the-oblivious-writer

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |30|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Thirty: Two Fools and One Finger

warnings: medical trauma, implied past violence, mental health struggles implied, and themes of isolation and captivity (both literal and metaphorical).

note(s): almost to with her die's summer...

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots @mikuley @sleepyjackets @wnbawag @eatingouturmomrn

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The makeshift cane Misty carved feels foreign in your grip, all rough edges and uncertain balance. She'd been oddly proud of it, fussing over the height and handle like she was crafting something for a museum instead of helping you hobble around camp. But it works, mostly, and after a week of being horizontal, even the simple act of standing upright feels like reclaiming something vital.

Akilah's voice drifts from the small clearing she's claimed as her domain, a gentle murmur that somehow manages to sound both soothing and authoritative. "Easy, girl. Easy now."

You make your way over, the cane tapping against roots and stones, and find her crouched beside what can only generously be called a pen. It's more of a suggestion of containment—branches woven together with strips of fabric and determination. Inside, a small rabbit huddles against the far corner, its dark eyes wide with what you recognize as barely contained panic.

"She's new," Akilah explains without looking up. "Found her caught in one of Nat's old snares. Leg's hurt, but not broken. Figured she might be more useful alive than dead, you know?"

The rabbit's nose twitches frantically, and you can't help but see something familiar in its stillness. That frozen quality of an animal that knows it's trapped but hasn't quite given up hope of escape.

"Smart," you say, settling down beside her with more care than you'd like to admit. The movement sends a dull ache through your side, but it's manageable. Everything's manageable these days, as long as you don't think too hard about it.

"Mari's been asking about you," Akilah mentions casually, her attention apparently focused on coaxing the rabbit closer with a handful of tender shoots. "Like, a lot. Girl's got it bad."

The observation sits between you like a stone dropped in still water. You've been aware of Mari's attention, of course—the way she lights up when you speak to her, the careful way she positions herself near you during group conversations. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not sure you want to walk through.

"She's sweet," you say finally, and immediately feel the inadequacy of the words.

"Sweet." Akilah's tone suggests she finds this assessment both accurate and insufficient. "That's one word for it."

Before you can ask what she means, the sound of approaching footsteps makes you both turn. Shauna appears at the edge of the clearing, carrying what looks like a cup of water and wearing an expression that's become increasingly familiar—part concern, part barely contained frustration.

"You're supposed to be resting," she says, and there's that tone again. The one that suggests she's appointed herself the guardian of your recovery whether you asked for it or not.

"I am resting." You gesture to your seated position, trying for lightness. "Just resting somewhere else."

"Sitting in the dirt isn't resting." She approaches with that particular care she's developed, like you're made of something more fragile than flesh and bone. "And you haven't eaten anything today."

"I had berries."

"Three berries don't count as eating." The cup appears in front of you, and you recognize the familiar taste before you even lift it to your lips. Water, but the good kind—boiled, cooled, carefully rationed. "Drink."

There's something both irritating and oddly comforting about the way she hovers. Like having a personal storm cloud that occasionally rains essential nutrients. You drink the water because arguing takes more energy than you have, and because there's something in her eyes that suggests this is about more than hydration.

"I can take care of myself," you tell her, but the words come out softer than you intended.

"Right." Shauna's voice carries that particular edge it gets when she's trying not to say something she knows she'll regret. "Because you've been doing such a great job of that lately."

Akilah makes a small sound that might be clearing her throat or might be suppressed laughter. "I should check on the other traps," she says, standing with the fluid grace of someone who's learned to read the weather of human interaction. "Can you keep an eye on her?" She nods toward the rabbit, but the look she gives you suggests she's talking about more than just animal husbandry.

When she's gone, the clearing feels smaller somehow. More intimate. Shauna settles beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, and the familiarity of it makes your chest tight with something that might be longing or might be dread.

"Mari's been asking about you," she says eventually, her voice carefully neutral.

"So I've heard."

"She wants to know when you'll be well enough to... spend time with her." The pause before the last part suggests there are other words she's not saying, other implications she's not quite ready to voice.

You glance at her, trying to read the expression on her face. It's carefully composed, but there's something underneath—a tension that speaks of things held too tightly. "I can handle Mari."

"Can you?" The question comes out sharper than she probably intended, and you see her jaw tighten as if she's trying to pull the words back. "She's a hormonal teenager who's lonely and looking for something to hold onto. That's not what you need right now."

The presumption in her voice—the casual assumption that she knows what you need better than you do—makes something flare hot in your chest. "And that's for you to decide?"

"I—" She stops, and for a moment, you see something flicker across her face. Something that looks almost like panic. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" You shift to face her more fully, ignoring the way the movement pulls at your stitches. "Because it sounds like you're trying to manage my life for me."

"I'm trying to protect you." The words come out louder than either of you expects, and she immediately looks around as if checking to make sure no one heard. "I'm trying to keep you from making another mistake that could get you hurt."

"Another mistake?" The phrase sits between you like a lit fuse. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Shauna's hands are clenched in her lap, and you can see the way her knuckles have gone white with tension. "You have a habit of throwing yourself into things without thinking about the consequences. The bear, leaving in the middle of the night, the rainy hunting trip, and now—"

"Now what? Now Mari?" You can't keep the defensive edge out of your voice. "She's not some kid. She's been through the same shit we all have. She's not some innocent little girl who needs protecting."

"That's not—" Shauna stops, runs a hand through her hair in a gesture that's become familiar. "It's not about that."

"Then what is it about?"

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implications neither of you seems quite ready to name. You watch Shauna's face, see the way she opens her mouth and then closes it again, like she's trying to find words for something that doesn't have a name.

"It's complicated," she says finally, and the inadequacy of the phrase makes you want to shake her.

"Everything's complicated. That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have right now." She stands abruptly, and you can see the way her hands are shaking slightly. "You're recovering from a serious injury. You're not thinking clearly. And Mari is—she's not what you need."

"And you are?" The question comes out before you can stop it, and you both freeze. Because suddenly the subtext has become text, and neither of you knows how to navigate this new territory.

Shauna's face goes through a series of expressions—surprise, fear, something that might be hope, and then careful blankness. "I'm trying to keep you alive," she says finally. "Someone has to."

"I never asked you to."

"You didn't have to." The words come out so quietly you almost miss them. "Some things don't require asking."

She's walking away before you can respond, leaving you alone with the rabbit and the weight of all the things you both refuse to say. The animal has crept closer during your conversation, drawn perhaps by the stillness you've both learned to carry. Its nose twitches as it investigates the space Shauna vacated, and you find yourself oddly comforted by its presence.

"Yeah," you tell it softly. "It's complicated."

The rabbit doesn't answer, but something in its dark eyes suggests it understands perfectly. After all, you think, aren't you all just trapped things, making the best of impossible circumstances, trying to figure out the difference between surviving and actually living?

In the distance, you can hear the sounds of camp life continuing—voices raised in conversation, the scrape of tools against wood, the eternal background hum of people trying to make something like home out of nothing like safety. But here in Akilah's clearing, surrounded by the small lives she's trying to nurture, everything feels temporarily suspended.

You lean back against a tree, letting the rough bark dig into your shoulders, and try to make sense of the conversation that just happened. Because underneath all the words about Mari and protection and complicated circumstances, you caught something else. Something in the way Shauna looked at you when she thought you weren't paying attention. Something in the careful way she's been taking care of you, as if you're made of something more precious than flesh and bone.

The rabbit ventures closer, and you find yourself thinking about the difference between being cared for and being managed. About the way Shauna's attention feels both suffocating and essential. About Mari's hopeful eyes and the weight of expectations you're not sure you can carry.

About the way some conversations change everything while appearing to change nothing at all.

The afternoon light shifts through the trees, and you realize you've been sitting here longer than you intended. Your side aches, and you're probably supposed to be drinking more water, eating more food, following the careful regimen of recovery that Shauna has mapped out for you.

But for now, you stay where you are, watching Akilah's rabbit navigate the boundaries of its small world, and trying to figure out how to want something without destroying it in the process.

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |29|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Twenty-Nine: A Familiar Film

warnings: injury recovery, guilt, psychological trauma, references to past death and grief, and emotional distress.

note(s): superman had me crying.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots @mikuley @sleepyjackets @wnbawag @eatingouturmomrn

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The first thing you notice when consciousness returns is the absence of rain. The second is the way your body feels disconnected from itself—heavy and weightless simultaneously, like you're floating in amber. Everything hurts, but distantly, as if the pain belongs to someone else.

"Hey." Shauna's voice cuts through the fog, soft but insistent. "You're awake."

You try to turn your head toward her, but even that small movement sends ripples of discomfort through your torso. She's sitting beside you, cross-legged on the ground, her hair falling forward to curtain her face. There's something different about her posture—less guarded, more present. Like she's been here for a while.

"How long?" Your voice comes out as barely a whisper, throat raw from screaming.

"Three days." She reaches for something beside her—a cup of water, lukewarm and precious. "You've been in and out. Mostly out."

The water tastes like survival, metallic and stale, but it's the third most beautiful thing you've ever taste. Shauna's hands are gentle as she helps you drink, one palm supporting the back of your neck, the other tilting the cup to your lips. The intimacy of it—this careful tending—makes your chest tight with something that has nothing to do with your injuries.

"The branch?" you ask when she pulls the cup away.

"Misty got it out. You're lucky—missed anything vital by maybe an inch." Her voice is clinical, controlled, but you catch the tremor underneath. "Twenty-three stitches. Could have been worse."

Could have been worse. The refrain of survival, the mantra that keeps you all moving forward. Could have been worse, but it wasn't, and now you're here, breathing, being cared for by hands that know exactly how to hurt and how to heal.

"You didn't have to—" you start, but Shauna cuts you off with a look.

"Yes, I did." There's no room for argument in her voice. "Someone had to."

The silence stretches between you, filled with all the things you haven't said to each other. About the way survival makes intimates of strangers and strangers of intimates. About how she's been sleeping beside you for three days, her body a barrier between you and the dark.

A soft knock at the outside of the hut interrupts the moment. Mari's voice, tentative: "Can I come in?"

Shauna's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but she nods. Mari enters the cramped space, and suddenly the air feels charged with unspoken tension. She's carrying something—a small wooden cup, steam rising from its surface.

"I made you tea," Mari says, her eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes you want to look away. "Well, not really tea. More like hot water with some of those mint leaves we found. But it's warm."

