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27spoons · 3 days ago

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CRUSH | ACT THREE: SOMEBODY ELSE

pairing: natalie scatorccio/fem!reader

summary: A car, a party, a death.

wc: 7000

warnings: (mentioned) minor character death, angst, smut, alcohol consumption, weed usage, driving while intoxicated, semi-public sex, oral sex (r!receiving), vaginal fingering (r!receiving), overstimulation (kind of), aftercare (kind of), unreliable narrator

a/n: i don't think this needs to be said but i do not condone driving under the influence. call an uber, cab, lyft, friend, whatever. just don't drive.

ao3 / masterlist

PREVIOUS - ACT THREE: SAFE FROM HEARTBREAK (IF YOU NEVER FALL IN LOVE)

NEXT - ACT THREE: TIGER TEETH [WIP]

You spend the first half of the week pretending you're too busy to care.

Too busy to think about what she said. Too busy to care about how she said it. Too busy to check your phone every five minutes in case she accidentally sends you a text or two.

(She doesn't.)

It's Saturday afternoon when two of your friends burst through your bedroom door, looking at you like you just shot their dog, then desecrated the corpse.

"Have you been wallowing in your own misery all week? Dude," your friend Theo groans, gesturing wildly to where you sit on the bed, buried underneath a mountain of blankets. "You're seriously gonna let Walking Suspension do this to you? She was…"

"Bad news from the first day. Like a side quest that does nothing but lower your stats and drain your health potions," your other friend Ellie cuts in with a roll of her eyes. "Seriously. You knew how bad she was before you two started talking, and you thought that she would be different just because you're… you?"

You look up at her, jaw falling slack at the sheer nerve. "Ouch?" You slink in further under the bedsheets, putting the phone in front of your face to block your friends' view of you. "If you don't mind, I have doomscrolling to get back to."

If looks could kill, you'd long be dead.

Before you can stop either of them, Ellie rips your blanket off—which sends chip crumbs flying everywhere—and Theo snatches your phone and holds it out of your reach.

"Hey! What the fuck?" You gawk at them incredulously, like you can't believe the audacity. "Seriously? Theo, give me my phone back. C'mon." You extend your arm, palm face up, like an angry parent demanding their child hand over all electronics. "Just… give me my phone back, and I'll see you guys on Monday for our weekly study sesh, okay?"

"Nope." Theo shakes his head, stepping back. "Get your butt out of bed. It's Saturday, and you're in a nasty hoodie and sweatpants. We're going out tonight."

You groan dramatically, dropping your hand back on the mattress. "Really? Since when do either of you go out on weekends?" You glance over at Ellie. "You're on board with this? You're encouraging him?" When all she does is shrug in response, you groan and roll your head on the pillow. "You're both evil. Evil people."

Ellie laughs at that, leaning against your doorframe. "No. We just want to make sure Malboro Mondays doesn't take away your… sparkle."

"Marlboro Mondays?" Theo rolls his eyes, shoving your phone in his back pocket. "Walking Suspension was a better name."

"Not the point." Ellie steps to the foot of your bed. "Jason Russo is throwing a party tonight," she announces. "We're gonna get drunk." She makes grabby motions with her hands. "You can't be a hermit just because some chick with a rap sheet longer than a CVS receipt broke your heart."

"You make her sound like a villain," you mumble, frowning inwardly. "She's not as bad as you two make her seem, you know."

They both groan at your immediate defense of her, mutually rolling their eyes at the pathetic behaviour. "Whether or not she's a villain doesn't matter. What matters is that she is currently acting like a villain in your story," Ellie says resolutely. "Get up, y/n."

Theo steps back to the bed, extending his arm in an effort to help you get up. "C'mon. We've already decided you're coming to the party."

You look at Theo's arm like he's offering a live grenade and not his hand. "Why can't I just lie in bed? You guys are already here; we can… I don't know. Watch a movie or something? Have a friends' night in?" The smile you give them is miserable, and you already know your pleas will fall on deaf ears.

When they stare at you in silence for another thirty seconds, you relent with a loud groan. "Oh my God, fine. I'll go to your—Jason Russo's stupid party. But I'm not drinking. I'm going purely because I'm being forced to. I will not be having any fun."

