#thief and the butcher

[bearmageddon]

These two really have solidified as comfort characters for me, they’re like my go to when I don’t know what to draw

[harlampivo666]

For friend

[imfamou69]

emercury💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶💚🩶

[draculas-tits]

are you sure your favorite songs arent just reimaginings of pieces composed by henry purcell? Because it's happened to me twice now

[rwby-paradigm-shift]

To tease everyone on my Birthday.....

I'm going to reveal the children I've come up with for the people that had them in Paradigm Shift, as well as a couple anecdotes about them specifically.

First, Wilson Schnee Branwen has his Mother's hair and Semblance, but his Father's eyes and, though Qrow won't say it outright, Nervousness. He's unsure of himself, but strives to help his friends.

Gretchen Holly Sustrai is a tomboy, but moves fast as her Father, Mercury Sustrai (Mercury wanted nothing of his past life, so took Emerald's name when they wed)

Gohan Xiao-Wukong is a Puppy Faunus, though his favorite parent is Yang. He likes swinging off his Mom's Muscles.

Jebediah Branwen Pine has his Mother's heart and his Father's (lack of) Charisma.

Pyrrha Roman Arc is the first of six children. Naturally curious about the world, her beaming smile makes her Father burst into tears for reasons she's not sure of.

Cinder Rose Pine has her Mother's Silver Eyes, and the cheeriest person ever with her "Twin" Corona.

Corona Schnee Branwen has her Mother's eyes and her Father's hair, but lacks the Schnee Semblance. What she can do, however, is transform herself into various Animals.

Winnifred Schnee Branwen was an unexpected addition to the Branwen family. A combination of lack of (purchased) adequate protection and a missed pill meant she fought all the odds and is ready to tackle the world. She enjoys being flown by her big sister in bird form, though somehow high up shelves aren't a deterrent for her.

[vampireswillnvr]

ILL BE YOUR MORNING BRIGHT GOOD NIGHT SHADOW MACHINE ILL BE YOUR RECORD PLAYER BABY IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN ILL BE A REAL TOUGH COOKIE WITH THE WHISKEY BREATH ILL BE A KILLER AND A THRILLER AND THE CAUSE OF OUR DEATH

[hana-bobo-finch]

“heh. yeah I know this part of a song I wrote sounds very similar to an existing song and they both share the general very specific theme but the funny thing is I had it and even that specific melody in mind months before I ever heard that song. yeah. yeah I didn’t steal it i swear I didn’t it’s just a coincidence I promise please don’t kill m—“ i say to literally nobody at all

[falloutcoys]

2, 17, 18!

2. Did you reread anything? What?

read (for the first time) then reread all the Imperial Radch books!

17. Did any books surprise you with how good they were?

The Raven Tower! picked it up because it was Ann Leckie and some of the stories in Lake of Souls were set in that universe. Was expecting to be meh on it but I really enjoyed the worldbuilding! not gonna be my book of the year or anything but a good read

18. How many books did you buy?

Oooh boy. I think I got 7 Kindle books, 6 audiobooks, and about 5 physical books.

end-of-year book asks

[miidnighters]

@fairytaletold Eira said ❛  i trusted you!  ❜

"Okay, âdul vajodhar." Isaac has to smirk at her display, shaking her head. "I'm not askin' you to do anything drastic, I'm askin' you to eat a vegetable. You're not gonna be able to slip away from anyone if you're dying of malnutrition."

[darchildre]

Tonight's Rathbone Holmes film is The Woman in Green, which has the distinction of being the only Rathbone Holmes movie I've previously seen.

I literally remember one single thing about it, which is that Moriarty is played by the dude who was the Dr Knox character in The Body Snatcher. He's shown up in two previously Holmes films, I've looked up his name both times (because I quite liked him in The Body Snatcher), and the poor dude's name refuses to stick in my mind.

Hilariously, I can't ever remember his character's name in The Body Snatcher either.

[bearmageddon]

The Christmas kids were nothing but a gift

[thefandomlesbian]

Here's hoping six weeks off of work will give me time to finish my WIPs!!

[darkmatilda]

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: two years ago, completely by accident, you helped catch a serial killer. now, as mysterious events start to pile up around you, you begin to suspect that someone is after you, seeking revenge. terrified, you're willing to do anything to save yourself—even if it means reaching out to your ex, who wants nothing more to do with you. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: [these warnings only apply to part 3!] spencer reid x criminal(thief)female!reader, stalking, mention of dismembered bodies, serial killer targeting women, mention of abduction, decomposing body, violence, kidnapping, drowning, physical injuries 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.7

𝐚/𝐧: part 3 FINALLY!! thank u to everyone who has been here since the first part of this story. thank u andy @reidingandallthat for agreeing to appear here in the role you play. erika, darling, i apologize in advance 🫶🏼

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑

Driving in a car next to your ex, after practically throwing yourself at him and pressing a sudden, still somewhat incomprehensible kiss to his lips, was a little, let's say, awkward

You were heading to the apartment pinpointed by one of Spencer's team members, which allegedly belonged to Clinton Richardson, the man you suspected to be the previously elusive accomplice of The Waterside Butcher. Given how easily Garcia had tracked him down, you hadn’t expected to actually find him there. However, you had to search the place, find out anything more about him than the scant information Rosas had provided. Get inside his mind. Figure out where he might be hiding, where they were holding Rebekah.

In the silence that settled between the two of you, you tried to maintain a straight, dignified posture. To play it completely cool about what had happened. One simple thought helped you with that—maybe it had been your impulsive initiative, but it was fully picked up by Spencer.

The way he cupped your face as soon as he realized what was happening. The pressure of his lips on yours, hungry, insatiable, and unrelenting with time. A sigh when he pulled away, the confusion creeping into his soft eyes.

A gentle shake of his head, as if he was already starting to regret it.

You regretted it too. It only thickened the atmosphere, which was already sharp enough to cut with a knife. In your apartment, you had made a bet—the first person to find Richardson would get one of what you considered the most beautiful and genuine photos from your time together. After what had happened, however, you couldn’t imagine just handing it to him without a word, so you simply kept it in your jacket pocket.

There was still some way to go ahead of you, the heavy midday traffic causing terrible jams, and you could no longer bear the silence nor the unreadable, fixed expression on his face as he stared at the road.

"Well," you started, clearing your throat. It felt like he flinched at the sound of your voice. God, when did you both turn into such idiots? "Just to be clear, it wasn’t...personal. You know what I mean. Kind of like checking if your favorite dessert from an old favorite restaurant still tastes the same."

If it weren’t for the fact that he glanced at you for a moment, you would’ve slammed your forehead into the dashboard. It was one of the worst things you could have said, but well, you couldn’t take your words back now.

“Favorite dessert. Checking,” he repeated in a disbelieving tone. His eyebrows shot up high, and he looked back at the road. Only then did they fall, and he shook his head from side to side. There was a trace of amusement in that gesture. Well, at least he wasn’t angry about the choice of words. “Okay.”

Not knowing what to do with yourself, you pretended to examine your nails.

“And does it still taste good?” Spencer asked after a long pause.

“What?” You shifted, distracted in your seat.

“I’m asking if it still tastes good.”

You hesitated for a moment before answering, and then a laugh gathered in your chest, a burst of it you didn’t let out loud. Instead, you held back, offering only a brief smile, a flash of teeth. Spencer glanced at you from the corner of his eye, seeming less tense than before. Some things were probably easier for you to talk about in metaphors, even if they were simple ones.

“Well, it was favorite for a reason," you said after a moment, gently, though you tried to sound casual.

The photo in your pocket.

Spencer smiled in that subtle way, where only the corners of his lips moved, his eyes remaining unchanged, thoughtful. And with that, the stage of pretending it never happened began.

The apartment that was supposedly owned by your suspect was located in a fairly decent neighborhood—at least nicer than the one Rebekah lived in���which filled you with a bitter sense of injustice. After you dealt with the lock, you both stepped inside cautiously, scanning for any potential occupant, but the place was empty.

"Not exactly how I pictured the place of someone they call The Butcher in the media," you muttered, stepping lightly on the birchwood floor beneath the bright walls.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, that familiar analytical look crossing his face. You stopped a few steps from him, hands stiff on your hips, unable to stop watching him instead of the surroundings. The slight crease between his brows as he crossed the kitchen, probably already knowing what your unsub had for breakfast every Thursday, just from one greasy, barely noticeable stain on the wall. His lips pressed together, and you realized you couldn’t ignore that part of his face anymore. You sighed, annoyed with yourself. Seriously, now?