She settles beside you, on the opposite side from Shauna, and the geography of it feels significant. You're the center of something—not quite a triangle, not quite a line, but something more complex and fraught. Mari's presence changes the air in the room, makes Shauna's careful composure feel more deliberate.

"Thank you," you manage, and Mari's face lights up like you've given her something precious. Her fingers brush yours as she passes you the cup, and you don't miss the way Shauna's eyes track the movement.

"I was so scared," Mari admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "When Nat carried you in, there was so much blood. I thought—" She doesn't finish the sentence, but she doesn't need to.

You sip the not-tea, letting the warmth spread through your chest. It tastes like effort, like care, like someone trying to offer comfort with limited resources. "I'm okay," you tell her, and try to mean it.

Mari stays for another hour, filling the silence with gentle chatter about camp life, about the weather, about anything except the way you almost died. When she finally stands to leave, she hesitates at the doorway.

"I'm glad you're okay," she says, and then she's moving, quick and decisive, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before you can react.

The kiss is brief, innocent, but it changes something in the room. You feel Shauna go still beside you, feel the weight of her attention like a physical presence. Mari's cheeks are flushed as she straightens, and there's something defiant in the way she looks at Shauna before ducking out of the hut.

The silence that follows is different from before. Heavier. More charged.

"She's sweet," you say eventually, testing the waters.

"She's seventeen," Shauna replies, and there's something sharp in her voice that makes you look at her more carefully.

"So are you."

"No." Shauna's voice is flat, final. "I'm not. Not anymore."

Before you can ask what she means, another figure appears in the doorway. Nat, her usual swagger replaced by something more hesitant, more careful. She's been avoiding you—you realize that now. Haven't seen her since she carried you back to camp.

"Hey," she says, and her voice is smaller than you've ever heard it. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I fell down a mountain," you answer, trying for lightness.

Nat doesn't smile. If anything, she looks more miserable. "Can we talk? Alone?"

Shauna's jaw tightens again, but she stands. "I'll be right outside," she tells you, and the promise in her voice is clear.

When she's gone, Nat approaches slowly, like you're a wild animal that might bolt. She settles where Mari was sitting, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

"I'm sorry," she says finally. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"For what?"

"For making you go out there. For pushing you when you didn't want to. For—" Her voice breaks. "For almost getting you killed."

The pain in her voice is raw, immediate. You remember the way she carried you, the steady stream of encouragement, the way she never faltered even when you were bleeding out in her arms. "Nat, no. It wasn't your fault. It was an accident."

"Was it?" She looks at you then, and her eyes are red-rimmed, haunted. "Because I remember what happened with the bear. I remember how you threw yourself at it, how you didn't even hesitate. And I remember thinking that maybe—maybe you wanted it to happen."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Because she's not wrong. Because there's a part of you that looks at survival and sees only the extension of suffering. Because sometimes the line between courage and self-destruction gets blurred beyond recognition.

"I remember standing there, watching you fight that thing, and thinking that you were the bravest person I'd ever seen. But also thinking that brave and stupid look a lot alike sometimes." Her voice is getting quieter, more intense. "And then I made you come hunting, even though you didn't want to. Even though you said you didn't want to. And I keep thinking—what if I hadn't? What if I'd just let you stay in the hut?"

"Then we'd all be hungrier," you say simply. "And someone else would have had to go out in the rain."

"But it wouldn't have been you. It wouldn't have been you bleeding out on that hill."

You want to comfort her, to tell her that guilt is a luxury you can't afford in this place. But the words stick in your throat because you understand what she's feeling. The weight of choices, of consequences, of the terrible mathematics of survival.

"I can't lose anyone else," she whispers, and the admission seems to surprise her as much as it does you. "I can't watch another person die because of something I did or didn't do."

"You saved my life," you tell her, and it's the truth. "You carried me back. You didn't let me die out there."

"I put you there in the first place."

"We put ourselves here." The words come out stronger than you expected. "All of us. The moment we got on that plane, the moment we trusted the universe to get us where we were supposed to go. This isn't about fault, Nat. It's about survival."

She nods, but you can see that she doesn't believe you. Not really. The guilt sits on her shoulders like a familiar coat, something she's learned to wear so well it's become part of her shape.

After she leaves, Shauna returns. She doesn't ask what you talked about, doesn't press for details. Instead, she settles back into her spot beside you, her presence a steady anchor in the shifting landscape of recovery.

"She blames herself," you say anyway.

"She should." Shauna's voice is matter-of-fact, but there's something underneath it—something that sounds like her own guilt, her own reckoning with the choices that led to this moment.

"It wasn't her fault."

"Wasn't it?" Shauna looks at you then, and there's something in her eyes that makes you think of breaking glass. "You didn't want to go. She made you go anyway. That's not nothing."

"And if I'd stayed here and someone else had gotten hurt?"

"Then it would have been someone else." Her voice is quiet, but there's steel underneath. "Not you."

The possessiveness in her tone makes your breath catch. It's the first time she's said anything that sounds like she cares whether you live or die, the first crack in the careful wall she's built between you.

"Shauna—"

"No." She turns away, but not before you catch the way her face twists with something that might be pain. "Don't say whatever you're going to say. Not yet."

So you don't. You lie there in the gathering dusk, listening to the sounds of camp settling into evening, and try to map the new geography of your body. The stitches pull when you breathe too deeply. Your shoulder aches where it hit the rocks. But underneath it all, there's something else—a different kind of hurt, one that has nothing to do with falling and everything to do with the careful way Shauna won't meet your eyes.

Recovery, you're learning, isn't just about healing flesh. It's about relearning how to exist in a body that has been broken, how to trust ground that has proven unreliable. It's about accepting care from hands that know exactly how much you can bear, and recognizing that sometimes survival means letting someone else carry the weight of keeping you alive.

In the darkness, Shauna's breathing evens out beside you, but you know she's not asleep. You can feel her vigilance, her readiness to respond to whatever crisis might emerge from the night.

[the-oblivious-writer]

The next couple chapters of With Her I Die are coming later next week (Thursday)!! I would have posted it today but I’m without a laptop which makes it incredibly frustrating. I’m over 1,000 miles from home right now so… yeah. A bit delayed, but i promise those two chapters will come out next week, along with the next couple that follows the original schedule.

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |28|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Blood Stained Rain

warnings: injury/blood, references to past death and grief, and emotional distress.

note(s): in which y/n gets a little boo-boo :(

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots @mikuley @sleepyjackets @wnbawag @eatingouturmomrn

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The rain starts as a whisper against the makeshift roof of your hut, then grows into something angrier. You press your face deeper into the musty fabric that serves as your pillow, willing yourself back into the dreamless sleep that's become your only refuge. But Nat's voice cuts through the steady drumming overhead.

"Hey." Her boot nudges your shoulder. "We gotta go."

You don't move. Can't move. The thought of leaving this small, cramped space—of facing the endless gray of another day—sits like a stone in your chest. "There's nothing out there."

"There's never nothing out there." Nat's voice carries that particular edge she gets when she's trying to convince herself as much as you. "And we're down to our last strips of jerky. You know what happens when people get hungry enough."

The unspoken hangs between you both.

You finally roll over, squinting at Nat through the dim gray light filtering through gaps in the wall. She's already dressed, her bow slung across her shoulder, her hair pulled back in a way that makes the sharp angles of her face even more pronounced. There's something in the way she's looking at you—not quite concern, not quite impatience. Something softer.

"I don't want to go out there," you admit, the words coming out smaller than you intended.

"Yeah, well." Nat shifts her weight, and you catch the way her eyes linger on your face, tracing the shadows beneath your eyes, the way your hair falls across your cheek. "Neither do I. But wanting's got nothing to do with it anymore."

The rain pounds harder against the roof, a relentless rhythm that seems to echo the ache in your chest. You think about Jackie, about how she used to complain about her hair getting frizzy in the humidity. How she'd make you hold an umbrella over her head even for the short walk from the car to the school entrance. The memory hits like a physical blow, stealing your breath.

"Mari's been watching you," Nat says suddenly, her voice carefully casual. "Like, really watching."

You shrug, pulling your knees to your chest. "So?"

"So maybe it's time you noticed someone who's actually here." There's something almost pointed in the way she says it, but when you look at her, she's already turning away, checking her equipment with unnecessary focus.

You mumble something noncommittal, but the words stick in your throat. Here. As if you're not still half-buried in the past, as if every day isn't a negotiation between breathing and drowning. As if Shauna's careful distance doesn't cut deeper than any blade.

The rain hasn't let up by the time you've forced yourself into your damp clothes and grabbed your hunting knife. If anything, it's gotten worse—the kind of spring storm that turns the forest floor into a treacherous maze of mud and hidden roots. Your boots slip with every step, and within minutes, you're soaked through.

"This is insane," you call out to Nat, who's somehow managing to move through the terrain with her usual predatory grace. "We're not going to find anything in this weather."

"Animals gotta eat too," she calls back, but there's doubt in her voice. "And drink. Streams'll be running high—good place to set up."

The hill you're climbing is steeper than it looked from below, the path—if it can even be called that—nothing more than a series of exposed roots and loose stones. The rain has turned everything slick, treacherous. You should suggest turning back. Should insist on it. But something about the set of Nat's shoulders, the determined way she's pushing forward, stops you.

Instead, you follow. One careful step after another, your hands reaching for whatever purchase you can find. The knife at your belt feels heavier with each movement, its weight a constant reminder of the violence you've learned to carry.

"You know what's funny?" Nat's voice drifts back to you, barely audible over the rain. "Before all this, I thought I knew what scared meant. Thought I'd seen the worst of it."

You want to respond, but the words require more breath than you can spare. The hill is getting steeper, and your legs are starting to shake with the effort. Below you, the forest spreads out in muted greens and browns, everything softened by the rain until it looks almost peaceful. Almost.

"Now I know better," Nat continues, and there's something raw in her voice that makes you look up. "Turns out the worst thing isn't dying. It's watching everyone else die while you just—"

The root gives way beneath your foot with a sound like breaking bone.

For a moment, you're weightless. Suspended between safety and consequence, between breath and impact. You see Nat's face turn toward you, her eyes wide with something that might be fear or might be recognition. You see the rocky outcrop rushing up to meet you, its edges sharp and unforgiving.

Then the world explodes into pain.

The impact drives the air from your lungs in a single, violent exhale. Your shoulder hits first, then your hip, your ribs—each contact point a separate symphony of agony. You're rolling, tumbling, the world spinning past in a kaleidoscope of gray sky and brown earth. Something tears along your side, a burning line of fire that makes you cry out.