Ellie grins and claps her hands together happily, making a sound that could only be described as pure glee. "Heck yes. Do you need help getting dressed? Picking clothes? Doing makeup? Accessorising? Ohmigod, we haven't had a girls' night in ages! We can put on Sabrina Carpenter's new album, and—" She takes a big inhale halfway between the words, and Theo rolls his eyes at her giddiness at the prospect. "—and pregame!"

"She just said she isn't drinking," Theo mumbles, clearly bored with the 'girls talk' that's happening.

"At the party!" Ellie immediately snaps. "Doesn't mean we can't drink before! God, Theo. You're so boring sometimes."

Before Theo can shoot off a retort, you're standing up and waving them both away. "Nope. Not happening. No pregaming or any… preparty events. I'll pick out my own clothing and do my own makeup and accessorising. Thank you, both of you, for all your help. Now, I'd like to get dressed without anyone in the room." When neither of them makes a move to leave, you take your phone from Theo's pocket and force both of them out. "Sit downstairs with my parents or something. Maybe come back when the party actually starts. Just let me get changed in peace." Then you slam the door shut in their faces, like a true friend would.

You really, really, don't want to go to this party—especially hosted by a sleezebag like Jason Russo—but you know your friends won't leave without you. As annoying as they are, they mean well.

So, you turn over to your closet and look at all of your 'nice' clothes with thinly veiled disdain, muttering something about how much you hate both of them (you don't), and how you'll never talk to them again after this (you will).

Despite telling yourself that you wouldn't put any effort into dressing up, it takes a solid fifteen minutes to choose what to wear and another thirty to put your clothes on and get your shit together. You're wearing simple clothes and basic accessories, looking like you don't care about what you're wearing to the average person, but carefully selected attire to anyone who looks a little too close.

Maybe you want someone to look too close.

By the time you make it down the stairs to your waiting friends, they look like they're a second away from banging their heads into the wall. Your dad is talking their ear off about his Tom Clancy books, explaining the lore that he has likely called 'life-changing,' while your mom sits there looking equally as disinterested as your friends.

When everyone sees you, three of four people in the room sigh with relief.

"Well, always great to see you two!" Ellie laughs awkwardly, standing up from the couch and clutching her cross-body bag like a lifeline. "We need to get going now! Right, Theo?" She shoots Theo a glance that would strike dread into even the strongest man, and he immediately stands up.

"Yes, exactly what she said!" he stammers, almost tripping over his feet in an effort to get to the door. "We need to leave. Excelsior!" And he's out the door before anyone can say otherwise.

"Dork," Ellie snorts. "Needs to learn when to shut up."

Say what people will about Ellie—timid, shy, a lot like you in some regards—but she sure knows how to strike fear into Theo's heart like no other.

You say goodbye to your parents and promise to be back before midnight, but you already know they don't give a fuck about what time you get back as long as you're alive and not committing crimes.

The cold air hits you like a smack to the face, and you hunch deeper into your coat. Your sneakers crunch over the old snow that's gone gray with exhaust, breath curling in front of your face like smoke from a cigarette Nat would have—

Nope. You're not thinking about Nat or the Marlboro Reds she smokes.

You slide into the backseat after Ellie calls shotgun, slamming the door shut before the cold can creep in. Theo's already in the driver's seat, fiddling with the aux cord like his life depended on it. He's muttering something about needing to "set the vibe," which, judging by the playlist he pulls up, apparently means three-year-old TikTok hits and at least one 'ironic' ska track.

Ellie gives you a tight-lipped smile in the rearview mirror as she buckles up. You return it, not really looking at her. Your eyes flick toward the window instead, watching the snowbanks blur into smudges as the car jerks into motion.

They're in the front seats, talking about something random to fill the void, muddling the soundtrack Theo painstakingly selected for the ride over. You haven't even asked where the party is—although you're more than sure it'll be one of those big houses on the west end of town—but you don't know how much you really care. It's not like it would matter much, anyway.

"Hey," Theo says suddenly, drawing your attention to the rearview mirror where his eyes meet yours. "You think she'll be there tonight?"

Ellie groans and swats at him. "Theo."

"What?" He shrugs. "Just making conversation."

You roll your eyes, but your heart kicks up at the notion regardless. You don't ask who he means—you don't need to. Instead, you lean your head against the glass and pretend not to care. The cold from outside seeps into your temple.

