summary: you and rue are chilling together in her bedroom, talking and cuddling… and then a kiss turns heated, and her hands begin to wander.
warnings: fluff. bestfriends-turned-lovers. soft smut. fingering (fem!receiving). rue kind of talking you through it. rue is so enamoured by you. no use of y/n. [2k]
The room was almost completely dark except for the dull amber glow from the streetlamp outside Rue’s window, the light slipping weakly through the blinds and stretching across the walls in thin uneven lines. Everything in her bedroom felt soft around the edges at night — the scattered clothes on the floor, the tangled charger cords, the faint outline of posters taped crookedly against the wall, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan overhead. The air smelled faintly like laundry detergent and weed, and you could hear the distant sound of cars outside every now and then. The room mostly felt sealed off from the rest of the world, suspended in its own quiet atmosphere where time moved slower.
Rue lay on her side facing you, curled halfway beneath her blanket, one arm tucked beneath the pillow. Her curls were flattened messily against the fabric, slightly frizzy around her forehead, and her hooded eyes looked heavy with exhaustion in the way they always did at night. Even relaxed, Rue carried tiredness like it had soaked permanently into her bones. Her expression shifted lazily as she looked at you – somewhere between amusement and vulnerability – and every so often the corner of her mouth twitched upward into those brief crooked smiles she never seemed fully aware she was making. Her gaze drifted over your face quietly, lingering with the kind of attention that always made your chest ache a little. Rue looked at people carefully when she loved them, like she was trying to memorise proof they existed. Even now, half-asleep and emotionally worn out, she studied tiny things: the movement of your mouth when you smiled, the way your eyelashes caught the dim light, the shape your hand made against the blanket between you.
“What?” you whispered.
Rue blinked slowly. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“I know.”
“But why?”
Another tiny shrug. “Because I like looking at you.”
The honesty in her voice came so naturally it almost hurt. Rue rarely sounded embarrassed when she admitted things late at night. The exhaustion stripped some of her defenses away, softening the sharpness she carried during the day. Her sarcasm became quieter, her detachment loosened, and what remained underneath was startlingly gentle. It happened slowly, a small smile pulling at her mouth whilst her eyes stayed half-lidded. Rue always looked strangely younger when she smiled for real; The heaviness in her face loosened for a few seconds, revealing flashes of the softness she usually buried under irony and exhaustion.
There was a long comfortable silence afterward — not empty silence, but the kind that felt intimate because neither of you felt pressured to fill it. Rue’s hand shifted slightly beneath the blanket until her fingers brushed yours. The movement was hesitant, absentminded almost, but when your fingers curled instinctively against hers, you felt the tiny exhale leave her chest. Relief. Rue reacted to affection like someone constantly bracing for it to disappear.
The amber light from the streetlamp cast long, flickering shadows across her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the slight tremor in her breath. For a moment, the world outside – the chaos of East Highland, the crushing weight of her addiction, the volatility of her family – felt like a distant memory. In this small, dim sanctuary of a bedroom, there was only the sound of your synchronised breathing and the electric tension humming between your bodies.
You shifted closer, the fabric of your clothes rustling against the sheets, until your foreheads rested against one another. The proximity allowed you to see the golden flecks in her pupils and the way her eyelashes fluttered. Rue’s gaze dropped to your lips, her expression turning tentative, almost questioning. She was always calculating, always analysing the risks, but the longing in her eyes outweighed the hesitation.
When she finally spoke, her voice was a low, raspy murmur that vibrated in your chest. "I don't want to mess this up," she whispered, her breath warm against your skin. "I just... I really want to kiss you."
You didn't answer with words, instead tilting your head just enough to bridge the final gap. When your lips finally met, it was a soft exploration. It tasted like the gum she’d been chewing and felt like a homecoming. Rue let out a shaky sigh into the kiss, her hand sliding from your fingers to cup the side of your face, her palm slightly rough but her touch incredibly gentle. She kissed you as if you were something fragile, something precious that she was terrified of breaking. It was a slow burn, a gradual deepening of pressure as the initial nervousness melted into a desperate, aching need.
As the kiss grew more heated, Rue’s movements became more urgent. She groaned softly, a sound of pure surrender, as she pulled you closer, her body molding against yours. The friction of your hips pressing together ignited a fire that had been simmering since the moment you both realised your friendship had shifted into something deeper. Rue’s hand slid down from your cheek to grip your waist, pulling you flush against her as if she were trying to merge your two souls into one.
