Do you guys think the Yellowjackets would’ve suffered through the Storm of the Century? In Dec 28th-30th in Vancouver—BC, Canada was hit with like 5 feet of snow over the course of four days and now I can’t help but think of the Yellowjackets suffering through that storm in nothing but that cabin.
forever mad the Yellowjackets writers didn’t just make Natalie completely insane in the adult timeline after everything that happened to her and she just gets thirsty for revenge and is the one blackmailing them all and forces them to do the hunts cause that’s just what they wanted to do so bad.
forever mad the Yellowjackets writers didn’t just make Natalie completely insane in the adult timeline after everything that happened to her and she just gets thirsty for revenge and is the one blackmailing them all and forces them to do the hunts cause that’s just what they wanted to do so bad.
call me heartless or whatever but seeing people flame the Yellowjackets for leaving Shauna to butcher Javi after her son died which is extremely fucked but like at the same time, homegirl was two seconds away from butchering Natalie and slitting her throat open. Like she was quite literally chasing her through the woods with everyone else which resulted in Javi dying.
and just to add to that, the doomcoming hate that only Lottie seems to receive is incredibly annoying. “Lottie SA’ed Travis.” “Lottie is Travis’s abuser.” True and true but so is Shauna and every other girl that was in that cabin besides Natalie. If I remember correctly, wasn’t Shauna the one who kissed Travis first? And was the one to hold a knife to his throat? So why the hell do I only see Lottie getting flamed for it?
I only truly feel bad for Travis and Nat at the end of the day. And just because I’m complaining, fuck Jeff too. Actually fuck him more than anyone. Ik the girls kinda did worse than him cheating but like, they weren’t in the right state of mind. They were stranded in the wilderness going crazy, he’s just a douchbag who willingly cheated on Jackie with a clear mind.
The hate against Caitlyn compared to Viktor/ Jayce or Silco is exactly why I absolutely adore and love Caitlyn. Her antis love to pretend that just because she was rich, she wasn’t allowed to be mad or vengeful for losing her mother and being kidnapped and tortured by Jinx. My girl wasn’t mad enough for my liking.
holy fuck why am I now just realizing that Nica Pierce and Cassie McKay are the same person…. and I’ve only come to this realization cause someone suggested on tik tok that Fiona Dourif would’ve made a good adult Natalie… my gayness is colliding like crazy.
⠀ ݁⠀ * ⠀ ݁ ⠀⠀AUTHOR’S NOTE.⠀⠀HII OMG. i love you, thanks for requesting this. is what i needed !!!! i read that and my thong fell out so, thanks.. <3
⠀ ݁⠀ * ⠀ ݁ ⠀⠀content warning.⠀⠀religious trauma & internalized homophobia, nat thinks she knows everything, usage of nicotine, angst, implied child abuse ( 5,786 words ).
Silence adheres to your residence like rust.
The parsonage sits just behind the church, white siding peeling slow as sunburn, a swing on the porch that creaks like it’s confessing something. You learn early that the walls are thin. You learn earlier that your father’s voice carries.
Preacher’s daughter.
It’s what they call you in the grocery store, in the hallway at school, in the parking lot after service while the cicadas thrum like a second sermon. Not your name. Never your name. Just the title.
But, your story follows you. Everyone already knows it: abandoned by a wicked woman, raised by a man of god. Your mother left when you were six. Your father tells it plain, the way he tells everything. she was a sinner, he says. she had a hunger that wasn’t holy. she went away to sin, and the world swallowed her whole.
Some people give you a sad look when you pass, as if they see your mother when they look at you, missing her like they used to. Smetimes you stand in your bedroom at night and open the window just a crack. The air smells like honeysuckle and river mud and gasoline drifting from the highway. You press your ear to the dark and try to hear something — footsteps, maybe. A car slowing down. Your mother’s voice calling your real name instead of preacher’s daughter.
You don’t remember her face clearly. Just the blur of it. Dark hair brushing your cheek. Hands that moved soft and slow. Your father says she was no good. Says goodness is obedience. Goodness is staying.
Church is held in a two story house, a converted home with a steeple tacked on the front. Stained glass windows. A wooden sign carved with the words House Of God.
You go there when it’s empty and midnight — perfect for you. Everytime life feels too heavy on your shoulders you go there, when the bed starts to rot under your weight since it’s been three days since you stayed there.
A quiet church feels heavier.
You slip through the wide front door as silent as you can. You don’t flick on the lights. Moonlight spills in through the windows. You make your way down the center aisle and slump into the front pew.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” you whisper, closing your eyes. The faces of girls haunt the corridors of your mind, offering no respite from persistent contemplation.
No one answers.
The old grandfather clock ticks, counting off the seconds, but it is otherwise silent. The air smells like wood polish and dust. You let your head fall against the pew. The weight of your own guilt and loneliness settling hard in your chest.
“Please,” you plead. Hair covers your teary eyes, even if there’s no one to watch there. You don’t know if you’re pleading with God, or your father, or the old memories that follow you like ghosts.
All you know is the deep, aching isolation of being an outcast. Of not fitting in. Of being alone.
Of being broken.
You shut your eyes tighter. This loneliness has become familiar. It isn’t the kind you can ever explain to anyone who has not carried it themselves. This loneliness is a stain that won’t ever come out. The kind that changes you in the most fundamental of ways.
You don’t need to speak the words aloud. You’ve asked for forgiveness so many times that it feels as natural as breathing. You have not, however, been granted any.
Maybe you’re not worth it. Maybe this has been your fate all along because you started to wonder if sin is just another word for wanting more than this. Started to think of your mother standing alone somewhere under a different sky, carrying a hunger she never learned how to quiet.
Crying, your father says, doesn’t bring anyone back. Crying doesn’t help you grow closer to God.
But you are close to weeping now, your throat tightening with the urge to sob. You’ve tried so hard your whole life to be good, but the older you get, the more you think you don’t know what that word means at all.
It begins to rain outside. Fat drops pelt the church roof and splash on the stained glass windows. The sound echoes in the large space, as if the sky is crying too. You know you should go home. If your father finds you gone, you’ll get an ear full, maybe more.
But your father has always seen something weak within you, a hunger that will never be satisfied. He is convinced he has been left to guide you back to the path of righteousness. Back to a life without sin.
You have started to doubt that such a life exists.
The rain drums on the roof like a drumbeat meant to drive you out. You pull your legs to your chest, burying your face in your knees. The loneliness in you turns to fear. What happens to sinners? The Bible says they go to the darkest fire, to a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth. You don’t think you deserve it. You think you’re just a girl who didn’t ask for the cards she was dealt.
The rain turns violent. The thunder rumbles loudly, the lightning bright enough to light up the stained glass windows in flashes of white and grey. You jump at every roll of thunder, your stomach in knots, every cell in your body on high alert. You are terrified of storms. You wish someone was here with you — to hold you and keep you safe.
But there is only you and the quiet, dark church.
No one is there.
Heat sits heavy over town, thick as syrup, pressing everyone small and slow. the church parking lot blisters under the sun, tar soft enough to take the shape of your shoes. You’re supposed to be inside, helping your father fold bulletins for sunday, but the house feels close, full of scripture.
So you slip out the back door.
You tell yourself you’re just going to the gas station on route 12 for a coke. You don’t tell yourself you’re hoping to see something different than the same white houses and trimmed hedges and watchful windows.
The bell over the door jingles when you step inside. Cold air kisses your bare arms. You stand in front of the refrigerator case longer than you need to, staring at the rows of glass bottles sweating under fluorescent light.
That’s when you feel it.
Not God. Not exactly.
