#jock boy

A/N: This is my first time doing something like this! Nate is one of the people in my paracosm, and as with everyone else, is loosely based on people in my own life. I hope you enjoy <3

Content: Reader is female, mentions of smoking/vaping

You weren’t entirely sure you would ever believe you were dating Nate.

Some part of your head still associated him with the stereotype he and his friends had nurtured over the years, even before you had moved to Crescent City.

You remembered the caricature painted for you in your first few years going to Crescent City High—‘Don’t talk to the popular boys, they’re bad news.’ Sure, it wasn’t like Nate’s friends were angels, but they sure weren’t much worse than any of the other boys in your grade. Stereotypes didn’t actually matter if you just saw humans and not characters.

The stereotype was well-noted. Popular jocks. Ego and arrogance. Knockoff designer clothes and cheap cologne.

But Nate—he was one of the few in the group you had genuinely saw the appeal in. He had stormy grey eyes that really ‘looked’ at you—they bore into you, assessing you. He had rich dark hair that contrast to the pearly cool white of his skin. Strong jawline, delicate eyelashes. He walked with a cocky swagger that didn’t even feel learned—it was cute, in a way, like when you see a K-9 unit, far too adorable to truly be intimidating despite circumstances.

Your first year you pretty much avoided him at all costs, for fear of rumors, or whatever. Him and his friends felt like storybook characters, their struggles weren’t real to you at the time, their lives. Just rowdy football boys who talked to loud and took up too much space.

The first summer is when you really noticed him. Those last few weeks of school of freshmen year—a strange mix of clamoring upperclassmen stressing over wrapping up academics and unruly freshman skipping classes to mess around in the quad.

The weather was summery, sun shining far too warmly for your school with its nonexistent AC. He wore t-shirts that showed off his lean muscle. He got a buzzcut, which you’d swore to your friends you thought was gross, gossiping about it—but in a way, it was pretty, in a strange boyish way you’d never considered. Ebony hair glittered with reddish auburn streaks in the summer sun, shorn close to the scalp to protect from the heat. You’d never found anyone attractive with a buzzcut before, but Nate was different.

Now his hair is longer again, unruly black waves that won’t cooperate under any circumstances. It doesn’t matter what kind of haircut he gets. He’d still be about as ugly as a Renaissance painting in your eyes.

He acts like that jock boy stereotype, at least around most people, in school—despite not even playing football anymore. He doesn’t yell at teachers or throw parties with loud bass. He never did. He just walks his shoulders squared, jaw set, eyebrows furrowed a little, eyes pointedly staring—the way all those boys walk, like they’re expecting to fight somebody.

With his friends he’s relaxed. He walks normally. He laughs and he smiles, those little dimples on display—the sweet curl the corners of his lips make when he’s trying not to grin.

With you? He presses kisses to your forehead, combs his fingers through your hair. Fixes your bra strap so it’s not showing in public. Zips up your backpack so your notebook doesn’t fall out.

He lies on your chest, staring up at you—those grey eyes looking less like a soldier’s and more like a puppy’s, shiny and adoring. Something about his vulnerability with you makes you fall in love a little more every time. He shows you both of his sides, and you love every facet and every angle.

He whispers poetry in your ears and he’ll blast rap with his windows rolled down. He says he likes how you taste like tea cigarettes when he only has the tendrils of mint vape ghosting off his lips. He reads you John Steinbeck novels until you fall asleep on his chest, and he plays Xbox with his friends and a headset.