"She probably won't show," Ellie offers gently, always trying to smooth things over. "You know how she is."

You hum noncommittally. You do know how she is. Ellie and Theo don't. They just know the kind of stories that come with five retellings and no survivors.

Well, at least you think you still know how—who Natalie is.

Cars are lined up down the street by the time you get to the party. Bass pumps in the air, lingering scents of beer and tobacco permeating the walls of the offending house. Teens and people who should definitely not be at a high school party litter the lawn, mingling amongst each other despite the freezing weather.

Theo and Ellie leave you the second you get inside the house, vanishing somewhere in the vast sea of people before you even get a chance to say goodbye.

There's a small selection of people you actually interact with scattered around the party, but you don't really want to talk to anyone, let alone drunk people you can hardly stand sober. So, you do what you do best in uncomfortable social situations: find the dog and pet it.

A small group of stoners have cornered a dog in one of the bedrooms upstairs, although the dog hardly seems to mind the attention from the group. The dog—which you come to learn is a tan and white pomeranian named Coco—immediately hops off the lap of whoever it's sitting on to sit on yours instead, grinning up at you like a complete dumbass.

You end up spending at least two hours up there. One of the people in the room before you—Alex, maybe—offers you a joint somewhere in the middle of that time. One joint turns into two, and no drinking turns into one shitty cooler drink after another. You debate leaving on more than a single occasion, but end up sticking around for the dog (you tell yourself, anyway).

You're mid-head scratch when Coco suddenly perks up, ears twitching like she's just heard God himself descend the stairs. Without warning, she jumps off your lap and bolts for the door, nails skittering against the hardwood.

The group groans.

"Traitor," someone mutters.

You glance at the clock on the nightstand and realise it's later than you thought. The room's gone stale—everyone's either high, half-asleep, or both, and you're starting to sober up just enough to regret the last grape-flavoured cooler.

You stand, stretching limbs that feel two sizes too heavy, and figure you may as well make an appearance downstairs before leaving. Pretend you were social, maybe even find Ellie and convince her and Theo to call it a night.

The bass reverberates through your jelly-like bones as you walk down the stairs—avoiding a senior and a freshman who are playing tongue hockey against the railing—and try not to knock over the row of red solo cups filled with mystery fluid that are lined up at the bottom. A vast majority of the people who were here when you arrived have since filtered out of the house or gone into side rooms for various activities, and the people who remain on the dance floor look like they've done a few too many illicit substances to be functioning like a normal person.

Your phone is—unfortunately—dead, making finding out if your friends came or went far more complicated than you'd like it to be. No one you talk to seems to have seen or even know who they are, and you come up on dead end after dead end.

When you stumble into the living room, that's when you see her.

Nat. Throwing herself into the heat of the crowd, dancing like nothing else exists but the music and her body. She's loud, laughing at the jokes the people around her make—like she's trying to be seen.

A far cry from how you've seen her act at parties in the past. Typically, she tries to stick to the side—but still within the mess—with her regular group of people. This time, it's people you've never seen her with before, each more rough-looking than the other.

One of them—a tall brunet who looks like he belongs in college—keeps whispering comments in Nat's ears that she laughs at harder than anyone else nearby, and it makes an uncomfortable feeling rake down your spine.

You shouldn't be watching—not for this long, not at all.

It's like observing a cinematic trainwreck in high definition.

She's a blur of limbs and denim, hair sticking to her face in sweaty strands, mascara smudged a bit too much for someone who hasn't been crying. She throws her head back when she laughs, too loud and too long to be genuine. Her hands move too fast for you to keep up with them, touching other people, stealing drinks, and flipping off strangers who whistle at her like it's a game.

It's manic. Maybe a little pathetic—although, notably, it's a whole different kind of pathetic than yours—and still, you can't look away.

She sways into the brunet again, too close now. He puts a hand on her waist, and she doesn't flinch. Doesn't acknowledge it, true, but doesn't push it away, either.

When her eyes find you, all that changes.

Her grin grows sharper as she leans into his touch, hands coming to rest on his jacket lapels and pulling him closer into her orbit. He says something. She laughs—as if it was actually funny—and leans in to whisper something in his ear in return.

Whatever she says, he clearly likes it, if the way his fingers dig into her waist is any indication.

They banter.

She says something.

He laughs. Touches her.

Nat's smile doesn't meet her eyes.

