spectoris

[spectoris]

CAPTURED DANCES | DIN DJARIN

pairing: the mandalorian/din djarin x gn!reader

contains: fluff, gets moody but not angsty

word count: 1.7k

Trying to get Din to dance was like trying to get mountains to move. Each time you tugged on his gloved hand towards the dance floor, he reminded you of your purpose in these flashy, boisterous cities—work. It was always work. Some task you had to finish, an item needing to be grabbed; he rarely let himself loose outside of the Razor Crest, and even then he kept to himself, tending to the child or sleeping while you manned the ship. He couldn’t even enjoy these pleasantries if he wanted to; the helmet was to blame.

Tonight was no different. The seasoned bounty hunter had no trouble drowning out the chatter in his ear, denying drinks and services coming his way. He let you roam around until he was done, promptly exiting when the meeting was over. Part of touring the galaxy with the Mandalorian was missing out on the things you enjoyed in your youth. Drinking, dancing, acquainting yourself with people you’d never meet again. Din said nothing of your sacrifice, saying it was a small price to pay for the things you both had in store. Yet he couldn’t get over how sad you looked back in the Razor Crest, the neon lights still visible across the horizon from the cockpit. 

You picked at the dirt beneath your fingernails and occasionally tossed the silver ball to the child who babbled and tugged at your sleeve. Behind his helmet, Din’s face was something of annoyance and mild panic. He had never dealt with these types of emotions before; growing up, things were routine and clinical, down to the way you conducted yourself. His days as a bounty hunter did nothing to help him expand his emotional experience until the child came along.

Din rid himself of his cape and his weaponry, lightening the load. His boots clunked against the metal floor of the ship, slowly approaching the cockpit where you sat in the pilot’s seat, gazing out into the night. Din stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips and cleared his throat. The pilot’s chair spun around to reveal your miffed expression which you quickly covered with an empty stare.

“Yes?” you said quietly. Grogu continued to babble in the copilot’s seat, swimming in his loose tunic. He looked up with large, curious eyes, holding the ball out to Din.

“Do you…want to dance?”

Your brows furrowed and raised skeptically. “Like, in the bars?”

“No,” Din said slowly. “Just…in here. The ship.”

He didn’t miss the slight glimmer in your eye as you rose from your seat, scooping Grogu into your arms before setting him down on a crate. You still weren’t one-hundred percent sure of Din’s idea of dancing; there was no music, no crowd, no energetic ambience. The metal of the ship amplified each step and shuffle, making the interaction even more awkward than it already was to begin with (and heightening Din’s embarrassment).

“What kind of dance were you thinking?” you asked, offering your hand to him. Through his helmet, he stared for a while before the leather slid onto your bare skin. His fingers twitched against your palm before you grasped them gently, but confidently.

Din’s voice grew quiet. “Anything.” 

Through the darkness of his helmet, his eyes bore emptily into yours, transfixed on the smile creeping across your face. If he didn’t have it on, he might’ve felt the soft puffs of your breath on his face or your knuckles on his cheek when you accidentally knock them against the beskar and sucked in a pained breath.

“Now I know why they’re no match for blasters,” you teased. 

Your other hand rested on his shoulder, his reaching tentatively for your hip. Din was never one to be afraid when someone stepped close, always holding his ground, but he suddenly felt it grow increasingly warm beneath his armor when you were inches away. Even though you couldn’t see his face, he still flushed and did his best to remain composed.

You took a small step back and squeezed Din’s shoulder for him to follow. He mimicked every move thereafter—each turn, shuffle, and even the smile on your face (shame he couldn’t show his). The first few moments were rough. His heavy boots had come down on yours a few times, followed by whispered apologies, but you laughed it off. There was a moment where you encouraged Din to spin you, and it would’ve worked if he hadn’t stepped on the laces of your boots, tripping you. 

Grogu had fallen asleep. Curled in his tunic, you paused to gaze in awe at his little face. Your hand slipped from Din’s shoulder to his chest while his remain loosely on your hip. In that brief moment, Din glanced at you and swallowed thickly. Perhaps you had simply zoned out, but the way you held him felt oddly familiar—the exact picture of his parents who also once stood like this, looking at Din with adoration in their eyes. 

His cough broke the silence, and you quickly snapped back, jolting when you realized your hand had wandered to his chest.

“Do you want to continue?” he asked. 

“Do you?”

The double suns of Tatooine could not make his face this hot. He gulped—Din Djarin didn’t gulp, especially not in…nervousness? Yet under the burning gaze of your round innocent eyes, the prospect of melting through the floor was welcoming.

Din hadn’t realized how long his silence had stretched until your smile faltered. Polite, almost clinical it became, the same smile you gave to a stranger. You started to slip away, but Din’s grasp held you firm.

“Oh,” you muttered with a tinge of shock.

“Yes,” Din said almost mechanically. “I want to keep going.”

He kept his hand steady on your lower back, stiff at first for support. You continued to lead the dance despite how elementary it was. Step, sway, step, sway. Eventually Din found himself taking bigger steps to your surprise. What took your breath away, however, was when he kept himself an arm’s length away and gently twisted your hand. Taking the hint, you did a successful spin without getting your laces stepped on again.

Din was glad the helmet kept his face covered because—well, he wouldn’t know what to say if you saw his elated smile. Not as bright as yours but still more than he thought was possible. Although it was quiet, Din couldn’t have wished for anything more. 

Soon your activities got the best of you. The pair of you stood in the center of your makeshift dancefloor, taking in light breaths and wiping away the first bit of sweat from your skin. Your body moved away from Din. He had to hold himself back from reaching out.

Brushing your sweaty palms across your pants, you looked at Din with a twinkle in your eye. In these moments, with only silence between you, you wished you could peer into that pesky mind of his. 

“Not bad for a beginner,” you laughed. “Maybe next time you’ll finally let loose on our missions.”

Your raised your fist and gave Din’s helmet a few playful knocks. Din’s hand pressed your palm flat against the cold beskar. Your eyes widened for a moment as he moved it to where his cheek would be.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

You stared blankly at him, the words not yet seeping in.

“Close your eyes,” Din repeated. Then, “...please.”

“This isn’t some backstabbing ploy, right?” Your words came out drier than you intended. Sensing Din’s waiting, you obliged.

“Don’t peek. Not one bit, or else I might actually have to backstab you.” There was a slight tremor in the humility of his tone—uncertain and afraid.

With your vision filled with black, your ears tuned in to the sounds around you. The soft shuffle of leather, quiet clanks of boots on metal, and your breathing. Din nudged your hand away from his helmet. You let it fall back to your side and squeezed it in an anxious fist. More shuffling, then he took your hand again.

When Din guided it back to his face, you gasped. Skin. Warm, lined with stubble, and human. You wanted to laugh, make a joke about how you swore Din was a droid all this time. But nothing came from your dry throat. Your fingers traced the edges of his face, feeling the ridges of his nose, brows, and chin. In front of you, blocked only by your eyelids, was Din Djarin bared.

He knew, and you knew, this was not right. Though you hadn’t actually seen anything, the notion of feeling him somehow felt more sacrilege than anything else. Still, a warmth bloomed through you. Din was real.

He lowered your hand to his chest, letting it fall over his heart.

“Open your eyes.”

You squinted against the bright lights of the ship as your eyes readjusted. Back in front of you was Din—well, he was always there—the one you were most familiar with. Faceless. Yet in the few seconds you were able to reach underneath the mask, you felt the most connected. 

You stared at Din, biting the inside of your cheek and pondering. He tilted his head to the side.

“It’s…late. We should head—”

Your hands gripped both sides of his helmet, fingertips pressed into tough metal. You half stepped towards him, half pulled him in until your lips haphazardly smashed into the beskar and knocked your teeth. You winced, but you kept your mouth planted firm. In hindsight, it was idiotic and comparable to kissing a wall. In the moment, it was all you wanted and more.

Din’s hand came to rest in the curve of your back as you pulled away. Wide-eyed and stunned, every thought ceased to exist in your mind. You could only focus on the mark of your lips on his precious helmet. When you went to wipe it away, Din gently grabbed your wrist. 

“You’re a good dance teacher,” he uttered in a breath. His grip on you hadn’t loosened.

You cracked a grin. “If you wake up early tomorrow, we can squeeze in another lesson.”

Somehow, you detected a smile.

[spectoris]

FOR YOUR LOVE | KYLO REN

pairing: kylo ren x gn!reader

summary: kylo's motivations come to light

contains: rivals to lovers, canon typical violence, elements of dark romance, obsessive!kylo, slight ooc kylo (he rambles), implied jedi!reader

word count: 0.9k

a/n: sentence starter from nightprompts, inspired by the song "for your love" by maneskin

“For being someone you hate, I’m on your mind a lot.”

