jackienatfailure

⠀⠀⠀⠀𖩩᩠⠀⠀ natalie scatorccio ⠀⠀╱⠀⠀ dust bowl⠀⠀⠀⠀ 🪽⠀ ˳ ･ׅ ⠀

⠀ ݁⠀ * ⠀ ݁ ⠀⠀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 ).

like the lyrics “i owe you a black eye and two kisses / tell me when you wanna come and get 'em”

⠀⠀⠀⠀𖩩᩠⠀⠀ natalie scatorccio ⠀⠀╱⠀⠀ crush⠀⠀⠀⠀ 🪽⠀ ˳ ･ׅ ⠀

𐔌 ⠀⠀𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀⠀content warning⠀──⠀cigarettes. stealing. angst.

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.

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.