The heat intensified, and Rue’s hand began to wander, drifting down from your waist to the waistband of your sleep shorts. She paused for a heartbeat, searching for permission, her touch a mixture of desire and a deep-seated need to ensure you were comfortable. When you let out a small, encouraging sound and arched your back toward her, she let out a breath she seemed to have been holding for a lifetime. Slowly, tentatively, her fingers slid into the fabric of your shorts, the cool air hitting your skin for only a second before the warmth of her palm replaced it.
Rue’s fingers found your centre, and the first time she brushed against your clit, you gasped. She froze, her forehead still resting against yours, her voice a strained, loving whisper. "Is this okay?" she murmured, her eyes wide and searching.
You could feel her heart hammering against your ribs, her vulnerability on full display. You nodded lightly, giving her the confidence she needed. She began to rub you in slow, deliberate circles, her touch light but precise, building the tension inside you. The friction was intoxicating, and Rue watched your face with an intensity that felt like she was reading your every nerve ending. She loved the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your breath hitched.
“You’re so wet," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She shifted her position, sliding two fingers down and pushing them slowly, lovingly, into your heat. You let out a soft moan, your thighs instinctively parting a little wider around her hand. Rue didn't rush; she moved with a patient, rhythmic grace, fingering you with a tenderness that almost brought tears to your eyes. She continued to talk to you, her voice a soothing anchor in the storm of pleasure. "You feel so good," she whispered, her thumb continuing to stimulate your clit whilst her fingers worked inside you.
Every thrust was calculated to maximise your pleasure, her fingers curling upward to hit the exact spot that made your toes curl and your vision blur. Rue’s own breathing was heavy, her face flushed, her eyes half-closed in a state of blissful concentration. She wasn't seeking her own release; she was devoted to yours, treating your body like a map she was discovering for the first time.
As the climax began to build, Rue increased the pace, her fingers sliding in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound that echoed in the quiet room. She leaned in to press a kiss against your neck, her voice becoming a series of low, encouraging whispers. “Right there? Do you like that?" she gasped, feeling the walls of your pussy tighten around her fingers.
“Yes,” you breathed back with a nod, your brows pinched in pleasure and your hand gripping her upper arm as the coil in your lower stomach tightened.
When you finally broke, moaning her name into the silence of the room, Rue didn't pull away. She held you through the tremors, her fingers staying inside you for a few more moments, grounding you as the waves of pleasure slowly receded, leaving you both breathless and tangled together in the amber glow of the night.
Rue stayed close even after your breathing began to steady, her forehead pressed lazily against your shoulder while the room settled back into silence around you. The air felt warm and heavy beneath the blankets, carrying the lingering smell of sweat, laundry detergent, and the faint sweetness of the candle burning low on her dresser. Rue’s fingers finally slipped from between your thighs with lingering care, slow enough that it made you shiver again, and you immediately curled against her afterward like the distance bothered you instinctively. She buried her face half against your neck, breathing unevenly, her curls tickling your skin.
Her hand drifted lazily across your waist beneath the blanket as she asked, “You okay?” The question came out more serious than everything else she’d said. You could hear the uncertainty beneath it — the fear of having done something wrong without realising it.
You brushed your fingers gently through the curls sticking damply against her forehead. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
Rue visibly relaxed. It happened in tiny ways: her shoulders loosening, her breathing evening out, the anxious tension leaving her eyes. She nodded once against the pillow, almost to herself. “Okay,” she whispered.
The room fell quiet again afterward, but it wasn’t awkward silence; it felt intimate in a way that almost hurt. Your legs remained tangled together beneath the blankets whilst Rue traced absentminded shapes against your skin with slow sleepy fingers, like she needed physical contact to reassure herself you were still there.
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It's bloodcurdling, the scream. It's insane, it's raw, it's in his very psyche, it's shooting through his veins, and he's not sure he can make it out alive— his feet aren't fast enough. It's building, it's bullets in his heart, an axe to his skull, and yet, he's not gifted the relief of death. He's forced to run, and the only part of him not touched are his—
Hands. He feels a pair of fingers intertwine with his trembling ones and he's begrudgingly thrown back into reality. He's disgusting. He's breathless, he's sweaty, his chest is heaving, he's barely even aware of what the fuck is going on in his life and— never mind. It's you next to him.
There isn't much you can do for him. "You okay?", you ask. No one's asked him that in a while. He gulps — eurgh, his throat's dry and his saliva tastes like vomit — and then nods. He can't even muster out a 'mm-hmm'.
"C'mon."