Just the sense of being watched in a way that isn’t unkind.
She’s leaning against the ice freezer by the door, boots scuffed, cigarette tucked behind one ear like it’s waiting its turn. Hair the color of old wheat, chopped uneven like she did it herself in a bathroom mirror.
Natalie Scatorccio.
You know her name the way you know a storm’s coming — through whispers, through the way adults tighten their mouths when they say it. Wrong crowd. Bad influence. Trouble.
You know they don’t get Natalie. How she drinks and drives and smokes cigarettes and wears her leather jacket in church and shows up late to school in the same clothes she was wearing yesterday.
How it looks like she doesn’t have time for the things you’re supposed to make time for — studying, being kind, saying grace.
When people look at Natalie, all they see is an outcast. All they see is the sin on her.
But you think you see something else. Like you’re watching her through a veil of mist.
Not quite sure what’s under it.
But she has caught your eye more than once. When you walk the hallway at school, her gaze drags on you, leaving a strange heat in its wake. Your eyes meet in a quiet moment during class or as she hangs behind school after practice.
Whatever she tries to tell your with her blue eyes, you ignore it. Leave the store without buying anything.
Outside, birds sing from the trees. Your father doesn’t like you lingering. Doesn’t like you near girls with reputations that stick like oil stains.
As you sit on the curb the gas station door swings open, sending the bell into a frenzy. You stop walking, your hand still raised, shielding yourself from the sun. The concrete burns through your skirt.
Your father says you’re soft. Easily overwhelmed, with a tendency to shut down in the moment.
But you don’t feel soft when Natalie sits down next to you on the curb, legs sprawled out, too close. She smells like smoke and whiskey and something earthy, warm and soft as worn leather.
She fishes a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her leather jacket, tapping it against a rough palm. She lights up and takes a slow pull. The way she does it looks natural, like breathing, her long fingers curled in a way you don’t think you could ever learn. She glances at you. Blows smoke into the blue sky.
“Hi,” you greet.
That draws an eyebrow raise from Nat, as if that isn’t how she expected this to go. You fold your hands tightly in your lap, suddenly keenly aware of how innocent a girl you are. Soft skin and curves. Eyes you can rely on. You’ve been taught there is value in this kind of innocence. The kind people think your mother destroyed. “Hey. I’m Nat.”
You nod. “I know.”
There is a long beat of silence. You think about making up an excuse to go home — that your father is expecting you, or the sun is too hot, or you think it might rain. But you don’t say anything. Instead, you pick at the hem of your skirt.
Silently, she cracks her soda open and hands it to you without asking. You hesitate only a second before taking it. The metal rim is cold against your lip. “You always look like that?” she asks.
You wonder how you look to her. Pale skin and a soft face. Eyes big and dark as ink. Your father says you have your mother’ eyes. A curse he has had to bear for sixteen years. “Like what?” you ask, after a swallow of sweet coke.
“Like you’re a scared little sheep. Always on the lookout for a wolf.” Nat watches you with her sharp eyes, and you can feel yourself getting flustered, your fingers pulling tight on your skirt.
The words settle into you slow. Not cruel. Not gentle either. Just true in a way that makes your chest ache. How you must look next to her. So plain. Like a girl who’s never tasted anything but holy water.
Father says wolves exist. That they hide in plain sight with their pretty smiles and sharp teeth, their hungry eyes that see all of your weaknesses. Says you have a naive heart. That it is the most powerful of weapons for wolves to use, because naive is what happens when you’ve never truly seen evil with your own eyes.
Maybe he thinks Nat is one of those wolves. After all, if he saw how close she is sitting, hear the rough edge to her voice. He would tell you to move away, to run, to go back to the safe, familiar world of God and church.
The soda tastes sweet and acidic on your tongue. You try to sit the way she does — slouching, loose, with confidence. Instead, you feel silly like you’re not doing it right. Like she can tell you have no idea what you’re doing.
Once you glance at her — really look — you realize there’s a bruise blooming faint-yellow along her jawline, almost faded. There’s a steadiness in her eyes that feels older than summer, older than both of you.
You’re thinking about this bruise when she says, “You’re the preacher’s kid or somethin’ like that, right?”
The question tenses you, your body automatically shifting to sit up straighter. Preacher’s daughter. That’s what they call you. Your father is the one people bow their heads to on Sundays, the one who stands in front of them with an open Bible and a message written in the light.
“Yeah.” Your voice is so soft you aren’t even sure she hears you. You are painfully aware that the town might pass by the two of you and see his daughter sitting with the neighborhood’s black sheep. He wouldn’t much like that, would he?
Nat nods as if confirming a suspicion. Takes another pull off her cigarette, holds the smoke in her lungs for a beat, lets it curl from between her lips. She studies you in a way that makes you feel seen. “Man, you really are. The hair, the clothes, the look in your big saintly eyes. Like a little rabbit who doesn’t have any idea about the world at all.”
“And you do?” you shoot back.
Surprise flickers across her face. Maybe she didn’t expect that. When she recovers, her smile is so sharp it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her voice is low as she says, “More than you, I bet.”
It’s common, the way in which everyone underestimates you — merely for being the preacher’s daughter, you are supposedly shielded from all wickedness. Little do they know, malevolence originates from within your own home. They presume to possess all knowledge. They attribute the bruises upon your legs (whose hues mirror Nat’s) to a mere iron deficiency.
No one in your hometown realizes how keenly you are aware of the world. You watch it — the news on your television, the people confessing in church, the secrets no one is supposed to know. You are just as smart as them, just as curious as them, and yet you are treated like a child who doesn’t know any better. Like an outcast. It stirs up something bitter and twisted in your chest, like weeds taking root. It’s in your ribs, clawing to get out.
A truck roars past. Wind kicks dust into your ankles. You both blink against it.
Wordlessly, you return Nat her soda and stand up. You need to leave. You expect her to let you walk away. To be glad to see you go, as many of them are.
Instead, she asks: “Where ya going?”
You ignore your racing heart. Ignore the ache in your chest. You look down at her, sitting on the curb with her scuffed shoes and leather jacket, her bruised jaw, her bruised heart. The sun halos her as if she’s a fallen angel.
A wolf, you think. And you reply coldly, “Home.”
Something flickers behind her eyes, but it vanishes so fast you think you may have imagined it. She crushes her cigarette under her heel and shrugs. Just like that. Nothing about her is affected by your answer. It doesn’t matter to her that you’re standing up, leaving. Not in the least.
“Later.”
So you leave.
Lunch is always silent. The TV is on but you can hear the grandfather clock behind you and your father’s sniffs as he stares down at his plate. He doesn’t know what to say to you.
There was this silence at first, when he still tried to understand you, when he knelt in front of you and gently took your hands in his own, like a man trying to coax a frightened doe. It faded when you grew older. He is too proud of a man to admit he doesn’t know his own daughter, who sits across from him, not meeting his eyes.
Now there aren’t words, no matter how badly either of you want them.
The grandfather clock continues ticking.
Something has occupied your thoughts since school started a week ago. Perhaps you might join the cheerleading squad — a hobby to diminish your presence here and shed your naive image.
The idea makes you anxious. Your father should be glad. Should applaud your decision to finally put yourself out there, even if he doesn’t like the sport or the uniforms. You will wear something much more modest than the rest of the girls. Something that won’t cause a stir around the church congregation.
Your father notices how quiet you are and mistakes your thinking for submission. He doesn’t see you as an individual, but an extension of himself. A project to mold, a duty to shape you so you don’t stray from the path he has chosen for you. No one is supposed to question him. No one is supposed to disobey. To your father, being an obedient little rabbit has always been the highest form of worship. He doesn’t realize how much you resent this.
