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shysuccubusstuff · 7 months ago

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homicipher! men making it fit pt. 2:

Characters: Mr. Hood + Mr. Gap

Content: Size Difference + non-human anatomy + Foreplay + Female anatomy ; Somnophilia + Cunnilungus + Dubcon/Noncon + Female Anatomy + Dacryphilia

Note: Did you all read the tweet of the creator of Homicipher? I'm so sad about it, but I completely understand their decision, sometimes people get way too aggresive with their demands to creators :( I hope they're able to rest and recover. Also, sorry if my last content isn't as great, university is sucking me dry.

Note 2: I finally ended with uni for some time, sadly my brain was left dry.... Sorry if it's a bit slow!!

Mr. Hood:

Mr. Hood, who doesn't seem particularly interested in you at first. After all, his main goal has always been keeping you safe from any harm that comes around, not becoming attached to you, that is of course, until he finds you in the middle of the room, your body now much smaller than before.

Mr. Hood, who is unable to look away when you ask him to help you. Your eyes get locked on him, fluttering your eyelashes so prettily as you beg him to help you. So he does, easily lifting you up from the ground and easily carrying you with one of his arms wrapped around you.

Mr. Hood, who starts to find himself watching you a bit too much. It starts with small glances, telling himself that he's just making sure you're safe and sound. But this small interactions soon turn into physical contact, ranging from unaware rubs to even hugging, an action that was quite new for him.

Mr Hood, who starts to constantly worry about you, feeling anxious the moment he lets you out of his sight, his grip firmly wrapped around you even as he lets you speak with some of the other (more) non-violent ghosts around there.

Mr. Hood, who decides to leave you with them, slightly scared uncomfortable with those strange feelings that have been bubbling inside himself.

Mr. Hood, who goes back to you soon after leaving you, his heart thumping in his chest as the fear of you getting in danger rised.

Mr. Hood, who finds you injured under the boulders, rushing towards you and lifting the boulders with ease. Despite you are unable to see his face, you can clearly tell that he is worried to death, swiftly taking you in his arms and taking you to where the two of you said goodbye to each other. In contrast with last time, Mr. Hood stays there, sitting close to you and taking your hand until you are finally healed. Not like it mattered to him, as he started to carry you around unless it was dangerous.

Mr. Hood, who starts to fall for your little tricks, letting you run your hands all over his clothed body, even allowing you to snuggle against his chest while both of you laid down to rest a bit. These small portrayals of affection quickly leveled up, with him and you sleeping in the same bed and even letting you lay on top of him as he caressed your hair with his big hands.

Mr. Hood, who soon realises your intentions. It was quite obvious since the start, but his suspicions were confirmed when he noticed how you moved your butt against his groin while you pretended to be asleep. Of course, this little teasing game didn't stop, even as he tried the most subtle ways of avoiding your little tactics. If that was what you truly wanted, he would give it to you.

Finally, one night Mr. Hood stopped you, his hands gripping your waist as he stopped your indecent movements. "Can't sleep?" Despite his lack of face, you were perfectly able to tell that he was looking at you with a slightly concerned face.

"Can't." Suddenly, you were on top of him, his hands still secured on your hips, his gaze completely focused on you.

"I want help you." You looked at him with a mixture of confussion and excitement, which was easily caught on by Mr. Hood, his hands now going up tummy, the cold sending chills through your whole body, just as you had done a few times before.

"You... want me?" He nodded, his hands still making their way towards your upper body.

"Want you, you like me?" Mr. Hood stopped for a second, his hands massaging your soft body as he waited patiently for your consent.

"Like you, I like you." You slowly moved your head up and down, making sure to not break the visual contact with him.

"Good, me help you." Without saying much else, Mr. Hood lifted you up from the bed, allowing you to get on top of his lap, his hands steading on your hips as he started to grind himself against your bare pussy, his lips parting as soft moans left his mouth. At the same time, one of his hands pulled you closer to him, allowing his long tongue to enter your mouth, intertwining it with your own. Slowly warming you up as he kept grinding his clothed length against you.

He kept doing this until your slick had left a small stain on his robe, finally deciding to take your clothes off, helping you to get rid of your stained raincoat. Soon, his hands were massaging your breasts, his fingertips sometimes squeezing and pinching your nipples as he kept kissing your needy mouth. Despite the mood within the small room was just right, Mr. Hood kept on moving your hands away from his lower half each time you tried, bothered you finally spoke up.

"I need you now..." You looked at Mr. Hood with needy eyes, to what he simply responded with what sounded like a deep purr.

"Careful." Cautiously, Mr. Hood moved you down for a second, allowing his length to finally escape from his robe. The sight almost made you whine from just imagining it. What you found was similar to a human cock, well, ignoring the slime-like texture, together with the unnatural girth and length it had. You gulped, trying your best to prepare yourself for what was about to happen.

Mr. Hood looked at you, his tone letting you know he was quite concerned about your well-being. "Not need to, I help you." But before he was able to hide his length under his clothing, you had already started to enter his tip, the strech almost making you cry as you kept feeling yourself be split in half. "Wait!..." You ignored Mr. Hood warnings, slowly letting your weight down as you got accustomed to his whole width, a deep sight leaving your lips as you kept yourself steady on his lap. "Too dangerous, let me--." Once again, you refused to listen to Mr. Hood's suggestions, starting to move your hips up and down his length, slowly creating a rhythm that made your eyes roll each time his tip hit against your poor cervix.

"So good...! Your dick is so so good~... Give me more, please~...!" Despite his hesitance, Mr. Hood's hand held onto your waist, allowing your legs to give up as he began to set a ruthless pace. "Wait!... Too big! Give me a---" Just as you had done before, Mr. Hood stopped you before you could finish your sentence, lewd moans leaving your mouth as Mr. Hood started to hit that sweet place in deep and steady thrusts. As you tried to get him to slow down, you used your hands, pushing against his lap as you tried to get him to slow down a bit.

