#wedding venue Colorado | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

almostgenerallyalways · 7 months ago

Text

to absent friends and those at sea

Pairing: Jake 'Hangman' Seresin x fem reader Category: angst / fluff Word count: 6,2K CW: language, don't know how the navy works, maybe workplace bullying, this is a 'there's only one bed' fic that got out of control

Summary: Through seven years and almost as many deployments he’s carried this torch, the flame low but always burning somewhere in a condemned antechamber of his heart, one he tried hard to forget the route to.

2023

“Your flight is about to get canceled.”

You start, thrown by the appearance of Hangman at your side, interrupting your intense scrutiny of the departures board where another forty minutes have just been added to the already considerable delay of your outbound flight to Seattle.

“What are you still doing here?” You eye him suspiciously, adjusting your duffel bag over your shoulder.

“Nice to see you too, Mir.” He smiles, completely unperturbed as always. “I stayed back to hang out with Coyote. Haven’t seen him much since he was transferred. He left this morning.” He pauses for a moment, indifferently examining his fingernails. “You?”

You sigh. “I thought I’d take advantage of being in the Rockies to hike.”

The man next to you smirks. “In other words, you got drenched.”

“More or less.”

Two days ago, Saturday, had been a beautiful, sunny day for a wedding: Every circumstance had been perfect to reunite most of your Top Gun class, gathered with assorted family, friends and colleagues of the happy couple, to watch Halo say yes to her wife.

You’d enjoyed yourself immensely; the majestic scenery of Halo’s remote hometown in the Colorado mountains, the beautiful venue and decorations, and best of all: being with one of your best friends on the happiest day of her life.

Then the next day, as you’d rolled out of bed bright and early, only slightly hungover, you’d opened the curtains of your hotel room to unannounced streaks of rain.

Not put off by a little change in weather, you’d checked if there were any safety warnings for the trail you’d chosen, and set out in spite of the adverse conditions. The experience had been less enjoyable than anticipated: the beautiful views over the Rockies obscured by a thick layer of fog, you’d returned to your room early last night, chilled to the bone, every stitch of clothing you’d been wearing soaked through.

Another announcement pings over the speakers, interrupting your reflections. The status next to your flight number and destination now blinks in bold, red typeface: CANCELED.

“Told you.” Your unwanted companion grins helpfully.

Around you, people are starting to move, expressing their panicked complaints. You groan as you realise you are going to be stuck here overnight: it is almost 8 PM, and with the rain and mist not letting up, there’s no way another flight is leaving this small airport tonight.

“Listen, Mir,” Hangman says, expression more sober now, “My flight to San Diego was canceled, and I just stood in line for two hours to get a room for tonight. You’ll be here for hours if you have to get one.”

He considers you, any trace of mockery gone from his face for once. “You wanna crash with me?”

Pressure starts to build behind your temples, as you quickly consider your options. On the one hand, you are tired and cranky and in desperate need of sleep: having been one of the last guests shutting down the wedding in the late hours of Saturday night, and having spent most of your Sunday hiking up a non-rewarding mountain in the pouring rain, you’d love to avoid spending hours in the line that you see the crowd of weary and pissed-off people scramble to form, leading up to the United desk.

On the other hand: Hangman.

He smiles tentatively, as if he can read your thoughts on your face. He probably can. “It’s a double.”

You close your eyes, feeling like you might live to regret this decision: “Okay. Fine. Thanks.” --------------------------------------------------------------------------

2016

Top Gun is a dream and an outright nightmare.

Brought in two weeks after the start of the program to replace someone who was summarily discharged, you’re determined to prove your worth.

When you are first introduced to the men and women (woman, singular, you correct yourself) who are to be your classmates and competition, it’s clear the group dynamics have already been cemented. Some eye you suspiciously, leaning back in their chairs, trying to get a read on the late addition. Some don’t even bother to look.

A blonde pilot in the second row scoffs when the instructor reads a short overview of your scant accomplishments, and another man sitting next to him laughs in response, poorly covering it up with a cough.

It takes everything you have to tough it out. They’re throwing you in the deep end, barely allowing any time or grace to make up for the hours and hours of valuable technical and practical training you’ve missed.

On day eight, though, you execute your first successful stealth manoeuvre, getting the upper hand over one of the instructors. As the details in the move are analysed in front of the class, for the first time, you feel a begrudging respect from some of them.

Not everyone, though. Two seats to your left, Seresin makes a show of studying his cuticles.

* * *

Halo is your lifeline. As the only two women in the class, you gravitate towards each other, finding some respite from the hyper-masculine bullshit of the rest of the group.

Or maybe she’s an angel, as her recently coined callsign suggests.

You’re lounging on the rec room couch with Halo’s feet in your lap, debriefing the day’s hop, when Seresin and two of his usual hangers-on walk in. (Their names are Miller and Wozniak. Halo and you have taken to referring to them as Crabbe and Goyle.)

“Ladies.” He grins, flashing you a smile with no warmth behind it.

A feeling of dread gathers in your stomach.

He casually picks an apple out of the fruit bowl and pretends to inspect it as he comments: “Poor showing out there today. You’re gonna have to do better than that if you wanna play in the big leagues with the boys.”

Halo, laid back on the couch, rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Jake.”

He grins at her and takes a bite, crunching loudly. “You know, Halo, it’s not so much you I’m worried about. But this one-” He gestures at you with the piece of fruit. He has never referred to you by your name. “Is on thin ice, I hear. Heard they’re regretting calling her up.”

At this, Halo sits up, looking like she wants to give him a piece of her mind, but you stop her with a touch to her arm. “Forget it, Callie.”

