectly normal.” The producers would be pleased. I’d never sounded less human.

Teardown procedure between rounds was always the same. I filled out the standard paperwork and finished packaging the last days of footage to be shipped back to the editors. My email inbox could be thinned out. I’d gotten practiced, and none of the tasks took long. Then it was just me, the empty house, and Gloria’s ghost roaming the silent halls.

If you look at it right, I’m doing her a favor. Outside the house, the monsters are so much worse than me. People want to be you, or have you, and they’ll eat you alive. People who grew up like me would understand. They might even ask me to do the same for them.

I don’t know why I’m bothering to justify myself. My job is to watch and record, not to editorialize. There’s no reason for me to sit down in front of the camera and say, My name is Cal, and there’s nothing I could have done. But I guess I’ve caught the narrative bug after watching everyone else spin out their stories, because here I am making my recording. Wishing there was someone on the other side of the screen to turn me into someone new.

I have no illusions that I would be an audience favorite. That’s never been my role.

An email with the finalized set-up for round six arrived in my inbox, and I scanned it so I’d be prepared. There will be no chocolates next time. Every round, the producers try something different. But I will say hello, and maybe this time she will say it back.

They come to the house with bags full of clothing and artificial smiles. They come with extra toothbrushes and half-constructed plans. They come with high hopes and already dented dreams.

I come with nothing. I was already here.

#tumblr is not the ideal place to read 6.5k words but what can you do #kat writes

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bybobbysbeard · 1 day ago

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Never Leavin' Blue

Day 1 for @bucktommyfluffebruary: non-sexual intimacy. read on ao3

“Can I try?”

Tommy looks up at the sound of Evan’s nervous question. His boyfriend is standing in the doorway of the living room, looming really; like he’s afraid to interrupt. He’s staring intently at the little glass bottle of OPI Never Leavin’ Blue nail polish in Tommy’s hands.

He’s sitting on the floor, cross-legged, in front of the coffee table. He’s not sure how long Evan’s been standing there; Tommy knows he can get hyperfocused with a fiddly little task like this. Earlier, Evan was having a post-shift nap in Tommy’s bed, but he’s obviously had enough time to shower and change before tracking down his distracted boyfriend.

Evan has seen him do this a couple of times, but he’s never asked to be involved before. Tommy’s got all his supplies laid out: paper towels to protect his shitty coffee table, a few q-tips, remover, the polish he’s already applied to a few fingers on his left hand, and a separate top coat.

Evan shifts, and Tommy realizes he hasn’t answered him.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“If you want to—”

They both stop when they realize they’re speaking over each other. Tommy laughs when Evan scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Evan, of course you can try. I’ve got a pile of colours under the sink in the ensuite. Take your pick.”

“Um, actually. I-I was hoping I could try painting your nails. Not my own.”

"Oh. Oh! Sure, yeah, baby, anything you want.”

Evan melts at his words.

Tommy pats the area rug next to him and watches with a bemused smile as Evan bounds over. He’s all golden-retriever energy now, his earlier shyness completely forgotten. Tommy caps the polish, giving it a shake while Evan gets situated, clumsy in his excitement. He hands it over when his boyfriend is sitting beside him, echoing his pose, their knees touching.

“Have you painted anybody’s nails before?”

“N-no, never. I don’t think I’ve ever painted anything other than walls and baseboards. Maybe a ceiling when I was doing construction.”

“Well, it’s a little different than that, but the premise is the same. This polish will take a few coats, so don’t worry if the first one is thin.”

Evan smiles at him, blue eyes catching in the sunlight coming in through the bay window. He twists off the cap, watches the polish run down the side of the brush and pool into a big drip.

”You won’t need that much. Wipe some of it back into the bottle.” He keeps his voice low and even, notices a faint flush blooming on the apple of Evan’s cheek as he follows his direction. The bottle is set back down on the table and Evan reaches out for Tommy’s half-finished hand, angling the wet brush upright. Calloused fingers wrap around his own, separating out his index finger. Evan’s hand is so warm.

Tommy’s never had anyone offer to do this.

The first brush of paint starts a little too low, leaving an unpainted strip close to the cuticle. Evan frowns, adjusting his grip. Tommy wraps his free fingers around Evan’s hand gently, wary of his tacky nails. Another brushstroke is laid down. Evan’s hands are steady. He's leaning in, concentrating, a hint of pink tongue poking out when he licks his lips. This close, Tommy could count his eyelashes.

It’s quiet in the house, just the sound of their breathing and the ticking of his wall clock. Tommy breathes in the smell of wet nail polish and Evan‘s shampoo. His index finger is carefully released and Evan starts on his thumb. Tommy shifts carefully, keeping his hand motionless in Evan’s grasp, but stretching a leg out under the table. He feels the carpet under his butt, the couch at his back, the heat of Evan’s body next to him.

The last stroke is too heavy, too close to the edge of his nail bed. Cool blue spills over his skin.

Evan huffs, settling the brush back in the bottle and picking up a q-tip. “Sorry. I guess I need to practice.”

Tommy smiles at him. “You’re welcome to keep trying. I’m not going anywhere.”

#bucktommyfluffebruary #bucktommy #tevan #my fic #911 abc

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anyroads · 2 days ago

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#some like it hot#meta <- a lot of people have been reblogging my additions with these tags and for anyone who sees this I'd like to politely ask you to stop.

The addition above is not meta, because this is not a fandom post. It's critical media analysis. And while it's not very in-depth, that is still what it is. It's based in more nuanced, better-researched academic media criticism and queer studies than the superficial summary it is, but nevertheless, it's critical analysis, not meta.

I fully support fandom, don't get me wrong! But it's also possible to appreciate a piece of media without participating in fandom. Meta is a fandom-based form of analysis, and fandom's basis is a shared love for a piece of media. Critical analysis can also be inspired by love or appreciation for something, but its purpose is to look at a piece of media from an impartial perspective.

Like I said, I fully support fandom. And I also get that this site is fandom central. But being on tumblr also makes me feel like fandom is sometimes an overwhelming and overbearing entity that pushes other forms of engaging with media to the sidelines to the point where they're starting to become overlooked or forgotten, especially as someone who works in media, studied media crit, and doesn't participate in fandom.