Sadly, this was no use, only causing Mr. Hood's to ram against your poor cunt, your eyes rolling back as he kept his steady pace, forcing you to takea each of his movements. Soon, your whole body went limp, your whole body shaking as he made you cum all over him over and over again.

By the time Mr. Hood's length started to quiver, you were already long far gone, your hands clenched around his clothes as you started to feel his thick liquid filling you up.

As you came down from your high, you were able to feel soft kisses against your skin, his calloused hands running up and down your back as he let you take a deep breath. "Will help you next, tell me."

Mr. Gap:

You and Mr. Gap had already been prowling together for quite some time, with him always trying to get your guard down so he could get you to ask him for help even for the smallest matters. You found this quite annoying at first, I mean, who would give their heart for things like turning the switch on...

But soon, your relationship began to change. Mr. Gap started to ask for less dangerous things in exchange, it began with a whole arm or leg, but then it moved to things like, one eyelash. Then, the things he asked in exchange moved into a more... physical territory. Mr. Gap started to ask for pets, as he had seen you giving them to Mr. Crawling. Then, he took one step further, asking for a kiss on the cheek or the forehead. Soon enough, his advances became much bolder, now asking you to let him sleep with you the whole night. To be honest, he had already appeared once in there, but this time, you could clearly notice he was asking for something... else. His eyes glistening with an amused expression, waiting eagerly for you to allow him.

In the end, you nodded, allowing him from then on to sleep with you, even if this meant that he would sometimes start to touch your skin under the sheets, his cold hands sending shivers through your whole body as you tried to calm yourself. Little did you know what Mr. Gap was about to do as time went on...

You were about to fall asleep, attempting to ignore Mr. Gap's hands as best as possible as he kept running his hands around your legs, sometimes even allowing his hands to move abit too close to your lower half. You bit your lip, forcing yourself to calm down as you kept forcing yourself to ignore his touch.

"Asleep?" Mr. Gap's voice whispered, his voice making you shiver as his fingertips started to rub against your clothed cunt. Seeing that you didn't answer, he decided to take it even further, carefully removing your underwear and throwing it out of the bed. Despite that, you kept your eyes shut and your lips closed by digging your own nails into your hand. Before you were able to stop him, Mr. Gap's mouth was already against your pussy, leaving soft kisses all over your inner thighs. Soon, his tongue started to lick all over your cunt, entering your cunt as his hands started to massage your lower stomach. "Warm... like." He smiled at you, noticing how you were actually awake, maybe even noticing that you had been awake since the beginning. "Want it." Just as you were about to reply to him, his warm mouth was already against your lower half, his breath hitting against your entrance as he started to suck on your clit.

"Wait! Just--" Mr' Gap ignored your complaints, one of his hands starting to caress your entrance, almost as if he was enjoying the yearning in your eyes. Without much delay, he introduced one of his fingers, his tongue still playing with your clit, using the tip of his tongue to leave soft touches on it, sometimes making you lose your breath as he suddenly sucked on it without a warning.

This little game kept going for over fifteen minutes, with you cumming on his mouth as his left hand kept you still on the bed, his tongue still torturing your sorry cunt, ignoring the tears that were rolling down your face because of the overstimulation. By then, his hand was already completely soaked in a mixture between your slick and his saliva, the lewd wet sound filling the empty room. Mr. Gap's left hand was still massaging your lower stomach, making each orgasm even more intense as he forced your sore body to endure all of his little games. Sometimes, he changed to a painfully slow rhythm, making your grasp his hair as you tried to get him to move faster. Then, he suddenly changed, his fingers and tongue moving at a rapid pace, not stopping even as you grabbed his hair and pulled, much less when you squeezed his face with your thigs as an attempt to slow him down.

Sudenly, Mr. Gap finally stopped, not like you had enough time to take a deep breath, as his face was soon against yours. As the rest of his upper body was revealed you soon felt something hard poking against your overstimulated clit. Mr. Gap's hands caressed your face, his face showing a twisted smile of pleasure as he saw the tears that had been falling from your eyes as a result of his sweet torture. "Cute."

#fanfiction #x reader #smut #homicipher headcanons #homicipher smut #homicipher x reader #mr hood #mr hood x reader #mr hood headcanons #mr gap x reader #mr gap smut #mr gap x you #mr hood x you #mr hood smut #mr gap homicipher #mr gap

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capuccinodoll · 2 months ago

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— A haunted body, part one: "When I close my eyes, it feels like home" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | next chapter

— Chapter summary: After the Millers saved your life, you became something of a miracle. Now you’ve been given a second chance, and the sweetness of your new home is overshadowed by the coldness of one of them: Joel. Unfortunately for him, Tommy assigns you to work by his side, as the assistant he claims he doesn’t need. wc: 7.1k

A/N: I hope you enjoy this one. I haven't been able to get this man out of my head since season two came out, and I just had to write it. Consider it my love letter to Joel Miller.

Don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN)

Jackson, 2027. Morning. The edge of winter.

Snow lay heavy and whole across the landscape, pressed onto the earth. It hadn't melted yet.

Joel rode next to Tommy along the eastern patrol route, their horses’ hooves muffled in the thick frost. It was their third day in a row covering the outer line. Last week’s storm had forced them to stay close to the center of town, so they were making up for it now, filling in the gaps. The sun was bright and high, but not enough to soften anything.

They were already on their way back when Tommy spoke.

"The sun feels warmer today, doesn’t it?” he said, squinting at the horizon. He wanted Joel to say yes.

But Joel didn’t answer. He kept his eyes forward, where the snow caught the sunlight and bounced it straight into his eyes. His face was raw from the cold, red across the cheeks and the bridge of his nose. It hurt, but he didn’t complain.