* * *

You’re breathing heavy, blood rushing in your ears as your body is pushed to its physical limits, your F-18 protesting as you accelerate into a sharp turn curving around a particularly treacherous stretch of the San Jacinto mountains.

Your gamble has paid off, though, as you come out right on top of your prey. You can taste bile in the back of your throat as you lock tone on Fanboy’s jet.

It tastes like victory.

Back on the tarmac, peeling off the top half of your sweat-drenched flight suit, Halo throws her arms around your neck as Fanboy shakes your hand, a bemused smile on his face. “Nice work out there. Never even saw you coming.”

Later, at the Hard Deck, one pilot after another buys you drinks as you finally earn your callsign: Mirage.

* * *

It gets easier from there on out, and it doesn’t.

On the one hand, you don’t feel like you constantly have to defend your place anymore. After you score big in the mountains, Hangman finally has the decency to shut his mouth around you. You’ve found a natural understanding with most of the other pilots – the competition is fierce, but nights at the bar bring everyone back on equal footing.

Yet as the program ramps up to its conclusion, so does the pressure. Some mornings you can’t choke down breakfast, your stomach seized up into a knot of nerves and anticipation.

In week ten, you’re having so much trouble with a simulation that you, your wingman and his backseater get shot down six times in a row. Your arms burn with the hundreds of push-ups you’re grinding into the blistering tarmac, your CO never running out of the torrent of abuse he’s heaping onto your back.

You can’t sleep that night, keep seeing the disappointed look on your wingman’s face as you’d fucked up again and again. Around three in the morning, you give up on sleep and head to the on-base gym.

You crank a treadmill up to high and you run, run, run until your lungs are burning and your mouth tastes like metal. Rivulets of sweat drip down your back, down your face, mingling with tears you didn’t realise you’d been holding back, until finally your legs are screaming at you to stop, and you sit down at the end of another treadmill, your shoulders shaking, cradling your face in your knees.

You don’t know how long you sit there, but you know it’s not fully morning yet when a pair of white sneakers appears in your line of vision.

“Mir?”

Of course it had to be him, of all people, seeing you at your worst and most vulnerable.

“Go away.” You manage to grunt.

He doesn’t. Instead, he sits down next to you, hovering at a distance – still too close.

“Are you alright?” He asks, and if you weren’t burning with embarrassment and rage, his hesitant tone might give you pause.

You lift your face from your knees, steeling yourself. You must look ridiculous, you think, a sweaty heap of a girl having a mental breakdown at the bottom of some exercise equipment. You refuse to look at him. “I’m fine.”

He reaches out tentatively, trying to brush away a strand of hair that’s plastered to the side of your face, and you all but jump back: “Goddamn it, Seresin, don’t touch me.”

Finding the strength to push yourself up, you turn to him: “Don’t touch me, don’t talk to me, don’t come anywhere near me.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

2016

When Koehler is discharged, Jake Seresin feels like the rug’s been pulled out from under him.

They came up together through the Academy, and while Jake isn’t sure he would’ve called him a friend in any other circumstances, at least… At least he was an ally. Familiar. Someone who saw through his cocky bullshit and gave as good as he got.

The chances of both of them getting into Top Gun were astronomically small – and then Koehler immediately went and fucked it up. Jake cannot comprehend it.

He feels off-kilter, his only confidant having made a spectacularly embarrassing exit from the program. He can feel the rest of the class watching him, like sharks who’ve smelled blood in the water, waiting for him to make a deadly mistake too.

But Jake didn’t come here to screw up. He came here to win. So he does the only thing he knows how to do – he ramps it up, builds his walls higher, needles people harder – gets under their skin before they can get under his.

He knows it’s not making him many friends – but it works. People don’t question him. He takes no prisoners, flies like he’s the only one out there, puts himself first always – and is ranked near the top of the class for doing so.

When you’re introduced as Koehler’s replacement, he can’t believe it. It feels like adding salt to the wound, bringing in someone who didn’t even make the cut-off on their own merit. So if you get it a little worse than the others – well.

He sees you struggling, those first weeks, and it only confirms his thinking.

One scorching afternoon, after a long series of dogfights ends in embarrassment for half the class, he’s in the rec room pressing a cold compress to his face, discussing the day’s events with Wozniak: “I mean, did you see her out there? That’s what happens when you pull the B-team off the bench. She’s got no business being here. She’s dragging everyone down.”

Wozniak doesn’t immediately respond, and Jake looks up to find you standing in the doorway, looking caught off guard. You recover after a second, straightening your back, and grab a water from the cooler, studiously not looking at him.

You never look at him, after that.

But he looks at you.

* * *

You have bags under your eyes. The line of your jaw has gotten a little sharper. You get a little quieter, even more so than before.

He notices these things just like he notices the redoubled resolve stiffening your spine.

You start creeping up in the rankings, slowly, point by point, and while he doesn’t like that, he respects it.

After the mountains, where you pull a trick out of the bag that takes him completely by surprise, he lines up to congratulate you. Fanboy takes it on the chin, he’s a good guy, and Jake claps him on the back before turning to you, Halo still at your side. But you won’t look at him, and ignore his outstretched hand.

He supposes he deserves that.

* * *

A few weeks later, he wakes up earlier than usual after a night of fitful sleep, his body still processing the adrenaline from an open-sea simulation the day before. Jake came out on top, though he ditched his wingman to do so. Several others didn’t manage to complete the exercise, a crucial barrier for the last stretch of the thirteen-week program.

