#natey love

[lovestarrecords]

Nateybeats, Love Star Records

Portland, Oregon

[sugarcandydoll]

Happy Birthday My Hubby Nate Jacobs ♡🙈💗

˚｡⋆୨୧˚ august 4th ୨୧⋆｡˚

[agentnatesewell]

one thing that i can safely conclude from the wedding night assignments is that nate sewell is going to have a great time

[ellenembee]

Thinking about Detective Ophelia "1% people" Maven, who rarely smiles or shows much emotion (like mother, like daughter), gradually opening up to Adam once his initial sour attitude melts away. In the spaces that remain, she finds he is earnest and serious in the same ways she is, if not for the same reasons, and she finds comfort in it. Because he is like her. Because their pieces fit together.

Thinking about Ophelia gradually smiling more in his presence - only when it's the two of them, of course. It starts out small with a slight uptick at the corner of her mouth. Then a small smile that flashes then fades. Then, finally, a full smile, sincere and excited. (It's the car that does it (God, she loves classic cars.))

Thinking about her accidental slide into a love triangle, with Nate being the only one she liked when they first met, the one who ignited that unfortunate spark she tried so hard to deny. But Adam, once his brashness faded into safe mundanity, once he accepted her as a member of his team, became an anchor in the storm. A safe haven amid the chaos. He doesn't push her boundaries or say those uncomfortably emotional things that make her insides crawl.

Thinking about Nate hearing the rarest of sounds - Ophelia's laughter - faintly from a distance and following it to find Ophelia and Adam sitting on the living room couch together, each on opposite ends but their bodies turned toward each other, heads leaning inward, bright smiles on their faces as Ophelia tells a story from her youth - the same youth she'd told Nate she didn't want to talk about. It's not a raucous joy that lights their faces. It's quiet. Understated. But it cuts deep and to the quick. Because Nate has never made her smile like that, has never even seen her smile like that. And though he vows to earn that smile, the trickle of dread has reached levels deep enough to drown in. And he surely hates deep waters.

Thinking about Ophelia trying to walk away from both of them, only to keep being pulled into their orbits. Of wishing she could. Just. Stop. Feeling. At least she had never let her guard down, always sliding out of those tense moments before anything could happen. She'd never promised either of them anything - no kisses or dates and certainly no relationships. It would be better for everyone if it all just stopped.

And yet the smiles keep coming, as does the heartbreak.

[jargyles]

jeddie - the one where they don't break up

j&e have an epic summer of love and can't wait to finish highschool together (au where the byers don't move to cali. yet), but jonathan's insecurities get in the way of their outness. they don't break up about it. | ship: jonathan byers/eddie munson | bg characters: will byers (mentioned), wayne munson (mentioned) | words: ~3.4k | warnings: mentions of drinking, recreational drug use, references past alcoholism, internalized homophobia, period-typical attitudes around queerness, jonathan-typical relationship problems. lotsa angst

summer happened.

jonathan and eddie kissed for the first time, a whip of teeth and tongue that left jonathan hopped up on a new strand of endorphins and eddie- well, the same, but back then- newly obsessed with his club member's brother. jonathan hadn't anticipated them kissing more after that, chalking it up to some hazy frolic into dying grass, a firework that left a smell. he figured that would be the case especially when the fourth of july came and eddie kissed him again, and a handful of times between then and their first kiss, and another handful of times after that.

jonathan didn't think anything of it; having eddie around, getting high, going to shows and kissing in the dark, getting drunk, kissing after long walks home, all of it seemed like something that fit into eddie's idea of "a summer you'll never forget, byers". he didn't think anything about the way eddie looked, or spoke, or played guitar, or even held him in between moments they weren't doing anything. he didn't think about any of that, but… there was something. something that drove them to where they are now, something that made jonathan fully aware of what they meant to each other, even if it took a while.

it'd be the way eddie beamed at him every time they met, thin lips brandishing wide smiles and folding into the slight chub of his cheeks. it'd be the way jonathan didn't understand what it meant to feel empty when he didn't see him smiling. it'd be the way his hair would fall in stringy curls in front of his big brown eyes during a show, or after, or before, when they'd spent a good thirty minutes trying to wrestle a blunt they were sharing away from one another. the way his eyes would linger on the bend of eddie's knuckles underneath his silver rings. sometimes it'd be his scent, his laugh, even his touch- but really it'd be the lack of it all that drove jonathan to places he never thought he'd park at. especially with eddie munson.

neither one of them expected the other to say 'i love you', but they both did, and they were both shocked and didn't know what would come after that, but then they just kind of dealt with it. they would kiss, and get high, and go to shows, and hold each other, and spend days with jonathan's family and wayne, or the party, or the rest of eddie's band, and they would smile and say 'i love you' somewhere in between all that. they didn't even question it, and after about two months or so, they just accepted it. they were dating. boyfriends, even.

summer happened and the rest of their relationship became interwoven with trips to scoops and reading comic books in the woods and making out while listening to queen, a middle ground. the theatrics and vibrato were for eddie, and the music, the lyrics, and the familiarity of it all were for jonathan. lyrics became dates of the week, and theatrics became sweat-stained t-shirts under fizzling leds. they were trapped there for a while.

eddie had to repeat his senior year (again), and jonathan was starting his. both of these milestones, so to speak, took place after summer, and they hadn't thought about that.

jonathan was mostly excited for will; getting to drive to school together, showing him where his classes were, helping him with extracurriculars and homework, not even thinking for a second that his little brother would be attending the same school as his boyfriend. eddie didn't think about that either; he was stoked to have his byers and his mini byers with him, rambling on about how 'awesome' hellfire campaigns would be, how they'd drive him to the hideout- to which jonathan immediately shot that down- and how will's freshman year would be his favorite year because 'me and big byers are gonna make you never forget it, kid' and that's all the two of them cared about, really.

they didn't think about what would happen after they showed up at school together.

will decided that he'd rather walk with the rest of his friends to school that day, and have a proper meet-up-and-recap before they all settled into new classes and opportunities, so jonathan and eddie rode to school together. in eddie's van.

the thing they don't tell most people about having a boyfriend in hawkins is that most people in hawkins who have boyfriends are girls, and most boys who date have girlfriends, and so little couple-y things like showing up to school in the same van and fixing each other's jackets would earn strange and unsettling looks from fellow student passersby. things like that, when done without a girl present or involved in the straightening or light dusting of jackets, often got someone spat on or shoved into a toilet or trash can or locker of some kind, accompanied with a brand new word for "gay" written in permanent marker somewhere on your exposed skin for everyone to see.

they have the same first period, but they don't walk to class together.

they have the same last period too, but eddie can't wait that long.

during lunch, when jonathan is washing his hands before making the trek to the parking lot to eat alone in his car, a handful of boys enter and exit their respective stalls. most of them ignore him (thankfully) and the ones that don't just stare, and it could be due to his brother- the zombie- attending school with him now, it could be the way some people definitely saw him exit the same van as eddie munson, and it could be the way it's taking him so long to raise his hands above the sink to dry them off. all in all, they're still staring. there's a rolodex of reasons to stare at jonathan byers, and none of them are good, and all of them make sense, to a certain degree.

at least jonathan can wash his hands about it. he's getting better at moving his arms past his elbows, and he's grateful for being able to wash his hands under five minutes, even if his fingers still jitter or the water feels like- something he's bound to wash away again, maybe, if he isn't careful about eddie. about will. at least he can look forward to walking by eddie's table with the rest of the hellfire club as he makes his way into peaceful (albeit, regretful) solitude. maybe eddie will shoot him a wink mid speech, or smile at him and act like he's smiling at someone else during one of his elaborate public disruptions.

instead, jonathan hears a loud, swinging screech and flinches, his arms tensing up down to the laddering of his spine, and his first instinct is to reach for something but instead he just ducks his head down and mutters an apology, as if he was the one barging in on an innocent sink-dweller. instead of barking back at him, or spitting a venom-slick synonym for 'queer' and shoving him into the nearest stall, the interrupter pulls him in for a tight hug. it startles jonathan, until he realizes the only person to hug him by lifting him a foot above the ground is-

"can't fucking do this-" and eddie’s wrapping constrictor-tight arms around him one moment, then pushing the two of them into the nearest stall the next, and holding him by the face with both hands to kiss him right after that, "can't fucking do this, byers- i can't-"

"hey, listen-" jonathan melts, and couldn't think of a way to reciprocate eddie's intensity if he tried, becoming fully swept up in words stitched in between layers of kissing, "listen, eds-"

eddie stops, because he knows when to stop, when jonathan feels like it's becoming too much, too much acting and not enough savoring, or too much closeness when he needs air. jonathan expected eddie to ramble himself into a corner, or have a smile cutting its way across his mouth, something familiar to soothe his yearning. what jonathan doesn't expect is eddie looking back at him with eyes so wet, so red, that it looks like he'd been punched everywhere but south from the time he swung that door open to the first kiss he planted on jonathan's face.