It's important to be able to observe and critique media impartially. Fandom is inevitably biased, and that's fine for fandom, that's what it's there for! But it's so so important to also be able to understand, analyze, and deconstruct a piece of media without that bias, in order to understand its message, the effectiveness of how that message is conveyed, and the tools used to construct it.

I know people often use tags to organize posts on their feed for easy reference, but I have to admit, every time I see in my notes that someone's tagged this post as "meta" I die a little inside. Fandom isn't the only way to look at media.

Some Like It Hot (1959) dir. Billy Wilder

#I don't maybe I'm also uncomfortable with this thing I see where fandom becomes an identity and I feel like the 'meta' tag is #assigning me an identity I don't have for myself?#and look I don't really hang out in any fandoms so I don't want to venture out of my lane or anything #but if fandom and fanfic have this close link then I cannot understand for the life of me why there isn't more critical analysis #if your goal is to write about your favorite piece of media wouldn't it be important to that process to be able to deconstruct it #and understand what makes it so compelling to you?#why is meta such a prevalent thing but analysis isn't?

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coloraturadiva · 1 day ago

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Afterburn (Jake "Hangman" Seresin x OC One shot)

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x OC (Stephanie)

Summary: Jake Seresin returns to his Texas home after a long absence, haunted by the loss of a comrade and the weight of his choices, grappling with regret and the realization that some wounds may never fully heal.

Warnings: angst, ANGST, character's death, marriage issues, absent father, fighting, and hopefully I didn't miss anything.

Word Count: 6000

A/N: english is not my first language (or even the second) and this story hasn't been betaed, I just had some help from Grammarly.

My personal and love life has been so angsty lately, so I guess I want everybody to suffer like me 😅

Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.

Feedback, reblogs and constructive criticism are always appreciated!

Please don’t post any of my content anywhere else without my permission. Comments and reblogs welcome!

AFTERBURN

The setting sun bathed the Texas countryside in a golden haze, the kind that seemed to stretch out forever, blurring the lines between earth and sky. The air was thick with the scent of dry grass and wildflowers, mingling with the faint sweetness of honeysuckle that clung to the breeze. Jake Seresin gripped the steering wheel loosely, his knuckles brushing against the smooth leather as the truck rumbled along the winding country road. It had been long since he’d driven these roads, but the rhythm of the turns felt ingrained, like an old song you never quite forget.

He rolled down the window, letting the warm evening air rush in. It carried the faint hum of cicadas, their rhythmic chirping rising and falling like a lullaby. The sound was as familiar as the taste of his grandmother’s sweet tea, a reminder of summers spent running barefoot through fields and climbing trees. The horizon burned in shades of amber and crimson, painting the fields in fiery hues that seemed to set the world ablaze. Fences lined the road, weathered and leaning, but still holding strong. Beyond them, cattle grazed lazily, their silhouettes sharp against the dying light. He caught sight of a sprawling live oak tree, its gnarled branches stretching wide as if to embrace the fading light. The tree’s shadow stretched long and thin across the road, a dark ribbon cutting through the golden landscape. He’d climbed that tree once as a kid, on a dare from his friends. He’d sat up there for hours, watching the world from above, thinking about everything and nothing at all.

Jake’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The memories were a comfort, but they also weighed heavy. The road ahead stretched out in endless curves, each mile bringing him closer to something he wasn’t sure he was ready for. The fields on either side seemed to close in, the tall grass swaying like a silent audience, watching him return to a place he’d left behind. He hadn’t been home in too long. Too many excuses, too many days spent somewhere else. The Navy had been his life, his purpose, but it came with a price. A price he was still tallying.

As the truck crested a hill, the landscape opened up before him. The wide-open plains seemed to breathe, endless and free, the golden light catching on the tips of the grass like fireflies. It was beautiful, in a quiet, understated way. Jake slowed the truck, letting the moment settle over him. The sunset seemed to linger here, as if it, too, didn’t want to leave, the sky a canvas of deepening oranges and purples. He leaned his arm against the door, resting his chin on his hand for a moment, eyes scanning the familiar sights.

There was the old tree by the river, the one he’d carved his initials into when he was twelve. The bark was rough and weathered now, the initials barely visible, but the memory was as sharp as the day he’d made them. The barn in the distance, its red paint faded to a muted rust. The structure leaned slightly to one side, as if tired from years of standing guard over the land. And the sky—so big it felt like it could swallow him whole. He’d always loved that about Texas, the way the sky seemed endless, like it was daring you to dream bigger, reach higher. But tonight, the sky felt different. The dreams it offered weren’t the ones he’d chased for years. They were quieter, simpler. The kind of dreams he hadn’t let himself think about in too long.

His chest tightened, and he shifted in his seat, pressing his foot on the gas. The engine roared softly in response, and the truck picked up speed, eating away at the last few miles. The wind whipped through the open window, carrying with it the faint scent of rain, though the sky was clear. It was the kind of smell that promised a storm, even if it never came. Jake wasn’t sure what he’d find when he got home. The thought twisted inside him, a knot of uncertainty and hope. He let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he tried to focus on the road, on the present, on the way the fading light turned the world golden.

Whatever waited for him, he told himself, he could handle it. He had to. The road curved again, and he followed it, chasing the horizon, chasing the light. The sunset wouldn’t last forever, but for now, it was enough to guide him home.

-- - -- - - -

Jake Seresin was everything the Navy dreamed of when it came to their fighter pilots. He was a natural—the kind of aviator who seemed born to be in the cockpit. Every movement he made, every decision, carried a precision that spoke to thousands of hours of training, honed instinct, and a rare kind of brilliance that couldn’t be taught. The F/A-18 felt like an extension of himself, as though it responded not just to his hands but to his thoughts. In the air, he was untouchable—a predator with a keen eye and nerves that stayed steady even in the most chaotic moments.

His colleagues often joked that he could fly through a hurricane and come out the other side without a scratch. There was some truth to it. Jake had an uncanny ability to keep his head when everyone else was losing theirs. When the stakes were highest, when lives were on the line, he thrived. It wasn’t just skill; it was a kind of unshakable confidence that bordered on arrogance. That confidence earned him respect from some and resentment from others.