After tossing and turning for twenty minutes, the light outside his cracked window starting to shift incrementally from pitch black to indigo blue, he decides to head to the gym.

When he steps into the cavernous, air-conditioned room, he immediately senses someone else’s presence, though he can’t see anyone using any of the rows and rows of equipment. It’s not until he rounds into a stretch of treadmills that he spots you, hunched over into your bare knees.

“Mir?” He approaches hesitantly, noting the flushed skin of your back, your hair matted with sweat.

“Go away.” He gets in response, but he can’t, not when you’re sitting there trembling.

“Are you alright?” He asks, even though he can clearly see that you’re not.

You lift your face, surreptitiously swiping at your eyes with your palm. “I’m fine.”

Still not looking at him. Never looking at him.

He reaches out a hand, tentatively; he wants to make this better –

He has to make this better, make you feel–

- but you recoil from him, and he sits there for a long time after you’ve banged the door shut behind you like you couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Sits there for a good long while, with the ghost of your presence.

* * *

Jake wins the trophy.

It’s a raucous night at the Hard Deck and he feels like a weight’s been lifted off his shoulders. Sure, he doesn’t know where they’re shipping him off next week – but for now, he has won and no one can take that away from him, not the pilots giving him sideways glances at the bar, not his father, no one.

Fanboy bumps his shoulder and hands him what must be his fifth or sixth beer of the night. Over on the jukebox, Son of a Preacher Man starts playing and he glances over to see you throw your arms around Halo’s shoulders, laughing, dancing her around the crowded room a little unsteadily. You look lighter, happier than he’s ever seen you.

He watches for long moment, transfixed, until he realises Mickey is talking to him.

Mickey turns around, trying to follow Jake’s line of sight, and finds you. “Oh, dude.” He turns back, clinks Jake’s beer with his own. “I’m sorry to tell you, I think that ship has sailed, man.”

Right, Jake thinks, taking a long pull of his beer. And why should he care? He’s got what he came to North Island for.

No one can take that away.

* * *

2018

He doesn’t see you again for two years. Two years of him being shipped from base to base, coast to coast and back again, the Navy’s prize pony, getting new orders every few months.

He shows up in Oceana, papers in hand; greets familiar faces at The Admiral’s and trades stories over the sound of classic rock and the clicking of pool cues.

Then he turns around and bumps into – you.

It puts him on the back foot, coming face to face with you unexpectedly. You look like you’re caught off guard, too, but you recover quickly. “Hangman.”

“Mirage.” He smirks, defences slotting into place. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You look a little bit older, sharper in ways, your watchful eyes clearly on guard as he leans against the bartop, giving you a once-over. It’s a tactical mistake, on his part – it only serves to ignite something warm deep inside of him.

“Gonna be here for a while. Think we can kiss and make up?”

You shoot him a withering glance, like you expected better out of him. “In your dreams, Bagman.”

The bartender brings you your drink, and you smile sweetly at him. “Terry, put one of whatever he’s having on my card, will you? Fucking new guy’s gonna need it.”

* * *

And it’s fine, it’s perfectly fine. You work perfectly well together.

It’s just that –

No matter how much he needles and cajoles, flirts or tries to rile you up, you only ever treat him as –

A colleague. Which is what he is, sure, but –

He doesn’t ever get that part of you, the part that laughs easy with Fanboy or does shots with Bambi, the part of you that bodily holds up Halo after she gets the call that her childhood dog has died, the part of you that sits next to the radio, fists clenched with anticipation when someone is flying a tough hop, the part of you that envelops them into a full body hug after.

The part of you that has your eyes light up when you look at someone, instead of straight through him.

And no matter how many times he tells himself to move on, he never quite stops wanting it.

* * *

2021

Deployed in the South China Sea, he flies one of the more difficult, harebrained missions of his life with you.

He finds you, after, where you’re slumped against a steel wall on deck, your flight suit half off, trying to catch your breath; and hands you a Sprite.

You consider him for a moment before taking the soda. It feels a little like you’re really looking at him for the first time.

“This is my favourite.”

He sits down, not close, exactly, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from your skin. “Yeah.”

A beat passes. You open the can with a hiss, and he exhales: “Nice work back there.”

“You too, Bagman.”

The wind whips across the deck, but you’re sheltered from it by the structure, leaving only the noise.

“Do you know where you’re headed after this?” he asks.

“Back to Bahrain, still got another fourteen months there. You?”

“San Diego.”

You give a little quirk of your mouth. “Lucky.”

“I thought you’d be stateside. I thought you might have…” He holds up his right hand, indicates his ring finger. “That guy in Fallon. Search & Rescue with the dark eyes.”

You take a sip of your drink. “You noticed his eyes?”

Jake shrugs.

You look at the wide expanse of ocean churning beyond the flanks of the carrier. “No. He was… He wanted to settle in Nevada, have kids.” You give him a wry smile that doesn’t quite make it to your eyes. “Wasn’t ready to give all this up.”

“Ah.” Jake says, his throat a little dry. It feels like the realest conversation he’s ever had with you, and yet, he can’t think what to say.

You sit there for a while, in what feels like something close to companiable silence, until it’s time to debrief.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

2023

The receptionist looks up apologetically from her sleek desk. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Seresin. Because of all the delayed passengers, we’re getting a lot of demand for double rooms for families. Is there any way you would take a single? We can offer you complimentary breakfast.”

Jake looks at you hesitantly, shifting the strap of his backpack over his shoulder.

You rub your temples, doing nothing to alleviate the increasing pounding in your skull. Of course this was going to happen. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”

* * *

“I can, uh,” You see him looking around for a sofa, but there isn’t one.