"do you- do you know?" eddie's hand is on the spot next to jonathan's head. he's practically hunched over, his lips scrunched into a frown. "do you know how hard it is to act like i don't fuckin' miss you like crazy?"

"i know, hey, i know-" and jonathan is cradling eddie's head in his shoulder like he did during the summer, when they'd open up about things like this, that left them hoveling and wrecked for hours on end. he smooths over his stringy mass of hair, pushing it out of his face while eddie tried to replace the air in his lungs with whatever jonathan had going on at the top of his neck.

"i can't fucking do this." he snaps, his voice as wet as his eyes when he yanks himself from underneath jonathan's hold.

"i know." jonathan is prepared for the worst; he's ready to kiss eddie one last time in that stall and walk out with a wrinkled shirt that's bound to turn heads. he figures it's the end of summer and eddie has a breakable heart, and it must break his heart to not be around jonathan like how he used to, so jonathan figures it's time. he sighs, putting on a brave, stoic face while giving eddie a firm squeeze on his shoulder.

eddie isn't having any of it.

"i can't fucking live like this, byers." eddie says it- live- in a way that jonathan would've easily missed had he been focused on the mess of teeth and tongue sliding its way up and down his neck, dancing just above his collarbone.

it weighs on him, the idea of eddie not being able to live without him, or the idea of eddie not being able to live without being with him, whichever idea made the most sense. jonathan knows this is nonsensical, from every angle, because eddie doesn't mean that, and jonathan shouldn't just assume things out of people he dates for a month or two, or three, or… however long it's been since their first kiss. just because eddie kissed him back then the exact same way he's kissing him now- sporadic movements and bumps of teeth, both of their skin clammy and sundried at the same time- doesn't mean they should exist in a world where hawkins isn't hawkins. it's hard for him to imagine it, a world where he and eddie could step out of the same van or even hold hands in the halls, and if he tries hard enough he can convince himself that that isn't actually what he wanted from all this, no way, no how. it's hard to convince himself of that when eddie is taking his zipper down.

"eddie, wait-" he manages to cough out, having had every cognitive thought kissed right out of him, and his featherlight wrist tries to pick at eddie's heavily accessorized one. "really, wait. c'mon, eds- we gotta- gotta talk this out, okay? talk."

eddie exhales, long and heavy through his nose, with a pleased chuckle rumbling somewhere underneath all that. jonathan is relieved, even if eddie starts pressing quiet kisses up his neck again, at least jonathan knows he's listening.

"i missed you too." jonathan leans into it, resting his palm on eddie's cheek. he does miss him, even now, but he won't say it. eddie doesn't have to know that this is hard for him too, that he wants to be doing this- kissing, no judgemental eyes or poisonous words- out in the open, with all their peers, with everyone and anyone who could see.

eddie makes a noise, disgruntled, perished, wrecked inside, and he’s pressing the flesh of his cheek into jonathan's hand, nuzzling him with a ferocity that shouldn't be described as a "nuzzle". his arms come around jonathan's waist, tight, like he's protesting the bulldozing of the place that doesn't card for cigarettes, or trying to break him in half.

"i'm serious, eds," jonathan hears himself break, for a second, in a voice crack that borders on a wheeze, "i missed you. a lot."

"yeah, no, i- i know." eddie closes his leaking eyes tight, breathing him in again. "which is why i- i can't. i can't not be with you, or around you, or act like i don't even… like we don't even… know each other? does that make sense? i don't- i don't know what i'm saying here, jonny. something in there might make sense-"

"eddie." jonathan scoffs with endearment, then his heart sinks when he thinks about not getting to hear his boyfriend ramble anymore. "i know what you mean."

they pause, silence wrapping around them like a wool blanket. they're just limbs at this point; eddie's lips still wandering aimlessly on however much skin he could find on jonathan's neck, jonathan's head curled towards him, both of their arms folded around each other as they breathed, speaking in bumps of noses and sighs of gratitude.

"we just have to be careful, okay?" jonathan is the first to pull them back to reality, as unwilling as he was. "just for the year, yeah? so people don't think… y’know."

"god," eddie groans, his forehead thumping against the wall behind them, and he chuckles again, until it bleeds into a whine. "since when do we care about what people think? since when did we have to start acting like fucking…" both of them know what that silence means, and both of them knew how to not get caught over the summer, except for when they didn't, "ugh! this fucking sucks. this sucks, byers. why do we have to pretend that we're-"

"we won't be pretending," jonathan's face feels blank, and he tightens his fingers around eddie's bicep, "we'd still be together, just… we won't tell anyone. not because of what they'll say, but because it isn't their business."

there were a lot of things jonathan was scared of, and a lot of reasons to be scared of them. for a long time, he was scared of having to hurt someone he loved, and he was prepared for the inevitability of it happening, because ever since will first went missing, he knew he'd shut himself off more. what he wasn't prepared for, in the event of letting down a person he loved, was for that person to be eddie. he especially, never in his life, would've thought to prepare for the look on eddie's face after he said that.

eddie backs off completely, unashamed tears fully streaming down his face, his hands forgetting jonathan's zipper entirely, latching onto his shoulders like jonathan would go missing without them being wound together. he shrugs, and then his head is down and jonathan hears the starts to a lot of sentences that never get finished, or even have a first word to begin with. his hands tremble, his ring-clad fingers digging dent marks into jonathan's bare ones. he sniffles, hard, and it breaks jonathan's heart right down the middle.

he knows he should say something. he knows he should pull eddie closer, tell him he didn't mean it, that they'll just float through their senior year together and it'll be a breeze, or the best year of will's life, or whatever else eddie said, but he can't. he can't bring himself to do anything when he knows that lunch period will be over soon, and someone might see them leave this stall together and assume the worst- the truth- and make their lives a living hell. eddie doesn't deserve that. he should be able to graduate in one piece without jonathan dragging him down.

"i didn't know you were-" eddie is the first to speak, because jonathan is busy holding in his own tears at seeing him like this, "i didn't think you still cared about this stuff, y'know?" he squeezes jonathan's hands in his palms, "other people seeing us, whatever, all that shit. i didn't know it mattered so much to you."

"it doesn't." jonathan's lips crinkle into a frown. eddie didn't know what he was talking about.

"yeah?" eddie meets his eyes, and they're worse than jonathan could've imagined them being. his face is flushed, and his lips are red from having kissed jonathan so much, and his mouth twitches as it opens and closes, words dying off his tongue before he could form them. "because you really seem to give a shit about being seen with me, or even fucking knowing me, actually, so what gives? what changed with you, byers? what made you make up this- this fucking game plan on how we're supposed to act now, huh?"

"nothing." jonathan's voice is tight, and his fingers feel small and dry in eddie's hands.

"bullshit." eddie's grip is more firm, more secure, but still soft. his eyes scan jonathan's face, and his eyebrows have that arch in them that jonathan had only seen when he was learning a new song on guitar. he used to admire it, found it cute, but now it terrifies him. "what, are you, like… embarrassed of me? ashamed or- or something?"

"that's not-" jonathan feels a single tear fall, and he realizes he might've been holding in a breath this entire time. he knew how eddie worked; all it took was one missed idea, or misconstrued thought, and eddie would be in his dark hole of self pity once again, and they'd done so well with his progressing sobriety over the summer that jonathan doesn't want to see what'll happen when eddie gets down there again. “i’m not.”

"you don't like me anymore, then?" that crack in his voice- jonathan hates it- makes eddie sound like a rejected kid, and even he starts to shake his head at how ridiculous it might sound. "are we not, like, clicking like we used to? is it someone else?"

"eddie-" jonathan knows he's helpless to stop this spiral, and he starts his own series of unfinished sentences that come out as shortenings of breath and hollow grunts.

