#milf!tess x reader

[seventeenpins]

just like heaven

pairing: best friend's mom!Tess x stoner!reader word count: 5k summary: Your best friend's mom catches you smoking in her living room. She teaches you a lesson. content/warnings: dubcon, intoxication, Tess is predatory, age gap, an exceptional amount of weed smoking, virgin!reader, smut smut smut, mommy kink, a lil bit of softness because I’m the one writing it 🤷, Tess gets you high and fucks you a/n: okay this is literally just a porn scenario, with the express purpose of celebrating morally grey predatory lesbians, working on pushing my own boundaries as I write, and an ode to Tess Servopoulos, who I would be honoured to have step on me. Shoutout to @ozarkthedog for the title, for being my whole heart and for allowing me to scream horny Tess thoughts at you every minute of the day, and to @ems-chaos-corner whose feedback and beautiful reactions are deeply appreciated, truly cherished, and an absolute fucking joy! 🥹

It's Friday night and the week's been a shit show. The week kicked off with a work catastrophe, and the second the fires had been put out, up started the roommate drama.  You had just picked up fresh bud, but you'd left your bong at the home of your friend. Or rather, his mom's home, in whose basement he resides.

You and Charlie have known each other most of your lives, but his mother had been a workaholic, rarely at home, and memorable only from birthdays and holidays. Near the end of her marriage, she discovered her husband had been having an affair. To settle the score, she fucked his mistress.

It was the most enduring of the neighborhood gossip, and though you knew Tess, at least a little bit, you found yourself almost mythologizing her.

Since the divorce, Tess became much more present as a mother. She worked a few less hours and invited her son to live in her lavish, post-divorce home, rent free, as he made his way through college.

You didn’t see her often, but you liked her. And, she thought of you as one of Charlie’s “good” friends, as the two of you had never gotten into any legal trouble, and you always felt a little special, knowing she was cool with you. You’d seen her glare down Charlie’s other friends, but you swear, she even winked at you once.

So now, the plan–

Charlie was gonna meet you here, and then you were gonna hang out and smoke together. He assured you his mom wouldn't be home for hours–she’s got a big press conference tonight. 

But you'd just gotten a call from him; one of your coworkers called out, and he's already there, so he's gonna pull a double and get that sweet, sweet overtime pay.

(He did ask if you wanted the shift. You told him absolutely not, but appreciated the consideration.)

He texts you when he's on his break. Sorry I bailed! Will make it up to you! You can chill at mine as long as you like. You can crash too. I know you hate the basement, so go smoke in the living room. Mom won't be home till late, and the fan works great. I do it all the time.

It's a relief, not feeling relegated to his room. It was a fine room, you supposed, but stumbling upon crispy socks twice has been two times too many. And, maybe, you’d have a chance to snoop.

It's eight pm. You've been at Charlie's for an hour, and you're finally starting to feel the stress of the day ebb away. You let your eyes flutter closed as you clear the chamber and hold in the smoke. You start to let it out, but reel back coughing when the lights are suddenly switched on, startling you badly enough you jump a foot into the air.

"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" says a cool voice, and you feel your stomach flip with sudden terror, eyes flying open.

Tess stands in the doorway, glowering.

It takes you a minute, a mortifyingly long minute, for the coughing to subside. The more you try to suppress it, the worse it gets, and the whole time, she’s glaring at you.

"I'm not really close to my mom." You tell her. She stares at you blankly.

"Not the fucking point." She says, but now she looks like she's holding back a laugh.

"Sorry," you try to explain, "I didn't know anyone would be home, I thought you had a work thing–"

She rolls her eyes before turning and making a show of opening all of the windows.

"Remember, this is my fuckin house, kid," she snaps at you, "Press conference was cancelled.”

“Oh,” you frown, “That sucks.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tess rolls her eyes. "Yeah. It fucking sucks. The production’s truck got broken into at the last fucking second and we lost half our gear.”

“Well, shit.” You're not quite sure where to go with this, what to say.

You look away for a moment, awkward and uncomfortable, but she makes no move to go anywhere. When you look back, you realize she's still looking at you, eyes sweeping you up and down before landing on your emptied water glass, still damp with condensation, sitting next to a coaster. Quickly, you scramble to correct it.

"We gotta work on your manners," she says and nods, decision made.

“Hey, I’m– I’m sorry. I should go. I shouldn’t be here, didn't mean to be in your way- And I’m sorry, again—"

She ignores you, your rambling falling on deaf ears. She strides across the room and seats herself down on the sofa opposite you. You envy the way she carries herself, the way she seems to swagger pussy-first, sits down with her legs spread, commands the entire space. She's kind of... magnetic. There's something about her that makes your stomach do flips.

"Aren't you gonna offer me a hit?"

"Oh." You weren't expecting this. "I– Yeah, do you want–"

"Why don't you come over here. Sit with me."

"Um, sure-" you say, and you pick up the bong and lighter and start to sit down next to her, nearly trying to budge up next to her outspread legs.

But she stops you before you can touch her and grabs you by the wrist, patting her knee.

"Right here, sweetheart," she smirks.

Your stomach flips. "Oh no, I don't think that-"

"It's alright, honey, I don't bite."

It's less of a request and more of a command. Your heart, which had only been a little settled for a moment, started to race again.

"Oh- okay."

You lower yourself down.

"Face me," she corrects you. You'd been going to sit on her knee with your own knees pressed together. You redirect your limbs and swing a leg over her, so you're straddling her thigh.

"Good girl," she tells you, and as if you don't need a whole moment to reevaluate your entire life, she continues, seemingly oblivious. It's a casual, almost disinterested, "So, what is it we're smoking?"

"Um, it's... it's weed-"

She barks a laugh and it nearly startles you. It doesn't mean anything, the way you feel yourself bounce on her leg, the pressure at the inseam- "Yeah, kid," she snorts, "I figured that bit out myself."

"Of course," you mumble, humiliated, "Sorry, being stupid-"

She cuts you off. "When I was your age- well actually, how old are you? You even old enough to buy this shit?"

"Twenty-one," you admit with a wince, suddenly wishing you had at least a decade on your actual age.

"You're killin' me, kid," she huffs out a long breath and shakes her head.

It only derails her for a moment.

"Well, when I was your age, this shit wasn’t even close to making it onto the ballot, let alone get legalized. We didn't know anything about strains. We'd get a dry little dime bag for ten bucks. It usually turned out to be mostly shake and seeds, but that's all we could get, so we'd pay the creep who lived down the street and tried not to piss him off cause he was the only weed guy we knew."

"Well." You're not quite sure what to say. "That sounds like it sucked. I guess times aren’t so different though. There’s a really creepy budtender at the shop this side of town. But there’s also a cute girl who works there. It’s overpriced and looks like a fuckin’ Apple Store. Whenever she’s working, though, she slips me a couple extra pre-rolls. So it’s kinda worth it."

You see something in her eyes flash and then return to her steady gaze.

"It's been years since I've smoked," she admits. "Well, weed at least. Still smoke the occasional cig.”

"Oh really, why’d you stop?

"Well, I don't think I've smoked regularly since my early twenties. We lost our dealer and it just didn't seem worth it to find another. It was really just word of mouth, where I was living.”

"Your dealer get caught or something?"

"Not exactly. See, he'd tried to slip his hand up a girls' skirt and the girl was decidedly not into it. The asshole ended up with a shattered nose. I've always loved how they described it. Shattered. Served him right."

You nod.

"He decided it maybe wasn't worth it." She pauses. "So. I guess your generation has fancy fuckin dispensaries, and my generation had the weed guy. Your generation has such dumbass names for strains and, and mine crossed our fingers hoping we weren’t just gettin’ stems and seeds."

You're silent for a moment.

Then, stumbling and foolish, you ask her a question.

"How old are you?"

"Old enough to be your mother." She smirks and your stomach flips. “Now, let's see what it's like these days, shall we?"

From her jeans pocket she withdraws a flint-wheel lighter. It’s old, but it's nice. The initials TS are engraved on the case.

She opens it and flicks it a couple of times with practiced ease. It doesn't take at first, and she mutters something about dammit–! need to refill it–, but on the third spark it lights.

You start to pass her the bong, but she lights the bowl and pushes it back towards you.

"Fill the chamber for me? It's been a while-"

You do. Smoke swirls through it, thick as soup and glossy. You pass it back to her.

Tess doesn't break eye contact with you as she almost clears it, only a thin whisper left circling the chamber.

It's a lot of smoke, and either she's lying about not having smoked, or she's insane, because that's a lot of smoke.

When she clears the chamber, she only holds it for a moment, places the bong on the floor next to her and, to your surprise, pulls you in.

It's not quite a kiss but she's holding the back of your head so you lean in, open mouthed, as if it were. Instead of kissing you properly, she exhales the smoke into your mouth, floods you with it, and when she's done breathing out, she places a palm over your mouth and blocks any breath from escaping.

"Hold it, honey, that's right-" she praises.

You can feel your eyes start to water, the way you're not quite coughing yet but you're pretty sure the second you try to breathe any of it out, you'll be lost.

With her pinky knuckle, she prods into the bowl of the bong again and moves the bud around, so the most charred bit is discarded and fresh bud is at the top.

"You can let go now," Tess tells you, finally pulling her hand away.

You let out the smoke and, as you predicted, fold over yourself starting to cough. Tess just smiles, and fills the chamber again.

By the third time she has you clear the chamber, not even using her lungs as proxy anymore, you can taste your heartbeat and the room isn't fading, exactly, it's more dotting. The world around you is a pointillism piece that's unfinished in inexplicable spots.

Your skin feels like it's dancing, and there are hands gliding along your hips, up your waist, grazing your breast-

"How’re you feeling, kid?" a voice asks, and you know where you are.

"Mmmm- Good." you sigh, "I feel good. You feel good."

"Oh, do I?" she asks. The hands continue to trace paths all over your body.

"Your hands. Real nice. You feel real nice."

Her eyebrows raise. Her head tilts. She's examining you.

Tess's hands settle on your waist. You barely notice the way she's rocking you gently towards her, and back again. Forwards, and backwards.

You hear a moan, desperate and raw, and you don't realize you're the source of it until you watch the way her eyes darken.

"Have you been with a woman before?" Tess asks.

You grin, sheepish. "Not really-"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "What does ‘not really’ mean?"

“I…” you chew your lip. “I guess I haven’t technically done… much. With anyone.”

Tess’s eyes widen.

You try to backpedal, worried it sounds too silly, too immature, that it's a turn-off for her. That wherever this was going, it's about to make a swift one-eighty. Suddenly sobered, you stammer on. “I mean, I’ve kissed girls before. And, like, played with their tits, you know?”

"Shit," Tess's voice is close to a growl, and for one awful moment you're certain she's about to call the whole thing off and tell you to get off her lap.

You know where you've found yourself. On the lap of someone far too old for you, rocking you against her thigh, letting her hands grope you however she pleases-

Her hands still, and you’re shocked at how immediately you feel bereft.

“And you want me to be your first woman?” She asks, voice velvety and dangerous.

“Yes,” you say, not even thinking about it. “I want you to be my first.”

Tess breathes out slowly, and only then do you realize exactly what you’ve said. The silence is terrifying, and with every microsecond that passes, you’re more sure she’s going to throw you out.

Then she starts bouncing her thigh, the motion creating the most unexpected and desperately needed friction. It’s gentle, but you can feel the way her muscles tense and relax, and every part of it might drive you insane.

You stifle a moan, needing her to say something, but not wanting to jeopardize the position you’ve found yourself in. Maybe if she thinks about it, she’ll stop, and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

"I bet I can teach you a thing or two."

Your jaw drops comically.

"Teach me?" you ask.

"Teach you how to make a woman feel good. How to use your fingers, put that pretty mouth to use-"

You feel yourself heat at her praise, and she grins, brushing a thumb against your lower lip.

"I think-" you know your voice sounds pathetic and worn and woozy from the harshness of the hits you took, "I think I maybe.. I think I have a lot to learn."

“But first,” her grin becomes truly wicked and you feel the tension that's been building in you start to twist, get hot and slick and desperate. Her hand trails down to your neck, her thumb resting over your pulse point. “You seem nervous, honey. Let’s help you relax a little more.”

She picks the bong back up. “Pack us a fresh bowl, will you?”

“More?” you ask. You can already feel the redness of your eyes, and know that any more will make you stupid.

“More.” Tess agrees.

“We could just, like, start by making out?” you suggest.

Tess doesn’t even try to hide her smirk.

“You wanna make out?” she taunts, lip curled.

“Fuck, Tess, I’m high–” you whine, “I didn’t mean that to sound so high school.”

“God,” she sighs, shaking her head, “You’re so damn young.”

And after a moment elapses.

“Go on,” she nods to the bong, and you remember what you were meant to be doing.

You stand up, immediately aching, missing the way her strong thigh had rubbed between your legs. It occurs to you that you may have left a wet spot on her pants.

You make quick work of it, emptying out the ash and packing a fresh bowl.

“You wanna kiss me, pretty girl?” she asks.

“Yes-” you sigh, and you all but dive forward, only to receive a gentle hand to your shoulder, holding you back.

“Here’s the deal, sweetheart. Every hit you take, you get a kiss.”

“I– Tess I can’t– I’ll be so high I’ll be stupid–”

“No, baby,” Tess croons, “You’ll be nice and relaxed. You’ll get to feel my hands all over that beautiful body of yours. You’ll be my good girl.”

She grins when you let out an involuntary whine.

“You wanna be a good girl for me, don’t you? And when you really need to tap out, I’m sure we can find another way to make sure you get all the kisses you need. Okay?”

You nod, suddenly desperate to please. Of course you can take it. You’ll be so, so good for her. And you’ll get to feel her lips on yours, feel her hands explore you, touch you, take–

The first hit is dizzying, but it mellows out quickly.

Emboldened, you grin at her. “Fair’s fair,” you declare.

Tess rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, too. “C’mon up, honey.”

You put the pipe down and straddle her. You give yourself just a moment to feel her here, hot and soft and lovely between your thighs. You love the way you can feel her abdomen rise and fall with her breath, and smell her hair.

