PUNKROCKER.ᐟ ⎯ NATALIE SCATORCCIO
✧ summary — ‘cause i’m a punkrocker, yes i am.ᐟ’ the world is falling apart, you and natalie argue about the real meaning of being ‘punk rock,’ and van stays a menace.ᐟ 📻
tw — mentions of real world problems, mentions of abusive past life, not much else. basically skater!natalie (+ skater!yellowjackets) 🛹
author’s note — (credits to @hyuneskkami for the dividers!!) i haven’t seen the new ‘superman’ film but this song is such a banger and the representation of it in the film was too close to home to pass up—supergirl: woman of tomorrow 2026‼️ [taglists : @kjiscrawlingbackformore ]
It starts with a record.
One of Natalie’s — something old, worn, barely still playable. You’d pulled it off the shelf without thinking, slid it from the sleeve with careful fingers, and set it spinning. The first track crackled to life, distorted and raw in a way that felt both intentional and accidental.
That perfect kind of messy.
You sat back on your heels, arms folded over your knees. “This was your favorite, huh?”
Natalie, perched sideways on the couch, her legs slung over the arm, gives a nod without looking up from the joint she’s lazily rolling. “Poly Styrene’s the reason I dyed my hair green the first time.”
You smile faintly. “That must’ve been a sight.”
“She was chaos. Pure chaos. God, I wanted to be her.”
There’s a lull after that — the song buzzing under the silence — until you shift a little and say it without really meaning to start anything:
“I think punk’s kind of changed, though.”
Natalie’s eyes lift.
“Changed how?” she asks, cautious but amused.
“I don’t know. It just feels like… now it’s more about the image than the actual message. Everyone’s got safety pins in their ears and spiked collars but still treat people like crap. Like… what’s even the point anymore?”
Natalie snorts. “Jesus Christ. That is such a you thing to say.”
You tilt your head. “A me thing?”
“Yeah,” she says, lighting the joint and taking a drag. “You get this weird holier-than-thou tone when you talk about people being performative, like you think you cracked some universal code.”
“I’m not—”
“I mean, come on. Punk’s always been about attitude. About not giving a fuck. That’s the point. It’s loud. It’s rude. It’s not supposed to be nice.”
You stand, brushing off your jeans, and walk toward the couch where she’s lounging like a cat in the sun, lazy and sharp. “See, I think that’s where you’re wrong.”
Natalie raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
You nod. “I think being kind — being radically, genuinely kind — is the most punk thing you can do now.”
She stares at you like you just spoke in another language.
“…What?”
You lean back against the wall across from her, arms crossed. “Think about it. The world’s so mean. Everyone’s pissed off, posturing, pretending they don’t care about anything. But you look someone in the eye and care? Not in some fake, superficial way — like really see them, give a shit? That’s rebellion.”
Natalie takes another drag, blowing the smoke out of the side of her mouth. “That’s not rebellion. That’s therapy.”
You laugh. “No. Therapy is rebellion too, but that’s a whole other conversation.”
She exhales hard through her nose. “Okay, Gandhi. You’re seriously trying to convince me that giving someone a hug is more punk than, I don’t know, setting fire to your high school’s flagpole?”
You smile faintly. “Kindness doesn’t mean softness. It’s not weakness. It’s actually way harder than just burning everything down. Anybody can destroy something. It takes real guts to build something. To care enough to try.”
Natalie looks at you for a long moment, jaw flexing like she’s fighting the urge to argue just for the hell of it.
“…You know,” she says eventually, “when I was fifteen, I thought punching my dad in the face made me punk.”
You don’t interrupt. You just nod for her to go on.
“But it didn’t fix anything. It just gave me a black eye and got me kicked out for two nights.” She flicks ash into a chipped mug. “You know what actually felt punk? Sleeping on my friend’s floor and waking up to her mom making pancakes like I was normal. Like I mattered.”
You blink, taken aback by the confession. It’s not like Natalie to hand you something like that so freely. Not without armor.