"did i do something?" eddie has his shoulders fully slumped now. "i know i'm not, like, the best boyfriend in the world or anything, but, you- you gotta tell me if i mess up, y’know? so we can-"

the bell rings. jonathan swore he wouldn't miss lunch, swore to himself he wouldn't make a scene on the first day back, for everyone's sake, and here they were. eddie is stood frozen in front of him, his body solid in it's hunched stance while his eyes bug out, racing around every corner of their shared space. when jonathan snaps his fingers in front of his face, eddie heaves, his posture loosening almost instantly.

"go." jonathan wishes he didn't sound so quick to get eddie to leave, but he has to get them apart before people see, and eddie still isn't getting the picture. he grabs him by the arm, and the way eddie won't even look at him is blunt enough to crack a bone. "you have go, eds, right now, or-"

"yeah." eddie snatches his arm away, sniffs hard as he wipes his face with one hand, and pushes the stall door open to properly storm out. "already ahead of you."

jonathan watches him leave, knowing (or at least assuming to know) that they'll talk later, and that they both need to get a grip before shit gets heavier than it needs to be. it'd have to be at his trailer after school, without will tagging along or, hopefully, without wayne to mistakenly wander in on their conversation. jonathan would have to think, long and hard, about what that talk would even mean for them. worst case scenario, they break up and hate each other for the rest of their lives.

jonathan can't think of another scenario.

[the-californicationist]

Excerpt from Gunslinger - "Appaloosa"

OMG!! I commissioned this artwork from the incredible @captain-natey who RETURNED TO ME WITH THIS MASTERPIECE!!!! I just wanted to plug their work (their commissions are OPEN! visit their website here!!) and I wanted to post the chapter excerpt from "Gunslinger" (Price/Reader) that it belongs to. Hope you enjoy! Please go show Nate some love! Thanks for reading. TW: reference to past domestic abuse, Reader has call sign and speaks Spanish

Price sat beside you and pulled your chair closer to his, looping an arm around the back of it,

“Look, love, you don’t have to do anything you don’t -”

“Capitán! Quit whispering your sugary words into her ear. This is the woman who survived Miguel ‘El Matador’ Moreno for diez pinche años. She may look like a little lady, but she’s done nastier work than all four of you perritos combined. She is the reason why the infamous Jefe Luis Villagomez doesn’t travel north of the Rio Grande. Charon doesn’t ferry the living very often, amigos. She only takes the dead. Porfa,” Alejandro waved a hand in the air dismissively, unamused by Price’s coddling tones. 

Ale may have been embellishing a bit, but he wasn’t wrong. You didn’t need your hand to be held.

“I can’t leave the animals,” you said, checking to see how far these men had thought this plan through. 

“Laswell called Tony, and he’ll be here Wednesday,” Gaz told you. 

Tony had watched the ranch for you once before. He was a sharp-witted veteran that had run his own ranch for decades, so you felt good about leaving the farm to him. Tony could take care of himself. He did tend to spoil the goats, but there were worse things. 

“How long?” Your question hung in the air like a balloon losing its air, floating, surrounded by silence. 

Vargas and Price shared a look. Price repositioned himself in his chair, not thrilled about having to answer you,

“Not sure, love. Is that alright?” 

It was a test. What were you willing to sacrifice for this man and his makeshift band of brothers? Your peace? You��d fought so damn hard for that peace. You’d survived a devil of a man in order to sleep warm and safe and knowing you could take care of your damn business unaided. After giving up years of your life to unrest and fear, your reward had been the reconstruction of your independence. Price was asking you for your hard-fought freedom. You weren’t ready to give that up. You weren’t ready for sleeping on floors and reloading guns. You weren’t ready to face more devil-men. 

But what else could you do? Price had you, threatening your heart. If you woke up tomorrow to his empty bed, you didn’t know if you could take that pain. You imagined that Kahlo’s Wounded Deer felt much the same; shot through the chest with nowhere to run, stuck between the cliff’s edge and your lover - your hunter - both promising suffering in different ways. No escape. 

The captain studied you like a heeler dog studied its herd, watching for even the slightest movement to strike, to react. He witnessed the fear flash in your face, and in turn, you saw the despair shadow his. It was so slight, that change in his expression, but to you, it was like he was screaming. You, too, were screaming. 

“Okay, but just for this mission. Then, I need to get back to my life,” you decided, making your limitations known, quietly but firmly. 

The relief that washed through Price’s eyes was palpable. 

Vargas served dinner in his chaotic way, family style, sharing plates. Everyone was eating with their hands, cradling the homemade tortillas like little flowers, using them to scoop up meat and sauce that dripped down their palms like nectar, spicy and sweet. 

Ghost didn’t take his food into the other room this time, feeling secure enough to flip up the mouth of his painted mask to eat. It was like seeing him naked; he was always covered up, so any skin was somehow too much. Soap crowded Ghost from his corner of the table, trying to steal more asada, laughing and joking with Ale. Gaz and Price were huddled, murmuring about something, talking with full mouths in low tones. 

It was almost too serene. There were times in life where you understood that you were in a moment you could never return to. You may have similar ones in your future, but somehow, you knew when certain wrinkles in time were singular. As you watched your guests, you knew that this was definitely one of those moments. 

Price had his arm draped across your chair, keeping you near him. You crafted a bite for him in your hand, pinching the soft tortilla until it held the perfect amount of Ale’s asada. 

You nudged Price with your free hand,

“Toma, come esto, papi.” Here, have a bite, daddy.

He turned away from Gaz and found you there, his bite of food in your hands, and his face lit up like a flame. Bending his head down to meet your hand, he grabbed your wrist in his huge fist, trapping your arm. Then, slowly, he put his mouth around the morsel, lips touching the pads of your fingers, tongue licking the sauce from them. 

Vargas watched your interaction from the other side of the table, open-mouthed. Soap smacked him on the shoulder as if to cash in a bet.

“No, animales! Not at the table!”

The men shared a lighthearted groan and laughed good-naturedly, giving you and their captain a hard time about your little display of affection. 

You smirked, feeling accomplished. Price had wanted to tell them, so you thought a dropped hint or two would be alright. To your relief, he laughed with them, chewing his food before making a comment,

“Sabe buena.” Tastes good. His voice, still badly accented, was mirthful and suggestive, dragging out another round of playful jeering. 

Then, to your surprise, the captain pulled your chair back away from the table, leaning it on its rear legs, holding it at an angle, and kissed you deeply. You let out a little cry of shock, silenced by his mouth. But, you recovered, kissing him back, wrapping one hand around his jaw and the other running through his hair. 

It was all in good fun. Normal. Just a couple flirting with each other, but for Price, you could tell it meant more. It was one thing to bare your souls to each other in front of the farm animals, or to sneak off and rediscover original sins in the quiet of your room, but it was something else to show the world that you chose him. To show his men that you were committed to their captain. That you weren’t just a rest-stop on their long journey. You got the sense that by committing to him, you were also committing to them: his family. 

The rest of the meal passed in that same warmth, filled with laughter and jokes, stories and questions about each other. Intimacy. The whole time, Price couldn’t keep his hands off of you. Your thigh, your hand, the nape of your neck - he was grabbing you like a lifeline. He shared his food, making you try his chili relleno, giving you sips of his drink when yours ran dry, doting on you. 

“Okay, time for dessert, yes?” You asked the others, picking up dirty dishes as you retreated back to the kitchen. 

You heard exasperated groaning, their bellies full and struggling, but you didn’t hear a no. Vargas followed you into the kitchen, pretending to help,

“Dios mío, necesito un cigarrillo después de verlos a ustedes.” My God, I need a cigarette after watching you two. 

“Cállate, cerdito.” Shut up, piglet. You smiled to yourself, cutting up what was left of the cheesecake, giving Price’s plate the largest piece. 

“¿Estas enamorado, morena?” Are you in love, darling? His voice was a quiet whisper. It felt like a gunshot wound in your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you said, in English, not trusting yourself to tell such a lie in your native tongue. 

Your old friend covered his mouth with his hand, eyebrows heading skyward, giving you an obvious look. He replied in English, understanding the secret you’d been trying to conceal,

“You know better, Charon. We are not men who should be loved. I hope you know what you’re doing, mija. ”

You didn’t reply out loud, but on the inside, you heard yourself say, “Me, too.”