When you finally stop moving, the silence is almost worse than the pain. Even the rain seems muted, as if the world has wrapped itself in cotton. You try to push yourself up, but your left arm won't cooperate. When you look down, you see why.

The branch—thick as your wrist and sharp as any blade—has driven itself deep into your side, just below your ribs. The wood is dark with rain and darker with blood, your blood, spreading across your shirt in a pattern that looks almost artistic. Almost beautiful, if you can ignore the way it makes your vision swim.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Nat's voice comes from somewhere above you, getting closer. "Don't move. Don't you fucking move."

But you're already moving, or trying to. Your body seems to have disconnected from your brain, each limb operating on its own confused agenda. Your right hand reaches for the branch, and Nat's voice cuts through the rain like a whip.

"Don't touch it! Jesus Christ, don't touch it."

She's beside you now, her hands hovering over your body like she's not sure where to land. Her face is pale, paler than you've ever seen it, and there's something in her eyes that makes your chest tight with fear. Not fear of dying—that's been your constant companion for months now. Fear of leaving.

"How bad?" you manage to ask, though the words come out more like a whisper.

Nat's jaw works silently for a moment. Then: "Bad enough. But not—we're gonna get you back. We're gonna get you back, and Misty's gonna fix you up, and you're gonna be fine. You're gonna be fine."

She's talking to herself as much as to you, but you nod anyway. The movement sends fresh waves of pain through your torso, and you bite back a groan. The rain is still falling, washing the blood from your skin almost as quickly as it flows. You wonder, distantly, if that's good or bad. If you're bleeding out or if the cold is slowing everything down.

"I'm gonna carry you," Nat says, and she's already moving, sliding one arm under your shoulders, the other under your knees. "It's gonna hurt like hell, but I'm gonna carry you, and you're gonna stay awake. You're gonna stay with me."

The lift is agony. The branch shifts inside you, and you can't stop the scream that tears from your throat. But Nat doesn't stop, doesn't hesitate. She adjusts her grip, finds her balance, and starts walking. Each step is a new negotiation with pain, but she doesn't falter.

"Talk to me," she says, her voice tight with effort. "Keep talking."

"About what?" The words come out slurred, and you realize you're having trouble focusing on her face.

"Anything. Everything. Tell me about—tell me about before. Tell me about Jackie."

Jackie. The name hits you like a physical blow, but maybe that's what you need. Maybe pain is the only thing keeping you tethered to consciousness. "She hated the rain," you whisper. "Always said it made her look like a drowned rat."

"Yeah? What else?"

"She used to steal my hoodies. Said hers didn't smell right." Your voice is getting weaker, and you can feel Nat's grip tighten around you. "She'd wear them to bed, and I'd wake up and she'd be—she'd be—"

"She'd be what?" Nat's voice is urgent now, demanding.

"Beautiful," you finish, and the word dissolves into tears you didn't know you were crying. "She'd be beautiful, and I'd think about how lucky I was, but now she's—now she's—"

"Stop." Nat's voice is sharp, cutting through your spiral. "Stop. She's not here, but you are. You're here, and you're gonna stay here."

The camp comes into view like a mirage, wavering at the edges of your vision. You can see figures moving, can hear voices calling out. But everything feels distant, muffled, like you're viewing the world through thick glass.

Nat's voice rises above the rain: "Misty! Akilah! Get out here now!"

The response is immediate. Bodies spilling out of the cabin, voices overlapping in a chaos of concern and instruction. But there's one voice that cuts through all the others, one presence that makes your chest tighten with something that might be hope or might be heartbreak.

"Move. Move!" Shauna's voice, sharp with panic, sharp with something that sounds almost like fear. "Let me see her—"

She's pushing past the others, past Mari whose eyes are wide with horror, past Van who's trying to organize the chaos. Her hands are on you before Nat has even fully set you down, fingers checking your pulse, your breathing, the terrible wound in your side.

"How long has she been bleeding?" Shauna's voice is clinical, controlled, but you can hear the tremor underneath. "How long, Nat?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe thirty. The branch—it's still in there. I didn't want to—"

"You did right." Shauna's hands are gentle as they probe around the wound, but each touch sends fresh waves of pain through your body. "Misty, I need a clean cloth. Akilah, get me water. Hot if you can manage it."

You try to focus on her face, on the way her brow furrows with concentration, the way her teeth worry her lower lip. You want to tell her about the rain, about how it sounds different when you're dying. You want to tell her about Jackie, about the guilt that sits like a stone in your chest every time you look at her.

Instead, you whisper: "I'm sorry."

Shauna's hands still for a moment. When she looks at you, there's something in her eyes that makes you think of breaking glass, of things held too tightly. "Don't," she says, so quietly only you can hear. "Not for this."

The world is getting darker around the edges, and you can feel yourself slipping away from the pain, from the rain, from the weight of staying alive. But Shauna's hands are on you, and her voice is calling you back.

"Stay with me," she whispers, and it sounds like a prayer. "Please. Just stay with me."

And for the first time in months, you try.

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |27|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Thy Name is Jealousy

warnings: jealousy, references to past trauma, and water-related anxiety.

note(s): this is a pretty tame chapter considering the average chapter i'd put out.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots @mikuley @sleepyjackets @wnbawag @eatingouturmomrn

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The rhythm of your morning routine has become a lifeline—wake before dawn, collect the water containers, meet Mari at the treeline. Shauna watches from her makeshift butcher station, hands stained with yesterday's work, tracking your movements with the careful attention of someone cataloging threat assessments.

She knows about your fear of water. Remembers those late-night conversations from before, when Jackie would fall asleep first during sleepovers, leaving you and Shauna whispering in the darkness. You'd confessed it then—how the sound of rushing water made your chest tight, how you'd never learned to swim properly because even shallow pools felt like drowning waiting to happen.

Yet here you are, containers in hand, following Mari down the familiar path without hesitation.

The irony isn't lost on her. You, who once needed Jackie's hand to walk across the school's decorative bridge over the artificial pond, now willingly trek to the lake's edge every morning. For Mari. With Mari.

Shauna's knife pauses mid-stroke against the wooden cutting board she's fashioned from salvaged cabin debris. The blade catches morning light, throwing brief shadows across her work space—this small corner she's claimed as her own while others share their makeshift shelters. Privacy has become a luxury she hoards, especially when it allows her to observe undetected.

The way Mari's hand briefly touches your shoulder as you navigate the uneven ground doesn't escape her notice. How Mari positions herself between you and the water's edge when you fill the containers, creating a barrier that Shauna used to provide. The small considerations that speak to intimacy developed through shared routine.

"Fucking ridiculous," Shauna mutters under her breath, attacking the dried meat with renewed vigor. The knife strikes wood with each chop, a percussion of frustration she can't quite name.

Mari's laugh carries across the clearing—genuine, unguarded. The sound makes something twist in Shauna's chest, a recognition of the ease between you two that she remembers from before. Before the crash, before Jackie's death, before everything became survival and grief and the complex mathematics of staying alive.

You return from the lake with full containers, Mari steadying you when you stumble slightly under the weight. The gesture is automatic, practiced. Shauna's grip tightens on her knife handle.

"You're up early." Mari's voice carries as she approaches Shauna's station, leaving you to distribute the water among the others.

"Someone has to prep the food." Shauna doesn't look up from her work. "Unless you'd prefer to eat leather again."

"Just making conversation." Mari settles onto a nearby log, uninvited. "You've been... intense lately. More than usual."

Shauna's laugh is hollow. "Intense. That's rich, coming from someone who's been picking fights with everyone for weeks."

"I haven't been picking fights with everyone."

"No?" The knife stills. "Just me, then."

Mari's silence stretches long enough that Shauna finally looks up, meeting her gaze directly. There's something calculating in Mari's expression, a deliberate provocation that makes Shauna's jaw clench.

"You know what your problem is?" Mari's voice is deceptively casual. "You think you own people. Think they owe you something just because you've decided to care about them."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." Mari stands, brushing dirt from her pants. "Maybe try asking what people actually need instead of assuming you know."

The implication hangs between them, unspoken but clear. Shauna's knuckles whiten around the knife handle.

"At least I don't pretend to be something I'm not to get close to people."

Mari's smile is sharp. "And what exactly am I pretending to be?"

"Helpful. Selfless. Someone who gives a shit about anything other than—"

"Hey." Tai's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. She approaches with the measured steps of someone defusing a bomb. "Maybe we save the territorial pissing for when we're not all dependent on each other?"

Both women turn toward her, aggression temporarily redirected. Tai holds up her hands in a placating gesture.

"I'm just saying, whatever this is about, fighting each other isn't going to fix it."

"There's nothing to fix," Shauna says, voice tight with forced control. "Mari was just leaving."

"Was I?" Mari's eyebrows rise. "I thought we were having such a productive conversation."

"Mari." Tai's tone carries warning. "Come on. Help me check the snares."

For a moment, Mari looks like she might refuse. Then she shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. "Sure. Why not."

As they walk away, Shauna catches Mari's backward glance—not at her, but toward where you're methodically organizing supplies with the careful focus of someone avoiding drama. The look confirms what Shauna already knows, what neither of them will say aloud.

This isn't about survival strategies or resource allocation. It's about the quiet intimacy of shared morning routines, the way you trust Mari with your fear of water, the small surrenders that add up to something larger.

Shauna returns to her work with mechanical precision, each cut deliberate and measured. The meat yields beneath her blade, and she pretends not to notice how the sound of your voice, discussing hunting plans with Nat, carries on the morning air. Pretends not to calculate the distance between Mari's retreating figure and your oblivious presence.

The wilderness has taught them all to be territorial. To guard resources, to protect what keeps them alive. But some territories are harder to define than others, and some resources more precious than food or water or shelter.

Some wars are fought in glances and careful silences, in the space between what's said and what's understood. In the recognition that caring for someone doesn't guarantee their reciprocation, and that survival sometimes means watching from the sidelines while others step into the spaces you once occupied.

Shauna's knife finds its rhythm again, steady and sure. The morning stretches ahead, full of small observations and careful distances. Of watching you navigate the world with Mari's support, while she remains at her station, surrounded by the tools of survival and the weight of unspoken claims.

The meat under her blade separates cleanly, each piece falling into neat piles. Order imposed through violence, sustenance carved from necessity. It's a metaphor she doesn't examine too closely, focusing instead on the work at hand and the careful architecture of not caring too much about things beyond her control.