“That’s what I’m saying,” you murmur. “Being angry makes sense. It’s earned. But it can’t be everything. There’s gotta be more than just rage or apathy.”
She looks at you for a long beat. “I grew up thinking love made you weak.”
You swallow. “And now?”
“…Now I think maybe it just makes you vulnerable. Which is worse.” But her voice softens like it’s not quite a threat anymore.
You step forward — not closing the space entirely, but enough to feel the air shift. “You know vulnerability isn’t a bad thing, right?”
Natalie meets your eyes. There’s something cautious flickering behind hers. “Yeah, well. You try growing up like I did and not turning it into a goddamn weapon.”
“I’m not asking you to put your heart on a platter, Nat,” you say. “I’m just saying… maybe the new punk is giving a shit about people. Maybe it’s not who can scream the loudest, but who can sit still and listen.”
She shifts, staring at you like you’ve cracked her open without touching her. Her voice drops, almost dry. “You’re seriously the sappiest person I’ve ever met.”
You shrug. “Still got better taste in music than you.”
“Lies,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile curling at her mouth.
And then it’s quiet again, just the static from the record player spinning something scratchy and old and true. You stand there, not needing to say anything else. Natalie watches you, eyes flickering over your face like maybe she’s memorizing it in spite of herself.
“…You really believe that?” she asks, finally. “That kindness is punk?”
“I do.”
And for the first time all night, she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t scoff or roll her eyes or push back just to feel the pressure.
She just nods once. Barely. But it’s enough.
Finally, she sighs. “You’re so annoying when you’re right.”
You grin. “So you admit it?”
She stands up, closing the space between you — not threatening, not quite flirtatious. Just present. “No. I said when you’re right. Not that you are.”
“But I am.”
“You’re lucky I like you,” she mutters, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then away again.
“I know,” you say, voice softer now. “That’s the punkest thing about you.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Shut up.”
You bump your shoulder into hers and walk back toward the player, flipping the record to side B. The next song picks up where the first left off — loud, messy, the sound of rebellion, sure. But somehow, it doesn’t feel so angry this time.
It feels honest.
And for Natalie, that’s enough.
The sun’s at that sharp angle that makes everything gleam just a little too bright. Sweat sticks to skin, shoelaces are fraying, and half the crew’s been nursing the same drinks for the past hour like they forgot how thirst works.
The skate park is old and half-broken in the way that makes it good — warped ramps, patchy graffiti, concrete smooth from years of wheels carving it down to something clean. The speaker someone rigged from a backpack’s been shuffling through a mess of playlists: some crust punk, some shoegaze, even a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Phoebe Bridgers track someone forgot to skip.
Natalie drops into the bowl again, her board thudding softly underfoot. She doesn’t try anything flashy — just cruises along the curve, leaning into it, weight settled in her knees. Every now and then she glances over to where everyone else is spread out like lazy cats in the shade: Taissa in a folding chair with her sunglasses halfway down her nose, Lottie stretched out in the grass next to Shauna, who’s chewing absently on the end of a plastic straw. Van’s circling the smaller ramp on a longboard she refuses to give up, and Travis is just now arriving, a bag of gas station snacks tucked under one arm like it’s a baby.
“You’re late,” Natalie calls as she skates past him.
“You’re early,” Travis fires back, mouth already full of sour straws.
“You’re both annoying,” Taissa adds, not looking up from her phone.
Natalie slows her board to a stop and walks it over, flipping it up with the back of her heel and letting it settle beside her. She tosses herself down onto the bench like gravity’s a suggestion and rests an arm behind her neck.
She’s been thinking about it for days now. Ever since that conversation with you — the one that caught her off guard, the one she pretended didn’t make her think as hard as it did.
It wasn’t that she didn’t believe you. She just… hadn’t considered it before. And now it wouldn’t leave her alone.
She kicks a rock near her foot. “Alright, group poll.”
“Jesus,” Van mutters from the other ramp. “Already?”
“Just answer the damn question.”
Shauna tilts her head, mildly intrigued. “What’s the question?”