Even though they lived in the shadows, you weren’t sold on the idea that they should be priests for their causes. Men like Price typically followed two paths. The love of a woman, if she becomes his family, could break his heart, making him forget his purpose, distracting him from his quest for justice. Or, she would light a fire in him, turning him into a dragon. You were afraid to find out which path he would choose.

You wondered if he loved you. 

You delivered the cake and poured more tequila into all the little cups that were thirsty for it. 

John was rolling a cigar in his fingers absentmindedly, and you could tell he was aching to smoke it. 

“You wanna come outside with me, love?” Price invited you, rubbing your thighs in big, sweeping strokes, making your blood rush through them, somehow knowing what you wanted. 

Everyone else was chatting, or watching Gaz play that video game of his, backseat driving, telling him where to hide and who to shoot. Which gun to use. You slipped out onto the porch with Price, avoiding any more ribbing. 

You stood against the porch railing, facing the yard, staring out at the darkness of the night, the rain finally dying out to a drizzle, casting little blue galaxies in the flooded grass, reflecting the light from a huge moon. Price stood directly behind you, pressed against your body, wrapping one hand around the railing, closing you in. He held his cigar in the other hand, smoking it in circles, trying to make the ashes burn evenly. 

“You surprised me at dinner,” he commented, obviously looking for a response. 

You feigned ignorance,

“Oh, why?”

“Feeding me by hand like that. Can’t be doing that in public. Makes me go a bit hard, love.” His voice was right next to your ear, gravelly and delightfully threatening. 

You smiled sweetly, your words coated in pretend innocence, playing with him,

“What do you mean? I just wanted you to have a bite. One little bite can’t hurt, can it, John?” 

“It’s bloody mental, the way you make me feel,” he took a long drag from his cigar and let the smoke tumble out as he spoke, leaning over you, “I’d fuck you right here, pretty girl, given half a chance.”

He took a deep breath along the side of your neck, smelling your skin beneath your hair, and when he exhaled, a moan was wrapped quietly inside it.

You pressed your ass into his crotch, finding him nearly hard. Touching his hand gently, you took his cigar and stuck it in your mouth, the wet leaves tasting like him. You curled the smoke with your tongue, locking eyes with him over your shoulder, watching him suffer deliciously,

“I dunno about ‘mental’, John. But it seems like you have an oral fixation.

You punctuated your last two words, saying them with a soft, sultry undertone. His eyes narrowed as he smiled down at you in a sinister grin,

“Do I ever.”

He stole the stick back from you and smiled even wider, teeth gleaming, his incisors seeming like fangs in his wolfy smile. 

“Think they’re watching us?” You let your eyes turn over to the window, covered with a sheer curtain, fully aware that the view outside was more visible than your view into the house. Trick of the light. 

He shrugged,

“Not if they know what’s good for them.”

Price’s cock had fully hardened now, and he thrust it up into your body ever so slightly, rubbing himself through layers of clothes, rocking his hips once and then twice like a promise of things to come. It made you feel a deep, primal lust, understanding his need without his words, your bodies engaging in an ancient art that had remained untainted by eons of time. You returned his invitation, rolling your hips back onto him, your ass pressing soundly into his pinned shaft. 

“We should get some sleep. Early start tomorrow. It’s five hours to El Ojo,” Price groaned, whispering, rutting against you mindlessly, burying his face in your hair, staining your scent with his smoke. 

You turned around to face him; he didn’t stop his idle grinding, looking tranquilized by his heady tobacco. Hypnotizing you with his casual eroticism. 

“You don’t seem sleepy,” you commented, letting your hands roam over his chest and belly, tracing his nipples beneath his smooth shirt. He shuddered at your touch, sighing deeply. 

With his cigar perched carefully between his fingers, he grabbed your jawbone, and you could feel the wet end press into your cheek. You could sense the warmth of the ash on your skin. He began to kiss you, all of the smoke and musky scents of him blended together, and his strong, masculine cologne made your head spin. His kisses were controlling and long, moving your head where he wanted it to be, sucking your lips and tongue, keeping them from exploring on their own. He was the guide for your passion, showing you all the ways he would be able to please.

He broke away, but only far enough to keep your lips from touching, his breath hot as it warmed your mouth when he spoke,

“Early. Tomorrow. We have to get up early. We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you sighed, a little dramatically, easing past his grip, removing yourself from him, untangling his vines from your bones, “if you say so, John. Buenas noches.” 

You walked inside, swaying your hips a little more than you needed to, knowing he was looking, his blue eyes burning into your curves. Just before you went through the door, you glanced over at him. In the darkness of the porch, cast in shadow, the smoldering tip of his cigar glowed in his open mouth, the light from it gleaming off of his teeth and coloring his lips and beard a fiery orange. He was grinning, like a fox in a henhouse. When he saw you looking, he made a small show of readjusting himself, pawing at his swollen rod to release it from where it was trapped, and in the dimness, you could see its threatening outline. 

You shut the door behind you, hands shaking. The other men mostly ignored you, but you caught them glancing your way, trying to sneak looks. Soap was not as sneaky as the rest, staring blankly as if he had a secret he shouldn't have.

As you wished them good night, they returned the sentiment casually, but it was then that you noticed the window. Price was still at the railing - in full, clear view, smoking. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you could feel the flush tingle against your skin with embarrassment. 

An hour or so later, you were already asleep when Price came upstairs. His heavy footsteps pulled you from your slumber. He was pacing in his room, packing perhaps. You went to the bathroom and pulled open the door. Upon hearing you, he opened his as well.

“Hey,” you whispered, squinting from sleep. 

“Hey,” he was breathing heavily, dressed in nothing but the jeans and boots he had worn that day. 

The captain watched as your eyes feasted upon his skin, gazing longingly at his thick waist where his pants were slung low on his hips, showing off just a bit of hair from below his belt line. One of his giant hands gripped the door frame, high on the plank, stretching his chest into a sweeping display of muscle. His armpit, arms, and torso were covered in the thick, dark hair you had let your hands roam across last night during your joining, and you knew how it would feel to touch. 

Price slid his hand down the frame, making a slow scraping noise, stepping fully into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a click, his icy eyes never leaving yours. 

He was enormous in the small space. His body was a powerhouse of visible strength. The meat of him hung heavy on his large bones, and he seemed, in the clean white tile of the bathroom, as if he was a specimen in some sort of display. Some museum exhibit, showing off, in sterile composition, the ideal form of Man. Built to fuck, to kill, to dominate the beasts of Eden from the lamb to the lion. Top of the food chain. 

Still a little shy from realizing you’d given his team quite the show earlier on the porch, you averted your gaze, turning toward the sink. Before you could run the water, he was behind you, quick, crowding your space exactly as he had on the porch.

He positioned himself behind you and, much more luridly this time, began to kiss and lick your neck, grinding himself into you as he did so, slipping a warm hand under your loose top, finding your soft flesh waiting for his touch. You could feel the roughness of his denim jeans through your cotton shorts, and the contrast between his soft, melting kiss and the hard, unforgiving feeling of him trying to fuck you through your clothes was too much to handle. Your body was trying to reconcile the two, splitting your thoughts, making you love-drunk on his ministrations. 

Price pulled off your shirt, raking it over your head, tossing it to the floor. He laced his hand through your hair and began to tug your head back, forcing you to look at yourself, bare to him, in the mirror. There was only the nightlight, more like a small Christmas bulb attached to a plug, so the room lacked any harsh contrast. Your bodies, your faces, the walls - everything began to swirl together, all colorized in the same, peachy glow. 

You felt his hands on your breasts, and you watched him touch you in the mirror. Seeing yourself being pulled and manipulated by such a large man was gratifying. His hands massaged into your softness, leaving warm trails on your skin, the tell-tale feeling of where he had touched and where he still had left to go. The captain saw himself in the mirror for the first time, then, looking up from leaving erotic kisses on your neck and shoulders. 

He sighed, locking eyes with you in the glass. That sigh trailed off into a groan, a ghost of the one he’d given you last night in the midst of his ecstasy. 

“Fucking hell, look at you,” he said in his lowest tone.

Suddenly, he was tugging at the button of his jeans and unzipping the fly, freeing himself and stroking his cock to attention using your plump ass. Through your flimsy shorts, you could feel the burning heat that radiated from him. Reaching behind you, his hardness fell into your palm and you watched the sensation crawl its way through his expression in the reflection. He gasped, resting his head against yours, whispering - yes, yes, yes - into your ear in a hiss through clenched teeth. 