He shifted in the saddle, nudged the horse ahead with a quiet click of his tongue.

Then, he saw something, just a break in the white that didn’t belong.

He signaled with a small gesture. Tommy followed his line of sight.

There, off the side of the road, nestled in the folds of snow, was a shape that could have been anything. A boulder, a fallen log. But Joel felt it before he could explain it; something old and hardwired in his gut.

He approached cautiously, letting the horse come to a stop a few feet away. There was a stiffness in his chest.

Tommy saw it too, and was already reaching for his rifle.

Joel had his out first.

They dismounted in unspoken agreement, boots crunching against the crusted snow as they stepped closer.

A woman.

She was lying on her side, half -covered as if the weather had tried to bury her and nearly succeeded. Her skin was raw, her mouth pale and parted. There was a slash of red across her side, staining the snow like spilled paint.

Joel crouched beside her. He took off his glove, hand bracing against the cold. With the back of his fingers, he brushed snow from her face. Then, he pressed gently at the side of her neck, feeling for movement. For warmth. Anything.

There it was; pulse. Faint, but there.

And then, he looked closer.

His eyes traced her face first, then the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck, stopping just below the place where his fingers rested.

It landed in him like a stone in deep water.

He jerked back, breath caught in his throat. As if something had reached up from the ground and grabbed him.

Tommy noticed.

“What is it?” he asked. “Joel?”

“She’s alive,” Joel said quickly. “Not infected. We need to get her up.”

Tommy hesitated, glancing between Joel and the woman. He didn't ask questions. Just helped lift her, following Joel’s lead.

They wrapped her in a thick blanket Joel pulled from his saddle. She felt light. Or maybe it was adrenaline that made her easier to carry.

They positioned her on Joel’s horse, her head resting against his chest, body attached to his.

The ride back wasn’t quiet. Wind cutting sharp between their shoulders, not gently at all, and Tommy had opinions he couldn’t keep to himself.

Joel didn’t say much.

Jackson. Hospital. An hour later.

Bare walls, warm lighting, faint smell of antiseptic. The room was small.

The woman lay on a gurney in the center, surrounded by too much space for someone so still. Joel and Tommy had left her there.

When Maria entered, she didn’t speak right away. Two volunteer doctors followed behind her, both of them already pulling on gloves. Ron and Gemma were old enough to hold a few years of experience before the pandemic started. They were efficient, enough at least.

Maria stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching as they moved around the woman; checking her breathing, cutting away the frozen fabric of her clothes, revealing skin that looked cold to the touch.

She didn’t look old, but not extremely young either. Maybe around thirty, or older. It was hard to tell under the rough effect of winter.

They were searching for wounds, for the hidden things the snow might have masked. Her skin was bruised in places, pale in others. The slash across her side had started to clot, the blood a deep, dark red now. She hadn’t stirred once. No flinch. No flicker behind the eyelids.

Still, she was breathing.

They had checked her at the gates for infection (protocol, as always) and she had passed. No bites. No spores. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except that she wouldn’t wake up.

Tommy stood against the wall, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Joel didn’t say anything. He was near the window, watching the light catch on the frost-covered glass. He was quieter than usual, but nothing that couldn't be blamed on the tension in the room.

“I have no idea how she's still alive ,” one of the doctors murmured to no one in particular, his voice too quiet for comfort.

Maria spoke. “You did good,” she said, eyes moving first to Tommy, then resting on Joel.

Joel didn’t respond right away. He nodded once, barely, and didn’t meet her eyes.

He turned and walked out a minute after that. And outside, the snow had hardened under the afternoon sun; boots pressed into it, leaving uneven prints as he moved away from the building.

Jackson. Hospital. One month later.

Dr. Hale placed the chipped teacup back on his desk. The surface beneath it was scuffed, wood worn smooth in places by years of use. He exhaled and raised his eyes to meet yours.

You were perched on the edge of the gurney. The fabric beneath you was stiff and clean. Your legs hung just above the ground, not quite steady.

“Well,” he began, “you’re officially discharged.”

Your body didn’t react. You just nodded, eyes fixed on the lines etched deep across his face. He was a nice man. Something about him reminded you of your grandpa John; extremely white hair, clean shaved with a thin mustache and really dark warm eyes. Funny enough, his voice was similar too.

“Everything looks good,” he continued. “There’s no sign of neurological damage. Your kidneys are doing what they should. Muscle tone’s coming back. You’re going to feel weak for a bit, specially in the cold, but that’s normal, okay?”

You nodded, even though you weren’t sure what exactly normal meant anymore.

He reached for a sheet of paper, started scribbling something without lifting his head. His hands were large, knuckles like knots, fingers marked by time and use.

“Eat well,” he said. “As much as you can. Rest. Come back in two weeks. And please—don’t go wandering around in the snow again. I’m not dragging you in a second time .”

You let out a soft laugh— small, startled by its own presence. “I promise.”

He stood then, with more ease than you'd expect from a man in his seventies. His height was solid, his frame still holding together in the way of someone who had decided long ago not to fall apart just yet.

He extended a hand toward you. His palm was dry, warm.

“Good job surviving,” he said. “Not everyone can say the same.”

And he was right.

You knew survival hadn’t been something you did , not really. You hadn’t fought through the cold. You hadn’t rescued yourself. You had been unconscious for at least an hour before anyone found you.

Joel and Tommy Miller had pulled you out of the snow. That was the truth.

When you were brought in, the prognosis wasn’t good. Severe hypothermia. Dehydration. Hypoglycemia. A really bad combination that didn’t leave much room for recovery. But they acted fast. Someone always did, in places like this. You had no memory of those first days. Only what they told you after.

You spent three days in intensive care. Five more in a shared ward. And somehow, you walked away with no permanent damage. No brain trauma. No infections. No organ failure. A miracle , someone had said. You weren’t sure if you believed in those.