Natalie eyes the group like she’s sizing up whether they’ll take this seriously or not. “What does ‘punk rock’ actually mean to you?”
There’s a beat of silence — not judgmental, just unexpected.
Lottie squints toward her. “Did something happen or are we just doing philosophy hour?”
“Just answer it,” Natalie says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it lately.”
“Thinking,” Travis echoes. “Dangerous territory.”
Natalie throws a piece of gravel at him.
“Anyway,” she goes on, “I used to think punk was just… being pissed. Loud. Messy. Flipping the bird to the system and anyone who tried to put you in a box. But now I’m not so sure that’s it. Not really.”
“Wow,” Taissa says dryly, “this must be serious. You’re opening with a monologue.”
“I’m making a point,” Natalie says, unfazed. “I was talking to someone the other night — and she brought up this idea that maybe punk isn’t about being chaotic for the sake of it. Maybe it’s about care. Like, real care. Empathy. She said it takes more guts to build something than to destroy it.”
Van drops her board and walks it over toward the bench, interest piqued. “That sounds kind of beautiful.”
“Yeah, I didn’t know I was dating a poet,” Natalie says, smirking.
Taissa glances over the top of her sunglasses. “Wait—this is the girl you’ve been hiding from us?”
“Not hiding,” Natalie corrects quickly. “Just… buffering.”
“You’ve never said the word buffering in your life,” Shauna mutters.
Natalie ignores her and keeps going. “Anyway, it messed me up a little. Not in a bad way. Just made me think.”
Travis finishes digging through the snack bag and shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it can still be both, right? Like, caring about something and setting a couch on fire if it feels right.”
“That’s your solution to everything,” Van says. “Setting things on fire.”
“Not everything,” he grins. “Sometimes I just run.”
“I kind of get what she’s saying though,” Lottie chimes in, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. “I think punk should mean freedom. Like — being allowed to be angry, but also allowed to be soft. To feel stuff and not have to apologize for it.”
Shauna nods slowly. “I used to think it was about being different. Just different for the sake of it. Like, wear weird clothes, listen to bands nobody knew, act out. That kind of thing.”
“And now?” Natalie asks.
Shauna shrugs. “Now I don’t know. I guess I think that was kind of the point too, in a way. But it was missing something. Doing all that without knowing why just makes you a try-hard.”
Van sits down cross-legged, picks at a sticker on her board. “I’ve always thought punk was about not apologizing for liking what you like. Like, if you want to scream to Bikini Kill in the car? Do it. If you want to knit sweaters while listening to The Cramps? That’s punk too. It’s all just—whatever feels honest.”
Taissa leans back, arms folded. “Punk’s a state of mind. It’s not a look or a playlist. It’s about not asking for permission to be exactly who you are.”
Everyone goes quiet for a moment — not heavy, just… considering.
Natalie presses the toe of her shoe into the gravel. She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.
Then, quietly: “That’s what she said, kind of. That being kind in a world that’s cold is a kind of defiance.”
Van nudges her lightly. “You’re really into this girl, huh?”
Natalie rolls her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”
“No, it’s cute,” Lottie says with a smile. “You’re soft about her.”
“God, stop.”
“She sounds cool,” Taissa offers, more gently. “You should bring her around.”
Natalie hesitates, but only for a breath. “I will. Just want to keep her to myself a little longer.”
Travis grins. “That’s punk.”
Natalie side-eyes him. “You don’t even know what that means.”
“Does anyone?”
Shauna shrugs. “Maybe that’s the point.”
Natalie lets herself laugh, really laugh. Because maybe it is the point. That no one has it fully figured out, and maybe that’s exactly what keeps it alive — that refusal to be pinned down, defined, boxed in.
She leans back on her elbows again, glancing up at the sky.
It’s not that she’s changed her mind completely. She still believes in anger. In making noise when you need to. But now, when she thinks about punk, she thinks about you. About how you look when you’re listening, about the way you always seem to care harder than anyone expects you to.