[the-oblivious-writer]

Hi! I’d love a one shot or fanfic where Rita Bennett shares a cute, domestic moment with a gender-neutral reader who’s similar to Dexter Morgan. The reader has that same quiet, emotionally distant nature and might be hiding a dark secret or troubled past, but in this moment, they’re doing their best to connect with Rita. Maybe something small and sweet, like cooking breakfast together, tucking in the kids, or watching a movie while the reader internally processes what it means to feel love and safety. I’d like it to show how Rita brings out a softer, more human side of them without realizing it, and maybe the reader is a little overwhelmed by how much they care about her. Just something warm and emotionally intimate, with hints of their inner struggle.

Learning to Stay

Rita Bennet x Gender Neutral Reader

One-shot: Learning to Stay

summary: despite your violent past, you find yourself in the gentle rhythm of domestic life with rita and her children.

warnings: implied past violence/murder, references to domestic abuse/child abuse, parental death, trauma/ptsd themes, guilt/self-harm ideation, discussions of violence against abusers, grief/loss of a sibling, and psychological distress.

note(s): i swear this is fluff despite the content warnings.

The kitchen exists in soft focus this morning—sunlight filtering through gauze curtains, the gentle percussion of eggs cracking against ceramic. You stand at Rita's shoulder, watching her hands move with practiced efficiency, and something in your chest shifts like tectonic plates finding new alignment.

"Can you grab the milk?" she asks, not looking up from the bowl where she's whisking scrambled eggs into pale yellow clouds.

Your fingers brush hers as you pass the carton, and the contact sends electricity up your arm—not the sharp, warning current you've learned to associate with touch, but something warmer. Safer. You pull back quickly anyway, muscle memory stronger than rational thought.

Rita doesn't comment on your retreat. She never does. Instead, she hums something soft and wordless while butter melts in the pan, filling the silence with gentle sound. The normalcy of it threatens to undo you.

You've killed with these hands. Felt bone give way beneath knuckles, watched light fade from eyes that once held cruelty. Your father's face, purple with rage and alcohol, had been the first to go still beneath your grip. The memory lives in your palms—rough skin, the desperate scrabble of fingernails, the moment when struggle becomes stillness.

But here, now, Rita asks you to set the table, and your hands remember different motions. Plates arranged with careful precision. Forks aligned just so. The mundane choreography of belonging somewhere.

"You're so quiet this morning," Rita observes, pouring eggs into the pan where they sizzle and begin to set. "More than usual, I mean."

The words lodge in your throat like stones. How do you explain that quiet is survival? That silence was the difference between your sister's breathing and your father's fists? That even now, years later, you measure every sound for threat potential?

Instead, you offer what you can: "Just thinking."

She turns then, spatula in hand, and studies your face with those soft brown eyes that see too much. For a moment, you're certain she knows. About the blood on your hands, the bodies in your wake, the way you've learned to mimic human emotion while feeling like something hollow wearing a person's skin.

But then she smiles—small and understanding—and returns to the eggs. "I do my best thinking in the kitchen too. Something about the routine, you know? It makes space for everything else."

Everything else. If only she knew what lived in those spaces.

The eggs finish cooking in comfortable quiet. You pour orange juice into small glasses while Rita calls for Astor and Cody, her voice carrying the particular cadence of maternal authority. The children tumble into the kitchen like puppies, all sleep-mussed hair and animated chatter about weekend plans.

You find yourself cataloging the scene: Rita's laugh when Cody attempts to steal bacon from the pan. Astor's earnest explanation of a dream about flying bicycles. The way morning light catches in Rita's hair, turning ordinary brown into something that looks spun from gold and honey.

This is what normal families do, you realize. They gather around tables and share meals and speak in voices that don't carry undertones of fear. They exist in each other's presence without calculating exit strategies or scanning for weapons.

"You okay?" Rita's hand settles on your forearm, warm and steady. The touch should trigger every defense mechanism you've carefully constructed. Instead, it anchors you to this moment, this kitchen, this impossible feeling of belonging.

"Yeah," you manage, and it's not entirely a lie. In this space she's created—all soft edges and patient understanding—something in you relaxes for the first time in years. "I'm okay."

The morning unfolds in small intimacies. Rita packs lunches for a planned trip to the park. You help Cody tie his shoes, your fingers remembering the motion from another life, another child who didn't live to wear shoes that needed tying. The grief lives in your ribcage like a second heartbeat, but today it doesn't threaten to consume you.

At the park, you push Astor on the swings while Rita and Cody build elaborate sandcastles. The repetitive motion—pull back, release, catch, repeat—becomes meditation. Each arc of the swing carries Astor higher into blue sky, and her delighted laughter creates something like music.

"Higher!" she demands, and you comply, watching her small hands grip the chains with fierce determination. She trusts you completely, this child who doesn't know what your hands have done. The weight of that trust should crush you. Instead, it feels like absolution.

Later, as afternoon shadows lengthen and the children play on jungle gyms, Rita settles beside you on the bench. Her thigh presses against yours—casual contact that would have sent you fleeing months ago. Now, you let yourself absorb the warmth of her presence.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"For what?"

"For being here. For trying." She turns to look at you, and her expression holds something you don't recognize at first. It's only when she reaches up to brush an invisible speck from your cheek that you understand: affection. Pure, uncomplicated affection.

The touch lingers longer than necessary. Her thumb traces the edge of your jaw, and you feel yourself leaning into the contact like a plant turning toward sunlight. This is dangerous territory—allowing yourself to want, to need, to hope for things that people like you don't deserve.

But Rita's eyes hold no judgment, no fear. Only tenderness that threatens to crack you open entirely.

"I should help with the kids," you whisper, not moving away.

"They're fine," she murmurs back. "We're fine."

We're fine. The words echo in the hollow spaces of your chest, finding purchase in places you thought had been carved out long ago. The possibility of we exists here, in this ordinary Sunday afternoon, in Rita's patient hands and soft voice and the way she looks at you like you're worth saving.

You think of your sister—bright laugh silenced too soon, small hands that never got to grow bigger. You think of your father—rage and alcohol and the moment you chose her memory over his continued existence. You think of all the others since, the ones who deserved what you gave them, the way you've become something that hunts monsters by becoming one yourself.

But here, now, with Rita's hand warm against your cheek and the sound of children's laughter painting the air gold, you remember what it felt like to be human. To want simple things: Sunday mornings and gentle touches and the radical act of being known by someone who chooses to stay anyway.

"Rita," you start, not sure how to finish. How do you tell someone they've become your sanctuary? How do you explain that their presence makes you believe in the possibility of redemption?

She waits, patient as always, thumb still tracing soft patterns against your skin.

"I'm trying," you finally manage. "To be... better. To be someone worth—"

"You already are," she interrupts gently. "You don't have to earn it."

The simplicity of her acceptance undoes you. Here is grace, offered freely and without condition. Here is love that doesn't require you to be anything other than exactly who you are—broken parts and careful repairs, darkness and desperate attempts at light.

You close your eyes and let yourself believe it, just for this moment. Let yourself imagine a future built from Sunday mornings and shared meals and Rita's laugh echoing through rooms that feel like home. Let yourself hope that monsters can learn to love, and that love might be enough to transform even the most damaged among us.

When you open your eyes, Rita is still there. Still looking at you like you hung the moon. Still believing in possibilities you can barely imagine.

"We should get them home," she says eventually, but doesn't move away. "Dinner won't cook itself."

You nod, but make no move to leave either. This moment feels too precious, too fragile—like something that might disappear if you disturb it too quickly.

Instead, you lean forward and press your forehead against hers, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the lingering sweetness of morning coffee. This close, you can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the tiny freckle just beside her left temple.

"Thank you," you whisper, though the words feel inadequate for what she's given you. "For all of it."

Her smile is radiant, transforming her entire face. "Thank you for letting me."

And there it is—the thing you've been trying to name all day. Not just love, but the courage to be loved. Not just connection, but the willingness to be seen. Not just survival, but the radical act of choosing to live fully, completely, in the presence of someone who makes you remember what it means to be gloriously, messily, beautifully human.

The children's voices call you back to the present, demanding attention and snacks and help with monkey bars that seem impossibly high. You and Rita separate reluctantly, but the warmth of the moment travels with you as you gather scattered toys and sandy shoes.

Walking home, Cody's small hand finds yours with the unconscious trust of childhood. Astor chatters to Rita about everything and nothing, words tumbling over each other in delighted rushes. The afternoon light turns everything golden—Rita's hair, the children's faces, the ordinary suburban street that has become, against all odds, the closest thing to home you've ever known.

Tonight, there will be dinner around the kitchen table. Homework and bath time and bedtime stories read in voices soft with affection. There will be dishes to wash and lunches to pack and a dozen small rituals that transform a house into a home.

And later, when the children are asleep and the house settles into quiet, there will be Rita. Her hand finding yours in the darkness, her breathing steady beside you, her presence a constant reminder that some monsters get to keep the princess after all.

You carry the weight of what you've done, what you are, what you might yet become. But you also carry this: the sound of Rita's laugh, the trust in a child's grip, the possibility that love might be stronger than whatever darkness you've carried all these years.

It's not redemption, exactly. But it's hope, which might be the same thing.

And for now, walking home through golden afternoon light with your unlikely family surrounding you like armor against the world, it's enough.

[the-oblivious-writer]

It's Only Love

Shauna Shipman x Female Reader

One-shot

summary: what starts as a routine calculus tutoring session in a quiet library becomes something deeper when shauna's academic frustrations give way to vulnerable conversations about trust, fear, and what it means to be worth staying for.

warnings: college/modern/no crash au, established relationship, fratboy shauna x tutor reader, academic stress/anxiety, brief reference to past breakup and self-harm (punching a wall), the label "girlfriend" being thrown around, mild intimacy, and themes of self-doubt and abandonment fears.

note(s): this one-shot is long overdue but better late than never ig. this was originally gonna be an angst/no happy ending but i figured i'd give you a break.

The library's third floor was practically deserted at seven PM on a Thursday, which made it perfect for your weekly tutoring sessions with Shauna. She'd claimed the corner table by the windows weeks ago, spreading her textbooks and notebooks across the surface like she was marking territory. You'd learned to arrive a few minutes early just to watch her ritual - the way she'd arrange her pens in a perfect line, check her phone twice, then immediately look annoyed at herself for the nervous habit.