They touch like they've already decided where they're going to fuck—and it's far from subtle.

It takes everything in you not to throw your half-empty can at their display, just to cause a scene. Just to make them feel a little worse.

It's not your style. You've never been a loud person.

Like the adult you believe yourself to be, you simply decide I'm not doing this tonight, and turn on your heel right before Nat can lean in and press her lips to his.

You tell yourself you don't want her—not her body, not her chaos, not anything that comes with her—but the thought of her with somebody else makes you sick.

You can handle her being gone. It's just that you don't want anyone else to have her.

The past… God knows how long… you've spent wallowing in your own despair. She's been moving on. Living her life. Doing lines in bathrooms with strangers, then robbing stores and bringing other people to the same spots she brought you once upon a time.

Sound fades into the background, the shitty house song that's playing through blown-out speakers reverberates across the floorboards and through your bones, making your footfall unsteady as you move for the front door.

Faces blur as you push past them, trying to make it outside before you can spew your guts across floors worth enough to bankrupt your parents.

You make it to the porch before the nausea really sets in. The cold air doesn't help—if anything, it makes everything worse. You stumble down the steps, past a couple making out in the snow like it's not sub-zero, and lean against the hood of a car that might not even belong to anyone at the party.

Deep breaths, you mentally tell yourself, hands shaking as they come to rest on your knees in an effort to hold yourself up.

You're about to pull out your phone—maybe to text Ellie, maybe to call a cab, maybe just to look at something that isn't her—when you hear the door slam shut.

"Nah, fuck that," a voice that you'd recognise anywhere yells from the house.

Nat's storming out, leather jacket slung over one arm, hair wild, eyes locked on you like you've personally ruined her night.

Maybe you have.

"Seriously?" she calls, like she wasn't about to kiss someone else five minutes ago.

You don't even blink before you're turning away and walking down the street, fingers fumbling with your phone that's… dead. Great fucking timing.

"Hey!" Nat shouts. "Princess! I'm fucking talking to you!"

"Oh my God!" you yell back, not bothering to turn around and properly acknowledge her. "I don't want to talk to you, Natalie!" You continue to walk off, probably looking like you're throwing a tantrum. So what.. "Why don't you just… go back and talk to whoever the fuck it was you were feeling up in there!? He seemed more than happy to humour you!"

She scoffs incredulously. "Oh my fuckin' God! Seriously?" A disbelieving laugh spills from her. "That's why you're upset? It's not like we're together!"

"Trust me, I'm more than aware! You have made that very clear!"

"Holy shit, would you stop walking for ten fuckin' seconds?" She picks up her pace and grabs your wrist once close enough, yanking you to a halt. "Why are you leavin'? Huh?"

"Because—" You yank your wrist back, spinning around to face her. "I don't want to be here anymore! Why do you care? We've barely talked since we fucked!" You throw your hands up in anger. "You were all up in that fucking douchebag—"

"I don't care about him!" Nat cuts you off. "I don't give a single shit about him! I don't even know what his fuckin' name is!"

"Then why the fuck were you even talking to him if you didn't care about him!?"

"Because I was tryin' to fuckin' forget about you!"

You pause. "What—"

She's kissing you before you can actually finish that thought. You debate not returning the kiss for half a second, then—

You kiss her back.

It's all teeth and tongue and anger—these goddamn stupid feelings that both you and Natalie have been trying oh so hard to repress and ignore.

You don't even register the fact you've been moving until she's pushing you up against the side of her mom's Grand Marquis and sliding her hands under your shirt, cold fingers digging into the skin of your waist. Her nails bite into your skin, and you hiss in surprise at the sharp sensation of pain, which causes Nat to—surprisingly—lessen her grip. In some sort of weird apology, she runs her hands up and down your sides in an attempt to soothe the pain she had caused.

Her mouth finds its way to your neck, trailing wet kisses along the expanse of your throat, humming lowly as she bites down just a little too hard not to leave a mark.

She reeks of shitty beer, stale cigarette smoke, someone else's cologne, and that scent you can't quite name—the one you wish you could have forgotten from the night you two had together.

She doesn't leave any more marks as her mouth moves across your neck, but you'd be lying if you said you were grateful for that. Some fucked up part of you wants to have these marks on your skin. Wants to have some sort of physical reminder of this encounter you have with her, even if it fades—just in case you never get the chance to have it again.