And that — she thinks — might be the most radical thing of all.
The sky’s already fallen into itself by the time she knocks at your door — that late blue kind of dark that turns the city soft, muffled behind its own noise. You open it before she can knock again, barefoot, your hair a little messy like you’d just gotten out of the shower and didn’t bother to do much else. There’s a familiar look in her eyes when she sees you, one you’ve come to recognize: the silent exhale, the shift in her shoulders, the way her gaze softens before she even steps inside.
She holds up the takeout bag like it’s some kind of offering. “You’re lucky I love you,” she says flatly. “The line was insane.”
“You probably flirted with the cashier again.”
“I did not,” she lies, slipping past you. “But I could have.”
“You flirt like a wet sock, Scatorccio.” you call after her, and she just laughs — that short, rough-edged sound that always lands somewhere between amused and surprised, like she’s not used to being allowed this kind of ease.
The apartment smells like lemon soap and whatever candle you lit earlier — something musky and warm that’s burned halfway down its glass. The TV’s already on in the background, volume low, a muted anchor mouthing grim words behind a banner of breaking news: another school board under investigation for corruption. The visuals cycle through footage of shouting parents, grainy protest signs, blurred-out faces.
Natalie doesn’t comment right away. She sets the bag down on the kitchen counter, fingers already digging through it for containers, your forks, the little packets of soy sauce that always get thrown in whether you ask or not. You grab two glasses from the cabinet without asking if she wants water — she always drinks yours instead of getting her own.
But when she notices you carrying the plates over to the dining table, she follows automatically.
No couch tonight. No legs tucked up on the cushions or food balanced on her knees. That’s something she’s picked up from you, without ever calling attention to it — this quiet insistence on sitting to eat. On treating even simple dinners like they deserve a moment.
She likes it more than she lets on.
You sit across from each other, the cheap takeout boxes warming your palms. You eat in comfortable silence for a while — chopsticks clicking gently against plastic, the occasional shared glance, your foot nudging hers under the table without meaning to.
The newscaster’s voice plays low in the background, even and practiced.
“…documents reveal nearly $800,000 in misallocated district funds — originally budgeted for student mental health programs and building repairs. The superintendent has declined to comment, citing ongoing litigation…”
Natalie stops mid-bite. Her brow furrows, just slightly.
“This follows similar scandals in six other districts this year alone — prompting new questions about oversight, public accountability, and who these systems are really built to protect…”
You look up, meeting her gaze. She’s chewing slower now.
“That shit on the news,” she mutters. “You seen it?”
You nod without looking at the screen. “It’s hard to miss.”
There’s a beat, then: “It’s getting worse, right?”
You don’t reply right away. You watch the screen: a flicker of footage from a protest — high schoolers outside a district office, hand-painted signs raised above their heads. One of them reads WE’RE NOT DOLLAR SIGNS in smeared red paint. Another: WHO’S WATCHING THE WATCHDOGS?
You nod toward the screen. “They are.”
Natalie looks at you.
“Everyone thinks rebellion looks like a riot,” you murmur, “but sometimes it’s just a kid cutting up their mom’s sheets to make a banner.”
She lets that hang there.
You take a sip of water. The condensation beads against your fingers.
Natalie shifts in her seat, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “It’s getting louder.”
“Because it has to,” you say. “Some people don’t even realize it’s happening. But this — all of this — it’s its own kind of punk.”
She huffs a short breath, like she hadn’t thought about it that way. “Punk with Excel spreadsheets and court hearings.”
“Punk with purpose,” you offer, tapping your fork against the plate. “It doesn’t always have to wear chains and scream to be radical.”
Natalie leans back in her chair. She’s not smiling exactly — it’s something else. Something quieter. A shift behind her eyes like she’s storing the words somewhere.
“So… the others asked about you.”
You glance up from your food, eyebrows raised.
“They asked when they’re gonna meet you,” she clarifies, like you hadn’t already figured it out.
You smile — slow, easy. Not teasing just yet. Not until her eyes flick up to yours like she’s waiting for you to flinch.