You sigh, letting your bag drop onto the plush grey-green carpet. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve shared worse sleeping arrangements.”

These have usually involved a barracks or an aircraft carrier, and between twenty to two hundred of your coworkers, but who’s counting.

“I suppose that’s true.” He replies, staring at the bed.

At least it’s big, you think, and you can’t wait to plop your head down on one of its crisp white pillows. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

* * *

After your shower, you’re in bed, waiting with no small amount of apprehension for Hangman to emerge from his turn in the bathroom.

When he does, in boxers and a t-shirt, his normally slicked-back hair slightly peaky and darkened by the water, he looks younger than he is. He looks a little like he did when you first knew him.

He pulls back the covers and settles against the pillows on his side, the mattress dipping with the weight of him. He’s heavier than he looks – you’re always a little surprised by the lean, solid mass of him. It’s a byproduct, you suppose, of years of studiously not looking at him when you can avoid it.

“I guess that’s goodnight, Mir.”

You look up at him, facing you. The proximity of him is unfamiliar, and a little unnerving.

You have to close your eyes against it.

“Night, Hangman.”

When you open your eyes again, he considers you for a moment with an expression you can’t place.

“I wanted to talk to you, you know, at the wedding, but you kept disappearing on me.”

You don’t really know what to say in response. “I didn’t realise we had much to say to each other.”

His face shutters, and you feel a little pang of guilt. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

He shifts onto his back. “You looked beautiful. Just wanted to say that.”

You can’t help but be a little taken aback, and it takes you a second to reply, guardedly: “Thanks. You didn’t look too bad yourself.”

But then he never does, does he? Jake Seresin, golden boy, never a hair out of place.

He doesn’t respond, and you burrow into your pillow, determined to let sleep take you over as soon as possible.

* * *

You wake from a fitful sleep to movement beside you. It takes you a second or two to remember where you are, and with whom, before you realise that the man next to you is breathing in wheezy stops and starts, a low, panicked murmur emanating from his throat.

You hesitate for an instant before propping yourself up on your arm, using your free hand to lightly shake his shoulder. “Bagman. Hey. Seresin, wake up.” He’s breathing hard, radiating heat. “Hey. Jake.”

He comes to, slowly, gasping for air, as if emerging from deep below the surface of a rough sea. His skin, where you are holding onto him, is overly hot, the fabric of his t-shirt damp. He scrambles to prop himself up, causing you to pull back your hand, but he grabs your wrist hard before you can fully pull away.

“What,” He manages, the look in his eyes still wild and unfocused, roaming over you. It takes a second, two, three, before realization dawns, and he starts to calm down. His tight grip on your wrist eases slightly.

Despite the low light of the dark room, you see a flush start to creep up the skin of his throat. “Mir. I’m sorry. I was…”

For the first time, you feel something akin to tenderness for him. You try to sweep some of the sweaty strands of hair off his forehead, hindered by his continued grasp on your arm. “It’s okay. You’re fine.” You pause, feeling a little awkward. “Could’ve just as well been me.”

At that, he lets go of your wrist, letting himself drop back onto the pillow. He stares at the ceiling, and you let yourself settle back onto your side, watching the steadily slowing rise and fall of his chest.

Just as you wonder whether you should just go back to sleep, let the both of you pretend this never happened, he says, “They’re always the same. Me, trying to save one of you, and failing. It’s getting better, they used to be much more frequent, I’m talking to someone, but…”

“I stop sleeping.” The words are out of your mouth before you realize you’re saying them. “When it gets really bad.”

You have never shared this broken, faulty part of yourself with anyone, but somehow, looking at the shadowy form of Hangman’s shoulder two inches from your face, it tumbles out.

“I can’t sleep, I can’t function, I fly like a zombie. Sometimes I genuinely worry they’re going to ground me.”

You see his little smirk appear, even in the dark. “I genuinely don’t think I’ve ever seen you fly badly.”

“Oh, fuck off, Bagman.” You say it without venom, thumping his stomach lightly. “That’s certainly not what you used to say.” On the rebound, he catches your hand, cradling it just below his ribs.

You don’t pull it back.

A few minutes go by in silence, and you just when you start thinking he may have fallen asleep, he says: “Mir.”

“Yeah?”

“Will you ever…?” He exhales a puff of breath. “Will you ever forgive me?”

You fold your arm under your pillow, wary, and consider your answer for a moment. “I forgave you a long time ago.” You pause, scared to say too much. “I just… don’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’m twenty-three again, always having to prove myself because I’m not good enough.”

You watch his chest rise as he inhales, fall again with a deep sigh. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like that. I can’t excuse it. From the beginning I blamed you for replacing Koehler when it had nothing to do with you.”

His voice drops a little bit. “To be honest, I was scared I wouldn’t make it without him.”

Now it’s your turn to smirk. “The great Hangman Seresin, scared?”

He turns onto his side to face you, his expression solemn. “Seriously, Mir. I was insecure and I covered it up by being a dick. Maybe I still do, to some extent.”

His eyes turn downwards, to the space between your bodies. “But I feel like I’ve been trying to make things right with you for a while.”

You can’t deny this. You’ve always rebuffed any attempt on his part to approach you beyond what was strictly necessary.

“I guess I’m a champion grudge holder.”

He looks back up to meet your eyes, a crooked smile appearing on his face. “Seven years and two entire deployments together, though?”

You scoff, realising how ridiculous this sounds, but you can’t help it – it felt very personal to you. “You don’t know what it was like. I didn’t make the initial cut. By the time I got to San Diego I was two weeks behind everyone, one of only two women, and on top of that you, the class golden boy, hated me being there.”