"Fuck." You grab a fistful of her hair as you lean your head back, giving Nat a full access pass to do whatever the hell she wants to your skin. You're so caught up in the feeling of her mouth on your neck that you don't even notice she's undoing your belt, her hand dipping beneath your waistband, and—

"Woah," you chuckle nervously, grabbing her wrist with your free hand. "Nat. Uh. We are…" You glance around. "Still in public…"

That seems to snap her out of the moment, even though you know she wouldn't give a fuck about doing stuff like this in public normally. "Oh." She jerks her hand back and clears her throat, suddenly remembering how the world works. "Right. Uh. This is… not the place for this," she murmurs, rubbing the back of her neck once you release her hair and start buckling your belt back up.

A beat.

"I can drive us somewhere, if you're interested." She shrugs, shoving her hands into the pockets of her ripped jeans. "Not too far from here, but… quieter. Just us."

You hesitate.

You really shouldn't.

But, then again… you've done a lot of things you really shouldn't do with her already—what's one more?

Your head shakes in disbelief at how easy you are for this woman, and you let out a quiet scoff. "Fine, yeah. Let's get outta here."

Nat gestures with her head to the passenger side of the car as she moves into the driver's seat, starting the engine with slight difficulty. Once you're in the car and your seatbelt is on, you can't help but cringe at how heavy the air feels, not even whatever song is on the radio helping to ease the tension.

"You're, uh, not gonna sacrifice me to the… Sex Gods… or anything, right?" A strained laugh leaves you, trying anything to break this heaviness that plagues the air.

And, much to your relief, it does.

Nat scoffs, shaking her head and getting comfortable in her seat. "Nah, can't do that anymore, babe. You aren't a virgin; we took care of that."

You laugh at the comment despite yourself, shoving gently at her shoulder as the tension slowly dissipates. "Damn, so I ruined your ritual?"

She laughs as she pulls away from the party, the sound light and so fucking nice to hear after so long. "Something like that."

Nat pulls the car to a stop in front of an abandoned Target, and that awkward tension from when you first got in the car returns.

Both of you know why you're here, but neither of you wants to do something about it. Nat seems to be waiting for you to make the first move, looking at you with intent while your gaze remains locked on the footwell.

"Hey, look," Nat murmurs, seemingly reaching across the seats to take your hand before thinking better of it. "We don't… have to do this—"

"I want to," you cut her off. "God, Nat, I want to. I'm just…"

"Nervous?" she finishes for you. "It's just me, yeah? No one to be nervous about. Not like you gotta put on an act or anything."

You finally look at her, and in spite of all the unresolved emotions you definitely need to talk about, she seems… genuine. And… goddammit. You do trust her. Maybe a little too much. "I… I'm not kissing you over the center console. That's weird and uncomfortable."

Natalie laughs at that. "Car doesn't have a center console, it has two armrests that can go up. Whatever." She shoots you a wild grin, and rather than just getting out of the car like a normal person, she hops over the console—ah, armrests, and into the backseat. "C'mon. Backseat works great." She pats the seats on either side of her. "Totally comfortable for stuff like that."

A scoff leaves your lips before you can stop it. "Oh, and I'm sure you would know all about how comfortable it is for things 'like that'."

She rolls with the punch, shrugging it off in favour of keeping the grin on her face. "What can I say? My mom's Mercury has seen some things when my Ranger is MIA." A beat. "Come on."

Well. You're already in the car.

"Fuck you." You clamber into the backseat—awkwardly—and she's already pulling you down the second you're close enough. Your mouths collide. Her hands are in your jacket, yanking it off your shoulders, and you're pushing hers down her arms just as fast. It's frantic, uneven, and nothing's ever felt more necessary than getting her skin on yours.

Her shirt comes off first, and before you let her pull yours off, you have to stop and admire her (mostly) bare torso. "You're so fucking beautiful," you murmur, hands moving to caress her through the fabric of her bra gently. "I just…" A shaky exhale. "Damn."

"Damn?" Nat parrots, although the laugh she adds after that is slightly strained. "That's s'posed to be my line. You're the one that should have more than half a fuckin' brain." She manages to get your shirt off, then allows a cocky grin to slide onto her face. "Damn."