“Let me guess,” you say, feigning deep thought. “Van said you’re not ready.”
Natalie squints. “She did.”
You grin. “She’s a menace.”
“Tell me about it,” Nat says, but the edge in her voice is all affection.
You reach across the table, picking at the hem of the sleeve she pushed up earlier, fingers brushing her forearm in that absentminded, knowing way you have — grounding, not clingy. “Are you not ready?”
Natalie shrugs, lips pressed together. “I mean… I don’t think it’s about that. Not really.”
“No?”
She shakes her head, letting her foot find yours again beneath the table. “It’s just—it’s not bad. I don’t feel weird about you. I just… I don’t know. I think I wanted to keep this thing mine for a little. Before it turns into something everybody has an opinion about.”
You tilt your head. “That’s fair.”
There’s nothing heavy about the pause that follows. It’s easy — a quiet understanding settling between bites and sips of water. You reach for a napkin, pass her one without looking, and she takes it like it’s a habit now.
The TV hums along behind you, some senator’s face flashing on the screen with a headline that doesn’t deserve your time. Natalie’s not paying attention anymore.
“You don’t have to rush it,” you say finally. “Whenever you’re ready, that’s when we do it.”
Her shoulders drop just a little more.
And then: “Van’s still gonna give me shit.”
You laugh, soft. “She’ll survive.”
“She won’t,” Natalie mutters. “She’ll haunt me.”
“Then you better tell her I’m the kind of ghost that organizes your spice rack and asks about your childhood trauma.”
Natalie grins — a real one. Small, teeth barely showing, but it reaches her eyes. “God. You’re so weird.”
“You like it.”
She nods, not even pretending otherwise.
You reach for her hand, the one closest to the empty dumpling tray. She lets you take it, doesn’t say anything while you trace a slow line down the back of her knuckles.
“I like that you still sit at the table with me,” you say, after a moment.
Natalie glances around. “Feels better. I don’t know. Real, I guess.”
She watches you now — like she’s seeing something she hadn’t the words for until right now.
“That’s punk too,” she murmurs.
“What is?”
“This. You. Choosing a life that makes sense to you, even if it’s not loud or messy or…” She trails off.
“Even if it’s dinner and the news and the same chair every night?” you ask, amused.
She shrugs, squeezes your hand. “Yeah. Even that.”
You lean back in your seat, letting your gaze drift back to the muted television. The protest footage has shifted now — a nighttime shot, kids in beanies and oversized hoodies, sitting in the rain outside a city hall building. No chants. Just presence. Just quiet, deliberate defiance.
Natalie looks too. Her eyes linger.
Neither of you says anything more about it.
But something in the room shifts — not dramatic, not loud — just a shared understanding that there’s a bigger world out there pressing against the edges of your quiet one. And even in here, where it smells like garlic sauce and warm soy, where she knows where you keep your forks and how you fold your napkins, you’re both watching something unfold.
It’s not always about noise.
Sometimes it’s about knowing what’s worth staying angry for.
Or who’s worth softening for.
Or what kind of rebellion starts when someone chooses kindness, even when the world keeps asking for rage.
And Natalie, who’s always believed in being a little wild, a little sharp — Natalie sits at your table and watches the world burn a little more every day.
When dinner’s done, you both stack the containers in the sink. Natalie dries her hands on the towel you leave slung over the oven handle — she always uses it, even when there’s a newer one closer by. You flick the TV off with the remote before heading back to the living room, but she tugs your hand at the last second, steers you toward the bedroom instead.
She doesn’t say anything else. Just lays down sideways across your bed, shoes kicked off, head on your pillow like it’s hers now.
You curl beside her a minute later, hand slipping beneath her shirt, resting at the warm curve of her waist.
The world outside keeps spinning.
But for now, all Natalie cares about is this: a quiet room, full stomach, your heartbeat steady against hers.
And the fact that in this small apartment — with your takeout rules and your soft touches and your deeply annoying habit of being right — she feels something almost like home.