John’s hand found your pantyline and pried it away from your skin with a confident finger, traveling down into your folds, searching for the swelling bundle nestled in the crest of your slit, rubbing it in long, loose ovals.

It wasn’t feverish; it was measured. His was the hand of a practiced man. As he worked, you joined him, rolling your wrist to rub his foreskin up and down in achingly long pulls, letting his wet head graze your skin as you teased him. The thick length was drooling with precome, and you could feel its stickiness on your palm. 

It didn’t take him long to find your particular rhythm, the one you used when staring at Pinterest photos on your phone of Keanu Reeves in his John Wick era; sweaty, bloody, and great with a gun. Price’s movements felt personal, like he’d read about what you wanted in your diary somewhere, as if he was in on the secret. It brought you to the summit very quickly, and he noticed the flush in your cheeks and breasts, only then increasing his intensity. 

You tried to continue to stroke him, but as you began to come in Price’s hand, you could only hold onto his cock, grasping it like the handle in a car driving too fast, careening downhill, rushing to its inevitable crash. 

“Yeah, love, come for me. Just like that, you gorgeous fucking thing,” he watched you tumble over the edge, crumpling in the mirror, reaching for him. 

“John! Please,” you cried.

You felt the tension burst inside of you like a mortar, hot and molten, pouring out of your core and into your body in waves of climactic pleasure. No one had ever made you come that hard, that quickly. It was hard for you to stand. Price steadied you, using his talented hand to hold you to him while you remembered your legs. 

Once you regained your senses, you removed your hand from him to pull down your shorts and panties, letting them pool at the floor beneath your feet. You returned to his cock, now swollen and throbbing, and fed it into you. Your come made his entry smooth and slippery, and he filled you up, your body celebrating his return.

He returned to his slow, grinding dance on the porch, thrusting himself into you rhythmically in aching, rolling motions. It was not the slamming pugilism of two people trying to find release. This was a concerted effort for him to fuck your walls into his memory, rubbing his dick along them to sense every ridge and sweet spot, and to find the ones that made you scream. 

When you let slip a desperate moan, he would pause, reflect, and return, hitting it again and again, watching you writhe and begging for him to help you.

“You feel so good in me,” you admitted, talking to him in the looking-glass. 

His eyes were full of mismanaged control, and his grip on reality was slipping, 

“Bloody beautiful. So warm and wet for me. Goddamnit, I’m not gonna last.”

But, he did. Your beast had stamina. He returned to your clit as he thrust in and out of you, dragging his fat cock through your body, ripping two more orgasms from your lips before he surrendered. 

You watched him come, crying out darkly in his reflection. He had pulled himself from you and was painting your generous ass cheeks with his load. The tacky fluid was searingly hot, and it ran down your skin in drips. 

You smiled, bending back to kiss him,

“Messy boy,” you chided playfully, a naughty tone in your voice. 

“Wanna clean you up,” Price sighed, satisfied and spent.

Do you want 30 more chapters of these two? Read "Gunslinger" here.

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

[neiima-marin]

MY LOVER BOY

I love you so much natey poo

Nate your everything to me. You has this way of making the world feel brighter, like everything just falls into place when your around. It’s not even about the big moments, but the small ones—the way you listens, the way you smiles, the comfort I feel just being near you. There’s a calmness in your presence that makes everything feel safe, like I can be completely myself without any judgment. You sees me in a way no one else does, and I love how easy it is to just be with you. You make every day better, and I honestly can’t picture my life without you in it. I love you handsome boy. @nathan-doe

(ChatGPT wrote this cause I can’t fucking type and I can’t express my feelings into words for you)

@brooklyncameron @madisonb44r @nick-sturniolo @matthewsturrniolo @almondmilkhunniii @chasekeithh @nick-stuxniolos-hg @neiima-marin @christophersturnn @xxdemitrakalogerasx @carringtonbestmodell @tarayummysbloggg @tarayummyy @zarbruhhh @urdademery @christophersturniolowhatt @kenzieeluby @quenblackwell @chrissturnioloo @matthewsturnioloo @jakewebss12 @astoria-rios @madiifilipowicz @madifilipowiczz @curlysw1rlywurly @naileadevoraaa @xxxnoahrislingxxx @centrallceee @carringtonxx @nathan-doe @neiimamarin

[toasttt11]

moose

July 31, 2011

Sidney has been training with a trainer in Cole Harbor who is also training a younger player Nate Mackinnon.

Nate seemed in awe of Sidney but also respectful enough to treat him normally and just continue training.

Sidney knew Nate would be in the NHL very soon and Nate had just been drafted in the QMHJHL but in two years would be able to get drafted.

Cameron joined Sidney at his training session today, she usually spends the time with her grandparents while her dad work outs.

Cameron is almost five, in a week it was her fifth birthday.

Cameron held her stuffed penguin in one hand that is from her godfather Flower, and her other hand held tightly on her dad.

“Nate!” Sidney called out to the fifteen year old player, Nate looked over and saw Sidney walking in with his young daughter.

“Can bug this is Nate. Nate this is my Cameron.” Sidney softly greeted and rubbed a hand over the back of her head smiling proudly at her. Nate smiled softly noticing how much softer Sidney was at Cameron.

“Hello Cameron.” Nate kneeled down in front of her and sent her a soft smile.

“hello.” Cameron shyly smiled clinging onto Sidney tighter but giving Nate a hesitant smile.

Sidney smiled softly and guided Cameron to the mat that they don’t use and let her sit down and helped her take off her backpack.

Sidney kneeled down in front of her and opened her back pack that is filled with things for her to use, when he has meetings, long car rides or plane rides. Her backpack goes with her everywhere and they always pack a few snacks in there for her.

“What do you wanna go my Cam bug.” Sidney gently questioned as he looked through her bag.

“Color.” Cameron quietly spoke, she wanted to draw a picture for Nate.

“Ok.” Sidney nodded and grabbed her sketch book and her pencil bag filled with coloring items and set them down in front of her, “Be good my love.” Sidney pressed a kiss to the side of her head as she nodded in reply.

Sidney stood up and headed over to his trainer and Nate.

Cameron was happily content to draw for the next few hours and munching on some oat protein bars Sidney makes for her and Sidney checked on her during all of his water breaks.

Cameron started packing up her bag as Sidney had finished his session but held a piece of paper in her hand still and her penguin stuff animal.

“Ready to go Cam Bug?” Sidney asked as he ran his hands through her hair.

“One second please.” Cameron softly mumbled and walked a few steps over to Nate and held out a paper towards him, “Here you go.” Cameron softly smiled up at him.

Nate blinked in surprise and gently took the paper from her and smiled softly at the paper, she drew a larger and smaller penguin and a moose.

“Dad said you were drafted to the moosehead, So you are a moose.” Cameron spoke with a small sweet smile.

“Thank you, i love it.” Nate beamed and held the paper to him closely.

“You are welcome.” Cameron nodded, “Bye Natey.” Cameron smiled and turned around walking right to her dad and taking his outstretched hand.

“Bye.” Nate smiled back as he watched the two walk away.

[lalalychee-x]

"Face down— I think I'm okay"

Angst! Rodrick Heffley x reader pt 4

"You cry alone then he swears he loves you..." romantic. + platonic

♡ Ayyeee, I'm back with part 4, this will NOT MAKE SENSE WITHOUT PART READING THE OTHER PARTS, SO DO MAKE SURE TO READ THEM! So welcome to part 4 of "Think I'm okay!" CW: self harm (sh) reference, meth/drug use reference, smoking, sexual harassment??, misogyny, toxic relationships, genuinely this chapter made me feel so bad for rodrick.. you don't UNDERSTAND. word count: 3885 masterlist of all parts song4this: "Face down" by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

-------story starts here-------

It all sort of happened in a blur. The kind of blur you try to convince yourself you’re actually in control of. Like when you hit “next episode” at 3am knowing damn well you’ve got school in five hours—but the dopamine hits just right, so you keep going. That’s what Nathan felt like. He started sitting next to you more often in class, casually offering you gum, or those energy drinks with labels that scream “toxic masculinity” and taste like wet batteries. He laughed too hard at your jokes. Called you “pretty smart for a girl who always wears pink.” And you hated how you liked that. Or at least, you think you did?