You roll your eyes. "First of all, I'm still kinda drunk and high. Secondly… oh my God. Whatever. Let me compliment your body."

"Yeah, me too," she replies easily, like she didn't just drive. "Anyway, if I wanted people to compliment my body, I could go anywhere, Princess. Could head back into that party. Next time, make it real original, yeah?"

A scoff. "Fine." You appraise her for a moment. "You…" You sigh. "Oh my God. This is so dumb. You have…"

Nat laughs. "Oh, c'mon. Can't be that hard to come up with something original?" She's removing your belt again, clearly eager to get it off after being stopped last time. "I believe in you. You can do it."

"I don't flirt with people! That's, like, your thing!"

That earns another laugh from her as she pops the top button on her pants once your belt is free.

"And you don't care, anyway! You're still gonna take your pants off, even if I drop the world's worst compliment!" You laugh along with her, starting to wriggle your pants off.

"Mm, well, maybe the world's worst would stop me, but… yeah. For the most part? 'm just gonna take my pants off."

"Jesus. A real Casanova, you know that?"

"Mhm. You know and love it, Princess. She grins up at you as she slides the zipper down. "Now. We just gonna sit here—half-naked—and stare at each other?"

"I don't know," you hum. "I'm tempted to, now."

"Oh, fuck no." She laughs and flips you so you're no longer on her lap, and instead, with your back flush against the seat.

Admittedly, you're surprised she's strong enough to move you like that.

"I refuse just to sit here and stare at a pretty girl when I know she wants me as much as I want her."

You flush at that, your own body betraying you. "Oh, so now you have charm…" you mumble petulantly as Nat laughs again, working your pants down your legs. "You're such an ass."

"Yeah," she agrees immediately, tossing your pants over some empty bottles on the floor. "But you knew that before you got into this car with me. No one's fault but your own, babe."

You hate that she's right.

"Oh my God," you grumble for the millionth time tonight, mashing your lips against hers again. Nat's hands immediately find purchase on your hips, kneading the flesh as she breaks the kiss to move her mouth to your neck once more. "I, uh, thought of a compliment."

"Oh, yeah?" She's only half paying attention to you. "'s that?"

"Yeah, I, uh…" You hiss as her teeth scrape along the side of your neck. "Your scars. I like your scars."

That makes her pause. She lifts her head up slightly to meet your gaze. "My scars?"

You nod, running a hand up the side of her torso, stopping when your thumb rests on top of one of the long-faded white lines on her ribcage. They're like… badass."

Nat scoffs and glances away—what you're pretty sure is a defense mechanism at this point. "You think I'm badass 'cus I got some scars?" She glances back at you, now sporting a grin that shows she thinks this whole thing is ridiculous.

"Well, I mean… yeah. They're, like, proof you aren't afraid to take things head on, you know?" You shrug. "I dunno. It's… you don't just survive shit. You come back with proof you survived it, too."

Silence passes between the two of you for a few uncomfortable seconds, her face falling out of that grin into something… sadder. "Shit, Princess," she says finally, voice lower than before. "You really know how to kill the mood."

"Wait, what?" You frown. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"No, no," Nat cuts you off gently. "'s not that. Now I just gotta deal with the fact you're… sweet, or some shit." She sighs dramatically, leaning down to press a slow, tender kiss to your lips. "You're so goddamn weird."

"Yeah, well." You wrap your arms around her shoulders. "Here you are, anyway."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah." Her smirk returns as her hands slide down your thighs, hooking behind your knees to pull you closer. "But next time? Compliment my ass or something."

"You asked for something original. I gave you something original." You roll your eyes and tangle your hands in her hair. "But you do have a nice ass, for the record."

"Oh, yeah?"

She grins, wide and wicked.

"I've also got a nice set of—"

You kiss her to shut her up.

She lets you.

It's cold. Even more so that Nat took the keys out of the ignition in an effort to save gas, much to your internal protests. A discarded beer bottle digs into your lower back, but it's a pain you'll endure for the weight of Nat above you, clad in nothing but a black sports bra and half-undone pair of jeans.

Maybe it's the intoxicants running through your system, but a nervous laugh spills from you when she breaks the kiss to start pressing kisses down—

Wait. When did your shirt come off?

Did you take it off?

Did Nat?

You aren't sure how much it matters.