After you were discharged, you didn’t have anywhere to go. So they found you a place.

The Rowells. An elderly couple with quiet voices and a spare room, took you in. Isabella, the wife, had met you in the hospital. She made tea the day you moved into their home. She told you stories about the town and her life before the pandemic. But she didn’t ask about your past.

You spent three weeks there, mostly horizontal. Reading when your eyes let you. Sleeping when you could. Waiting for your body to feel like yours again.

Tommy stopped by more than once. At least once a week, always with a bag of something— fruit, or socks, or gloves he claimed Maria had made. Sometimes she came with him. They never stayed too long. But they stayed long enough.

You knew other people had arrived in town recently . It made their visits feel even more meaningful. They'd chosen to make room for you in a life already full of demands, and you were grateful for that. For all of it, to be honest.

“You’re becomin’ a bit of a celebrity ‘round here, you know that?” Tommy said, voice light as he leaned back in the worn kitchen chair, a cup of tea balanced in his hand.

It was late afternoon, sun folding softly across the window of the Rowells' house. The place smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke, a smell you now started to link with being safe. Just cinnamon, Isabella making cookies or just throwing it around the room in the name of good fate.

You sat across from him, the chipped rim of your mug pressed to your lower lip, hands wrapped around it to soak up the heat.

You lifted your brows. “ Oh, yeah? Why?”

He grinned. “They talk about the woman who survived the snow. There’s a whole myth formin’. Some folks think it’s a miracle your fingers didn’t fall off.”

You laughed. “That’s dramatic.”

“I ain’t sayin’ it ain’t,” he said, chuckling. “But you gotta hear ‘em. They’re convinced. You know how many people ‘round here’ve lost toes? A few’ve lost more. And you—nothin’. Not even frostbite. You’re lucky.”

You looked down into your tea, watching the pale swirl of milk settle.

“Well, you saved me. You and your brother. If you hadn’t shown up, I’d be a frozen corpse halfway to town. A popsicle.”

Tommy made a sound between a sigh and a laugh. “A popsicle?”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“Well,” he said, tipping his cup toward you in a mock toast, “you’re resilient. That’s somethin’. Not many people survive that long in the cold, and with a wound? Actually, a few folks started callin’ you Snow. You know, mysterious stranger from the mountains, almost mythic.”

You laughed this time, an actual laugh, not the tight, polite kind. “Snow? Seriously?”

He shrugged, playful. “It’s catchy. Plus, the fact that no one’s seen you outside in a month adds to the intrigue.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Four walls, three meals a day, hours spent under blankets or seated near a window watching the sky shift. That had been your life since arriving in Jackson.

Recovery wasn’t linear. Some days you could walk for twenty minutes. Others, the cold made your joints ache and your stomach turn. But mostly, you stayed in. You rested. You waited to feel like someone again.

You cleared your throat gently. “I’ve been meaning to ask... do you think I could talk to your brother sometime? I haven’t had the chance to thank him.”

Tommy paused. The change in his expression was small but you caught it.

“Joel?” he asked. “He ain’t come by?”

You shook your head. “No. Was he supposed to?”

“Nah,” Tommy said, slowly. “But I told him where you were stayin’. Figured he might stop in.”

You nodded. “Right. Well... maybe he’s busy.”

There was a moment of stillness between you. Not awkward, exactly.

Tommy broke it gently. “When you feel ready, we can move you into your own place. Maria picked it out a couple weeks back. She’s been fussin’ over it, puttin’ up curtains and whatnot.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Really?”

He smiled. “Yeah. I didn’t wanna say nothin’ ‘til you were feelin’ better. It ain’t huge or nothin’. Two bedrooms, one bath. Just a short walk from the dinin’ hall.”

A warmth started to rise in your chest. “That sounds... amazing.”

He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ Maria plays favorites. But it’s a good spot. We figured you’d like it.”

You looked at him, and for a second something inside you softened. Something big, and real, and deeply grateful.

“Tommy, I haven’t had a home in a long time. Years, honestly. Decades, if I’m being real. You could’ve given me a shed and I’d still be grateful.”

He laughed, leaning back in his chair again. “Well, it’s a few steps up from a shed. I promise.”

You smiled. For the first time in weeks, it reached your eyes.

“When you’re ready,” he said, setting down his mug, “just say the word.”

Jackson dining hall. Two weeks later. Morning.

The sun was pouring through the high windows of the dining hall, catching in the steam that rose from bowls and mugs like vapor snakes.

The space hummed with life. Forks knocking against ceramic, chairs scraping over wood, conversation happening all at once and everywhere. Someone laughed in the far corner. Someone else said pass the salt.

The smell of beef stew lingered in the air and there was fresh bread, too. You could tell from the way the scent curled gently toward you. You closed your eyes and breathed in, letting the feeling settle in your chest.

You let yourself pretend, just briefly, that none of this had ever happened. That the world you knew had not ended. That you were somewhere safe, and always had been.

For a moment, with your eyes closed, it felt like home.

Jackson did that to you. It had a way of disarming your fear without making a spectacle of it. The town felt safe, like it had grown roots and decided not to move again. There was kindness here. You saw it in the way people nodded to each other on the street, in how they stayed at the market stalls just to talk. No one looked over their shoulder while they walked. That was new.

You’d adjusted quickly, maybe more quickly than you expected. There was no guilt in that, though sometimes it hovered on the edges of your comfort like a shadow. Was it normal? This comfort? Feeling safe after all of it?

But what else were you supposed to do? The bed they gave you was soft. The sheets were clean. You weren’t used to softness like that, not anymore, but you learned. You remembered how to fold your clothes. How to run a hot shower. How to breathe without urgency or fear or just...

