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nataliescatorcciolvr · 2 days ago

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tongues and teeth

natalie scatorccio x gn!reader

request: vampire!nat x reader? summary: she lets him buy her another drink. doesn’t touch it. she’s not stupid. she wasn’t stupid. she wouldn’t be so stupid. or: when something horrible happens to her, nat goes to the first person she trusts. warnings: vampirism as a metaphor for assault, non-consensual themes, body horror, canon typical blood and gore, angst (you know it) word count: 2.4k author's note: if you have ever experienced themes explored in this work, here is a resource for you. stay safe, readers! also credit to the discord server for giving me the plot (spoons...) I love my fellow angsters

[AO3]

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

Natalie’s drunk. Not the fun kind.

The bar is greasy, everything jaundiced in low light, the kind that make everyone look fuzzy. Polaroids half unfocused, lens flare swallowing the importants in the wash of a halo’s purifying ring.

She’s already four shots in, maybe five. Lips numb, tongue more than that. Her face and body are concepts now, abstract ideas— not something she can feel.

She doesn’t know much, not really. Not where she came from, not where she’s going.

What she does know is that there’s a man.

He’s tall. Just the wrong side of pale. Nice mouth. The kind of man who watches more than he talks. Leers more than he watches. So she lets him buy her another drink. Doesn’t touch it. She’s not stupid.

She wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t be so stupid.

But she doesn’t remember leaving the bar. Just the nip of the air and the thump of her boots on cement sounding far away, like her head was submerged underwater. She remembers how the alley swallowed them whole. Remembers his mouth was on her neck before she could even tell if she wanted it there.

She remembers laughing. Then choking. Then nothing.

The next part comes in flashes. The taste of iron. Something slick in her throat. A scream, maybe. Hands on her face, holding her still. Something warm trickling down her chin.

Then everything. Like a switch being thrown inside her head. Like someone poured lightning down her spine and forced every nerve awake at once.

Her eyes snap open.

The world is loud. Too loud. Her heartbeat– no, not hers, someone else’s– thunders in her ears. Her skin stings like it’s been peeled back to let the air in.

She can see everything. Not like before. Not shapes and outlines, not colors, not even lights. She can see the heat of things, the warmth in them, like her irises have fractured into spiraling kaleidescopes and she can’t find her way right-side-up again. Like the world is singing and she can’t stand the frequency.

Her teeth ache. She’s starving.

She doubles over, mouth open, gasping like she’s drowning in oxygen itself. Her throat burns like it’s trying to birth something new.

The man crouches beside her, too calm. Bloody at the mouth, but with his hands clean.

“It hurts at first,” he says soothingly. “You’ll get used to it.”

Natalie lurches away, crawling backward on shaking limbs.

“What the fuck did you do to me–”

Her fingers reach up to her mouth, press against the new shape of her teeth.

She sobs once, ragged and animal, then runs.

The first knock isn’t so much a knock as a slam.

Wood splintering. Metal hinges whining. You’re halfway to the door when the second one hits. Harder, louder– and then a voice shatters through it, hoarse and broken:

“Please– please, it’s me– just– fuck, I don’t know where else to go–”

The chain’s still on, and that’s what saves your door from tearing out of its frame when something throws itself against it–

Natalie. Messy, bleeding, wild-eyed Natalie.

You haven’t seen her in weeks. Maybe months. The kind of absence that feels tender as a bruise, silence you both know how to weaponize.

Last time, she’d left your bed at 4 AM without saying goodbye.

She’d been curled against your side just hours earlier, one arm thrown across your stomach like she was claiming territory. And you, foolishly, had thought maybe, maybe, she'd stay that time. That she'd wake up and make coffee and tell you she’d try. That she’d get better.

But when you woke, she was gone.

No note. No goodbye. Just a half-empty pack of Reds on the nightstand and an old scratched-up Bic that didn’t even work anymore. The sheets were still warm where she’d been.

You didn’t call. She didn’t either. That was your pattern: you always hurt each other in silence, like it meant less that way. Like the unspoken didn’t dig just as much as any old knife.

And now she’s here. Why the fuck is she here?

You try to ponder this clear universal anomaly, but then she slams the door again, the wood creaking in protest under the sheer force of impact. Her next words are a snarl, visceral and vile:

“Open the fucking door!”

You fumble the lock, unhook the chain. The second the latch clicks free, she falls through. Literally, like her body gave up the second she felt the door give. She stumbles in, catching herself on the wall, smearing something dark across the plaster.