"Y'allright?" Nat murmurs halfway down your torso, not stopping despite the performative concern. "Y're s'fucking tense, babe. Need'ta relax."

"Hard to relax when a cop could show up at any time, and—" A sharp nip to the skin above your underwear, her fingers hooking in the waistband of them. "—and fucking arrest us…"

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Please. They'll only arrest us if they're fuckin' assholes. Lift up your hips." It's almost embarrassing how fast you comply, allowing her to tug your underwear down your thighs and discard them in the same direction as your pants. "Won't even show up on your record, Princess. Misdemeanour at the worst."

"That isn't exactly comforting when I plan on going to college and getting a proper job," you murmur back, but make no effort to push her off of you.

Nat doesn't respond to that, instead pressing kisses up your leg once she has your underwear off like nothing else matters but the feeling of your skin underneath her lips. Her tongue starts swiping against your skin once she passes your knee, licking a stripe up your thigh before the first puff of breath brushes over your (embarrassingly) wet cunt.

There's no teasing on her part, not like you were expecting. Just the flat of her tongue swiping through your folds as the pads of her fingers dig into the meat of your thighs eagerly.

Your breath stutters—just for half a second, but far too loud in the confined space of the car—and she takes it as encouragement. One hand stays firm on your thigh while the other slips between your legs like it's something she's done a hundred times, not just once in the protection of your room.

Her tongue moves with purpose. No hesitation or theatrics, just long, practiced strokes that have you twitching and biting back moans beneath her.

"God," you whisper, hooking a leg over her shoulder while the other hangs loosely off the seat.

You thread your fingers into her hair without thinking, just needing something to hold onto. Nat hums at the contact, causing a vibration to rip through you like a shot of adrenaline. One of her fingers slips into you without any resistance on your part, no accidental scrape of fingernail on your inner walls like you had accidentally done to her.

No, she works with the kind of focus that makes it hard to breathe, let alone function normally. Her fingers are long and deft, curling up just right, pressing that rough spot inside of you that causes a moan to slip out before you can stop it. Her mouth stays locked around your clit, sucking slow and steady as her fingers move deeper, slipping into a rhythm that makes your stomach coil tight.

When she starts to scissor them, it burns, but in a way that makes your toes curl and eyes squeeze shut. You tug on her hair as the burn fades into heat—pleasure blooming low in your belly like a match dropped on dry kindling. Nat, on her part, doesn't let up. Not for a single second. Her tongue works in tandem with the roll of her fingers, curling again, again, until your hips start to lift on their own, chasing something you couldn't describe if you even tried.

"Fuck—Nat, I—"

You don't recognise your own voice as moans spill out of you in ragged waves. It's debauched, filled with sounds that would make a nun keel over, but fuck if it isn't the best feeling you've experienced in your whole life.

She groans into you, feeling the way your walls begin to stutter against her fingers and the way your clit seemingly throbs on her tongue. Her fingers scissor again, and this time it doesn't burn. Your back arches, your thighs clamp around her head, and you bite down on one of your hands to muffle the sounds that spill.

And when she groans against your clit?

That's when you fall apart.

You come with a muffled curse, clenching rhythmically around her fingers and refusing to let them go.

Nat doesn't stop until you've given her everything—and then some.

Not until your legs go limp and your grip loosens in her hair, the hand that was between your teeth falling listlessly to the seat.

It's only then she eases back, mouth and chin glistening, pupils blown wide in the low light.

"Y'good?" she mumbles, gently removing her fingers from you, careful not to trigger your oversensitivity.

You nod—or, well, you try to—and push some hair from your face.

Much to your surprise, Nat doesn't say anything cocky in response to your condition. Just kisses your inner thigh, then tentatively cleans up the mess between them with a rag that's probably got enough bacteria to give you twenty different infections, but you don't stop her.

You'd call it tender, but you're sure Nat would kill you and then deny it with every part of her soul.

The backseat is scarily quiet following your climax.

You try to return the favour—hell, you start to—but Nat stops you before you can get too close.

"I want to," you mumble, one hand coming up to rest on her shoulder. "Let me?"

She shakes her head once, pulling back from you and buttoning up her jeans quietly, not meeting your eyes. "Don' worry about it, Princess. Maybe next time, yeah?"

I don't know if there will be a next time.

"...yeah, sure," you mumble, grabbing your shirt from the dirty floor and tugging it over your head. "Next time."

