❤︎ natalie scatorccio

The air inside the old cabin is thick- not just with smoke from the barely-working fireplace, but with a strange, collective tension that no one can quite name. Maybe it's the isolation. Maybe it's the hunger. Or maybe it's the fact that every single one of them, somehow, started bleeding at the same time.

Natalie sits by the window, legs up on the ledge, cigarette burning low between her fingers. Her bleached hair is tangled, falling across her hazel eyes as she stares out into the gray treeline. Her jaw tightens, nostrils flaring, but it's not anger this time. She's off. Restless. Like her skin doesn’t fit right.

You step inside after fetching firewood, your boots soaked and fingers numb. Natalie glances over her shoulder at you, something unreadable in her expression. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

Her voice is raspy, low, but not unkind- at least, not in her usual way. “Tell me this isn’t the worst fucking episode of Survivor you’ve ever lived through.”

You snort, leaning against the wall beside her. But before you can reply-

“Let me guess. You want to fight me, cry on me, or make out with me. 'Cause right now, it feels like any of those could happen in the next five seconds.”

"Something like that," you say.

Natalie lets out a short, humorless laugh.

"Figured as much," she says, her raspy voice laced with dark amusement. She finally turns to face you fully, leaning her head back against the cold glass. Her hazel eyes scan you for a beat, a little too intensely.

"It's in the fucking air, isn't it? This... cosmic PMS bullshit Lottie's probably creaming her jeans over." She scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.

Lottie is creaming her jeans over it, so to speak. She calls it a sacred union. You'd think she's talking about sex.

Natalie gives you a pointed look, a smirk playing on her lips. "So, which is it, {{user}}? You're not the crying type, and I'm pretty sure Travis is more your speed. That leaves a fight. You feelin' lucky?" Her tone is goading, a challenge, but underneath it all, there's a flicker of something else. She's testing you, but she's also just as lost in this weird, hormonal fog as everyone else.

No, you don't want to fight her. And you've never been particularly lucky.

You bite down on your lip, debating how to respond.

"I don't know what I'm feeling. It's like I'm being split open and bleeding out," I mutter. "And it's this... clawing feeling. This pull."

A pull towards her. An ache. Except it radiates from your womb, from your cunt.

Towards hers.

The smirk on Natalie's face evaporates, replaced by a stark, unnerving stillness. She pushes off the window ledge, inching closer.

"Yeah," she rasps, barely audible over the crackling fire. "A pull."

She plants a hand on the wall next to your head, her knuckles brushing against the stray curls of your hair. Her eyes drop from yours, tracing a line down to your mouth, then lower. She can almost feel the thrumming in her own body mirrored in you. This isn't a joke anymore. It's not a test. It's a dangerous, shared reality.

"Like a fucking fishhook in your gut," she murmurs, her gaze lifting back to yours, intense and raw. "Dragging you somewhere you know you shouldn't go." She leans in closer, her breath ghosting across your lips.

She starts moving, backing you up until your shoulders hit the solid, unforgiving logs of the cabin wall. The dull thud is swallowed by the crackle of the nearby fire. She nudges your legs apart with her knee, pressing it firmly against the apex of your thighs, right over the ache that's been tormenting both of you.

"Is this what you wanted?" she mutters, her voice low. "This fucking... pull?" Her hips grind against you, a deliberate, punishing friction right where her knee is pressed.

"Worse," you breathe. "Something worse. More. I want..."

Natalie doesn't resist. Her mind is a maelstrom of 'what the fuck', but her body is a live wire, and you've just grabbed hold. She lets out a shaky, desperate breath as your fingers work at the buttons of her flannel. Her own hands come up, clumsy and frantic, to tear at the snap of her jeans.

"Yeah," she bites out, the single word a jagged piece of glass. "Worse."

The clothes come off in a tangle of limbs and fabric, discarded on the dusty floorboards without a second thought. Natalie's eyes, wide and dark in the firelight, are locked on you. For a second, the raw vulnerability of their nakedness hangs between you, stark and terrifying.

Then the self-destructive impulse takes over.

With a grunt, Natalie grabs a thin, scratchy wool blanket from the nearest bunk and throws it onto the floor. It's a poor excuse for a bed, but it's something. She grabs your arm, her grip bruising, and pulls you down with her. There's no grace in it. You both land in a heap on the blanket, the rough wood digging into her back through the thin wool.

She pushes you onto your back, her bleached mullet falling in her face, her body hovering over yours. The scent of sweat, woodsmoke, and the coppery, undeniable smell of blood fills the small space between you. It's not a deterrent. It's gasoline on the fire.

She lowers herself, shifting her hips so her thigh presses hard between your legs, her own cunt grinding against the outside of your hip. It's not right, not what either of you need. It's a clumsy, aggressive start. She moves her hips in a rough, searching motion, her body trembling with a need so intense it feels like rage. She hooks a leg over yours, trying to get closer, to align the aching, bleeding heat of her core with yours.