Tonight was no different. You spotted her from across the room, dark hair falling like a curtain as she hunched over her calculus homework. Even from a distance, you could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her free hand kept fidgeting with the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt - one she'd definitely stolen from some frat guy's closet, though she'd never admit it.

"Starting without me?" you asked, sliding into the chair beside her.

She glanced up, and you caught that micro-expression she always wore when she first saw you - relief mixed with something softer that she tried to hide behind a smirk. "Figured I should at least pretend to attempt these problems before you see how hopeless I am."

"You're not hopeless." You pulled your own notebook from your bag, deliberately brushing her arm as you reached across the table. "You just think in different ways than the textbook expects."

"Right." She rolled her eyes, but shifted slightly closer to you, her knee bumping against yours under the table. "That's a very diplomatic way of saying I'm bad at math."

The thing about Shauna was that she wore her intelligence like armor - quick wit and cutting observations designed to deflect before anyone could find the soft spots underneath. But you'd been doing this long enough to recognize the pattern. The jokes always came right before she had to admit she didn't understand something.

"Show me what you've got so far," you said, leaning in to look at her work.

Her handwriting was surprisingly neat for someone who claimed to hate the subject, though you could see where she'd erased and rewritten the same equation multiple times. The frustration was evident in the slightly harder pressure of her pencil, the way certain numbers were traced over until they were bold against the page.

"This is where I got stuck." She pointed to a derivative problem, her finger hovering just above the paper. "I know I'm supposed to use the chain rule, but every time I try to work through it, I end up with something completely different than what's in the back of the book."

You studied the problem, acutely aware of how close she was sitting. Close enough that you could smell her shampoo - something floral that didn't quite match her deliberately careless image. Close enough to notice the small scar on her knuckle that she'd gotten from punching a wall freshman year after a particularly brutal breakup.

"Okay, so you've got the right idea with the chain rule," you said, reaching for your own pencil. "But you're overcomplicating this step here. Can I?"

She nodded, and you started writing out the solution step by step, talking through each part of the process. This was the part of tutoring you actually enjoyed - not just the math itself, but the way Shauna's face changed when something clicked. How her eyebrows would relax and her mouth would form a small 'oh' of understanding.

"Wait, so you're telling me I just had to multiply by the derivative of the inside function?" She grabbed the pencil from your hand, her fingers brushing yours in the exchange. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"I've been staring at this for an hour." She shook her head, but she was smiling now - a real smile, not the carefully constructed ones she used in social situations. "God, I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot." You bumped her shoulder with yours. "You're just stubborn. There's a difference."

"Oh, is that your professional tutoring opinion?"

"That's my girlfriend opinion."

The word still felt new enough that saying it out loud gave you a small thrill. You'd been officially together for about six weeks now, though the flirting and tension had been building for months before that. It had started innocently enough - Shauna needed help with calculus, you needed the tutoring money, and the math department had paired you up. But somewhere between explaining derivatives and watching her celebration dance after acing her first exam, innocent had stopped being the right word for whatever was happening between you.

"Your girlfriend opinion, huh?" She set down her pencil and turned to face you fully, one leg tucking up under her in the chair. "And what does my girlfriend think about the fact that I've been procrastinating on the rest of this problem set all week?"

"I think," you said, matching her position so you were facing each other, "that you've been avoiding it because you're scared you won't understand it."

Her smile faltered slightly. "I'm not scared of math."

"No, but you're scared of not being good at something." You reached out to play with the drawstring of her hoodie, a gesture that had become automatic over the past few weeks. "Which is different."

Shauna was quiet for a moment, her dark eyes studying your face like she was trying to decide how much truth she wanted to acknowledge. This was familiar territory too - the way she would retreat just slightly when conversations got too close to real feelings.

"Maybe," she said finally. "But can we focus on derivatives before we psychoanalyze my academic anxiety?"

"Fair enough." You grinned and turned back to the textbook. "But I'm billing you extra for the therapy session."

"Add it to my tab."

The next hour passed easily, falling into the rhythm you'd established over months of these sessions. Shauna worked through problems while you provided guidance and encouragement, occasionally stealing her pen to demonstrate a concept or sketch out a graph. The library around you grew quieter as other students filtered out, leaving you in a bubble of soft lamplight and whispered explanations.

You'd always been good at math, but teaching it to Shauna had made you better. She asked questions that forced you to think about concepts from different angles, to find new ways to explain things that seemed obvious to you. And watching her face light up when she solved a particularly challenging problem was better than any grade you'd ever received.

"Okay, last one," she said, pointing to the final problem on the page. "And then I'm buying you dinner as payment for not letting me drop this class."

"You were never going to drop the class."

"I thought about it. Extensively." She started working through the problem, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. "Remember that night I called you at midnight crying about my upcoming exam?"

"You weren't crying."

"I was very close to crying."

"You were frustrated. There's a difference."

She paused in her calculations to look at you. "Do you always have to be so rational about everything?"

"Someone has to be, when you're being dramatic."

"I am not dramatic." But she was fighting a smile as she said it.

"Shauna, you once told me that calculus was a personal attack on your soul."

"And I stand by that statement."

You laughed, and the sound echoed softly in the empty corner of the library. This was what you'd grown to love most about your relationship with Shauna - the way she could make you laugh even when she was complaining, the way her dramatics were always laced with self-awareness.

"There," she said, setting down her pencil with a flourish. "Done. And I'm pretty sure I actually understood that one."

You leaned over to check her work, nodding approvingly. "Perfect. See? You're not hopeless."

"Don't get carried away." But she was smiling as she started packing up her books. "I still have to survive the midterm next week."

"You'll be fine. We'll do a review session this weekend."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

The library was almost empty now, just a few dedicated students scattered across the main floor below. You helped Shauna gather her things, a process that always took longer than it should because she had a habit of spreading her belongings across every available surface.

"God, I'm starving," she said, shouldering her backpack. "Please tell me you don't have plans tonight."

"Just dinner with my girlfriend, apparently."

"Good answer."

You walked out of the library together, Shauna's hand finding yours as soon as you were through the doors. The October air was crisp, carrying the smell of fallen leaves and the promise of winter. Campus was quieter than usual for a Thursday night, most of the party crowd having migrated to the bars downtown.

"So where are we going?" you asked as you headed toward the dining hall.

"Wherever's still open. I'm not picky when I'm this hungry."

"Since when are you not picky about food?"

"Since I spent three hours staring at math problems and forgot to eat lunch."

You stopped walking, tugging on her hand to make her turn around. "Shauna. You forgot to eat lunch?"

"Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"That concerned girlfriend look. I'm fine."

But you were already digging through your backpack, pulling out a granola bar you'd thrown in that morning. "Here. Eat this before you pass out."

"I'm not going to pass out."

"Eat it anyway."

She took the granola bar with an exaggerated sigh, but you caught the way her expression softened. This was still new territory for both of you - the casual care, the way you'd started looking out for each other without really discussing it.

"Thank you," she said, quieter now.

"You're welcome."

The dining hall was mostly empty, just a few other late diners scattered around the cavernous space. You found a table by the windows, and Shauna immediately claimed the seat facing the door - a habit you'd noticed but never commented on. She always needed to see who was coming and going, always needed an escape route planned even in the most innocuous situations.

"So," she said, digging into her pasta with the intensity of someone who had actually forgotten to eat lunch, "tell me about your day. And don't say it was fine."

"It was fine."

"I'm serious. I spent the whole afternoon complaining about math. Your turn to talk."

This was another thing you were still getting used to - the way Shauna actually listened when you talked, the way she remembered small details from conversations you'd had weeks ago. It was such a contrast to the image she projected in public, where she was all sharp edges and carefully constructed indifference.

"I had that meeting with my advisor this morning," you said. "About graduate school applications."

"Right. How did that go?"

"Good, I think. She thinks I have a strong chance at getting into the programs I'm applying to."

"Of course you do." Shauna looked up from her food, fork paused halfway to her mouth. "You're brilliant."

"I'm not brilliant."

"You are. And stop arguing with me when I compliment you."

"I'm not arguing, I'm just—"

"Being modest. Which is sweet, but also annoying." She reached across the table to steal a piece of bread from your plate. "I'm dating a genius and I want everyone to know it."

"You're not dating a genius."

"Fine. I'm dating someone who's really good at math and explains things in ways that don't make me want to throw textbooks across the room. Better?"

"Better."

You ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that had taken months to achieve. Early in your relationship, you had felt the need to fill every pause with conversation, as if silence meant something was wrong. But gradually, you'd both learned to appreciate these moments of peace.

"Can I ask you something?" she said eventually.

"Of course."

"Do you ever think about what happens after graduation?"

The question caught you off guard, partly because it was serious in a way that Shauna usually avoided, and partly because you'd been thinking about it more and more recently yourself.

"Sometimes," you said carefully. "Why?"

She shrugged, suddenly very interested in winding pasta around her fork. "I don't know. I guess I just wonder if we'll still... if this will still work when we're not seeing each other for tutoring sessions twice a week."

"Shauna." You waited until she looked up at you. "We're not together because of tutoring sessions."

"I know that. I just meant..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

"No, talk to me. What did you mean?"

She was quiet for a long moment, and you could practically see her internal debate playing out across her face. Shauna had always been better at deflecting serious conversations than having them, but you'd learned to wait her out.

"I guess I'm just scared that when we don't have this built-in reason to spend time together, you'll realize that I'm not actually that interesting," she said finally.

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Yes." You reached across the table to take her hand. "Shauna, I didn't start dating you because you needed help with calculus."

"Then why did you start dating me?"

The honest answer was complicated - because she made you laugh, because she was smarter than she gave herself credit for, because underneath all her carefully constructed defenses was someone genuinely kind. Because she asked thoughtful questions and remembered your coffee order and had strong opinions about movies you'd never heard of.

"Because you're you," you said instead. "All of you. Not just the parts you think are worth liking."

She looked down at your joined hands, her thumb tracing across your knuckles. "That's very romantic, but it doesn't really answer my question."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Something that will make me stop worrying that you're going to get tired of me."

The vulnerability in her voice made your chest ache. This was the thing about Shauna that most people never got to see - how deeply she worried about being left behind, how much energy she spent trying to be interesting enough, entertaining enough, worth keeping around.

"I'm not going to get tired of you," you said. "And graduation is still eight months away. Can we worry about it then?"

"You want to put off discussing our future until the last minute?"