Your words come out through gritted teeth, more of a spit than a sentence. Every inch of your body exerts as much force it contains to hold off against the clash of colors before your squinted eyes. Heels dug into the dark soil, your frame remains stagnant despite Kylo’s imposing bruteness. The crackling red of his lightsaber fills most of your vision, swallowing the color of your blade completely whole. A hesitant gulp runs down your throat. You hate how you can feel the heat of the blades across your cheeks, even in the wintery air.

Kylo sees past your sarcastic facade; you assume he can despite the helmet that obscures his face. His breathing comes out slow but heavy, signaling his exhaustion. To credit yourself, you did put up a good fight. The large crack on the side of his helmet where part of his singed hair peeks through sits as a testament to your force. Still, you’ve strained yourself far past your limits. The adrenaline may have given you a boost before. Now you can hardly keep your legs from shaking.

Despite the close proximity of the two blades, neither of them seem to come any closer. Through your fatigue, you notice Kylo hasn’t moved. His saber may be pressed against yours, holding position, but that’s all there is to it. There’s a sudden stillness to the air, a stark contrast to the tremors of the Force surrounding you two as you fought moments before.

“You are.”

The words take a moment to settle in your ears. You blink blankly at Kylo, grip loosening around the hilt of your weapon. In the split second you let up, Kylo’s lightsaber swings to attack your legs. Instinctively, your saber comes down to block him. You notice it again, the sudden stillness, the fact that he let you defend yourself before his weapon fully came down.

“You are.”

The helmet makes Kylo’s voice come out mechanical, as if programmed by a droid. Yet you can hear the slightest hint of his own unobscured tone. Desperate, like the confession pains him. Kylo’s lightsaber reaches for your shoulder, once again slow enough for you to block. Rather than hold the position, Kylo continues to barrel his lightsaber at you. His relentless attacks drive you further back. Though each clash covers part of his speech, you still hear the words clearly.

“I hate you. I hate you. I can never escape you, no matter how far I go.”

You can’t suppress your scoff. “You, escape me? If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who keeps coming for me. You’re the one with the army and the forces and the utter brashness to spend your resources on me, Supreme Leader.”

Your foot catches in the root of a tree, throwing you back. You brace yourself for the fall, but an invisible force keeps you upright. Looking forward, Kylo’s hand is outstretched. It quickly falls back to his side. You bring both of your hands back to the hilt of your lightsaber, holding the burning blade between the two of you. Kylo’s still burns, though he doesn’t wield it.

“Everything…All I do…is for you.”

A hot flash of anger replaces the icy chill in your spine. “What in Maker’s name are you talking about?”

“Everything! The armies, the droids, the battles—I did it all for you!” Kylo steps closer. Through the helmet, you sense his face twisted in half anger and agony. “I wanted, I needed you to rule beside me. Create an empire no one else in the galaxy could touch. You could’ve had anything you wanted. I would’ve given you everything you wanted.”

Kylo takes off his battered helmet. You want to tear your eyes away. It’d be easier to dismiss his claims as a possession of the dark side of the Force if you couldn’t sense the genuinity in his pleading eyes. The Supreme Leader has toppled out of his throne.

“Of all things,” you manage to utter, “you thought I’d want destruction?”

“Power,” Kylo spits, his typical curtness returning for a brief moment. “Even the purest of minds want power. The power to heal, the power to help.”

You shake your head no as Kylo takes more steps toward you. You push your lightsaber foward, forcing a bigger gap between you and Kylo. “I’d rather be thrown to the rancors than take anything from you.”

Kylo’s lightsaber is disarmed, now a hunk of metal in his hand. Yours continues to burn and crackle. Drive it through him. Silence him. End this now. Your hands tremble as Kylo’s wraps around them, disarming your lightsaber for you. The leather is warm to the touch, softer than you expected. You imagine your eyes to be like that of a porg’s—round, dark, and helpless. What remains of the space between you and Kylo is only a few inches that shrink with each passing second. Your nose picks up the scent of blood, fuel, and earth from his skin.

To deny the curiosity that nags at your brain is to deny the strange warmth that blooms across your skin. Both run rampant, and in Kylo’s presence only grow. The dark side of his Force coming in contact with your light side creates a dangerous thrum you feel in your veins. Both of you can sense its potential growing, and neither reject it.

“Why?” you whisper as Kylo’s forehead nearly grazes yours. “Why did you do it?”

His hand holds you steady by the nape of your neck. You gasp when he brings his lips close to your ear.

“For your love.”

a/n: this is a repost... anyway if you haven't listened to the song pls pls do it's so obsessively slutty every time i listen to it i go yes!!! this is kylo's song!!!

[spectoris]

Miguel O'Hara

[spectoris]

STITCHED AND SEALED | KYLO REN

pairing: kylo ren x gn!reader

summary: your side of the infirmary seems to be the supreme leader’s favorite place

contains: mild makeout, mentions of scars, wounds, and blood, reader is a medic

word count: 0.8k

The scars on his hand are thick. They start from the center of his palm and branch out like the edges of a star. Though long healed, it’s easy to tell how deep they must’ve been once. Naturally, the curious shape of it sparks your inquisitive nature, but you hold your tongue. 

The infirmary hums with the delicate sounds of electronics pulsing. Aside from data pads’ occasional chirp, all is mostly quiet. It’s almost easy to forget that it’s the Supreme Leader who sits on the bed in front of you in only his sleep pants, his helmet and suit left behind. His hand is heavy in your palm, pliable as you turn it over to inspect the skin.

This is the second night in a week Supreme Leader Kylo Ren has asked you to tend to his old wounds. You see nothing wrong with them, likely because it’s been so long, but he insists there is always something bothering him. An itch, a sting, a cramp—you tell him it’s because of the stress he puts on now, yet Ren is always surer than you. Though he bickers, you don’t mind it all too much. His voice, unobscured by his helmet, is always low and smooth, easy on the ears. Sometimes you purposefully tease him just to hear the slight laugh in his words versus the mechanical drone during his work hours. 

As you suspect, there isn’t much to treat. But you keep his hand in yours anyway, fingertips running along the jagged skin. “What happened?” you ask. An injury of this nature was no accident. It’s too focused to be from a battle or simple cut.

He pulls back slightly. “It was a while ago.”

“Didn’t know ‘a while ago’ could do this.”

Ren blinks slowly for a few moments. Then, he upon seeing your growing grin, he scoffs, though the corners of his mouth also move. As much as you’d like to know the story of it, amongst the dozens of other scars across his skin, you decide it’s best not to dig too deep. The vast plane of his back holds the most, defined by his taut muscles. As he twists in his seat to grab his shirt, you notice a scratch along his shoulder blade, still red and swollen. When you touch it, Ren winces and sucks in a breath.

“When did you get this?”

“Yesterday.”

Little specks of dried blood cling to the wound, still somewhat fresh. He must’ve slept on it, or ignored it, for it to be like this.

“Here, can you pass me the gauze there?”

Ren grabs the pile of white cloths from the bedside table along with a small roll of tape, then turns his back to you. With a cotton ball, you dab the wound with an antiseptic. Ren jolts—you probably should’ve warned him. He remains still as you apply and tape down the gauze, all after spreading a little ointment on the surrounding skin. 

You pat the gauze softly. “Good as new.”

You can’t help but let the tips of your fingers glide across his back before he turns to you again. Like a constellation, your finger drags from one mark to another, connecting the sporadic shapes. Ren says nothing; his head peers over his shoulder to watch, less stiff. Too lost in the details of his skin, you don’t notice how close you’ve become until you look up, his breath hitting your cheek.

Then your mouth is on his, and when you realize what you’ve done, it’s too late. His lips remain frozen for a moment before they move against yours. Instinctively, you want to jump back—he’s your superior, for crying out loud. And you’ve just kissed him as if none of that matters. You guess, deep down, it really doesn’t.

A warmth floods your entire body, half from how he’s pulled you against his bare chest, half from the blush that makes every inch of you want to melt. As wrong as it may be, neither of you fight against it.

Ren’s mouth continues to capture yours, hungry and fervent. Your head grows light from the lack of air, but you can’t bring yourself to stop, not when his hand rests on the back of your head and pushes you deeper into him. Only when you cough does he finally let go, and even then his lips are still seeking yours. Eyes blurred and dazed, the only thing that comes to your mind is—

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t— That was—”

He utters your name in a whisper. “It was perfect.”

