Enemies
Ftm!nat x mtf reader!
Warnings: nat has a (p3n1s!) And reader has a v4gin@, enemies to lovers (kinda off? Secret lovers), crash event, smoking (weed consumition!), Smut!. (Just leetimg you all know, english is not my first language, thanks!).
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The plane hummed beneth your feet, you were looking out at the clouds, you were the new girl in the team, everyone was cool with you expect nat.
Nat sat a few seats ahead of you, headphones of his mp3 on, pretending not to notice you. But you could feel it, in the way he looks at you everytime you laugh or try and join to a comversation, his eyes flicked towards you, sharp and irritated.
You weren't sure what you have done to piss him off.
You shiffed in your seat hugging your jacket and feel someone sit beside you look at your rigth and saw van
"Don't let nat freak you out, he's like that" Van says with a warm smile as you look at her.
"Im not freak out" you lie, forcing a smile, since you were nerveous about...everything happening.
"Uh-Huh" Van said, clearly not buying it "if he gives you trouble, tell me. I'll bite him"
You snorted softly, and Van grinned before going back to her seat besides a sleeping taissa, you glance forward and notice nat eyes on you, you look down embarrased before shiffting im your seat geting comfortable enough, closing your eyes, you softly draft to sleep.
You were woken up by some of the girls screaming while others cried, confused you look around, noticing the oxygen mask, you tried to put it on with shaky hands before your head hitted the seat in front of you, you tried screaming but everything went black.
You don't know how long you were out, when you opened your eyes, you look around you seeing the seats broken, a tree has broken his way inside the plane and...blood all over the plane, with shaky hands you crawl yourself out of the seat and soon you notice the flames, your eyes widen as you got up, wincing as your leg hurted but the adreline didn't let you feel it.
Slowly you went out of the plane, as the sun blinds you and your ears soon heard the girls and some of them crying, yelling as you walk closer to them.
The first person to saw you was van, she had a smile as she wraps her arms around you in a warm hug almost taking you to the floor as you wince a little as she breaks the hugged worried
"What's wrong?" She ask unsure as she checks you and notice a long wound in your calf and blood pouring out of it.
"I'm fine" You asurre her with a smile as you walk around a little globby as before you all hear a scream, everyone rush to the scream and notice couch scott leg was between the plane wing and the floor.
Misty decided to cut his leg out and you almlst throw up seeing how it breaked and the screams of couch scott, maked your stomach go down.
You sit around a little campfire misty made as the nigth was closing in, everyone stared taking care of others wounds hours after the campfire and bury the persons that died including travis dad.
"I'm sure the plane has an emergency transmitter sending out a distress signal. They'll be here to rescue us by morning", Shauna said
"Still", Jackie spoke up. "Maybe we should conserve some food? In case they don't get here until later in the day?"
"You wanna save the corn nuts?" Van sniped.
Nobody had a response to her, and the group fell into silence. The night dragged on for a little while, until Taissa spoke up.
"You okay, Laura Lee?"
Natalie looked over, and to her surprise, the fullback was crying
Laura Lee's lip wobbled. "This is all my fault."
"What?" You ask looking at her.
"I did something really bad."
Everyone looked confused until Laura Lee clarified it for them.
"I kept screwing up in my piano lesson last week. Mrs Brophy kept yelling at me. 'Sharp. F Sharp. F Sharp.' I just... I couldn't take it anymore."
She sniffled. "So I called her a bad word. Just in my head, but... God heard me. Now we're all being punished."
Snrrt. Natalie saw you turn your head away from her, and he knew you were trying not to laugh. he stuffed down his own giggle, and he could see Van was trying to do the same. Even Jackie was shifting around with her head down.
"What did you call her?" Taissa asked her.
Laura Lee hesitated. "Cunt."
There was a pause, as everybody stared at Laura Lee. Then You finally burst out laughing, and it was though a floodgate had broken, as everyone rolled around on the ground, holding their sides.
Then Lottie started talking. "I steal shitty clothes from T.J. Maxx."
There was a pause.
"What?" Van asked.
"I return them, and I get credit that I never use, and I have thousands of dollars in T.J. bucks."
"I, uh..." Jackie began, as Natalie saw Misty light a branch on fire, and start to walk away. "I used to sneak downstairs after everybody had gone to bed and watch the Color of Night so I could pause it on Bruce Willis' wang."
Natalie was laughing so hard now, it actually hurt.
"That is definitely why we crashed", Taissa said to Jackie.
"I mean", the team captain shrugged. "Jeff's not bad, but... damn, right?"
Silence fell again, and the laughter dissipated.
Jackie nudged Shauna. "What about you, Shipman? Any secrets big enough to crash a goddamn plane?"
You could feel shauna uncomfortable look so you step in
"I have one" you say looking at them, a blush softly colorated your cheeks pink a thing natalie notice "ahmm last week, we were doing some drills and out of nowhere, without warning i got my period"
You look down embarrased "i panicked and went to the bathroom"
"Okay, that's nothing bad to be embarrased" Van said while looking at you
"Yeah, i know i just...i didn't had anything with me, no pads, no spare underwear" You felt everyone eyes on you curious and confused about what you did
"I stole taissa's panties" You admit as your cheeks blush red and everyone laugthed everyone but not taissa
"You did WHAT?" She ask before a laugther fills the woods as she shooks her head.
The next morning taissa went out looking for water after a few hours waiting, taissa come back saying she founded a lake and a little house in the woods, you all started preparing everything to carry coach scott and the things you had before going into the lake filling bottles of water and into the house.
