McDiaz crumbs on this FINE DAY??????? I am going to fucking cry, I miss them so fucking much. PLEASE I NEED THEIR THIRD FIGHT i will sell my soul and my left liver
Conor McGregor x Nate Diaz RPF
tags: denial of feelings, pining, no beta, character study, rivals to lovers
Nate Diaz insists â often, loudly, and with conviction â that he cannot stand Conor McGregor.
He says it to reporters. He says it to corners and cab drivers and anyone unlucky enough to ask. He says it like a fact, like gravity, like something thatâs been proven in a lab. Conorâs mouth runs too loud. His egoâs too big. He talks too much shit and dresses like a cartoon villain and walks around like the worldâs already been conquered. Nate hates that. Which is how he knows heâs already in trouble.
Because hate, the real kind, doesnât linger. It doesnât watch. It doesnât track footsteps down hallways or notice how someone smells faintly like hotel soap and pure testosterone. Hate doesnât remember cadence, or the exact tilt of a grin, or the way a voice drops when it says something meant for only one person. Nate remembers all of it. He tells himself itâs just instincts. Fighters read fighters. It means nothing. Still, his shoulders tense before Conor even speaks. Still, his mouth curves into a lazy smirk before he can stop it.Â
Conor, for his part, is having the time of his life. He doesnât push. Not overtly. Thatâs the trick. He circles, light on his feet, throws comments like jabs, meant to land, but also meant to miss, just enough to keep Nate swinging. He calls him Stockton like itâs a private joke. Smiles when he snaps back. Laughs when he doesnât.
Nate always snaps back. Thatâs the thing. Nate could ignore him, should ignore him. Heâs good at that. Heâs spent a lifetime mastering the art of not giving a fuck. But with Conor, he never quite does. He always answers. Always has something to say. A muttered insult. A dry remark. A dismissive wave of the hand that somehow still points directly at Conorâs chest.
They end up in the same places more often than coincidence allows. Press events. Back hallways. Hotel elevators that feel too small. Nate complains about it every time. Conor just grins wider.
Once, just once, Conor steps into Nateâs space without speaking. No cameras. No crowd. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant. Nate looks at him, ready to tell him to fuck off, and Conor just says, calmly, âYouâre always mad at me.â
Itâs not a question.
Nate bristles.
âYou earn it.â
Conor hums, thoughtful.
âFunny. I feel like I barely try.â
Thatâs when Nate shoves past him, shoulder clipping shoulder. Harder than necessary. He walks away furious, heart kicking against his ribs like itâs trying to escape. Conor watches him go, smiling to himself like someone whoâs just confirmed a suspicion. From the outside, it looks like rivalry. Looks like tension born of competition, of pride, of two men who canât stand to share oxygen. Thatâs the story everyone prefers. Itâs neat. It fits. It doesnât ask uncomfortable questions.
But Conor notices the details no one else does.
Like how Nate always knows where Conor is in a room, even when heâs pretending not to look. Like how he repeats Conorâs insults later, mocking them, but keeps the exact phrasing. The rhythm. Like how Conor can derail Nateâs entire mood with a single raised eyebrow.
Thereâs a moment, small, stupid, so utterly telling, when Nate is meant to leave early. Heâs said as much. Complained about the schedule. Swore heâs not sticking around for Conorâs bullshit. Then Conor laughs at something someone else says. Loud, unrestrained, head tipped back. Nate pauses mid-step. Just for a second. He stays. No one calls him on it. No one needs to.
Nateâs internal reasoning is a masterclass in denial. He tells himself he sticks around because Conorâs annoying and someone needs to keep him in check. Because itâs funny to watch him get carried away. Because leaving would look like losing. He does not tell himself the truth, which is that Conor makes the air feel charged. That things feel sharper, brighter, more alive when Conorâs around. That itâs been a long time since anyoneâs gotten under his skin this deeply without asking permission.
Conor, meanwhile, never once claims ownership. Thatâs another trick. He doesnât grab. He doesnât demand. He lets Nate come to him in a thousand tiny ways, each one deniable on its own. A glance returned. A comment answered. A step not taken away.
When Nate snaps at him, Conor looks pleased, not offended. When Nate ignores him, Conor waits. And when Nate laughs, really laughs, caught off guard by something Conor says, Conor goes quiet for half a second, like heâs storing it away.
Thereâs one night when they end up leaning against the same railing, looking out at nothing in particular. The conversation has dwindled to comfortable silence, which is dangerous territory for men like them. Nate shifts his weight. Conor mirrors it without thinking.
âThis the first time you shut up in days,â Nate mutters.
Conor doesnât look at him.
âYou ever stop listening?â
Nate stiffens. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. He hates that Conorâs right. He hates more that Conor says it without malice. Something unspoken settles between them then. Not peace. Not resolution. Just acknowledgment. Like two fighters touching gloves before the bell. A recognition of whatâs already there.
Later, Nate will swear he doesnât care. Heâll say Conorâs just noise. Just a problem waiting to be solved. Heâll tell himself that whatever pull exists is one-sided, or imagined, or temporary. Yet Nate leans in when Conor speaks softer. How his posture loosens when Conor grins instead of boasts. He bristles when anyone else gets Conorâs attention too easily.
Wrapped around Conorâs finger doesnât mean obedient. It doesnât mean gentle. It means attuned. It means responsive. It means that somewhere along the line, without ever agreeing to it, Nate started orbiting.
Conor knows. Heâs always known. He treats it like a secret shared only with himself. Doesnât press. Doesnât gloat. Just waits, patient as a man who knows the fight is already leaning his way.
And Nate? Nate will figure it out eventually. Or he wonât. Either way, Conor will be right there, grinning, infuriating, magnetic, watching Nate circle and swear and deny, wrapped so tight he doesnât even feel the pull anymore.