You’ve let your head fall, looking down at your knees. With his knuckle, Ren lifts your chin to meet his. The embarrassment dissipates when, after catching his breath, he kisses you again, just as aching as it had been a few seconds ago. When you meet his dark, heavy-lidded eyes, you understand. It doesn’t matter to him, and it never had. All the after hours in the infirmary for no good reason, the excuses, the arguing. So painfully obvious, yet you can’t ever fathom why he willingly chooses you. But he did—he does. And you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t happy with it.

a/n: i’ve been in a big writing mood but everything i produce is a) shit or b) mega shit so i hope this was somewhat enjoyable

[spectoris]

I'm obsessed with drawing him omg

[spectoris]

SPARRING PARTNERS | BEN SOLO

pairing: ben solo x gn!reader

contains: slight frenemies/implied enemies to lovers, canon typical violence

word count: 1.3k

Sparring is nearly a daily occurrence for the Padawans under Master Luke Skywalker. It is the time for young Jedi apprentices to test the waters of battle, unleashing their lightsabers that rest in small, shaky hands. For the elder Padwans who have fine tuned their skills for the past few years, it is almost playtime when Master Luke isn’t hovering over their shoulders. On the older end of the age spectrum, you understand the intricacies of sparring like the back of your hand. 

You remember when you used to dread the days of facing your fellow apprentices in mock battle, how your heart would speed up despite Master Luke’s firm, but reassuring direction. For a child, having the heat of lightsabers whiz past your skin, the concentrated, blank eyes of your opponent seering into yours, is something you wish to never experience. Sparring takes two clear, sharp minds. A distracted opponent leads to fatal flaws. Of course, Master Luke would never allow them—there would be a lightsaber thrown a few feet away before you realize the loosened grip of your sparring partner would’ve sent the hot blade slashing across your face.

Older and wiser, sparring hardly raises the tempo of your heart, nor your steady breathing. Like you in your youth, your younger opponents can barely conceal the nervous energy of the Force waving around their wandering minds. A bit of pity taints the emptiness of yours, but you remember what Master Luke has always advised. 

The rules to sparring: stay in your circle; do not harm your opponent with your weapon; and it is absolutely forbidden to use the Force in any way that violates Master Luke’s regulations. The darkness that fell upon the Jedi Temple when a Padawan, in a final effort to outdo his opponent, had raised his hand and choked his fellow apprentice, remains unforgotten. Every student hardly said a word during the week—the horror in Master Luke’s eyes spoke volume. 

You find sparring days to be the most enjoyable of all. Most of the time, you take the weight off Master Luke’s shoulders and assist the younger Padawans in their form and technique, making sure they do not strain too hard in using the Force. But, at the end of the day, you are a student, and you cannot teach to replace your training. This would be no issue if Ben Solo had not insist on taking you each time.

Ben Solo, the eldest of the Padawans, had formed a name for himself the past years. It was not the fact that he was a Skywalker through his mother, but how something about him had always seemed off as he got older. He had a knack for taking out his opponents with more strength than the rest could muster, and skills that would take several more months, even years, for the others to acquire.

Standing across from Ben in your circle, you maintain the perfect form for sparring. A strong, but flexible grip on your lightsaber, feet planted on the ground, steady breathing—all except the racing of your mind. Regardless of how the other Padawans hide whenever Ben enters the room, you find his domineering presence to be nothing more than an act. It’s how he wins each time, and (what you theorize to be) part of why he excels faster than the rest. He makes use of his time alone. It’s not that you fear Ben. You think he’s quite annoying, especially the constant scowl on his face.

Ben can sense each thought passing through your mind, and frankly, you couldn’t care less. These sparring sessions with him are meant to pass time. You find no joy in them, yet the inevitable nature of competition prompts your thirst for satisfaction by defeating Ben. The past few sparring sessions, you haven’t won; always a hairsbreadth away until he pulls a stunt that makes you look like a fool with a stick. 

You aren’t sure what’s worse; losing, or Ben’s blank face as he assists you from the ground and asks to spar again. Perhaps he enjoys that you aren’t an easy opponent, making victory even sweeter. The rest of the Padawans would forfeit before he could even sweat. You, however, make an effort to run him of his energy, yet he seems to have endless of it.

Once your thoughts have settled the best they can, an instinctual jolt in your nerves sends your lightsaber clashing against Ben’s. A handful of other Padawans have crowded around your circle, as they typically do. Their hisses and gasps match the sounds of your lightsabers as they continue to fight against one another. By now, you can partially anticipate Ben’s moves, how he likes to utilize his height and aim from above, to which you duck to the side, or when he prepares to hold out his hand to push you out of the circle with the Force, but your feet are planted firmly on the ground. Still, your agility struggles against Ben’s brute force.

One particular swing of his saber rattles the bones in your hands, loosening your grip. He takes the split second of diversion to knock you to a knee. A hard huff comes from your chest at the force of impact. The burning blade whizzes past your cheek, aimed at your neck.

“Do you yield?” is all Ben asks.

In response, you use the low level to your advantage, knocking him in the side. Ben grunts before he turns on his heel and continues to pursue you around the perimeter of the circle. You can only exert your strength until your head pounds against your skull with any little effort to wield the Force, and your grip grows increasingly weak around the hilt of your lightsaber. Eventually, your body yields against your mind’s will. 

The tip of Ben’s blade points at the base of your neck once again, tucked beneath your chin. Peering through the corner of your eye, you see the back of your heel is right on the edge of the drawn circle. It would only take a breath for you to be out.

“Do you yield?” he asks again.

With nothing left in your deck of cards, you say through gritted teeth, “I yield.”

The blade of Ben’s saber retracts back into the hilt, leaving behind the dense hull of metal. The crowd around your disperses back to their own sparring circles, some shaking their heads. Not in disappointment at you, but at the knowledge that Ben cannot be defeated lest he faces Master Luke himself.

Without the blade in your path, your head hangs to the floor as you catch your breath. The looming shadow of Ben’s figure blocks the rays of sun from entering your burning face. When you look up, his face is a mere inches from yours. Your body jolts at the sudden proximity. It’s more in Ben’s nature to walk away after a fight. He’s won—there’s no need for him to face his opponent again unless it is for another fight. You can’t read what’s swimming behind his dark eyes, nor pick up what’s in his head. He’s trained too much to let his thoughts slip into the open.

Without a word, Ben lifts your chin with his knuckle, treating the skin beneath as delicate. “I didn’t leave a mark, did I?” he asks lowly. He’s surely picked up the sudden quickening of your heart. 

“No,” you sigh. His sudden change in demeanor is frightening, but something else about it makes your heart race for a different reason. 

“I’m glad,” he says. Ben lets your head fall to its natural position again. “That wouldn’t have been good for either of us.”

Wordlessly, he stalks off. The burning of your cheeks adds to the cacophony of emotions swarming inside, amongst the heat blooming across your skin. You hate to think about it, but the thought seeps into the cracks of your mind like a dark toxin.

You’d like to spar with Ben again.

[spectoris]

THE MANDALORIAN Ch 8: Redemption // Ch 16: The Rescue // Ch 24: The Return

☞ requested by anonymous

[spectoris]

i'm in love with your jake fic, you're such a good writer! thank you for sharing your work with us. 💕

thank you so much, it means a lot! ❤️

[spectoris]

RUNAWAY | J. SERESIN

written by: @spectoris​ & @yuunina​

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin x fem!reader

summary: after witnessing both your older brother and the love of your life walk away, you find no reason to grant them your forgiveness while simultaneously punishing yourself for their decisions. years later, when you’re reunited with them both, you begin to see what you couldn’t in your blind grief and learn to mend those burnt bridges.

contains: she/her pronouns, canonverse, adopted bradshaw!reader, older brother!bradley, high school exes to lovers, reader works at penny’s bar, estranged familial bonds, familial trauma, mentions of death & loss of family, angst, fluff, brief mentions of injuries and blood, hurt/comfort, toxic relationships (familial and romantic)

word count: 7.8k

a/n: reposting bc tumblr took this off the tags

In the golden glow of the setting sun, where blue gowns rustle in the wind and the excited clamor is far behind you, you and Jake stand before each other in silence. You share everything in those quiet moments—a deep frown, creased brows, pounding hearts, and the weight of dread sinking in your stomach. Jake has his cap in a clenched fist, tassel dangling limply by his side, while yours shadows your sunken eyes. On a day of pride and new beginnings, the thought of the lives you will lead after the festivities are over makes your throat tighten. Two separate lives, one you have tried to stray Jake away from, but his heart is set on it, more than it is set on you.

Keep reading

[spectoris]

Hot girls create intense fictional scenarios to fill the void of no romance in their life

[spectoris]

devil in disguise

pairing: eddie munson x reader

contains: slasher!au, mild swearing, horror elements, (one) non-consensual kiss

word count: 1.6k

a/n: inspired by luversify’s scream!au with eddie 🫶

The fall season has your days filled with nonstop buzz. School in the morning, then work right after until the sky is dark and the moon shines through. With the leaves changing from green to golden yellow and soft orange, people stream through the video store in search of something to watch while they curl beneath warm blankets in the comfort of their homes. You have the pleasure (and disdain) of serving them.

The horror section has grown quite popular with Halloween around the corner. There’s always some guy every other day grumbling about a specific film being rented out, and the parents who push their kids towards something more family friendly.

