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etherealily · 1 day

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𝟡 𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕤 // Nate Jacobs.

Nate Jacobs + Fem!reader. Darker. SFW, but discretion advised.

Part 1 : Whiplash (thanks for the love on there)

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : You should be grateful.

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He wasn't supposed to text you. He was supposed to take the beating you'd given him for being a prick, like a man, and shut the fuck up about it.

But here you were, midnight, staring at the chat that had started it all.

'yo, u up?'

You rolled your eyes, going back to your scrolling.

'I hate seenzoners.'

You liked his message.

'That's so much worse.'

'The fuck do u want?'

Nate Jacobs sent a voice message.

You could have just ignored it. You could just block him. You could just… stop. But the allure was far too much. The urge of finding out what he wanted was too strong.

"Guess where I am."

He could've just texted that. No need for a voice message, but he was Nate Jacobs.

"I don't know, the psych ward?"

"You wanna know? You'll have to drive and follow my instructions, though. You trust me enough for that?"

Ha. No fucking chance. "No, I'm good, thanks."

"Oh, so you'll text me, but won't see me in person?"

His voice was oddly sultry, as if he'd either just woken up or hadn't slept for days. Most likely the second one.

"Bingo. Go to sleep, Jacobs."

And then he sent you a picture of him from the bleachers of your school's football stadium - how the fuck did he get in?

"C'mon, don't you want to see what our school looks like at night?"

Uh, yes. But with him? No.

"It's 12:05, ASSHOLE. No fucking way."

"This is the scene where you cave and meet me and we have a cute little nighttime school montage where we sit and talk about life."

You listened to that message a good four times before you stopped laughing.

"This is the scene where I block you."

"I will come over if you don't come to the school. Uh, y'know, if you want your parents to think you're fooling around with the QB."

"I will literally shoot you if you come within fifty feet of my house."

"Come. I'll make it worth your while."

Was it possible to hear smirks?

"I'm not coming, Nate."

No way he was actually at the high school. It was probably an insanely good edit.

"You will be."

The FUCK was that supposed to mean? Not like he could force you to show up.

"Wanna bet?"

"Sure. Fifty bucks says you show up to the high school tonight."

"Not blowing fifty bucks on anything, even if I do win."

"What's it going to take for you to come? Look, I-I know it's been weird, and I might've scared you, but that's… that wasn't my intention, I swear."

Yeah, his intention was just to show you what his blood looked like. You liked his message once more, rolling your eyes.

"Dude, seriously, I swear, I'm not like, a serial killer or anything. You can bring pepper spray, a taser, whatever, if it makes you feel better. I'm just- okay, fuck, you're right. Dumb idea, trying to convince you like this."

Wait, okay, good. That was good. He was getting the message.

Another voice message.

"I forgot who I was talking to. You leave me no choice."

"What?" No.

And then, you received a video. He was teetering off the edge of the top-most row of bleachers. With a gun at his head.

"Come on, Y/N, this is getting really sad, that the only way I can grab your attention is by almost killing myself."

"I don't care. Do whatever. Not falling for it this time."

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"FUCK!", you yelled, as you found yourself running frantically through the school football field for the second time in two weeks.

You'd actually kept your word for a while, pushing out every Nate-related thought for a good night's sleep - you didn't fall for it.

Until McKay called and informed you that Nate wasn't picking up his phone - and that his last message was something along the lines of : 'Call Y/N if you don't hear from me in the next couple of minutes'.

He was deranged. Playing Russian Roulette with his own life was absolutely deranged.

"You actually showed."

GOOD, he was still alive, meaning you could kill him.

You didn't speak. That would simply complicate things, because then you'd have to look at him.

"Plus, you didn't flinch when you saw me. Think that's a win for me in the trust department."

You stood there, glaring at him as he jumped down from the bleachers, even doing that dangerously, as if he was a cat with nine lives, or he was playing a video game and would just respawn.

"You know, you could say something."

He wasn't getting impatient, though, like his tone was trying to portray. No, he was getting more amused. He liked this. He liked the fact that he got you to come to a basically abandoned-for-the-holidays-high school at midnight. He reveled in it.

"Like hey, Nate, thanks for convincing me to actually live a little for a change instead of staying cooped up in my house.", he suggested.