You pause, inhaling to steady yourself. “I felt like I was under so much pressure, it fucked me up.”

When you meet Hangman’s eyes again, something in his face has softened.

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your hand, the skin of his palm rough.

You take in the sharp lines and smooth planes of his face, hair in disarray from a sweaty, restless sleep. He’s very close, and you don’t know if it’s the weird, suspended-in-time quality of this darkened room, or the weight that’s been lifted off your shoulders through this little exchange, weight you hadn’t even realised was there; but for the first time you feel like you might like Hangman.

Not Hangman, Jake, brass and bravado stripped away, looking at you like you’re something precious, something he’s a little bit afraid of.

It's a lot of things to feel, in the middle of the night, after seven years of cold war.

You clear your throat, but your voice still comes out a little raspier than you intend to: “Alright then, Bagman. Détente?”

Out comes that crooked little quirk of his lips again: “Alright, Mirage. Détente.”

He’s still holding on to your hand, and he pulls it a little closer into his body.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jake wakes up to the frantic buzzing of his phone and reaches for it on the nightstand, the endeavour complicated by your head weighing down his other arm. The crisp first light of day is seeping through a gap in the curtains, framing a picture of you sleeping curled into his chest so pointedly he almost has to assume he’s still asleep.

After a second or two, this assumption is dispelled by a very chipper United rep talking away at him, informing him that he’s booked onto a flight to San Diego at 10:45.

“Okay, uh, that works,” He manages, trying to keep his voice down so that you don’t wake up, but it’s too late: already you’re looking up at him, blinking sleep out of your eyes.

He ends the call, puts the phone down, and after a second’s hesitation, returns his arm to its place around your waist.

He looks down at you, not even sure what he’s asking: Is this okay? Do you still hate me?

Do you realize I’ve wanted this for years?

Through seven years and almost as many deployments he’s carried this torch, the flame low but always burning somewhere in a condemned antechamber of his heart, one he tried hard to forget the route to.

You shift slightly, and he reflexively tightens his fingers into the fabric of your shirt. He sees your pupils go wide, and it’s stupid, the jolt he feels at that – it goes straight to his gut.

Then your phone rings, too, and the moment bursts like a soap bubble. You prop yourself up, pulling away from him to answer it.

When you’re done arranging your flight, he can feel the atmosphere has shifted. You don’t look at him when you say: “We should probably start packing up, huh?”

“Mir, wait,” He says, and he knows he sounds a little desperate, but there’s so many things he wants to say, finally, if this is the best chance he’ll get.

“Jake,” you interrupt, and the pleading tone of your voice shuts him up.

Later, on his flight, he’ll think about falling asleep with your hand in his, and his heart will break a little.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Halo calls you, ten days into the honeymoon, to exalt Jess, marriage, and Hawaii, in that order.

You’re at home, cooking dinner, a Motown playlist on in the background while she details all the kayaking, wine tasting and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes they’ve been doing. Your heart swells at her happiness. “I’m so glad you guys are having a great time.”

She asks how your hike went, and you end up telling her what happened – the canceled flight, Hangman, all of it.

Halo snorts. “Oh, poor guy. I’m not sure his outsize ego will recover from this.” She pauses to say something to Jess. “Though I’d feel more sorry for him if he hadn’t literally waited for an adverse weather event to try to tell you how he feels.”

You plop down on the couch with your plate of pasta. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“Come on, dude. He’s been in love with you for years.”

“Huh.” You say, eloquently.

* * *

You book a ticket to San Diego. You take four days’ leave, and you’re not even sure Jake is there. If he isn’t, you think, clicking to skip the seat selection, you’ll take it as a sign.

Which is stupid. You don’t believe in that kind of thing. Maybe this entire idea is stupid, you consider, as you board your flight at SeaTac.

When you walk into the Hard Deck on Friday night, it feels a little like the first time: You’re nervous, your hands clammy as you run them down your shorts. Penny waves you over and pours you a tequila soda, which you accept gratefully. People you know start noticing your presence, coming up to catch up at the bar.

You’re talking to Fritz, who’s already a little worse for wear, when Jake comes in. He catches sight of you and stops short. You forget what you were saying mid-sentence.

Fritz turns around and clocks him, shooting you a wide grin. “Ah. Guess that’s my cue to leave.”

He comes up next to you at the bar, taking the place Fritz vacates. “Hey. No one told me you were gonna be in town.”

He looks good, if a little tired: sun kissed skin and slightly deeper lines in the corners of his eyes when he gives you a smile that feels perfunctory. He’s wearing his khakis, in pristine condition, though he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Penny has already put a beer in front of him, and he takes a long pull on it before really looking at you.

The look in his eyes feels like the confirmation you needed.

“Last minute decision.” You say, inclining your head in the direction of the back exit. “Would you mind if we talked somewhere quieter?”

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t question it, and he follows you out to the back porch.

It’s a warm night, late summer – the kind you love.

You set your drink down on the railing, suddenly nervous, and turn around, leaning back against the salt-weathered wood to face Jake. The music filters out from the bar, muted by the windows – a moody Tom Waits song.

“I’m sorry.” You start, “For leaving the way I did in Colorado. I think I was overwhelmed, by you, by what I was feeling- I got scared.”

“By what you were feeling,” He says, like he needs to repeat it to be sure.

You nod, willing yourself to be brave this time. “Yeah. I spent seven years keeping up my defences around you and then I wake up once with your arms around me and I’m like oh, fuck and-” You stop yourself, looking out at the calm ocean waves in the distance, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon. “Fuck, I’m not explaining this very well.”