To those who admired him, Jake was the poster boy of the Navy. His sharp jawline, perfectly tousled dark blonde hair, and piercing green eyes didn’t hurt either, but behind the carefully crafted image was a man who knew exactly how good he was and wasn’t afraid to show it. That attitude didn’t sit well with everyone. Some of his peers found him cocky, too sure of himself. They whispered that he was more interested in being a legend than a team player.

Jake didn’t pay much attention to the gossip. He lived alone in a sleek, modern bungalow just a few miles from the naval base in San Diego. The house was all clean lines and large windows, perched on a hill that offered a stunning view of the ocean. Inside, it was meticulously kept, a reflection of the man himself. It was a bachelor’s home, though not in the clichéd sense. There were no signs of wild parties or fleeting romances. Just quiet, ordered spaces—a sanctuary from the demands of his career.

Still, rumors swirled. Jake Seresin, with his movie-star looks and easy charm, was a favorite topic of speculation. He was seen laughing with women at bars, flashing that effortless grin that seemed to make people gravitate toward him. Some swore they’d seen him leaving with someone, though no one ever had proof. Others insisted he had a string of women waiting for him in every city. If Jake was aware of the talk, he never acknowledged it. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

The truth was, he kept his personal life as tightly controlled as everything else. Work came first, always. His focus on being the best, on pushing himself further, left little room for anything else. And if he had secrets, they were buried deep, locked away behind that confident smile and the impenetrable shield of his persona.

In the air, Jake Seresin was unmatched. On the ground, he was an enigma. And that was just the way he liked it.

- - - - -

The gravel crunched under the tires as Jake turned onto the narrow driveway, his truck's headlights cutting through the encroaching dusk. The house came into view, perched at the end of the long stretch of drive like an old photograph brought to life. It hadn’t changed much, not in all the years he’d known it. The wraparound porch still hugged the front, and the paint—white, now fading to a gentle gray—still clung stubbornly to the wooden siding.

Jake killed the engine and sat there for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles whitening as he stared at the house. He exhaled slowly, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort, before finally releasing his grip and running a hand through his hair. This place had always felt different. It wasn’t just a house; it was a time capsule. Stephanie’s grandmother had lived here once, years ago, back when summer afternoons meant lemonade on the porch and laughter echoing through the big yard. Even then, the house had felt like the center of the world, warm and steady, full of life. He’d never expected it to become theirs, but when it did, it felt right. It was a piece of history, of her history, and now, of his too.

He smiled faintly as a memory bubbled up, unbidden. He and Stephanie couldn’t have been more than sixteen, maybe seventeen, the summer they decided to fix up the old barn. Her grandmother had mentioned it offhand one day, saying it would be nice if the door didn’t stick every time she tried to open it. Jake had jumped at the chance to impress Stephanie, and the two of them had spent days sanding and painting under the sweltering Texas sun. They’d ended up covered in sawdust and streaks of white paint, laughing so hard they could barely stand when Stephanie’s grandmother, Mary, brought out a pitcher of iced tea and insisted they take a break.

“You two look like you’ve been wrestling a cloud,” her grandmother had said, shaking her head with a smile. They’d sat there on the porch steps, sipping tea and listening to the cicadas, feeling like the world could wait forever.

His fingers lingered on the door handle as nerves twisted in his stomach. It wasn’t like him to feel this way. In the cockpit, he was unshakable, his confidence carved from steel. But here, on this quiet patch of earth, with this house standing like a sentinel of everything that mattered, he felt something closer to uncertainty. He exhaled sharply and stepped out of the truck, the cool evening air brushing against his skin.

The porch steps creaked under his weight, just as he remembered. He paused halfway up, his hand gripping the railing as if to steady himself. His heart pounded in his chest, each step feeling heavier than the last. He’d spent countless evenings here, sitting side by side with Stephanie, watching the sun sink into the horizon, their voices blending with the symphony of cicadas. Now, those memories seemed to rise from the wood itself, each step a whisper of the past.

Jake hesitated at the door, his knuckles hovering just above the wood. His hand trembled slightly, and he clenched it into a fist before knocking, the sound sharp and final in the quiet evening. The faint glow of a light inside spilled through the curtains, and his chest tightened at the thought of who might be waiting. He clenched his jaw, summoning the same determination that carried him through dogfights and endless training missions. Whatever came next, he would face it. He had to.

With one final breath, he knocked on the door.

- - - - - - - -

The roar of the F/A-18 engines filled Jake’s ears as he soared over the ocean, the carrier a distant memory below. It was supposed to be a routine mission—a patrol over contested airspace—the kind of assignment that called for vigilance but rarely escalated into anything more. Jake, call sign “Hangman,” flew in formation with his squadron, the sun glinting off their wings as they carved through the open sky.

Ahead and to his left was Lieutenant Mark “Hawk” Turner, one of the newer pilots in their group. Hawk was solid. Not flashy, but reliable. They weren’t particularly close, but Jake respected him. Hawk had a steady hand and a calm demeanor, the kind of guy you didn’t mind having on your wing. Hawk had mentioned his family once or twice—a wife named Carly and a baby boy, barely six months old. Jake hadn’t thought much about it at the time...

The ambush came out of nowhere. A warning blared in Jake’s headset, followed by a scramble of voices over comms. Enemy jets, sleek and fast, appeared on the radar, closing the distance with alarming speed. Jake’s pulse quickened, but his mind stayed sharp, instincts kicking in as he broke formation and banked hard to the right.

“Hangman, I’ve got your six,” Hawk’s voice came through, steady despite the chaos.

“Copy that, Hawk,” Jake replied, his hands flying over the controls. “Watch your flank.”

The first missile streaked past, missing him by inches. Jake rolled into an evasive maneuver, his vision narrowing as adrenaline surged through him. He returned fire, locking onto one of the enemy jets and watching it explode into a ball of fire and smoke.

“Splash one,” he called, but there was no time to savor the victory. Another jet was on his tail, and he pulled into a steep climb, the g-forces pressing him back into his seat. The sky was a blur of motion—tracers, missiles, and contrails weaving a deadly tapestry around them. Hawk’s voice was in his ear again, cool but urgent, directing the others as the squadron fought to regain control of the situation.