“I was thinking about something.” You start, swallowing and picking at your food — barely eating.
Your father looks up. His gaze is stern and heavy. He thinks you’re going to tell him your sins again, like you always do. You do this to him often, confessing the things you wish to do but know are not right. So, he can put a stop to them.
After all, you are the church mouse, the girl who is supposed to be seen and not heard. You are the girl who is so soft, so gentle, no one can believe she has an inner life. “I think I’d like to join cheerleading.”
Cheerleading is the last thing he probably expected to come out of your mouth you notice once he freezes. You can almost see his disapproval. You know what he sees when he looks at the cheerleading squad: short skirts and tight uniforms and girls who do anything to get attention. They are the exact opposite of what you are supposed to represent.
A beat. Then, after a moment to absorb the information, “Cheerleading.” You take note of the hard edge to his voice. He sets down his fork and leans back in his chair, fingers tapping on the tabletop.
He doesn’t even try to hide how displeased he is. Cheerleaders are not proper daughters of God. They are sinners. He doesn’t want those girls to ruin his daughter with their sinful ways. “What on earth has inspired such an idea?” He asks icily.
“I just want to… get involved with something. I don’t think it’s a bad idea to try some new things.”
The idea seems almost inconceivable to him. He has never seen you as anything but a puppet to control. Something to shape to his image, using scripture as his chisel. Your father tilts his head to the side.
“And you believe cheerleading will be good for you?” He does not bother to hide the skepticism in his voice. Your father doesn’t trust you. In his eyes, you’re a naïve young girl, too delicate to understand the world and too stupid to defend yourself.
“I—”
“Cheerleading is for sluts.” He states, makes it clear by slamming his fist faintly to the table. You flinch. “Are you one?”
Heat rises to your face. Your cheeks burn. You didn’t expect that question, so blatant and accusing. The question is more of an insult. “No, Father, of course not.”
That doesn’t seem to appease him. It makes you nervous how he studies you, his gaze moving across your features, down your neck. He is searching for something to confirm his suspicion, some trace of sin hidden under your pale skin. “I hope you don’t ask this anymore. I have raised you better than this.”
For a long moment, there is utter silence. Your throat is tight with frustration and shame. “Sorry.”
Then, you go back to silence.
After Sunday mass, you find her. Just your luck. Nat is sprawled on the hood of a rust-chewed sedan parked crooked by a tree line, cigarette balanced between two fingers like it belongs there.
It is not until you’ve gotten closer that she sees you. At the sight of you, she raises an eyebrow, like she didn’t expect to see you again. She takes a pull of her cigarette, blows out a small curl of smoke and grins faintly. “Hey.”
Your footsteps crunch in the leaves and grass as you come to a stop in front of her. Your hands clasp behind your back. The wind has become cooler, the air thicker. The sky is still blue, dotted with a few clouds that look like you could scoop them with your hands. “Hi.”
She watches you with those intense eyes of hers as you stand in front of her, close enough now that you can smell the faint scent of smoke that always seems to cling to her. If your father saw you talking to her now, he’d lose whatever is left of his damn mind.
But, every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.
“Is it yours?” You ask, pointing to the car.
Her gaze flickers to the sedan, then back to you. She lets out another lazy breath of smoke. “Nah.” The car is clearly old and beat up, with rust creeping along the edges and dents in the door.
As always, your curiosity gets the best of you. You can’t help but wonder who the car actually belongs to. You don’t ask, though, because you get the feeling she won’t tell you.
Instead, you shift your gaze to the bruise on her jaw, faint yellow but there. It looks like it happened a few days ago. “Are you okay?”
That makes her smile. You can’t decide if it’s amused or bitter.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about me.” There is something condescending about the way she says that, as if your concern is foolish, as if she is above worrying. She taps the ash from the tip of her cigarette. “You’re not supposed to be talking to me, you know. Your dad thinks I’m bad news.”
“I’m not more stupid than the rest of the people just because my dad is a fucking preacher,” you snap quietly. “I know what I’m doing.”
That seems to ground her. Make her stop thinking she knows better. Her expression softens. Something warm flashes in her eyes. It catches you off guard. It’s the first time you’ve said anything to imply that you’re not the mouse you appear to be. “You’re right.”
That unexpected gentleness is enough to silence you. You watch her exhale cigarette smoke again, eyes lingering on the curve of her jaw, on the bruise there. There is no denying she is beautiful in a reckless kind of way. Like fire. “Can I?” You nod at her cigarette.
She raises an eyebrow at the request. When she holds it out, your fingers tremble. Nervously, as if your father could see from the trees that you are about to do something that goes against all of his teachings.
But you take the cigarette from her hand, bring it to your lips. You mimic her, inhaling like she did. The smoke burns as it fills your chest, but you control it. You hold your breath for a long moment. When you exhale, the smoke comes in a thin, grey curl from your mouth and nose.
Nat watches you as the smoke disappears into the air. It feels like her eyes are everywhere — on you, on your hands gripping the cigarette, on the way you try to mimic her. It feels a little bit like being scrutinized, but there’s something else, too. Something you can’t put a word to. There is a moment where she studies you like a painting, taking in your features. She smiles faintly. “You’re not as uptight as I thought.”
“You are as asshole as I thought,” you feel emboldened enough to make a joke. Try to. You don’t know why — but you felt the need to do it.
You don’t expect her to laugh, but she does. It isn’t just a smirk. It isn’t a scoff, either. It’s an honest laugh, a rough, throaty sound that surprises you with how nice it sounds. It makes your stomach twist.
She smiles at you again, eyes crinkled faintly at the corners. Not unkind. For some reason, your heart flutters when you see it. “I can be a real pain in the ass, that’s true.”
She is more human than you first thought, more than you ever would have expected from the town outcast. It makes you want to know more, want to see what else she keeps hidden. That curiosity is a hunger.
You exhale another plume of smoke. Nat watches it, eyes tracing the grey wisps as you speak. Her voice lowers to match yours. “We can go down by the creek — if you want. It’s a place I go sometimes when I need space from everyone.”
There is something forbidden about this, you think as you follow her. Your father would be horrified to see you now, with the village rebel, walking down to her secret spot. It is so different from your carefully constructed life, the life where you do everything the right way, and make no mistakes. The life where your life is not your own, where you are a mouse.
For once, you want to be different. For just a moment, you want to be a little reckless.
The path down to the bank is hidden beneath a few trees, barely visible. You follow her like a quiet shadow, keeping your footsteps light. The forest hums around you. The grass is cool underfoot.You wonder how many times she’s made this walk through the trees alone.
Underneath the branches and leaves, she slows to a stop. From here, you can see the creek. The water is clear. Sunlight touches the surface in shimmering ripples. The sound of the creek is like a whisper, soothing after the silence of the forest.
Nat sinks down onto the bank. The grass is long, and some of it has bent over her boots. She pulls another cigarette from the pocket of her jacket, pats empty space next to her. An obvious invitation.
Nervously, you obey. You sit next to her.
The wind stirs Nat’s hair. You can still see the fading bruise on her jaw. You wonder how she got it.
The grass is cool against the back of your legs. You feel the heat of her body next to yours, the brush of her shoulder as she leans back. She offers you the cigarette again, but you decline politely this time. You watch her raise it to her own lips. Another long pull of smoke. It leaves her mouth in a long, grey plume that fades into the air. She stares up the moon through the trees. “Pretty, ain’t it?” She murmurs.
Like you, you think.
But what you say is, “Yeah. Real pretty.”