You punched him.

Yeah. You kept running across that field till you were close enough and you punched him right then and there.

You full-on punched him, shoved him back, slapped him, clawed at him. "Stop FUCKING doing this to me! STOP! You can't FUCKING do this to me!", you screamed, hitting him repeatedly on his chest.

He took every beating, and the fact that it seemed he was trying not to laugh just egged you on even more to actually kill him, make his nose bleed, make his head fall clean off his egotistical body.

Eventually, though, it seemed even Nate Jacobs had his limit. He grappled against your hands as he held them between both your chests, clenching his jaw. He wouldn't risk saying anything, seeing as your eyes were already burning with tears.

"You…", you cried out as he shifted his grip on your hands to only one hand, wrapping the other around you. "…Can't keep…"

"Shh, shh, I know.", he muttered as he rested his chin on your head. "Shh, I had to."

"No, you didn't."

He kissed your head, then your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, and stopped for a moment, hovering over your lips but not touching them, as though he was more scared than you were. "You know I did."

You wondered if he could taste the tears, whether he relished it. Knowing what little you did of him, he might have.

"I would've come."

"No, you wouldn't have. Shh." He was right, but there had to be some other way.

"You know what, sweetheart?"

It was sickening how he could do this to you and then use words of endearment against you.

"You should actually be grateful."

And that's when you noticed that he was actually gripping onto your hair, tightening it when your face didn't show any contortion due to pain (only contortion due to unbridled rage and the urge to stab him with your car keys).

"I usually hurt people to get what I want. With you, I'm hurting myself."

You fought the urge to say 'so fucking what?'

"You're not bleeding, baby, that's what you don't get. You're untouched, and safe, and not bleeding. Me, however?"

What was his point? That he was being a gentleman by scaring you half to death instead of having a normal adult conversation?

"I'm bleeding. I'm hurt. I'm in pain. But I'm still holding you."

He said it with exaggerated magnanimity, like he was doing you a favour, or something, like all your problems, trauma, worries, stress, had just disappeared because he was holding you in his 'big strong arms'.

"Then stop!"

"Neither of us wants me to stop holding you."

"I do."

He grinned, knowingly, with a subtle shake of his head. "No, you don't."

"Let me go."

"No."

"Let me go, Nate."

"Fine. Because you called me Nate and not Jacobs.", he nodded, letting go of you and throwing up his arms. "Don't hit me again."

"Was McKay in on this?"

He frowned momentarily, before realization swept over his face. "Shit. Yeah, no, he wasn't. I should text him, huh?"

Oh, now he was asking if he should be a courteous human being?

You watched him loathingly, as he typed out what you guessed was a half-assed apology.

'Sorry, McKay, I'm good, man. Chicks, y'know?' or some absolutely fucked up shit like that, to be sure.

"Done. Now, will you stop being so square and enjoy the fact that you're here at school at midnight?"

"What?" Enjoy?

"I'll bet this is your first time out at midnight period, let alone your first time out at midnight somewhere you're not legally supposed to be."

"Why am I here?"

The condescending look he gave you set your teeth on edge. 'Oh, poor, naive girl. Of course she doesn't even know why she's here. This is why I told her to stay in my grasp. She never listens.'

FUCKING ASSHOLE.

"You're my good luck charm. My good luck charm, but I heard you're fucking Shane. You can't be doing that."

The softness in his movements, the gentleness, it had either completely stopped, or entirely overshadowed the fact that he had put you through yet another nerve-wracking event that would raise your blood pressure.

Shane who, Shane who, Shane- oh. Shane.

Not so much fucking as went on one date with, but it was better for everyone if Nate thought you had already gone that far.

"Why not?"

"He's a punk."

"You're one to talk."

"Look, he plays defense. What if you're just, like, intensely fortunate? Can't have him sneak in a quickie before the game and then he's lucky."

It's like he wanted you to punch him again.

"He's on your team. You'll win anyway."

He shrugged, as though he could see where you were coming from, but was about to respectfully absolutely ruin your argument.

"I like to win."

"Not a team player, are you?"

"Never claimed to be."

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He was so clearly getting frustrated with your lack of response - the initial dopamine and thrill of being a disgusting element of surprise by shooting/not-shooting himself in the head gone.