Not until he stops resisting at least. And by then, itâll be far too late.
Conor McGregor x Nate Diaz RPF
tags: denial of feelings, pining, no beta, character study, rivals to lovers
Nate Diaz insists â often, loudly, and with conviction â that he cannot stand Conor McGregor.
He says it to reporters. He says it to corners and cab drivers and anyone unlucky enough to ask. He says it like a fact, like gravity, like something thatâs been proven in a lab. Conorâs mouth runs too loud. His egoâs too big. He talks too much shit and dresses like a cartoon villain and walks around like the worldâs already been conquered. Nate hates that. Which is how he knows heâs already in trouble.
Because hate, the real kind, doesnât linger. It doesnât watch. It doesnât track footsteps down hallways or notice how someone smells faintly like hotel soap and pure testosterone. Hate doesnât remember cadence, or the exact tilt of a grin, or the way a voice drops when it says something meant for only one person. Nate remembers all of it. He tells himself itâs just instincts. Fighters read fighters. It means nothing. Still, his shoulders tense before Conor even speaks. Still, his mouth curves into a lazy smirk before he can stop it.Â
Conor, for his part, is having the time of his life. He doesnât push. Not overtly. Thatâs the trick. He circles, light on his feet, throws comments like jabs, meant to land, but also meant to miss, just enough to keep Nate swinging. He calls him Stockton like itâs a private joke. Smiles when he snaps back. Laughs when he doesnât.
Nate always snaps back. Thatâs the thing. Nate could ignore him, should ignore him. Heâs good at that. Heâs spent a lifetime mastering the art of not giving a fuck. But with Conor, he never quite does. He always answers. Always has something to say. A muttered insult. A dry remark. A dismissive wave of the hand that somehow still points directly at Conorâs chest.
They end up in the same places more often than coincidence allows. Press events. Back hallways. Hotel elevators that feel too small. Nate complains about it every time. Conor just grins wider.
Once, just once, Conor steps into Nateâs space without speaking. No cameras. No crowd. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant. Nate looks at him, ready to tell him to fuck off, and Conor just says, calmly, âYouâre always mad at me.â
Itâs not a question.
Nate bristles.
âYou earn it.â
Conor hums, thoughtful.
âFunny. I feel like I barely try.â
Thatâs when Nate shoves past him, shoulder clipping shoulder. Harder than necessary. He walks away furious, heart kicking against his ribs like itâs trying to escape. Conor watches him go, smiling to himself like someone whoâs just confirmed a suspicion. From the outside, it looks like rivalry. Looks like tension born of competition, of pride, of two men who canât stand to share oxygen. Thatâs the story everyone prefers. Itâs neat. It fits. It doesnât ask uncomfortable questions.
But Conor notices the details no one else does.
Like how Nate always knows where Conor is in a room, even when heâs pretending not to look. Like how he repeats Conorâs insults later, mocking them, but keeps the exact phrasing. The rhythm. Like how Conor can derail Nateâs entire mood with a single raised eyebrow.
Thereâs a moment, small, stupid, so utterly telling, when Nate is meant to leave early. Heâs said as much. Complained about the schedule. Swore heâs not sticking around for Conorâs bullshit. Then Conor laughs at something someone else says. Loud, unrestrained, head tipped back. Nate pauses mid-step. Just for a second. He stays. No one calls him on it. No one needs to.
Nateâs internal reasoning is a masterclass in denial. He tells himself he sticks around because Conorâs annoying and someone needs to keep him in check. Because itâs funny to watch him get carried away. Because leaving would look like losing. He does not tell himself the truth, which is that Conor makes the air feel charged. That things feel sharper, brighter, more alive when Conorâs around. That itâs been a long time since anyoneâs gotten under his skin this deeply without asking permission.
Conor, meanwhile, never once claims ownership. Thatâs another trick. He doesnât grab. He doesnât demand. He lets Nate come to him in a thousand tiny ways, each one deniable on its own. A glance returned. A comment answered. A step not taken away.
When Nate snaps at him, Conor looks pleased, not offended. When Nate ignores him, Conor waits. And when Nate laughs, really laughs, caught off guard by something Conor says, Conor goes quiet for half a second, like heâs storing it away.
Thereâs one night when they end up leaning against the same railing, looking out at nothing in particular. The conversation has dwindled to comfortable silence, which is dangerous territory for men like them. Nate shifts his weight. Conor mirrors it without thinking.
âThis the first time you shut up in days,â Nate mutters.
Conor doesnât look at him.
âYou ever stop listening?â
Nate stiffens. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. He hates that Conorâs right. He hates more that Conor says it without malice. Something unspoken settles between them then. Not peace. Not resolution. Just acknowledgment. Like two fighters touching gloves before the bell. A recognition of whatâs already there.
Later, Nate will swear he doesnât care. Heâll say Conorâs just noise. Just a problem waiting to be solved. Heâll tell himself that whatever pull exists is one-sided, or imagined, or temporary. Yet Nate leans in when Conor speaks softer. How his posture loosens when Conor grins instead of boasts. He bristles when anyone else gets Conorâs attention too easily.
Wrapped around Conorâs finger doesnât mean obedient. It doesnât mean gentle. It means attuned. It means responsive. It means that somewhere along the line, without ever agreeing to it, Nate started orbiting.
Conor knows. Heâs always known. He treats it like a secret shared only with himself. Doesnât press. Doesnât gloat. Just waits, patient as a man who knows the fight is already leaning his way.
And Nate? Nate will figure it out eventually. Or he wonât. Either way, Conor will be right there, grinning, infuriating, magnetic, watching Nate circle and swear and deny, wrapped so tight he doesnât even feel the pull anymore.
Not until he stops resisting at least. And by then, itâll be far too late.
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