For a long moment, you are both silent again — listening to the creek and the wind through the trees. The air whispers around you. You can hear the grass rustling and the faint hum of insects. And, after a moment, the sound of Nat’s voice. It cuts through it all. “I like this spot because it’s quiet. I can breathe.”
“What makes you feel trapped?” You ask.
The question makes her give an ironic laugh, almost bitter. She takes another slow drag on her cigarette, letting smoke roll from her mouth. You study her face, the way her expression tightens as her shoulders hunch slightly. “This town.”
Your heart tugs when she speaks, a feeling like longing. Something bitter in your throat. I know that feeling. “Tell me about it.”
She gives you a fleeting glance. There is a hint of understanding in her eyes, like you said something that caught her attention. Maybe she sees a part of herself reflected in you. She pulls her knees to her chest, resting her chin there as she stares out at the creek. A few strands of hair fall over her face. She pushes it back. “It’s a small town. Everyone knows your business. Everyone tells what to be.”
There is a deep, quiet honesty to her voice, a vulnerability you have not seen from her before, like the words are things she hides even from herself. You wonder how much you are alike. You understand how it feels to always be under the watchful eyes of the town, to be judged for your every decision. People assume things about you. They expect to act a certain way.
“I know what that’s like,” you say quietly.
It catches her attention. She looks at you again. Her eyes hold yours for a moment, intense and thoughtful, like she is trying to read you. Then, her gaze softens at whatever she sees. She smiles. It is not the same smirk she wears in school. This one is gentler. More honest in its amusement. “Sorry you do.”
The sympathy in her voice makes your heart do something strange in your chest. There is a feeling that blooms to life, a warmth you can only describe as understanding. You want to say something — something kind, or thoughtful — but the words catch in your throat. So she speaks instead, and her voice is still quiet, but a little lighter. Almost playful. “You must get tired of being everyone’s good girl all the time.”
“You must get tired of being the town’s ‘bad’ girl all the time.” You echo.
A huff of laughter leaves her lips. The smirk returns, the familiar one you remember. She blows a thin cloud of smoke into the air, still leaning back on her hands. Her shoulders have relaxed. The sight makes you feel a strange sense of… safety. Like, maybe if she can be honest with you, you can be honest, too.
Suddenly, the very thoughts that once locked you inside your room, for which your father’s wrathful voice and stinging hand left their mark, resurface. A new object of your desire emerges.
As do these sentiments, so too does the familiar aversion.
It feels like you should not be thinking or feeling these thoughts at all. They are dark. You know you are supposed to reject anything impure. The sin of temptation sits next to you, whispers in your ear.
The feeling is a desire, one that burns in your gut. The same part that aches from hunger, that wants the things she has, that wants to be her. All of a sudden, you want to reach out to her. Place your hand over the exposed skin of her arm. Feel the softness there, the heat.
It is a thought that would appall your father. You could never do it. You cannot cross that boundary. It is wrong. You are wrong for feeling this way. You are the preacher’s daughter, which means nothing is allowed. And yet, no matter what, your eyes keep drifting to that bruise on her jaw.
That mark of something wrong. It makes your fingers twitch with a strange, almost violent impulse to reach out and touch it. You want to brush it with your fingers, as if you could erase it, as if you could take the mark away.
Something like desperation builds inside you. You want to be closer to Nat as much as you are scared to. But here she is, sitting so close to you, her shoulder brushing your own. The heat of her body is a magnet for you. There is a pull.
So, you reach out, almost without thinking. And you lean in slowly, giving Nat time to pull away.
She does not.
Instead, she meets you halfway. There is something vulnerable in her then — in the sudden melting of her body, the sharp exhale. In all the times you have seen her, there was never a moment that she let you touch her.
Lips meet.
Soft. That is the word that comes to mind. She is so shockingly soft. The kiss, the way her lips yield to your own, the way her breath hitches, how she breathes you in. It sets your heart racing, makes that ache in your chest grow.
For a moment, there is no sound but the whisper of the creek. All you hear is the sound of her breathing, of how it quickens, how it turns heavy in a way that is so intimate. It makes you want to do more. So much more.
Slow, careful, you place your hand beside her jawline. Your fingers brush over the bruise there, a touch so gentle it is barely a touch at all. In a second, her hand is around your wrist, holding your hand to her face.
There is something desperate about the way she grips your wrist. Your palm presses against the bruise. Her eyes are closed. She is letting you touch her. There is a soft noise that escapes her, something small and vulnerable. She is letting you see a part of her you suspect no one has ever seen.
This makes the kiss deepen. The taste of her lips. The scent of cigarettes in her hair. The heat of her body. The way she leans closer. Closer.
Heat floods your body, warms all of your skin. Your hand shifts, fingers slipping into her hair, gripping the locks almost as if it is your lifeline. Your brain goes soft, blank of any thought except the way she kisses, the way she tastes, the way her teeth graze over your lower lip.
It makes your heart hammer in your chest. You cannot breathe. You do not care.
When you pull away, she is breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she inhales. She opens her eyes and you catch a glimpse of them — they are dark, almost black. Her lips are slightly parted. They are red and kiss swollen. You realize, in that moment, that you caused that. Her cheeks are flushed slightly, as if you burned her.
“Sorry, um...” To be honest, you let yourself get carried away. Carried away from the deepest hidden feelings inside your ribs, hanging and waiting for a moment.
The word makes a half-smile spread across Nat’s lips. Her eyes are half-lidded. She watches you through those long eyelashes as if she is looking at you for the first time. You can see how her gaze drifts to your mouth. When she replies, her voice is gruff. “Don’t be sorry,” she says.
Then, she pulls you in again, her hand slipping behind your neck and pressing her lips to yours. She kisses you like she wants to devour you, like she is starved.
Undeniable to say, that when you get home, you can’t stop smiling.
𐔌 ⠀⠀𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀⠀a/n. hiii, i don’t know if this is what you wanted ─ hope it is. i did what i interpreted from your req, and thanks for doing it!
You see her before you know her name.
Natalie Scatorccio moves through the halls like she’s bracing for impact, shoulders set, eyes already tired. Like someone who learned early that the world is meaner if you look too hopeful. Until mid–freshman year, she’s alone. Not dramatically, not in a way anyone bothers to comment on. Just… alone in the background way. Eating lunch with a book she doesn’t read. Standing at her locker a beat longer than necessary. Smoking behind the school when she thinks no one’s watching, even though half the town knows.
You watch her from places that don’t count as watching. The bleachers after practice. The back booth at the diner when your coffee’s gone cold. Across the street from the convenience store, pretending you’re waiting for someone else. You tell yourself you’re just observant. You’ve always been good at noticing patterns. At noticing who drifts and who stays.
Then, sometime in the middle of the year — right when winter starts to loosen its grip — she stops being alone.
It’s subtle at first. A boy walking beside her instead of behind. Laughter, quick and sharp, cutting through the usual dull noise of the hallway. You clock it the way you clock weather changes, by pressure more than sight. She starts hanging around the outcasts, the ones teachers pretend not to see. You think one of them is Kevyn Tan. You’re pretty sure. He’s got that careful posture, like he’s learned to take up as little space as possible.
They sit together on the steps after school. They share cigarettes. They look like a small, mismatched constellation — kids who found each other not because they fit, but because nowhere else would have them.
There’s a feeling you get watching her, low and steady, like a song you recognize but can’t place. Like fate idling nearby, engine running, waiting for the right moment to make itself known.
You don’t touch her life. You just witness it.
And that’s just how it should go.
Besides, you have more important things to do. Or think about.
The liquor store hums the way places like that always do — refrigerators rattling, neon buzzing, the low animal sound of temptation behind glass. You stand outside it with your hands shoved into your jacket pockets, pretending you’re waiting for someone. Pretending is a skill you learned young.