Jake managed to take out a second enemy, his reflexes razor-sharp as he fired off another missile. But in the chaos, he caught a flash of movement on his radar that made his stomach drop. Hawk was in trouble, two jets closing in on him.

“Hawk, break left! Break left!” Jake shouted, pulling hard on his stick to intercept. He could hear Hawk’s strained breathing, the tension in his voice as he tried to shake his pursuers.

“I’m hit,” Hawk said, the words clipped and final.

Jake’s heart pounded as he scanned the sky, searching for a sign of Hawk’s jet. Smoke trailed behind it, spiraling downward, and then—a fireball. The explosion was bright against the blue, a terrible blossom of flame and debris. Jake’s stomach turned, but there was no time to process it. He had to focus, to keep himself and the others alive.

The battle ended minutes later, the surviving enemy jets retreating as the squadron regrouped. Jake’s cockpit was suffocatingly quiet, the adrenaline fading and leaving behind a heavy emptiness. As they turned back toward the carrier, his eyes flicked to the empty space in formation where Hawk should have been. He felt the weight of it settle over him, a mix of anger and guilt clawing at his chest.

He thought of Carly and the baby—the family Hawk had talked about with quiet pride. Jake’s jaw tightened, his grip on the controls white-knuckled. He’d done everything he could, hadn’t he? Two kills, two less threats in the sky. But it hadn’t been enough. Hawk wasn’t coming home.

By the time Jake’s wheels touched down on the carrier, the reality had sunk in. He climbed out of the cockpit and stood on the deck, the salty wind biting at his face. Around him, the crew bustled, but their movements felt distant, muted. Jake stayed rooted, staring out at the endless horizon. For all his skill, for all his training, he couldn’t shake the bitter truth that even the best pilots couldn’t win every fight.

Hawk’s absence was a hole in the formation, a reminder of how fragile it all was. And as the sun dipped below the waves, Jake made a silent promise to himself: to fly smarter, to fight harder, to never forget the cost of what they did out here. Because he couldn’t let himself forget. Not now. Not ever.

_ _ _ _

The porch light flickered as Jake stood under its glow, his boots rooted to the wooden planks. The cool night air brushed against him, but it wasn’t the wind that made him shiver. It was the thought of what waited on the other side of the door. He’d knocked already, the sound echoing through the quiet of the Texas countryside, and now he waited, heart pounding in his chest. The warmth of the house, the faint glow spilling through the curtains, felt like another world entirely—a world he’d left behind.

The door creaked open, and there she was. Stephanie. Her blonde hair caught the light like a halo, and her blue eyes—those same eyes that had once looked at him with so much love—now narrowed in guarded recognition. She froze for a moment, her expression shifting from surprise to something colder, sharper. Her arms crossed over her chest, a defensive barrier he couldn’t hope to breach.

“Jake,” she said, her tone as frosty as the night air. It wasn’t a question. Just his name, flat and emotionless, like a closed door.

He swallowed hard, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His hands fidgeted at his sides, fingers twitching as if searching for something to hold onto. “Stephanie,” he began, his voice steady, though his hands betrayed him, fidgeting at his sides. “I know I… I should’ve called or… something. But I had to see you. To see them.”

Her jaw tightened, and she shifted her weight, still blocking the doorway. Her foot tapped lightly against the floor, a small, impatient movement that spoke volumes. “You should’ve thought about that before,” she said, each word deliberate, cutting.

He nodded, exhaling slowly. His shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of her words pressing down on him. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. But, Stephanie, please. Just hear me out. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“Five minutes won’t undo months,” she said, her voice low. She hadn’t moved, her arms still crossed, her posture unyielding. But she hadn’t closed the door either.

Jake’s hands flexed, and he took a small step forward, careful not to cross the threshold. “Stephanie, I’ve been a damn fool. I know that now. Losing Hawk…” His voice cracked for a moment, but he pushed through. “It made me realize what I’ve been risking. What I’ve already lost. I can’t… I can’t keep pretending my job is the only thing that matters. It’s not. You are. The kids are. And I… I know I screwed up, okay? But I’m here now. I’m here to make it right. Please.”

Stephanie’s gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it grew colder. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she tilted her chin up slightly, as if daring him to say more. “You don’t get to walk back into our lives just because you’ve had a change of heart. You left us, Jake. Your ambition left us. And now you think a few words can fix everything?”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. His hands rose slightly, as if to reach for her, but he stopped himself, letting them fall back to his sides. “No, I know words aren’t enough. But I want to do whatever it takes to prove to you that I’ve changed. That I get it now. I…” He hesitated, the confidence he usually carried faltering under the weight of her glare. “I’ve missed so much. I’ve missed them. I’ve missed you.”

“You see them,” she said sharply. “Every week. I send the emails, the pictures. That’s more than most men like you deserve.”

Jake flinched at the words but nodded. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, then relaxed, as if he were trying to steady himself. “And I’m grateful for that. You have no idea how much those pictures mean to me. But it’s not the same. I want to see them. I want to hold them, to…” He ran a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. His shoulders slumped again, and he looked at her with a pleading expression. “To be their dad again. I want to be the man you married. The man you deserve.”

Her laugh was short, bitter. She shook her head, her arms tightening across her chest as if to shield herself from his words. “The man I married? He wouldn’t have left us in the first place.”

Jake’s shoulders sagged, and he let out a shaky breath. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I don’t deserve forgiveness. But I’m asking for a chance. Just a chance to try. Please, Stephanie. Let me in.”

He hesitated, then added softly, “Did you hear about Hawk? I mean… I know it’s been in the news. I…” He faltered, unable to find the words, but her expression didn’t change.

“I did,” she said curtly, her tone still guarded. Her eyes flickered for a moment, a brief crack in her armor, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “I’m sorry for him. For his family.”

Jake nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. His hands fidgeted again, and he shoved them into his pockets to keep them still. “Yeah. His wife and the baby… It’s just… It hit me harder than I thought it would. Makes you think about what really matters, you know? About what you’ve been doing wrong.”

Stephanie’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she didn’t respond. He tried to fill the silence. “How are they? The kids, I mean. They’re okay, right? I mean, they look happy in the pictures, but…” He trailed off, his voice cracking slightly.

“They’re fine,” she said stiffly. “They’re resilient. Strong. They have to be.”