The little things were the most disarming: soap that smelled like coconut, almond oil on your skin, a room that belonged only to you. A window that opened onto a street lined with planters and signs carved by hand. No smoke. No screaming. Just laundry on lines and children running between houses.

People were kind, too. Curious but never invasive. Last week, a few had approached you while you waited for your turn at the bakery or wandered back from the stables. Their questions were gentle: How’d you get here? Were you alone? Your answer didn’t change. A long walk, a bad fight, then nothing. You didn’t remember much after that.

No one pressed. That was something you respected deeply about this place. Everyone had their own version of silence, and they honored it in each other. Everyone was dealing with their own trauma, their own losses. And maybe that was the truest form of community you’d ever seen: understanding when not to ask.

They didn’t use your name. Not most of them, anyway. The Rowells did. Maria did. But everyone else, even Tommy, called you Snow . It had started like a joke, or a placeholder, and then it stuck. Not in a cruel way, it was never said with ridicule. If anything, it sounded like reverence.

You didn’t mind. After everything you’d lost, being called Snow felt oddly generous. A reminder that you were still here. That whatever had happened before you collapsed in the snow wasn’t all that you were now. Yeah, kinda ironic, right?

And maybe, deep down, you liked it.

Now, you were starting to feel something close to settled. It was subtle, the shift, more like a softening than a transformation, but it was there.

The past week had been spent tucking small pieces of yourself into the new house: hanging the spare coat on its hook by the door, folding the same blanket each morning and placing it neatly at the end of the bed. A ceramic bowl filled with dried flowers sat on the windowsill now. It wasn’t anything extravagant, but it looked like someone lived there.

You had energy again. Not from adrenaline or necessity, but the steadier sort that allowed you to move . You were sure, so sure, that you were ready to work. To use your hands for something other than holding a warm mug of whatever or steadying yourself against the edge of a table.

You’d brought it up with Maria and Tommy earlier in the week, suggested helping out where needed. They listened carefully, as they always did. Tommy even nodded. But then Maria had tilted her head in that gentle, assessing way, and said something about letting yourself land fully first. Letting your bones catch up to your heartbeat. They didn’t say the word, but you could feel it hovering: fragile. Not quite visible, but not quite gone either.

This morning, though, everything felt lighter. There was sun pouring through the cracks in the clouds, the snow retreating like it had finally grown tired. Go away. Spring was arriving in slow and nice intervals, a bud here, a patch of green there. Yup.

You put on the oversized wool coat Isabella gave you and walked to the dining hall with a loud purpose. Your legs didn’t tremble the way they had that first week.

Inside, the room was already full. Comforting noise, the human kind.

You moved along the edge, scanning for an empty seat, then slid into the corner of a long table, your tray balanced carefully in front of you. A bowl of stew. A heel of bread. And beside it, a small plastic container with a lid, something you'd packed yourself.

You weren’t eating yet. You weren’t even hungry, really.

You had seen him come in just before you.

Joel Miller.

Tommy hadn’t told you much about him, only what directly concerned you— that Joel had seen you first, out there in the snow. That he’d been the one to check for your pulse.

Beyond that, he remained a quiet, distant presence. He hadn’t visited while you were in recovery. He hadn’t said a word to you in passing. But you had seen him, more than once. Standing outside the stables. Walking the main road. Always looking ahead, always looking elsewhere. And each time, you waited for him to glance in your direction (just once) so you could approach him. But he never did.

And well, you only knew the basics. That he was 60 years old, and had a daughter. Not much else.

And yet now, here he was, seated alone at a small table against the wall. His elbows rested heavily on the surface, fingers laced together, eyes fixed on the plate in front of him.

You took a breath. Not a dramatic one, you thought.

Then you picked up your tray in one hand, and the small plastic container in the other.

You moved toward him. And while the rest of the room continued on around you, the sound seemed to soften. Distance insulated in its own quiet.

He didn’t look up when you reached his table, though you had the distinct feeling he’d known you were coming from the first step you took in his direction.

His eyes stayed on his plate. Still, you stood there, a small, polite pause between you.

“Hi,” you said quietly. “Joel?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just a flicker of acknowledgment; his eyes lifting to yours for the briefest moment, then dropping back to the plate in front of him.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said, rough, gravel settled into each syllable, like something scraped across the floor.

Up close, his eyes were darker than you remembered. You’d only seen him from a distance before, shadows moving across his face as he passed on the street. Eyes far away.

You swallowed, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth.

“I made these for you,” you said, setting the small plastic container down in front of him, careful not to let your fingers brush the edge of his tray. “They’re cookies. I baked them this morning. I’m not amazing at it, but... Isabella told me they turned out okay.”

Joel looked at the container, then back at his plate. He didn’t reach for it.

“Already got food.”

Your smile stuttered a little, but you held onto it. A sort of half-grin, the kind you give when you’ve already committed to being nice and just don’t want to withdraw it too soon.

“Yeah, no, of course,” you said. “I just thought, maybe, maybe you might want something sweet. And I wanted to thank you. For saving me. Tommy told me you were the one who—”

“You’re welcome,” Joel said, this time looking up fully. His eyes found yours and held, not unkind.

And then, nothing.

He looked away again, like the conversation had already happened and ended.

You waited.

A beat.

Then another.

He didn’t speak again.

“Would it be okay if I sat?” you asked, your fingers brushing the edge of the opposite chair.

Joel hesitated. “No, sorry.”

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat. The sting of it. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he interrupted, voice softer now. “Don't thank me. It’s done. We helped you. You’re safe. That’s enough.”

You nodded, eyes suddenly too aware of how exposed you felt standing there.

You reached for the cookies, unsure whether to leave them behind or take them with you, not wanting to look like you were withdrawing a gift, but not wanting to leave something that wasn’t wanted either.

And then the sound of a chair scraping broke the silence. Sharp and clumsy. You turned toward the noise.