Somewhere between late-night catch-ups on homework you forgot to do and pics of half-finished math questions with dumb filters, you just... slipped into something. A hand brushing yours when you passed him your notes. Him offering to drive you home, even though you lived in the opposite direction. The way he texted “u up?” and your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a little too long before replying.

You didn’t even like football. You still don’t. But there you were, screaming under Friday night lights like it meant something, wearing his hoodie that smelled like Axe and bad decisions. And when he kissed you behind the bleachers, everyone knew. Rodrick knew and you felt bad he know. You're not sure why. He was in the parking lot, sitting alone in his van, eyes burning into the back of your head as you stumbled out of Nathan’s arms like it was nothing. Like it didn’t matter.

You told yourself it was harmless. That dating Nathan made sense. It was easy. He was liked, respected, acceptable. Your parents didn’t question him. They smiled when you brought him up. Said things like, “He seems like a good influence,” as if that was all that mattered. And maybe it was. Maybe that’s why you ignored how empty it felt when he said you were “cooler than you looked,” or when he laughed a little too hard at Rodrick’s name.

Rodrick didn’t have your number. Nathan did.

And it made everything feel...lopsided.

Which was really strange because Nathan's face was everything BUT lopsided, like a poster-boy smile. Lopsided reminded you more of Rodrick and his aysmmetric bracelets—sorry, leather straps— that he swore weren't BRACELETS because that sounded too girly, even though they WERE bracelets. 

You catch yourself smiling at that sometimes. And thank god you catch yourself.

Because Nathan doesn’t like it when you drift off mid-conversation. Doesn’t like it when you go quiet. Doesn’t like it when you don’t laugh at his jokes, even when they’re always at someone else’s expense.

He calls it “being moody.”

He says things like, “You’re cute when you’re pissed.”

You say, “I’m not pissed.”

And he just grins like that proves his point.

He makes you feel like the problem even when he’s the one scrolling through other girls’ Instagram posts, liking them with the subtlety of a truck hitting a brick wall. 

He says stuff like, “Babe, relax—it’s Zach's girlfriend, I'm just being nice,” when you ask why he keeps snapping that junior girl who calls him Natey.

Which feels a little illegal by the way, but hey who's keeping score?

You also wonder how long until he calls her "babe" too.

At school, he’s all PDA and hallway hand-holding. Whispering things in your ear that make your friends gag with envy. Online, he posts blurry mirror selfies of you with captions like, “She’s alright, I guess,” like being desired by him is some kind of compliment.

And it worked. People started calling you lucky. Teachers said you two made a cute couple. Your parents? They were relieved.

“He’s just like his father,” your mom said once, smiling, like that was something to be proud of.

And maybe that’s the scariest part.

Because even when Nathan says shit like, “Don’t wear that skirt, it’s kinda asking for it,” you let it go. Even when he jokes that “you’re not like other girls,” you laugh, even though you know he says it to every other girl too. 

Even when he touches your thigh under the table and says, “C’mon, don’t be boring,” you shrug it off because yeah, you let him go further than you would've liked, praying to god his hands never went any further than the hem of your shirt.

Because working on academics is one thing, but doing social gymnastics to fit in when you're really an awkward freak, is another thing.

That’s what you’re supposed to be.

So you swallow it. Like poison in small, pink doses. And pretend it doesn’t burn going down.

..

Rodrick flopped onto the beaten-up sofa in the corner of the room, dragging one leg over the armrest like he owned the place. His boots left a streak of grime on the fabric and he didn't even pretend to care. Typical.

You were...assigned to check every student room before closing up for the day, simply because there were noise complaints for how loud you (even if they didn't know it was you), were playing that one time.

“You’re early,” you muttered, tuning the guitar even if you had no intention of playing it—last time was nothing but a blip. You didn’t look at him, but you felt him grinning.

“I live early now. It’s part of my rebranding,” he said, stretching out his arms like he was advertising something. “Clean, punctual, model citizen.”

You side-eyed him. “Sure. What happened to the guy who used to hotbox in the parking lot?”

“He evolved,” he smirked. “...talking to a chick who apparently gets off with quarterback golden boys with vape pens and commitment issues.”

You pause. Just a flicker. Barely a breath between strings. “Nathan doesn’t vape.”

Rodrick shrugged. “Whatever. They all do. If not now, then eventually. Vaping’s, like, part of the jock starter pack.”

You shoot him a look as you get ready to lock up the room before the school closes. “Are you gonna be like this the whole time?”

“Be like what?” He blinked at you, all faux-innocent, drumming his fingers on his knee. “Just making conversation. I mean, I’m trying to understand. This guy? Really? The dude who said 'Slipknot is just screamo for virgins' in public?”

You roll your eyes. “He was kidding.”

“Oh yeah?” Rodrick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, expression twisted into that trademark I-don’t-care-but-I-care-so-much sneer. 

“Was he kidding when he said Paramore was for girls who peaked in middle school? Or when he asked you if ‘emo’ was still a thing? When he tried grabbing a junior by the wrists with a gluestick and went "beep" like he was at a self-checkout? C'mon, that was hella creative.”

Your hands froze.

Rodrick scoffed. “Didn’t think so.”

There was a weird silence after that. The kind that lingers in the air like leftover smoke. You kept your head down, strumming a soft note like it would muffle the noise in your chest.

“He didn’t mean it like that,” you finally said.

Rodrick leaned back, arms spread across the top of the couch like a devil at peace.

“Yeah. No one ever means it like that,” he muttered. “Until they do.”

Rodrick kicked a rogue guitar pick across the floor with his boot, watching it skid under the piano. “You know,” he said, tone too casual to be innocent, “you were cooler before all this.”

Your fingers paused as you scowled. You'd need to dish that pick out later. “Before what?”

He gave you a lopsided shrug. “Before wouldn't work because you're always like that. Well, you know, be”

You blinked. “I’m not pretending.”

Rodrick snorted, dark and low. “Right. My bad. You’ve always loved taking gym selfies with guys who say ‘you’re not like other girls’ like it’s a personality test.”

Your jaw tightened. “You don’t know Nathan.”

“I know enough,” Rodrick muttered, eyes fixed somewhere far off. “Enough to know he talks to other girls and calls it networking. Enough to know he repeats jokes he saw on Reddit like he made them up. And enough to know that if he ever saw you the way I’ve seen you...he wouldn’t get it.”

You turned to him, bristling. “Seen me how?”

Rodrick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice lower now. Not angry. Just tired.

“Oh, I dunno, in tears on my bathroom floor covered in blood. In my bathtub covered in your bra, or spinning like a table top in the gym after we broke in.”

You stared at him, cheeks hot. “For the record, YOU did most of the breaking in." You pause with a sigh.

"You think I’m fake.”

Rodrick didn’t answer at first. He looked at you—really looked. And then he leaned back again, sighing.

“I think you’re exhausted. And I think you think this is the only way to survive. But honestly?” He shook his head. “You were cooler when you weren’t pretending to be someone else.”

You looked away, chewing your lip. “Nathan...he likes me.”

Rodrick scoffed. “Yeah, when you’re convenient with his hands in your pants.”

“That’s not fair.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. Because deep down, some part of you knew he was right and it was beginning to bubble over.

"Well, okay, fuck, what do I do then, genius? Run off to some other dude?"

Rodrick’s face twisted for a second—just one flicker. Then he scoffed.

“Didn’t ask you to,” he said. “Not like you have the balls to talk to another dude. I don’t even have your number.”

Your breath caught. He said it so quietly, you almost didn’t catch it. But it landed like a goddamn grenade.

He stood up too, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeves, grabbing his hoodie from the chair behind him.

“Anyway. Good talk.”

He didn’t slam the door, but he may as well have.

..

It was afterschool. Late. You were supposed to meet Nathan by the vending machines, but instead, you ended up near the gym, standing awkwardly while Rodrick leaned on a wall nearby, half-bored, half-smirking, like always.

Nathan had just finished practice. He was sweaty, shirtless, and definitely basking in the attention of the freshman girls that wandered too close to the locker room exit.

You didn’t even register it at first. The way he leaned down just a little too close to one of them. The laugh he gave when she said something about his abs. The way he playfully bumped her hip with his elbow like they were already in-jokes deep.

Rodrick did.