Her hair’s soaked, clinging to her face. Her shirt is ripped at the collar. Her mouth is red, but not lipstick red. She smells like iron. Like animal. Like death.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes, staggering past you. “I didn’t know where else– I couldn’t go back, I couldn’t go back, I think I– I think I–”

She doubles over on your floor and gags. Nothing comes up. Just the gut-wrenching sound. You stand frozen, heart pounding, watching her press her forehead to the tile with choked sobs.

“Natalie?”

She flinches at her name. Doesn’t lift her head.

“I didn’t—” she whispers, raw and fraying. “I didn’t— he—”

The words fizzle out mid-sentence. She swallows and her throat works overtime, bobbing like a buoy. She wipes her mouth with the back of her shaking hand and it comes away wet, slick with spit and blood.

“I said no,” she chokes. It isn’t a TV sob. Not the kind they write into melodrama. It’s quieter. Her whole body folds in like paper left out in the rain too long.

You kneel beside her carefully. She looks like a cornered animal. Like any sudden movement might make her bolt. Or worse, attack. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, wide and wild and red-rimmed. And for a moment, you can’t tell if she’s afraid of you or for you.

“It’s in me,” she gasps. “It’s fucking in me– I can feel it moving–”

She digs her fingers into the fabric over her chest, like she could tear it out with her own hands. Her nails leave red crescents in the skin.

“I don’t know what happened,” she says, almost hysterical now, “I don’t– I don’t–”

You reach for her. Slow, with both hands open, showing her it’s safe. That you’re safe.

“Nat,” you say, soft and steady. “Hey. Nat. Look at me.”

She does, eyes glassy and huge. Her pupils nearly swallow her irises now– an unnaturally dazzling green in the darkness of your apartment. Her lip is trembling.

“You’re okay,” you say. “Whatever happened, it’s over now, okay?”

She lets out a breath, almost a laugh, almost a sob. She presses her fists into her eyes.

“You don’t get it,” she whispers. “Fuck, I don’t even–”

You touch her knee. Light. Just enough to ground her. She makes a sound, hoarse and low, like the beginnings of a scream. And then, without warning, she crashes into you.

Her body's trembling, her hands clutching at the back of your shirt like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. You hold her careful at first, then tighter. Her breath hitches again and again against your neck. The blood on her mouth smears against your skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she mumbles.

You lean back enough to look at her. Her eyes are huge, flooded with fear, face blotched red and pale in streaks.

“What do you mean?”

Her jaw trembles. Her mouth opens, closes. “I don't know,” she croaks. “Something's wrong, really wrong, I don't want to—”

It breaks into a sob again, bitten off and desperate as she gasps for air. You shush her gently, reach up and brush the hair from her face, wipe a streak of blood from her jaw with your sleeve.

“Breathe, Nat.”

You’re surprised by how fast it happens. How easily it comes back, the urge to comfort her, to soften your voice. You thought you’d buried that instinct months ago, somewhere between the fourth unanswered call and the voicemail she left that ended with her hanging up without saying so much as sorry.

But here you are. Cupping her face like it’s muscle memory. It’s almost pathetic, how easy it is. Like your body never got the memo that she shouldn’t belong here anymore. You don’t know if it’s habit or hope or just some leftover softness, but the caretaker inside– folded up and shoved into the back of your ribs– is already crawling out.

“You’re drunk,” you soothe, just like so many other nights. “And I know you’re scared. But you’ve gotta breathe.”

Natalie flinches at that. She wants it to be that simple. A bad night, too much whiskey, a hallucination she’ll forget in the morning. Her lip wobbles. She won’t meet your eyes, even after her breathing steadies to shallow wheezes.

“I feel wrong. Everything’s wrong,” she whispers, voice hoarse.

“I know,” you murmur, and maybe you don’t know. Not really. But you say it like you do, and that seems to be enough.

“Come on.”

You help her up slowly, letting her lean on you, her whole body trembling with every step toward the bathroom. The lights are too bright when you flip the switch, and she flinches again, as if it burns.

The blood on her mouth is starting to dry, flaking at the corners. Her hands shake so badly that she can’t grip the edge of the sink.

“It’s okay,” you say. “Let me.”

You run a washcloth under warm water, check the temperature against your wrist. She watches you in the mirror, eyes wide and glassy. She’s not talking anymore. It’s like she’s slipped into some other space behind her own reflection.