A girl was sitting next to Joel now, energy filling the space immediately. She was watching you with curiosity, her expression open.

“Hey,” she said, grinning. “You’re the almost-dead girl.”

“Ellie,” Joel muttered, giving her a sideways look.

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing softly. The tension needed somewhere to go, and humor was a better place than most. “I guess that’s one way to introduce me.”

“Joel hasn’t said much,” she continued. “Just what everyone already knows. You’re like a miracle. Good thing you didn’t die.”

You let out another laugh, lighter this time.

“Yeah,” you said, glancing back at Joel. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. “Good thing.”

You hesitated for one more second, hoping he might say something else. But nothing came.

“Well, I should go,” you said, feeling the warmth rush to your face. The kind of warmth that comes with feeling out of place.

You reached for the container and picked it up again. The cookies. And then you turned away, walking back through the sea of tables, wishing you could shrink down into something smaller.

Two days later, on a gray afternoon.

Brushed steel sky, low and unmoving clouds. Wind was carrying a chill that felt out of place for spring. Like the season was unsure wheter it had permission to stay. Crisp hair, not cold, but cold enough to stink when it touched your cheeks.

You had thought about this a lot. More than you were willing to admit. Replaying the last conversation in your head, trying to see it from all sides.

Maybe you should’ve said less. Maybe he’d had a bad morning. Maybe he didn’t even mean to come off that way. You hadn’t been able to stop circling the maybes. But you kept arriving at the same conclusion: you had nothing to lose by trying again.

You stopped in front of his house.

You’d seen it before from a distance. It was a modest place, sturdy- looking, with a front porch that looked like it had been swept recently. There was care in it.

Mrs. Rowell had told you Joel was good with repairs.

“He rebuilt our staircase,” she’d said once, while pouring tea. “You can check them, he did a really good job.”

Now, you approached the door of his house with a basket in your arms, wrapped in a clean cloth that fluttered slightly in the breeze. Inside: warm bread, still soft, and a handful of cookies. The same kind you’d made before. Something simple, not too much, something you would’ve given to a neighbor in another life.

You hesitated on the porch. One breath, and then another. And then you knocked.

Footsteps padded toward the door. A pause, and then a voice, lighter than Joel’s, quicker.

“Who is it?”

It wasn’t him.

The door opened.

Ellie.

Her face lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, with the easy familiarity of someone who had already decided to like you.

You smiled, though it wasn’t exactly a smile but more like the shape of one.

“It’s actually…” You told her your name, your real name, the one people hadn’t used much in Jackson.

“Oh— shit. Sorry,” she said quickly, her eyebrows folding together in a sincere expression of guilt. “Didn’t mean to—yeah. I didn’t mean to make it a thing.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind the nickname. People started using it and it just sort of stuck, right?”

Ellie nodded, stepping aside a little, her hand still gripping the door.

“That’s probably for the best. Would be kind of hellish if everyone called you something you hated.” She looked at you then, expectant, as if waiting for you to say something back. But the silence stretched longer than she anticipated, and she shifted on her feet. “ Oh— shit. Sorry. Did you, um, want to come in?”

Your eyebrows rose gently. “Oh, no. No, it’s not that. I just…” Your voice trailed off, unsure for sure. You looked at the basket in your hands like it might explain for you. “I was hoping to talk to Joel. If he’s around. If that’s even—” you exhaled, a little frustrated at yourself, “— if that’s okay.”

Ellie tilted her head and squinted slightly.

“He’s not here. Went out about an hour ago. Why, though?”

“I brought this,” you lifted the basket. “Just to thank him. Nothing else.”

She watched you for a few seconds and then, she nodded, casual again.

“If you want, you can stay till he gets back. Or, I mean, I can give it to him .”

You hesitated.

“I’ll wait a bit,” you said finally. You glanced down at the basket, then up at her. “Do you like cookies?”

Ten minutes later, the two of you were sitting on the front steps of Joel’s porch while the basket sat between you like a third guest.

For some reason, you hadn’t stepped inside. It felt too intimate, too much like crossing into a place you hadn’t been invited, at all.

The air was crisp, sky still overcast. Every so often, a breeze tugged at your hair and made you pull your arms tighter around yourself.But Ellie didn’t seem to mind the chill. She was working her way through a cookie, eating it in small bites.

Every now and then, she’d offer up a scrap of conversation, something about the newest group of people who had arrived in Jackson, about how one of them had apparently tried to barter using a broken guitar. You listened, grateful for her easy way of speaking, the way she didn’t seem to expect anything profound from you.

You nibbled on a cookie, not really hungry, just needing to do something with your hands.

Another ten minutes passed.

Then... footsteps, pressed fully into the ground, not rushed, but not quiet either.

Ellie stopped mid-sentence. You both turned your heads toward the sound.

It was Joel.

He was carrying a stack of firewood in both arms, his shoulders set in a way that made him look like he’d been holding tension. His boots were caked with drying mud. And he didn’t see you at first; his eyes fixed somewhere ahead.

When he finally did notice you, just a few steps from the porch, he didn’t flinch or startle. But he didn’t smile either.

He let out a quiet exhale. Just a sound that suggested he was tired.

Without saying anything, he dropped the firewood next to the porch, and the logs landed with a dull thud, some rolling gently before coming to rest against one another.

Beside you, Ellie was still chewing, still holding the half-eaten cookie in her hand.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

You tried to sound lighter than you felt.

“Hi, Joel.”

Joel looked at you, his expression drained, same tired steadiness you’d seen at the dining hall.

“Told you it was okay,” he said.

You parted your lips to answer, but he cut in before the words could form. “What’re you doin’ here?”

Next to you, Ellie didn’t say anything. But you could feel her stillness, the way her energy retreated slightly.

You stood, brushing the back of your jeans with one hand, lifting the basket with the other. Both hands wrapped around it like an offering you weren’t sure would be accepted.