Jake’s face shows the beginning of a smile. “I think I understand what you’re trying to say.”

He steps in closer to you, and your hands go to his waist. You feel a little lightheaded with him so close, but you’re determined to continue. “And I didn’t know what to make of it. You looking at me like that. I told myself it wasn’t real so I could go back to where I was comfortable – not thinking about you.”

He closes the gap between you, an arm around your shoulder, tucking his face into your hair. “I assure you, Mir, that the way I feel about you is very real.”

His voice in your ear feels like a balm, and you tighten your fingers into his shirt, bringing your body flush with his. It’s still overwhelming – how he’s familiar and new at once, the scent of his warm skin and pressed uniform, the feeling of his lips against your temple. “Yeah, well. Not thinking about you wasn’t going very well.”

He lifts you up to sit on the railing, bringing your face level with his, and steadies you with his hands on your waist. “Mir. Did you come out here for me?”

You place your hands on his shoulders, running your thumbs up the sloped curve to his neck, and smile at the visible reaction this has on him. “Yes, Bagman.”

He kisses you then, and it feels like the solution to a problem you hadn’t even realised had been weighing on you – tangling your fingers into his hair, drawing him in closer between your knees. He keeps repeating your name, like he can’t quite believe you, and you keep answering him with more kisses, needing him to know – what?

That you’ve caught up with him. That you’re here now.

You both slow down when you simultaneously become aware that there’s a small crowd on the other side of the windows, gawking at you. You think you see an open-mouthed Mickey, pool cue still in hand. At the moment, you don’t have it in you to care.

“How long are you staying?” Jake murmurs into your neck, his arms around you.

“Monday.” You breathe, resting your chin on the top of his head. “But I’ll be back soon.”

*******

end notes: omg sorry i didn't write anything for so long - life's just been A LOT. i hope you enjoyed it. check out my masterlist <3 title from the royal navy toasts

#jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman x you #hangman x reader #jake seresin x f!reader #top gun: maveric fic #jake 'hangman' seresin fanfiction

113 notes · View notes

missedmilemarkers · 2 months ago

Text

Teaser Alert!

Nestled in the scenic foothills near Morrison, Colorado, Dunafon Castle is a hidden gem with rich history and stunning architecture. This privately-owned castle sits on a picturesque peninsula, surrounded by waterfalls and lush landscapes, making it a perfect venue for weddings and special events. The castle’s design is inspired by Irish-style architecture, and it offers a truly magical experience for visitors.

Pictures of the castle will be coming up soon!

#DunafonCastle #ColoradoCastles #HiddenGemColorado #FairytaleCastle #ColoradoHistory #CastleWeddings #ColoradoVenues #CastleEvents #MorrisonColorado #MissedMileMarkers

17 notes · View notes

fuckyeswednesday13 · 1 year ago

Text

🗣Only 28 days Away USA‼️ 

See Wednesday 13 performing a full set of Murderdolls songs LIVE this October-December

Support from @geminisyndrome @infectedrain_official and @blacksatellite

🗣Tickets and VIPS on sale NOW through the venues.