You’re too young to go in. Everyone knows it. The clerk especially — middle-aged, sharp-eyed, already tired of kids who think they’re slick. You stare at the door anyway, rehearsing nothing in particular. Just the vague shape of a plan. Something for Friday night. Jackie Taylor’s party. Red cups, loud music, the kind of night people remember because everyone else tells them to.
The air smells like gasoline and old rain. Somewhere down the road, a dog barks and then stops. You’re counting cracks in the pavement when a voice cuts through it.
“You waiting on someone?”
Nat is leaning against the brick wall like she’s been there awhile. Cigarette already lit, eyes sharp but not unkind. Like she clocked you before you ever noticed her. There’s a bruise-colored dusk settling into the sky, and it makes her look softer than usual. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
You shake your head. “No. Just—” Just what? Existing too loudly in the wrong place?
She watches you for a second, smoke slipping from her mouth like a confession she won’t finish. “You look like you’re thinking real hard about something.”
You shrug. Heat crawls up your neck. “Party. Friday.” You don’t say Jackie’s name, but she nods anyway. Everyone knows whose parties matter.
Nat snorts, not unkind. “Yeah. Figures.” She glances at the door, then back at you. Her eyes linger — not invasive, just curious. Like she’s trying to decide what kind of trouble you are. “Well,” she clears her throat, pushing off the wall, “you’re gonna freeze standing out here like that.”
It’s true. The wind’s got teeth and you didn’t bring a coat. Just a thin cardigan that doesn’t do much. She takes another drag of her cigarette, eyes you through the smoke. There she goes again — that odd feeling like she’s sizing you up. Deciding or measuring or whatever it is she does.
Then she smiles — not wide, not friendly. More like a door cracked just enough to see the dark inside.
“I could help you,” she offers. “Get what you want.”
You don’t ask how. You already know. There’s a look in her eyes that tells you it won’t be clean, won’t be approved of, won’t be something you admit out loud later. The kind of help that comes with a price, even if you don’t know what it is yet.
“Not exactly legal,” she adds, like an afterthought.
The fact that you even consider it surprises you.
There are better, more sensible options — older friends. Kids your age with older siblings or college boyfriends. Even your parents’ liquor cabinet.
Instead you say: “Yeah. Okay. Sure.”
Surprise flickers over her face, there and gone, replaced by a smirk that means that she expected you to know what you were getting into. “Okay.” She tosses the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under her boot. “Come on.”
Inside, the store is too bright. Fluorescent lights flatten everything, make the world feel thin and exposed. Nat moves like she belongs there — easy, unhurried, hands steady. Like she’s done this before. Like she learned young how to take what she needed without asking.
“Just follow me,” she murmurs, low enough that it feels like a secret meant only for you.
You do.
She knows where to stand, where not to look. She knows how to laugh softly at something you didn’t say, how to block sightlines with her body like it’s instinct. You feel useless, all nerves and clumsy awareness, but she never snaps at you. Never rushes you.
The bottle is cold when it presses against your side. Vodka. Clear and sharp and promising trouble. Your fingers curl around it like it might burn you.
You know you shouldn’t do this. You know there are other ways to get what you want. To fit in. Ways that don’t involve hiding a bottle in your coat sleeve as you walk out the door.
The world feels different when you’re holding something you shouldn’t have.
The last few shoppers look away, uninterested in teenagers with secrets. Outside, streetlights buzz with insects that died a long time ago. Nat doesn’t break her stride once. Just keeps walking like everything is normal, like you’re out for a stroll instead of carrying vodka down a sidewalk.
“Told you,” she smiles. Softer.
You laugh, shaky and breathless, like you’ve just outrun something that would’ve caught you if it tried harder. The bottle is heavy in your hand. Proof of something. Guilt. Triumph. Both. “You know an awful lot about this.”
Nat shrugs, hands shoved back into her pockets. If you squint, she almost looks like any other teenager. Someone who goes to school and spends Saturday nights studying. She seems strangely pleased. Something about the way you said that made her happy.
You almost believe it, but then she turns her head just enough to give you a look. Not sharp or suspicious — just a little too understanding.
This girl has secrets written all over her.
You should be scared, you think. You should be wary.
Instead you take a step closer, falling into step beside her without having to think about it.
“I’ve done more than just buy booze from shitty gas stations, you know.” She leans against a streetlight, shoves her hands in her pockets. She could almost be one of them — the kids who smoke behind the high school, the ones with secrets you don’t even wanna know. Instead she’s here, talking to you.
The air smells like car exhaust and the cool, damp scent before it rains. The liquor store fades from sight, replaced by houses with darkened windows. It’s quiet. A little eerie. You wonder what she could possibly say that would make it less strange, being out here with a near-stranger after curfew, after dark.
The quiet stretches on.
Then Nat lets out a breath, her eyes on the sky like she can see something you can’t.
“It’s a nice night, right?”
You glance at her. There’s a faint smirk at the corner of her lips — like she already knows what you’re thinking.
It is a nice night. For February, at least. Quiet, like everyone and everything is holding their breath, waiting for the world to settle into a colder, harder shape. The air is still, the stars too far away to make a difference to anything down here.
“It’s nice.” You nod.
Nat hums, the sound swallowed by the night. The air gets colder, and you shove your empty hand further into your pocket. An icy wind crawls along the sidewalk, making you shiver.
For a while she’s silent, and you think she’s finished. But then her head tilts to the side, eyes fixed on something in the distance. And her voice, when it comes, is so low and quiet you almost miss it. Like she wants the words to disappear as soon as they hit the air.
“I know the best place to see the stars.”
“Show me.”
It doesn’t have a name. Or maybe it does, but it’s not the kind of place you label. Just a turnoff past the last streetlight, gravel crunching under tires, the world thinning out until it feels like it’s only the two of you and whatever’s been following her all her life.
When you reach the clearing, you stop without meaning to.
It’s higher than everything else. The ground dips and rolls like a held breath, and the sky opens itself up without asking permission. Stars everywhere. Too many to count. Sharp and bright and careless, like they’ve been burning this way forever and will keep burning long after you’re gone.
It’s beautiful. More beautiful than it probably is. Night has a way of lying like that — softening edges, forgiving things.
You let the air out of your lungs with a sound like a laugh. You can’t see much of her in the dark, just shadows and the outline of her hair. It feels unreal, like you stepped out of one world and into another somehow. There’s a part of you that almost feels like you could do anything here and no one would know.
The world seems wider, wilder. Like there’s less of you in it. You turn, finding her staring you. Her gaze is dark in the night, more serious than you expected.
“Does anyone else knows about this place?” You ask.
“No.” The word is quick, sharp. Like the idea of anyone other than her here makes her uncomfortable. You get it. Even the world feels different here. You wonder, for a second, if maybe she doesn’t bring people here, period. If this is just for her. Then she looks at you, eyes steady in a way that makes your throat tighten. “You can’t tell anyone about it.”
“I won’t.” Playfully, you lift three fingers up. “Scout’s honor.”
She snorts, head tilting down like she’s trying to hide a smile. When her gaze finds yours again, it lingers. There’s something in her eyes, in the way she watches you without looking away, that makes you hold your breath. “Were you actually ever a scout?”
You shake your head. “No. Just thought it sounded better than, like, a pinky promise.”
A laugh. It catches you by surprise — soft and low, like a secret. The wind blows strands of her hair across her face, and it’s quiet again. You shiver. Her eyes track up the length of your body before sitting on the grass. You follow her.