This week’s popular picks are Halloween and A Nightmare on Elm Street, fitting for the season. You’ve just informed the most recent customer they’re unavailable when Eddie appears from the break room. He catches the plastic smile on your face as you apologize to the annoyed customer, rolling your eyes when their back is to you. Once the little bell above the door jingles, signaling their departure, you and Eddie are the only living bodies left in the store. For once, your shift is quiet. The rest of Hawkins is prepping for the fall fair; the most lively place right now is probably the grocery store.

“You alright?” Eddie asks. He’s crouched by the front display with a box of fresh tapes, laying them out for others to see through the window. Hopefully they’ll be tempted to rent something other than another gory slasher.

“Yeah. Just a few hours left and I’ll get to go home.”

“Excited to leave me for closing, aren’t you?” Eddie smiles at you over his shoulder. You scoff back, unable to fight a similar expression growing on your face. You like his smile. It always reaches his eyes and takes a while to fade. He’s never in a sour mood, you realize, even when dealing with shitty customers.

You never took notice of Eddie at school until you began working at the video store. His name was always followed by some nasty comment; Eddie “the freak” Munson, held back more than once, didn’t have a bright future. Once you became coworkers, you learned how kind he truly was. Always asked if you were okay, buys you soda without asking, takes over your spot when you need to do homework. At some point, you realized he was cute, which eventually led to your face heating when he’d crack that famous smile, and your heart spiking when he tapped his silver rings against your cheek after a bad joke.

After setting up the display, Eddie walks towards you, brushing his hands together. “Are you going to the fall fair after work?”

You shrug. “Maybe. If I wake up after a big nap.”

You catch something in his expression. The slight drop in the corners of his mouth, him looking off to the side. Something’s itching his mind.

“What about you?”

“Nah,” Eddie replies. “After closing, all the fun stuff will probably be over. No more candy apples.”

You rock back and forth on your heels, thinking. “You know, I could do closing.”

Eddie perks up. “Really?” He catches himself in his excitement. “You don’t have to. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s alright. I’m probably won’t even go.” You poke him in the shoulder. “You can get two candy apples. One in my honor, of course.”

His grin returns. “Okay, fine. I’ll even ride the ferris wheel with a teddy bear and pretend it’s you.”

You fiddle with your fingers at the thought, cringing at how quickly Eddie has you melting to the floor. You have no idea if he does it on purpose, or if his charm comes as naturally as breathing does. It’s almost a curse, how potent it is.

By the time Eddie leaves, darkness has filled the sky. White stars dot its surface, and the moon’s face looks down from above. The parking lot is practically empty; only a few remain from the pizza place in the same plaza, the only store closing later than you. One more hour, then you’ll be home. All of the day’s tasks are done, and you doubt anyone else will come in. You could clock out early, but your manager will surely be on your ass about it.

Your book manages to keep you company. A novel for class you’re finishing up, which successfully curbs your boredom. You eventually lose yourself in the pages, tuning out the quiet sounds littering the store⏤water dripping from the tap, the rustle of leaves from outside. You only look up when a tape falls from one of the shelves behind you. Setting your book down, you leave the register to place it back in its display, thinking nothing of it.

Another thud breaks the silence. This time, your heart quickens its pace, pushing against your chest. You shake it off with a deep breath; things happen. They scare you, and your body reacts⏤not a big deal. Still, your legs wobble as you walk to the other side of the store, deep into the horror section where a poster of Freddy Krueger grins maliciously at you. You gulp, turning your eyes away, then place the other tape back where it came from. Friday the 13th.

When you return to the register, your book is gone. Crouching to the floor, you don’t see it under the counter, or around your backpack. With three strange occurrences in the span of minutes, a cold sweat starts to form. Your breathing grows heavy, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand tall.

“Hello?” you call out. “Anybody there?”

As you scan the store, most of the lights go out. You shriek, ducking under the counters. Each corner is dark, leaving only the entrance and register dimly lit. Fuck it. There is no way in hell you are spending another minute inside. Whether it’s the Halloween season playing tricks on you, or there’s actually some poltergeist in here, you need to leave.

You stuff everything you have left into your backpack. Your book can be salvaged another time. Last, are your keys⏤the ones to close the store, for your car, and your home. You typically keep them in the shelf under the counter, and⏤

The tray where they rest every day, every shift, is empty. Your hands rummage through the darkness, hoping you tossed them in too far. But it’s empty, save for dust and a few cobwebs. Your eyes begin to sting under the growing weight of your frustration. The last place to go is the pizza shop, still open at this hour. You’ll call your mom to take you home and come back tomorrow when it’s bright out. Eddie will help you look for your things. You think about calling him instead, but deflate when you realize he’s at the fair right now. He’d make you feel better about this.

Slinging your backpack over your shoulder, you briskly walk to the door. Your hand wraps around the silver handle, ready to yank it with all your might and meet the cool night breeze. The door doesn’t budge. Another yank, and all you hear is the rattle of the hinges fighting against your strength. Tears finally fall on your face, turning into a sob as you desperately pull with two hands.

“Please!” you scream to no one. “Let me out, please!”

It takes a moment to register the man looming before you⏤face cloaked by a dirtied hockey mask mask and a shiny knife in hand. A whimper, then a scream. You don’t run in fear of the blade piercing right into your gut, nor do you have the strength to. You continue pulling at the door, praying for a miracle, until his other hand silences you, knocking you to the ground in shock. Your legs flail at him, but he stays a distance away. You’re dragged across the dirty carpet, choking on your saliva as his hand remains, suffocating you.

He manages to pin you in place, straddling you to cease the movement of your legs. When he leans down to inspect your face, twisted in torment, you take the opportunity to hook your fingers under his mask. He pulls back, but you’ve already undone the straps, able to throw it to the side.

Your heart freezes. His long, unruly hair falls across your shoulders. Disappointment crosses his face, aimed towards you and partially at himself. Not one hint of panic. His hand, weakened in the moment, comes off your mouth.

“Eddie..?” you whisper. He shakes his head, tutting. His weight still makes it difficult to crawl away, though the lack of feeling in your limbs prohibits it, anyway.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he sighs. He readjusts his grip on the knife. “What am I gonna do with you now?”

You swallow thickly, unable to produce any words. Your betrayed expression draws a strange look from him, as if he’s trying to comfort you in this time. His head comes down close to yours, nose skimming your cheek. You hold your breath, glancing at the large blade to make sure it hasn’t struck you yet. You don’t expect his lips to touch yours. Brief, and featherlight you almost can’t feel it, but you taste a hint of caramel and apples. Eddie grins at you, though there’s darkness behind it. In the little light left, his teeth shine like fangs.

“Keep this our little secret, will you?” he whispers in your ear. “Then I won’t have to hurt you.”

[spectoris]

“Vecna lives.” JOSEPH QUINN as EDDIE MUNSON Stranger Things 4 (2022)

[spectoris]

I'm never forgiving this dumb fandom with how badly they treat Eduardo Franco. The shit that happened at the premiere would have been everywhere had it happened to any other cast member. And people continue to talk absolute dog shit about him even though his character carried the fucking show this season. All your faves would have died without him and yet people don't want his character to come back next season. It genuinely pisses me off

[spectoris]

We believe your genetics could be the answer to why it is that you can shape the Noor here. Your humanity links you to the matter of this world. It makes your abilities unique.

[spectoris]

another week of me crying over ms marvel

spoilers under cut

the way i rolled my eyes so hard when kamala and kamran were holding hands and abt to kiss 😭 im sorry but i’m a bruno x kamala lover forever

[spectoris]

i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point

[spectoris]

RUNAWAY | J. SERESIN

written by: @spectoris​ & @yuunina​

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin x fem!reader

summary: after witnessing both your older brother and the love of your life walk away, you find no reason to grant them your forgiveness while simultaneously punishing yourself for their decisions. years later, when you’re reunited with them both, you begin to see what you couldn’t in your blind grief and learn to mend those burnt bridges.

contains: she/her pronouns, canonverse, adopted bradshaw!reader, older brother!bradley, high school exes to lovers, reader works at penny’s bar, estranged familial bonds, familial trauma, mentions of death & loss of family, angst, fluff, brief mentions of injuries and blood, hurt/comfort, toxic relationships (familial and romantic)

word count: 7.8k

a/n: reposting bc tumblr took this off the tags

In the golden glow of the setting sun, where blue gowns rustle in the wind and the excited clamor is far behind you, you and Jake stand before each other in silence. You share everything in those quiet moments—a deep frown, creased brows, pounding hearts, and the weight of dread sinking in your stomach. Jake has his cap in a clenched fist, tassel dangling limply by his side, while yours shadows your sunken eyes. On a day of pride and new beginnings, the thought of the lives you will lead after the festivities are over makes your throat tighten. Two separate lives, one you have tried to stray Jake away from, but his heart is set on it, more than it is set on you.

There’s fury in his eyes. Disbelief, and a touch of disappointment, at the words you’ve uttered. It’s followed by a scoff and his fight tightening around his graduation cap, threatening to snap it in two.