“Wow,” he muttered, voice dry as ever. “Wonder if his hands even know how to stay in his own damn pockets.”

You tried to ignore him.

But he didn’t stop.

“You know, I wouldn't let that slide. Maybe he just had a dumb face. But nah. It’s not the face. It’s the brain behind it.”

You looked at him, sharp. “He’s just friendly. He’s popular, okay? Stop taking the piss and go hotbox in the carpark. I won't snitch to Mr. Huff this time.”

Rodrick snorted, half ignoring what you said. “Right. Friendly with every skirt that walks past.”

That one hit.

"Why are you even here? We aren't friendly." You roll your eyes, arms crossed.

Rodrick shrugged, kicking the wall behind him, "What? This is a free country."

Nathan spotted you then, coming over, wiping sweat off his brow like it was some cinematic move. He gave Rodrick a quick once-over, then said to you without even acknowledging him, “Ready to go, babe?”

Rodrick stepped forward. You wouldn't have guessed they were a similar height from afar; not with Rodrick's cricket limbs. But it was just enough to be annoying.

“You drop something back there,” he said casually, motioning toward where Nathan had come from.

Nathan blinked. “What?”

“Your balls.”

You nearly choked.

Nathan blinked again. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

You stepped in fast, looping an arm around Nathan's. “No one. He um, was just leaving.”

Rodrick stared at you for a beat. His face unreadable. Then he backed up, arms raised in mock surrender.

Nathan’s arm slipped around your waist like it belonged there. Like it was always supposed to be there. His fingers drummed casually on your hip, warm and too sure of themselves.

He looked at Rodrick again, this time with a crooked grin. “So, seriously. Who is this guy?”

Rodrick didn’t answer.

Just stood there, jaw tense, one brow raised, like he was daring you to say it.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The silence between them buzzed louder than the vending machine beside you.

Nathan laughed, nudging you with his shoulder. “What? What’s with the awkward pause? You guys, like, dated or something?”

You choked. “What? No! God—no.”

Rodrick’s face didn’t change. Not even a twitch. But somehow, it made it worse.

Nathan gave a dramatic, mock-relieved sigh and leaned his forehead down to yours, pressing a kiss to the side of your temple. “Good. ‘Cause I was gonna say—you can do way better, babe.”

Rodrick’s stare didn’t break.

You stiffened under Nathan’s arm, your mouth dry. You wanted to say something. Anything.

But instead, your face just flushed a shade deeper. You felt Rodrick’s eyes rake over the red crawling up your neck. Felt your own breath betray you.

Nathan tugged you a little closer, tilting your head up which prompted a very...slight...kiss on his cheek. “Come on. Tell me.”

He was smiling.

Playful.

Affectionate.

Soft.

Too soft.

And it was too loud in your head.

You said it before your brain caught up.

“He’s...just a guy in my math class.”

The silence that followed was nothing short of vicious.

Rodrick’s tongue clicked against his teeth. Once.

“Sure,” he said, low and even. “Yeah just a guy. Said guy was gonna ask if you wanted a pouch of meth or something.”

Nathan scoffed, laughing and giving Rodrick an unserious jab with his free arm, "Would love that, man, but coach would find out."

Rodrick laughed, sort of bitter, sour, unsure what to even say. He turned on his heel, grabbing his backpack off the ground, and disappeared around the corner without another word.

Nathan didn’t even notice the tension, still grinning at you like nothing happened. “Hey,” he said, “You wanna come to mine? Mom’s not home and I got that playlist you like.”

You nodded before your body could even think, but the bitter aftertaste in your mouth was unmistakable.

Your fingers itched for your phone. But Rodrick still didn’t have your number.

And suddenly, you kind of hated that he didn’t ask for it when he had the chance.

..

He didn’t even bother kicking off his boots. Just face-planted into his bed, the springs groaning under him like they were fed up too.

His room was dark except for the hazy blue glow of his lava lamp bubbling next to an ashtray that he swore wasn’t for cigarettes—just incense. Bullshit. He hadn’t lit incense in weeks since it was originally to get the smell of weed out the best he could.

His hoodie was still on. Backpack still over one shoulder. Didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter that the pillow smelled like cheap detergent and that the ceiling above him had that one stupid glow-in-the-dark star still stuck there from when Manny dared to sneak in one night.

Didn’t matter.

All he could think about was that guy’s hand on your waist.

The way you turned red. Not because he said something snarky, not because he caught you mid-thought, mid-banter, mid-stupid-inside-joke.

No.

You turned red for him.

That forehead kiss.

Rodrick rolled over, looking up. His arm flopped over his face like maybe it could block the memory out. Like it could choke down the bitter taste in his mouth.

Rodrick stared at his ceiling like it might suddenly start speaking. Maybe offer him some divine wisdom. Or a cigarette. Or a punch to the gut—anything but this god-awful silence.

The posters on his wall were curling at the corners, the tape giving up just like he felt like doing. Some band no one listened to anymore. Some stickers he’d slapped on when he was thirteen and angry. Still angry, really. But now it was quieter. Meaner. Turned inward.

He shifted on his bed, one arm slung over his forehead like he was in a music video about heartbreak—except it wasn’t that dramatic. Or maybe it was, but only to him. Only in this sad little space.

He’s probably got one of those houses that smells like... vanilla. Or pine. Or... whatever the hell people like that smell like.

He thought about Nathan’s house.

Big, clean. Hardwood floors. No creaks. Probably some bowl of decorative fruit in the kitchen that no one eats. Nathan’s mom was probably out of town a lot. Trusted him. Gave him space. Probably had a house with matching hand towels in the bathroom.

She’s probably sitting on his bed right now. Rodrick swallowed.

Probably all cozy, legs tucked under her like in those dumb-ass sitcoms. Laughing at something that’s not even funny. Maybe letting him touch her arm, her hip, whatever. Does he know how to make her laugh like that? Does he even care?

His room felt colder suddenly, even with the little space heater buzzing in the corner.

He looked around. At the dent in his desk where he’d dropped his amp last year. At the ripped flyer from a garage show he never played at. At the empty cans on his floor he still hadn’t thrown out.

Would she laugh if she saw this?

Would she think it’s gross?

Would she even stay if she stepped in?

He imagined her there. Right in his room. Curled up on his beat-up mattress, rolling her eyes at his CD collection, probably poking at his piles of laundry like she was judging them but in that half-smiling way.

He wondered how she’d look sitting at his desk chair, one leg over the other, chewing gum and pretending to be unimpressed. Wondered if her perfume would cover the weird stale smell of dust and cheap cologne in here. If she'd ever say something stupid like, “this place is so you.”

He wondered if that would hurt more or less than her never seeing it at all.

He scoffed.

“Fucking Nathan,” he muttered under his breath.

He kicked a hoodie off the bed, only to grab it back and clutch it to his chest like a fucking loser. Shut his eyes. Bit the inside of his cheek.

Does Nathan even know she chews her pen caps? Or that she makes those stupid little noises when she stretches? Or that she says she hates attention but always lights up when she gets it?

Rodrick didn’t have her number. Didn’t have her voice in a text. Didn’t have her smell on his pillow. Didn’t even have the guts to tell her to stay.

All he had was this goddamn room and the ghost of a girl who was never really his, couldn't be his, wasn't even meant to meet.

'That should’ve been me,' is all he can think about.

He didn’t want to say it, not even in his head, but it crept in anyway. Loud and hot and pathetic.

'That should’ve been me you leaned into.'

'Me you looked at all soft.'

'Me you went quiet for.'

He knew Nathan was all charm and varsity teeth and clean, punchable cheekbones. The kind of guy who fit into yearbook pages and parent fantasies.

And Rodrick?

Rodrick had chipped nails, an overbitten lip, and a reputation he hadn’t even earned properly—people just assumed shit because he looked like he didn’t care. I mean, they're mostly right but it still pisses him off because he's petty.

The worst part?

You looked happy.

Like actually happy.

And maybe he was just projecting—he probably was. But in that split second, you looked like you didn’t need him anymore. Not that you did, I mean, he looks at himself then looks at you and he knows you don't need him. You wouldn't have crossed paths if it wasn't a coincidence.

You’d needed him once. Right there on the floor with the guitar, where your laughter caught in your throat and your cardigan slipped and you said, “pass that,” with the stupidest half-blush.

He thought maybe that meant something.

But maybe it was just a moment.