But what could you say?

You'd already ghosted Shane after the date had tanked, so technically there was no reason for you to still be here. The chances of a 'lucky quickie' were virtually zero.

And so, you just stood there, the two of you, with inexplicable rage pooling within.

Your senses were heightened, your emotions wilder than the crazed look in your eyes as he stood there, looking down at you like an adult looking down at their childhood toy. As if you were the naivest, most precious, pathetically adorable thing he owned, reminding him of a simpler time.

At this point, even a rabbit's foot had been treated with more respect than you.

And you hated every moment of it because it was thrusted upon you, just like the silence of the eerie, void-like field you two were in.

"Why are you like this, Y/N?", he groaned, with the nerve to sound tired.

You? Why were you like this? What about him?

"You're… so cold." His hands flexed as if they were about to move from your hair to your throat. "Just… let loose, please. You're the reason I'm winning, I'd at least like to get to know you!"

"Oh, so this is like, an interview? Is she good enough to be associated with me? You think you're hot shit? Dude, I- you gotta realize how fucked up all of this is."

You were practically pleading. Acknowledge your absurdity, Nate Jacobs, please.

"Hey, whoa, look, you chose to associate yourself with me. Not my problem, ok?", he spat back, clearly happy with the return of banter.

"I didn't choose any of this!"

"You requested to follow me after I followed you. You chose not to block me after I followed you."

"You're putting this all on me?"

That's what normal people do ; they follow people back! He was grasping at straws, but it still seemed as though he had an iron grip on them.

"There wouldn't have been a first time if you didn't care so goddamn much." Like he was mocking you. You almost screamed. You almost hit him. He was so nonchalant.

But that… rang true. However, the humanitarian in you was adamant that there was absolutely no one cold enough to shrug off a video of someone slicing so effortlessly into their palm and exposing their blood so unabashedly.

Well, except Nate Jacobs himself.

"But, y'know what, Y/N?", he said, clearing his throat, matter-of-factly. "That's all in the past. Because now, now, we're going to sort out this arrangement between us and everything will go back to normal."

Normal? Normal as in, both of you go back to being strangers? Unlikely.

"Arrangement?"

"How this thing is going to go. Before every game, you fist-bump me. You don't touch any other players whatsoever, Blackhawk or otherwise."

Great, he was policing who you could fist-bump now.

"I- you brought me here at midnight for this?"

"Uh, no, I brought you here at midnight for fun.", he replied, scoffing. "But since you wanted to be all violent and physical, I thought we should stick to business."

Did he mean to be this insufferable? Was it a bit? There was no way an actual human being could act like this, yes? There was no way anyone could think that this was a justifiable response to a genuine question. Right?

At this point, you didn't know anymore.

Nate Jacobs had officially stumped you.

"If I say okay, can I leave?"

"No, you cannot leave, but you definitely can go sit over there and think about your little attitude before I bring out the tequila."

He burst out laughing at your annoyed face, slinging a heavy arm around your shoulder in an oddly possessive display of 'familiarity'.

"Relax. Loosen up, like I said, and you'll be fine.", he snorted, and that was your only indication that he did not, in fact, actually wish to put you into time-out.

The insane man with a gun had a sense of humour, apparently.

"You brought tequila?"

"I told you, the whole point of tonight was fun and getting to know the reason I'm winning better. So, sit."

You sat, still glaring up at him. You must have looked absolutely fucking cute or something, because he pouted at you before reaching into a duffle bag you hadn't noticed before and whipping out two bottles of straight tequila.

"Body shots?"

"Jacobs…"

"I'm joking, I'm joking. You'll come around soon, though. They all do."

Great. That's brilliant. You'd been reduced from a stranger, to a bitch, to a joke, to now a stereotype. This was just spectacular.

"Why me?"

That question seemed to genuinely catch him off-guard.

Good. Now he knows what this past week with him has been like.

"Hm?'

"Why me? Why am I the good luck charm?"

"I don't know."

"You could just be a really good player. You don't know, you haven't gone a single game without it, so you assume you're winning because of it."

