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