“So that’s it then?” your voice trembles.

You’ve been brushing his response to the side these past few months, hoping it’ll disappear if you pay no mind to it. But Jake doesn’t even have to speak for you to know—it’s been on his mind for ages. And when Jake has his heart on something, he doesn’t let go. It’s been stuck in a vice grip, his future held by the throat. Your heart was in that position once, too, at one point where you promised each other eternity. That was the consequence of falling in love at seventeen.

Jake gives a single, curt nod. He tucks his cap under his arm, shoes circling in the grass. The realization that this—your final moment with Jake—is drenched in bitterness, makes your heart weigh heavier in your chest. Yet, the spite you’ve saved only allows you to spit the most awful words at him. You can’t apologize to him even if you wanted to nor change the outcome of this.

“Are we finished here?” Jake cuts in. Finished with the conversation, you know he means, but beneath it is the fate you’ll be left with once he walks away. The end of teenage romance, a blissfully ignorant four years together. From preteens to young adults with uncontained ambitions, temporary lovers, and soon, perfect strangers.

There is nothing left for you to say. You only mimic the same curt nod, keeping your head down to hide the tears welling in your stinging eyes. The grass crunches ever so softly beneath his dress shoes as he turns his broad shoulders to you. Then, he’s stomping over fallen flowers and drifted leaves from ornate leis and bouquets. In the distance, you see his father approach with an outstretched arm. He catches you in the corner of his eye and waves you over. Jake pushes him on with a forced smile, concaxing some inaudible excuse.

The rest of the graduation cheer has died. Your former classmates have head home, leaving behind an empty field of streamers, ribbons, and flowers once thriving with joy no greater than an hour ago. In the growing silence, you watch Jake’s figure recede into the distance as your older brother appears from behind.

“Ready to go?” Bradley nudges your shoulder with his fist. He accidentally punches too hard, making you flinch. The indifferent expression he has on his face, one that makes you feel as though he resents being here, falters into concern upon seeing your somber expression. Before he probes any further, you wipe the tears with the back of your hands and nod, walking in the opposite direction from where Jake was.

Everyday, the sound of jet engines roar above your head, rumbling the thin roof of the bar. Everyday, you dread its inevitable appearance, having to plug your ears with your fingers until they pass or run errands in the storage room where the walls are thick enough to mask them. The good thing is that they fly on schedule—you can guess (not exact, but close) when the planes take off and prepare yourself. Though, that’s not the case all of the time. There are moments when you’re filling a customer’s glass and the planes come, shocking you so hard the beer spills. Or, you’ll freeze in place until Penny, sometimes Amelia, snaps you out of your rigor.

You can blame no one but yourself for putting you through this torture. Yet, there is nowhere else you can see yourself being. Underneath the paralyzing fright, you can almost hear his voice—your dad’s—as he soars happily through the sky. It’s the only thing he ever saw himself doing. Now, it’s the only thing your brother sees himself doing. Against your wishes, but perfectly in line with your mother’s, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw has a seat in the air like your dad once had decades before. No matter how much fifteen year old you cried (days on end) for Bradley to stay home, to care for you as your parents could not, he had already made up his mind.

There was a time where civil conversations were the norm, joyous ones where you laughed until your stomach hurt and you loved your brother with the entirety of your flesh and blood despite sharing neither. With you living and working so close to the air station, Bradley is always a few steps away. But having missed him growing up, you barely recognized him the first time you saw him again in years. Instead, you saw the spitting image of your father, the fuzzy glimpses of him from your formative years. You remember the brief, yet agonizing, eye contact you held with Bradley from across the bar, and the twitch of your arms as years of missing him prompted you to hug him for the lost time. But you turned your head away, ignored the pained look from the corner of your eye, and moved on as quickly as he had left you.

Your favorite time of day is when the sun is about to set. Its golden rays kiss the shimmering ocean horizon a few yards away from Penny’s bar, casting beautiful shapes across the floor as it shines through the windows. With the afternoon reaching a sweltering heat, swarms of uniformed pilots are bound to mingle throughout the night. The jingle of the bell hanging above the door signals the first patron. As you expected, a pair walks in, vaguely familiar.

The next handful meander in and out as Penny takes over the bar and you head to the storage room for inventory. Its cool inside compared to the growing humidity of the main area. You have a chance to sit down and breathe, wipe the sweat from your brow, and take a moment to prepare yourself for the rambunctious night ahead. With a small grunt, you hoist a box of beer bottles, holding it against your hip while you push the door open. There’s a similar grunt from the other end, no doubt from a person you’ve just hit. You quickly step out of the room, an apology already forming on your tongue, when you freeze.

A harsh chill runs across the entire expanse of your body. Looking up, you meet the shocked eyes of Jake Seresin. He stares dumbly at you for a few moments before they narrow. A tense, awkward silence grows between you, broken by his buddy who leads him to the billiards table, unknowingly saving you from having to share any words.

Your shift carries on until stars litter the dark sky, the sun long forgotten in song and laughter. You manage to avoid two faces tonight; both Jake and your brother, who sings in the same energy as your father once did. Bradley is able to lose himself in the delightful clamor—Jake’s heated presence, however, hovers delicately over your every move. He keeps himself at a deliberate distance, never wandering closer than ten feet from you unless he has to. Jake says nothing—he speaks over you, quite literally when one of his pals forces him to grab another round of drinks.

His domineering figure shadows you when you conveniently duck below the counter to grab clean glasses, keeping him out of sight. He calls to Penny all the way across the other side (a couple of slurred words here and there), who happily serves him much to your delight, until his eyes linger on you for a second too long when you resurface with the glasses.

It’s nearly 2 a.m. when you clock out, the bar still alive. Each step towards your car makes your feet ache more than the last. Every muscle in your body is sore, and being frank, you’re in no shape to drive home. You could always sleep over at Penny’s—having known you for a while, you’ve been entrusted with a key, and a long talk with Amelia would be a nice way to cap off the night despite her being years your junior (she’s got wits that make you believe she’s much older).

Your car sits at the edge of the lot, closest to the road. A towering streetlamp shines its yellow light right onto the hood of your car, highlighting the scratches and chipped paint. There’s a flash of a shadow from your peripheral vision. You’re not alarmed by it—the bar tends to have a few stragglers outside for a smoke or fresh air. It’s when you slip into the driver’s seat that you look into the darkest corner of the parking lot and your blood runs cold.

Even the darkness cannot mask the familiar silhouette of a faded red pickup truck. A lump bobs in your throat as you slowly look over to the man leaning against the truck bed, arms crossed over his chest. When your eyes meet, he jolts and immediately turns his head away, reaching into his pocket for his keys.

The engine rumbles to like with the same ferocity it did years before. It strikes a bolt of fear into your chest, especially when the lights turn on and blind you for a split second. In that brief moment, you’re seventeen again, running barefoot across concrete with Jake’s hand in yours. You’re both utterly soaked and wearing only swimsuits, breathless as the security chases you into the parking lot. You’re dripping water all over the ground and in Jake’s truck, laughing as he hurriedly drives away, like he is now, leaving you in the dust once more.

The memories you have of your father are faded. The tickle of his mustache ghosts your cheeks when you look at pictures of him holding toddler you, barely old enough to form a solid sentence. Your mother, however, is sharper in your mind. Her face, forever cemented in youthful beauty, was always joyful no matter the circumstances. Even when she reminisced on your father and looked upon Brad with a wistful smile, you can’t recall ever seeing her cry.

Life likes to test your sanity. First, the daily reminder that the lovely people you grew up with are not technically your family (not by blood at least), but you’ve overcome this. The second is not losing one parent, but both, before they could see you flourish in your adulthood (or perhaps it was for the better they didn’t see the divide between their kids). And the third—standing beside your brother, looking down at your parents’ headstones side by side.

It’s been roughly three decades since your father, Nick “Goose” Bradshaw passed away. A tragic accident, really. Rarely talked about by your mother except for when she explained what happened when you were a bit older. For Bradley, it’s always sitting in the back of his head, crackling his nerves when he thinks about the ‘what ifs’ despite being out of his control.

Today, dressed in your best black clothes, you stand at least a foot apart, unable to look at each other, but sharing the pain. There’re a few flowers on the ground, the freshest left by the two of you, and a few from a previous visitor, dried out from the sun. In the tense moments that pass, you manage to glance over at Bradley who has his brows furrowed, anger growing on his face.

“It shouldn’t have happened,” he mumbles. “If Mav-”

“You can’t change what happened, Brad. Whatever happened wasn’t Maverick’s fault.”

Bradley turns to you sharply. “So you’re on his side?” Each word weighs heavier than the last. His skin seeps the heat of unbridled rage, having been brewed since he was a teenager. He was no older than you when your father passed—you wonder where, or how, he learned to be so angry, given your mother’s forgiving nature.