You're sitting up, the folds of his t-shirt just barely lit up in the dim moonlight coming in through his window as you do so, and you don't let go of his hand as you attempt to coax him up. You obviously can't just tug him up the way he could do to you, and he reluctantly sits up as well. You crawl off the bed, and he follows, and he feels like a fucking Disney princess, letting someone take his hand to lead him down from somewhere. But he's still out of breath, and his mind is still taunting him with those flashes of the nightmare he's just had, and he's really not in control of his convictions right now.
His eyes burn and close automatically as you turn on the bathroom light, and he squints through his reflex tears to see you cupping your hand below the tap you've just turned on. The water fills your palm, and you bring it to his face, wiping the sweat off him. He wakes with the power of a freight train, and he's suddenly fully conscious again, even as you raise to your tiptoes to dab at his face with the hem of your t-shirt — well, his, you're just wearing it.
"Better?"
He nods. What else can he even do?
"C'mon.", you say, again. He mindlessly follows you out the bathroom door, watching you flick the light off. You silently open the door to his bedroom, and slowly creep your way down the stairs — he's glad you remember his parents are still home because he nearly forgot — with him still in tow.
It's very domestic, this, and he should be thinking more about it, he should be reminiscing in how this may be your future when you've got a maternal glow on your cheeks and a ring on your finger and a baby in a crib somewhere upstairs, but he's really not, because you've never had to make him think of it. This is so normal that it's almost definite that it'll always be like this.
"PB, J, or both?"
He still can't speak. He shrugs, and you somehow understand that, and dip a spoon in the peanut butter before dragging it across two slices of bread. You don't touch the jelly. Takes him a moment, but then he remembers he's told you he's bulking for the football season, and of course, peanut butter is good for bulking. You cut diagonally across the bread, place it on a plate and slide it over to him.
Nate takes one half in his hand, digging his teeth into the bread as you pour out a glass of milk, the spoon in your mouth the whole time — probably to be able to lick the remnants of peanut butter off it so it'll be easier to clean later so his mother doesn't notice you've spent the night — before you slide that over to him, as well.
He takes a sip to wash the bread down. "Wanna talk about it?"
He shakes his head quickly. He's conscious enough to react to that.
You nod. He picks up the second half, pausing for a moment before tilting it slightly to you. You smile, and even the dim light from the refrigerator seems to brighten up, before shaking your head. "All yours."
He nods, biting into it, before gently pushing the milk to you. This, you take, lifting it to your mouth. The milk does well to help his voice find itself. He clears his throat. "Got practice at seven tomorrow."
"I'm aware. I'll leave before then."
He'd meant that the both of you should probably go back to sleep because five hours from now he's supposed to be running across a field, but this is also an important thing to consider. His parents. They don't know about you. He's learned too many times that that just complicates things, that a good thing is shot dead and trampled over and even sometimes skinned, in the Jacobs household. And you're the deer he'd rather preserve, not see hung up on his parents' wall.
"Will you come to the game?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
You don't skip a beat. He only asks as a formality. He knows you'll be there. He's constantly in awe of you for that. You have StuCo duties after school, he knows that for sure, but you don't even show a semblance of hesitation. Your duties, just like his practice, start at seven tomor— well, technically today — and end at pretty much the same time that the game starts, but you'll be there. Somehow, you manage to be in two places at once, and neither party is disappointed. You're still a StuCo Presidential Candidate and Nate's girl at the same time. Crazy. He could never.
He nods, biting at the inside of his cheek for a moment before stuffing the rest of the bread into his mouth, clapping his hands together to remove crumbs. They gently tink onto the plate, and he holds out one arm, his fingers beckoning you over. You come to his side and he tucks you under it before he kisses your forehead, inner elbow in front of your throat as he basically crushes you. But he doesn't mind, and it doesn't look like you do, either. "Drive home safe, okay? Don't stay up."
"Yeah. You sure you're okay?"
He gulps down the last of the milk as he nods, squeezing your jaw with one hand. "Yeah. Thanks. I'll take care of the dishes. Go put some clothes on and wear a seatbelt. It's not an accessory."
You nod, and he releases you from his grip to let you go upstairs, once again, quietly.
He feels your absence like an ice bath in the Sahara.
Nate would be lying if he says you're the first one he's looking for after the game. He knows it's horrible, but he's never claimed to be perfect, has he? But he's working on it. So he pushes past the urge to look for his dad or his ex in the stands and forces himself into the locker room, changing quickly before he exits and tries to find you. It's not a difficult task. You're right in front. He speeds up to a jog as he tucks his helmet under his elbow, kissing you as soon as he reaches, his thumb swiping an arc across your cheek. "Touchdown."
"The winning one, too.", you reply, and he grins.