Moments disappear all the time, he thinks so anyway. He's genuinely never thought that hard about his "life pharmacy". 

"Far-ma-see." He mutters the pronunciation under his breath, brows furrowed. It wasn't 'pharmacy,' was it?

He swallowed. The ceiling looked blurry now, NOT from tears—god forbid he's crying. Of course he's not crying, why would he be crying? He's stupid but not stupid enough to cry, no no no, he is not crying. It's something else. Maybe from the lava lamp, maybe from his eyes.

He wiped them roughly.

"Fuck this," he muttered.

But he didn’t move.

He just lay there.

Still wishing you had kissed him instead.

..

Nathan’s house was... white. Not white like hospital white—white like money. White like air-purified, thermostat-controlled, magazine-ready minimalism. The kind of place where the fridge water always tastes good and everything smells like coconut shampoo or expensive laundry detergent. Like you get it, you're not that far off this either you'll admit, but damn this was blinding.

You sat on his bed, pretending not to feel awkward while a playlist you helped him make streamed from his surround sound speakers. It was sorta shitty pop music. Except now it felt... different. Like background music to a scene you weren’t fully starring in.

He flopped down next to you, grinning with all teeth, hair perfect like it came out of a commercial. His hand was already on your thigh, a little too casual. But you didn’t stop him.

“You know,” he said, nudging your shoulder like you were sharing some cute, little secret. “We should throw a party.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“A party,” he repeated, propping himself up on one elbow. “Like... to make it official, y’know? Us. As a couple.”

Your brows furrowed. “What, like a... relationship party?”

Nathan snorted. “Okay, not like with balloons and cake or whatever. Just a regular party, but, like—everyone knows now. You and me.”

You laughed, but it came out weird and stuttered. “Right. Sure. That’s... not weird at all.”

“C’mon,” he said, voice all syrupy confidence. “It’ll be fun. My mom’s out of town next weekend. You don’t even have to plan anything. I’ll take care of it. You just show up and be the hottest girl there.”

Your face heated, whether from flattery or something more complicated, you weren’t sure.

You looked down at his hand on your thigh. Then back at him, smiling so easy. Like nothing in the world had ever been complicated.

You forced a laugh. "Yeah... okay, sure."

Nathan grinned. “Hell yeah.”

You reached over to steal the aux, distracting yourself with the screen, with the next song, with anything but the weird tightening in your chest. It was nice, he was nice when he wanted to be so you liked that. But not enough, clearly.

He kissed your cheek.

And you didn’t flinch.

But god, you weren’t really there either.

click for part 1 click for part 2 click for part 3 click for part 4 click for part 5 click for part 6 click for part 7 click for part 8 click for part 9 click for part 10 click for part 11 click for part 12

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you! Please do leave requests!

[comfyklok]

anyway! i love nickles oh boy snb era pickles with natey

[lovestarrecords]

Nateybeats, Love Star Records

Portland, Oregon

[sugarcandydoll]

had to remove poor corybaby from my homescreen cause dad needs love hehe!! ♡🥺💕 but natey stays cause he my hero!! ♡

[barnacles-incarnate]

Hey Natey!! So uh,,, have you ever felt love for someone before? Or, well, I don’t think it’s love?? It’s weird fluttering, but it’s not strong enough to be anything substantial. But it’s not friendship??? I-I dunno. I need help with this.

- Cords <3 🌊 (@dip-n-drown)

Unusual question from you there, Cords,, hmm yeah probably? Outside of just family and friends I assume you mean. I probably had a few crushes or whatever growing up, if I had a partner before the cluster found me they no longer exist in my mind.

Is there any kind of advice you're looking for though? I might still be able to help you, I want to help you

[loominggaia]

I wonder how Cerulea's kids would get along with Oberon's kids? Or Marghan?

Good question! I doubt Cerulea allows her kids to interact with foreign nobles in their leisure time, but I'm sure they do interact sometimes at international royal galas. These galas can take place anywhere on Gaia, most often at castles or convention centers. They're opportunities for nobles to network with eachother, find spouses for their heirs, and show off their wealth.

Lazuline: Would probably get along well with Winnie because they're both quiet, nerdy, and bookish. Marghan would annoy her and Hestal would absolutely disgust her.

Saphirra: Would totally go clubbing with Blomi and Marghan. Thinks Jaq is hot and tries to slob his knob every time she sees him, but he's not having it. One, because he's not really attracted to women. Two, because she's creepy in an uncanny "Stepford Wives" kind of way. Three, because he heard what happened to her eight ex-husbands and is smart enough to realize this ho is straight up radioactive lol.

Teal: Refuses to get chummy with any of these dirty barbaric foreigners because Mommy Dearest(tm) wouldn't like it. Makes a show of acting really rude to them at galas, but only when Cerulea is watching. It's only a matter of time before she triggers Hestal's bad temper and he upends a whole feast table on top of her. Not "if", but "when".

Cyana: She's intrigued by Marghan because he has the wild, free, adolescence she wishes she had. I could see her naively following him around and getting into trouble because of it. She'd also get along with OJ because they're both misunderstood and have a ton of parental pressure on them. Also, a couple different people have said they think OJ is nonbinary (he must have a vibe or something lol), and if that's the case then Cyana might relate to him on that level, as Oberon would not accept OJ's gender identity just like Cerulea wouldn't accept Cyana's homosexuality.

Marine: She and Trista would be BFFs. Trista has a dominant, manipulative personality and Marine is more of a naïve follower, so I imagine they have a "Rocky and Mugsy" dynamic going on. They're destructive enough alone, but together they become an unstoppable storm of chaos. They cause a scene at every royal gala they attend, and their antics destroyed an entire convention center at least once. Trista would try to convince Marine to help her kill her little brother Nate, and Marine is so desperate for friendship that she'd probably agree to it. (But of course Marine fucks up everything she does, so she sabotages Trista's plans and Natey Potatey lives to see another day!)

Skylie: Skylie is a friendly and polite girl who gets along with just about everyone she meets (or at least tries to). She finds foreign people fascinating because she's always sheltered in her little palace life. She would be particularly interested in Winnie because they both love reading. Skylie would want to help Blomi solve the Mystery of the Wailing Halls in Folkvar Castle, and together they might just free Sygbarne from her tower. One person Skylie doesn't get along with is the little brat Trista, and she would try to protect Nate from her. She would like to know the other royal offspring too, but since she's just a little girl, most of them aren't interested in talking to her...except Goryx, that evil fuck. He's a huge book nerd and so is Skylie, so I could imagine him preying on that to lure her into joining the Crescent Cult. Promising her unlimited knowledge and power, and she gets to wear a pretty mask! Skylie's read too many fantasy books about evil wizards to fall for his bullshit though. She probably kicks him in the nuts, tells security, and gets him booted from the function lol.

Cobalt: Nate and Trista are the only ones remotely close to Cobalt's age, but I don't think he'd get along with them because they actually act like kids, and he acts like...well, a highly neurotic adult. This kid's anxiety is so bad and his childhood is so strict. Especially since his mother and grandmother scare him with Lindist scripture, telling him how evil non-commoners and foreigners are, so he'd be terrified of everyone he encountered.

*

Questions/Comments?

Lore Masterpost

Read the Series

[alter-nate-builderman]

(STOP I'VE NEVER USED TUMBLLR BEFORE THIS IS EMBARASSING AHHH). NATEY NATE I MADE YOU FANY FANART HHEHHEHHHHHAHAH HOPE YOU LIKEE!!!!!😝😝😝‼️

[🔷]:..oh I..never thought I'd get any..th..thanks..

(no joke I had a nap sorry. ALSO I STILL FUCKING LOVE IT YOU FISH BOYY RAHH)

[the-californicationist]

🩷 Top 7 Comfort Films 🩷

Thanks to the amazing @haurasha for the tag!

If these movies are on, I will curl up and watch them, no questions asked. You probably have some questions, but don’t judge me 😂

1. Alice in Wonderland (1951)

2. The Fifth Element (1997)

3. The Matrix Reloaded (2003)

4. The Mothman Prophecies (2002)

5. The Pirate (1948)

6. Shakespeare in Love (1998)

7. XXX (2002)

No pressure tags: @madstronaut @kit-williams @gemmahale @ofdivinity01 @vampirekilmerfic @glitterypirateduck @eilidh-eternal @captain-natey @captainjamster