#fbnathaniel

Guilt.

It’s a word that means self-hatred is eating him alive, starting from deep within his body. It chews up his sense of pride, then spits it back in his face. It leaves his lungs burning from lack of air, his throat parched as a cracked desert ground, and his eyes welling with tears. It makes him shut his eyes tight because he wants the lights to go out, he doesn’t want to exist unless he can go back in time and stop himself from making such a stupid mistake.

He brushes the back of his hand across his nose as he sniffs, and his lower lip wobbles. Samuel forces himself to look at the ugly  gash on Nate’s arm. The medical kit in his hands shakes, slips from his fingers, and busts open on the floor.

“I-I didn’t mean it,” he says quietly. 

He drops to his knees and scoops up the fallen equipment. Disinfectant, a tube of slimy gel to keep out bacteria, some pain killers, and gauze strips. “You must hate me,” he says. “You...you don’t hate me, do you?”

His tired, yellow eyes plead for forgiveness.

“You’ll probably hate me more after this because it might sting a little” he sighs. He douses a cotton ball in disinfectant, then gently grabs Nathaniel’s arm. “Please, please just -- just hold still, I know it hurts.”

He dabs the gel around the edges of the wound, keeping each tap as light as possible. There are beads of sweat collecting on Nathan’s forehead, which Sam pats down with a tissue. If it weren’t for his shallow breathing, poor Nate could be mistaken for dead all slumped against the gymnasium wall. Samuel rifles through the kit for some baby wipes, figuring that they would feel cool against his friend’s skin.

So, he pulls a handful of baby wipes from the back, folds them, and presses them against Nathaniel’s forehead. “Just a few more seconds, then it’ll be bandaged up,” he says. His voice is so gentle -- so heavenly softspoken -- but he was anything but gentle a few minutes ago. 

Samuel hardly remembers what he’d done only moments ago. He only remembers bits and pieces of angry growls and clawing at someone to release his rage. It’s nothing but a mess in his mind.

He wraps the gauze tight around the wound.

send “_” for a text // accepting

Send “☎” for a RUSHED text. 

[ to hero complex : 12:14pm ]txt. u kno ive nv liked dogstxt. pls come to the grove rn!!!txt. there’s this big dogg??? nd im suretxt. its not sam!!11txt. studck in treetxt. hur

TEXT meme : accepting!

send a “✉“ for a text that wasn’t sent :

[txt: nate] we may not get along but i dont hate you *Deleted[txt: nate] maybe we could be friends *Deleted

send a “⁇” for a drunk text :

[txt: nate] sooooooooooooo dr8nk[txt: nate] patty hard maaaaaannn 1%!!

 send a “✘” for a hateful text :

Send “&” for a LOVING text.

text me! - acceptingcc to: @fbnathaniel

Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text.

Headcanons: accepting!!

Buckle up kiddies. It’s time for a ride. 

Marcello is innocent, but he’s not innocent. Marcello gets around a bit. He lets people use him and in return knows how to get what he wants. 

His promiscuous ways started shortly after Kaspian and Marcello ended their relationship and it all started at a party. Since them, Marcello has established himself as a fairly open and game guy. It doesn’t matter to him if you are a girl or a guy, as long as you’re willing to sleep with him or even get a little handsy, he’s alright with that. He’s good with reading people and can almost always tell when the situation has gone a little too far or what to do next. 

After sex, Marcello is the definition of a cuddler and likes it when people stick around, at least for a little bit and he never reads anything more into it unless explicitly said. 

To put it simply, he’s the master of the hang and bang. 

kiss status: accepting (and in hell) 

1: Hot, Steamy kiss

They’re not drunk– not by a long shot. Marci can’t hold his alcohol, but not even one shot is enough to get him even the slightest tipsy, so that’s probably why it’s so confusing that he’s here, pressed into the corner of some party. 

“I wonder if you’re as good as Ru.” There are giggles on his lips and he hooks a finger in the collar of his best friend’s shirt. “Or Alistair. He kisses pretty good too.” There’s the air of a challenge in his eye, but it’s all in good nature. All in the friendly sort of way that they get. Nate is no stranger to hearing about Marci’s hookups– in fact, he usually gets a play by play whether he wants to or not, if the hookup had been enough to even think twice about. (He’s heard about Rufious’s quite a few times, the poor guy.) 

In retrospect, it did sound like he was putting Nate up to a kiss and maybe he was, just a little, but it was all in good fun, there was a side to this friendship that ventured a little past that, but it wasn’t anything serious and that’s why it worked. 

That’s why Marci so easily grow pliant under the fingers digging into the back of his neck and his own hands were clutched in the soft fabric of the taller’s shirt. 

It wasn’t a sweet kiss, it wasn’t kind. It was open mouthed, wet and just a little bit dirty, the kind that could be felt in the pit of your stomach. 

When there was finally an pushing urge to gasp in some air, Marci smacked his lips together and looked thoughtful, much to the other’s curiosity. 

{ i want the k : romantic kiss }

books always talked about the artist who slaved for hours over his muse, who looked on for hours and admired and created ; no one wrote about how the muse look at him, too. camille thought it endearing, the way nathaniel’s face would look whenever his gaze was drawn to the pad, how entrancing it was to see his hands move about and create art.

not that camille couldn’t do the same -- she just hadn’t been on the muse side of things. maybe, on this side of the canvas, there were other things to admire, too.

and she had found herself beside him, looking at his artwork, wondering quietly if she truly looked like this. they were too close for comfort, and from here camille could see him more clearly, like he was more real than he was when he was busy with his work. 

“you’ve painted me more beautifully than i actually am,” camille told him again, laughing as muses do -- lips curling up slightly, and not enough to break the view. when he turns his head she can smell his aftershave, and the light hint of mint from his mouth. 

she let a gentle beat pass before kissing him as softly as she smiled, and pulled away just as quietly.