"I want to focus on right now. On this." You squeezed her hand. "On the fact that my girlfriend just survived another calculus assignment and we're having dinner together and tomorrow we get to do it all over again."

She smiled at that, the kind of smile that started small and gradually took over her entire face. "When did you become such an optimist?"

"When I started dating someone who expects the worst-case scenario in every situation."

"I do not expect the worst-case scenario."

"Shauna, you once told me you were surprised I showed up to our second tutoring session because you figured I'd realize you were hopeless and quit."

"That was a reasonable assumption."

"It really wasn't."

The dining hall was starting to close around you, workers beginning to clear tables and sweep floors. You finished your meals and gathered your things, the conversation settling back into easier territory as you argued about which movie to watch when you got back to Shauna's dorm.

The walk across campus was peaceful, your joined hands swinging between you as you debated the merits of romantic comedies versus horror movies. It was an old argument, one you'd been having since your third or fourth tutoring session, but you both enjoyed it too much to actually resolve it.

"I still don't understand how you can watch people getting brutally murdered and call it relaxing," you said as you climbed the stairs to her floor.

"And I don't understand how you can watch the same formulaic love story over and over again and not get bored."

"They're not formulaic. They're... structured."

"That's the same thing."

"It's really not."

Shauna's room was exactly what you'd expected when you first saw it months ago - perfectly organized on her side, with books arranged by subject and clothes hung. Her roommate's side looked like a tornado had hit it, but Shauna had long since given up trying to impose order on that chaos.

"Horror movie," she said, flopping down on her bed and patting the space beside her. "My room, my rules."

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair. Deal with it."

But she was already pulling up Netflix on her laptop, and you knew from experience that she'd end up letting you pick something halfway through when she got bored of whatever slasher film she'd chosen.

You settled beside her, automatically rearranging yourselves until she was tucked against your side with her head on your shoulder. This had become your default position for movie nights - close enough that you could feel her reactions to whatever you were watching, her grip on your arm tightening during scary parts or her quiet laughter when something genuinely amused her.

"Thank you," she said quietly, about twenty minutes into a movie about teenagers being stalked by a masked killer.

"For what?"

"For tonight. For not letting me give up on that homework. For dinner. For..." She gestured vaguely. "All of it."

"You don't have to thank me for spending time with you."

"I know. But I want to."

You pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the familiar smell of her shampoo. "You're welcome."

The movie played on, but you found yourself paying more attention to Shauna than to the screen. The way she curled closer to you during tense scenes, the soft commentary she provided when characters made obviously stupid decisions, the warmth of her body against yours.

This was what you'd tried to explain to her at dinner - it wasn't about tutoring sessions or built-in excuses to spend time together. It was about all these small moments, the quiet intimacy of just existing in the same space. The way she trusted you enough to fall asleep against your shoulder, the way you'd learned to read her moods in the set of her shoulders or the tone of her voice.

"Hey," she said softly, tilting her head to look up at you. "You're not watching."

"I'm watching you."

"That's very sweet, but also creepy."

"Sorry."

"I didn't say I minded."

The movie forgotten, you shifted to face her properly, taking in the soft light from her desk lamp casting shadows across her face. She looked younger like this, without the armor of careful indifference she wore in public.

"Can I ask you something now?" you said.

"Shoot."

"What made you decide to trust me? Really trust me, not just with math help."

She was quiet for a moment, her fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. "You want the honest answer?"

"Always."

"That night I called you. When I was frustrated and tired and probably a little drunk." She paused, meeting your eyes. "You could have just talked me through the problems and hung up. But you stayed on the phone with me for two hours, and we ended up talking about everything except calculus."

You remembered that night - Shauna calling at midnight, her voice thick with frustration and something else you hadn't been able to identify at the time. You'd talked about her family, her fears about graduation, the way she felt like she was constantly pretending to be someone she wasn't.

"You listened," she continued. "Really listened, not just waiting for your turn to talk. And you didn't try to fix everything or give me advice I didn't ask for. You just... let me be upset."

"Of course I did."

"Not everyone would have."

"Then you've been spending time with the wrong people."

She smiled at that, the kind of smile that was just for you - soft and unguarded and completely genuine. "Good thing I found the right person."

"Good thing."

The space between you had gotten smaller without you noticing, close enough that you could count her eyelashes.

"We should probably finish the movie," she said, but she made no move to turn back to the screen.

"Probably."

"I mean, I did make you sit through my choice. It's only fair."

"Very fair."

"And it's getting to the good part. The part where they reveal who the killer is."

"Can't miss that."

But instead of turning back to the laptop, she shifted closer, her hand coming up to rest against your cheek. "Or," she said, "we could find something else to do."

"I like that option better."

She kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like the chocolate you'd shared for dessert. This was still new enough that it made your heart race, the way she sighed against your mouth when you pulled her closer.

"Much better than the movie," she murmured against your lips.

"Definitely."

You lost track of time after that, trading lazy kisses and quiet conversation until Shauna's roommate texted that she'd be back late. The movie played forgotten in the background, the sound of fake screaming and dramatic music a strange soundtrack to the gentle intimacy of learning each other all over again.

"I should probably head back soon," you said eventually, though you made no move to leave the warm circle of her arms.

"You should."

"Early class tomorrow."

"Right."

"And you have that economics exam to study for."

"I do."

Neither of you moved. Shauna's head was tucked against your neck, her breathing soft and even, and you were perfectly content to stay exactly where you were.

"Five more minutes?" she said.

"Five more minutes."

But five turned into ten, and ten turned into twenty, and eventually you gave up pretending you were going anywhere. This was what your relationship had become - small compromises and gentle negotiations, the kind of easy intimacy that came from actually liking each other as much as you loved each other.

"Next week," Shauna said sleepily, "when we do the review session for my midterm?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we do it here instead of the library?"

"Any particular reason?"

"Better study environment. Fewer distractions."

You laughed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "If you say so."

"I do say so."

"Then here it is."

She smiled against your neck, her arm tightening around your waist. "Good. Now stop talking and let me enjoy my five more minutes."

"It's been more than five minutes."

"Then let me enjoy my twenty more minutes."

"Deal."

Outside, the campus was settling into its late-night quiet, the sounds of distant parties and late-night conversations filtering through the window. But inside Shauna's room, wrapped up in each other and the soft glow of her desk lamp, the rest of the world felt very far away.

This was what you'd tried to tell her at dinner - it wasn't about tutoring sessions or academic schedules or any of the structured reasons you'd first started spending time together. It was about this, about the way she fit perfectly against your side, about the trust implicit in the way she let herself be vulnerable with you.

"Thank you," she said again, so quietly you almost missed it.

"For what this time?"

"For making me feel like I'm worth staying for."

Your chest tightened at the simple honesty in her voice, at the way she could devastate you with just a few words.

"You are," you said. "You absolutely are."

And lying there in the lamplight, her breathing soft and even against your neck, you meant it completely. Whatever came after graduation, whatever challenges the future held, you were exactly where you wanted to be.

Five more minutes turned into the whole night, and neither of you minded at all.

[the-oblivious-writer]

what if i said milo ventimiglia would be making an appearance in 'with her i die' somewhere in the future? then what?

(specifically in this form)

[the-oblivious-writer]

[the-oblivious-writer]

“let’s hear it for the man of the year” except it’s jeff sadecki pressuring jackie into having sex with him, cheating on jackie multiple times, marrying jackie’s best friend after finding out she died, then proceeding to ruin said best friend’s life by blackmailing her and her friends with secrets he wasn’t supposed to know about her biggest trauma and then abandoning her after causing the dominoes that led her to revert back to her craziness

[the-oblivious-writer]

we, yellowjackets fans, specifically shauna dick riders, need to get something straight in our heads!!!!! her ass does NAWT give good aftercare or aftercare at all!!!!! this bitch is mean!!! she wouldn’t look back twice!!!!!!!!! she hits it and SKEDADDLES!!!!!!! maybe a kiss on the cheek if she really enjoyed herself but other than that!!! no!!!!!!!! that drive home with jeff in the pilot was silent!!!! she had a frown on her face the whole way to her house!!!!!!!! she’s a cunt!!!!!!!!!!

[the-oblivious-writer]

hiii i just wanted to tell u i love ur series, With her i die!! i found it last week and i’ve already reread it twice heheh. keep up the good work :)

Thank you!! That means so much to me; it’s an absolute honor that you find my series worthy of a second read :D I know I’ve been lacking with the updates (weekly ones, it’s been more like every other week) but that’s just ‘cause of end of the year exams. One more week and I’m officially on summer break - I’ll be doing a lot more writing for you guys!!

(the teen timeline of With Her I Die’s pre-written but I can be a little obsessive when it comes to reviewing each chapter before posting)

[the-oblivious-writer]

Would you do a bot or blurb of kissing college!roomate!Jackie at a party, and then having to deal with it come the morning or something?

— DRUNK MAKEOUTS .

Pairing :: College!Jackie x Roommate!Reader .

Notes :: Drunk makeout session with your roommate ! she eventually gets a little pissed and storms out .. but it’s okay because she totally won’t mention it in the morning . its also a little rushed .. i changed the writing multiple times .

bot here .

Your lips tasted like absolute heaven , but there was one problem .

you two are roommates .

It’s not that Jackie hasn’t made out with girls at all , it’s just different because she’s never made out with you , her roommate . Is she stupid ? She’s going to have to deal with this whole thing in the morning , and Jackie already knows that she’s going to avoid confronting it for days .

Her hands are on your waist , one hand coming up to gently grip your jaw . She swallows every single sound you make , and gosh does she just enjoy every part of it .

She’s trying to ignore her brain , screaming at her that this isn’t right — that she should do more than just kiss . Her brain is practically split in two with two different decisions right now , and she is right in the middle of it .

“smell s’good ..” Jackie slurs against your lips , a mumble that’s barely coherent . It’s odd , really . Jackie hardly ever complimented people when she was drunk , so why is this whole thing any different ? It’s totally like she’s never yearned for you at all .

Her lips trail down , biting down softly before you stop her , which causes her to make a sound of protest .

“What?” She practically whines into your throat, hands gripping your waist tightening . “Wanna .. wanna mark you up n’ show .. show people .” She can’t help the tone . Now she’s all needy because of you , her damn roommate .

“No marks . I don’t have — I don’t have anything to cover them up .” You whisper , eyes darting to the door for a long moment . “People are — They’re gonna think .. they’re gonna think we’re dating , jax .”