Officialwednesday13.com

Fri 20th Oct - LOS ANGELES, CA - The Whisky

Sat 21st Oct - LAS VEGAS, NV - Count’s Vamp’d

Sun 22nd Oct - RENO, NV - Virginia Street Brewhouse

Tue 24th Oct - PORTLAND, OR - Bossanova Ballroom

Wed 25th Oct - SEATTLE, WA - El Corazon

Fri 27th Oct - ROSEVILLE, CA - Goldfield Trading Post

Sat 28th Oct - SAN JOSE, CA - The Ritz

Sun 29th Oct - SAN DIEGO, CA - Brick By Brick

Tue 31st Oct - PHOENIX, AZ - The Nile Theater

Wed 1st Nov - ALBUQUERQUE, NM - Launch Pad

Fri 3rd Nov - DALLAS, TX - Sundown At Grenada

Sat 4th Nov - HOUSTON, TX - Warehouse Live

Sun 5th Nov - AUSTIN, TX - Come And Take It Live

Mon 6th Nov - Tulsa OK- Shrine

Tue 7th Nov - LAWRENCE, KS - The Bottleneck

Thu 9th Nov - MINNEAPOLIS, MN - Skyway Theater

Fri 10th Nov - MADISON, WI - The Annex

Sat 11th Nov - JOLIET, IL - The Forge

Sun 12th Nov - BLOOMINGTON, IL - Castle Theater

Tue 14th Nov - RACINE, WI - Route 20

Wed 15th Nov - FLINT, MI - Machine Shop

Thu 16th Nov - CLEVELAND, OH - The Foundry

Fri 17th Nov - PITTSBURGH, PA - Crafthouse

Sat 18th Nov - LITITZ, PA -Mickeys Black Box

Sun 19th Nov - CLIFTON, NJ - Dingbats

Wed 22nd Nov - SPARTANBURG, SC - Ground Zero

Fri 24th Nov - WINSTON-SALEM, NC - Millennium Center

Sat 25th Nov - RICHMOND, VA - Canal Club

Sun 26th Nov - LEESBURG, VA - Tally Ho

Tue 28th Nov- Atlanta Ga - Masquerade

Thu 30th Nov -KNOXVILLE, TN- The Concourse

Fri 1st Dec - LOUISVILLE, KY - Headliners Music Hall

Sat 2nd Dec - COLUMBUS, OH - The King Of Clubs

Sun 3rd Dec - INDIANAPOLIS, IN - Hi Fi Annex

Tue 5th Dec - DES MOINES, IA - Lefty’s Live Music

Wed 6th Dec - LINCOLN, NE - Bourbon Theater

Fri 8th Dec - DENVER, CO – Oriental Theater

Sat 9th Dec - COLORADO SPRINGS, CO - Black Sheep

Art by @jonnybush

#wednesday 13 #murderdolls

21 notes · View notes

othcrside · 1 month ago

Text

❀ *◦ olivia rodrigo. cis woman. she/her. pansexual demiromantic. ⇝ hey, isn’t that name rainbow 'reina' wozniak - adler? i think that the ( twenty - four ) year old from snowmass village, colorado works as a personal assistant at the raven house + cashier at the sorceress' dress, but outside of that people describe them as seeing the world through kaleidoscope eyes, intricately crafted origami figurines, from my rotting body flowers will grow and that is eternity, the iridescence of dragonfly wings + wild hair tamed in fishtail braids. i hear they are offbeat & desirous, but they are also known to be whimsical & imaginative. consider giving them a visit at their home in seal harbor apartments and get to know why they’re called the sun-bleached fly.

╰ * STATS + PLAYLIST.

tw: child death, cults, child marriage, drug abuse + neglect

listening to the choir, so heartfelt, all singing;

born voiceless, bound to silence with her mother's entrails suffocating her, the eldest wozniak twin was bequeathed a name that symbolized hope and miracles: rainbow. in the commune where she was raised, all of the children knew her as reina. they all had names just like hers: basil, cloud, dream, bodhi, feather, harmony, light, meadow, moonbeam, hawk, petal, twig, serenity, wolf, venus, and true. from the time she could balance herself on her chubby legs, she was a caretaker to those who had yet to stand. she carried each one on her back, or in wraps when she was old enough, uncaring of the strain it put upon her underdeveloped body; she would teach them origami shapes, how to press flowers, the secrets of complex stitches; she read to them and taught them piano. she knew no greater joy than taking care of others, even at the cost of herself.

in the dead of winter, all that was growing in their garden were the snowdrops that twig planted for her. thirteen - year - old reina had her work cut out for her with all these kids, but she thought they were worth it in the end. this might've been what she was meant for, she realized. maybe it was because it was all she ever knew, as she had hoisted babes on her hip since the ripe age of six, but it mattered little to reina. it always felt right to her, before she even knew it was something that could be wrong.

god loves you, but not enough to save you

her abundant love for children and her dedication toward protecting and caring for them had not gone unnoticed. the elders of the commune, who were revered and practically worshiped by the rest, had put in a marriage recommendation for her behind her back. up until this point, reina was of the belief that a commune safeguarded its children — and maybe communes still did, but this wasn't the same. it wasn't what she thought it was at all, it was worse: a cult. and in spite of her own valiant efforts to prevent the marriage and sanctify her innocence, she was thrown to the wolves by her own mothers.

the man she was promised to was considered more desirable than most others, though reina found it difficult to perceive him as anyone except a thief that was after not her heart, but her fucking uterus. suddenly, the thought of carrying her own child sickened her. it wasn't supposed to be like this, she was supposed to be in love, he was supposed to love her first over her ability and willingness to bear life. the wedding was fast approaching — a wedding dress was procured from one of her grandmother's chests. when she was forced into it and turned around in the mirror, she saw a faded blood stain on the back, dotted right between her thighs.

so, baby girl, good luck taking care of yourself

running away was easy. no one there would have ever presumed such a docile, soft-bellied girl like reina would depart from the only home she ever knew. she overstuffed a patchwork bag with half her clothes and her favorite books, and she disappeared into the night. however, her plans had met their foil quickly upon stepping foot into a grocery store and being caught smothered in dirt and grime by the harsh overhead lighting. once arriving on the scene, the police asked her where she'd come from, if she was in any immediate danger, if she was hurt. she didn't answer. she had resigned to muteness, completely disinterested in giving up anymore parts of herself than necessary.

this had landed her in a temporary placement with a family for three nights before her case worker alerted them of another family willing to take her in. the only caveat? they were located in anchorage, alaska. when the prospect of relocation didn't perturb her, she was sent off to yet another subarctic prison. she had resigned to her fate.

we all know how it goes, the more it hurts, the less it shows

it took around a year for reina to speak her first words. she would never be able to truly comprehend exactly how she accomplished it, beyond the concept of indomitable grief and betrayal, which people used to assure her lessened with time. when she was assembling a small garden in their backyard, she heard her older brother kurt's voice ask her: what are those? and, for the first time in a long time, felt a smile eclipse her lips as she encountered the urge to respond, snowdrops.

adopted by the adlers at the age of sixteen, she had chosen to take on the family name as a part of her surname to honor them and their late brother, kurt. after finding herself at home in anchorage, she opted to stay in town while attending college and studying environmental sciences. the years were softening her. she was at last comfortable, as if she had reverted back in utero.

i still feel like they all know, and that's why i can never go back home

more and more herself with each passing day, reina made the decision to return to colorado after a tumultuous decade. she kept her distance until she caught onto a rumor that two old friends of hers were attempting to escape the commune. there was a little girl, harmony, accompanied her older brother who was around reina's age that helped her with the young ones, seeking asylum in snowmass village. reina had helped orchestrate their escape, finding solace in the arms of harmony's older brother, her first friend in life. after returning to anchorage, she discovered she was pregnant. though she'd practiced chastity up until that fateful night and was thoroughly surprised, she was both delighted and petrified to become a mother. nine months and six days later, tulip grace wozniak was born untethered from her mother, making herself heard with her very first cry.

reina graduated from the university at twenty - two, returning full - time to work as a devout employee at the sorceress' dress where she had been hired since she was sixteen. recently, she decided to apply for a personal assistant position at the raven house for both connecting more with her spirituality and gathering funds to help her and tulip leave kingpin. she'd discovered her younger sister, lyonet, high on coke and subsequently caused lyonet's involuntary admission to rehab, straining their relationship. since then, she has limited contact with her and resides in seal harbor apartments with her daughter and their tarantula named 'animal.'

but i always knew that in the end no one was coming to save me.