“Just wanted to drop this off,” you said. “For you. For Ellie too. It’s just bread and some more cookies. I thought maybe—”

“Don't have to thank me again. What I did... anyone would’ve done the same.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft sound, half amusement, half disbelief. “That’s not true.”

His eyes narrowed, confused or unconvinced.

“You found me in the snow, barely breathing,” you said. “You didn’t know me. You could’ve walked away. A lot of people would’ve. In this world... yeah.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes focused on something just over your shoulder.

“I’m not trying to make it into more than it was,” you said, softly now. “I just needed to say thank you. You saved my life. That means something to me.”

There was a long pause. Joel shifted his weight, then let out another breath, a heavier one.

He looked at you for a long beat. Then, finally, he nodded. It was so slight you might’ve missed it if you weren’t paying attention.

“I know,” he said. “And it’s okay. Really.”

Before you could think of how to respond, he stepped forward. His hand reached for the basket, and you instinctively pulled your fingers back so he wouldn’t have to touch you.

He took it, eyes flicking briefly to the cloth over the top.

“’Thank you,” he said. “We’re square. That’s it. You don’t need to come back.”

He turned away and stepped up onto the porch, his boots leaving faint marks on the wooden boards.

His back was to you now as he reached for the door. But before opening it fully, he glanced back, just barely.

“Ellie. Inside.”

Ellie looked between the two of you. Her eyes lingered on you for a second, something unsure across her face.

“See you around,” she said, smiling, then she walked past Joel and into the house.

You gave her a small nod, your smile returning like a reflex.

Just before he stepped inside, Joel turned slightly, his profile outlined by the doorway.

“Thanks for the bread,” he said. “And the cookies.”

He disappeared inside, and the door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, long enough to feel the cold pressing in against your coat. Then you turned around, hands now empty, and started back down the path.

You walked home.

Jackson dining hall. Four days later. Early morning

The dining hall was already halfway full and outside, the light was still thin and cold. You couldn’t wait until this was over.

Maria was seated across from you, posture confident, comfortable. Her hands were wrapped around a chipped white mug, steam rising from her tea and across her face.

“I just don’t think you’re quite ready for that kind of thing,” she said, watching you carefully over the rim. “And it ain’t about capability, necessarily. It’s about not risking further injury. If you really wanna do heavier tasks later, the best thing you can do right now is keep healing.”

You rested your forearms on the table, fingers clasped.

“I am healed. Really. I feel strong.”

Maria set her mug down with a faint clink. She smiled, not unkindly, but with tempered amusement.

“All right, what are you imagining?”

The question lit something inside you, like a switch being flipped. You sat up straighter.

“I’m a fast learner,” you said. “I mean, I don’t know everything, obviously, but I pick things up quickly. I’m not great in the kitchen, but I’m willing to learn. Or I could help at the hospital. I’ve had some first aid training, and I’d be happy to learn more. I could assist Dr. Hale, even if it’s just basic stuff. Triage. Organizing supplies.”

Maria tilted her head slightly, studying you.

“I just don’t want to be idle,” you continued. “I want to contribute. I’ve come out the other side of all this, and I don’t take that lightly. My body’s not perfect, but it’s holding up. I’m good at staying focused. I know how to be useful. And I'm really good following orders.”

As you were speaking, Tommy appeared beside Maria and slid into the chair next to her. He nodded at you in greeting, already catching the thread of the conversation.

“Good at followin’ orders, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow, arms folding across his chest.

You didn’t waver. “Yes. Very good.”

He gave a short laugh, exchanged a look with Maria—half teasing, half impressed.

“Well,” he said. “That’s good to hear. I might have somethin’ in mind for you.”

An hour later, you were folowing Tommy.

The building stood tall and unassuming on the outside, like it had been stitched into place. It was two stories high, and smelled of sawdust and coffee.

Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath your boots as you stepped in behind Tommy. Two men passed you near the entrance, one with a clipboard in hand, the other rattling off a list of supplies; nails, paint, tools, you heard.

The space downstairs was broad. Three closed doors lined one side, and a narrow staircase climbed the other. You barely had time to take it in before Tommy was already ascending, and you trailed behind him, heart tapping against your ribs. Not from the stairs, not really.

The upper hallway was quieter. A couple of the doors were open, and you could hear soft conversations, the rustle of paper, someone laughing behind one of them.

You glanced in as you passed, catching glimpses of tools and shelves and people.

At the end of the hall, the last door stood open. Tommy didn’t wait.

He knocked, three times, confident against the frame, then stepped inside before any invitation came.

You followed him without thinking. Without preparing yourself.

The room was spacious but spare. A large window covered nearly the entire far wall, framing the outsides of Jackson like a photograph. Through it, you could see the main path leading into town, a stretch of trees, the slope of the road, and people moving. It looked quiet.

To the left of the room, Tommy had already made his way toward a desk. Your eyes shifted instinctively to the man standing behind it.

“Joel,” Tommy said, and your attention snapped.

He was bent over a wide sheet of what looked like hand-drawn map, the paper creased and worn from use. He wore a thick vest over a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled past his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted faintly with dirt or graphite. There were glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and something about that startled you more than it should have.

Behind him was a whiteboard, and written in marker across the top were the words "Current Patrol Leads."

At first, he only looked at Tommy. His face lit up briefly, a short-lived smile across his mouth. And then, he turned his head toward you.

And the smile vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Joel asked.

Tommy grinned a little. “Bringin’ you some help.”

Joel’s brow creased immediately. He didn’t glance at you. “Help for what?”

Tommy tilted his head. “Unless I been hallucinatin’, you’ve been complainin’ every other day about how much you’re jugglin’ on your own.”

“Well, you are hallucinatin’, then,” Joel said flatly.