“There’re no ‘sides’ to this. Maverick was found innocent. Would you blame Dad if he was in Maverick’s position?”

“The difference is Dad’s dead and Maverick isn’t. It was his recklessness that got him killed. How are you not as angry as I am?”

I can’t believe our parents are watching this right now.

“Because I’m not you, Bradley. Do you think Dad would be happy with you holding a grudge against his best friend? What about Mom? She loved Maverick like a brother and she was never this upset about it.”

Bradley scoffs and shakes his head, the corners of his lips raised in a smile—not one of joy, but in utter disbelief. “You’re using them against me? Real fucking nice.”

Your hands tremble at your sides. “All I’m saying is if we can all forgive him, why can’t you?”

Something crosses Bradley’s mind. You can tell by the way his pinched brows relax momentarily and his eyes unfocus before hardening again. There’s the quickest flash of doubt, gone before you can catch it. Then, he opens his mouth again. His words make you want to scream into the open sky.

“You never felt anything, did you? You were only two when it happened, so it makes sense.” He makes you think he understands. “You never cared for him, did you? You never cared for Dad because you never knew him. But me? I did. I’m his flesh and blood, so whatever pain he takes to the grave, I’m carrying that with me for the rest of my life.”

You can’t explain the chill in your body; a frigid winter wind blowing through a cold husk. The only word that forms in your head is what? Bradley studies you, watching like a hawk for something to hook his talons into. Something for him to throw back at you. Nothing comes to mind, yet your mouth knows what to say, moving faster than the rest of your body. Your face feels wet. You must’ve cried sometime during his little speech; you can’t name exactly when. What you’ve thought you had accepted comes back to light, the sinking reality of your entire being, the bane of your existence—you’re not a real Bradshaw.

Bradley may not have said it to your face, but those three words—flesh and blood—hurt more than a knife to the chest. Though he’s not your biological brother, you’ve shared enough years together for him to feel the same agony rushing through when he realizes what he has done—the venom of his words. He calls your name, but it’s miles away. Every ounce of rage has been replaced by concern and deep regret. Bradley reaches out to you, but you jerk away, scrubbing at your eyes with your hands.

“You’re right.” Your voice sounds wonky from your runny nose. “I didn’t know him like you did. But you know who did raise me?”

Bradley chews his lip, refusing to answer.

You continue, “You did. You look just like him, you know that? I needed my dad, but more importantly, I needed my brother.”

You couldn’t care less about the state Bradley’s in; shoulders sagged and shaking with silent, regretful sobs. He’s still trying to reach out to you, picking up the old habit of hugging you whenever you were upset as a child. Only now, he’s not comforting you—he’s comforting himself.

“All I wanted was for you to care for me in his place, but I guess that was too much for you. After all, I was never your sister, was I?”

You don’t think you’ve been this upset before. It’s unlike the typical, bubbling rage, but rather a weight rooted in your stomach and chest you can’t rid yourself of. Night after night you’ve tossed and turned, leading to you working odd hours at the bar much to Penny’s dismay. Life likes to throw you into the deepest pits. Like a gladiator standing before a lion, you’re left to defend yourself with only a feeble stick as the ferocious beast stalks on.

On a sunny Sunday morning, you find solace on the sand-covered trails outside your home. The ocean tides bid you good morning as your bare feet descend onto the yellow sand. You immediately sink into its plushness, then take slow steps towards the blue water. Salt sprays across your face as the waves rise to your knees, splashing against your shorts. At last, you can breathe. The beach is secluded this time of day, not yet crowded by tourists during the afternoon and evening.

The ocean stretches for miles on end, twinkling under the golden sun. The farther it goes, the darker and cloudier it gets. While the first few yards are paradise, what looms after is a swimmer’s nightmare—ice cold water waiting to rope you beneath its surface into a never-ending abyss. Yet, you imagine yourself getting lost in it, floating with the tides out to see where the struggles of the shore can’t reach you. It’s an odd vision, but it brings you temporary peace.

A running figure disturbs your tranquility. His shoes leave large indents in the semi-wet sand—a strange place to have a morning jog, you think. The grit and gravel have traveled up his wet shins. His bare skin glistens with sweat and dons the growing red patch of a fresh sunburn.

A light sigh falls from your lips. It loses itself in the breeze like the clouds do, rolling across the great blue sky. That sigh quickly morphs into a thunderstorm when you hear your name called from behind in a confused, breathless tone.

Standing on the shore where the water doesn’t quite reach is none other than Jake. He plucks his earbud out then squints at your face as if it’ll clear his vision. Unlike your encounter in the bar, there’s no escape from this situation. Running would paint you to be a fool, but engaging might also make you look like a fool.

“Mornin’” you say as nonchalantly as possible. Too late—your voice has already cracked.

“You look…good.” You realize Jake’s waiting for you to meet him on the sand when he glances down where the water meets your knees. Hesitantly, you wade through until you’re close enough to not have to shout, but a good arm’s length away.

“I could say the same to you.”

It’s not necessarily a lie. Jake does look good. He’s grown even taller since high school, shoulders broadening out with muscles clothes cannot hide. That old, charming air has stuck with him all these years, shadowed by arrogance. The way he speaks so freely to you—as if you’ve forgiven him—makes you queasy.

The fact that you’re not angry right now makes you wonder if you have. Then, you look clearly at his face, and you remember all the time you’ve spent together, years of memories swept under the rug. Unspoken and forgotten as if they no longer exist. That version of you, the one who forced Jake to make a decision and still had her heartbroken, feels like another person. Maybe it’s stupid to hold onto grudges. Or it’s stupid to think he can pretend everything’s okay.

“So, you work at Penny’s bar.” Jake has begun absentmindedly tailing you as you stroll along the beach—whether you want him to or not is undecided. You answer in clipped, short phrases, partly because you’re not sure if this is a good idea, and also to push Jake’s buttons a bit—see if he’ll continue to lean in. Somewhere along your impromptu Q&A, he pauses to kick off his shoes and socks. When you no longer hear the sand crunching behind you, you turn your head out of instinct. He peers at you through his lashes, and a strange look comes across when he realizes you waited.

You end up side by side, holding your shoes in opposite hands, creating a mirror image. There were times you nearly bumped shoulders, but Jake held himself sturdy, catching himself before it happened. There’s a brief beat of silence as Jake tries to think of another question other than the ones he’s already thrown out. You tell yourself you’re relieved—the longing to hear his voice again says otherwise.

“What do you think of- ow! What the fuck?”

Jake lifts his left foot, instinctively grabbing onto your shoulder for balance. The initial shock washes off at the sight of the brownish-red spine sticking out his heel. It’s roughly the same size as a toothpick, lodged into his skin.

“Oh my god, is that a fucking sea urchin spine?” You slap a hand over your mouth to cover your laugh. “And the whole thing isn’t even here, just its spine.”

“Are you gonna be a marine biologist all day or are you going to help me?” The smile lifting the corners of Jake’s lips betray the annoyed facade he’s trying to maintain.

“Okay, okay. Come on, my house is across the street.”

The two of you hobble back to the main street where you earn a few odd glances from the cars at the crosswalk. Jake’s arm has found its way across both of your shoulders while yours is wrapped around his waist. With each step, your heart thumps a little louder. When Jake squeezes your shoulder to curb the stinging pain, your cheeks light up with more than the summer heat.

Once past the front threshold, he flops onto your couch and rests his leg on the coffee table. A quick search through the bathroom later, you come back to the living room with a first-aid kit. Jake leans his head on the back of the sofa, eyes closed.

“Don’t die on me, Seresin.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t complain when I do this-”

A pair of silver tweezers grips the end of the sea urchin spine and yanks it from his foot, prompting a curse under Jake’s breath. You clean the area before covering it with a bandaid.

“There. Good as new.”

Jake opens his eyes and lets his foot drop back to the floor. The numerous picture frames hanging on the wall and on your mantle catch his attention. Jake stands then paces the room, taking in the images with curiosity. Each picture unlocks different parts of your, and his, memory—none of them feature him, but he stills recalls those days with perfect clarity. There are a few moments where he laughs, particularly at the ones of younger you and Brad.

You tail Jake the entire time, palms growing sweaty as he basks in the nostalgia of you former years. They’re sweet sentiments of the past, the few souvenirs you have of those times. Though they’re mostly happy memories, you rarely ever speak of them, not even to Bradley if you manage to hold a conversation without screaming. Jake, an outsider, looking into them feels odd, as though he’s visiting a museum and you’re the curator offering stories of someone else.

You do admire the fondness he expresses when he pauses at the pictures of you and your father, reminding him of his own. The corners of his eyes crinkle at the sight of your baby face, round and rosy with youth. He freezes at the last photo. The most recent—your graduation. It’s you and Brad standing at the front of your high school with smiles that don’t stretch quite as far as you’d think. Jake lingers longer than you expect. He gazes deeply at it, face falling by the second until it reaches a soft frown. You tap his arm lightly to pull him back, and he turns away, rigid and slightly paler. He recovers with a small cough.