Jake winced at the unspoken implication but nodded. “I’m glad. I… I hope I can make them proud someday. Make you proud.”

For a moment, there was silence. The only sound was the wind rustling through the trees, and the faint hum of cicadas in the distance. Stephanie’s expression didn’t waver, her arms still crossed, her stance unbroken. She looked as beautiful as ever, but the beauty he has been familiar with for more than 20 years now felt untouchable, like a distant star—something he could admire but never reach.

- - - - --- - -

The warm glow of the late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of their cozy family home, casting a golden hue over the living room. Toys were scattered across the floor, remnants of the children’s playtime, and the faint sound of their laughter echoed from the backyard. Jake stepped inside, his boots clicking softly against the wooden floor. He paused for a moment, taking in the familiar warmth of the space—a haven they’d built together. A genuine smile crossed his face as he thought about sharing the good news.

“Stephanie?” he called, his voice betraying his excitement.

Stephanie appeared from the kitchen, a dishrag in hand, her blonde hair styled in a simple, elegant updo. Her blue eyes lit up at the sight of him, and her smile widened as she walked closer, clearly eager to hear what had brought him home early.

“What is it?” she asked, concern lacing her tone. “Is everything okay?”

Jake stepped forward confidently, his excitement bubbling over. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Better than fine, actually.” He tried to smile, but it came out forced. “I… I got promoted.”

Her brow furrowed, and she stepped closer. “Promoted? That’s good, right?”

“It is,” he said quickly. “It’s a big deal, Stephanie. They’re moving me to San Diego. I’ll be working with some of the best pilots in the world. It’s… it’s an incredible opportunity.”

Her smile faltered, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “San Diego? So, we’re moving again?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s a great place. The kids will love it. And it’s not forever,” he added quickly, sensing the storm brewing. “Five years, tops. After that, I can transition to teaching. You know, like we talked about.”

Her arms tightened across her chest, and her eyes narrowed. “Five years?” she repeated, her voice rising. “Jake, we agreed. You promised me. When you finished your training, Top Gun and a couple of years of missions you were supposed to start teaching. You said you wouldn’t keep flying missions forever. That you wouldn’t keep risking your life.”

“I know what I said,” he replied, his tone soft but firm. “And I meant it. But, Stephanie, this is important. This is my career. I can’t just walk away from it now. Not when I’ve worked so hard to get here.”

“Your career?” she snapped, her voice trembling with anger. “What about your family, Jake? What about me? The kids? We’ve followed you all over the country for years, waiting for the day you’d keep your promise. And now you’re telling me it’s just… what? Five more years? And you say it like it’s nothing!”

“Stephanie, this is such an amazing opportunity for us,” he said eagerly, stepping closer to her. “It’s not just about me. This promotion… it means a better future for all of us. The pay, the benefits—it’ll set us up for life. And there’s no war on the horizon. I’ll be flying routine missions, nothing dangerous. It’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” she repeated, her voice breaking. “You think it’s fine for me to sit here, wondering every day if the next knock on the door is someone telling me you’re not coming home? To raise our kids alone while you’re halfway across the planet?”

“Please,” he said, his tone pleading now. He reached for her, but she pulled away. “I’m doing this for us. For our family. I’m trying to build something better.”

“Better?” she said, tears streaming down her face. “So what we have already is not good, right? How is any of this better, Jake? You’re breaking your promise. You’re choosing your career over us.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “I’m trying to do what’s right for all of us. Can’t you see that?”

“No, Jake,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t. Because all I see is a man who’s willing to risk everything—his life, his family—for his own ambition.”

His frustration mounted, but he forced himself to stay calm. “I’m doing this for us,” he said again, quieter this time, the desperation creeping into his voice. “Stephanie, I love you. I love the kids. Everything I’m doing is to give you the life you deserve.”

“What do I deserve?” she snapped, her tone icy. “I deserve a husband who keeps his promises. I deserve not to go to bed every night wondering if the father of my children is still alive. You don’t get it, Jake. You never have.”

“Don’t say that,” he said sharply, his jaw tightening. “You know that’s not true. I’m doing my best here.”

“Your best?” she countered. “Your best for the Navy. Your best is putting your career above your family again and again. Your best is deciding what’s best for us without even talking to me about it first.”

“Stephanie, this promotion is everything I’ve worked for. It’s everything we’ve worked for. Can’t you just trust me on this?”

“Trust you?” she asked, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Jake, you’re asking me to trust you after you’ve already broken the biggest promise you ever made to me. How can I trust you when you don’t even see what you’re doing to us?”

“I see it,” he said, his voice cracking. “Don’t think for a second that this is easy for me. I’m trying to make this work. For us. For the kids.”

But she was already shaking her head, her resolve hardening. “No, Jake. Not this time. I’m done. The kids and I… we’re going back to Texas. To my family. You can go to San Diego, chase your dreams, do whatever you want. But we won’t be there waiting for you.”

“Stephanie, please,” he begged, his voice raw with emotion. “Don’t do this. Don’t take them away from me.”

“You took yourself away from us, Jake,” she said quietly. “When you chose this life over the one we built together.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut, and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. She turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the living room, the warmth of their home now feeling unbearably cold.

- - - -

Jake’s knuckles rested lightly against the wooden doorframe, the silence of the moment punctuated by the distant hum of cicadas. Stephanie stood before him, her posture resolute and defensive, arms crossed tightly across her chest. The air between them was thick, the unspoken words from a long separation hanging heavy like storm clouds refusing to burst.

“Stephanie, please,” Jake began, his voice softer now, almost pleading. His green eyes searched her face for any sign of the woman who had once believed in him unconditionally. “I know I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. But I’ve had a lot of time to think. To see what really matters. I… I’ve changed. I’m trying to make things right.”

She didn’t move, her blue eyes unwavering as they bore into his. Her silence was deafening, her lips pressed into a tight line that spoke volumes of her inner turmoil.

He shifted on his feet, desperate to fill the void. “About Hawk...” he said cautiously, though the weight of the subject wasn’t new between them. Her eyes flickered for a fraction of a second, but she remained silent. "When we talked about him before, I couldn’t stop thinking about his little boy. It’s just… it hit me, Stephanie. Losing someone like that. Realizing how fragile it all is. How much I’ve taken for granted."

