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It’s well past midnight when the door opens and she slips inside. Her key clatters when she throws it on the kitchen table and despite her best attempt to stay quiet, the floor creaks under her heavy boots.
You’ve tried to relax, but it’s always difficult when she’s away. The smuggling in itself is already dangerous (something you know she knows, because she never lets you come), but there’s also a million things that worry you around it. Leaving the QZ? Bullet between the eyes. Being out after curfew? Bullet between the eyes. Illegal trading of cards? Bullet between the eyes.
The QZ isn’t all it’s made out to be on the outside. Even though the risk of infection is much smaller here, any misstep can easily be your death. Only last week you had seen two lovebirds hanging for meeting after dark.
By the time she slips in behind you, she has taken her boots and jeans off. The flannel still hangs around her shoulders and the tank top underneath has slipped up enough that you can feel the warm skin of her stomach against your back.
“You awake?” she murmurs softly and sometimes that gentleness surprises even yourself. You don’t know her full story, no one ever knows anyone’s full story anymore, but you know the past ten years have been a lot kinder on you than on her. She has aged in a way she wouldn’t have if the world had still been normal. There’s still the normal signs of age, of course. Wrinkles around her eyes when she smiles, the stray gray hair here and there, but it runs deeper than that. She’s exhausted and sometimes she only leaves bed because FEDRA could very well have her head if she didn’t. Every bone in her body hurts and she wears her grief like armor, has built walls so high and thick they’re worse than the ones around the QZ.
Still, she manages to be kind, gentle. You know what she does on her runs with Joel, you’re not blind or stupid. She has seen more violence than you can ever dream off, and you know she has killed. Not only infected.
You finally hum a reply when her nose bumps against the back of your head. One of her arms wound around your middle and she toys with the hem of your shirt. The worn fabric has hiked up around your waist, and every brush of her finger against your skin burns like fire.
“I think this used to be one of mine.”
A scoff leaves you, even though it’s entirely true. The band logo has long since been washed away and there’s holes in it, but it reminds you of her. When you’re lucky, it smells just like she does and feels like something akin to one of her hugs. It’s the only thing that gets you through most nights when she’s gone. That and burying your head in her pillow until your head swims with her and the pillow suffocates you enough that you had to pull away for a proper breath of air.
Her fingers linger on the shirt. She doesn’t voice her thoughts, she so rarely does, but you would do just about anything to know what she’s thinking about. The silence stretches into minutes, maybe even hours, and you’re moments from sleep when she slips her hand from the hem of your shirt to your belly. Fingers trail mindless patterns and you wish you could stay in this moment until you die.
Tess moves lower, but so slowly she could chalk it up to your imagination if you asked. A thumb brushes just below your belly button and she nudges you with her other arm until you raise your head and allow her to slip it beneath you. When you settle against her bicep, she’s suddenly so close it feels as if you might morph into her.
“How was the run?” You ask, finally, and your voice sounds too loud in the quiet of the room. The entire building is asleep and one too loud noise could very well wake your next door neighbors. It could result in a complaint, but it rarely does. People have more urgent things to worry about than loud voices in the night.
“It was fine, sweetheart”, she murmurs, and her lips brush the back of your neck. It sends a shiver down your spine and warmth to the pit of your core, and you can practically feel her smirk against your skin. “I’ve told you not to worry about it.”
Your reply catches in your throat when her fingers reach the edge of your underwear, and whatever you wanted to say is lost.
It takes her a moment before she slips her fingers beneath the hem, and she brushes her fingers just below the fabric. Her lips brush against the back of your ear and hums something. You couldn’t make it out even if you wanted to, not when her nails catch against your skin and scratches softly.
“Tess”, you mumble softly and she chuckles, finally lets her fingers brush lower, through coarse curls until one lithe finger circles your clit. It’s enough to send tiny sparks up your spine.