“Lot of memories,” he says, cringing at his words.

“Yeah.” You sway on your feet, hands clasped behind your back. “So, Penny’s throwing a bash on Friday.”

“What for?”

“A little homecoming celebration. For Maverick, of course, even though she denies it.”

Amusement graces Jake’s features once more. “Right. Those two are…something else.”

Your eyes lock onto his, round and soft with a commanding air. His breath hitches in his throat—he can’t remember the last time he looked so deeply into your irises.

“Will you be there?” The innocence of your question provokes him. On your end, it raises the hairs across your skin in astonishment of your boldness. You purposefully avoid each other at the bar—now you’re implying you want him there. The ultimate goal of this is unclear and will most likely be a hassle for both. Still, him shying away won’t snuff the spark crawling up your neck.

Enamored in your sudden vulnerability, and reeling in thought of you asking for his presence, he doesn’t notice how you bite your cheek to withhold your embarrassment. If anything, he’s the one embarrassed.

“O-Of course,” he finally answers. “Who isn’t?”

With warmth rising on your cheeks, you let your head hang to the ground. “Good to know.” When you look up again, he wears the same bashful expression. “You’re not going to leave us hanging, are you?”

He turns red at the jab at his callsign—and perhaps, something more—his tongue twisted in knots. “Not this time.”

Jake starts to frequent the bar more often. On days where it’s too hot to step outside, or too gloomy to see the grey sky, he’s always there waiting for you. It’s jarring to see his face in the flesh, talk and laugh like old friends (you were, at one point). Each day, he makes it incredibly difficult to be upset for what happened. When his fingers brush against yours or he calls you to dance on crowded nights, your mind flutters back. It makes your legs wobbly when he holds your hands and spins you around, drawing out lines of messy laughter.

His smile is genuine. It’s pure, unfiltered happiness you see as the rest of the world moves around you. But behind that curtain sits the lingering thought of guilt, the feeling of needing to be punished for all those years—and he sees it in your face, too. Perhaps you’re letting Jake off too easy by agreeing to “hang out” (it’s painfully obvious they’re dates) and reliving your youth. You should throw him the same pain he’s left you with, but on top of the situation with Bradley, you don’t know if you have the strength to do so. And there’s nothing inherently wrong with being around Jake who makes you happy, for now. You’ve changed, you hope.

Weeks of your unspoken dates later, you’re strolling along the pier after sunset when dark blue fills the sky. The cool air kisses the skin of your cheeks, lifted in a delicate smile. Jake’s knuckles knock against yours with each step until you take his hand in yours. The warmth of his palm compliments the one spreading across your face.

You walk hand-in-hand in comfortable silence before stopping at the pier. Jake takes hold of both of your hands and faces you. Everything about him contradicts the person you’ve heard rumors of—the snarky, stubborn Hangman, whereas Jake is softer—timid, almost—in your presence. You’ve started to see the person he is behind closed doors, having shed his toughened exteriors that rise in the face of his colleagues. Against your will, it’s made you fall for him again. A crush, if you’d call it, though it feels silly to admit at your age. Still, it doesn’t change the weight of the brief kisses you’ve shared after your dates, or how he craves your touch in the silent hours of the night.

Jake has his lip tucked in his teeth as he sorts through his thoughts. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What are we?”

Your heart spikes painfully in your chest, setting off in a sprint. He catches how your eyes widen, expecting a reply, but your mouth has gone dry. The eagerness starts to drain from his expression, fading into confusion and concern. 

A glimmer of hope shines through, like a patient dog waiting for a treat. The words dance on the tip of his tongue, thoughts running circles in his mind. There’s no trick to his question, yet it has you wound tighter than a sailor’s knot. Head beneath a dark ocean, watching the rope slip from your hands as you descend.

You can’t breathe.

“We’re…friends?”

“Friends?” He immediately drops your hands. “We’re friends?”

Jake’s brain seems to jump from thought to thought as he attempts to conjure a coherent sentence. Who wouldn’t be appalled by that? Worse is, you’re not sure of what to say yourself. It’s evident to even a stranger of the affections you share—you’re a couple without the title, lacking the words of commitment. He shakes his head rapidly, cutting off each of the syllables that attempt to leave your mouth. When you reach out, he backs away.

“Did these past few weeks mean nothing to you?” Jake starts. You don’t know what hurts more—how angry he is, or the fact you can see him crumble with each passing second. “What were you doing then? Passing time?”

“It’s not like that!” Your voice begs him to hear reason. “We just- We never talked about it.”

It’s clear you’ve hit another nerve. Jake’s emotions loom above him like an angry shadow, ready to paralyze you with a single stare. When he steps toward you slowly, you can’t help but shudder like prey waiting to be slaughtered by his words. Then, you see the switch—the ultimate decision it’s not worth entertaining you, nor depleting his energy when the answer dangles in front of him like a carrot on a stick. Now, you’re forced to chase after him as he turns and stalk off in the opposite direction. His long strides have you jogging to keep up, eventually snagging the sleeve of his jacket to stop him, but he continues forth.

“Please, Jake!” you beg, huffing to catch your breath. “Can you give me a fucking chance to explain?”

His abrupt stop almost makes you run straight into his back. “Explain what?” he snaps. “I thought we could move on from the past. Clearly you’re still holding onto it.”

It’s your turn to throw him looks of disbelief. “You don’t get to blame me for that when you were the one who left!”

“So it’s my fault, then? You’re mad I made a decision you forced me to make? Real fucking mature.”

The weight of his words sinks into your skin like claws. In your moment of consideration, Jake takes your silence as defeat, and his smugness creeps in before you can counter. Ultimately, he is right—you could’ve stayed together had you accepted his decision to join the Navy. But when it’s waved in your face like some document to support his argument—what your brother had done to you numerous times before—it makes you see red. So much that you want to return Jake’s anger tenfold. The idea of it poisons your head despite the consequences surrounding it—give him what he gave you. Every other option can’t convey how hard it hit to see him physically retreat and walk away from the life you had begun to build.

“You know what’s mature, Jake? Leaving without a goodbye. An explanation, or a reason, something for me to understand why you fucking left.”

“I gave you plenty! You had no right to choose my future for me!”

“Wasn’t I supposed to be a part of that? Weren’t you the one who gave me all these promises even though you knew you couldn’t keep them?” Your nails leave crescent marks in the palm of your hand. “I trusted you. I believed you when you said we could work things out. You loved me one moment, then you couldn’t give me the time of day the next.”

His boiling anger simmers to a slow bubble until it is still. You hardly recognize who he is through the blurriness of your eyes.

“I loved you for years afterward. All for someone who couldn’t do the same.”

Wordlessly, you turn and start walking. Jake follows you before realizing you’ve quickened your pace. You don’t turn back, not when he calls your name in panic, realizing you’ve used his own cards against him. You can’t reason with him or yourself—the rage he’s ignited has left you blind. All you think of is revenge and how spiteful you feel, unlacing the strings of regret weaving through your mind. You have the temporary satisfaction of forcing him your perspective. Now, you have to deal with losing him again, too.

A constant shadow looms above your head. It’s evident when the clear glasses slip from your fingers in the bar after hours of mindless work and land in a pile of shards. You can’t even muster a full apology to Penny, whose first instinct is to ask if you’re okay. The concern radiating from her almost makes you sob—it’s been so long since someone had asked about your wellbeing. Penny lets you collapse into her embrace, rubbing your back as you allow yourself the time to unleash the storm stirring within you.

Even then, you can’t rid yourself of the pains. It takes more than a few words for you to understand the nature of your regrets. The second wave of denial has hit, the same you felt when Jake walked away first. Looking down at your empty hands, you only wish they were woven in the warmth of his.

His absence is recognized at the bar. “Where’s Hangman?” his friends often wonder. Their stares find their way to you—judging from the stoicism of your face, they leave the topic untouched. The itching presence of your brother doesn’t provide any aid, or so you convince yourself. He doesn’t need to ask to know when something is bothering you, and he shouldn’t need permission to comfort you. But from the nature of your last exchange, he wonders if it’s best to leave you alone. In the back of your mind, you wish he would take another step.

After the sun is down, all that’s left is the sea crashing against the shore. Leaning against your doorway, you stare out at the open water. It’s too much of an effort to go there now, given the time and your lack of energy. It’s still beautiful to gaze at, though. Despite your current conditions, the ocean reminds you of the reason you moved in the first place. It was your father’s wish to fly, eventually inspiring Brad to do the same. While you may have punished him in your mind, ignoring your mother’s compliance, it isn’t difficult to see how much it means to him, and how much it’d mean to your father. The ocean is his final resting place, where his dog tag remains amongst the healing yet commanding waves. Each time you step on the sand and feel the salt on your skin, a piece of your father travels with you. It’s enough to conjure the distant memories that remain.