"The third game was the one you weren't there for. You must remember hearing about it, though? Most embarrassing game for East Highland, I swear. 34-nil? That was shameful. That's why I decided, fourth game onwards, I wouldn't have to risk it because I got you."

Shit. That actually made sense.

"Okay, now you tell me.", he began, slightly turning the bottle in his hand around and examining the contents, curiously. "Shane Crestin? Seriously?"

"What?"

He scoff-snickered, taking an impressively large gulp before answering. "Y/N, the guy's a tool."

Look who's talking.

"He asked me out after the game."

"So, he knows you're my good luck charm.", he said, quietly, like a king trying to figure out where his men's loyalties lay.

Did Julius Caesar have a girl who he gaslit in order to get her to watch him in battle because of superstition? If so, she'd have been the first to stab him.

"Of course he knows, you made a huge spectacle of it that first time."

"Oh, yeah. But still, what a bastard. Trying to steal my lucky girl and her luck like that."

You needed to do a lobotomy on this man, seriously.

It wasn't even like you could ask him what the hell that meant because that would just bring him immense amounts of joy.

"You're not drinking. Why?", he inquired, opening the second bottle and forcing it to your lips.

You frowned as you held onto it. "I don't drink."

"Oh, bullshit. Come on, drink, don't be a nerd."

"I said no, okay?"

"Wait, do you not want to drink around me?"

He was really going above and beyond to break the 'dumb jock' stereotype, wasn't he?

"I can't believe it.", he continued, leaning back on the bleachers as he watched your face. "After all this, you don't trust me."

After all this, he said, as if he had spent his entire life working solely for your benefit. Like a tired mentor.

"I mean, dude, this is like… such a bitch move, you know that? I'm just trying to be nice."

"I don't know what you want me to do, Nate."

"Uh, trust me? Thought we were cool now, Y/N. You think I'm going to get you blackout drunk then have my way with you? Rape you? Are you scared to be around me? At midnight? In a quiet, empty football stadium where no one would think to look for you?", he questioned, still holding your gaze as he lifted his bottle to his mouth.

The elaboration of that statement unnerved you.

"I don't think you're going to rape me, I'm just-"

"Just scared of the possibility?"

"Don't take it personal, but-"

"There's no other way to take it. You're all but accusing me of assault. I thought you were different."

Was that meant to make you melt? 'Oh, no, I'm just like everyone else in that I don't want to end up in a ditch somewhere, the horror!'

"Maybe I'm not.", you shrugged.

"But you came. Tonight. No one else would have. So maybe you're a judgmental bitch like everyone else, but you've at least got your stupidly huge heart going for you."

If you strained your ears, that almost sounded like a compliment.

"Uh, thanks?"

"Drink, Y/N. Please."

Oh, fuck it. You needed that goddamn tequila to shoot through you with a vengeance.

"There we go.", he mumbled, watching you. "Dude, look at you."

"Hm?"

"You're finally badass."

His eyes lit up as he saw your finger enter the scene. He chuckled for a moment. "I'm being serious. I mean, you've beaten me up, what, three times so far - once in front of the entire school - and now you're doing underage shots with me at night at school, which is like, two illegal things at the same time."

See, that's where the difference between the two of you lay.

He thought that was being a badass.

You thought that was being a dumbass.

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"…So yeah. That's why I joined football, basically. Made me feel, like, stronger and more in control, I guess."

This asshole had just told the most human story, and now you had to see him as a person. The cunt.

You watched as he stood in the middle of the field, aiming and shooting at the banners that were strewn up all around the field.

God, he was so fucking terrifying.

How does he play Russian Roulette to bait you into coming one minute and then reload and shoot at banners like a child with his first Nerf the next?

"Control. Yeah, that tracks."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You want everything to go your way. You get pissed when other people do things of their own will."

"Can't argue with that.", he shrugged, as he turned his back to you and shot another banner, impressively shooting right in the centre of the 'O' in a 'GO BLACKHAWKS!' sign. "You know how to shoot?"

"No."

"You should learn."

"I'll get right on that.", you scoffed, as you observed your tequila bottle intensely, ignoring him coming back to rest his feet on the bleachers from your peripheral vision.

"Open your mouth."

"What?"

"Humour me."

"I've humoured you enough tonight."

"Please? Pretty please?"