He feels like he's on a cloud, and you're right up there with him, so he thinks he should probably ask you something about you. "How'd your StuCo thing go?", he asks, wiping some sweat off his brow.
"Doesn't matter."
He fights the urge to tilt his head at that. He's taken the effort to ask, you should at least reply. "Yes, it does." It's sweeter than he means it to sound. He was supposed to be biting. It sounds caring.
"Nothing much. Just standard."
Bullshit. If he remembers right, and he's sure he does, you're supposed to count votes today.
"C'mon, we'll go to Angie's, and you can tell me over a milkshake."
"No, Nate—"
"Not a question."
Angie's is a bit busy, seeing as you're not the only people who like coming and eating greasy, 100% unhealthy food right after a gruelling game, but you're both regulars, so you're seated in your favourite booth. And, true to his word, there's a tall glass of milkshake in front of you. "How was the meeting?"
"Nate, you won. Let's celebrate the winning touchdown."
"I asked you a question."
A pause. "I didn't make President."
He almost throws his own milkshake across the diner and splatters both glass and milkshake across its dingy brick walls. Fucking how?
"Who got it?"
"Sadie."
"Sadie Woodburn? The dumb blonde who just missed repeating the tenth grade?"
"Okay, come on, she is a good candidate."
"My ass!"
"Nate, don't swear, come on."
"She's an idiot! Who decided it?"
"It was a vote."
"Yeah, but teachers need to approve, yeah? Which one was it?"
"Vice Princ—"
"Oh, he wants to fuck her!"
"Nate!"
"What?"
"Shh."
Right. You're surrounded by half the school right now. Can't be talking shit about the school bop, no matter how much she deserves it.
He takes a sip of his milkshake to cool himself down, watching you do the same but for palpably different reasons. "You okay?"
You shrug from behind your straw, and he rolls his eyes softly, standing up and shooing you to the other end of the booth so he can sit next to you, an arm around your shoulder as he does so. "You okay?", he asks again, and you don't shrug this time, just fiddle with the straw a little.
He shakes his head. Great. Thanks to that sick fuck, Vice Principal Garcia, his girl's having the worst night of her life on the best night of his. "Let's go."
"But I'm not done."
"Chug it."
"No, I'll get a brain freeze."
That's... a little too adorable for Nate to give one of his short responses to. He gestures for you to continue, as he downs his own.
When you finish, he slaps the money (plus tip) onto the table, gestures for the waitress to come take it, and then tows you with him to the car.
There's times when Nate thinks that maybe he's holding you back from finding someone better, someone nicer. Notice how he didn't say 'someone who could treat you better', no, he simply said someone better. Because he's not delusional. He knows you deserve better, but could you do better? No.
But there's also times when he realizes this might just be it.
He's had this realization many times, but when he saw you shut down after you lost the StuCo election, that's when he realizes it. He'll be there through every shitty thing life throws at you. He's not sure you'd actually survive otherwise. He's not just hyping himself up, it's true, you're way too naïve for this world. You'd have just gone through life thinking Sadie Woodburn was actually a better candidate than you. At least he put some sort of doubt in your brain about the real reason you lost, though you'd never admit it was because Garcia was a biased perv.
So when he tucks your hair behind your ear to put on one of the earrings he's bought for you — silver S-shape with a pearl dangling at the end of it — he's got nothing in his eyes but love. You let him do these things without any hassle, and that's something else he adores. He gets to put your earrings on for you, sometimes pick clothes out to complement his, and sometimes do your hair up for you. You don't see it as an imposition, not at all, and he knows of at least one other girl who might have.
He pulls his phone out to show you how the earring looks, selfie-mode, of course, and watches you through the screen as you smile, fixing a strand of your hair, before he kisses your cheek. "Pretty.", he says. "You like it?"
He's got a drawer full of other things back at home — he keeps buying shit and forgetting that you won't take them all, at least not at the same time — and he can't wait to see your reaction to them. But not now.
You nod, and he gives you another kiss on the cheek. "Great."
"But why?"
He shrugs. "Just 'cause. Saw it. Thought it was cute."
"Yeah? Nothing to do with the fact that you feel really bad about my StuCo president thing?"
You're perfect. You can read through him as easy as it is to look through air particles. He's sometimes scared of you. You know everything about him, and it's so perfect he's scared to fuck it up. Because he'd not only lose you, but he'd lose control of where his secrets go.
"That, as well.", he shrugs, fiddling with his chain. "Just take the present, okay?"
"Thank you."
Nate smiles, beckoning you with a single crook of his finger. You move closer and he kisses you. As is your routine.