Slowly, carefully, you lean in. Soft, firm lips press against yours, and you feel a heat inside you immediately combust, roar to life. You’re filled with such unadulterated need, you think you might die.

Then, she pulls away, and you reel.

“No-“ you whimper, and she lifts the bong back up to you.

You don’t know how many hits you take, each punctuated with another press of her lips to yours. You’ve never smoked like this, never this much. The world is dizzy and foggy, but her hands are grounding. They rub broad circles into your aching shoulders, tease you with feather-light touches. 

It’s unclear how much time has passed, but after she pulls away from another kiss, she holds you back when you move to pick up the pipe.

“I think you’ve had enough,” she croons. You love her voice, the way she’s soft with you.

You blink lazily at her and lean in for another kiss.

Instead, she pulls back.

“Honey, don’t forget. Like I said, you’ll have another way to earn these kisses.”

“Want you,” you mumble. Being apart from her for even these moments feels torturous. You need her skin against yours.

“For every article of clothing you take off, you’ll get to touch me.”

You focus on her words, making sure you’re getting it right through the fog in your head.

“Can I—” you trail off.

“Can you what?”

“Can I take it all off? And then I can touch you as much as you like?”

“Well, aren't you ambitious?” She smirks, and then considers, tilting her head side to side. “I suppose that would work. But I want you to put on a show for me.”

You scramble up, with much speed and little grace. She huffs a laugh when you nearly topple as you pull your jeans down.

“Slowly, baby. Want to watch you.”

You do your best to slow down, peeling each garment off, one by one, and leaving them in a disorganized heap.

“That’s it,” she praises, “Doing such a good job.”

When you’re nearly bare, you hesitate, fumbling with the band of your panties. This moment, this moment, feels like the point of no return.

“I— I wanna see you.” You say, suddenly more focused, and very nervous.

“Baby, you’re still wearing your panties.”

She says it sweetly, but you know it’s not a request. It’s a command. You slip them down, now totally naked before her. 

You realize; this is the first time you’ve been so fully naked in front of someone who wants to fuck you.

Doubt and anxiety start to cloud your mind as Tess looks you up and down.

You speak without thinking, “Am I pretty?”

It’s such a simple, inane question. But Tess doesn’t hesitate.

“Of course you are, baby. You’re stunning.” She states, and it’s definitive. Who would ever question Tess?

Warmth rushes back through you, your body suddenly hot again with arousal, banishing any lingering fear. You let yourself feel the fog, feel the sensation.

You relax as you stand, enjoying the feeling of ambient air on your body, the breeze from outside sifting through the hair on your arms and legs.

“Come back to me,” Tess prods, and you realize you’ve been standing with your eyes closed. You open your eyes, and you’re shocked when you see that Tess herself is naked before you. Her hair cascades down her shoulders, golden-brown silk adorning her, streaks of gray at her temples. Her body is firm and toned, but she has her fair share of scars and dimples and cellulite. Stretch marks decorate her belly, old but beautiful with the way they gleam pearlescent in the light.

“You want to touch me?” She asks, and you nod. Hand outstretched, you move towards her. She reaches her hand out to meet you, grasps your palm and kisses your fingertips.

It feels like worship.

“Come with me,” she tells you, and you follow, hand in hers. She brings you to her bedroom, one room in this house you’ve never seen. You want to pay attention to all of it, but you cannot focus. You cannot tear yourself away from her.

She guides you, seating you at the head of the bed with legs spread. Then, she settles herself in between them, spreading her own legs. You can feel her ass against your thighs, the heat radiating from her. You want so badly to touch.

“How do you like to touch yourself?” She asks, and you pause.

You know what you like, but you’ve never actually had to describe it before.

“I, um-“ you swallow. “I like to, uh, work myself up. Play with myself all around, um—“

“Your pussy?”

“Yeah, all around my pussy. And then, when I’m ready, I rub my clit. Make little circles above it. Maybe put a finger or two in, if I feel like it, but usually it’s enough with just my clit.”

Tess nods, and you feel the rumble of a sigh through her body. 

“Touch me like that,” she commands.

And you do.

You slip your arms around her, stroking her thighs. Muscles tense beneath your fingers, and you hear her groan.

Gently, slowly, you trace fingertips closer and closer to her apex. You brush along her inner thighs, and feel victorious when she stifles a gasp. Then, you stroke the outer confines of her vulva, feeling how hot she is between her thighs. The hair between her legs feels sensational against your skin, especially in your high, and you get lost in the feeling of it. You’re touching her. You’re touching her. And she likes it.

She lets you continue to stroke at her, all around her, everywhere but the place she wants you most. Then, you realize you feel a trickle of wetness from her, and you dip your fingertips down to catch it. You slide back up, through her folds, catching so much slickness. She’s wet, she’s so fucking wet, and she’s wet for you. 

You rub your fingers together, obsessed with the almost egg-white slick stringing translucent between them. Everything that you wondered about yourself, worried was an anomaly, proven absent in porn–it’s like a revelation. She’s just like you. And she’s totally different. She’s a mirror, and an entity complete and singular.

She’s a fucking goddess.

You pull her hood back and swipe a slick thumb lightly against her clit. Immediately, you’re dizzy at the sensation of her rolling her hips against you, pressing against you, towards your fingers, trying to get more friction. You barely get any physical contact from her the way you need, but the proximity alone is overwhelming. 

You rut up against her, knowing there’s nothing for you to get yourself off on here without changing position entirely. But the closeness is incredible. You feel your own wetness smear on her back and her ass, the way you’re dripping. And Tess, her back pressed against your breasts, occasionally dipping to nibble kisses along your throat and jaw.

Lost between sensation, and curiosity, you reach through the fog. You want to do a good job. You want to make her feel good. It’s interesting, you think, all the ways she feels different to you. Her labia are a little longer, spreading over your fingers as you stroke along her slit again and again. She’s making the loveliest sounds, whines and moans and whimpers, sounds you never thought you’d hear from her.

When you press your fingers against her clit again, she almost yelps, but the yelp morphs into a deep moan as she starts rocking against the pressure, chasing the sensation. It feels so similar, but totally foreign at the same time. You dip a couple of fingers into her opening. You stroke her how you stroke yourself. And then you move to press in deeper, and the angle’s all wrong. You suddenly feel embarrassed. Of course vaginas aren’t all the same! You try again, relaxing your fingers, slowly massaging into her. She gently rests her hand on yours. You think she might pull it back. Instead, she guides it, angling your fingers just right so they’re slipping into her tight heat and lets out a heaving sigh.

If she’d been trying to stay quiet, to hide from you the effect you’re having on her, that all goes out the window when you start pumping into her.

Now that you have the angle right, you drive your fingers in again and again, scissoring her open, pressing all the soft and lovely bits inside her till she’s howling.

“Fuck,” she hisses, “Oh baby that’s it, keep fucking me with those lovely fingers, you’re doing such a good job–”

You slip in a third finger and her words turn to a breathy jumble of yes, please, more—

She feels so delicious against your fingertips, massaging into her again and again. You love the texture of her. 

Flicking a thumb over her clit as you pump in and out in measured strokes, her whole body begins to convulse.

“Fuck!” She shouts, “Fuck, I’m—”

She comes with a cry, shaking in your lap, and you continue to stroke her through it.

When her body stops trembling and her breathing slows, she tilts her head back, resting on your shoulder, gracing you with a throaty laugh.

“Shit, kid,” she she looks dazed, totally fucked out. You should really get a trophy for this. Or a medal. Made Tess Servoupolous Nut So Hard She Saw God, it would say.

As she finishes catching her breath, she reaches her arm around you and strokes your hair. “You did good,” she tells you, “A real natural.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Fuck if I haven’t been needing that.”

She peels herself from you, the sweat between you adhering your tits to her back, and it’s almost funny the squelch that your bodies make. 

And then, she’s on top of you, moving you again, body soft and malleable. She’s spreading your thighs, your soaked cunt grinding against her own– puffy, slick and spent. 

She smiles at you. “Last chance, sweetheart. You want me to make you feel good? Play with that pretty pussy? Pop that cherry, once and for all?”

The haze returns, and it can’t be just the high, not coming over you like this. No. It’s her. It’s her scent, her power, her skin against yours, and you need need need–

“Give it to me–,” you beg, and she does.

Long fingers part you, slide inside, scissor and twist. It’s slow at first, almost gentle. But you don’t need gentle right now. You need her, every part of her.

You grind against her fingers, the heel of her palm putting pressure right against your clit. 

“You’re being such a good girl,” she coos, “Opening up nice and wide for mommy, that’s it–”

It’s unexpected, and if you’re being honest, it’s a little bit weird.

But that doesn’t fucking matter because fuck it’s hot–

Your legs spread further, in part from Tess’s coaxing, and in part because they seem to want to fling themselves open all on their own. 

Two fingers increase to three, and then to four, and she’s pumping in for all she’s worth with her hand, her thumb pressed against your clit, pressing your button like she’s made for it. You’re trying to find words but you can’t–all you can do is moan and whine and rut against her, with nothing more than “Tess, please– Mommy mommy oh my god mommy your fingers feel so fucking good—”

And she grins at you wickedly, and keeps at her ministrations as she praises you– “Taking my fingers so fucking well. That’s a good girl, that’s it, oh honey– I can feel how you’re dripping down my wrist, how good you’re clenching round me. It’s okay, baby, you can let go. Let go for me, sweetheart, c’mon, let go–”

You come with a shout, pussy drenching her as she fucks you through it.

As you catch your breath and come down, she strokes your thighs, trails pruney fingertips across your stomach.

“You’ve been so good for mommy,” she smiles, eyes crinkling, “Big girl, taking all of that her first time, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you agree, totally worn out. “Thank– thank you, Tess–” you sigh.

“Hmm,” she snorts, “I thought you’d do well with a lesson.”

“I did good?” you ask.

“You did great, honey,” she laughs. “And what did we learn?”

You take stock of yourself. Of your body, your mind, the fog and the lingering high, and the absolute euphoria of the past however long you’ve been fucking and being fucked.

A smile creeps across your face. You try to tamp it down, but it’s pointless. “I’ve learned that I should always smoke weed in Charlie’s mom’s house, and maybe, if I’m very lucky, I’ll even get caught!”

Tess laughs, a full-bellied, beautiful thing. 

“I think, princess, you’ve got a lot more to learn.”

[thelastofhyde]

the likeability complex.

chapter 3. the butterfly theory.

pairing. joel miller x fem!reader

synopsis. two seasons pass before joel’s very eyes and, without the presence of his sol, neither the spring nor the summer seem to heat his aching bones. what’s meant to be a simple drop off at bill and frank’s becomes a whirlwind of events that send you barrelling right back into joel’s arms, and all it takes is one horrified shriek: otis is missing!

warnings. no use of y/n ( reader has the nickname of sol ), grumpy x sunshine dynamic, unspecified age-gap ( but i personally picture the reader to be mid-20s at this point in the story ), pining, love as obsession, mention of previous s.a. & miscarriage, death, reader is implied to have had a good relationship with her mom, smut ( handjobs, male masturbation, dry humping, joel is desperate and begging, fantasies of piv, oral sex, and anal sex, mentions of virginity loss/younger joel having been a milf lover )

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. instead of addressing the reasons it took so long for this part to come out, let me address this instead: joel miller is a man who loves himself some prone bone! nothing gets that old man off quite like fucking his lover down into the mattress, the carpet, the dirt-floor, full body weight pressed against them, head buried in the crook of their necks as he literally smothers them with his love. in this essay i will...​

read on ao3. series masterlist. previous chapter. following chapter

Time, as a matter of fact, does not fly.

At some point, Joel may have claimed it ticked, from one minute to another, until the hours passed by and another day’s work was done. He can no longer agree with this sentiment, for a multitude of reasons. For starters — and perhaps the most obvious — a broken clock may be right twice a day, but it is eternally silent. The dials on his wrist stopped ticking long ago and, with it, so did time.

So maybe time crawls. Slow as a newborn finds its feet, over carpeted floors and through cramped spaces. It seems to do so in spring, the tease of the impending heat of a summer’s sun on his back while the fading chill of winter in the breeze messes his overgrown hair. Joel can almost feel himself bending to match it’s slow crawl, his knees aching, a few of his fingers breaking — the consequence of a sloppy punch, thumb trapped beneath his four curled fingers, thrown without a second thought at the sight of one of Robert’s lowlifes placing a filthy hand on Tess. At the very least, the asshole’s nose burst with a bloody red, a reminder of the roses in Frank’s garden. 

The trading is kept to the boundaries of their gates this season and, no matter how hard he twists his neck, nor how far lets his eyes run off ahead of him, there is no glimpse of a skirt billowing in the wind, nor the sound of smile-woven words. Just Bill, face as scrunched up as a constipated hole, gruffing out the bare-minimum of words to let Tess know one of his generators is starting to fail, before handing over a list of things they’ll need to bring with their next visit.

Joel cranes his neck one last time before departing and, still, there’s no sight of you.

Summer brings a whole new meaning to things and, thus, time begins to flow, like a river swimming towards the sanction of the ocean. The days wash away, sleepless nights slip into hellish mornings. The couch is being used so much that Joel’s indent has become stained into its very fabric. 

This time, they are let in. Bill needs the help, in over his head with how easily he’d be able to fix the failing generator, and so they wind up being pulled through the gates and presented with the dying power source. Bill still wears a frown, even as he thanks Joel for fixing the damned thing. The four sit and break bread at a table, that seat which sits directly across from his empty in a way that he can’t avoid or ignore. The nerves to ask why you aren’t around never quite work themselves up.

What, or better said who, he does see is Otis. And what a relief it is to be sent near stumbling to his feet, the fully grown beast’s size a laughable contrast to its excited whines and wagging tail. He lets himself be tricked into taking the dog for a walk, in which every kick of Otis’ legs reminds Joel that his sol is still here, hiding in plain sight, not a single hope in hell that you’d leave your fur-friend behind.

In Autumn, the leaves begin to fall.

Joel’s dwindling hope seems to follow.