“Did you expect a torture chamber instead of a bedroom?” he asked as you both crossed the threshold into the room. It was less tidy than the rest of the place, a sign that he spent more time here. Some things were out of place, and there was a pile of loose papers building up on the desk.

While Spencer was analyzing the papers, you walked over to the window, squinting as the midday light hit your eyes. You gently traced your finger along the leaf of the plant on the windowsill before dipping your finger into the soil.

“It’s dry,” you noted briefly, suddenly focused. He must not have been here for a few days. “Damn, maybe my imagination is just really poor, but I can’t picture a guy who does that kind of thing to women calmly watering his plants every morning. It’s just...grotesque.”

He shrugged in response, Reid’s eyes never leaving the things on the desk.

“Lots of violent, serial offenders lead lives that we’d consider normal,” he began. A lecturer's expression, you thought to yourself immediately. You’d always liked it when he explained things to you—he was the only one who could do it in a way that didn’t make you feel dumb for not understanding a concept. And, well, you liked listening to him. “Well, we once had a case with a cannibal who had a bunch of teddy bears in his house,” he added. 

You couldn’t help but snort.

“Stuffed with human guts instead of fluff?”

Spencer finally looked up at you, slowly.

“No,” he replied shortly, raising an eyebrow. “They were perfectly normal teddy bears. And, you know, I’m starting to be glad that your criminal activities haven’t gone beyond robberies and theft.”

“And stolen goods trafficking.”

“Oh, right. Sorry for leaving out one of your...key specializations.”

“It’s fine. Got anything?”

You joined him in searching through the desk, standing so close that your shoulders brushed briefly. You told yourself it was only because you didn’t want to miss any clues.

“There are a few sketches here,” Spencer informed you, his chest rising slightly, which you noticed because he turned to face you sideways. There was barely a step between you. “They look a little...chaotic.”

You flipped open a random notebook, spotting the mentioned sketches—simple drawings and doodles. You kept flipping, not giving them much attention.

“Probably drew them when he didn’t know what to do with his hands during phone calls,” you said. You shrugged at his look. “I know, because I do the same.”

“I don’t recall ever seeing you do that,” he remarked.

When we lived together...the unfinished sentence hung in the air, settling lightly on your shoulders.

You took a deep breath.

“Well, back then, I was more into sending messages than having actual conversations,” you admitted, and it was true. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him slightly parting his lips, about to say something, when suddenly your gaze landed on something on the last page of the notebook you were flipping through. “Look, a phone number,” 

Spencer leaned in to take a closer look, tilting his head a bit, which brought his slightly too-long hair into your reach again. The familiar scent slowly drifted to your nose. Spencer probably didn’t even realize how close he’d gotten, too absorbed in his thoughts. Still, you couldn’t help but find it amusing. After all, just a few days ago, he had pointed a gun at you and kept the greatest distance possible.

He straightened up, and you noticed the change in his expression. You stayed perfectly still, not moving, not backing away. It might sound strange, but you wanted to see how you affected him. Would he have done what you did on the staircase if it hadn’t been for you? Did he genuinely want to do it too, or was it simply the conversation over the pictures that had lured you both into the trap of sentimentality, the nostalgic need to revisit an old dessert?

“You know this number?” you asked, surprised.

You hadn’t expected such a thing to happen, yet here it was. Spencer nodded.

“I remember it,” he admitted. At the same time, his voice carried a note of readiness, excitement about moving the investigation forward with this newly found clue... and an unexpected hint of awkwardness, as he briefly scratched his forehead before placing the notebook back on the desk. “It’s a brothel’s number.”

Your eyebrows shot up mockingly.

“You remember the number of a…”

“You have no idea how often the FBI uses their services,” he blurted defensively.

A beat of silence followed, then his eyes widened, and he quickly shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant, for God’s sake. I mean, prostitutes often have a lot of information about different people and can be useful…”

“Tsss…” you silenced him with a playful swirl of your finger near his lips, amused by his rushed, nervous reaction.

Spencer glanced down at your finger, his lower lip jutting out slightly as if he wanted to add something, but his brilliant mind failed to produce anything coherent. Even if it had, you wouldn’t have cared.

You couldn’t let go of the topic anyway—you always enjoyed teasing him too much, loved seeing that faint blush color his stubbled cheeks.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, seriously.”

You had the strange feeling his gaze lingered a little too intently as you slowly swallowed, forcing you to cross your arms over your chest, creating a small barrier to keep your focus. You blinked slowly, mischievously.

“I’m not interested in where you sought comfort after our breakup.”

He literally gasped. 

“This is…” he began with a deep sigh, taking half a step back from you. “This is…I swear, this is the most narcissistic thing that has ever come out of your mouth. And there have been plenty.”

You gave a mock salute.

“See, I like breaking my own records,” you muttered.

Spencer’s gaze suddenly shifted from you back to the desk. He sighed, like he was grounding himself after drifting somewhere else.

“We should…we should call that number. Maybe set up a meeting. See if we can learn something more about him than the fact he doodles in the margins when he’s on the phone.”

You nodded in agreement, sliding your hands into the pockets of your jacket.

“Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but you’re right. Let’s meet your hooker.”

Spencer rolled his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Want me to dictate the number, or do you remember it?”

“I get the feeling you’re not letting this go anytime soon.”

“And you’re absolutely right, Spencer,” you agreed. “Absolutely right.”

*

“He made you do… what?!”

Your raised voice filled the car.

Quick recap—you’d managed to set up a meeting with a prostitute, whose services, after a few hours of digging, you’d confirmed Clinton Richardson had used. By now, it had gotten dark, and you were seriously starting to wonder if this wasn’t just a complete waste of time. You knew the rest of the BAU was busy searching for Rebekah using other methods, but the nagging feeling that you could be doing more refused to let go.

On top of that, the fact that Robert Miller had completely vanished since his escape from prison weighed heavily on you. No one had seen him filling up the stolen car at a gas station, wearing a baseball cap. No one had heard him break into a nearby house seeking shelter through the cold night. They must have had a plan—one that played out well beyond your reach.

Though you tried to push it away, a rising sense of dread filled you.

The escort slid into the backseat of the car, introducing herself briefly as Andy. Distracted by your own worries, you couldn't stop the words that escaped your mouth.

“Andy’s not exactly a very hooker-ish name”

The woman shrugged indifferently. She seemed only slightly tense about speaking with the cops (or, well, with one cop). She wore a light white fur coat draped over her shoulders, and, to put it plainly, she was stunningly beautiful. 

"Well, I didn't pick it," she shrugged.

"How old are you?" Spencer suddenly asked, turning slightly in his seat.

You exchanged a look. She did seem alarmingly young despite the heavy makeup on her face.

"Are you doing some kind of interview or what?" she scoffed. "Last I checked, you were supposed to ask me questions about one of my clients. So, I'm waiting. And for the record, I'm twenty-three."

You’d asked her the first few questions to confirm if the man she’d met was indeed Clinton Richardson. Garcia had even sent over his photo, and after a quick glance, Andy nodded, confirming it was him.

And now, back to where we left off.

“He made you do what?!”

Andy grimaced. You would’ve done the same if you weren’t absolutely stunned. You glanced sideways at Spencer, who had straightened up in his seat, his brows furrowed deeply as if he thought he’d misheard. Honestly, you’d thought the same at first. 

You drew in a deeper breath, trying to steady yourself. Spencer shot you a glance, his expression tense. There was no doubt anymore—this was the man you were looking for.

“Chop off chicken heads,” the woman repeated reluctantly, pulling her fur coat tighter around herself. A flicker of discomfort crossed her face—one that hadn’t been there the first time she’d mentioned it. Apparently, saying it again brought the memory into sharper focus, and you felt a pang of guilt for making her relive it. She sighed. “While he was mastrubating” 

Andy had nothing more to offer, no leads to help you track down his current location, and that realization sent a wave of frustration crashing over you. Not at her, of course, but at the fact that this case was moving forward at a painfully slow pace. Sure, you knew it was Richardson now. But what next? How were you supposed to find him before he and Robert hurt Rebekah?

You scrubbed a hand over your face, then clenched it into a fist to stop the trembling. Spencer's gaze dropped to your hand, and he tried to catch your eye, but you didn’t want that—not right now.