The grass is damp. Your skirt will have stains on it from the dirt. You sit, legs stretched out across the incline. A few inches apart. You know you should be cold by now — shivering, pulling your knees to your chest, pulling your sleeves down to your fingers.
But everything about this is warm. Her knee presses gently against yours, and you wonder if she can feel your body heat bleeding through the denim.
“People don’t look up enough,” she breaks the silence. Her voice is low, almost careful, like she doesn’t want to scare the moment away. “They forget it’s still there.” You hum in agreement. Nat picks at the grass beside her, pulling it up by the roots. “When I was a kid,” she adds, quieter now, “I used to come places like this and pretend none of the bad stuff could reach me. Like it couldn’t climb this high.”
“Did it work?”
She shakes her head. “Course not,” she says like you expected that answer. And you did, really. The world has a way of chasing people into even the quietest, highest places. She tucks her hair behind her ear, the wind catching it again right away. Then she leans forward on her elbows, eyes on the stars. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t help,” she adds, like an afterthought.
You watch her as she watches the sky. The stars are a little faint now like they’ve been smudged with a finger. You watch her gaze flick between them, never quite landing. Like looking straight at them is too much.
The air in your lungs feels thin. You lean forward without thinking, chin resting on your bent knees. When she finally looks over at you, she’s so close you can see the freckles that dusting her nose and cheeks. You didn’t notice them before. They make you think of constellations.
“You’re not what I thought you’d be like,” you whisper.
“Pot, kettle, black,” Nat points out and laughs.
The sound of her laughter still hangs in the air when you shove her shoulder, grinning into your hands. She pretends to wince, reaching up to grip the hurt area and glaring at you with mock severity. But her eyes are still soft around the edges. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You can’t help but inquire — curiosity making its way to your tongue, enabling the question to slip from your mouth.
She nudges you back, harder. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to catch you off guard. “Oh, come on. Acting like you didn’t have me in a little box stamped with ‘bad news’ from day one.”
It’s true. You did. You had her all figured out before she gave you a second look.
“Well, you can’t blame me.” You shrug. “Everyone knows about Nat Scatorccio, the town outcast who smokes and drinks and wears ripped jeans and gets in fights with jocks every week.” She quirks her head, like she doesn’t disagree with that assessment. “You don’t exactly look like someone I could bring home to the family.”
Nat looks almost amused. She picks at the grass, tossing a handful into the air. It flutters down around you like dust. “You thought I’d corrupt you or something?”
You scoff — like that’s even a question. The jocks make it seem so easy, warning people away from people like Nat. Like you could get high off of her secondhand smoke and ruin your life before you even graduated or something. Like a little bit of something different would be too much in a town like this. “I mean, this is the first time we ever spoke and I already stole alcohol.”
She smiles, a lopsided, crooked thing that makes you want to smile back just because of how rare it is. “Trust me, stealing booze isn’t gonna make you a delinquent for life.” Her voice stays soft, almost teasing. It makes something in you relax.
Biting your lip, you look at her under the stars. Your clothes are damp from sitting in the grass, your skirt stained with dirt. You were supposed to be home two hours ago. Instead you’re with a girl no one else ever really bothered to understand, and you don’t want to be anywhere else.
“How about we play a game?” You suggest, roll your eyes when she frowns at you like you said the worst thing ever. “Two truths and a lie.”
For a moment she just stares at you. It’s like she’s trying to decide if you’re serious or if you’re gonna laugh and run away any moment. But then she sighs, rolling her eyes as if this is the biggest inconvenience she’s ever had. “Fine,” she huffs. “I’ll go first.”
You smile, unable to help it. It’s impossible to take her seriously when she’s being dramatic. “Okay.” You prop yourself on your elbows, leaning back to look at the sky. “Go on.”
“I play guitar, I made Jackie Taylor cry in kindergarten because I wouldn’t play with her, and... I’m really good at math.”
There’s something about Nat that reminds you of music. Sharp in all the right places and unpredictable to an outsider. You reach out to touch her hand. Her hand is warm. You don’t feel any callouses on her palms. Her gaze flicks to where you’re touching, then back to you. You wonder if it looks like something it’s not. So you pull away. You think about the other two. It’s not hard to imagine any of them being true. Nat’s the kind of person who could be good at math and reduce Jackie Taylor to tears in kindergarten.
“Okay, got it.” You straighten and smile. “You don’t play guitar — your hands are too soft, no callouses. That was the lie. And, you have to be good enough at school if you’re in senior year; not straight A student, but you seem smart, just don’t let people notice.”
She stares at you. For one moment — one brief, horrible moment — you wonder if you got it wrong. Then a slow smile spreads across her face and she lets out a laugh. “No fair, Sherlock Holmes,” Nat complains, shoving you away, grinning when you shove her back. “How the fuck did you figure that out so fast?”
You roll your eyes. The smile stays. “Don’t act like I was some kind of sleuth. It was super easy.” Nat huffs — a sound that means she’s annoyed but not really — and shoves you again. It’s a little more gentle, this time. A tap, almost. Nat’s still smiling, her shoulders shaking with stifled laughter. Something about it makes you feel proud, like you did something right. “Alright, my turn now.”
She settles herself back on her elbows, looking at you expectantly. She has a strange kind of energy, even sitting down. Like she could shoot up from the ground and run a lap around the field without getting tired, or something. Like she doesn’t rest for anyone.
But here she is, all attention on you as she waits for your first statement. It makes your head spin a little, being looked at with that sort of focus.
“My dream job when I was a kid was to be a butcher — not a veterinarian, not anything else. A butcher.” Your statment makes her laugh. That’s a truth. “Um... I’m allergic to cats,” a lie. “And when I was, probably like five or six I hit my dad in the balls.”
The last statement makes her laugh out loud. The wind catches the sound, and you find yourself laughing too, just because. She shakes her head, still laughing. Her hair falls in front of her eyes, and she tucks the wayward strand behind her ear. “No fucking way. Did you at least have a reason for doing it? Or did the kid part of your brain just want to see what would happen?”
Your cheeks warm. The memory still makes you cringe. “I don't know. I just — I don’t even remember deciding to do it. It was like something in my head went, ‘hit dad in the balls,’ and my hand just followed through. Like it was a mission I had been assigned or something.”
Nat stares at you for a beat. Her lips quirk into a crooked smile. You watch as it grows. It’s wide and bright and a little ridiculous. It makes her look younger, more carefree, like a person without past. Everyone knows what happened that summer — no one is brave enough to bring it up. “Yeah, you don’t strike me as the butcher type.” She grins, shoving you again. “Too soft. You’d cry.”
“That’s your choice?” You ask.
It’s dark now, and that makes the stars look like pinpricks against the black. Like someone accidentally poked a hole in the night. She picks at the grass. A breeze catches a few strands of her hair, blowing them into her face. She tucks them back behind her ear almost without thinking. “I think you’d be a shitty butcher. You’d let the cow go out of sheer guilt.”
That makes you laugh. You let your hand rest against the damp grass, watching as the blades fold and bend under your fingers. There’s no space left between you and Nat, not really. Your knees and shoulders brush. You don’t move away.
“That was the truth,” you say. “I’m not allergic to cats.”
“Damn.” That crooked smile appears again. “I should’ve known you were the kind of person who’d be able to butcher animals.” This time the shove makes you lose your balance, ending up splayed on the grass. You push your palm against the ground as leverage and glare at her. Nat laughs, not at all apologetic.
“I’d make a great butcher,” you counter, sitting back up and trying to brush the grass from your clothes. Nat grins. There’s a smudge of dirt over her eyebrow that you want to brush away. You don’t.