Time has become a threat. A jagged rock clasped in the hands of a volatile assailant. It is the impending feeling of bracing for impact, only for it to never hit. Because a threat can no longer be a threat once it is enacted, and time is no longer quite time once it passes by.

In between the pause of the present and the future, that is where time sits.

And, on either side of it, Joel and Bill occupy a seat.

“‘S quiet,” Joel’s not talking about the tense silence that has blanketed the past ten or so minutes, however long it’s been since the two were left in no company but one another’s.

Bill, aware of his implications or not, shrugs. “Is that a problem?”

Joel shakes his head, and swallows down that lump he gets in his throat every time he lies. He’s been doing that more often than he’d like recently, lying.

To Tess, whenever she’d ask him where he disappears to, slipping out of their shared bed in the middle of the night. She’d not enjoy the truth of him pacing the living room and lamenting upon the cracked leather of their couch.

To FEDRA, when a group of so-called soldiers ambushed him in demands to know why he’d been spotted attempting to smuggle a dress. They’d not believed the tale he spun of it belonging to Tess.

And, to himself, when he’s searching for answers of what’s been keeping him awake at night. Between the cries of whom he lost, and the moans of who he desires, he’s a sleepless wreck.

Laughter comes from another room. The distant duo of Tess and Frank bring more life to this deadly atmosphere than either of the two tense men. Theirs is a complicated relationship. No smiles exchanged, no warmth shared. Respect seems to be the glue that holds them together, a mutual understanding between natural protectors. Just as Joel snaps his bones without hesitation on behalf of Tess, Bill double-locks the doors and secures the perimeter each night as Frank and you lay sound asleep.

With this in mind, Joel treads with care as he descends further into the topic at hand. He decides to treat his own self the same way he’d once taught a stubborn curly haired girl to swim: throwing himself into the deep end.

“Ain’t seen much of your...” He pauses, considers what word best suits Bill’s affections for you. He finds himself at a loss. “The girl. She doin’ alright?”

That’s it, he’ll keep it casual.

Passive, hardly-caring.

Totally not headache-inducing each time a new tally is added to how many days it’s been since he’d last seen you — two hundred and four, but who’s keeping count?

“She’s fine,” the answer is curt. A coughed out sort of thing, heaved out of Bill like it aches to even speak. He’s not entertaining Joel’s longing.

“That’s... good, yeah,” he’s not sure he believes his answer. Good has never sounded so distasteful. “I’ll let Tess know, give ‘er some peace of mind. She’s been wonderin’-”

“Cut the shit,” Bill barks over at him. “You aren’t asking for Tess.”

He could try lie, again. Play the innocent, shrug his shoulders or furrow his brows, an image to mock what could be confusion. But the other man would see right through him, each and every time. Joel has no choice but to surrender. “Where’s she been? Can’t remember the last time I saw her.”

“Didn’t realise you were keeping count.” Is it that obvious? Perhaps he needs to adopt a new method of going about the ways in which he approaches the subject of you. Does Bill know he’d gone back to your room that night, instead of the toilet? The man has a fondness for cameras, perhaps he set one up in your room, or all over the house. Joel’s heart-rate spikes as he wonders if there’s one in the kitchen. “She’s out.”

Out.

A simple enough word, yet it crashes down on Joel like a ten-ton bag of dynamite, imploding his thoughts and reality. Because out to Bill means something far different than merely being out of this house. Out means beyond the electrified gates. Out means danger, someplace Joel can’t stomach the thought of you being, much less if it’s without him.

“You sure that’s the right thing to do?”

“I don’t need your opinion on how I raise-” Bill cuts himself off with a deep breath. He clears his throat. “I don’t need your opinion on how I take care of my people. She’s a smart girl, and it’s not her first time. She’s been going on solo runs since the end of winter.”

An act you’d never have been able to achieve, had he not taught you how to hold your own behind the wheel. That fact alone is enough to send bile burning to the back of his throat. He’s scorned you with the ability to put yourself in harm’s way.

A question of why seems to slip past his lips as his own thoughts abuse his heart, the word sounding far too pathetic and pleading for a man of Joel’s stature, reputation and morals.

“We’re old, she isn’t. There’s gonna come a day where she’s alone and needs to choose if she wants to stay here or move on.” The other man’s risen from his seat, paying no mind to the way the legs of it screech against the hardwood floor. He speaks passively, as though he’s merely reciting the weather as opposed to speaking of the approaching closing of the curtains on his life, and where that would leave the most valuable possession Joel could only ever dream to smuggle: alone, defenceless, in need of a new home. He too could use a new home these days. “And if she doesn’t get a choice and has to run, she needs to be able to adapt. She needs to know how to survive out in that shit-hole of a world.”

Ask me, the words crack like thunder in his head and shake his very core. Ask it of me, and I’ll make sure she’s never alone.

Bill never asks.

The floorboards creak behind Bill as he makes his way to retrieve his partner, leaving Joel to his solitude without the sparing of another word.

Scanning the room, Joel lets himself indulge in the freedom to be curious, to let his eyes wander for more than a few threatened seconds in which he runs the risk of a frowning Bill ringing his neck for snooping.

The place is homey, that has never been in doubt.

The first time he ventured inside nearly left him retching on their bathroom floor, skin chilled and eyes burning as that uncanny-valley feeling overtook his guts. Playin’ house, that’s what he’d proclaimed to Tess on that first journey back to the QZ. Rest ‘f us are out here fightin’ for the right to exist, and these two assholes are playin’ house.

The misplaced anger was truly Joel’s green eyed envy.

And his own self-hatred.

Maybe if he’d been prepared like Bill, he’d have less blood on his hands. Maybe if he’d foreseen the day that shit would hit the fan, he’d never have felt how thick her blood ran, through his fingers and down his arms. Maybe if he thought smarter, worked harder, all his losses would have been nothing but a whisper in passing winds, brushing past him and taking the impending storm they promised over to the next unfortunate bastard.

A polaroid picture captures his attention, pulling him away from the edge of his mountain of self-loathing thoughts.

It lures him out from the safety of the dining table and over towards a cabinet. Meaningless memorabilia and porcelain trinkets decorate the ageing furniture, a blob of motionless browns, tans and beiges that seem to match the colourless feeling in his chest. Among it, a burst of red. Joel has it in his grasp in a matter of seconds, calloused hands likely tainting the image with his fingerprints, and blinks in an attempt to focus his ageing eyes.

When the haze settles, you greet him.

You look young, younger than you are now. Your hair seems just that tad lighter with the sun’s rays shining a spotlight somewhere off-camera to the right. There’s a cheek-splitting grin across your lips, while bags puff out from beneath your closed eyes, lines to match his own crow’s feet forming under the pressure of your radiant joy. The image cuts off just below your shoulders and captures how your two hands sit parallel at either side of your chin, the source of the red gripped in each of them: strawberries. One for each hand. The left has a chunk bitten out of it, a perfect match to the shape of your mouth and the red tint at the corner of your lips. But it’s the right hand that holds his attention, it’s grip on him as powerful as your hand on the strawberry. He imagines you were excited, buzzing with too much energy and with no place to put it, your nimble fingers resorting to burying it in the layers of the fruit, the tips of your nails stabbing into the surface of the berry.

As his gaze traces the grainy image of berry-blood pouring down your fingers and over the back of your hand, he pictures his heart in the place of the red fruit. He’d want you to squeeze tighter, dig your nails in until you’re knuckles deep and his blood paints you, dripping off your elbow.

The thought of whether you washed your hand after the image was taken, or merely shrugged and licked the juice off yourself sparks his curiosity.

He snuffs the flame out before it can make itself too comfortable.

Getting the polaroid back into place feels an impossible task, with Joel’s shaky hands and prone-to-overthinking brain not willing to work together to get it back to where it originally sat, to where Bill won’t immediately notice it’s been tampered with the next time he so much as walks past it.

His eyes catch onto the faded black marker at the bottom of the picture. Baby’s first harvest, ‘13.

It sparks a memory in him, one of hearing your overexcited whispers over the radio-com at an hour far too late to justify being awake, Tess’ figure scooted down to the bottom of the mattress in an attempt to not waken him. Strawberries, Tess, you’d gushed in excitement, voice so pure he could feel it cleansing away all the sins stained within his fingerprints. We grew strawberries! You need to come visit soon! Do you think Joel likes strawberry jam?

He does like strawberry jam.

And he’d been afraid you’d never give him another batch after his dismissive acceptance of it the first time. The growing collection of empty jars he keeps are evidence of the truth, the yearly harvest of the berries bringing him the promise of something to feed his sweet-tooth.

With a baritone growl from his stomach, Joel’s attention carries him off into the kitchen, eyes struggling to look past the spot of the counter he’d had you pressed up against. Only now, standing within the room, does he realise he’d not been in it since that night.

His mouth runs dry at the memory.

This time, it is not through messy scoops of water that he chooses to quench this thirst. Instead, he zeroes in on the large bowl of ripened strawberries that sit atop the counter and digs, till his fingers wrap around the largest, reddest, juiciest looking one of the bunch.

Heaven makes a home on his taste buds with just one bite.

Tangy, fruity, fresh. Wet on his tongue, delicious in his mouth. It paints him memories of you, hand grasping the hem of your own skirt, hips tilting ever-so-slightly back and thighs shaking under the stress of his teasing tongue.

A second bite, a whole new wave of sensations.

His body, with a mind of its own, awakens the pumping of blood down to his crotch. Replaying the sound of your knife falling from your grasp, his cock hardens within the confines of worn-out jeans.

If he were to disappear off into the bathroom to rub one out, would the others even notice? 

Perhaps he could take a detour, get lost on his way to that familiar toilet. The third door. It would creak upon opening, but maybe he could cover it with a cough, or simply pray the other three remain too far away to notice. From what he can remember, he’d be able to reach your bed with four steps. Sit on your sheets, bask in their warmth, their softness, their smell of you. Wind his hand down beneath his belt, grip his aching cock as he bathes in your unpresent presence. Stain your sheets in the thick, creamy white poison that shoots out his tip. How long would it take you to notice it painted on the back of your pillowcase? Would it happen instantly, or would it be late into the night, nothing but a lamp to light up the room, as you sleepily flip it over in search of the cold side, only to lay your face back down and be met with the sticky substance against your cheek? Would you lick it clean, drag the tip of your nail through it before caressing that very same finger over your pretty clit and-

“Ok, so I didn’t manage to get, like, anything you guys asked for! But, guess what I did find?”

Joel nearly chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

That voice.

Too kind to be Bill, too lively to be Tess, too feminine to be Frank.

It’s all you, rambling over excited breaths and stumbling around your words. He can’t see you yet, and it nearly kills him to not run off in search of the sound. He needs to sit and wait, and pray the tent being pitched in his trousers deflates by the time you reach him.

You’re getting closer by the second and life grants him no relief. If anything, the pulsating ache that sits between his thighs grows stronger as your footsteps get louder. This is it, he’s really about to see you. Finally, after so long.

What will you say? Will you say anything? Will you smile at the sight of him? Have you noted the lack of him in your days, just as he’d lamented it through his nights? Have you missed him?

Mind a frenzy of questions, it steals away the joy of watching you step into the room.

Instead, you seem to almost manifest before his eyes, two steps through the door and two hands behind your back. Scanning you from head to toe — and confirming a lack of bumps, cuts or bruises — his shoulders fall slack as he reaches your face at last.

You are smiling.

At him.

“Howdy, stranger!” Normally, he’d find your attempt to mimic some poor stereotype of his accent irritating at best, infuriating at worst. Right now, however, still riddled in withdrawals of you, Joel allows a corner of his mouth to quirk up. “Long time no see!”

There’s a million things Joel thinks to say to you.

Like how your absence has been painfully noted. Or tips on the proper ways to throw a punch, lest you wind up like him, bruised fingers and all. Or like the way he’s missed tasting your cooking, and the way you standing there, lit up in the doorway, radiant smile and electric eyes, seems to be healing a little piece of his fragmented heart, yet shaking his nerve-stricken hands. None of these thoughts manage to reach the surface.

Instead, Joel inhales. 

And chokes on the stem of the strawberry.

“Oh my god, Joel!” You’re quick to react, shrugging off the bag from your shoulder and rushing over to him. You clap your hand over his back several times, and perhaps it’s the heat of feeling you touch some part of him at last, that final piece of confirmation that you’re real, and breathing, and standing so close to him in this kitchen, but he continues to feign choking even moments after he rids himself of the blockage. “You okay there, big guy? Don’t go dying in this kitchen or else Bill’s gonna lose his shit!”

Big guy. That’s new. Joel’s indecisive as to how he feels about such a name.

He means to say he’s fine, but then your hand is soothing over his back in comforting rubs. And when he works up the nerve to tell you he’s okay, you’re holding a glass up to his lips and feeding him water down his burning throat.

It’s nice to be comforted.

It’s even nicer to be comforted by you.

Catching himself moments away from leaning into your touch, Joel stumbles a single step back, colliding with the very same counter edge he’d tasted you against, and looks past you. Because he can’t look at you, not when the unfocused version of you that takes up space in his peripheral seems so tangible, bright, touchable. If Joel wanted to, he’s mere inches away from being able to sink his teeth in and eat you alive.

It’s dangerous, how much he wants to.

He spies your backpack, discarded on the ground, contents from it spilling out across the tiled flooring. Most of its junk — some nuts and bolts he’s sure Bill will find a place for, scraps of papers and faded movie posters that reminisce on what the world once was, a miscellaneous cloth stained in the red ink of death that has Joel questioning just who exactly had been bleeding — but there’s something else capturing his attention.

It’s not fully out of the bag, merely a corner of it peeking out the pulled-back zipper and gifting him the view of a worn-down box he’s sure was once a colour more akin to yellow than its current rotting brown.

“‘S that ya got?” He slips past you, hands reaching out and heading straight for the obscure item. The cardboard welts under the pressure of his grip, the top of the box popping open with an uncomfortable ease.