Sometimes, he feels like a creep, a predator, but not the sexual kind. No, he feels like an actual predator, like the wolf that's raising a deer — you — in safety and fragility, when in reality, the only natural threat to you is him. He's afraid one day he'll reach the point of starvation that his baser instincts take over, and instead of circling you for protection, he'll circle you to size you up before going in for the kill.
But his worst fear is that he'll go from predator to hunter. He's terrified that he'll end up being the one to shoot you and your head will hang on his wall for all eternity.
He's still himself, though. He yells, he's even broken your phone once in a fit of rage, but he's proud to say he's never made you cry. He's done that to his exes and he's not sure he could handle seeing it on you. Wait. Has he never made you cry, or has he just never seen you cry? Oh, no. Yet another thing to keep him up at night, now. Fine. Whatever. Not like you spend entire nights with him anyway.
But he figures he'll just drive himself insane and drive you away if he continues like this. "You'd tell me if I hurt you, right?", he asks, shifting so now he's leaning on the hood of his car.
You tilt your head, real gentle. "Uh-huh. Why?"
"Have I ever hurt you and you didn't tell me?"
You pause at that, and he immediately knows the answer's in the affirmative. But your response is : "Not as far as I can remember."
"Thought we said no lies."
You break immediately. "Well, yeah, but it doesn't matter now, does it?"
"Who are you to decide what matters when? How did I hurt you?"
"It was when we first started dating, you know? You were still obsessed with one of your exes — I don't even know which — and wouldn't even look at me in public."
Holy shit. He didn't know you'd seen that. He'd started dating you before he started falling in love, not the other way around.
Nate runs his tongue across his teeth, and you backtrack almost immediately. Okay, he knows he runs a tight ship, but he's not that scary, come on.
"But you're not now. You're amazing and I love you."
I mean, yeah, you're right. He isn't now, and you do love him. But the guilt is something he's not used to feeling. Your fingers on his arm, though? Soft and practically gliding? He's used to feeling them.
"Nate? It's okay, I love you, and you're amazing now.", you urge softly.
He doesn't fucking deserve this. You're actually perfect. You do what he tells you, because he's never unreasonable, you care about his feelings, not just yours (actually, never yours, and that's too extreme, even for him), you listen to what he says, you try helping him out, fixing things he wants you to fix, but he's still too chock-full of his own ego to apologize for being a prick?
Maybe he skipped a step. Maybe he's already the hunter, and didn't even get to the wolf stage, which is essentially the warning stage. Has he already been subconsciously planning where to mount your head?
And yet, shamelessly, he takes your comforting touch. Because he feels like he deserves it, selfishly enough. Yes. He's been through rough touches — demand and abrasion — and then clingy touches — claw marks and desperation —and maybe, just maybe this is compensation. A blessing. He's been gifted a deer to protect, to admire, to cherish, who protects, admires and cherishes him right back, but still, he's focusing on how she's compliant, acquiesces to anything he says, apologizes when he's in the wrong, and not how to love her better.
He could just try to work on himself to be more deserving of you.
But this is just him.
And you don't seem to be complaining.
He kisses the top of your hair as you tuck yourself under his chin through his hand's coaxes. "Promise?", he asks. It manages to succeed in its feeble attempt to get you to feel sorry for him.
"Yes, of course."
"Okay."
The wind kisses his face almost as gingerly as you do, and the two of you watch people come out of Angie's, stumbling, giggling, hooting, cheering. And it's almost like the universe knew Nate's day's been pretty shit after the game, because every boy who stared at you, he noticed. Usually he doesn't notice. He doesn't care, actually speaking. He either kisses you right in front of them, or ignores them because he's better.
But he's realising quickly that being a wolf guarding a deer implies that there are other wolves with their eyes on the deer. This thought hadn't crossed his mind, especially because you're so soft with him, and it makes him feel each and every drop of affection you have in your heart like a tsunami. But you're a catch.
He means it when he says you're naïve. He can't count the number of times he's had to rescue you from some guy at a party or the opposing team member after a game who you couldn't understand was hitting on you.
But you're like him in many ways. When you love someone, there's little you wouldn't do for them. And he doesn't say it often, but he's glad he's that person. That being said, he's also prone to his own problems, and you do well to help him solve them.
And that usually starts with other wolves.
Especially those in sheep's clothing.
Okay, maybe you couldn't provide him with valid solutions because you didn't know the whole context — he made sure you didn't — but you do make him feel better. If he wants a fight, you give him one, you let him yell, you let him throw. Once, he even accused you of cheating. Not his finest moment, but he did feel better afterwards, and you let him have that. It's rare, but you're always there, and he's glad for it.