“Andy,” you called out just as she pushed the car door open, stopping her in her tracks. Your voice came out rough, an edge of desperation bleeding through. An impulsive decision bloomed in your mind, taking root before you could second-guess it. “We...took up some of your time. Would you have had a client during it?” 

The woman looked at you with a skeptical hesitation, unsure of what you meant.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Instead of saying anything else, you reached into your pocket for the cash you’d taken from your apartment and shoved it into her hand, her perfectly manicured nails catching the light. At first, her face remained neutral, but when she saw how many bills were stacked together, her eyes widened.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. It’s for you. Payment for your help.”

“But this…” she started, meeting your gaze. You nodded seriously, confirming she could keep the money. Andy blinked, hesitated for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket before clearing her throat. “I…thank you. Seriously. It’s way more than I’d have made in that time. So... good luck finding that freak.”

“It’ll come in handy,” you muttered under your breath.

Andy closed the door behind her, and you followed her figure, wrapped in white fur, as it stood out against the night’s dark expanse. The interior of the car was filled with silence, the orange light from the overhead lamp casting shadows on both your faces. When you saw the grimace on the woman's face as she talked about Richardson, you immediately thought of Rebekah. About how her fate rested in the hands of the same man who had made Andy do things like that. You were also filled with sympathy for her, knowing she must have gone through it. She most likely didn’t have the option to refuse.

“It was a lot of money,” Spencer said after a long pause.

There was this heavy feeling of helplessness hanging in the air. What now? Where the hell were you supposed to go? Who else did you need to talk to? It hurt in your chest, and you sighed.

“Well, who knows,” you said, bitterly, not looking at him, your eyes on the windshield. “Who knows what’s gonna happen. That girl could really use the money. If something happens to me...it’d go to waste...”

You stopped, freezing when you felt a touch on your knee. A gentle pressure, filled with some kind of concern. You lowered your gaze, almost in a trance, watching his fingers spread out over the fabric of your pants, holding onto it.

“Don’t think like that,” he said, swallowing hard, his voice pleading.

You forced yourself to pull your gaze away from his hand and look straight into his eyes. He held your gaze, and there was something warm in it, something you almost wanted to sink into. You could have just nodded, let him take care of everything, let him protect you. But from the very beginning, you knew that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You didn’t want to be just a passive part of the story, waiting meekly for the tragedy that was about to unfold. You wanted to stop it.

“Spencer, we’ve practically got nothing,” you said quietly, but there was a frustrated silence in your voice.

“That’s not true. We have...we have a profile.”

“We have Miller’s profile from two years ago, practically nothing new, and fragmentary info about Richardson. You can’t build a profile just from the fact that he had a prostitute decapitate chickens…”

“I can,” he interrupted with sudden confidence. His hand on your knee tightened, and he probably didn’t even realize it. You didn’t ask him to move it, even though the whole scene—the car, the night, his hand placed like that—was taking you back two years, to when all of this felt natural, a part of your everyday life together. You started to stop thinking about it with simple sentimentality. Since your kiss, there had been this indescribable longing you wanted to get rid of, but every interaction seemed to just intensify it.

Spencer took a breath before speaking slowly.

“Well, maybe not just based on the chickens... but we know so much about his childhood. He grew up across from the Millers, him, the poor kid. Dysfunctional parents, Joseph Miller was like a father figure to him. He had to respect him, idealize him, which is why he visited him recently when his condition worsened. His relationship with the rest of the Miller family… it had to be complicated with Robert. He was probably jealous of him, but because he was able to easily manipulate him, he never saw him as a threat. Robert, on the other hand, treated him like an older brother he never had, trusted him completely. So Richardson had his perfect picture after his parents died. A father, a younger brother, their shared sailing trips, the time spent together. The only thing that bothered him, the only thing he saw as a problem was...

“Robert Miller’s mother,” you finished, already seeing exactly what he was picturing in his mind. The pieces were falling into place, like the image on a puzzle box showing what it should look like when it’s put together. “Unlike her husband, she didn’t treat him like her son. She was part of all their trips, their cruises…during one of them, he pushed her off the boat. But why…”

“Robert took the fall for it,” Spencer answered the question you hadn’t asked, but one he could see had formed in your mind. “He did it to protect someone he saw as an older brother. They...they’re a classic example of a duo working together. One is clearly dominant, here, Richardson, and the other follows his lead, lets himself be manipulated. That’s Miller. And I think... I think...okay, these are just my assumptions...Richardson is responsible for all thirteen murders.”

For a moment, you went silent, furrowing your brow deeply.

“But...but you said you interrogated Miller. And you were sure he committed the murders.”

“Or he believed he committed them,” he added.

 You shook your head in confusion, waiting for him to explain.

“I don’t think this was a typical murder duo. They didn’t kill together. Richardson kept the women in Miller’s vacation house. When Miller was arrested, he wouldn’t turn over someone he thought of as a brother, so he took the blame. And over time, through manipulation, he started believing he’d actually committed the murders himself. Just like he believed he killed his own mother. That’s why the polygraph always showed he was telling the truth, why we thought he was the killer. All this time, he truly believed he was The Waterside Butcher—he was stuck in a deep delusion. Meanwhile, our real unsub was still out there.”

You sighed in admiration at how he connected all the dots. You knew he was a brilliant profiler, you knew it well, but you were still shocked at how one person could dive so deeply into the psychology of crime.

“I wanna kiss your brain,” you blurted out.

Spencer’s breathing came out in irregular bursts as he rattled off sentence after sentence without pause. After your words, he paused for a moment—a small, tired smile tugged at his lips.

“You're welcome,” he replied, then slowly easing his grip on your knee before pulling his hand back. He looked at you uncertainly, as if wondering what you made of his gesture. “Although, that would require a surgeon.”

The dry joke broke the tension, adding a strangely sweet awkwardness to the moment. You snorted.

“I’d manage,” you said, mentally giving yourself a little nudge on the forehead. “But you need to update your team about all this. You have to pass on the profile.”

Spencer nodded in agreement. You could feel the air between you cool slightly—as if a splash of cold water had just run under your shirts on an unbearably hot day. With the same hand that had been on your knee, he reached for his phone, though he didn’t dial a number immediately.

“It’s pretty late,” he began, nodding toward the cars outside the window—as if you hadn’t noticed it was night. Well, you had, for a moment, forgotten. “No offense, but you look exhausted. You should probably get some sleep. I’m just wondering…do you have somewhere to stay? You shouldn’t be sleeping there alone.”

He put an emphasis on the word sleeping. It’s one thing to stay there fully awake, weapon in hand, but quite another to let yourself fall into that vulnerable state of unconsciousness.

You slowly shrugged your shoulders.

“I’d probably rather go back there,” you admitted, even though the idea didn’t really appeal to you. You sighed, and his face twisted in confusion. “You know, I have a lot of neighbors. And a lot of women, too. I’m afraid one of them might run into him…if he came for me.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to talk you out of it—he even opened his mouth, only to close it almost immediately. It was hard to argue with that.

“Alright,” he said slowly, turning his phone in his hand. “But in that case, let me stay with you.”

A surprised sound escaped your mouth.

"Seriously? You want that?"

"I just don't want anything to happen to you."

You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink in your own apartment, yet you still felt a hint of hesitation. Things had already taken a wild turn that day—everything was changing. The verbal barbs between you weren’t laced with resentment anymore; they’d turned into a playful game that often ended in genuine bursts of laughter and smiles. You’d literally kissed. He’d touched your leg, shown care. And now, on top of it all, you were going to spend the night in the same apartment. Quite an odd situation for two exes.

The direction all this was heading remained somewhat unclear. You were so preoccupied with the case—the murderer hot on your heels—that you barely considered what would happen when it all came to an end. How would you say goodbye once more before both of you returned to your separate, opposing lives?

Spencer noticed your hesitation. His jaw clenched ever so slightly as his mind worked on a way to convince you—but he didn't really need to. As a criminal, you often thought about the consequences of your actions. You saw them clearly, analyzed every detail. Yet even the clearest vision of those consequences rarely stopped you from carrying out your plans. After all, if it did, you wouldn’t last long in this line of work.

You nodded in agreement, allowing him to stay with you.

*

You knew how it would play out.