“Oh, that’s what I wanted to show Frank-” The moment Joel’s eyes read over the faded slogan, he has no time to wait on a real answer, flipping the lid to a trash can open and dangling the box over the top. “Hey, what are you doing?!”

“Throwin’ this shit out-” You’re near him. No, next to him, body heat mingling with his own as you shoot forward and try your luck at prying your treasure out of his grip. But Joel is stronger, larger, quicker, arm stretching up above his head and holding the box out of your reach. 

He doesn’t comment on the fact the little jump you give as you try to reach only invites him to ogle the bounce of your tits under your shirt.

 “Why? It’s harmless,” you plead against him, with your tone of voice and your eyes of sorrow, pitiful in the way they twist up his insides and leave him craving your blinding smile. Still, he’s an immovable force, grip tightened on the box as his other hand clamps down around your wrists, prying your hands away from him. “It’s literally just cake mix!”

You fight back, wriggling and squirming, trying your best to slip through his fingers. Joel squeezes tighter, ignoring the bile that burns the back of his throat as he pictures you come sunrise, bruises of his fingerprints burnt into your flesh. A new wave of nausea follows as the familiar heat returns to his loins, a feral part of him preening at the fact you’ll own some part of him, even as he’s miles away and crawling back through the gutters of the QZ.

“Ain’t no way in hell I'm lettin’ you eat that.” He says it for your own good, your own safety.

All the same, the eerie calm that comes over you makes him feel dirty and immoral for letting such words slip out.

“Letting me?” You parrot his words. With frozen features, you seize all fighting, all resistance, hands going slack in his hold. An unsettling smile overcomes you, something malevolent lurking beneath the surface of your typical kindness. “Joel, you’re no one to let me do anything. You have no say, no control, whatsoever. Understand?”

It’s a kick in the guts.

And not because he wants to control you. Or, maybe, if he’s honest with himself, a part of him does want to. Wants to keep you wrapped under his arm where no threat can approach you, longs to spend his working days awaiting the return to safety in the shape of a bed warmed by you, him and all the delicate sins you could share. But, more-so, because it makes him feel powerless, unable to put distance between you and harm’s way.

He’d felt true powerlessness years back, blood on his hands and a lifeless daughter in his arms. A shot missed and a whole lot of sobbing later, he’d vowed to never put himself in a position to feel that again. He kept Tommy close, to an obsessive degree. And when Tess came along and he eventually let himself give into the feeling of accepting another pair of lungs into his family, he kept her closer, living a life of keeping a watchful eye and a ready hand for any moment of violence. He’d do the same with you, if you’d just let him pull you into his circle, a space freed up ever since Tommy left him with nothing but a string of curses and an I don’t ever wanna see your face again to remember him by.

Of course, Joel doesn’t tell you that.

Instead, he gives in to the irrational anger your fighting back awakens in him.

“The flour, you stupid girl, ‘s what started all this shit.” He spits the words out, mind barely registering the way you flinch back when his face inches closer to yours. “But if you wanna turn yourself into some mushroomed freak, then go ‘head and be my guest.”

It’s like a fog clears and, suddenly, your calmness feels less threatening and that tinge of whatever it was — violence, disobedience, assertiveness? — in your eyes slips away and makes space for amusement. Only, the amusement will not sit still, seeping out of you in bright eyes and poorly held-back giggles.

He’s so caught up in it, caught up in you, that he fails to register you stepping closer. It’s only when he feels the brush of your breath against his cheek, and the bump of his nose against your own as he leans down into you, that the lack of space between you sinks in.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Joel.” The biggest lie of the century. He’s well aware of your prone-to-accident self, losing count of the amount of times he’s spotted bruises all over you and listened to Frank recount tale after tale of how you’d walked into a door, and stumbled down some stairs, and tripped over your laces. If anything, you’re the only thing Joel has to worry about. Especially with how much closer you’re getting, your own breath starting where his ends, chest pulling in to inhale and make space for his exhale. Perfect sync, a flowing motion, just begging to be ruined by locked lips and urgent kisses, feaverish passion that’ll leave him at a loss of both words and breath. “Besides, this batch is harmless...”

God, you’re so close. All he can smell is you — sweat, and wilted flowers, and vanilla, and a trickle of gunpowder. He can feel you, breasts pressing against his chest, hand pressing down on his aching shoulders, mouth taunting him a hair’s breadth away from his own. What he sees of you is far more torturous, bathing him in the impurity of coy looks, and teasing smiles, and soft skin yet to be marked by time and the torture of living. If Joel could just taste you, for just a second, then all those two hundred and four brutal days and sleepless nights would suddenly feel worth it.

Your eyes level with his own as the hand on his shoulder pushes him further down. It’s going to happen, he knows this, he’s accepted this. You’re going to kiss him, and he’s going to let you, and then he’s going to spend the rest of however long it takes for you to kiss him again thinking of how your lips feel.

Just a little closer...

That’s it. Kiss him.

Kiss him.

God, please. Kiss me.

“Check the production date for yourself!” Like whiplash, you pull back and send him reeling, muscles stiffening in a rapid attempt to keep him from keening over at the loss of your supportive hold. The disappointment that follows robs him of the horror of realising he’s now empty-handed, the withered box of artificial flavours and powdery evils secured tightly in your own grip.

You’re holding it out to him, finger pointing at a faded black ink. He squints his eyes and, sure enough, there it is: Mfg. 2001.

“Still don’t mean you should eat it,” Joel’s stubborn, despite all, and can’t seem to tamper down the burning in his loins that warns him against you eating such a thing. “‘S gonna be long past its sell-by.”

“Please,” you scoff, a snark-filled smile upon your face. You seem to be enjoying this act of defiance, or perhaps it’s the helplessness upon Joel’s face you find amusement in, torturing the older man with his inability to take care of you. “Sell-bys are just recommendations for the weak-stomached.”

A disturbance comes in the sound of thundering steps. The door behind you slams open, handle leaving its indent in the wall with a brutal force.

There stands Tess, a shine of sweat on her forehead and nervous twitching in her fingers.

Something is wrong.

Joel feels sick.

Merely a moment passes before the two owners of the home join the scene, Frank’s hand nervously tugging back on Bill’s arm the moment the man notices you, Joel and the nonexistent space that lives between you both.

“Tess!” Bless, you seem unaware of the heavy atmosphere settling within the kitchen, throwing your arms out and darting forward to wrap them around the older woman. She halts you, holds you just that bit out of reach, and Joel nearly scolds her for leaving you looking like a lost puppy, deflated as your hands come to rest at your sides once more, cake-mix forgotten in your newfound disillusion and hitting the floor with a muted thud as it slips out your sweaty palms. “What’s wrong? Why are you breathing so heavily?”

“Me and Frank... we were walking...” She keeps pausing to heave in breaths. The grip she’s got on you loosens and her hands slowly come to rest on her knees as she haunches over. Joel steps a little closer to you, hackles rising at the thought of danger. “A hole... Under the fence...”

Red alert. Loud, angry, threatening thoughts invade his mind, blaring at him like a siren refusing to go ignored. He’s got his fingers wrapped around the holster that houses his revolver in a matter of seconds. The safety’s on, he’ll need to remember that before he dares use it.

“How many?” He mumbles out, in true Joel fashion, and watches Tess meet his face at last. Confusion flashes through her features. “Raiders, infected, or whatever. How many of ‘em got in?”

He can’t help the anger that rises in him, teeth grinding down to hold back the curses aimed towards Bill. He warned him, that first time they’d met, to upgrade those damn fences.

“No,” Tess struggles in another breath. Frank seems worried, but that’s not what makes Joel sick to his stomach. It’s Bill, who’s pale as a ghost and uncomfortably quiet, eyes locked on the ground, that scares him half to death. “Nothing’s got in. It’s out, something got-”

“I swear I turned my back for one second, kid,” as if everything else wasn’t enough, Bill makes himself gentle and cautious, approaching you like you’re a wounded fawn and Joel’s some menacing stag behind you, ready to stab his horns into the heart of any who mean you harm.

“What-” you start.

“The hell are you lot talkin’ about?” Joel finishes.

They exchange looks among the three of them, each one more pressing in the way they plead the other to speak up, explain the situation.

Frank takes the fall.

“It’s Otis,” he’s exasperated, exclaiming it like it’s the heaviest of burdens. Joel can’t quite see your face but he imagines whatever expression you’re wearing must be heart-wrenching, so much so that Bill can not bring himself to meet your eyes. “Otis is missing!”

There’s a sharp silence that takes over the room, scratching at everyone’s eyes and burrowing itself down your throats, making a nest that gets in the way of what’s spoken aloud.

Joel watches your head sluggishly nod. You stumble a few steps back, catching his boots beneath the heel of your own. His hands make haste with supporting you, physically and emotionally.

“He was with me this morning,” Bill picks up again, tension thick in the air as his words slice through it. He’s explaining himself, voice layered with guilt and other emotions Joel’s never imagined the man capable of. “Out in the chicken coop. Started barking at something past the fence and... none of us have seen him since.”

The revelation has Joel retracing his own steps and, indeed, no four-legged creature had launched itself at him earlier, as he and Tess entered the gates. Nor had any paw-prints followed his footsteps through the mud, and no ball had been dropped before him, followed by a demanding bark that was guaranteed to get him to give in and throw the damned thing, if only to shut the dog up. Otis has not crossed his path once, a realisation he never imagined would bring him desperation.

A deep gasp cuts through the tension.

A few deep breaths. Four, to be exact. As you attempt a fifth, you waver and your exhale grows shaky. You pull air in deeper and it doesn’t seem to be enough, forcing your mouth open. The descent into hyperventilating is quick, a path Joel’s all-too familiar with, and the panic swells through your heart before anyone can try to stop it.

Joel acts fast, instinct leading his actions. He turns you to face him, grip firm on your shoulders as he holds your attention on him, big hands on your soft cheeks and tilting your head back to find your eyes. Glassy, wide, panicked. It's the hopelessness behind them that gets the best of him though. 

“He’s fine, alright? Probably just saw some rabbit he wanted to chase.'' It's hard for a man like him to sound optimistic. Were you anyone else, he’d be telling you how dumb you were to keep a pet in the first place, nothing more than another mouth to feed and another life to watch out for in an age where safety is a luxury. But you aren’t anyone else, and Joel Miller will always be partial to his Sol. “Hey, hey, listen t’me. He’s gonna be okay. Bet he’s out there right now tryna find his way back, we just gotta meet him halfway.”

You nod along to his words, as though you’re listening, but your thousand-yard-stare says otherwise, eyes gazing past his wide shoulders. Unblinking, unmoving, you seem lost in a daze of emotions Joel's never prepared himself to see on your features. It twists at his guts to watch your figure attempt to follow him in the first steps he takes away from you, halted only by his own hands clasping down on your frame, coaxing you backwards until you find grip upon the kitchen counter.

After a cautious step back, eyeing you like you’re a wounded bunny two seconds from bolting, he turns to Bill. “Give me a few hours. I’ll track the dog and bring him home, alright?”

A half hour, a packed bag, and a rifle slung over his shoulder later, Joel finds himself at the scene of the crime, chicken shit on his shoes and his usual scowl on his face. Not having even stepped a foot out of the gated paradise and he’s already encountered his first obstacle: Otis has not clawed his way out of the fence but, instead, dug his way under it.

Fresh mud lays ahead, faint yet visible paw-prints lead off into the array of woods. He grabs a hold of the fence’s newly exposed bottom and justifies the way he further destroys it, bending the metal to his will and proning his way under it, with his faith in Bill's ability to fix the hole up in the time it takes him to find the creature.

Moving to a crouch, and ignoring the crunch of his bent knees, he eyes up the prints in the mud. The sight of only one set of tracks gives him a fleeting moment of comfort, until the thought of Otis having chased after something already so far in the distance pops into his head.

Your voice calls out his name from behind.

Sweat slicked skin, your fingers grab at the wiry fence, ripping the thing up with far less care Joel had given it. Bill will still find a way to blame him for the extended damage.

“I'm coming with you,” you speak with such determination behind your voice, Joel nearly forgets to actually pay attention to what you’re saying.

His reaction is instinctual, shooting back to hold the fence down, struggling to keep you within its confines, gritting out a firm no. “You sure as hell ain’t.”

“Yes, I am.” You tug uselessly at the fence. The wires stretch a third time, until a few snap.

“No.”

He holds his ground.

“Yes.”

You wriggle a hand under the fence, an action that forces him to loosen his grip. He can’t risk harming you, not even for your own good.

“No, you are-”

“Joel, please,” there’s exhaustion in your plea. A hint of desperation, too. He catches how you glimpse over your shoulder and observes the only item you carry — a distressed looking stuffed bunny with an ear missing. You glance over your shoulder again and it hits Joel. You’re nervous, in a rush. You’re here without anyone’s knowledge, that same look of panic in your eye as a teenager sneaking out of their window. “Just- I don’t want to sit around doing nothing. I want to find Otis.”

Talking is limited.

Instead, what fills its place is the sound of crunching leaves beneath heavy boots, and birds cawing and cooing in the trees above, and your incessant need to hum along to some melody playing in your head, distracting Joel to a dangerous degree.

This distraction leads to a close encounter, one where it’s only your swallowed scream as you stumble closer to him in fear, body seeking out some form of protection — he can’t tell if you view him as a mere shield or a sworn knight prepared to draw his weapons and, frankly, he winds up too caught up in your hands grabbing at his sides and your shaken figure melting against his own to care — that clears the haze in his eyes and sets his sights straight, gun drawn and aimed directly at the infected creature running towards you both.

He misses his first shot — shaky hands, one he partially blames on your proximity and the adrenaline it brings — but makes up for it in his second one, shooting point blank range and sending the creature crumbling to the ground, a bullet-hole in its forehead.

You both wait a few minutes, listening out for anymore rustling, before Joel deems things safe enough to continue and motions you with his head to follow.

From then on, you stick closer, alternating between walking a step or two ahead or behind him. He keeps a grip on the gun, unwilling to reholster it, and wordlessly hands you a shiv he has, ignoring the way you seem to perfectly curl your fingers around the weapon and practise a swinging motion, stabbing at the air with a deadly confidence Joel's never imagined to associate you with.