To make up for all of this predator-hunter-prey dissonance, he fucks gently. He kisses even gentler. You'd never had anyone before him and as much as he liked to pretend he was progressive and nonchalant, he really liked that. He's your first and hopefully your only one. He won't say you've changed his life, but you've changed parts of him, sort of accommodating so that you can safely and snugly squeeze yourself into his everyday. He can't say he complains. He's just sure it'll end, just like everything in his life.
"You free this weekend? We can go to that fancy sushi place you've been avoiding like you're the one paying the bill."
"I have plans, actually."
"If it's not family or academic, I don't want to hear it."
"My friends—"
"Can wait. I can't."
"I ditched them last weekend as well, though."
"What, the opera was less fun than roaming the mall with your friends?", he questions, his hands sliding into your back pockets as one particular tipsy guy stares at your ass as he aggressively clicks his car keys to locate the car that will probably crash and end up in the news tonight, seeing as there's no sober friend with him.
You shake your head. "I love the opera, you know that. But I haven't been able to hang out with them at all, and they feel like I'm prioritizing you over them."
He tilts his head, innocently, cosplaying the deer. "What's wrong with that?"
A kiss to your shoulder, and his teammates parading across the parking lot of Angie's with enough jovialty — and alcohol — to look around for chances to score are made to shut the fuck up by his glare from in front of you. They whistle at the positioning of his hands. They leave. As is their routine.
"Just—"
"Is there something wrong with prioritizing your partner over your friends? Do you see me celebrating my big win with my teammates right now?"
The reason for that was that he was cutting back on alcohol, but you don't need to know that.
"No." You look tired. Like you knew he was going to have a seemingly valid point to deny your humble request to spend the weekend with your friends.
"Why? Because you're upset. I can't function properly when you are. And I can't party if I can't function." His index finger bends, and he uses it to lift your chin up so he's looking up at you. "You know that."
You don't, but you'll say you do. Probably. Hopefully. If you know what's best for you.
"Yeah."
"Come on. Sushi then lake. You. Me." His lips are all over your face and neck now, doing a pretty good job of toeing the line between bruising and praising. He needs you to know he's really fucking serious but also feel like you came to the agreement on your own, no coercion. "Whaddayasay, beautiful?"
"Alright, alright."
It's almost illegal, how easy this has become.
He opens the car door for you. You sit and he does as well, fingers rapping on the steering wheel. "Hey."
"What?"
"Belt. Not an accessory."
You strap yourself in. "What are you wearing? For the graduation party?", he asks.
"Nothing."
"That's after.", he says, trying to coax a smile out of you. Doesn't work. Right. He'd almost forgotten about the whole StuCo thing. You still haven't opened up to him. Remind him to fuck VP Garcia's shit up later in the week.
"I'm not going."
"What? Why not?"
"Didn't get a clue."
The graduation party was being thrown by the juniors for the seniors — that is, yours and Nate's batch — as a sort of send-off, a farewell, of sorts. They'd planned it out pretty well, too, with these vague, sporadic notes — clues — that were all puzzle pieces that the seniors had to work out in order to figure out when and where the party was.
"I'm sure you did. We'll look tomorrow, starting with your locker."
"Nate, it's fine, could you just take me home?"
"Yours?"
You nod, and he sighs. He knew you wouldn't come over — not after a game, neither of you are that dumb — but still. He backs out of the parking lot. "That voting shit is rigged, you know."
He's 100% sure he's not helping. He's not trying to. He's trying to ragebait you. He wants a reaction. He wants you to explode. Anything but this fake nonchalance that he's sure will break the second your head hits the pillow. His shoulder has to be wet with your tears, not your pillow.
"Nate, just let it go."
"It's stupid."
The problem is, you're a little too great. You're always lovely, always ready to hear him out, cheer for him, be outraged for him, that you don't know what to do when he's offering to do it for you.
A little while goes on in excruciating silence. You're watching the raindrops trickle down the window and he's watching his breath control because he's driving, and he can't afford a crashout.
The rain also pisses him off, but your house isn't too far from school.
He can make it.
He gets out to open your door, offering his hand to help you out before opening the backseat to grab your backpack for you. "Hey.", he calls, as you sling it over your shoulder.
You turn. "Yeah."
Nate sighs, gesturing for you to come to him, holding his arm out, his fingers beckoning you, similar to this morning. He hugs you , kissing the top of your head as he streaks his hand through your hair. "You should've won."
"Thanks."
You're speaking to him like you're acquaintances. 'Thanks'. Eurgh, what the fuck. But he supposes he gets the same way when he's disappointed, and god knows how you deal with him then, so he can take this. "Pick you up at 7 on Saturday.", he adds, before he gets back in his car.