First, you'd both slowly cross the threshold of your apartment, arguing about who should sleep in the bedroom and who on the couch, but in the end, you'd both end up side by side on the couch, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, along with your body language, and a second later, you'd start kissing, letting go of everything that had been hanging between you all day.

It was really predictable. Which didn’t mean you didn’t enjoy it.

“You know…” Spencer started when your lips gave him a chance to open his own. “I think there’s a certain question…” he was silenced. “...that we should both ask ourselves.”

“If it’s what are we? I’m leaving.”

"It's your apartment. Just saying."

"We’d be having a lot more fun if you shut up. Just saying."

With a soft sigh, you pulled away from him, moving your face just enough to be able to talk freely. But not enough to make him stop feeling threatened by the prospect of you shutting him up at any moment. Just saying.

"You wanted to ask about that, right?" you asked quietly.

He shrugged slightly, and because you were leaning against his chest, you felt that little shiver.

"Maybe in different words. But with the same general meaning."

With a thoughtful look, you ran your hand over the buttons of his burgundy shirt. Spencer followed the smooth motion of your hand with his eyes, gently tightening his grip around your waist. The position, the way your bodies were arranged, the closeness—it felt so natural. It was how it should be.

"Did you miss me?" you asked suddenly. "All those nearly two years."

"And you?" he shot the question back at you. You tilted your head, staring at him. You weren’t going to answer, not until he did first, though your answer wasn’t really dependent on his. You were honest with your feelings, even with yourself. Even if he said he hadn’t thought about you once or never missed you on the other side of the bed, it wouldn’t change the fact that you missed him. You’d had no trouble admitting before that, in some way, you'd always love him. "I missed you. How could I not?"

The soft question thrown into the space between you made you pout your bottom lip slightly. His gaze drifted to it briefly, but didn’t stay there—it landed somewhere else. A tiny spot just below your collarbone, a mark in the shape of the number pi. He leaned in to brush it with his lips, first briefly, then more deliberately, and you placed your hand in his slightly too long hair.

“I want to know what’s gonna happen with us when all this finally ends,” he muttered, his breath tickling your skin. You lifted your eyelids, which had fluttered shut in drowsiness and pleasure. “I missed you, that’s true, you missed me…I’d dare to bet that you did too. Correct me if I’m wrong. I don’t know…I just don’t know if that’s enough. For us…for it to work, something would have to change…”

Of course, he meant the different life paths you had chosen, your involvement in crime, your long-standing ties to the criminal underworld.

"Spencer," you said his name slowly, cupping his face in your hands so you could look into it. Okay, bad move. His brown eyes made it harder to focus. "It’s...it’s not that simple, you know that. It’s practically my whole life." You paused, swallowing. "I can’t think about it right now. Not with everything going on. My mind...I just can’t tell you anything right now. Except that I want you."

For a moment, he hesitated to answer, a sigh escaping from his chest. It sounded disappointed.

“I want you too,” he admitted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, a statement that applies to every possible case with no exceptions. “Exactly like I did back then. And you know it wasn’t enough.”

You pressed your lips together.

“I know.”

For a moment, you both just stared at each other, neither of you moving in any way. The silence was overwhelming, making your breaths perfectly audible. You felt tired of everything that had been happening—not just around you in the last few days, but also inside your head. You needed... you probably just needed to rest your head on his chest, inhale his scent, think seriously about the two of you, then step outside for fresh air and reconsider it, sober. Then compare both conclusions. The corners of your mouth trembled. You wanted to suggest you both just lie down and sleep when his phone rang.

“They need me,” he explained when the call ended, rising from the couch, detaching himself from your body. You nodded in understanding. But he didn’t head for the door. Instead, he paused, staring at you. “You shouldn’t stay here…”

“I’ll find a hotel,” you cut him off. He raised his eyebrows, clearly not convinced by the idea.

“I won’t get a wink of sleep here, and I’m exhausted. I’ll make sure no one’s following me. Trust me, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s that,” you snorted softly.

Of course, you were a little worried about your neighbors' safety, but you couldn’t figure out a way to protect both them and yourself. Part of you wanted to stay inside, fueled by caffeine with a loaded gun in hand, waiting for the moment someone tried to mess with the lock. But you didn’t even mention that to Spencer—you knew exactly how he’d react. Not a chance.

He pulled you into one last, lingering embrace before leaving. It seemed like an unspoken agreement to temporarily abandon the topic of what would happen between you two later.

Reluctantly, you made your way to the bedroom. The last time you’d been there, you’d taken almost all the cash hidden in the photo album, which you later gave to Andy. A few bills still remained between the pages—just enough for a night in some hotel and a cup of coffee. You snapped the album shut, but one of the photos slipped out, drifting down like a leaf on the wind, sliding under the dresser.

You sighed. You felt too exhausted to even bend down for it, but after an internal struggle, you finally gave in. First, you dropped to your knees, then sprawled flat on your stomach to reach under the furniture and retrieve it. But as soon as your face got close to the floor…you noticed a strange smell.

Faint, yet distinct. You thought it might be a figment of your imagination, but after inhaling a few more times, you were certain. Sickly sweet in a way, unfamiliar, but it reminded you of an odd mix of rotting meat, damp earth…maybe even mold?

Ignoring the photo, you got to your feet. The smell was coming from your elderly neighbor Erika’s apartment. You realized you hadn’t seen her in a while—not even heard her poodle barking, which was usually relentless with its evening performances. Dark thoughts raced through your mind. She had a bad hip—maybe she’d fallen…

Before you even realized it, you were pulling on your jacket.

The door wasn’t even locked, which only heightened your sense of foreboding.

“Mrs. Hemingway?” you called out, stepping cautiously into the apartment. The hallway was dark, but a yellow light glowed from an old-fashioned chandelier in the living room. You quickly corrected yourself. “I mean, Erika? Are you here?”

The smell had become unbearable. A wave of nausea hit you, doubling you over, but your head remained upright—you couldn’t tear your eyes away from what you saw.

Right next to a long beige leather couch lay a rolled-up light-colored rug. There were dark, bloodstained patches scattered across it, but that wasn’t the worst part.  The worst part was the head, not wrapped in the rug. Your neighbor’s eyes were wide open and empty. Black earrings still dangled from her ears—you didn’t know why you fixated on them. Maybe your brain was starting to short-circuit, latching onto odd details instead of focusing on what it should.

Like the sound of footsteps right behind you.

You heard them too late.

There was no time to turn around before something struck the back of your head with brutal force.

It wasn’t like in the movies—it didn’t knock you out. The blow was too weak, too unskilled. It only sent you crashing to your knees, from which you desperately tried to push yourself back up, feeling your heart pounding furiously in your chest. But you were too dazed, your skull filled with a deafening roar, just before it absorbed another hit—this time stronger, harder.

As you collapsed unconscious to the ground, a shadow of a male figure hung above you.

*

The buzz.

A slowly forming image before you. Its small fragments connecting in incorrect combinations, as if someone were trying to piece together two mismatched puzzles.

The pain in your head.

Oh, it was terrible.

It intensified when you tried to open your eyes, so you spent a long moment in darkness, even though your body was slowly beginning to wake. You tried to press your hand to your temple, to massage it, perhaps to ease that furious pounding...when you realized you couldn't.

You opened your eyes despite the head-splitting pain, as if someone had driven a spike into it.

You were in a dimly lit room that reeked of wood and blood. It made you nauseous, and it wasn’t just because of the injury you’d sustained. At least, not entirely.

Fighting the bitter taste of vomit gathering in your throat, you began to look around the interior. Made of light-colored boards, small, with only one window covered. It resembled more of a cabin than a house, the furniture inside arranged in a way that could give an interior designer a heart attack. A rust-covered fridge stood right in the middle of the room. The floor was covered with a blue tarp that rustled with every movement of your body. The place looked as if someone had built it by hand.

Eventually, your gaze landed on your hands, chained tightly to the wall, causing pain in your wrists. You were half sitting, half lying on the floor, unable to move much. At first, you were too confused to feel fear.

Terror only hit you when you glanced to the side.

"Rebekah," you barely managed to say.

She was sitting next to you, tied to the wall in the same way you had found her in Miller's basement two years ago. Her head was lowered, eyes closed, and you prayed she'd look at you. That would mean she was alive…

She did, but very slowly, and you felt no relief at all. Her hair hung in greasy tangles on her face, her lip looked swollen, and her cheek was covered with blood trickling from a wound on her temple.