You clean her face gently, carefully. The blood comes away in streaks, pink and diluted. Her skin is cold and clammy to the touch. You can see goosebumps prickling along her arms. She looks hollowed out, drained dry.

When you move to her hands, she stiffens again.

You pause. “Do you want to stop?”

She shakes her head, barely a twitch. “No. Just… be careful.”

You are. You take each of her hands in yours like you’re handling glass. You don’t scrub, just hold the cloth to them, warm and firm, until the red fades, then disappears entirely.

“There,” you say softly. “See? All clean.”

She doesn’t answer, but her shoulders sag. You lead her out again, to the bed. She resists at first, stands stiff by the frame like the mattress is a threat.

“Just lie down,” you coax. “I’ll stay right here.”

She blinks. Her mouth opens. No words come out. Then, after a long second, she lies gingerly. You pull the blanket up around her, touch her hair again. Softer this time. Her eyes flutter shut.

Finally, you slide in beside her, careful not to crowd. She shifts toward you anyway, burrows her face into your shoulder with a soft breath. You stay awake long after she drifts off, her body curled against yours.

You try to ignore that even under the blanket, clinging to your side, she’s still freezing cold.

The clock reads a blinking 3:15 when you wake up to the distant sound of something wet.

You blink, disoriented, head fogged with sleep and the faint outline of a dream you’ve already lost. It’s still dark out, but not fully. That colorless hour just before sunrise. The shadows haven’t gone yet, but they’re getting softer at the edges.

The bed beside you is empty. Sheets twisted, a faint indent where she was. The bathroom light’s off. So is the one in the hall.

You sit up, pulse already picking up before your brain kickstarts. You pad out barefoot, rubbing your eyes, calling her name under your breath.

“Nat?”

No answer.

A thin line of pale light cuts across the kitchen tile like a wound. The fridge is open. Just a crack. She’s crouched in front of it. At first, you don’t register what you’re seeing. Your brain tries to protect you, offers other options. Maybe she was restless. Maybe she’s getting a drink. Then you see the blood. It coats her hands. Her mouth. One of those shrink-wrapped steaks you bought two days ago is splattered on the floor, torn open like roadkill. She’s got the other half in her fist, raw and dripping.

You freeze.

“Natalie, what the– what the fuck are you doing?”

She turns her head slow. Her pupils are pinprick sharp now, irises a sliver of feral green slicing through the dark. Her lips glisten wet. Her jaw works, throat bobbing as she swallows the chunk whole.

She blinks at you once. Then drops the meat with a squelch and lunges.

You scream.

She moves like nothing human. You don’t even make it past the living room before she’s on you, knocking over a chair, teeth bared, breath coming in ragged gasps. You manage to shove her off, just barely, scrambling toward the front door.

She hits the wall, snarls like an animal.

“Nat– Nat, what the fuck!”

She doesn't respond— just bares her teeth, rushing forward. You throw a lamp. It explodes behind her. Doesn’t slow her down, but it gives you enough time to shove open the door and make a break for it down the apartment building hallway.

You’re running blind now, heartbeat splitting your skull, every step a prayer you don’t trip as you skid to the staircase and take it two at a time.

You can hear her thudding behind you– fast, barefoot– and then you turn to see her, mouth open in a growl, spit frothing around monstrous teeth, eyes hollowed out and catching on you like a crosshair.

You make it halfway down the stairs when the sun rises.

It starts with a soft gleam. Just enough to creep through an overhead window, a streak of gold splitting the dark. It doesn’t register to you at first.

Not until Natalie shrieks like she’s being burned alive.

She slams into the wall hard enough to crack plaster, clawing at her face. Her skin smokes wherever the light touches it. She reels back, shielding herself, stumbling for a hiding place– anywhere with shadow.

You’re too stunned to move. The whole stairwell reeks of blood and sweat and something fouler, like burned sugar.

She meets your eyes one last time, and it’s not Natalie looking back. It’s something wearing her.

When she jumps the railing, you rush to look over it, expecting to see her mangled at the bottom, but she’s just gone.

Vanished. Not even a speck of dirt left behind. You stand there, barefoot, bleeding, panting in the quiet.

You should've known. Natalie never stays for the morning after.

#holy shit this is SO fucking good #oh my god????#reread later #natalie never stays for the morning after ☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️#im sick

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