The quiet is oppressive.

Neither of you speaks as you fix your clothes. By the time you look up, Nat's already in the driver's seat with the keys in the ignition.

You climb into the passenger seat just as the car begins to pull out of the lot, and you feel uncomfortable in a way you can't quite name—maybe it's her treating this like a casual hookup, or how she wouldn't even let you touch her, but you feel gross.

She doesn't say anything about your clear discomfort or how you pointedly face away from her once you move to the front. Nat has one hand on the steering wheel while the other reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboros, placing one between her teeth. She uses the car's built-in lighter, taking a few puffs and letting the smoke slowly fill the air before cracking the window.

Cold air spills in from outside as she drives, further dampening your already sour mood.

Somewhere between the gas station where she stole you that Buzzball and your house, she tosses the butt of her cigarette out the window.

"This doesn't mean anything," she mumbles, barely audible over the wind spilling in through the cracked window and the static in your brain.

You're quiet for a long moment, watching trees blur past as she rolls on a top sign like it's a suggestion.

"Whatever you say, Nat."

She doesn't say goodbye when she drops you off—doesn't even ask for your address, like she's had it memorised for years. The door closes, and she pulls away, leaving you standing alone at the curb.

You walk up the path quietly, unlocking your front door with the spare key that's hidden under the doormat, and let out a heavy sigh when you get inside. Despite knowing your parents are likely asleep, you still remove your shoes quietly and—

"Holy shit," your dad—more nervous than you've ever heard him—says once you leave the front foyer. "You're alive."

You blink a few times, staring at both of your parents who are seated in the living room, the news flickering on a screen in front of them. They both look like shit. Your mom has heavy bags under her eyes and is wearing her housecoat, while your dad wears a simple tee and pyjama pants, glasses that he normally never wears resting on top of his head.

"We tried calling you. No answer," your mom mumbles, turning her phone screen to face you, the call log filled with call after call that you never answered.

"My phone died." You grab your phone and show it to them as if to prove your point, wiggling it in the air for a moment. "What's… what's wrong?" A nervous, tense laugh. "I've never seen you guys act… uh… this scared."

They look at you like you just missed the start of the nuclear apocalypse.

"Ellen said you were going out to a house party tonight on the west side," your dad says, his fingers clenched around the stem of a beer bottle. A deep sigh leaves him, and he glances down at the empty bottle. "There was a stabbing," your dad says flatly, like he's reporting the weather. "Some kid died. House party, west side."

"There… what?"

Was that before or after you left? Had to be after, right? By the time you were already in the car, fingers twitching with the need to touch Nat—

Did it have something to do with her? The stories—drunken fights in parking lots, late-night joyrides, stints in juvie, shattered beer bottles—how true are they? How much did she never tell you? How the hell is this story on the news already?

Your phone's still dead in your pocket. Your thoughts are louder than anything on the news, even as the headline—TEEN STABBED AT HOUSE PARTY—scrolls silently across the television over your dad's shoulder.

Some questions are asked, but it's hard to remember if answers are given.

They let you free eventually, and you walk upstairs and into the bathroom on autopilot, trying to grapple with… so many different things.

You and Nat, tangled up again. Your parents, suddenly remembering you exist. Some kid—name unknown, face familiar—dead, just like that.

And what were you doing? Spread out in the backseat of a car, letting the same girl who's been dodging your calls bury her face between your thighs.

You don't remember grabbing a towel, turning on the water, or peeling your clothes off piece by piece. It's all muscle memory now—something your body handles so your mind doesn't have to.

The shower runs too cold at first, then too hot. You don't fix it. Steam curls around you like smoke, the spray doing nothing to chase away the bone-deep chill. Water drums against the back of your neck as your gaze falls to the tiles.

A beer bottle digging into your spine. Nat saying "This doesn't mean anything," like she was twisting a knife into an old wound.

Your phone's still dead. Your skin still smells like her.

You scrub harder.

a/n: hbd @scatorccioz and happy early bday @nonyahb u didnt ask for this but ur getting it anyway

#nat scatorccio #natalie scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio x you #natalie scatorccio smut #nat scatorccio x reader #nat scatorccio x you #nat scatorccio smut #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets smut #yellowjackets showtime #spoons (fics/blurbs)#from the cutlery drawer #steak knives (nsfw)

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