Rebekah opened her parched lips, but said nothing. She simply let her head drop again.

"Rebekah, listen to me," you begged in a hoarse tone, instinctively trying to get closer to her, but of course, you couldn't. You started to frantically look around once more. You were searching for your captors, searching for a way out. There had to be one. "Listen to me... you have to focus, I'm here, together we can figure something out..."

"You're here," a weak grunt came from the woman. "Finally. At least now it will end."

You didn't quite understand the meaning of her words, but you sensed some hidden depth to them that you decided to ignore. Instead, you nodded affirmatively. Bad idea. The pain intensified.

“Yes. That's right. Now it will end, we'll escape. You have to tell me everything you know. Where are they? When will they return..."

She grunted again.

"No," she simply said. You could barely hear her rough, quiet voice. "It will end because you're here. He was waiting for you, and now, finally, he will kill us." There was a strange, suffering longing in her voice. The prospect of impending relief lightened her face. Suddenly, though, a brief sob overtook her frail body. "Just like those other women..."

"You're wrong," a male voice cut in suddenly, making you flinch. Rebekah didn't even move. Focused on the conversation, you didn't notice the tall man dressed in a black hoodie and cap approaching.

Instinctively, you pressed yourself back into the wall. You hated your own body for showing fear, even though it was completely understandable in that situation. Before you stood Clinton Richardson. You recognized his face with the unevenly trimmed beard. Before you stood real The Waterside Butcher.

“This way, I'll only kill you,” he said in a neutral tone, staring at Rebekah with an odd look, as though she were the least interesting thing in the world to him. He didn’t blink. Not once. Slowly, his gaze shifted to you, and only then did his expression change ever so slightly, seeming more present in his own body. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve got something else prepared for you.”

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest. Sometimes you’d talk to Spencer about his work, sometimes you simply listened to his long monologues with your chin resting on your hand. Did he ever tell you what to do in a situation like this? How to talk to a full-fledged psychopath?

His voice began to echo in your head, gently calming you. You took a deep breath.

“Clinton...” you began, in as soft a tone as you could manage, though your body screamed to rip those chains off the wall, lunge at him, and wrap them around his neck. That desire only grew when you remembered poor, innocent, murdered Erika. You had to close your eyes to get rid of that image.

“Shut up,” he snapped, cutting you off.

A man entered the cabin through the narrow door. You had already met him personally, though the two years he’d spent in prison had significantly changed his face. His features had become sharper, his head shaved clean. When the door opened for a brief moment, you noticed… water. Since it must have been the middle of the night, the moonlight gently shimmered on its surface. The cabin had been placed right on the edge of some kind of water source.

“Take her to the boat,” Clinton ordered, not specifying exactly who he meant.

Your body knew, though. It tensed uneasily, then frantically, as Robert Miller moved toward you. At first, you tried to fight back, kicking, but he immobilized your legs. He reached into the pocket of his fleece jacket and pulled out cable ties. After freeing you from the chains, he used them to try to restrain your hands again. Surprisingly…ineptly.

“Stop playing with her,” the second man growled, crouching next to Rebekah, lifting her chin to examine her battered face. “Hit her, she’ll stop struggling.”

Robert followed the order.

Holding your restrained hands tightly, he dragged you like a slaughtered animal. Your jacket and the clothes beneath it pulled up, and your bare skin unpleasantly scraped against the tarp material, causing abrasions. You hissed as your cheek brushed against the wooden platform outside. Before the cabin door closed, you threw one last terrified glance toward Rebekah, huddled against the wall.

Robert decided it would be easier to do it this way. He threw your body over his shoulder, despite your protests and last desperate jerks, and in just a few steps, he tossed you into the small motorboat by the lake’s edge. You collapsed onto it heavily, wincing from the pain and the ringing in your head. You exhaled through clenched teeth. You didn't know what force kept you from simply going numb, waiting for whatever was coming. What force made you keep fighting.

“Robert, you don’t have to do this,” you tried weakly, trying to make it sound like anything but a sob. You felt powerless, but you knew that this was the weak point of the duo. This was where you had to strike. “Robert...I know it wasn’t you who committed those murders.”

“It was me.”

“No, it wasn’t you. It was Clinton, you just took the blame. You believed you did it. You still believe it. He manipulated you, you have to see that...”

You stopped when he aimed the gun at you.

“Robert,” you said again, though you knew how risky that had become. You could barely force your mouth to open, but you knew it was your only chance. “I know you didn’t kill your mother.”

The hand holding the gun trembled. So, his mother was the weak spot.

“You’re lying. I...I pushed her out of the boat…”

“Why the hell are you even talking to her?” Clinton joined you in the boat, rolling his eyes. He looked at your hunched form with some contempt, and you tried to straighten up, holding onto whatever dignity you had left in these final moments.

As the engine of the boat roared to life and it began drifting farther out, toward the center of the lake, you started to doubt you would ever get out of this.

You sat still, staring at the two men. Clinton had his arms crossed over his chest, seeming to relax, his eyes taking in the surface of the lake. He even closed his eyelids, as if meditating. You noticed he wasn't carrying a gun.

You caught Robert's gaze, tilting your head to the side.

Please. 

He blinked, as if trying to focus. To keep his thoughts from drifting away. He looked into your eyes once more, for a long moment. Suddenly, it seemed like he was looking through you. His eyes registered your battered body, but his mind saw another woman, one who had also drowned in the lake. The woman he had loved. The woman who had been his mother.

“Here,” Clinton muttered under his breath.

Robert quickly stopped looking at you.

“Do it,” Richardson said to him. “Come on. Get rid of her, get rid of the problem.”

 But Robert didn’t move. Your breath caught in your chest, a flicker of hope.

“She’s the reason you ended up in prison,” Clinton reminded him, emphasizing she. “Get rid of the problem, brother.”

When he still didn't move, Clinton grabbed you by your clothes and lifted you to a standing position, holding you so tightly by the shoulders that he must have left marks. In that moment, you could no longer feel fear.

"Fine, I'll do it myself," Clinton sighed, pushing you closer to the edge of the boat.

You twisted your neck to glance at Robert one last time. In the hand that hung at his side, he still held the gun, his grip uncertain and nervous.

“If he were your brother, he wouldn't have killed your mother,” you said loudly, no longer caring about the consequences. “Was she a problem to you too?”

The body of the man holding you tensed even more, this time in... unease.

“Robert…” he began, dragging out the syllables of his name. Hearing the fear in his voice gave you a sense of fulfillment. You felt like you needed to experience it before you died. You lifted your gaze to the night sky above, to the stars and the moon. These were the things you wanted to see before your body sank into the abyss. “Robert, no—”

Several gunshots rang out, all aimed at the boat’s deck. He wanted to drown them all. Clinton released you and lunged at his partner. A struggle over the weapon broke out between the men, everything rocking dangerously, sparking as water began filling the boat.

You looked at them one last time. Clinton yanked the gun from Robert's hand and shoved him aside. He didn’t manage to aim it at you, though he tried. You saw his eyes searching for your face. Though you were in the middle of the lake, your hands were bound, and you couldn’t swim... you leaned over the side of the boat.

The bullet pierced the water’s surface just next to where your body fell.

When it hit the water, for a moment, you felt free. No one could reach you there; the cold of the lake protected you, surrounding you like a shield. A rush of adrenaline urged you to move your arms, to push yourself to the surface, to swim toward the shore. It wasn’t far, you could swim. But you couldn’t do it. Your hands were tied.

You began to sink.

*

Water burst from your lungs.

The first thing you felt was that your hands were free. Then the piercing cold, sending your whole body into a tremor. Then the stabbing pain in your chest, but you slowly stopped caring about what you felt. It didn’t matter. What mattered was what you saw.

Around you, blue and red lights of police cars flickered, reflecting off the surface of the lake where you lay. A man with dark skin, performing CPR, pulled away when you finally took a breath, his sharp gaze scanning your condition. He had just quickly checked your pulse when someone almost shoved between you.

“Derek, I need a thermal blanket,” Spencer said, kneeling in front of you. His gaze was frantic, only locking on yours when you made eye contact. You wanted to say something, but all you could do was cough. “Quick. She's shaking.”

You pressed your hands to your chest, waiting for the coughing fit to pass. You didn’t help yourself, still trying to say something, not tearing your gaze away from Spencer. You couldn’t. It was all too unreal. A harsh sound escaped your lips.