His deer's trotting away from him and it almost bothers him, but he'll be able to corner her at a lake all alone this weekend.
✎ᝰ ∿ headcanons between rue and the quiet girl behind the bar :p
♡⃕ ∿ rue bennet x bottle girl!reader
♡⃕ ∿ genre && warnings: fluff w/ some angst — al*mo mention h/j, strip club setting, rue vents a lot, y/n + rue see each other as friends, really good friends. lemme know if I miss anything
♡⃕ ∿ a/n: this is just the sfw version of them cause I wanna build them from the ground up. but I don’t mind dropping some suggestive hcs 😋
Ꮺ you weren’t trying to get to know rue bennet just as much as you didn’t wanna get to know anyone in silver slipper other than your clients
Ꮺ but after a somewhat disagreement with another dancer, rue couldn’t help but to inch herself closer and closer to you. keep her distance but also admire you without stirring up trouble between anyone, and it could genuinely be anyone
Ꮺ as much as she tried to keep away, especially under the surveillance of alamo, she decided to cave in and talk to you. you were a sort of mystery to her; not to figure out altogether but discover something
Ꮺ the two of you talked every now and then; between your clients, in small times between rue’s drop off. the convo stayed lighthearted, she didn’t wanna pour our herself into yet
Ꮺ until a day came where rue felt down and out; she looked lost, defeated, as if there’s no more roads to go. you had asked her what was going on and she told you that she’ll tell you after shift. you didn’t think it was possible since she’s usually gone by the time you go home but she was, standing next to the entrance door of silver slipper
Ꮺ she walked you to your car and explained herself, her whole life; her addiction, her family, her sudden ties to alamo. that night became emotional, vulnerable, heartwrenching, you felt nothing but sympathy and compassion for the young woman. you couldn’t bear to see her like that
Ꮺ rue asked if she can stay with you for a couple of days and you didn’t mind. the only rule you set for her was no drugs and no other company
Ꮺ days became weeks, weeks became months, and you’ve grown a deep love for rue. as if she was a close friend that you’ve known for longer than time existed. you two laughed, cried, ranted, screamed into the void, been spooked, went on mini road trips and learned more about each other (those were rue’s fav moments with you)
Ꮺ earlier times when rue moved in, you would find yourself taking care of you. not in a motherly way but somewhat as a caretaker; helping her wash her hair, teaching her how to style in it ways that suit her, get her into more hygiene products other than the basic knowledge. but you didn’t want to, nor desired to change her, you loved rue as she was
Ꮺ some of rue’s favorite time with you is going to the grocery store or laying on your lap as you scrolled on your laptop looking for new stuff to buy. you’ve also learned to not ask rue for shopping advice cause she’s your biggest enabler when it comes to spoiling yourself
Ꮺ as time pass, rue became clingy. at times when you were at work and she was left alone in her apartments, her thoughts would lean into heavier times of her life. fear, grief, and so much regret would wrap around her mind and the only thing she could do is just sit and ponder. she couldn’t call you to come home, for the purpose of you being at work and she had no energy to hear alamo’s mouth the next night
Ꮺ other times, rue would show her clinginess by other wrapping herself around you, purposefully leaving strands in your face, or being just inches away from your space. she would ask questions here and there to sound interested but genuinely, she just didn’t wanna be alone
Ꮺ your presence has consumed rue; wrapped up like strings and she has no intention of untying from it. your presence warms rue, makes her believe that maybe she deserves a life like this, a love like this
Ꮺ when you came home and rue was still stuck in her dark cloud of thoughts, you would kiss her forehead. you would caress her lovely curls and remind her that she’s okay, everything is gonna be okay :(
Ꮺ sometimes she would rant about it after she has calm down and other times, she would sit in silence. she’d go back to her favorite position of laying her head on your lap as you played with her curls; the two of you looking into space with nothing but silence and dimmed lights
Ꮺ at silver slipper, the two of you would joke around from time to time. rue would come up to you and talk mess about your clients and you would follow up with how much they tipped
Ꮺ the other girls suspected something sparking between the two of you but both of you denied it. you two were just really good friends, nothing more, nothing less
♡⃕ these are fr my babies. yall don’t understand ☹️☹️. I’ve had this thought for a while now and I really really wanna focus on these two
♡⃕ after finally finishing euphoria, I wanted to give rue a happier ending. as much damage that she did, she didn’t deserve to suffer or go out like that. lemme stop talking about her before i cry again
♡⃕ I hope you guys grow to love these two as much as i do 🫶🏾
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jennifer check. miles morales. patrick bateman. maddy perez. miguel o’hara.