“She needs work,” Tommy continued, undeterred. “And you need someone. She’s capable, pays attention, follows instructions. I figured the arrangement might make sense.”

You didn’t speak. You weren’t sure you trusted your voice. You stood still, fingers curled against your sides, trying not to fidget.

Joel’s eyes found you, and the weight of that stare felt like being pressed between two panes of glass. Still, you didn’t look away

“What exactly’s she supposed to do?” he asked, now turning to Tommy again. “She ain’t strong enough.”

A flicker of frustration crossed Tommy’s face. He exhaled, slow through his nose, then said, “She ain’t here to lift beams. Delegate some of the admin work. Supply logs, shift schedules, volunteer lists. The kind of stuff you keep puttin’ off. She can help organize, maybe join you when you walk the sites, keep things movin’.”

Joel scoffed, a dry sound in the back of his throat.

“An assistant?” he asked, like it was a punchline.

Tommy nodded, amused. “That’s one word for it.”

Joel kept his arms crossed. His posture was rigid, but not angry, more like reluctant to entertain an idea he didn’t come up with himself. His eyes didn’t drift back to you. Not yet.

“Joel,” Tommy pressed, softer now, the name carrying insistence.

“Tommy,” he said, mimicking his brother’s tone.

“Joel.”

Joel blinked once, like he was trying to clear something from his head. “Ain’t there somewhere else she’d be more useful?”

“She could be useful here,” Tommy said, shrugging. “You got too much on your plate and you know it. Let her help, even if it’s just for a while.”

Joel sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the quiet hum of the building. His eyes finally moved (just briefly) to you. And then away again.

He looked at his brother, jaw set like he was chewing the words before letting them out.

“All right,” he said at last. “She can give it a shot. But she’s out the moment this stops workin’.”

Tommy turned to glance at you. “So? What d’you think?”

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. The room didn’t feel like yours to speak in. There was a tightness in your chest that made speaking feel like too much effort. It was difficult not to notice the way they had been talking about you, like you were a very complicated favor being negotiated.

“I can work somewhere else,” you said finally. “It’s fine.”

You didn’t wait to see their reactions. You turned and headed for the door. You barely registered the muffled conversation behind you, Tommy’s voice again, firm.

Your hand brushed against the banister as you descended the stairs. And outside, the air greeted you with a sharp inhale, and you stopped for a second to breathe it in, like it could steady something inside you.

Now that you’d left the room, now that you had space to think, it became painfully obvious that you’d misread everything. Joel hadn’t just been tired that day you showed up at his porch. It hadn’t been a matter of timing. This wasn’t about mood.

It was about you.

Whatever the reason, he didn’t want you around. Not at his house. Not at his workplace.

You started walking, unsure where you were headed exactly, only that you needed to keep moving. The ache in your chest hadn’t gone away, but it dulled with each step.

Then you heard someone behind you.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice called out, catching up. You turned to see him approaching.

“Don’t mind Joel,” he said as he reached you, tone lighter than it had been upstairs. “He’s had a rough couple of days.”

“It’s okay,” you said, shaking your head. “Really. I can find something else.”

“He said yes.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“He’s just—being difficult. That’s all,” Tommy insisted. “It’s nothin' to do with you.”

You pressed your lips together, unconvinced. There was too much evidence to the contrary.

Tommy tipped his head toward the building. “Come on. Let me show you around, get you familiar with what you'll be doing.”

And with that, he turned back without waiting for a reply, leaving you with little choice but to follow him.

Back inside, Joel was seated now. He looked up when you entered, blank expression, and removed his glasses and set them down beside a notepad.

Tommy gestured toward the empty chair across from Joel’s desk.

“Make yourself comfortable.” He looked at Joel directly. “Joel,” he added, like a warning dressed as a goodbye. “See you later.”

You watched him disappear down the hallway. And then, slowly, your eyes returned to Joel.

He looked larger somehow from that angle. Seated, yes, but his frame still imposing. His arms rested on the desk in front of him, the fabric of his shirt creasing at the elbows. His shoulders were drawn forward in a way that made him seem both powerful and fatigued. Strands of grey curled behind his ears, his hair unkempt. His eyes were pretty dark, settled somewhere near yours, but not quite on them.

“You can use the other desk,” he said after a moment, gesturing vaguely behind you with a tilt of his head.

You turned. The desk leaned awkwardly against the wall, cluttered with a mix of papers, boxes, and what looked like layers of dust. It didn’t seem like anyone had touched it in weeks.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t want me here.”

Joel didn’t respond to that. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossing over his chest as his gaze shifted to the window beside you.

“You can get set up after we move that stuff,” he said, voice low, almost to himself. “Most of it’s junk. I kept it there thinkin' I’d want everythin' within reach while we were workin'. Guess that didn’t pan out.”

You said nothing. The silence grew between you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, but after a beat, he glanced your way.

Your hands were folded tightly in your lap. A quiet sigh escaped your nose. You could feel the static in the air between you, that feeling of someone growing less patient with every second.

You looked out the window, just to break the contact. He exhaled audibly.

“You should get a feel for the job first—” he started.

“I’ve done this before,” you cut in, meeting his eyes. Not defensive. Just a fact. “A few years ago. Lists, schedules, checking inventory. I’ve done it.”

He didn’t move. “You don’t know how things work 'round here.”

“I’ll learn.”

Joel nodded, more to himself than to you. “Good.”

He stood up in one motion, the chair scraping against the floor as it slid back. You watched him cross the room, moving toward the coat rack without any sense of urgency. He grabbed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

“I’ll send someone to walk you through how we do things. In the meantime, clear off that desk. Just—don’t throw anythin’ away yet.” His voice was still flat, businesslike. Then he turned slightly at the door, barely lookin’ over his shoulder. “Got it?”

You nodded. “Got it.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t say goodbye. He just opened the door and stepped out, leaving it open behind him.

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