“Hey, take it easy,” he said, as gently as he could. His voice was soft and weak, and you heard him swallow with relief as he carefully placed his hands on your shoulders, just resting them there. Trying to understand that you were even there. Alive. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“You found me,” you finally managed to say.

Spencer nodded eagerly. 

“I did,” he admitted. Suddenly, he furrowed his brow, as if in disbelief. Without caring about your soaked clothes, you pressed yourself against him, burying your injured cheek in his chest. You felt his heavy sigh. “I-I did,” he mumbled. 

You probably shouldn’t have heard those words, but he pulled you so close that they grazed the shell of your ear.

Around you, people were moving, busy with the aftermath. The investigation didn't end with your rescue; the night wouldn't quiet down. They had to follow procedures, secure the scene, get inside the cabin where you'd been held...

Like being jolted by electricity, you pulled away from Spencer. The fear on your face mirrored in his eyes.

"Rebekah..."

"She's alive," he reassured you immediately. Your shoulders dropped, and an unidentified sound of relief escaped your lips. "They didn’t have time to do anything to her. They planned to after they…" He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "She's alive. They drowned."

For the first time, your gaze shifted towards the dark waters, hiding its secrets.

"Both of them?" you asked, needing to be sure.

Your breath began to quicken again, unease taking hold. Spencer gently reached for your cheek, guiding your attention back to him, away from the lake.

"Both," he confirmed. He stood still for a moment, watching you with those dark eyes, his concern echoing with every shiver that ran through your freezing body. Once again, he didn’t care about your soaked clothes, pulling you tightly into his arms.

You closed your eyes as his chin rested on top of your head.

"You’re safe now."

*

In the ambulance, they attended to your injuries.

Everything that was happening reached you through a haze. They told you to lie down, but you didn’t want to. It was only someone’s soft, familiar voice that convinced you. You felt a bit pitiful, lying on your back. You wanted to get back up, to return to normalcy after everything that had happened. But when you tried to move, Spencer turned his head slightly, silently instructing you to lie back down. There was an undeniable firmness in his gesture.

Both of his hands held one of yours, enclosing it tightly, like a shell around a pearl.

They told you it was okay to sleep, but you were a bit afraid. You feared that when you closed your eyes, all the warmth would fade, and you'd find yourself back in the icy depths of the lake. Every time you felt yourself drifting away, you squeezed Spencer’s hand tighter. You turned your head slightly to look at him, and he gave you a small smile.

“Spencer,” you murmured suddenly, a hint of worry in your voice.

“What’s wrong?”

Then, something came to your mind. You reached into the pocket of your jacket, where you had the photo you promised to give him. The water had ruined it completely; all you had now was a white, torn piece of paper instead of the image of his hand gently holding your cheek as he placed a kiss on it.

“I’m sorry. I know you wanted it…”

Spencer took the remains of the photo from you, glanced at it without much interest, then crumpled it up. Surprised, you furrowed your brows.

“We’ll take more,” he assured you lightly.

For a moment, you just stared at him in silence. Did that mean…?

“Really?”

“We’ll take hundreds of them.”

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[nataliescatorccioapologist]

Each Yellowjackets character’s role in the wilderness and how these roles overlap into the adult timeline

Natalie - The Hunter

Nat’s role as The Hunter aligns with her independent spirit and her familiarity with hardship, stemming from her difficult childhood. Natalie’s hunting skills give her a sense of purpose and power that she never experienced before. Living under her father’s thumb for most of her childhood, she was repeatedly told she was useless and was forced to comply with her father’s abusive control and humiliation of her. At school, she was frequently slut-shamed and referred to as a “burnout,” reinforcing her sense of worthlessness and lack of direction. Wielding the gun gives her power, protection, motivation, and appreciation from others that she never received before. Nat’s ability to provide for the group and keep them alive proves her father’s words about her wrong, and you can see her relishing in that.

Nat’s role as The Hunter also reflects her propensity for isolation. Nat has always been a bit of an outsider, trusting very few people and outcasting herself intentionally through the abrasive front she puts on. Nat’s hunting mirrors this as it isolates her from the rest of the group. She spends most of each day trekking through the wilderness looking for game while the rest of the group stays back at the cabin. This isolation creates an even stronger codependency with Travis, as he is the only person she interacts with and relies on for most of the day.

As an adult, Natalie still embodies The Hunter role, though her objectives have transformed from hunting for food to hunting for answers, truth, and meaning in her life. She relentlessly pursues elusive leads on the postcards, the blackmailers, and the circumstances of Travis’ death (all with a gun in her hand). Her role as a hunter ties into her need for control in the midst of chaos. In the wilderness, her hunting skills provided a measure of stability; as an adult, this manifests in her obsessive pursuit of answers and in her determination to confront the past head-on

Natalie also maintains the isolation and outsider status she had in the wilderness. Just as she was apart from the other girls in the wilderness, hunting alone, her adulthood is marked by pushing people away before they can get close to her and living a transient lifestyle similar to her treks through the woods on hunting trips.

Shauna - The Butcher

Shauna’s willingness to step into arguably the most emotionally taxing and gruesome role in the wilderness speaks to both her toughness and her aggressive, adrenaline-seeking tendencies. Shauna’s role as The Butcher gives her a sense of importance, contrasting how invisible she felt before the crash living in Jackie’s shadow. It also evokes a sense of intensity, thrill, and heightened emotions; something very absent from the mundanity of her life before and after the wilderness.

Shauna’s capacity to take on such a role reveals her ability to detach and perform the task with a cool-headedness that hints at a unique adaptability. However, it also hints at something deeper, a capability for darkness and violence that she suppresses. She doesn't panic under pressure but rather appears oddly at home in these extreme moments.

Like the others, this role follows Shauna into the adult timeline. In a more obvious sense, she kills rabbits in her backyard and butchers them to feed to her family, and she cuts up Adam’s body after she murders him. But in a more subtle sense, Shauna is clearly still seeking the adrenaline that butchering in the wilderness provided her. She enters a risky affair with Adam, jumps off of bridges, sleeps with Adam in her home when Jeff could come in at any moment, tracks down the people who stole her minivan and clearly has to hold herself back from killing them, and she stabs Adam. Her (terrifying) monologue to the minivan thief about peeling human skin shows the rush that Shauna gets from these moments that remind her of the raw survival instincts she experienced in the wilderness.

Just as she was sick of being invisible behind Jackie as a teen, she is sick of the normalcy of being a suburban mom as an adult and craves what she had in the wilderness. In many ways, Shauna’s life is shaped by a tension between her past and present, where The Butcher’s ferocity lurks beneath her gentle, unassuming exterior. Her role in the wilderness forever alters her ability to experience life without craving intensity; it’s almost as if the ordinary doesn’t fulfill her, leaving her compelled to seek out higher stakes and indulge in morally dubious behavior.

Misty - The Caretaker

Misty’s role as a medic in the wilderness is an obvious sign of her need for validation and worship from others. Misty needs to be needed, and she manifests this by making people rely on her to survive in the wilderness. Her medical knowledge grants her the role of The Caretaker, a role that is especially important in the aftermath of an injurious plane crash and during Shauna’s pregnancy. Before the plane crash, Misty was ridiculed and ignored. But after the crash, she realizes she’s in a situation where the unique skills she was previously mocked and outcasted for are suddenly indispensable and praised. Misty delights in the fact that the group relies on her, and she ensures they will continue to value her by breaking the flight recorder, tripping and poisoning Coach Ben, and emphasizing her ability to deliver Shauna’s baby when the time comes. Her desire for power over others stems from a deep insecurity, and she will do anything to maintain this power.

As an adult, Misty still holds her role as The Caretaker. She works as a nurse for the elderly, a position that allows her to remain needed and in control over vulnerable people. We see Misty looking far too satisfied when she withholds pain medications from one of her patients after she disrespects Misty. We also see Misty relishing in her control over Jessica Roberts after she kidnaps her. She makes Jessica need by literally keeping her captive and at her mercy, chaining her to a bed and caring for her. In these scenes, she thrives on her (forced) emotional connection to Jessica.

Her obsessive need to be valued is also seen in her relationship with Nat. She desperately wants Nat to admit she needs her help and support. She goes to great lengths to make Nat rely on her (tampering with Nat’s car so she has to hitch a ride with Misty, spying on her so that she can leap into action and rescue her when needed, snorting Nat’s coke before she can, investigating Nat’s disappearance and infiltrating Lottie’s compound to “save” her).