Stephanie’s gaze hardened. “What’s your point, Jake?”

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “It’s just… it hit me, Stephanie. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

“You’ve wasted enough already,” she said bluntly, her voice cold and unyielding.

His chest tightened, but he pressed on. “How are the kids coping with the situation?” he asked, his tone softening further. “Jimmy, Mary… are they doing okay?”

Her expression shifted slightly, a flicker of pain breaking through her icy demeanor. “They’re learning to live a new life here, with little cousins, uncles, aunts and grandparents…” Some seconds of silence and a sigh, before ending her answer. “But they miss their dad.”

The words hit him squarely in the chest, and he exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I miss them too,” he said quietly. “I miss all of you.”

“Don’t,” she said sharply, holding up a hand to stop him. “Don’t stand there and act like it’s that simple. You made your choice, Jake. You chose this life, and we… we’ve learned to live without you.”

Her words stung, but he didn’t retreat. Instead, he stepped closer, his voice trembling with emotion. “Stephanie, I swear to you, I understand now. I was blinded by my ambition, by what I thought I had to be. But losing Hawk… seeing what it’s done to his family… it’s changed me. I’m not that same man anymore.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her features unreadable. Then, from somewhere upstairs, a small voice broke the tension. “Mommy! Mommy! Can you read me a story?”

Jake’s breath hitched, his heart lurching at the sound. Mary’s voice, soft and sweet, carried down the staircase like a beacon calling him home.

“Mary,” he murmured, his voice cracking. His eyes widened, and he took an involuntary step forward, his hand reaching out slightly before he caught himself. He turned back to Stephanie, his eyes glistening. “Can I see her? Please. Just for a minute. I… I could read her that story.”

Stephanie’s hand gripped the edge of the door tighter, and she shifted slightly, blocking his view inside. “No,” she said firmly. “You’re not coming in, Jake.”

“Stephanie, please,” he said again, his voice breaking as a single tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly, but not before she noticed. She froze, her eyes widening in surprise. She had never seen him cry before.

But then her expression hardened once more, and her voice rose, trembling with pent-up anger and pain. “I always did what you wanted. ALWAYS! Since high school. Everything revolved around you. We saw each other when you wanted it, we kissed when you wanted it, we first had sex when you wanted it, we married when you wanted it, we had kids when you wanted it. Me and the kids followed you wherever you wanted, and I always bowed my head to you because I loved you more than I lvoed myself and believed in the fact that you cared for us and did everything with our future and wellbeing in mind. I only asked you for one thing, just one: not to go to war. I know the world is full of military wives that do it for their whole lives, but I really didn't want to spend most of my life home alone, with you on the other side of the planet, waiting and praying for you to come back all in one piece. I really don’t want to do that! Now you made that decision and it’s fine, of course you can do whatever you want with your life, but it’s time I finally get in control of my life and the life of my children. You can go wherever you like, but we aren’t be waiting for you anymore.”

Her words left him stunned, the raw intensity of her emotions slicing through him like a knife. He staggered back a step, his gaze dropping to her hands. That’s when he saw it—her wedding band, still glinting softly in the fading light. A stark contrast to his own bare finger. He had stopped wearing his ring when he moved alone to San Diego, wanting to keep his private life private, his sorrows hidden, and to avoid the questions that a wedding ring would have raised. He had thought removing it would make things easier—less painful. He wanted to forget, or at least keep his sorrow boxed in a hidden part of his brain, like the ring was in a box inside the drawer of his bedside table. The weight of its absence was something he had tried to ignore, though it lingered like an ache. After she had left him, he refused to talk about the situation with anybody, even his close family, brushing off concerned questions with forced smiles and vague reassurances. And since then, he had also never tried to get in touch with her, except through the weekly emails that were clinical in tone, devoid of any mention of Jake and Stephanie or their relationship—focused only on updates about the kids he longed to hold but felt increasingly distant from.

“You’re still wearing your wedding band,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Her blue eyes flashed with something indiscernible, a quiet strength as she met his gaze. “I’m still your wife.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Jake’s mind raced, memories of their life together flooding back in a torrent of emotions. But before he could speak, Stephanie’s expression softened slightly, though her resolve remained intact.

“Jake,” she said quietly, her voice steady but firm. “Go. For the good of the children. Please.”

He hesitated, his heart aching with every fiber of his being. But he saw the unwavering determination in her eyes, the protective fierceness of a mother who had drawn her line in the sand. Finally, he stepped back, his boots heavy against the wooden porch.

As he turned and walked away, the faint sound of Mary’s voice drifted through the open window once more, mingling with the cicadas and the ache in his chest.

#glen powell #fanfiction #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #top gun maverick #jake hangman fic #jake hangman seresin fanfiction #hangman fanfiction #jake hangman seresin x oc #glen powell fanfic

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darcytaylor · 1 day ago

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When “Just Looking at the Evidence” Becomes a Problem

Before I get into this, I want to be clear - this is not directed at shippers who simply enjoy Luke and Nicola’s chemistry, those who appreciate them as people, or those who respect their private lives.

Shipping is a natural part of fandoms, and when done respectfully, I think it’s fine.

This post is directed at the people who have taken shipping to an extreme - those who have convinced themselves they are "just looking at the evidence" while weaving together wild, invasive, and often insensitive theories. At that point, it’s no longer shipping - it’s something entirely different.

Shipping vs. Fantasizing: Know the Difference

There’s a huge difference between harmlessly shipping people - whether fictional characters or even co-stars - and creating elaborate fantasies about real individuals. While shipping can be a fun way to engage with a story or fandom, projecting detailed, speculative narratives onto real people can cross into invasive territory.

Shipping: Enjoying the chemistry, friendship, or dynamic between people, often in a fictional or lighthearted context.

Fantasizing: Constructing speculative stories about real people’s private lives, often based on incomplete information (and flawed so-called "evidence") without regard for their boundaries.

Why Fantasizing About Real People Crosses the Line

When fans create elaborate narratives about real people, it can:

Blur the line between fiction and reality: Making it harder for others to separate speculation from truth.

Perpetuate false narratives: Leading to harassment or invasions of privacy.

Disrespect individuals: By reducing their lives to a storyline crafted for entertainment.