You look at her, a thought dawning. She tilts her head, waiting for your words. Your mouth feels too dry, all of a sudden. There isn’t much light now — just the moon and the distant streetlights, and both of them feel a million miles away. She raises an eyebrow. “You look like you thought of something.”
“You have dirt on your eyebrow.”
Surprised, she wipes at her eyebrow for a moment, then frowns. “Did I get it off?” You shake your head and reach out without thinking. The touch is soft, just your thumb brushing away the smudge of dirt on her brow. Something in her gaze goes still as you do it. Then she laughs. “You should really consider a career in cleaning instead, then.”
One of your shoulders hit hers and you roll your eyes, dropping your hand. The air smells like dirt and grass and something you can’t name. Like something wild that you don’t know how to name.
“Shut up.”
Nat grins, leaning back on her palms. She nudges you with her elbow. “It was fun. The game, I mean.”
“I know.”
After that night, things shift in a way that’s easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.
You and Natalie start orbiting each other casually. Locker-side conversations. Shared cigarettes passed between fingers like a small, private ritual. Sitting close enough that your knees almost touch, close enough to feel the heat of her leg through denim. You call it friendship because that’s the safest word you know. Because naming things has a way of breaking them.
But you notice things.
The way her gaze lingers half a second too long when you laugh. How she watches your mouth when you talk, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your words. The way she stiffens when someone else gets too close to you, then pretends she doesn’t care at all.
The way her gaze lingers half a second too long when you laugh. How she watches your mouth when you talk, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your words. The way she stiffens when someone else gets too close to you, then pretends she doesn’t care at all.
At first you tell yourself she doesn’t mean it. That you’re imagining some secret meaning in it all. Then, one afternoon, you catch her looking at you like it hurts — like you’re something precious or dangerous, or something she doesn’t quite know how to hold. It’s only a second. But it’s enough to make your heart beat too fast, to send a jolt of something unfamiliar through you.
A party happens on a Friday, like all disasters do. Someone’s house is loud and too bright, music shaking the walls, bodies packed together like nobody wants to be alone with themselves. You lose Natalie somewhere between the kitchen and the backyard, and when you find her again she’s standing by herself, beer sweating in her hand, eyes distant.
It’s an unfamiliar look on her — like she’s trying to be so calm and careless that it almost loops back around to worried, the corners of her mouth just a little too tense and the set of her shoulders a little too sharp. It makes your stomach turn in an unfamiliar way, almost like sympathy but not quite. You push through the crowd to reach her, weaving through drunk kids and half-remembered faces.
Something like relief crosses her face when she sees you. It disappears half a second later, replaced by a grin. She lifts her beer like she’s toasting. You lift your own red cup in response, leaning against the wall beside her. “Hey.”
She takes a long drink before answering. You watch her throat dip with every swallow. She wipes a hand across her mouth when she lowers the bottle, a breath escaping like she’s shaking something off. This close you can smell the smoke and beer on her. “Having fun?”
You take a sip from your cup. It tastes like cheap beer and orange juice, too sweet and too bitter at the same time. It burns as it goes down. You shrug. “As much fun as you can probably have at a high school party in Wiskayok, New Jersey.”
At that, she laughs. It makes you feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol. Your elbow bumps against hers. She knocks your elbow back, harder this time, before taking another long sip of her beer. Something sparks in your chest that feels like adrenaline. “I’ll take that as you haven’t found a cute boy to make out with and are therefore incredibly lonely.”
Your cheeks burn, but you roll your eyes anyway. “Shut it, smartass. You’re not much better off yourself.”
Another grin breaks out across her face. She leans her head back against the wall, the motion making her shirt ride up. You catch the briefest flash of skin, the sharp jut of her hip bone and a thin strip of stomach, and you look away. “Guess we’re both lonely, then.”
It’s probably the beer. Definitely the beer — that’s the only reason you’re feeling warm and flushed. You look away, trying to avoid her gaze. When her elbow knocks into yours again, it feels almost purposeful this time.
“I don’t know.” You look over at her despite yourself and find her already watching you. The air around her is warm. The light from the kitchen casts her in something soft and gold. She looks like something out of a hazy dream. The alcohol thrums in your veins. For a moment you forget she’s real. Then she stares at your lips.
It’s a brief, almost imperceptible thing, her gaze flutters to your lips, then flicks away almost like she’s embarrassed by it. The back of your neck warms. Your chest feels too tight, too small for your heart. You take another gulp of beer and look away quickly. She clears her throat.
It should probably be awkward. It should feel strange — two girls standing together under a flickering light, surrounded by a hundred kids who don’t notice them at all. But her shoulder brushes against yours, warm and familiar, and it doesn’t feel strange at all.
When you glance back at her, her eyes were already on you — like something she can’t help, a lesson she doesn’t want to learn. You don’t look away this time. Your eyes meet hers again, and her gaze skims your face like she’s searching for something. However, she seems to find it because she steps closer, eyes on your mouth.
There’s a faint flush to her cheeks that you can’t tell are from the beer or something else. You watch her throat move as she swallows, the sharp angle of her jaw shifting under her skin.
The kiss happens like it’s been waiting. Quick at first, then steadier. Her mouth tastes like cheap alcohol and something sadder underneath. Her hand brushes your wrist, not gripping, not pulling you closer — just there, like she’s making sure you’re real.
It shouldn’t feel so good. It shouldn’t make you want to keep going until you can’t breath. It should feel like a mistake, the sort of stupid thing people do when they’re drunk. But then her arm wraps around your waist and your fingers find their way into her hair, and the world shrinks into a warm, blurry thing around you, and it doesn’t matter what it should feel like.
The beer makes you brave. It makes things feel simple and easy. It makes you pull her closer, fingers curling into the bottom of her shirt. There’s no one else here. No one but you and her, and the heat of her body under your fingers like she can burn away every thought from your mind.
Then it’s over.
Nothing else happens. No promises. No whispered plans. Just that.
Monday, when you find her at the hall and try to talk like normal — like you didn’t just cross some invisible line — she stiffens. Doesn’t look at you. Pushes past you with her shoulder. “Not now,” she mutters. You wait. You try again a little later, softer this time. You touch her arm, just briefly. She jerks away like it burned.
“Don’t,” she snaps. Not angry. Panicked.
That’s when it settles in.
You could chase her. You could explain. You could make yourself smaller, quieter, easier to keep.
But you don’t.
You step back. You let the space grow. Not out of cruelty — out of knowing when to stop reaching. You’ve learned, finally, that wanting someone doesn’t mean abandoning yourself at their feet.
It takes effort. It takes a lot of effort to walk away. You want, so badly, to turn around and force her to look at you. You want to demand an answer. You want to ask what you did. You want to say, Look at me. Say something.
You don’t. You let her pretend. And, eventually, it gets easier. You stop reaching for someone who will never reach back.
But later — weeks later — you’ll catch her watching you again, eyes heavy with something unsaid. And you’ll recognize it for what it is: not rejection, but fear. Quiet damage humming under the surface.
PAIRING: Iris x Reader
SUMMARY: Iris meets you, an older woman, at the store who she immediately connects with and ditches Josh to go and live with and be spoiled by you.
CONTENTS: pure fluff.
˖᯽ ݁˖ Merri’s Notes. . . Inspired by this post by @jackienatfailure !! I just wanna spoil her so bad. Bringing back the sparkles for my baby, she deserves the world for real.
IRIS! who met you whilst taking a trip to the store for Josh. Simply going through her mental shopping list and placing items in her cart whilst reminiscing about how she and Josh met. Falling oranges and smelling peaches.