It forces him to rethink everything he’s come to believe about you over the years, and requestion just how exactly you’d wound up under Bill’s roof.

You interrupt his thoughts, the first to speak as always.

“If you don’t mind me asking-”

“I do.”

Undeterred, you smile and push through with your probing. “Who taught you to shoot?”

“My old man,” it takes him a few minutes to gruff it out. Or maybe it’s a bit longer than a few minutes, the sun’s shine seeming a lot less dim from when you’d asked. You say nothing, however, don’t even gasp in surprise at his eventual answering. “Dragged me out back to where he’d tied up our dog, poor thing had been sick for a while. Told me we weren’t goin’ back in till I shot it. Must’a stood there for hours.”

And that was that.

As much as Joel had felt you wanting to say more, you’d dropped the subject — maybe you’d noticed the dullness in his voice or the way his grip on his gun had tightened — and he’d never been more grateful for your ability to read him, without him even needing to open his pages for you.

You make camp by nightfall.

A clearing amongst the wooden areas, small enough to keep you hidden yet big enough to stretch out your legs. you ask for a campfire, and Joel denies you of it. ‘S too risky, he’d explained the instant he caught you deflating his objection. Don’t need no smoke signals bringing us any unwanted visitors.

He’d given you the coat off his back instead, a token to heat yourself up with as the pair of you quietly ate away at the tin-can meal Joel had been saving for the journey back to the QZ.

Chef Boyardee has never tasted better, however, after watching you place the can up to your lips and tilt your head back, swallowing down the artificial flavouring.

You don’t seem to agree, grimacing at the taste. “I don’t know how you can eat that.”

“If you think that’s bad, you don’t wanna know what they’re feedin’ us in the QZ.” It’s a privilege you’ll never understand, this sheltered life you lead among Bill’s traps and fences. You eat fresh eggs, and cook red meat, and nurture food out of the ground, while Joel fights tooth and nail to scrape up some measly ration cards. Oddly enough, he's not angry at your lack of understanding. He’s glad, happy you have a quality of life far better than his own.

“I'm surprised they feed you at all,” for all your grimacing, you’ve yet to stop taking mouthful after mouthful of the canned food. You must not have eaten much out on your run, Joel concludes. “Considering you eat Bill out of his whole stock each time you visit.”

He wants to defend himself, tell you it’s not true. Tell you it’s only the food prepared by your gentle hands and caring soul that he devours, in chase of satisfying another hunger he should not dare place upon you. That it is nothing more than Joel settling for a piece of your love, hoping that if he takes enough bites and chews enough times, it’ll seep into his skin, his bones, his bloodstream. It’s the only way he figures he can hold a piece of your heart next to his, until it stops beating.

But that is a burden a man like him does not place on a woman like you, so he bites his tongue and swallows down the rest of his dinner.

“The hell are we, middle-schoolers?”

A squawk of birds fly from their perch in the trees above, spooked by the unexpected boom of Joel’s voice. It’s an accident, flying out of him before he can really stop it and consider the dangers of loudly proclaiming your whereabouts to anything — living or dead — within a ten mile radius to hear. But you’re being ridiculous.

Your suggestion is ridiculous.

And you’re shushing him, a giggle behind the index finger you press to your lips, eyes shooting up to where the birds have fled, catching the reflection of the stars in your pupils and knocking the wind out of his chest, momentarily, with how bright they seem to shine.

“No, we’re two adults about to engage in a serious game of 21 Questions,” you speak like you live: much softer than Joel. No creature seems to hurry away at the sound of it and, in the fading memories he possesses, he can almost picture your voice drawing in all the critters of the forest, like that Disney princess she’d loved so much. “And that counts as one of your questions, by the way."

He has no plans on entertaining your childish play. He’ll sit there, he’ll watch out for any suspicious shadow lurking about in the dark, he’ll listen to whatever ridiculous questions you throw at him, and he’ll let you talk yourself silly, going in circles as he remains mute, and observant, and completely unwilling to answer to any of your-

“Which means,” you drag out the word, a sing-songy melody to your voice. “It’s my turn to ask you something, mister.” Mister. A warmth blooms in the pits of his stomach, one that threatens to creep lower, beneath the waistband of his blood-stained jeans. “What’s your favourite colour?”

If looks could kill, you’d likely still be alive.

Perhaps a little bruised, but it’s the worst stare Joel can will himself to pin you with. No doubt, it feels more threatening to you that it truly is, splashed across his stoic face.

“What?” You question, and somehow have the nerve to laugh. “It’s like… The most common question people ask in this game. That, or who took your virginity, and I really don’t think you want to tell me-”

“I’d just gotten my first job as a pool-boy. Pay was shit, but it covered my gas and left me enough to buy a six pack and a tub of wings,” the words fly out of him with an ease they never have before. Somehow, this feels easier, less intimate than matters like his favourite colour. When he thinks that answer is enough, he finds your face, expectations written across it. You’re waiting to know more. “I ended up with a few shifts working for one of our neighbours. She was a friend of my mom’s, recently divorced, and with a whole new body she’d bought with the divorce settlements.”

A spark of amusement flares in your eyes, that pretty smile stretching over your lips. He purses his own, trying not to think of pressing them against your mouth. You’d still taste of the canned food you — reluctantly — devoured and, somehow, the thought messes his head up even more, the potential taste of the food, of the care he had been the one to provide you with.

“That sounds like the beginning to a really bad porno,” you muse. Joel watches how you sit up a little straighter, legs tucking themselves up against your chest, chin resting atop your knees, arms engulfing yourself in their warmth, nose turning to take a quick inhale of his coat. He hopes he’ll smell you on it, too, next time he does the same.

“Surprised you even know what that word means,” he regrets it the moment he says it, that sickening reminder of your youth against his own ageing disgrace. He doesn’t know the exact years, but he know the difference would surely be enough to disgust a younger version of himself, the young father who once scowled at the sight of grey-haired men trailing their eyes down the bodies of wide-eyed girls, giggling by the bar as they flashed their fake-ids and sipped their first taste of — horrifically overpriced — alcohol.

“Porno?” You cut through his train of thoughts, unknowingly saving him from the downward spiral into memories best left behind, before the world went to shit. “You’d be surprised what a little bit of courage and a whole load of ration cards gets you past FEDRA.”

That word, that name, that organisation, it sets off an alarm in Joel’s brain, red-alert and siren sounding. And it pulls forth a question, echoing in the woods before he even realises he’s speaking his thoughts aloud.

“You were in a QZ? You weren’t always with Bill?”

“Pittsburg QZ, if you want to get technical. And then Hartford. No, I wasn’t always with Bill.” He tries to picture it: you, confined to the horrors of city living, bargaining things for survival, facing the harshness of the power-tripping FEDRA officers. The thought proves too disconcerting, so out of line with the you who exists only within the confines of safety and comfort in his mind, that Joel has to stop himself from imagining more, imagining worse. You and pain do not, should not ever exist in the same space, not if Joel can do anything about it. “And those count as two separate questions, so now I get to do the same.”

He hadn’t even meant to play into it, entertain your silly game. He’d just needed reassurance, answers, to know no scars litter your skin and no wound has fractured your psyche. But you’ve given him none of that. No comfort for his ailing soul, more questions for his troubled mind.

“Was it a one time thing,” unaware, or simply desensitised to his ways, you continue on with your questions, despite the frown he feels wrinkling at his forehead. “With your neighbour?” He’s glad to see you bring the conversation back to his own debauchery.

“No.”

“Ooh, scandalous! Joel Miller, local pool-boy turned toy-boy.” If he wasn’t so busy fighting off images of you, young and scared, standing before armed FEDRA soldiers, Joel might have found it in him to crack a half smile at the amusement the sexual endeavours of his youth seem to gift you. “Did you fuck any other of your clientele, or were you and Miss Recent-Divorcee exclusive?”

“No,” he says once more, then quickly clarifies. “I didn’t sleep with other clients. But also no, we weren’t exclusive.”

“Did your mom-”

“‘S my turn, darlin’,” Joel surprises even himself, cutting in before you can sneak a third question his way. It’s like it finally hits him, the way this game has handed him the opportunity of a lifetime to learn the answer to any question he’s ever pondered over you. But all other questions, topics, seem to slip out his conscience’s grasp, like sand slipping through fingers, as he feels himself dragged further into the fear you’ve awoke within him, a fresh layer of worry he now holds for a version of you he’d never known, a version of you he can barely stomach the idea of. “How did you meet Bill? Were you with Frank before?”

“God, you’re bad at this game! Two questions, again!” And, yet, you say it with more humour than chastisement. You turn your face, again, nose bumping against the collar of his jacket. “But no, I wasn’t with Frank. I met them both at the same time, after I spotted them through their fences. I passed out, dehydrated, and I probably wouldn’t have been brought in if it weren’t for Frank insisting they couldn’t just leave me out there to die.”

“You were alo-”

“Ah, my turn!” Your hand shoots out, index finger pointing across the space between you both. “Did your mum ever find out about you and her friend?” 

“No, it ended before that could happen. She got herself a man her own age, and I…” Got someone pregnant. The words stick to his throat, refusing to come out. 

Reading his closed off pages, like you always do, your voice cuts through the air before he can let himself slip too deep into the sorrow.

“I was alone, when I met Bill and Frank. But I wasn’t always.” Those four words are enough to make him ache. But I wasn’t always. Who had you lost? How long did they survive? Did you feel their blood on your skin? The questions fly by so quickly, he’s struggling to pin-point which one he wants to ask first, which ones he’s allowed to ask. “Have you ever been in love?”

That quiets his mind. For a moment, it’s a welcomed incident. Then his heartbeat fills his ears, and it’s pounding, skipping over beats of its own rhythm, threatening to spread too much of that fear, too quickly to every vessel under his skin, that Joel has no choice, he has to give you an answer he doesn’t want to, just to save himself from the impending tightness in his chest.

“Green,” the words are a struggle to get out but he manages it, watching the confusions bleed into your soft eyes. “I never answered. Before. When you asked my favourite colour. It’s green.” If you find his answer to be too late, or you’re disappointed at his clear avoidance towards your latest question, you don’t give it away. You just nod, smile softly, and wait for him to take his turn. “Why were you alone?”

“Everyone changed, got bit, or died. I didn’t want to be next.” Perhaps he’s a fool. Perhaps he underestimated the resilience you keep under warm sweaters and easy-going smiles. Because you sit there, not a tear welling in sight, and talk about the things you’ve lost like they don’t haunt you. Like you haven’t spent every waking moment since trying to find them, evidence that they were real, and that they’d mattered, and that they’d loved you. Like you haven’t drowned in grief, the way he has. You’ve swam, instead, against the current, crawled to the safety of shore.  “Who’s your butterfly?”

The question catches him so off guard, so out of left field, so completely and utterly nonsensical, that he just can’t help himself. “My what now?”

"You know, the whole ‘if a butterfly flaps its wings’,” you trail off, hands curling tighter around yourself after performing air quotes. “Who's one person that changed the trajectory of your life?"

He cannot run.

He cannot repeat his earlier trick, deflecting with the answer to a previously spoken — and visibly ignored — question. Because, no matter which of your two questions he chooses to focus on, the answer remains the same. That little girl, with a smile like sunshine, sitting at the breakfast table, egg yolk on her cheek, ketchup all over her tiny, chubby, little fingers, an incoherent babble of excited squeals as he, once again, drives the choo-choo train — in truth, a fork-ful of food — towards her lips.

You’ve got him backed into a corner, no out, no escape. His mind, a cruel torturer that takes advantage of his own panic, thrusts yet another memory into the VHS of his mind, broadcasting it against the back of his eyelids, forcing him to see the granny pictures every time he blinks. Her first step. Her first day at school. Her first time trying a sip of his beer and absolutely hating it. Her. Her.

Suddenly, he’s angry. The only response he ever seems to conjure at the memory of her.

“‘S this what this whole things all about, huh?” It’s snarky, it’s cruel, and it's punctuated by a scoff. The fact you don’t even react, face unchanging beneath the shine of the moon, only seems to make him angrier, outrage for the fact you’re letting him speak to you like this, fury for allowing himself. “You want me to tell you somethin’ traumatic, somethin’ for you to pity me over? And then what, you gonna give me your own little sob story so we can have ourselves a lil’ pity party? Newshflash, princess, you ain’t special just cause your mama died and your daddy never wanted you.”

“Are you done?” You speak only after a silence has permeated the space between you for a few minutes, nothing but Joel’s laboured breaths filling the night air.

He’s not even sure when he started breathing so heavily. His heart is still working itself into a frenzy, his mind still off the rails. The eire calm that remains over your face seems to bring him momentary respite from the pain, if only to feel himself bracing for a new wave, a worse wave. One born from you. From your pain. And one that Joel’s entirely unprepared, and undeserving, to have wash over him. 

"I didn't really notice it at first, you know?” You speak so softly, he almost doesn’t hear you. But he does, and it hurts. “Hell, it wasn't even really me that realised. Bill did. I’d only been staying with them three nights, just until I got back on my feet. Back then, he used to barricade my door at night, and he wouldn’t let me eat at the same table as them both, not even when Frank insisted. But, suddenly, Bill flipped the switch on me. He became apologetic, careful, asking me if I was feeling okay and actually sounding… interested in the answer.”

Much like the thought of you in a quarantine zone, the thought of Bill being anything but utterly protective and completely trusting of you does not seem plausible in Joel’s mind, no matter how much he believes you. The image, simply, will not conjure in his mind, too out of shape with the current reality he’s witnessed.

You continue talking after a pause for composure, those eyes that trap him so easily now frozen to the ground, staring at some smudge of mud on your boots.

“Frank was the first one to actually say it out loud, to ask me if I... Anyway, it was hard to tell but we all agreed, eventually, that I had to be around three or four months along. It made sense, timewise. There were some raiders, they found my camp a few weeks before I collapsed outside Bill’s gate. I… I don't even really know which one of them sealed the deal. All I know is all of them were on me, and none of them cared about how hard I could kick.”