“Tess”, you repeat when her fingers still and only lingers against the warmth of your skin, and her smirk is more evident now than ever.
Carefully, as if not to disturb her own hand, Tess slides a knee in between your thighs to give her some more space. When she’s satisfied with the new position, two fingers rub against the bud where you need her the most, and a soft sigh leaves you.
Nothing to take away the tension of the day quite like her hands.
“I’ve told you to relax”, she murmurs, just as she slips her two fingers through your already damp folds. “You never listen.”
A soft chuckle leaves you. If anything, you do listen. More so than she ever does, anyway, but this isn’t anything new. She’ll come marching in and curl up behind you and mutter soft nothings like it doesn’t help her relax as much as it helps you.
When she exhales, the breath of air tickles the baby hairs at the base of your scalp, and the shiver that runs through you isn’t all sex. It’s just as much knowing that she’s safe, and that she’s here and that even now, when it feels as if the world is ending, she’s yours.
One of her fingers brush against your clenching hole, and she huffs another ‘relax’, before she nudges a finger inside you. It’s not enough and too much, all at once. You clench around the intrusion, and glance over your shoulder in an attempt to look at her. She gets the hint and captures your lips before you can say anything, and the kiss is slow and gentle.
Her lips still taste like the liquor she and Joel must’ve shared and there’s a lingering taste of smoke, one you would usually scoff at (it’s like kissing an old ashtray, Tess!), but not today. You’re too tired to pretend to hate it, and melt into her every touch.
When she finally moves her finger, it’s agonizingly slow. She pulls away until nothing is inside you, then pushes it back inside just as slowly. She muffles your soft whimpers with her lips, swallows every sound like she’s starving.
It’s impossible to tell how long it’s been when she adds a second finger. She meets no resistance whatsoever, but you know it doesn’t come as a surprise to either of you. Most of her hand is soaked and your panties are sure to be ruined.
She picks up the pace and grinds the heel of her palm against your clit, moves as if the brush is entirely accidental even though it isn’t. You know that she knows exactly what she’s doing, and it’s driving you mad.
“Fuck”, you mewl softly when you break the slow kiss, and turn away from her. Your head immediately drops to the pillow beneath your head, twists until you can press your face into it to muffle any noise.
Her breathy laugh straight into your ear has you shuddering, and the next time she thrusts a finger into your warm cunt, it’s with a little more drive than before. It goes just a little deeper, and she’s merciless when she brushes the tip of her fingers against the spot inside you that makes you see stars. She massages that spongy spot until your thighs feel weak and your fingers are clutching the sheets so tightly your knuckles must’ve turned white by now.
“C’mon”, she murmurs, and her voice is the kind of hoarse it only ever gets when she’s tired but refuses to sleep. “C’mon, darling.”
Her voice and the continued movement of her fingers coaxes the orgasm from you. The small cry that leaves you is swallowed by the pillow, as is the shuddering sob that follows.
She keeps her fingers moving, slower now, and her hand brushes against your clit every few moments to make sure you get the most out of your high. You tremble in her arms and whine into the pillow, bucking your hips in an attempt to both get away and get closer at the same time.
It takes a moment, until you come back to reality. The messy cloud that has made anything unimportant for a moment disappears, and an exhaustion seeps into your bones, as if you haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in years.
The sheets beneath you are damp with sweat, but neither of you care to move. There’s hardly any clean sheets to use, anyway, and the mattress underneath is so disgusting you’re entirely sure not even a stray dog would use it without one. But, it’s the way of the world, these days.
“Now, sleep”, she murmurs. “It’s late.”
When you make yourself comfortable and glance out the small window in the wall, the sky has shifted from a midnight blue to a soft pink. It’s nice. Even if it’s only another two or three hours until the alarm clock shrieks, it almost feels like before. Someone in an apartment close by has put on the radio, and the soft tune of Hungry Heart lulls you to sleep, still in Tess’ soft embrace.