IRIS! who is holding a peach up to her face, just like that beautiful day, when she meets you. Going through multiple different options of apples whilst continuously checking the list in your hand. Who feels a weird pull towards you and approaches you, something she’s never really felt the want to do before.
IRIS! who is almost buzzing as she helps you pick out the right apples, unable to keep her gaze away from you. Who subtly follows you outside the store, watching you go to wait for the bus. Thinking about Josh and going back to him but for some reason, following you seems a lot more appealing to her. So she does so.
IRIS! who puts the bags of groceries in a shopping cart by the store and leaves them there before lightly jogging over to you. Who sits by you whilst you both wait, not really realising how weird it would be for her to leave all those groceries she had in her cart behind and sit there with nothing.
“Did you not get anything at the store?” You ask suddenly, making her whip her head around to face you from where she was oh so subtly staring into space to not stare at you.
“Oh… no.” Iris shakes her head, “I didn’t want it.”
Your eyebrows raise, a confused look on your face as you slowly nod. “Okay… you had a good few meals in there, did you not need them?”
“No.” Iris says almost happily.
“Right.” You nod, looking down at her outfit. A blue and black top with a pretty skirt. Cute, you think, but it is quite cold out. The rain having stopped about an hour ago leaving a chill and a light but cold breeze in the air. “Are you not cold, honey?” You ask concerned.
Iris almost lights up at the endearment. “Oh no, I don’t really get cold.” She smiles at you, brown hair fluttering in her face slightly from under her headband.
“You sure?” You say, you can deal with the cold most days but not with your arms and legs completely bare. “Do you not have a jacket?”
“Oh, I do.”Iris nods, “I just didn’t want to wear it today.”
You’re not sure if you completely believe her, she kinda looks way too happy. You’ve never known anyone to be happy to go shopping in the cold, especially without a jacket on. “Do you have anywhere to go, honey?”
IRIS! who is suddenly able to make big lies. Not little lies though, they still come out of her. Who says she doesn’t have anywhere to go, maybe it was the truth, she didn’t feel like she really wanted to go back to Josh at all. Who rapidly nods her head when you ask if she wants to come with you, offering warmth and food that she didn’t actually need, but she is not passing up the opportunity to stay by you.
IRIS! who very quickly charms her way into your life and your house. What turned into one night in the guest room slowly turned into just not leaving. Getting new clothes, only the prettiest for her, "falling asleep" with her head on your shoulder whilst watching movies. Sitting at the table whilst you cook for her, you wouldn’t let her cook, no way.
IRIS! who looked at you with pure heart eyes, which you honestly started giving back. This girl, this adorable girl, who had ambushed your life and taken over your house—you had kinda became obsessed with her too.
IRIS! who one day just shoots forward to peck you on the lips, pulling back with a little smile on her face. It automatically felt so much better than Josh who she barely, if ever, thought about these days. Who leaned up on her toes as you cradled her face and kissed her properly.
IRIS! who does her cute little run whenever she comes over to you making you wrap an arm around her waist and pull her down into your lap. Who looks at you adoringly, but not more adoringly than how you look at her.
IRIS! who almost runs down the stairs, jumping the last few before swinging around the side of the banister and resting her chin on it to watch you cook breakfast in the morning if you’re up before her. Who wraps her arms around your waist, nuzzling her face into your back.
IRIS! who you hold in the shower whilst massaging shampoo into her hair, kissing the side of her soapy cheek making her automatically smile. Who moves her head towards you in a silent ask to run your fingers through her hair, which she’s realised she loves the feeling of.
IRIS! who still doesn’t know she’s a robot, but you eventually did figure it out. You thought it would make you feel different about her but honestly? You just felt ten times more protective.
IRIS! who goes crazy with her new wardrobe. Making the prettiest outfits to come downstairs to see you in, relishing in you holding her at arms length and telling her how pretty she is and making her do a little twirl to show off.
IRIS! who is not allowed out on cold days without a jacket. You don’t really care if she can’t fully feel the cold as much as you do. She’s wearing a jacket and gloves and maybe a hat in exchange for her headbands. Always holding her hand in your own whilst you’re both out.
IRIS! who lights up every single time you call her a pet name. Baby, Honey, My Darling. She is a sucker for them. Unable to stop a smile coming to her face and looking down to hide her flustered expression.
IRIS! who loves being near you all the time. Even attached to you at times. In bed cuddling, always cuddling. Never sleeping separately. Your arms are always around each other, holding her against your chest, her being the little spoon, arms wrapping around her waist. Anything where you both are touching she thrives on.
inspired by the snowstorm currently sweeping the east coast. i’m snowed in & thinking about jackienat
when they hear about the storm on the news, they both feel a sense of impending doom. before the first flake even falls, jackie is overwhelmed with claustrophobia - memories of being trapped in her body flooding over her. it’s paralyzing. but she can see how nat stiffens too, undoubtedly with worry for jackie. so jackie insists she’ll be okay, not wanting nat to worry even more.
the snow is expected to hit sunday. so on friday, they start to prep. they run to the grocery store, buying double of everything they might need. they can’t afford it, but it’s a compulsive need. they don’t know how long they’ll be stuck inside and they can’t risk running out again.
nat also makes a point to stop at the deli. the older man who owns it has taken a liking to her and nat feels the need to make sure he’s going to be okay. even if she won’t say the words out loud. she also stops and says hi to the cat (jackie always asks about him) and buys enough bagels to last the weekend.
neither of them can sleep saturday night. jackie tries, but she keeps getting out of bed to check that the windows are locked. she can’t risk the cold air invading their safe space. the thought of it feels like an assault. nat, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother. she stays up in bed next to jackie, watching her the way she used to back to the cabin.
on sunday, jackie doesn’t know what to do with herself, but she knows she can’t sit still. she can’t be stuck in her body the way she was before. so she begins to obsessively clean the apartment - organizing the living room, doing all the laundry, and deciding today is the day she’s finally going to go through all the old junk they’ve been meaning to get rid of.
nat tries to help, but jackie insists she needs to do it alone. all she can think about is how dependent she used to be on nat in the wilderness, and how she needs to prove to herself she can do this alone.
nat, now (mostly) sober, deals with it by smoking a cigarette out the kitchen window. she’s restless and anxious and she needs to be helping jackie - all of her old instincts have returned. but she can’t. so she smokes.
jackie crashes at 11am, sitting on the bedroom floor surrounded by old clothes, makeup, post cards, notes, and other knick knacks from the “before”. she completely breaks down out of sheer frustration and grief. but when nat sits beside her with warm, open arms - jackie finally allows herself to fall into them.
the rest of the day, they spend joint at the hip.
nat heats up a pizza in the oven while jackie lingers with her in the kitchen. she’s quieter now, her voice and her words feeling so disconnected. she’s fidgety too - constantly pulling at her sleeves or tapping her thighs.
nat doesn’t say anything, but she notices. she makes a point to put a hand on jackie’s shoulder or leg whenever she can - providing whatever subtle touch possible to remind jackie that she’s still there.
jackie says she wants to try to do what normal people are doing - watching movies, playing board games, or doing puzzles. nat thinks it’s a good idea too, but they’re both too restless for just one activity. so they end up watching tv while doing a puzzle and playing clue.
through it all, nat continues to focus on jackie. it’s grounding to her, in a way. it gives her proof that they survived, that jackie is okay, she did what she needed to do in the wilderness and as a result, jackie is still here.
they spend hours in the living room, playing, watching, and waiting. eventually, they fall asleep on the sofa around midnight in a pile of limbs and blankets. it isn’t very comfortable, but it gets them through the night, and out of the storm.
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
janainaart
snowghoul
2087