He almost calls you by your name, then by the name he’s given you. Sol. But it’s too pretty a word, too undeserving of being tainted by the anger he feels coursing through his veins, a bloodlust like no other making home for itself in his loins.

“I didn't really care that much about it, as horrible as that makes me sound.” It doesn’t make you sound horrible, at all. Joel could show you horrible, if you just gave him a few faces and the permission to do with them, punish them as he pleased. “It was just a means to an end. A deal to keep myself safe. They'd let me live under their roof, and I'd give them the baby. We never… discussed what would happen to me, once I held up my end of the bargain. Never got the chance to, really.”

And suddenly, Joel Miller is the greatest asshole to ever walk the planet.

Not only the greatest asshole, but a hypocrite, too. You ain’t special. Well, neither is he, moping around life with a chip on his shoulder and baggage the weight of a dead daughter. He isn’t the first parent to outlive a child, to lose a child, and he won’t be the last. He’ll just be another name on the list, another poor soul.

The hoot of an owl. It’s somehow a reminder that you’re both out, huddled in the privacy of a few trees, waiting for night to pass and the search to continue.

Those tears in your eyes still haven’t fallen. My brave girl. But it feels condescending, and wrong. Not because you’re not brave. Because you’re not his girl. You’re the sun, and he’s just another planet that’s been sucked into your orbit. Dense, unfeeling, and miles away, forever circling you.

“One minute, it's just a burden weighing down on my whole body,” your voice is so soft, it’s almost a whisper. Perhaps he’ll be the one who cries. It sure feels like it, if he has to continue watching you fidget with your fingers and look anywhere but him.  “And the next minute, it's screaming torture and the heartbreak of holding her barely-there body in my arms. That guilt... of not even knowing how much I wanted her until I got the chance ripped away, that’s something that never really goes away. It lingers, it changes you, forever."

God, does it linger.

He’s tried to lose track. He’s tried to make himself forget the years that have gone by, all in the hopes of getting through that September day, completely unaware of it. But he can’t.

Just like how he can’t think of what to say right now.

He knows he should comfort you.

He thinks he should tell you his own story, his own loss. Let you know that the grief you feel is not a lonesome one. But then he’d be worse than a hypocrite. He would be a liar, and that’s one thing he’s getting tired of being, especially when it comes to you.

“What,” he pulls in a deep breath, eyes flickering off you for a moment to watch figures that move in the distance. Tree branches, swaying in the wind. The temperatures are dropping even more, and he’s got no other layers to keep you warm with. “What were you gonna name her?”

You’re gracious enough to utter a name, softly, and finally your eyes flicker up from the ground and meet his own. The tiniest of smiles tugging at the corners of your mouth, the moon casting shadows down your face. You pull in a breath and stutter on its exhale, clearing your throat as if that’s enough to regain your composure.

“That’s her name. We buried her out back, under one of Frank’s flowerbeds,” there’s a sickening kind of envy that coils itself around his chest. Even if it visibly hurts, you’re talking about her, you’re honouring her enough to share something about her existence. Joel can’t do the same for his girl, a pain too harrowing, and, once more, he reminds himself that he’s the greatest asshole alive. “It’s silly but… I like to think it’s her whenever the snowdrops bloom.” 

“'S a nice name," he’s a pathetic excuse of a man, no courage to pull you close and tell you it’s okay. Tell you he’s sorry, for your loss and for his earlier harsh words. Tell you about his own daughter. Would you think he’s trying to outshine you in the pity party, if he told you he doesn’t get to see what life blooms from atop his daughter’s grave?

"It was my mom's,” you snort over an unexpected laugh, as if you can’t believe you’re admitting this to him. Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe it’s a sense of relief, a lightness coming over a heart previously weighed down by grief. If he could do that for you, even if just slightly, he’d feel as though the tears shining in your eyes are worth it. “She'd have hated to see me use it, she was never a fan of it, but I couldn't think of a better name for someone I love so much."

Something awful hits him, square in the jaw and deep in the gut.

He can’t remember why he called her Sarah.

You’re sleeping next to him.

He’s spent the better half of what feels like an hour trying to ignore this fact. Stared at the sky, just to count each freckled star that shines through in the dark. Closed his eyes and tried counting sheep. Rolled over, back facing you, and tried to just fall asleep, once and for all.

But it’s sisyphus. Each time he feels himself about to slip into the discomfort of sleep, you twitch a leg or mumble something incoherent, and he’s back to being far too aware of you, squeezed in beside him in what must be the world’s least spacious sleeping bag. The worst thing is, it had all been his idea.

You’d been yawning, eyes slipping shut just to be opened in defiance by your own stubborn self, unwilling to give into the sleep you so visibly needed. He’d told you to go to sleep, the words coming out soft for once yet, somehow, still a demand. When you nodded in agreement instead of standing your ground, Joel knew you must have been exhausted.

You told him that you hadn’t imagined the search would last overnight, that you hadn’t grabbed a single thing to sleep with. Not even a blanket. Which was fine, really, because Joel had no intention of closing his eyes. He’d rolled out his sleeping bag and told you to take it, he didn’t mind. It would be one more thing of his that smells like you.

But you wouldn’t stop tossing and turning. Restless, cold, and completely distracting to Joel as he tried to will himself to focus on what was important, any approaching threat, and not the shape of you wrapped in his belongings. A fruitless endeavour, that earns him nothing but a string of words rolling off his tongue: “Move over.”

And now he’s here, regretting ever thinking he could possibly lay next to you, exchange body heat, and somehow just will himself to fall asleep.

You squirm, hand fisting at the well-used material of his sleep roll. Laying on his back, he glances over at you. The itch to snake his arm beneath your head, offer a makeshift pillow to spare you from the hard floor, grows harder to ignore the more he looks at you.

It’s not the only thing that grows harder, however.

Maybe it’s because he can smell you, all over and around him, staining your memory into the fabric of the sleeping bag so he can lament how empty it feels the next time he sleeps it in. Maybe it's because he can feel you, scattered points where the heel of your foot rests against the slope of his ankle, and the swell of your ass presses into his upper thigh, and your back brushes against his arm with every slow breath you take. Maybe it's all more simple than that, like the mere knowledge that you’re actually here, in his presence, after so many months, and Joel Miller is just a man, susceptible to the pleasures of flesh and starved of you.

Whatever the reason is ultimately doesn’t matter. Lamenting over it won’t change the stiffness of his cock as it fights beneath denim confines, an uncomfortable throb that demands his attention. And he’s trying so hard to resist, trying so hard to pretend he’s not aware of his own body and the erection it’s bestowed upon him.

But you won’t stop moving, you won’t lay still. Deep in sleep, you taunt him, unawares to the way each soft sigh sends his mind barreling down into the depths of sinful thoughts, and each wriggle, squirm, repositioning of your hips serves no purpose other than to push you closer to him, deeper against the straining fabric.

He flirts with the idea of unbuckling his belt. It would be easy, his hand already resting stiff by his side, itching to shove down layers and feel the weight of his own cock. It barely even makes a sound, a soft clink muffled beneath the blanket, followed by the pop of a button, and the zing of a zipper sliding down. He glances at you, heart rate picking up, and confirms you’re just the same as moments ago: fast asleep.

As much as he wants to peel off his layers completely, he settles for the safer option of pulling down his jeans and briefs enough to free himself, full fist wrapping itself around his base. A swift tug, a tight-jawed hiss. The thrill of it runs right up his spine, a torture that he wants another taste of.

He wants to snake his hand up to his mouth and wet the palm with his spit, but he can’t, won’t, the risk of too much movement waking you. So he settles into his fate, a series of uncomfortably dry and unfluid strokes of his cock, nothing but the drops of his own precum to lubricate his movements.

Slow, steady, he runs his palm over his length in sync with your breathing. Your lungs expands, his fingers brush the tip, they deflate and he’s down at the base, trying hard not to brush against his heavy balls. Images of you, the same ones he plays on repeat when he’s working himself to an orgasm in the safety of his and Tess’ apartment, or balls-deep in some faceless stranger, hidden in the darkness of some back alley. Breathless in the kitchen, gripping a knife like your mind grips at its sanity as he bruises his knees from drinking between your thighs. Perched atop his lap, the metal of the truck’s hood creaking with each bounce you give, fuckin yourself further down his length, forcing him deeper and deeper.

His eyes slip shut as he lets the memories take over, replaying for his own viewing pleasure. He tries to match the tightness of his hand to the tightness of your cunt, but his own touch is cold, unfeeling, dry, nothing like the sweetness of you. The version of you that lives in his mind throws her head back lips parted in a cry of pleasure. Joel, she — you — moans, gripping him tighter, pert nipples straining through the thin fabric of a shirt. His shirt. God, you looked so good, so safe in his coat, he should’ve stripped you down to nothing but it, and taken you there against the dirty woodland floor, on all fours, ass in the air, face in the dirt, Joel all over you. 

Joel, he can hear it, the way you’d sink down fully to the floor, forcing him to follow you, smother you in his whole weight, hips tilted up enough for him to keep drilling himself deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

“Joel,” he hears you. Real you, turning towards him in the tight squeeze of the sleeping bag. Sleepy eyes meet his own and he sees it, the recognition. You know what he’s doing beneath the surface of the sleeping bag. Before he can fully register this, the touch of another hand —  far more delicate — envelopes his own, tightening his grip before he can dare to retreat. “You should be asleep.”

“Can’t,” he grits out, powerless to the sudden movement of your hand, the slow drag in which you guide him to jerk at his cock.

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“I do,” you admit with a soft shrug, eyes glued to his own. “Still, I wanna hear you say it.”

One glance down and he sees the way you touch him beneath the blanket, wishing he could rip it all away and watch your fingers, intertwining with his own, smother over his leaking tip, staining your skin in his pleasure.

It’s embarrassing how much of a mess he’s becoming, all at the mercy of little old you, and your sparkly eyes, and your sleepy smile, and your guiding hands. It’s embarrassing how softly the confession parts from his lips.

“Because of you.”

“Me?” You question immediately, feigned innocence striked across those tired, doe-like eyes he likes so much. “All I’ve done is try to sleep. You’re the one who can’t keep his hands from wandering. Are you really that weak Joel?”

“Yes.”

“Do I make you weak?”

“Yes, fuck!” He feels like he’s gone back in time and you’re playing with him, twenty-something questions or whatever the fuck you’d called it. Feeling his balls tighten, an urgency to touch you, feel you, make you feel good takes hold of him. “I’m gonna- Ahh, baby, let me- Let me feel you.”

But you won’t let him. Tightening your hand around his cock, continuing those up and down motions, inching him closer and closer to the orgasm he’s trying so hard to stave off.

“No, I’m too tired,” even your little whine is enough to drive him mad, a sigh out your nose as he watches you snuggle into the width of his chest, a throbbing pain taking over his heart. How can you seem so sweet with your fingers sitting tight around his cock? “Let's just lay like this, feel me like this. Let me make you feel good.”

“Tell me you’re wet,” it becomes a need, a desperation, born in his heart and spreading all throughout the rest of him, to know you’re enjoying this torture as much as he is. To know you’re not simply touching him as a means to get him off, over and done with, mind silenced to sleep by the haziness of spilling his cum.

“I am,” you soothe his minor fear, and he feels the gentle roll of your hips into his thigh, leg tangled between both of his as you grind your clothed cunt against him. “So wet. Love touching you, Joel.”

“Yeah?” He croons back, voice teetering off into literal begging, his free hand perched on the tip of your chin and tilting your eyes up to meet his. “Then let me fuck you, please.”

“No, just…” You say, shaking your head, rolling your hips, teasing at the slit in his tip with the tip of your finger. He can’t help but hiss, a grunt catching in his throat. “Just wanna focus on you. Wanna see you cum for me, Joel.”

Never have seven words been enough to make his resolve snap.

With a pathetic cry of your name, Joel feels the first rope of cum spray against his knuckles. Sticky, hot, thick, it dribbles down the cracks of his fingers onto your own, making a mess out of both of you. You’re there, closed palm, sweet lips, soothing him with words of kindness as you carry him through the motions of his orgasm, no doubt working your wrist into a dull ache as you squeeze every last drop of cum out of his weeping tip. He doesn’t want to think of the mess that awaits him beneath the sleeping bag, sticky cum staining soft skin, and rough jeans, and nylon material.

What he wants is for you to keep going, stroke him until his cock regains its full stiffness, standing to attention and ready to feel you in the ways he’d pleaded moments earlier, like he felt you months earlier.

Maybe this time he’d try your other hole. He’s wondered, on lonely nights where nothing but his hand has kept him company, how much convincing it would take until you’d bend over and present him with the pretty little creases of your puckered hole. You’d protest, he knows. call him disgusting, degenerate, dirty. Shame him for even wishing to touch you in such a vile manner. Joel could handle it. He’d always had a preference for the chase, the thrill of wearing a pretty thing down off its high horse of holier-than-thou syndrome and onto their knees before him.

He’d not be kind. No, not when the time comes. He’d ease himself in, sure, but the true battle would begin once he’s sheathed inside and the tightness of your hole hugs his cock in the warmest of embraces. He’d push, and pull, and break you down into whatever surface he takes you against. His hands would join in, bringing an electrified pleasure to your neglected cunt while his hips piston into the plumpness of your cheeks. They’d move in sync, working to ensure no second passes where you’re not full of some part of him - be it his cock in your ass or his fingers in your cunt.

Exhausted and defiled, your poor body would have nowhere else to run than to the comfort of his embrace and the sweet serenity of peaceful sleep, once he’s through with you. And, should you wake to cry of a newfound pain in your rear, Joel would waste no time in snaking his way down between your legs to mouth at your cum-stained hole, laving his tongue over you and painting your thighs in apologetic kisses until you can no longer speak of pain, his name the only word you’ll ever need to know.

But, alas, time is catching up on him and the blood refuses to return to his cock.

Exhaustion wraps you both in its blanketing warmth, melting your head down against his chest with ease, hands still missing somewhere between his thighs. Every soft breath that leaves you hits the skin of his neck, a physical, timely reminder that you’re there, in his arms, closer than you’ve ever been.