𝘑𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘊𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬
★ She’s definitely grossed out, and immediately stays away from you for at least a few days.
★ Though she gives in, and finally comes to see you.
★ She acts annoyed, and is nonchalant with all of your sneezing and moans about how terrible you feel. But deep down, she’s so sad to see her precious baby so ill and tortured.
★ The least she’ll do for you, is go to the gas station and get you soup in a can. But first, she’ll have to seduce the cash register to let her get it for free.
★ When you ask her for anything else, she’ll reluctantly do it for you. As you feel sleepy, she’ll give in and give you a kiss goodnight.
𝘔𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘻
★ “Aww, poor baby.” She coos, while she rubs your hair.
★Whoever she was planning on hanging out with, like Cassie, Rue, or Feszco, she’s cancelling out on them, just for you.
★She goes into momma bear mode, and buys you some snacks, and make sure to take your temperature. You were so grateful for this, that you got such a beautiful, loyal, devoting girlfriend.
★ “Won’t Cassie be upset that you’re not there with her?” you asked.
★ “Cassie can handle a few minutes without me, tonight, it’s all about you.” She says, smirking her lips.
𝘔𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴
★ When you call him to tell him you’re sick, he immediately webslings over to your place, and goes to give you company.
★ He puts his hand above your head, and looks at you with such devotion.
★ “Won’t you get sick too?” You moan.
★ “Nahh, I won’t.” He chuckles.
★ For the whole day, he stays by your place, doing whatever you asked him too, from covering you with extra blankets, putting on your favorite anime, and just telling you the drama at school.
★ When it comes to saving the day, he has to make a choice between taking care of you, or saving Brooklyn.
★ “Miles.” You choke. “I’ll be fine— Go save Brooklyn.”
★ He sighs, before kissing the tip of your forehead and slinging away. “Call me if you need anything.” He calls, on the way out of your window.
𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘉𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯
★ Sends you $500 on cashapp, and texts you don’t talk to him when you feel better.
𝘔𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘖’𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢
★ When he hears of your sickness, he brings you to HQ, and carries you to the infirmary.
★ You complain that you want Miguel to be on your side, but he justifies that he has some multiverse work to do.
★ Eventually after many complains from Peter and Jess and you, he goes to visit you in the infirmary, and gives you a box of tissues, as well as some water.
★ He gives you some words of reassurance, trying to make you feel better at least. He makes sure that LYLA stays at your side, and tells him about your temperature.
★ When he takes his time off work, he goes by your side and caresses your face.
“Mig..” You groaned, then sneezed. “I.. I wanna feel better.”
He simply grunts.
“You’ll feel better, mi sol. LYLA and the doctors will take care of you. In the meantime, you need anything?”
You give him a cheeky look, and few minutes later, he comes back to your side with a bunch of teddy bears, soup bars, candy and chocolates, and a reaallll sour expression on his face.
A big thing Nate loved about your guy’s relationship is that fact he would always be bigger than you. He would always be your protector in the relationship. He’d come to your side when you needed him. He also enjoyed that fact he could just lift you and throw you as if your were a rag doll no matter your weight. Watch your eyes roll back as he coaches you through every inch. He loved it even more that his shirts were always to big for you as well.
nate jacobs x reader….maybe reader has a huge fight with maddy about how she “stole” nate from her so reader calls nate crying and he comes over and helps her forget about it😻‼️
okay before i start writing for jacob - i do NOTTTTTTTTT condone any of his actions and i accept that he IS ABSOLUTELY a shitty person with shitty morals!! by writing for him, i am not negating that in any way. i'm just writing for a sexy character that is also toxic. take that as you will.
the cotton of his v-neck scratches at his torso when he tugs it down, other hand pulling his phone off the bed to review the plethora of missed calls that flood his notification wall. annoyed, he tongues at his cheek when he goes to return a phone call, pressing the glass to his ear and stalking across his bedroom to shut the wooden door.
your warbled tone has him sighing when he eases onto his bed, free hand pinching at the bridge of his nose. "okay, okay, slow down," he admonishes. "i can't hear you when you talk like that."
your breath hitches, and he hears a hiccup and a sniffle before you continue. "maddy's mad at me," you croon with a cough. "she's so mad at me, and we keep fighting! i.. i knew this wasn't a good idea!"
nate's gaze drops to his sock-clad feet and he runs his palm over his forehead. "listen to me," he stops you, his tone icy. "you're mine. remember that. i'm going to come over, stay where you are. stop your crying too, it's hard to talk to you when you're in this mood."