—— tidbits !!

the weirdest girl you'll ever meet - was tested twice for autism, turns out it was the wrong neurodivergency and was diagnosed with pretty severe adhd at the age of sixteen. her hyperfixations include but are not limited to: witchcraft, the muppets, gardening, but especially flowers, insects, reptiles, arachnids, and sewing/embroidery.

practices eclectic witchcraft, which combines elements from different traditions; feels the most drawn to green witchcraft, that focuses on respecting nature above all else, as well as kitchen witchcraft.

plays piano and can read sheet music as well as transpose songs, has a fondness of chopin after listening to nocturne no. 2 in e flat major repeatedly on her cassette player to calm herself as a child.

has an eidetic memory that carried her through college.

folk rock music is her all - time favorite genre besides classical and she adores neil young, bob dylan, crosby, stills, nash & young, george harrison ( her favorite beatle!!! ), fleetwood mac, and leonard cohen.

what gets her up in the morning knowing she has two jobs and a child to care for? wake and bake, of course. may or may not grow it herself in one of her hidden planters so she can make her own treats with it.

rambles a lot, sometimes it makes sense, oftentimes it doesn't; she talks a lot about the abstruse dreams she has, which have a strange tendency of being prophetic, though most of it has little consequence.

#anchorintro #hi this is my angel child reina who i adore <3 #as u can tell by the absurdly long intro

2 notes · View notes

ereardon · 1 year ago

Text

I think because most of my friends and I have lived in major cities (New York, DC, London) in our 20s, we're on a slower timeline than the people I grew up with in the midwest.

So that's why I'm only now just entering the wedding/babies era for my friends and I just need to put this out into the universe: I do not want to be a bridesmaid ever again please.

One of my best friends just told me yesterday that they're about to lock down their venue in Colorado -- the same place where Taylor Hill the VS model had her wedding this year. It's going to be a 4-day event. Even though it's a year away I am SWEATING at how much this is going to cost. Oh and it'll be black tie. Her bach is going to be 30A or St. Simons which like gorg I've never been to either but God I forget how much is expected of you for weddings. Like I didn't have a bridal shower or a couples shower or an engagement party and we had a very small wedding so just my MOH and my husband's best man and we paid for their flights/hotel/hair and makeup like everything.

Anyway, this will be me a year from today:

9 notes · View notes

teamfreewill2pointo · 1 year ago

Note

i don't know why people are surprised by the CT thing. jensen has never been settled in Austin. The guy has not spent more then a few months at a time there, literally ever. There's just no vancouver to flit between since SPN ended, but he ALWAYS seem to have at least two home bases on the go

Anon2: What did you mean it’s another Colorado and the circumstances are similar? If we believe what jensen himself has said, then wasn’t that move Covid related?

I do think that covid was part of it, especially why Colorado, but I don't think it was all of it. They just enjoy changing scenery, changing their houses, and staying busy. It's a lot of work to be renovating a house, and if Danneel is the type to be unclogging toilets, and vacuuming precariously, she probably does a lot of the work herself.

Most of the wealthy people I know, when they buy a new house, they just hire a designer. The designer gets their input, but picks out almost everything themselves. They show their picks to the clients, and the clients pick from a limited selection. It sounds like Danneel does the designing.

I mentioned before a couple I know who own multiple houses and renovate the houses. Although the wife doesn't install floors or paint herself, she spends a lot of time deciding on the colors, how she wants to renovate the house, and visiting various stores to acquire furniture and things. For example, for a room that's to be used to watch TV/movies, the whole room is designed around the theme of movies with throw pillows, coasters, wall art, standing art etc all fitting the theme.

Here's Danneel at an estate sale for a wedding venue in Texas:

Now, I don't know which particular properties she's looking at to purchase versus to have inspiration for her purchases, but this is one of her hobbies.

Might they end up staying in this house in Connecticut for years? Sure, it's possible. It's just my guess that it's another Colorado based on their past history.

#jensen ackles #danneel ackles #jensen on the move

6 notes · View notes

kellyphotoanddesign · 18 days ago

Text

Top Outdoor Wedding Venues in Colorado

Discover the most stunning outdoor wedding venues in Colorado. From scenic mountains to lush gardens, Kelly Photo & Design highlights perfect locations for your dream wedding.

0 notes

table6productions · 1 year ago

Text

youtube

Table 6 Productions is experienced and knowledgeable Destination Wedding Planners in Colorado, who have what it takes to plan and orchestrate your destination wedding abroad. We have designed and executed many weddings from start to finish in places like the Bahamas, the Hamptons, St Lucia, the Virgin Islands, Turks & Caicos, Mexico, Costa Rica, and more.

Table 6 Productions 6053 S. Quebec St, Suite 201, Centennial, CO 80111 (303) 956–8655

Official Website: https://table6productions.com/colorado-wedding-planner Google Plus Listing: https://www.google.com/maps?cid=5582456256621741680