The thought is frightening, enough to get his heart racing in his chest. He can only assume you hear it, feel it beating against your ear.

“I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper, just when he feels himself teetering towards the edge of sleep.

“Hmm?” He hums back in lieu of a verbal response, eyes he’d not even notice close peering open to look down at you.

“I didn’t mean- I wasn’t trying to make you angrier with the questions.” Angrier. That word leaves a sour taste in Joel’s mouth. “It’s just… You’re a good man. You care about others. About Tess, and Bill, Frank too. About me. But you have this chip on your shoulder… I just wanted to try to understand you better, I wanted to make you feel better.”

With your soft voice echoing in his head, he feels himself sinking into a dreamless sleep, a reply caught on the tip of his tongue.

Something wet wakes Joel.

It’s a slow return from the land of sleep, the longest that it’s taken him in years to go from peacefully resting to wide-eyed and alert to every surrounding. The first thing he registers is how warm everything feels, how cosy. How much he enjoys the weight of something in his arms, breathing softly into his chest.

Then, that something wet itches at his skin, drags across his cheek. He tries to open his eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut, the bright burn of the morning sun nearly blinding him. A few birds sing from the trees above, exchanging their good-mornings with the rest of nature’s critters.

A groan comes from his left, muffled against the flannel of his wrinkled shirt. He readjusts himself, pulling the weight even closer, and finds out he was right: your smell already lingers in his sleeping-bag. A third lick of wet, this one from chin to eyebrow, a cringe overcomes his tired face.

Lick. 

His eyes snap open, fight against the burning of the light, and there he sees him. Otis, to the right, mouth panting, tongue dangling out his mouth, tail wagging somewhere in the background. Joel tries to move as slowly as possible, fearful of spooking the dog, and even more fearful of spooking you, eyes still shut and hand nestled atop his groin, fingers tangled in coarse hair and poking beneath the layers of his top.

“Sunshine,” he whispers, shaking gently at your shoulder, and nearly apologising as you crack an eye open and pin him with a deadly stare. You’re not much of a morning person, a fact Joel fools himself into thinking he’ll need to remember for the future. He gives your shoulder another shake, a gentle squeeze too, for extra measure. “C’mon now, gotta open those eyes properly for me. Got someone here who’s mighty excited to see you.”

That seems to entice you, eyes peering fully open and giving him a once-over before mumbling a soft, “what’re you talking abo- My baby-boy!”

No sooner than you’ve shot up straight, arms wide and reaching for the furry creature, Otis has bounded over, trampling over the mess of limbs you and Joel make up beneath the nylon. Pathetic whines fill the air, a tail that moves a hundred miles an hour, as the canine smothers his snout into you, his luscious mane shining beneath the sun’s rays.

You’re pressing kisses against the dog, tears brimming your eyes as you wrap your arms around his neck and tell him, over and over, “don’t ever do that again! I was so scared!” The happiness is contagious, spreading with a small smile upon Joel’s lips as he peels himself off the floor, chest pressing into your back and hand stretching out over your shoulder, fingers tangling in the threads of Otis’ soft fur.

“Must’a caught scent of you, followed it all the way till it brought him to us,” Joel musses, feeling you laugh as the dog licks a kiss over your cheek. “He’s a good boy. Aren’t’cha, boy?”

Neither of you mention the sticky dilemma between Joel’s thighs as you pack up. You roll up the sleeping bag while he wipes himself clean with a dirty shirt, quietly passing it your way as he slips off his belt and loops it around Otis’ collar, becoming a makeshift lead to guide the dog home with.

Though, as the four-legged creature sniffs on ahead, with the occasional pull that tests Joel’s grip on the belt, he almost seems to need no guide, leading you all in the direction of home. Your home, not Joel’s. But, what a wonderful thought that would be, if he were just a man, and you were just a woman, and you were both taking an early morning walk around the woods with your dog, catching the first rays of sun, together.

As if hearing his thoughts, Otis turns his head, looking at Joel over his shoulder, tail wagging as he lets out an excited bark. Up ahead, closer than he’d like it to be, stands the borders to Bill’s sanctuary. Up ahead, sooner than he’d like it to be, the place where you’ll part ways.

He finds himself slowing his pace. You do the same, no question, happy to simply have your fur-friend safe, by your side, the occasional brush of his snout against your upper thigh, searching for the affectionate stroke of your hand.

He needs to speak soon, act now, before it’s too late and the chance slips through his fingers. Joel clears his throat.

“My, uh,” a lump catches the words as they try to leave him. He swallows it down in a gulp, and tries again. “My daughter.”

Your face turns so quickly from the trail ahead to Joel, that he swears he hears a snap of something in your neck. Silence settles in like fog, mist on the horizon, a pause pregnant with so many questions he can see running through your pupils. You don’t speak them, however, and it strangely eases his nerves, taking away the feeling of demand to reveal his pain, leaving him to peel off the band-aid at his own pace.

“She was my… Whatever you called it, last night.” He sees you nod along, in the corner of his eye. You’ve both slowed to a mere shuffle, unaware of the three figures manifesting ahead, crowding on the other side of the fences. “The one that changed my life. She was so… bright, I used to worry one day she’d blind someone with her smile.”

In his memories, she’s always a beacon of light. Shining, even in darkness. Joel’s almost convinced glitter, or starlight must have been weaved into her skin, her eyes, her smile. 

“She was everything good about me,” he says, and finds he can’t help the small laugh that claws its way up his throat, scratching as it goes. “None of the bad.”

“Can’t imagine there’s much on that list.”

“I know, ‘s hard to believe there’s even one good thing about m-”

“No, Joel,” he swears he feels his heart still at how you say his name, firm, and with conviction, like you’re trying to drill the sound into his head, remind him that he has a name, has a heart. “The bad, it must be a short list.”

Three of you — man, woman, dog — find another similar trio waiting by an open gate. Frank, Tess, Bill, each more relieved than the last to see Otis nearly pulling Joel’s feet from under him as the animal surges forward, pulling against the belt-lead with all his might. You release both man and dog from the tug of war, unbuckling the belt from the German Shepherd’s collar and freeing him to pounce on Bill who, despite the frown embedded in his forehead at the dog’s incessant licking, claps a hand over its back.

Joel feels a hand clap down on his own back, snaking its way up to squeeze at his shoulder.

"C'mon, Texas,” Tess proclaims loud enough for all eyes to fall on them. Yours included, kind and questioning, making him wish he could stay. “We're gonna be in shit if we're not back by sundown."

Bag already on his shoulder, Joel can’t feign a reason to linger a little longer.

“Wait!” You call out, parting from Frank’s side, fingers scratching at Otis’ head as you pass. Without warning, you throw yourself at Joel, arms wrapping around him and holding him close in the gentlest of embraces. “Thank you, Joel.” It’s just a whisper. He’s not even sure exactly what you’re thanking him for. Still, he lays a hand against your back and pulls you a little tighter, one last rush of your shampoo hitting his nose before you’re stepping back and parting ways. You, heading back into the safety of Bill’s gates, and Joel, walking off towards the desecrated city, back to the cold of his apartment.

When he wakes the next morning, beneath a roof and upon an uncomfortable couch, he feels time reset itself.

One day since he last seen you, who knows how many more days to go.

[jessicaslittlelovesickmess]

Joel’s sister

Pairing: Tess Servopoulos x Milf!Reader, Joel Miller x Plantonic Sister!Reader

Warnings: Joel being a douche, Tess crushing on Joels milf older sister, ooc characters, Sarah is still alive, no outbreak

Word count:373

A/N:I’ve never watched tlou or played the game, this was a rushed idea I had

"Tess honey, are you alright?" you asked placing the back of your hand on her forehead "Your face is flushed" you commented feeling her temperature. "You don't feel unwell or anything do you?" leaning forward some more to get a proper look at her face unaware of her eyes travelling down.

"Must be the weather" the woman shrugged ''must be" you smiled walking to the kitchen, Tess looked over at Joel with a shit-eating grin. "Don't" he warned "Your sister is hot" she whispered before a cushion was thrown at her face "Joel!" you gasped.

"Ignore him. it appears he's lost his manners" you teased placing down a glass of water so you could help the woman "Thank you" she whispered doe eyeing you once more. "How's my baby?" you asked smoothing down Tess's hair "She's loving college" Joel smiled proudly "Time flies doesn't it" you laughed sadly.

You toyed with the heart-shaped amethyst that hung around your neck sitting perfectly just above your breasts while Tess followed every moment. "Why don't you just get a dog?" Joel shrugged "Do you hear yourself?" you giggled sitting on the armrest "Anyway Steph and the twins are visiting this weekend, you both should come over" you offered.

"Drink up" You smiled at Tess nodding to the full glass this time it was Joel who grinned "Y/n/n?" he asked "Yeah?" you looked over at him. "Do you have a beer?" he fluttered his eyelashes "Coming up" you laughed journeying back to the kitchen "You're never like this" Joel teased "Does the tough Tess like being babied by my big sister" he cooed.

"Fuck up" Tess glared at him taking a sip of the water.

"She's divorced y'know?" he shrugged smiling

"Really?" Tess leaned in interested.

"A mommies girl I see" he teased.

"I.will.hit.you" she bit through gritting teeth "Don't let your mommy catch you" Joel laughed "She's not my mommy" Tess whined "But you want her to be" she smacked his shoulder. "So violent. what would happen if I told Mommy dearest?" Tess looked up to catch your gaze "Joel" she whispered as he continued to tease "Joel" she elbowed his ribs "Ouch what was that f- oh hi Y/n" he laughed nervously.

"Y-you like me?"

[hellishjoel]

oh my fucking GOD I love women - Pins this was so fucking good, SOOOOOO SO HOT! I'm so happy to be reading more of Tess and you write her dominance so well!!!

all my lady loving ladies need to read this shit NOW!!

just like heaven

pairing: best friend's mom!Tess x stoner!reader word count: 5k summary: Your best friend's mom catches you smoking in her living room. She teaches you a lesson. content/warnings: dubcon, intoxication, Tess is predatory, age gap, an exceptional amount of weed smoking, virgin!reader, smut smut smut, mommy kink, a lil bit of softness because I’m the one writing it 🤷, Tess gets you high and fucks you a/n: okay this is literally just a porn scenario, with the express purpose of celebrating morally grey predatory lesbians, working on pushing my own boundaries as I write, and an ode to Tess Servopoulos, who I would be honoured to have step on me. Shoutout to @ozarkthedog for the title, for being my whole heart and for allowing me to scream horny Tess thoughts at you every minute of the day, and to @ems-chaos-corner whose feedback and beautiful reactions are deeply appreciated, truly cherished, and an absolute fucking joy! 🥹

It's Friday night and the week's been a shit show. The week kicked off with a work catastrophe, and the second the fires had been put out, up started the roommate drama.  You had just picked up fresh bud, but you'd left your bong at the home of your friend. Or rather, his mom's home, in whose basement he resides.

You and Charlie have known each other most of your lives, but his mother had been a workaholic, rarely at home, and memorable only from birthdays and holidays. Near the end of her marriage, she discovered her husband had been having an affair. To settle the score, she fucked his mistress.

It was the most enduring of the neighborhood gossip, and though you knew Tess, at least a little bit, you found yourself almost mythologizing her.

Since the divorce, Tess became much more present as a mother. She worked a few less hours and invited her son to live in her lavish, post-divorce home, rent free, as he made his way through college.

You didn’t see her often, but you liked her. And, she thought of you as one of Charlie’s “good” friends, as the two of you had never gotten into any legal trouble, and you always felt a little special, knowing she was cool with you. You’d seen her glare down Charlie’s other friends, but you swear, she even winked at you once.

So now, the plan–

Charlie was gonna meet you here, and then you were gonna hang out and smoke together. He assured you his mom wouldn't be home for hours–she’s got a big press conference tonight. 

But you'd just gotten a call from him; one of your coworkers called out, and he's already there, so he's gonna pull a double and get that sweet, sweet overtime pay.

(He did ask if you wanted the shift. You told him absolutely not, but appreciated the consideration.)

He texts you when he's on his break. Sorry I bailed! Will make it up to you! You can chill at mine as long as you like. You can crash too. I know you hate the basement, so go smoke in the living room. Mom won't be home till late, and the fan works great. I do it all the time.

It's a relief, not feeling relegated to his room. It was a fine room, you supposed, but stumbling upon crispy socks twice has been two times too many. And, maybe, you’d have a chance to snoop.

It's eight pm. You've been at Charlie's for an hour, and you're finally starting to feel the stress of the day ebb away. You let your eyes flutter closed as you clear the chamber and hold in the smoke. You start to let it out, but reel back coughing when the lights are suddenly switched on, startling you badly enough you jump a foot into the air.

"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" says a cool voice, and you feel your stomach flip with sudden terror, eyes flying open.

Tess stands in the doorway, glowering.

It takes you a minute, a mortifyingly long minute, for the coughing to subside. The more you try to suppress it, the worse it gets, and the whole time, she’s glaring at you.

"I'm not really close to my mom." You tell her. She stares at you blankly.

"Not the fucking point." She says, but now she looks like she's holding back a laugh.

"Sorry," you try to explain, "I didn't know anyone would be home, I thought you had a work thing–"

She rolls her eyes before turning and making a show of opening all of the windows.

"Remember, this is my fuckin house, kid," she snaps at you, "Press conference was cancelled.”

“Oh,” you frown, “That sucks.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Tess rolls her eyes. "Yeah. It fucking sucks. The production’s truck got broken into at the last fucking second and we lost half our gear.”

“Well, shit.” You're not quite sure where to go with this, what to say.

You look away for a moment, awkward and uncomfortable, but she makes no move to go anywhere. When you look back, you realize she's still looking at you, eyes sweeping you up and down before landing on your emptied water glass, still damp with condensation, sitting next to a coaster. Quickly, you scramble to correct it.

"We gotta work on your manners," she says and nods, decision made.