Similar to Nat and Shauna, Misty is attempting to recreate the feelings of importance and purpose she had in the wilderness, and she does so by obsessively providing care to those around her, even if they don’t want it and even if it eventually ends up harming the very people she’s attempting to help.

Lottie - The Prophet

Lottie's role as The Prophet reveals her complex and often contradictory psyche. She’s modest but confident, empathetic but manipulative, gentle but dangerous, afraid of her power but also inclined to wield it. Lottie is trapped in her own mental health struggles and the pressure of others’ expectations. She is highly intuitive, both emotionally and psychologically, and her visions and interpretations suggest she has an acute awareness of others’ fears and needs, even if filtered through her delusions. This makes her a natural figure for people to gravitate toward in times of uncertainty. Her peers’ reliance on her prophecies builds her confidence and identity as a leader, though it also places her in a role where she becomes responsible for the group’s downward spiral. Her authority in the wilderness often vacillates between comforting her teammates and manipulating them, blurring her true intentions and leaving room for her power to turn darker.

Lottie’s role as The Prophet remains with her long after the rescue. We see her spiritually guiding other patients during her time in the psychiatric ward. And after she gets out of the hospital, we know that she eventually starts a full-on cult (wellness community). The wellness center is a modern extension of the community she led in the woods, blending healing practices with a lingering undercurrent of fear and control as she continues to influence others while grappling with the guilt of the disastrous consequences her influence has caused in the past. When the rest of the survivors arrive at the compound, Lottie slips right back into that familiar Prophet role. Within the span of a few hours, Lottie has the group engaging in her spiritual treatments and making a ritualistic sacrifice to the Wilderness. It remains unclear whether Lottie's prophetic abilities are rooted in genuine intuition, trauma-induced delusions, or supernatural forces, but her impact on those around her is still as powerful and dangerous as it was in the wilderness.

Travis - The Gatherer/Follower

Travis’s role is often more supportive, as he frequently follows Natalie’s lead in hunting and survival tasks and Lottie’s lead regarding spiritual beliefs and the welfare of the group. He’s not the one holding the gun on most hunting trips, but he’ll be the one behind Nat coaching her through it and reminding her to breathe. He’s devoted to Lottie’s leadership and contributes to her prayer circles in his own small ways. This role reflects his position in the group as someone searching for acceptance and stability, still grappling with the trauma of his father’s death. His willingness to contribute in more secondary ways showcases his loyalty and his struggle to find his own identity amidst the group’s chaos.

We don’t get to see a lot of adult Travis, but echoes of his role in the wilderness are still evident. He desperately seeks out Lottie’s guidance and direction, even though it leads to his death. He also continues to fall into his old patterns with Nat, following her around and supporting her through her addiction, making her promise not to commit suicide, and saving her life when she overdoses.

Van - The Storyteller

Even before the crash, Van is a cinephile and pop culture obsessive. Her proclivity towards fiction and narratives translates to the wilderness as she becomes the group’s storyteller. During Tai’s expedition, she lightens the group’s mood with her iconic “our girl Sandy” retelling. She recaps Wiskayok High's gossip during the attic seance. In a darker moment, she begins to tell the story of the cabin and the Wilderness after the group eats Javi. Van's storytelling is her way of coping with the dark reality she has been presented with, as well as making sense of her trauma through the narrative format she is comfortable with. She begins by retelling the fictional stories she loved before the crash, and then shifts to fictionalizing the world she is actually living in. Van's stories and her happy-go-lucky, humorous demeanor serve as a distraction from the traumas of the wilderness for both the group and herself.

Van’s storytelling role continues after she is rescued from the wilderness as she opens her own video store, collecting stories and sharing them with her customers. She becomes a curator of nostalgia. Van is obsessed with the pop culture of the past, which shows her strong connection to stories and narratives, albeit in a way that allows her to maintain distance from her own. As an adult, Van appears to cope by living in the past, immersing herself in a realm of curated stories that are not her own, which speaks to her avoidance of the unresolved trauma of the wilderness. Her humor, a key part of her storytelling as a teenager, becomes a defense mechanism, masking her pain and reluctance to fully engage with what she did in the wilderness.

Taissa - The Protector/Warrior

Taissa's strength and endurance cast her in the role of The Warrior and Protector. She is ambitious, decisive, and often takes charge when the group needs direction. She leads the charge on leaving the crash site and hiking to the lake, a decision which likely ended up saving many of their lives. Tai is also the first to decide to seek out civilization, forming an expedition to find help for the rest of the group. When Van is gravely injured, Tai risks her own life to stay behind and care for her, refusing to leave her side. Similarly, when Shauna goes into labor during a blizzard, Tai supports her, physically and emotionally, leading them back to safety. Beneath her tough exterior lies a deep well of care and selflessness; Tai will go to great lengths to protect the people she loves.

However, her role also highlights her internal conflict and her propensity for self-destruction as she wrestles with a dual nature that makes her both a protector and a potential threat to the group. The dark side of Tai goes against everything she stands for; it puts Van and other members of the group in danger, and it presents a complete lack of control that she is unaccustomed to. The wilderness brings out her survival instincts but also forces her to confront her more dangerous side.

As an adult, Taissa is still a fierce, protective force for her family and the remaining survivors. She pays for Nat’s multiple stints in rehab, chases down and fully tackles the blackmailer, helps Shauna cover up Adam's murder to save her from incarceration, and runs a cutthroat political campaign hoping to create change. Her pursuit of becoming a state senator symbolizes her fight to protect and improve her community. This can be seen as an extension of her drive to ensure survival in the wilderness—fighting for stability, control, and order in a chaotic world. Her willingness to do whatever it takes to succeed, even resorting to morally gray actions (e.g., sabotaging her own family to protect her political image), reflects her wilderness-era ruthlessness. When the “Other Tai” emerges again, Taissa is determined to protect her family by distancing herself from them. The Other Tai’s actions can be seen as an extreme form of her protectiveness, as well, as she kills Biscuit as a sacrifice to the Wilderness to ensure her and her family's safety and power.

[muletia]

[tfp] starscream x human!reader

summary: starscream wakes you up to see the sunrise

cw: fluff, pinch of angst, starscream has feelings for you, silliness, bad writing, i may have butchered his character a bit but i want him to be happy for once

word count: 1365

Aggressive tapping on the window ripped you from a cozy sleep. You quickly propped yourself up on your arms, looking for the source of the sound. The warm blanket slipped off your shoulders, waking you even more. Your sleepy mind tried to shake off the fog with rapid blinking as you looked around, alarmed.

You tapped twice on the screen of your phone lying on the table next to your bed. Four o'clock. Good Lord. So much for sleeping in.

Who would even go through the trouble of reaching your house (crossing acres of untouched forest), tapping on the window hard enough to wake you up, and then disappearing without a trace? A thief? you thought. No, a thief would take extra care not to wake you. And would probably use the front door. With your still-clouded mind, you tried to remember who knew you lived here, but only two names came to mind: your mother and…

Red light pierced through the window, illuminating your bedroom.

Oh, right. He.

You slid out of bed and shuffled to the window. Even with limited light, you could make out the look of impatience on his elongated, metal face. You’d taken too long.

"Finally! Does it take humans this long to wake up?"

"Hi, Starscream," you greeted him. After a few months of acquaintance, you’d learned to ignore his jabs directed at you and your species. "May I ask what you need from me at four"—you emphasized the hour—"in the morning?"

You yawned, and he grimaced, his optics flicking away.

"I need you to finally step outside. Then you're coming with me."

"But it’s so early…"

"Will you be more encouraged if I punch a hole through your wall and take you by force?"

"Honestly, I'm surprised you haven't done that already."

"Don’t tempt me," he warned.

Your mind flashed back to the incident four months ago when he actually demolished half your wall because you apparently hadn’t come outside fast enough. Those were the days of testing his patience, which, as you quickly and painfully learned, was more fragile than porcelain.

"Get out. I'm not giving you a third warning."

You sighed because, unfortunately, he was right; you could soon end up in his servo, your house with yet another unwanted window. You put on your warmest coat, an old shearling from your mother, and left your cozy little home, making sure to lock the door behind you. It was still dark outside, but the first hints of dawn were breaking through the treetops. Sunrise was near.