People are far more nuanced than the curated glimpses we get online or in public. Social media posts, photos, or even patterns of behaviour aren’t a roadmap to someone’s inner life or relationships. They’re just snapshots - fragments of a much larger, unseen picture. And often, those fragments don’t connect the way people want them to.

The Loophole That Isn't a Loophole

I’ve seen some people claim that Nicola saying "If you have an opinion about me, that's ok. I understand I'm on TV and people will have things to think and say, but I beg you not to send them to me directly" somehow gives them permission to speculate about things like pregnancy.

Let’s be real - that is absolutely not what she meant. She’s literally acknowledging that people will have opinions, but she’s also making it clear that things like that make her uncomfortable. Saying "Don’t bring it to me" doesn’t mean she’s fine with people debating her body - it means she knows shitty people exist, but she’d rather not be subjected to it.

And sure, maybe you’re not sending it to her directly - but you are still doing the exact thing that makes her uncomfortable. And by putting it out into public spaces, you’re making it far more likely that it gets back to her indirectly. So whatever justification people think they’ve found? It’s fucking moot. It’s still insensitive.

Belief Doesn’t Equal Truth

Believing you’ve pieced together the “truth” because some moments appear to align is misguided. It overlooks the unknowns - the context we’re missing and the layers that exist in people’s lives. Just because something can seem a certain way doesn’t mean it is that way.

Humility matters. Recognizing that no matter how much you think you know, you actually know very little. Taking a step back and saying, “I don’t know what��s really going on” is not only more truthful but also shows respect for the people involved.

It’s okay to want people to be together - innocent shipping of loving chemistry between people is okay - but it’s not okay to create wildly speculative stories that exist only in your own mind.

Humility in Speculation: Knowing What We Don’t Know

Here’s the truth - I don’t know the full picture. None of us do. I don’t know Luke and Nicola as people, and I don’t know the ins and outs of their personal lives. And that’s okay. I'm not going to piece together and come up with my own flawed story about other peoples lives.

What I do know is that certain theories and speculation can be harmful, even when people think they’re harmless. Just because something is being discussed publicly, or even “positively,” doesn’t mean it isn’t invasive. (Cough spreading invasive pregnancy rumors cough). It doesn't mean it is kind. The line between curiosity and intrusion is thinner than people think.

Even if you think you've “figured something out,” there is always so much more you will never see, hear, or understand. Just because an idea feels compelling or fits a certain pattern doesn’t mean it reflects the truth.

So before engaging in deep speculation, it’s worth asking:

Am I respecting their privacy?

Am I letting curiosity turn into entitlement?

Am I remembering that these are real people, not fictional characters?

On the Idea of “Being Duped”

I’ve also noticed some frustration in the fandom, with people feeling like Luke and Nicola somehow “duped” the public with their behaviour on tour.

What we saw on tour was not unusual for two people who:

Are comfortable with each other.

Work together (and especially in the acting world).

Have shared an intense, career-defining experience.

This kind of dynamic isn’t uncommon in the entertainment industry or in any field where people work closely together (I know from personal experience). Their bond is unique, but that doesn’t mean it has to be romantic. To me, it’s always read as a deep friendship, a strong professional partnership, and two people who genuinely enjoy working together. And it really is beautiful!

I think some people wanted their interactions to confirm a specific narrative, and now that things aren’t aligning with that, they feel misled. But that’s not on Luke or Nicola. It’s a reminder that interpretation is subjective, and that sometimes, we project our own expectations onto things rather than seeing them for what they are.

The Consequences of Unchecked Fantasies

Making up stories about real people and treating those stories as fact (even when you say that you are okay if you are wrong, or if you say that you are just speculating) adds to:

Noise and confusion: Amplifying drama and misinterpretation.

Unnecessary pressure: On the individuals involved, complicating their personal lives further.

Public harassment: Rumours often escalate, influencing others to unfairly judge or attack. Bringing it indirectly to the main people in your fantasies.

Sure, you can feel like you’ve pieced together a narrative in your mind that makes sense to you. But actors are human beings, not characters in a fan-fiction. They shouldn’t be stripped down to an idea of what you think they should or shouldn’t be doing.

I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again - people are nuanced. People are dimensional. If you don’t know them personally, you have no idea what goes on in their day-to-day lives. A few curated moments from interviews or social media will never give anyone the full picture.

I’ve seen a lot of people build theories around what they believe is evidence. But if you really looked at it critically, you would find that much of it is based on assumptions rather than actual confirmation. It’s worth asking - are you trying to make reality fit the story you want to believe?

Public speculation/fantasizing can have consequences that extend beyond the screen - impacting the real people you claim to support.

#luke newton #nicola coughlan

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sweetiemiller · 18 hours ago

Text

MARRIED AT FIRST SIGHT. kind of.

Joel Miller!AU x Reader.

hi again! so im doing it! ive read over it a million times and if there’s any mistakes please do forgive me. but here’s the full chapter of the start of my spiteful fic lmao.

kidding. im actually really excited to try something different and being embraced by a lot of you has been so great. so thank you everyone who sent a nice word or even just liked the post!

this will probably NSFW at some point. im still deciding when and how it’ll happen in the story but it’s going to be a lot of fun. the POV’s will jump around from chapter to chapter.

thanks to @highinmiamiii sending me the fic i was looking for! thank you! like i said before this fic is heavily inspired by https://www.tumblr.com/tokkiwrites/771944052123959296/game-show-hostjoel-miller-x-contestant-f

and the enjoyment of au!writing. it’s so freeing and let’s us explore characters in different ways. everyone please go read this story, it’s so good and they deserve every single bit of support.

ill stop yappin now and just post it!!

warnings— swearing. referring to killing Tommy Miller (will happen a lot), little bit of fluff for now. future warnings to come!

enjoy—

Chapter 1.

Joel’s POV—

Tommy Miller is a dead man. Joel thinks as he promises to whoever and whatever is above and below that he will personally kill him with his bare hands.

Those same bare hands that are clasped together so tight behind his back as he stands at the top of the aisle. His eyes were boring into Tommy’s who is currently standing up from his seat in the front row with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Yeah. He’s going to kill him.

The lights and the cameras are starting to make the skin on his neck prickle. The people behind the camera’s making him feel tense as his eyes flicker around the room.