The nickname causes something to stir low in her gut , but she ignores it , her brows furrowed in agitation . She doesn’t get what the big problem is , but now she’s all pissed off because she didn’t get what she wanted .

Her lips meet yours again , a low groan escaping her as her hands trail up and up and up until they meet your cheeks , cupping them to bring you closer to her .

“s’not fair .” Jackie grumbles , practically to herself before she stumbles back against the door . “It’s not like people would know it’s me — they didn’t even see me .”

They totally have seen her . She dragged you into the bathroom .

Jackie groans , running a hand through her hair before she looks back at you , “Whatever . I’ll just .. I dunno .” She shrugs, hands reaching for the doorknob .

Jesus , Jackie is wasted .

[the-oblivious-writer]

happy father's day to shauna shipman's dating (homoerotic eye-contact) history

[the-oblivious-writer]

Happy father's day to Mariana Sofia Ibarra

rip your daughter is just like you

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |26|

Past J.T to Eventual S.S x Female Reader

Chapter Twenty-Six: Undercurrents

warnings: anxiety, panic attacks, trauma responses, references to past bullying/harassment, mentions of family abandonment, water-related anxiety, internalized shame, and emotional vulnerability.

note(s): aruba, jamaica, ooooo, i wanna take ya to bermuda, bahama, coooome on pretty mama... we miss you brian.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson @serendippindots @mikuley @sleepyjackets @wnbawag @eatingouturmomrn

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The morning air bites at your exposed skin as you make your way down the familiar path to the lake, two empty containers clutched in your hands. The weight of them feels deceptively light—you know they'll be exponentially heavier on the return trip, but for now they swing gently at your sides, creating a rhythmic percussion against your thighs.

Mari walks beside you, close enough that you can hear her breathing, far enough that your shoulders don't brush. It's a careful distance, one you've both unconsciously negotiated over the past few weeks. Close enough to provide comfort, distant enough to maintain the illusion that this is just practical—two people doing a necessary chore, nothing more.

You're oblivious to the way her eyes track your movements, how she times her steps to match yours, how she's been volunteering for water duty more frequently since you started going together. In your mind, Mari is simply being helpful, maybe even friendly. The concept that someone might seek out your company by choice still feels foreign, like a language you're only beginning to understand.

The forest around you is waking up—birds calling to each other across the canopy, small creatures rustling through underbrush, the distant sound of someone chopping wood back at the cabin. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. You've learned to categorize them, to separate the threatening from the benign. It's part of your new survival vocabulary, one that includes the specific timbre of Shauna's worried voice, the way Nat's footsteps change when she's tracking something, the particular quality of silence that means danger.

"Looks like it'll be a clear day," Mari says, breaking the comfortable quiet between you. Her voice carries that careful casualness she's developed when talking to you—warm but not overwhelming, present but not demanding.

You glance up through the trees, noting the patches of blue sky visible between the branches. "Yeah. Good for drying clothes, I guess."

It's such a mundane observation, the kind of practical consideration that's become second nature out here. Everything gets evaluated through the lens of survival—will this help us? How can we use this? What does this mean for our chances? Even something as simple as sunshine becomes currency.

Mari nods, then seems to search for something else to say. You don't notice her internal struggle, the way she's rehearsing and discarding conversation starters. You're too focused on the path ahead, on the sound of your own footsteps, on managing the low-level anxiety that accompanies most of your daily activities now.

The thing is, Mari used to be terrible to you. Not just unfriendly—actively, creatively awful. She'd been one of the loudest voices in the chorus of whispers that followed you through the halls of your New Jersey high school, one of the most inventive when it came to finding new ways to make your life miserable.

Freak. Psycho. Mommy couldn't handle the crazy, huh?

The rumors about why you'd moved had spread like wildfire through the school. Each retelling had grown more elaborate, more damaging. By the time they'd finished their game of telephone, you'd become some sort of monster—a girl so disturbed that her own mother couldn't bear to be around her, so dangerous that you'd had to be shipped off to live with your father like damaged goods.

The truth was simultaneously more mundane and more devastating. Your mother hadn't left because you were dangerous. She'd left because she was exhausted. Worn down by your anxiety, your panic attacks, your constant need for reassurance. You'd been a high-maintenance child in a world that demanded easy ones, and she'd simply... given up.

But Mari hadn't known that then. None of them had. They'd only known the rumors, and rumors were so much more interesting than reality. So they'd built their own version of you—dangerous, unpredictable, worthy of fear and fascination in equal measure.

Mari had been particularly creative in her cruelty. She'd had a gift for finding your soft spots, for knowing exactly which buttons to push to send you spiraling. She'd seemed to take genuine pleasure in watching you fall apart, in being the catalyst for your very public breakdowns.

You don't think about that much anymore. Or rather, you try not to. The person who'd endured those hallways feels like someone else entirely—a different version of yourself who'd existed in a different world, one with lockers and lunch periods and the luxury of caring about social hierarchies.

Out here, survival has reorganized everyone's priorities. Mari's past behavior toward you has become irrelevant in the face of more immediate concerns. You need each other now in ways that transcend high school politics. The girl who once made your life hell is now someone you trust to watch your back, to share resources with, to depend on when everything else falls apart.

What you don't realize is that Mari remembers every single cruel thing she ever said to you. She carries them like stones in her chest, each memory sharp-edged and weighted with regret. The way you'd flinched when she'd cornered you by your locker. The tears you'd tried to hide when she'd made some cutting remark about your mother abandoning you. The hollow look in your eyes when she'd suggested, loudly enough for others to hear, that maybe the rumors about you trying to kill your mom were true.

She'd been seventeen and stupid and so desperately trying to fit in that she'd sacrificed your well-being on the altar of her own insecurity. She'd told herself that you were weird anyway, that you probably didn't even have real feelings, that the rumors might actually be true and you deserved whatever you got.

But then the plane had crashed, and everything had changed.

Stripped of the social structures that had given her behavior context, Mari had been forced to confront who she really was. And who she really was, it turned out, was someone who'd been hurting a person she'd actually been fascinated by, drawn to in ways she hadn't understood or been ready to acknowledge.

The cruelty had been armor, protection against feelings she couldn't name. Easier to make you the enemy than to admit she'd spent far too much time thinking about you, wondering what it would be like to be close to you, imagining conversations where you looked at her with something other than fear or resignation.

Now, walking beside you in the morning light, she gets pieces of what she'd been too immature to appreciate before. Your quiet strength, the way you notice small details others miss, your unexpected moments of dry humor. The person she'd tried so hard to diminish is turning out to be someone worth knowing, someone worth protecting.

The irony isn't lost on her. She'd spent months making your life miserable for attention, and now she has it—your cautious friendship, your willingness to work alongside her, your unconscious trust as you walk together through the wilderness. But it's not the kind of attention she'd been seeking then, and she's not the same person who'd been seeking it.

The path slopes downward as you approach the lake, and you can hear the gentle lapping of water against the shore. It's a soothing sound, one that's become associated with peace in your mind. The lake represents safety—fresh water, a place to wash, a boundary between your temporary home and the unknown wilderness beyond.

But as you break through the tree line and the full expanse of water comes into view, you feel that familiar tightness in your chest. It's not the lake itself that bothers you—it's what it represents. Vastness. Depth. Things hidden beneath the surface.

You've never been comfortable with large bodies of water. Even before the crash, swimming pools had made you nervous, oceans had felt threatening. Something about not being able to see the bottom, about not knowing what might be lurking just out of sight. It's an irrational fear, you know, but rationality has never been a particularly effective weapon against anxiety.

Mari notices the change in your breathing before you do. She's become attuned to your tells over time—the way your shoulders tense when you're overwhelmed, the particular rhythm of your breathing when panic starts to set in, the unconscious way you seek out escape routes when you feel trapped.

"Hey," she says quietly, setting her containers down and turning to face you. "You okay?"

The question startles you out of your internal spiral. You look at her, really look at her, and for a moment you're struck by how different she looks from the girl who used to torment you. Her face has lost some of its sharp edges, softened by weeks of shared hardship. Her eyes, which once held casual cruelty, now show genuine concern.

"Yeah," you say automatically, then catch yourself. You've been trying to be more honest about your struggles, to let people help when they offer. It's hard—vulnerability still feels dangerous—but you're learning. "Actually, no. Not really."

Mari nods, accepting your correction without making a big deal of it. This, too, is new—the way she gives you space to change your mind, to admit weakness without fear of it being used against you later.

"The water?" she asks, following your gaze to the lake.

"Yeah. I know it's stupid—"

"It's not stupid," Mari interrupts firmly. 

Her words surprise you. Not just their content, but their tone—matter-of-fact, accepting, free of judgment. It's so different from the Mari you remember, the one who would have seized on any admission of weakness like a predator scenting blood.

You find yourself studying her face, looking for signs of the girl who'd made your life hell. She's still there, in the sharp line of her jaw and the way she carries herself, but she's been overlaid with something else. Maturity, maybe. Or just exhaustion. Surviving tends to strip away the unnecessary cruelties, leaving only what's essential.

"I just... I don't like not being able to see what's underneath," you admit, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. "It's probably some evolutionary thing, you know? Fear of predators or whatever."

Mari considers this seriously, as if your amateur psychology deserves genuine contemplation. "Makes sense. Out here especially. We don't know what kind of animals might come to drink, what's living in the water."

She's giving you an out, you realize. A way to frame your fear as practical rather than psychological. It's a kindness you wouldn't have expected from her, and it makes something tight in your chest loosen slightly.

"Yeah," you agree, grateful for the rationalization. "Exactly."

Mari picks up her containers again, but doesn't immediately head toward the water. Instead, she seems to be considering something, weighing options in her head.

"What if we stay close to the shore?" she suggests finally. "Just wade in ankle-deep, fill the containers from there. That way you can see the bottom the whole time."

It's such a simple solution, and such a thoughtful one. Not dismissive of your fear, not trying to push you past your comfort zone, just... accommodating. Practical. Kind.

"That would work," you say, surprised by how much lighter you feel. "Thank you."

The smile Mari gives you in response is small but genuine, and for a moment you catch a glimpse of who she might have been if circumstances had been different. If you'd met her somewhere else, somewhen else, without the weight of high school hierarchies and adolescent cruelty between you.

You walk to the water's edge together, your boots crunching softly on the rocky shore. The lake stretches out before you, its surface reflecting the morning sky like a mirror. It's beautiful, you have to admit, even with your anxiety humming underneath your appreciation.