"Finally! I can’t believe such a simple task took you this long."

"I’m sorry, alright. I just don't want to freeze to death."

One moment, you were standing quietly on the ground, bantering with your alien companion, and the next, he scooped you up in his claws and placed you in his servo. You held tight to his thumb, pressing against the only anchor point several meters above the ground. He was warm, which still amazed you. You nestled closer to his slender finger.

Starscream’s optics lingered on you for a moment, ensuring you were alright. You noticed.

"I’m fine," you assured him, smiling softly.

He looked away, embarrassed to be caught in such a state; you shouldn’t see him like this. You shouldn’t know that he cared, that he was trying to be gentler with your body; that his spark shone brighter when he was with you, that your companionship mattered to him.

The problem was, you did know. The humans he thought were primitives did have well-developed emotional intelligence, and you were no exception. It took you just a few weeks to see right through him. At first, he thought it was about finding his weakness, then stab him in the back, contact the right people or Autobots, and turn him in. Betray him. But each week, the betrayal he almost expected never came, and before he knew it, he started to trust you. And he hoped you trusted him, too—otherwise, you wouldn’t have stepped out of your house at such an early hour to meet him, right? He wanted to call it foolishness and naivety, but he knew you too well by now. You weren't either.

"I haven’t seen you in a while," you remarked after a moment of silence. "Are you okay?"

His wings fluttered happily. If you noticed, you chose not to comment on it, and he was forever grateful for that.

"Yes, I’m alright," he replied briefly.

"I’m glad."

His spark flickered with joy. It was nice to have someone who cared. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone of his kind had asked him something like that. Maybe no one ever had.

"Where are we going?" you asked. You didn’t expect a clear answer, but just listening to his voice gave you comfort. You missed this diva.

"Patience," he deflected. "I don’t want to spoil the surprise."

Oh. You beamed. With one sentence, he made you feel special, not to mention excited. Suddenly, the night’s chill stopped biting your cheeks, and the last traces of irritation at being woken up early faded away.

Starscream noticed the sudden shift in your body language, allowing himself to catch the mood. A dangerous thought popped into his processor—he’d like to see you smiling more, him being the reason for your smile. He wanted to make you happy, not occasionally, not out of whim or boredom; he wanted your smile to be genuine, brought on by his gestures or words. He held onto the hope that his surprise would have a similar effect.

As you climbed the forested hill, Starscream pondered when you stopped being just another human and became [Your Name]. Was it when you didn’t hesitate to express disapproval of Megatron, who had tormented him for most of his long life only to abandon him on an alien planet? Or maybe when you outright told him that you cared for him and that his opinion mattered to you when he wasn’t pointing a weapon at you?

You’d both fallen hard, but he was at the bottom.

"I think I know what this surprise is," you whispered as the forest thinned out, revealing a meadow dotted with rocks. "You remembered that I love sunrises."

"It’s hard to forget when someone keeps pestering you about it."

He was bluffing; you saw right through it. You’d only mentioned it once, a long time ago, but you let him win, not wanting to spoil the moment.

"Thank you," you whispered.

He muttered something under his breath, but his wings lifted proudly, betraying his true emotions.

Starscream stopped in front of a large rock jutting from the ground in the middle of the clearing. He placed his hand on the hard, dewy surface so you could step down and admire the view in front of you.

"Wow," you whispered.

You’d arrived just in time for the sunrise, which was slowly emerging from behind thick clouds, creating an orange gradient, fading into muted pinks and shades of gray. The panorama before you was raw and ethereal. Untouchable. It formed an image Starscream had reserved just for you. And that meant so, so much to you.

"I think I’m going to cry," you sniffled.

"What? Why?" he squawked, stunned.

Did you not like it? Humans only cried when they were sad, right? For Primus’s sake, he’d messed up again, as always. But before his worry could turn to anger, your response reassured him.

"I’m just… so happy. You have no idea how much. Thank you for bringing me here; I’ll never forget it."

There it was again. That pleasant churning in his spark, throwing him off his calculated balance. Would you be just as thrilled if he gave you a star from the sky?

"The pleasure’s all mine," he replied, now focusing his entire attention on you.

Impulsively, he reached out towards you. A sharp claw, designed to cause suffering, now gently brushed your back with the utmost care. Starscream soaked in your contentment like forbidden nectar, losing himself in the moment, wishing it would last forever.

[lmvari]

Petty Compensation

prompt. you accidentally take the wrong drink order, and the actual owner demands a sip as compensation

characters. scaramouche / wanderer x gn!reader

tags. modern au, attempt at humor

warnings. none

You don’t notice your mistake at first.

The cafe is busy, and you're distracted. Probably by the group of students arguing over a project in the corner or the fact that you only got four hours of sleep last night. Either way, you hear your name being called, or at least, you think it was yours.

Without giving it much thought, you grab the cup from the counter, take a sip, and wince at the unexpected bitterness. Still, you don’t question it and head back to your seat like nothing’s wrong. The cafe is packed and the staff seem overwhelmed that the barista doesn’t even notice who took the drink.

It’s not until someone clears their throat in front of you that you realize something might be off.

“That’s mine.”

You glance up, only to be met with sharp indigo eyes staring you down. The guy in front of you has striking deep blue hair, sharp jawline, and an expression that somehow manages to be both bored and vaguely irritated at the same time. He gestures toward the cup in your hand. “You took my drink.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Then at him again.

Oh.

In your defense, it looks like your order. You squint at the scribbled name on the side, and sure enough, it’s not yours.

Kunikusushi, it says.

Either his parents had a grudge against him, or the barista completely butchered the spelling.

Still, regardless of how his name is written on the cup, one thing is clear. You already drank from it, which means—

“Oops?” you offer sheepishly.

His brow twitches. “Oops?”

“order for [name]!” the barista calls out.

You glance toward the counter, where another identical cup sits unattended. Your actual order.

You stand up to take it from the counter and offer it to the stranger. His intense stare burns into you the entire time. Shifting under the weight of it, you clear your throat. “Um, sorry. You can take mine instead?”

He looks unimpressed, eyeing the cup with clear disapproval. “My drink is made exactly how I like it. And you’ve contaminated it. I’d take it back but what if you have some kind of disease?”

“I don’t,” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “Can’t be sure.”

“Are you serious?”

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking to the cup in your hands. “Fine,” he says, holding out a hand. “Give it here.”

You blink. “Wait, what—”

“If I can’t have mine untouched, I want compensation,” he says. “You took a sip of my drink. I’m taking one of yours.”

You gape at him. “That’s literally the same thing you were just complaining about.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s my choice.” He scoffs. “Give it.”

You hesitate but ultimately sigh, handing the cup over. He takes it, and without breaking eye contact, he lifts it to his lips and takes a slow sip.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

As he swallows, immediately, his nose scrunches in utter disgust. “Ugh. How do you drink this?” He sets the cup on your free hand and glares at it like it personally offended him. “It’s sickeningly sweet.”

You raise a brow. “No one forced you to drink it, asshole.”

“Tch.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grimacing. “Consider yourself lucky. I’m feeling merciful today.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Merciful?”

“You should be grateful I didn’t make you buy me a new one.” He smirks, sharp and infuriating.

You roll your eyes, but before you can throw a retort, he steps back, grabbing his actual drink from your hand.

“I’m taking this back. Try not to steal from me next time, thief.”

You sputter out incoherent words in disbelief. He could’ve just taken it from the start. “Petty!” You say back but he ignores you.

And just like that, he walks away, leaving you flustered, annoyed, and (frustratingly) just a little bit intrigued.

Wait. Next time?

You glance down at your drink and feel a small scrap of paper, torn from what looks like a receipt, clinging to the cup’s condensation. Scribbled across it in messy handwriting and bleeding ink is a string of numbers. His number.

Your cheeks flush and your mouth gapes.

Instinctively, your gaze flicks to the exit, searching for him. He’s already by the door, his own drink in hand, but just before stepping out, he glances over his shoulder.

The moment your eyes meet, he smirks. He knows you’ve found it. Then, without a word, he turns and disappears into the crowd outside.

You stare after him. Your heart knocking once against your ribs, skipping a beat.

Did he plan that from the start?

note. just a little something haha you can tell kuni is my favorite character to write. thank you for reading ^^ feel free to send asks! likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

© lmvari do not repost, translate, or plagiarize any of my works on any platform.