You rolled your eyes, but opened your mouth. You had no idea what you expected, but it sure as hell was not him stuffing the barrel of his gun in there. You suddenly felt the tequila evaporating from your bloodstream as he slapped your hands away after you tried taking it out, like anyone would. Shit, it hurt. FUCK.

"Just relax.", he whispered, so soothingly that he might as well have been talking you through a panic attack. "There's nothing to be scared of."

Besides the hot gun you've got basically lodged up my throat.

Suddenly, the amount of danger you really were in began to materialize in your head. He was right. It was midnight. It was spring break. It was at high school. No one would think to look for you there.

"Are you scared?"

Oh, God. He was one of those freaks who got off on these things.

You nodded, not really knowing what else to do.

"You think I'll shoot you?"

You shook your head.

"Kill you?"

You shook your head.

"Then why are you scared?"

Honestly, it was the fact that he wasn't going to do either of those things, and decided to shove a gun down your throat simply for shits and giggles.

"You need more tequila."

WHAT?

You frowned, but nodded. Anything to get the gun out of your mouth.

He poured it straight from the bottle into your mouth, watching with sick satisfaction as you swallowed, and you realized that he was psychotically drunk.

"How's that? I do it all the time, y'know? Hot metal plus cold tequila equals the best fucking night ever."

Um, ew. No. But that would be super unwise to say.

"You shove a gun down your throat then take a shot?"

"One of my more dangerous drinking games, yes. God, dude, look at you. Like, you're so fucking uptight, loosen THE FUCK up!"

You were unsure how much 'looser' you could get - you were already going along with his 'dangerous drinking game'.

"I am!"

"Not enough. Not even close. You need more."

"We're all out.", you said, (thankfully) pointing at the empty duffle bag next to him.

"Oh.", he sighed, slumping down next to you and using the duffle bag as a pillow. "Just- I don't get it. What is it about you?"

"That makes you get suicidal?"

He snorted, softly. "That makes me so mad?"

"You're mad?"

"Not like angry-mad. I mean like… crazy-mad. Like I go mad around you."

Five-year-olds could explain things better than him, but, to his credit, he was shitfaced.

"Really? Thought you were born that way."

"I mean, last week? When I kissed you? I don't do that shit. But it was the only way to shut you up. I-ugh. It's you, Y/N. Just fucking up my brain, one game at a time."

"Oh, oh, so you being a psychopath is because I didn't show up to one game?"

"When you're constantly worried about someone needing to be there, you do crazy things. Like cut yourself. I would have done it, too, seriously."

"I know. That's why I came."

"So, we weren't entirely strangers, huh? You knew me a little, at least?"

"Uh, no, we were definitely strangers."

"Now? What are we now?"

"Uh… friends?" You didn't mean that. You wouldn't be his friend if it killed you.

"No, I think I'd know it if we were friends." Phew.

"So, you tell me."

"What? No, you've been in charge this whole time, you tell me."

He just said you'd been in charge.

One offhanded, sweeping statement, and he'd shifted all the blame on you as easy as pie.

How did he do that?

It was obvious what he was referring to: the fact that none of these interactions would have happened if you just hadn't given a shit in the first place.

The fact that every single move of his had been linked to you, in whatever this weird everybody (except you) ante, sketchy poker game he was playing was supposed to be.

And it unnerved you.

Because in some twisted way, it was true.

"Acquaintances."

"But we've kissed.", he reminded, diligently and unwantedly. "Acquaintances - and classmates, before you suggest that - don't just kiss."

"Dude, then what do you want to be?"

Shit. That was what he'd wanted all along. For you to ask in exasperation, to give you his interpretation.

"You know, just… an average relationship between a man and his good luck charm." He inched closer, his hand loosening its grip on the railing as if it was going to do something, but there was no more tequila to reach out for.

There was only you.

And reach, he did.

First, his hands were on your cheek, like they had been a half hour ago. Then, suddenly, they were in your hair, and his tongue was trying to coax your words out of you directly from the source.

And you just let it happen.

If anyone knew why you let it happen, you'd have loved to start a suggestion box.

But you had a funny feeling that the only person who knew why was Nate Jacobs himself.

Fat chance he'd tell you.

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