He can feel jaw ticking and clenching as his eyes keep looking around the room and catching a few of the eyes of seeing the unknown bride to be’s family are staring at him too. Looking… well, friendly enough. For now anyway.

He can see their eyes scanning him.

Up and down, up and down.

From his slightly greying hair that is just sprinkling through his thick coarse hair. Right down to the black patent dress shoes on his feet that a woman named Jane from production had brought him along with this black three piece suit.

He thinks he looks good. But—

He doesn’t really care and if he was asked to give an honest answer right at this second he’d say exactly that. However, for the first time in a long time he willing to admit that he doesn’t look that rough around the edges.

Which is good, because in about 30 seconds his new wife is about to walk down the aisle.

Not legally of course. But for the sake of the show, he’s contracted to act like it is.

26 seconds.

Why Tommy thought that signing him onto goddamn Married At First Sight he’ll never understand. But the promise of a new Harley-Davidson Sportster Iron 883 and 60% of whatever income from the promotion the construction company will get from being on the show is more than enough to go along with it.

For now anyway.

14 seconds.

He just hopes whoever you are, you’re not one of those absolutely insane people who go on reality television just to cause drama. Because he will walk, cameras and contracts be damned.

He’ll buy his own Harley.

If he’s lucky he’ll get matched with someone who wants to promote their business as well and maybe they can come to some sort of agreement about this whole thing.

9 seconds.

Because who actually goes on a television show to look for love? Who genuinely believes that anyone could even fall in love under these conditions. Cameras. TV therapists. A group full of people who are desperate for their 10 minutes of fame.

It’s just not realistic.

5 seconds.

Joel snaps out his thoughts as he spots Tommy giving him a look. A look that Joel knows means, ‘Dude’, his eyes flicker back and forward before Joel realises what he’s saying. You’re coming down the aisle—

1 second.

Joel hears the doors cracking open and the music starting as soon as his eyes meet the huge white double doors at the end of the room. His hands clenching again as he keeps his focus on the door that’s opening and revealing who he is going to be stuck with for as long as he can handle in this absolutely ridiculous situation his brother has landed him in.

He see’s you walking through the doors. And he genuinely feels his breath get caught in his throat as he see’s your face for the first time.

Your eyes almost immediately meet his as you walk into the wedding hall with who he presumes is your mother. An older woman who’s eyes don’t even attempt to look at him, focused on you.

You look nervous. Terrified even.

Which, to his annoyance, makes him feel something in his chest as he watches you slowly making your way down to him.

He has to admit to himself. You’re genuinely beautiful.

And with that thought, all of a sudden he feels himself starting to panic. He realises wasn’t really expecting to find you attractive. He was fully preparing himself to be putting on his best face and foot forward during this process. His mind focused on that moment he has his first ride of his new Harley-Davidson the entire time.

But now, he’s going to have to focus on that damn bike to stop himself from doing anything goddamn stupid.

The closer you get to the bottom of the aisle, the harder he’s having to hold back a glare that is itching to aim straight for Tommy. But he doesn’t. Because he knows his pain in the ass little brother is going to have an even bigger shit-eating grin on his face now that he’s seen you.

It’s not until you’re kissing your assumed mother on the cheek and whispering something to her that he finally see’s you up close for the first time. His eyes feeling like they’re bouncing around his head as he takes you in.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph— he’s fucked.

The hair. The eyes. The nose. The goddamn lips. The white dress.

It’s not at all what he was picturing. He was fully imagining you and expecting you to go all out and look like princess cake topper. The show is paying for everything after all.

But no, you’re dressed in a long flowing silk dress. With little cap sleeves and the front of your dress making your tits look round and soft—

He has to stop.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything. But you’re already beating him to it with the sweetest voice he’s ever heard.

“I like your suit,” you say, the words falling from your lips like they were dragged out of you. Which admittedly— is very cute.

He lets a short puff of air escape his nose as he doesn’t quite laugh but, almost an amused look crosses his face as he looks down at you.

“I like your dress,” he says back, quietly but loud enough for you to hear. Or that least he hopes you do. Because he does like your dress, he likes it a lot actually, which surprises him.

He’s not a man to even care about dresses. Or anything stupid like that. A woman is a woman, he doesn’t care what they’re dressed in. But this dress on you? He’s struggling. Badly.

He watches you blush a little as you look down at your dress, running a hand over the front of it. The silk moving under your finger tips, almost hypnotising him for a moment before your soft laugh breaks him out his trance.

“Thanks. They gave my mom free reign in the dress shop,” you say with a soft, nearly genuine smile as you jut your thumb over your shoulder towards the woman who was walking you down the aisle now sitting in the front row behind you.

Ah, so he was right.

Joel smiles a little as he nods his head at your mom, being respectful for as long as he can handle this experiment.

Oh God he’s going to have to actually interact with your family.

He looks back at you, watching as your other hand is clutching your bouquet of sunflowers so tightly he’s actually a bit worried the stems might snap in half right here.

“She has good taste,” he says as his eyes travel back up to your face. He feels something twist in his chest again as he sees how nervous you look, and before he can open his mouth to give you just a little reassurance.

Knowing that the cameras and lights are probably making you just as nervous as him, someone clears their throat. Making you jump a little as his head turns almost too quickly to the sound tensing up a little until he see’s it’s just the very real officiant for this very real wedding.

God, what is he doing?

He hears her asking the both of you if you’re ready to begin and he just nods. He looks down at you and taking the chance to grab your free hand just right there. Temping him already.

He smiles a little bit as he sees the warmth spread on your cheeks and your almost wide-eyed facial expressions looking up at him.

Beautiful. He can’t help but let the thought sit at the front of his brain for a moment.

“You ready?,” he whispers to you, his own eyes going a little wide too from how fast his heart rate is going as he tightens his grip slightly as he watches you nod and breath out a soft, yeah.

He nods back as he turns back to the wedding officiant, taking a deep breath as he tries to focus on what the woman is starting to say, her very real speech.

Oh sweet Jesus, he needs to read the vows that Tommy wrote him.

This is going to be a nightmare.

#joel miller #joel miller one shot #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel tlou #joel the last of us #joel miller smut #mafs!joel miller #made my own tag lol #writing

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