Your father was always revered for his ambition, a by-product of being friends with the Maverick. Above that, he had compassion, a feat passed onto your brother. Forgiveness, even if he wasn’t around to express it. So, when Bradley’s car pulls into your driveway, part of you isn't surprised. More importantly, you’re relieved to know your brother hasn’t changed too much. He lingers by his car door like a timid child. Shoes kicking at the concrete, lips pressed into a line—he doesn’t know exactly what to say or do.

The half smile you give him is the invitation onto your porch. You settle in the swinging chair outside your window. Brad sits tensely, hands folded on his lap. “I heard what happened,” he begins.

“Really? He gave me up, just like that?”

Brad shakes his head. “The opposite, actually. Hangman was pissier than usual. He had to say what was on his mind or else it was 200 push-ups every morning.”

Your head falls back with a sharp laugh. Hearing his callsign is odd, to say the least. It defines him by his uniform, the facade he’s built over time. Or, possibly, the new person he’s become.

“So, what? Is he also wallowing or am I some bitch than ran away?”

Brad turns his head to you. Never in your life have you seen him react so grimly to a joke, one you silently hope holds no truth. He takes a deep breath, “Hang- Jake is…to be honest, I don’t know. We aren’t the closest of friends—actually, I don’t even know if I can call him a friend at all. But when he looks at me it’s like he only sees you.” He cringes. “Shit, maybe that’s why he hates me. He only sees his ex-girlfriend.”

You’re both laughing. Calm as the ocean, still loud enough to hear over the waves. You’ve inched closer together until your shoulders touch and your breaths align as one. You’re still Bradshaws—his heated words couldn’t have changed that even if he willed them into existence. With the thought of that day, your chest spikes, and your brother senses it, too. He gives you his undivided attention.

“It wasn’t fair of me to throw that at you. It was such an asshole move.”

“It was.”

Bradley rolls his eyes, though there’s a grin creeping in at your amusement. “I’m gonna stick by your side, okay? No matter what.”

Your fist lands in his arm, earning a yelp. “Thanks. It’s nice to not have you insulting me for once.”

Following another fit of laughter, Bradley gazes out to sea. An air of clarity encompasses him, determination locked into his features coupled with acceptance. “I forgave Maverick,” he admits. “It took a while for me to understand his side, and now I do.”

The quietness of his tone indicates the difficulty of his confession. Bradley had never stepped down from defending your father’s name, even in the face of the people who seemingly knew more than he did. He held onto the last bits he had of Goose, that infamous name which continues to hover above his head. A name he cannot shake himself of—not that he wants to. Though he chooses to hold onto your father’s name, it doesn’t mean he has to hold onto those unfortunate circumstances. When he glances at you, you see the message behind his words.

“Talk to Jake. Just talk, like I did with Maverick. Maybe you’ll see something you never noticed before—say something you’ve been keeping inside.”

You sigh. “I don’t know if I can. I ruined everything.”

Bradley pats your shoulder in comfort. “Trust me when I say you haven’t. He’s more forgiving than he presents.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

There’s a pounding in your chest. It’s a sense of dread that you can’t seem to find an answer to, whether it’s due to the impending raindrops cascading down your shoulders—soaking your clothing to your skin in a slim stretch of fabric that’s likely to make you ill—or the fear of rejection. A fear that only he can relieve you of. A fear that’s been a major player in the ongoing battle of heartache and misconceptions, two subjects that have haunted you for years. With each sinking step into the deep puddles in the cracked concrete, the weight of the world begins to multiply by thousands. There’s no going back after this and you’re completely aware of it.

Mud periodically splatters across your beaten shoes, unequipped for this treacherous journey. Driving would’ve been the better, and more convenient option, but amidst another bout of midday thoughts, you knew this would make it harder to turn back. The fire in your lungs burns with each shallow gasp you take. There’s an itch creeping in your throat, a headache pooling at your temples, but your feet won’t stop even as they ache. You keep running, splashing through the paved street that’s foreign in this thick fog, and you can’t help but realize you look like a complete mess.

As the ground inclines, the terrain becomes rougher. Rocks and potholes begin to stand in your way, causing you to think that fate is seemingly not rooting for your love, but you ignore them. Nothing could possibly derail your path. Derail your goal of seeing Jake again, of telling him all of the things that you were too afraid to say before. So, as you run up the hill towards his quaint home, your strides are more powerful than a tsunami.

Your older brother’s words rage through your head. His advice on forgiveness and second chances are the slogans for the redemption of your relationship with Jake. The short motto slapped onto the movie poster of your love story would be nothing but a blockbuster—a bold font with scattered letters that spell ‘I miss you, I’m sorry’—that would play in your mind’s cinema for the rest of your life. You're almost there. Just a few blocks away. Just a few minutes from the ultimate make-or-break moment that could change your future entirely.

His door stands before you now. The cobalt blue color is stark against the pure white wooden frame. You wonder if he painted it himself and can easily imagine a scene in which Jake is sitting on his front porch during a particularly hot summer day, sipping a cold beer, with paint splattered across his white undershirt. Your heart warms at the thought of you seated beside him, with his hand in yours, while your only concerns are related to each other—making your inevitable reunion even more meaningful.

You knock three times. Once as an announcement that you’re here, twice to reaffirm your presence, and a third for good measure. You aren’t taking any chances today.

“I heard you the first time! You don’t need to break down my goddamn door!” Jake’s voice becomes louder and louder with each word as you hear him approach the entryway. “I’m coming! I’m coming! Just hang on a second, okay?”

The lock clicks whilst the knob begins twisting to the left, and he’s standing opposite to you before you can even blink.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He’s taken aback—not only by your unannounced visit, but by the horrific state you’re currently presenting to him. You can’t even begin to describe the amount of mud that’s running up your thighs or the drenched fabric that’s sticking to your sternum. All that matters is Jake and the fact that you’ve finally come back to him and his blunt choice of words. “Holy shit, you’re shaking. Get over here.”

You nod your head, giving him a faint ‘okay,’ before stepping through the doorway and breaking the invisible barrier that had been dividing the two of you for years. Instinctively, your hands yearn for his, wishing for the skin-on-skin contact that would allow you to feel his love for you—or at least feel the ghost of his high school heartbreak.

“I know this is sudden,” you begin as he guides you to his sofa. His hand hovers at the small of your back, never daring to rest on your waist as he doesn’t yet know the boundaries of your relationship. “I should’ve called beforehand or given you a heads up, but this couldn’t wait.”

You continue, “I had to tell you that I love you.”

There’s a sort of breathlessness laced within your voice. Your normally pessimistic thoughts are evolving into idealistic dreams of you and Jake’s happiness as a healthy and happy pair of lovers. You want nothing more than a real chance at a life with him, a real chance at being the person he chooses to wake up next to every single morning, but it’s scary—because at the end of the day, your mutual future is entirely up to him.

The way he looks at you, eyes muddled with something bordering years of untouched longing, make you want to melt into the floor. It isn’t quite there—he’s holding himself back from relishing in your words, too good to be true, but also long overdue.

He falters. That’s your cue, you think solemnly as your vision stings and blurs. Leave and never turn back; forget this entire ordeal and realize the cycle is complete—you’ve left Jake the same way he left you, yet you’re the one getting your heart broken again. When he looks upon you again, you understand exactly what happened that day. A face full of torment and utter grief—what you couldn’t see amidst the blind rage as he walked away. Jake never wanted to make that decision, but he did, and it’s tormented him for as long as it has haunted you.

Jake whispers your name with yearning. You realize he has cupped your face with his hands, searching your expression for the answers to his unspoken questions. Is it true? Is this real? And you nod, holding onto his wrists in hopes he won’t step away again. In fact, he steps closer until his lips are a touch away—then they’re on yours, moving with hesitance, waiting for your call. Your heart swells with a force stronger than the winds, pushing you deeper into Jake’s embrace. The world stands still, granting you the time to express all that you’ve needed to say.

When you part, a smile remains on Jake’s face, though it’s unable to mask the sadness behind. “I love you,” he says breathlessly. “I never stopped loving you, and I’m sorry-”

“Don’t,” you say with a finger to his lips. “I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t have made us walk away from each other.”

His brows crease, mouth open to speak. You hold his face the same way he holds yours, ultimately shutting him up. “Jake,” you say. He softens; he knows from your tone of voice he won’t be able to refute. The tears begin to fall, mixed in the rainwater still littering your skin.

“Yes?”

You wait, making sure he is present. You need him to hear these words, to seal your fate and to provide the closure you’ve both needed, ending this journey with forgiveness. “You became the man I always wanted you to be.”

thanks for reading! this took a while to finish so i hope it lived up to ur expectations- and if it didn’t then don’t be a b word abt it

tags: @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @dempy @ollyoxenfrees​ @walkonthewiidside