The cabin was filled of dust and smoke as you explore it, natalie founded a rifle and coach scott decided to do some tests to see who will go hunting coach scott decided that you and nat would be the ones going hunting.
You follow him into the trees. No words. That's the game — in front of them, you're the one who bitches about him taking the last of the granola bars, and he's the one who calls you useless when you can't start a fire. You throw names at each other like rocks. *Faggot. Bitch. Worthless.* The team flinches every time. Coach Martinez used to pull you aside separately, told you both to grow up.
If he only knew.
The wreckage of the plane sits a half-mile out, a gash of twisted metal through the pines. The fuselage is split open like a rib cage, seats spilled across the moss, the cockpit crumpled against a boulder. It smells like fuel and pine and something metallic you're trying not to think about.
Nat ducks inside through a gap in the aluminum. You follow.
The cabin is dim, angled wrong, the floor slanted thirty degrees. Light cuts through a crack in the ceiling, dust swimming in it. He drops his bag and pulls out a joint — crushed at one end, but intact.
"Found it in Laura's bag," he says, reading your look. "She won't miss it."
"Yeah, sure it was in her bag" you say with a cocky smile as he replays with a smile.
He lights it, takes a drag, holds it out to you. "You coming or what?"
You take it. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.
The first hit burns clean down your chest, that familiar looseness spreading through your ribs. You sink onto a torn seat, the fabric damp with something you don't inspect. Nat settles across from you, knees almost touching yours.
The joint makes its way back and forth until your head is soft and the wreckage doesn't look like a tomb anymore, just a strange cave with windows. Nat's eyes are glassy. His tongue wets his lower lip.
"We shouldn't," you say. It's what you always say.
"Probably not." He reaches for you anyway. His hand finds your jaw, thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Tell me to stop."
You don't.
He kisses you like he's been holding his breath since the crash. Hard and desperate, his fingers curling into your hair, pulling you forward until your knees knock together on the slanted floor. You taste smoke on his tongue. You taste *him* — that sharp edge he shows nobody else.
Your hands find his jacket, the zipper rough under your fingers. He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank it off, then his flannel, then his undershirt. His chest is lean, the faint scars beneath his collarbones pale in the dim light. You trace one with your thumb. He catches your wrist, holds it there.
"Don't," he says. Not hard. Just... still.
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something worth keeping."
You push him backward onto the slanted floor, climb into his lap. The heel of your palm presses against his sternum, and you can feel his heart beating rabbit-fast through bone.
"You're an idiot, Scatorccio."
"Your idiot."
He says it like a dare. Like he's waiting for you to laugh.
You don't laugh.
Your mouth finds his throat, and he groans, head falling back against the torn upholstery. His hands slide up your thighs, under the hem of your shirt, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. You roll against him and his breath catches.
"Yeah," he grits out. "Right there."
You work his belt open one-handed. He's already hard when you wrap your fingers around him — thick and hot, the head slick against your palm. His hips twitch upward, a sound punched out of his chest that's almost embarrassingly loud in the quiet cabin.
"Fuck, Nat."
"Keep going."
You stroke him slow, watching his face — the way his jaw goes slack, the way his eyes lose focus, the way he bites his own lip to keep quiet. You want him louder. You want him to stop pretending for once.
"I need to be inside you," he says. It's not a request.
You strip out of your jeans, your underwear. The air is cold against your thighs, but the heat between you is furnace-hot when he pulls you back into his lap, his cock pressing against your cunt. You're already wet. You're always wet for him.
He looks at you. That question he never says out loud.
You nod.
He pushes in slow — an inch, then another, the stretch burning sweet, your nails raking down his shoulders. His hands find your ass, guiding you down onto him until you're seated flush against his hips, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing like you've been drowning and finally broke the surface.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, you feel —"
"Move."
He does.
He fucks you hard and desperate on the slanted floor of a dead plane, surrounded by the bodies of people who didn't make it, and you don't care. You don't care about any of it — the cold, the fear, the noise of the crash still rattling in your skull — you just care about the way his hands grip your hips, the way he looks up at you like you're the only thing in this wilderness that makes sense.
You ride him until your thighs burn, until his breathing goes ragged and his grip goes bruising, until he gasps your name like it costs him something.
"Come on," you murmur, rolling your hips. "Come on, I want it."
His orgasm hits him like the crash — sudden, violent, his whole body shuddering beneath you, his face pressed into your neck as he spills inside you. The heat of it pushes you over, and you follow him, clenching around him, your cry swallowed by his mouth.
He stays inside you after. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you down onto his chest.
The plane is quiet. Dust drifts through the shaft of light.
He pulls out slowly, gently. You wince at the loss. His hand is already there, pressing against your thigh.
"Lie down."
You stretch out on your back against the angled floor. The metal is cold through your shirt. He finds his bag, pulls out a rag — damp, clean-ish — and kneels between your legs.
His touch is soft now. Nothing like the grip that'll bruise your hips. He wipes you clean with careful strokes, checking your face every few seconds. When he's done, he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then your other knee.
"You okay?"
"Yeah."
He finds your underwear, helps you step into them. Then your jeans. Each movement deliberate, like he's putting something back together.
When you're dressed, he curls up beside you on the torn seats, his arm around your waist, his nose pressed to the back of your neck.
"We should get back," you say.
"In a minute."
"Someone'll notice."
"Let them."
You close your eyes. The joint is still smoldering on the floor, a thin ribbon of smoke rising toward the broken ceiling. Outside, the wind moves through the pines. The mountain hums with that terrible stillness of a place that doesn't care whether you live or die.
But here, in the wreck of everything, his arms around you are warm.
*Give it five more minutes*, you tell yourself.
You give it twenty.