Mari wades in first, her movements slow and deliberate. The water is clear enough that you can see her feet, see the stones and sand of the lake bottom. It's reassuring, this transparency. You can catalogue what's there—rocks, a few small fish, some aquatic plants swaying gently in the current.

You follow her lead, stepping carefully into the shallows. The water is shockingly cold, even through your boots, and you have to resist the urge to immediately step back onto dry land. But you can see the bottom, can see that there's nothing threatening lurking just out of sight, and that helps.

"Okay?" Mari asks, glancing over at you.

"Yeah. Good."

You both begin filling your containers, the simple task requiring enough focus that conversation lapses into comfortable quiet. The water makes soft sounds as it moves around your legs, and gradually your nervous system begins to settle. This isn't so bad. You can do this.

It's while you're focused on angling your container to catch the cleanest water that Mari speaks again, her voice so quiet you almost miss it.

"I'm sorry."

You look up, confused. "For what?"

Mari's eyes are fixed on the water, watching it flow into her container with intense concentration. "For... before. At school. I was..."

She trails off, and you can see her struggling with how to finish the sentence. How do you apologize for being someone's personal tormentor?

"We were kids," you say finally, because the silence is stretching too long and you can see how much this is costing her. "Still are."

"That's not an excuse."

"No," you agree. "But it's an explanation."

Mari looks at you then, really looks at you, and her expression is so raw that you have to fight the urge to look away. There's guilt there, and shame, and something else—something that looks almost like grief.

"I used to tell myself that you probably didn't even care," she admits. "That you were so weird, so different, that normal things didn't affect you the same way. I knew it wasn't true, but it was easier than admitting I was just being cruel for no good reason."

Your chest tightens, but not with anxiety this time. With recognition. How many times had you told yourself similar things about the people who'd hurt you? That they probably didn't mean it, that they didn't understand how their words affected you, that they were just playing around and you were being too sensitive?

"Why?" you ask, and the question comes out smaller than you intended. Not accusatory, just... curious. You've never understood what you'd done to earn such focused attention, negative though it was.

Mari is quiet for so long that you think she might not answer. When she does speak, her voice is barely above a whisper.

"Because I couldn't figure out how to talk to you any other way."

The admission hangs between you like a bridge neither of you knows how to cross. You stare at her, processing what she's just revealed, and slowly the pieces begin to rearrange themselves into a pattern you hadn't seen before.

The intensity of her focus on you. The way she'd seemed to know exactly which words would cut deepest, as if she'd been studying you. The almost obsessive quality of her attention, even when that attention was harmful.

"You..." you start, then stop, not sure how to finish the thought.

"I had no fucking clue what I was feeling," Mari continues, the words spilling out now as if a dam has broken. "I just knew that I couldn't stop thinking about you, and that scared the shit out of me. So I turned it into something else. Something that felt safer."

She's looking at the water again, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment or shame or both. "I know that doesn't make it okay. I know sorry doesn't fix anything. But I needed you to know that it was never about you being weird or different or any of the shit people said. It was about me being t a coward."

The revelation recontextualizes everything—every cruel comment, every public humiliation, every moment when you'd wondered what you'd done to deserve such targeted harassment. It had never been about you at all. You'd been collateral damage in Mari's war with herself.

You should probably feel angry. You have every right to. But instead, you find yourself feeling something like pity. Because you understand, in a way. You know what it's like to be so overwhelmed by your own internal landscape that you lash out, that you hurt people without meaning to. Your weapons of choice had been different—withdrawal, self-destruction, the kind of implosion that takes only yourself as casualty—but the root cause was the same. Fear of feelings too big to handle.

"I get it," you say quietly.

Mari's head snaps up, surprise clear in her expression. "You do?"

"Not the... targeting someone else part," you clarify. "But the being scared of what you're feeling part. Yeah. I get that."

A small silence falls between you, not uncomfortable but thoughtful. Around you, the lake continues its gentle movement, indifferent to human drama. A fish jumps somewhere near the center, sending ripples across the surface.

"For what it's worth," you continue, "I never thought you were a bad person."

"You should have," Mari says with a bitter laugh. "Anyone else would have."

"Yeah, well." You shrug, focusing on your container again. "I've never been anyone else."

It's such a simple statement, but it carries weight. An acknowledgment of your own otherness, your tendency toward understanding rather than judgment. It's one of the things that had made you an easy target in high school—your inability to respond to cruelty with cruelty, your instinct to look for explanations rather than reasons for revenge.

Mari stares at you for a long moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is thick with emotion. "You're too fucking good for this world."

The words hit you with unexpected force. Not because they're particularly profound, but because they're said with such conviction, such genuine feeling. When was the last time someone had described you as good? When was the last time you'd felt worthy of such a description?

"I'm really not," you protest weakly.

"You are," Mari insists. "And I'm gonna spend however long we're stuck out here trying to make up for being such a piece of shit to you before."

"You don't have to—"

"Yeah, I do." Her tone is firm, final. "Not because you need me to, but because I need me to."

You can understand that, too. The need to balance scales, to find some way to live with the weight of past actions. You've carried your own burden of guilt—for surviving when Jackie didn't, for the thoughts you'd had about wanting to join her, for every moment of happiness that feels like betrayal.

"Okay," you say simply.

Mari looks surprised again, as if she'd been expecting more resistance. "Okay?"

"Yeah. I mean, we're stuck together anyway, right? Might as well make the best of it."

It's pragmatic more than forgiving, but it's also an olive branch. A way forward that doesn't require either of you to pretend the past didn't happen, but doesn't let it define your future either.

Mari's smile is small but real, and for the first time since you've known her, it reaches her eyes. "Yeah. We are."

You finish filling your containers in companionable silence, the earlier tension dissolved into something manageable. The water is still cold, the lake still vast and unknowable, but somehow it all feels less threatening now. Maybe it's the honesty, the clearing of air that's been thick with unspoken history. Maybe it's just the simple human connection of being understood.

As you wade back toward shore, Mari speaks up again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"The rumors about your mom. About why you moved here. Was any of it true?"

You stiffen slightly, old defensive patterns kicking in. But when you look at Mari, her expression is curious rather than cruel, genuinely interested rather than seeking ammunition.

"Which part?" you ask carefully.

"The... the part about you trying to hurt her."

You're quiet for a moment, considering how much truth to share.

"No," you say finally. "I never tried to hurt her. Or anyone else, for that matter."

Mari nods, accepting this without question. But you find yourself wanting to explain further, to provide context she'd never bothered to seek before.

"She left because I was... a lot," you continue. "Panic attacks, anxiety, always needing reassurance about everything. She couldn't handle it anymore. Couldn't handle me."

The admission stings even now, months later. The fundamental rejection of being too much for your own mother to love.

"That's fucked up," Mari says bluntly.

"Is it?" You're genuinely asking. "I mean, I was pretty exhausting. Am pretty exhausting."

"You're her daughter. That's literally her fucking job—to handle whatever you need, to help you figure out how to manage it. Not to just... give up and ship you off."

Mari's indignation on your behalf is fierce and unexpected. You've spent so long accepting your mother's narrative—that you were the problem, that your needs were unreasonable, that her leaving was somehow your fault—that hearing someone challenge it feels revolutionary.

"I used to think maybe if I'd been different, less anxious, easier to deal with..." you trail off.

"No." Mari's voice is firm. "Don't do that to yourself. You were a kid dealing with something beyond your control. She was the adult. She's the one who failed, not you."

The words settle into your chest like seeds, small but potentially transformative. You've never thought about it that way before—your mother's abandonment as her failure rather than your inadequacy. It's a radical reframing, one that might take time to fully accept, but the possibility is there now.

"Besides," Mari continues, her tone lighter, "if you'd been different, you wouldn't be you. And you're... you're pretty great as you are."

The compliment catches you off guard, makes heat rise in your cheeks. You're not used to praise, especially not from someone who once seemed to take pleasure in tearing you down.

"Thanks," you manage.

You've reached the shore now, your containers full and heavy with clean water. The sun has climbed higher while you've been talking, warming the air and burning off the last of the morning mist. It's going to be a beautiful day, you realize. The kind that makes survival feel less like endurance and more like living.

"Ready to head back?" Mari asks, adjusting her grip on her containers.

"Yeah."

But neither of you moves immediately. There's something about this moment—the honesty, the forgiveness, the unexpected connection—that feels worth preserving. Like if you start walking, you might lose whatever delicate thing has grown between you in the past hour.

"Mari?" you say finally.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For the apology. And for... this." You gesture vaguely at the lake, at the accommodation she'd offered for your fear.

"Thank you for letting me give it," she replies.

And then you are walking, side by side up the path toward the cabin, carrying water and something else—the beginning of understanding, maybe. Or trust. Or just the radical possibility that people can change, that the past doesn't have to determine the future, that sometimes the person who hurt you might also be the person who helps you heal.

The weight of the containers makes your arms ache, but it's a good ache. Productive. You're bringing something essential back to the group, contributing in a way that matters. And beside you, Mari is doing the same, her pace matched to yours, her presence steady and reassuring.

Behind you, the lake continues its ancient rhythm, holding its secrets beneath the surface. But for now, that's okay. Some mysteries don't need solving. Some depths don't need exploring. Sometimes it's enough to take what you need from the shallows and leave the rest alone.

The path ahead winds through trees toward home—or what passes for home now. A cabin full of people who are learning, like you, how to survive not just the wilderness but each other. How to build something new from the wreckage of what came before.

Your arms are getting tired, and your shoulders are starting to ache, but you don't suggest stopping. This is good work, necessary work. And you're not doing it alone.

Beside you, Mari adjusts her grip on her containers and keeps walking, her eyes on the path ahead but her attention still partially focused on you. Ready to slow down if you need to stop, ready to take some of your burden if it becomes too much, ready to catch you if you stumble.

It's more consideration than she's ever shown you before, and more than you've learned to expect from most people. But maybe that's what growth looks like—not grand gestures or dramatic revelations, but small acts of kindness. 

Apologies offered and accepted. Fears acknowledged without judgment.

[the-oblivious-writer]

travis snapped - "I'MGONNABLOWHISHEADSMOOOOTHOFF."

nat's looking for the audacity - "travis, don't say that."

mari doesn't want any trouble; maybe if she doesn't move, he'll forget she's there.

laura lee's in shock - "that's not very christian of him..."

akilah's just following her girlfriend's lead.

and jackie's looking at the camera like it's our fault.