“Hey, I’m– I’m sorry. I should go. I shouldn’t be here, didn't mean to be in your way- And I’m sorry, again—"

She ignores you, your rambling falling on deaf ears. She strides across the room and seats herself down on the sofa opposite you. You envy the way she carries herself, the way she seems to swagger pussy-first, sits down with her legs spread, commands the entire space. She's kind of... magnetic. There's something about her that makes your stomach do flips.

"Aren't you gonna offer me a hit?"

"Oh." You weren't expecting this. "I– Yeah, do you want–"

"Why don't you come over here. Sit with me."

"Um, sure-" you say, and you pick up the bong and lighter and start to sit down next to her, nearly trying to budge up next to her outspread legs.

But she stops you before you can touch her and grabs you by the wrist, patting her knee.

"Right here, sweetheart," she smirks.

Your stomach flips. "Oh no, I don't think that-"

"It's alright, honey, I don't bite."

It's less of a request and more of a command. Your heart, which had only been a little settled for a moment, started to race again.

"Oh- okay."

You lower yourself down.

"Face me," she corrects you. You'd been going to sit on her knee with your own knees pressed together. You redirect your limbs and swing a leg over her, so you're straddling her thigh.

"Good girl," she tells you, and as if you don't need a whole moment to reevaluate your entire life, she continues, seemingly oblivious. It's a casual, almost disinterested, "So, what is it we're smoking?"

"Um, it's... it's weed-"

She barks a laugh and it nearly startles you. It doesn't mean anything, the way you feel yourself bounce on her leg, the pressure at the inseam- "Yeah, kid," she snorts, "I figured that bit out myself."

"Of course," you mumble, humiliated, "Sorry, being stupid-"

She cuts you off. "When I was your age- well actually, how old are you? You even old enough to buy this shit?"

"Twenty-one," you admit with a wince, suddenly wishing you had at least a decade on your actual age.

"You're killin' me, kid," she huffs out a long breath and shakes her head.

It only derails her for a moment.

"Well, when I was your age, this shit wasn’t even close to making it onto the ballot, let alone get legalized. We didn't know anything about strains. We'd get a dry little dime bag for ten bucks. It usually turned out to be mostly shake and seeds, but that's all we could get, so we'd pay the creep who lived down the street and tried not to piss him off cause he was the only weed guy we knew."

"Well." You're not quite sure what to say. "That sounds like it sucked. I guess times aren’t so different though. There’s a really creepy budtender at the shop this side of town. But there’s also a cute girl who works there. It’s overpriced and looks like a fuckin’ Apple Store. Whenever she’s working, though, she slips me a couple extra pre-rolls. So it’s kinda worth it."

You see something in her eyes flash and then return to her steady gaze.

"It's been years since I've smoked," she admits. "Well, weed at least. Still smoke the occasional cig.”

"Oh really, why’d you stop?

"Well, I don't think I've smoked regularly since my early twenties. We lost our dealer and it just didn't seem worth it to find another. It was really just word of mouth, where I was living.”

"Your dealer get caught or something?"

"Not exactly. See, he'd tried to slip his hand up a girls' skirt and the girl was decidedly not into it. The asshole ended up with a shattered nose. I've always loved how they described it. Shattered. Served him right."

You nod.

"He decided it maybe wasn't worth it." She pauses. "So. I guess your generation has fancy fuckin dispensaries, and my generation had the weed guy. Your generation has such dumbass names for strains and, and mine crossed our fingers hoping we weren’t just gettin’ stems and seeds."

You're silent for a moment.

Then, stumbling and foolish, you ask her a question.

"How old are you?"

"Old enough to be your mother." She smirks and your stomach flips. “Now, let's see what it's like these days, shall we?"

From her jeans pocket she withdraws a flint-wheel lighter. It’s old, but it's nice. The initials TS are engraved on the case.

She opens it and flicks it a couple of times with practiced ease. It doesn't take at first, and she mutters something about dammit–! need to refill it–, but on the third spark it lights.

You start to pass her the bong, but she lights the bowl and pushes it back towards you.

"Fill the chamber for me? It's been a while-"

You do. Smoke swirls through it, thick as soup and glossy. You pass it back to her.

Tess doesn't break eye contact with you as she almost clears it, only a thin whisper left circling the chamber.

It's a lot of smoke, and either she's lying about not having smoked, or she's insane, because that's a lot of smoke.

When she clears the chamber, she only holds it for a moment, places the bong on the floor next to her and, to your surprise, pulls you in.

It's not quite a kiss but she's holding the back of your head so you lean in, open mouthed, as if it were. Instead of kissing you properly, she exhales the smoke into your mouth, floods you with it, and when she's done breathing out, she places a palm over your mouth and blocks any breath from escaping.

"Hold it, honey, that's right-" she praises.

You can feel your eyes start to water, the way you're not quite coughing yet but you're pretty sure the second you try to breathe any of it out, you'll be lost.

With her pinky knuckle, she prods into the bowl of the bong again and moves the bud around, so the most charred bit is discarded and fresh bud is at the top.

"You can let go now," Tess tells you, finally pulling her hand away.

You let out the smoke and, as you predicted, fold over yourself starting to cough. Tess just smiles, and fills the chamber again.

By the third time she has you clear the chamber, not even using her lungs as proxy anymore, you can taste your heartbeat and the room isn't fading, exactly, it's more dotting. The world around you is a pointillism piece that's unfinished in inexplicable spots.

Your skin feels like it's dancing, and there are hands gliding along your hips, up your waist, grazing your breast-

"How’re you feeling, kid?" a voice asks, and you know where you are.

"Mmmm- Good." you sigh, "I feel good. You feel good."

"Oh, do I?" she asks. The hands continue to trace paths all over your body.

"Your hands. Real nice. You feel real nice."

Her eyebrows raise. Her head tilts. She's examining you.

Tess's hands settle on your waist. You barely notice the way she's rocking you gently towards her, and back again. Forwards, and backwards.

You hear a moan, desperate and raw, and you don't realize you're the source of it until you watch the way her eyes darken.

"Have you been with a woman before?" Tess asks.

You grin, sheepish. "Not really-"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "What does ‘not really’ mean?"

“I…” you chew your lip. “I guess I haven’t technically done… much. With anyone.”

Tess’s eyes widen.

You try to backpedal, worried it sounds too silly, too immature, that it's a turn-off for her. That wherever this was going, it's about to make a swift one-eighty. Suddenly sobered, you stammer on. “I mean, I’ve kissed girls before. And, like, played with their tits, you know?”

"Shit," Tess's voice is close to a growl, and for one awful moment you're certain she's about to call the whole thing off and tell you to get off her lap.

You know where you've found yourself. On the lap of someone far too old for you, rocking you against her thigh, letting her hands grope you however she pleases-

Her hands still, and you’re shocked at how immediately you feel bereft.

“And you want me to be your first woman?” She asks, voice velvety and dangerous.

“Yes,” you say, not even thinking about it. “I want you to be my first.”

Tess breathes out slowly, and only then do you realize exactly what you’ve said. The silence is terrifying, and with every microsecond that passes, you’re more sure she’s going to throw you out.

Then she starts bouncing her thigh, the motion creating the most unexpected and desperately needed friction. It’s gentle, but you can feel the way her muscles tense and relax, and every part of it might drive you insane.

You stifle a moan, needing her to say something, but not wanting to jeopardize the position you’ve found yourself in. Maybe if she thinks about it, she’ll stop, and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

"I bet I can teach you a thing or two."

Your jaw drops comically.

"Teach me?" you ask.

"Teach you how to make a woman feel good. How to use your fingers, put that pretty mouth to use-"

You feel yourself heat at her praise, and she grins, brushing a thumb against your lower lip.

"I think-" you know your voice sounds pathetic and worn and woozy from the harshness of the hits you took, "I think I maybe.. I think I have a lot to learn."

“But first,” her grin becomes truly wicked and you feel the tension that's been building in you start to twist, get hot and slick and desperate. Her hand trails down to your neck, her thumb resting over your pulse point. “You seem nervous, honey. Let’s help you relax a little more.”

She picks the bong back up. “Pack us a fresh bowl, will you?”

“More?” you ask. You can already feel the redness of your eyes, and know that any more will make you stupid.

“More.” Tess agrees.

“We could just, like, start by making out?” you suggest.

Tess doesn’t even try to hide her smirk.

“You wanna make out?” she taunts, lip curled.

“Fuck, Tess, I’m high–” you whine, “I didn’t mean that to sound so high school.”

“God,” she sighs, shaking her head, “You’re so damn young.”

And after a moment elapses.

“Go on,” she nods to the bong, and you remember what you were meant to be doing.

You stand up, immediately aching, missing the way her strong thigh had rubbed between your legs. It occurs to you that you may have left a wet spot on her pants.

You make quick work of it, emptying out the ash and packing a fresh bowl.

“You wanna kiss me, pretty girl?” she asks.

“Yes-” you sigh, and you all but dive forward, only to receive a gentle hand to your shoulder, holding you back.

“Here’s the deal, sweetheart. Every hit you take, you get a kiss.”

“I– Tess I can’t– I’ll be so high I’ll be stupid–”

“No, baby,” Tess croons, “You’ll be nice and relaxed. You’ll get to feel my hands all over that beautiful body of yours. You’ll be my good girl.”

She grins when you let out an involuntary whine.

“You wanna be a good girl for me, don’t you? And when you really need to tap out, I’m sure we can find another way to make sure you get all the kisses you need. Okay?”

You nod, suddenly desperate to please. Of course you can take it. You’ll be so, so good for her. And you’ll get to feel her lips on yours, feel her hands explore you, touch you, take–

The first hit is dizzying, but it mellows out quickly.

Emboldened, you grin at her. “Fair’s fair,” you declare.

Tess rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, too. “C’mon up, honey.”

You put the pipe down and straddle her. You give yourself just a moment to feel her here, hot and soft and lovely between your thighs. You love the way you can feel her abdomen rise and fall with her breath, and smell her hair.

Slowly, carefully, you lean in. Soft, firm lips press against yours, and you feel a heat inside you immediately combust, roar to life. You’re filled with such unadulterated need, you think you might die.

Then, she pulls away, and you reel.

“No-“ you whimper, and she lifts the bong back up to you.

You don’t know how many hits you take, each punctuated with another press of her lips to yours. You’ve never smoked like this, never this much. The world is dizzy and foggy, but her hands are grounding. They rub broad circles into your aching shoulders, tease you with feather-light touches. 

It’s unclear how much time has passed, but after she pulls away from another kiss, she holds you back when you move to pick up the pipe.

“I think you’ve had enough,” she croons. You love her voice, the way she’s soft with you.

You blink lazily at her and lean in for another kiss.

Instead, she pulls back.

“Honey, don’t forget. Like I said, you’ll have another way to earn these kisses.”

“Want you,” you mumble. Being apart from her for even these moments feels torturous. You need her skin against yours.

“For every article of clothing you take off, you’ll get to touch me.”

You focus on her words, making sure you’re getting it right through the fog in your head.

“Can I—” you trail off.

“Can you what?”

“Can I take it all off? And then I can touch you as much as you like?”

“Well, aren't you ambitious?” She smirks, and then considers, tilting her head side to side. “I suppose that would work. But I want you to put on a show for me.”

You scramble up, with much speed and little grace. She huffs a laugh when you nearly topple as you pull your jeans down.

“Slowly, baby. Want to watch you.”

You do your best to slow down, peeling each garment off, one by one, and leaving them in a disorganized heap.

“That’s it,” she praises, “Doing such a good job.”

When you’re nearly bare, you hesitate, fumbling with the band of your panties. This moment, this moment, feels like the point of no return.

“I— I wanna see you.” You say, suddenly more focused, and very nervous.

“Baby, you’re still wearing your panties.”

She says it sweetly, but you know it’s not a request. It’s a command. You slip them down, now totally naked before her. 

You realize; this is the first time you’ve been so fully naked in front of someone who wants to fuck you.

Doubt and anxiety start to cloud your mind as Tess looks you up and down.

You speak without thinking, “Am I pretty?”

It’s such a simple, inane question. But Tess doesn’t hesitate.

“Of course you are, baby. You’re stunning.” She states, and it’s definitive. Who would ever question Tess?

Warmth rushes back through you, your body suddenly hot again with arousal, banishing any lingering fear. You let yourself feel the fog, feel the sensation.

You relax as you stand, enjoying the feeling of ambient air on your body, the breeze from outside sifting through the hair on your arms and legs.

“Come back to me,” Tess prods, and you realize you’ve been standing with your eyes closed. You open your eyes, and you’re shocked when you see that Tess herself is naked before you. Her hair cascades down her shoulders, golden-brown silk adorning her, streaks of gray at her temples. Her body is firm and toned, but she has her fair share of scars and dimples and cellulite. Stretch marks decorate her belly, old but beautiful with the way they gleam pearlescent in the light.

“You want to touch me?” She asks, and you nod. Hand outstretched, you move towards her. She reaches her hand out to meet you, grasps your palm and kisses your fingertips.

It feels like worship.

“Come with me,” she tells you, and you follow, hand in hers. She brings you to her bedroom, one room in this house you’ve never seen. You want to pay attention to all of it, but you cannot focus. You cannot tear yourself away from her.

She guides you, seating you at the head of the bed with legs spread. Then, she settles herself in between them, spreading her own legs. You can feel her ass against your thighs, the heat radiating from her. You want so badly to touch.

“How do you like to touch yourself?” She asks, and you pause.

You know what you like, but you’ve never actually had to describe it before.

“I, um-“ you swallow. “I like to, uh, work myself up. Play with myself all around, um—“

“Your pussy?”

“Yeah, all around my pussy. And then, when I’m ready, I rub my clit. Make little circles above it. Maybe put a finger or two in, if I feel like it, but usually it’s enough with just my clit.”

Tess nods, and you feel the rumble of a sigh through her body. 

“Touch me like that,” she commands.

And you do.

You slip your arms around her, stroking her thighs. Muscles tense beneath your fingers, and you hear her groan.

Gently, slowly, you trace fingertips closer and closer to her apex. You brush along her inner thighs, and feel victorious when she stifles a gasp. Then, you stroke the outer confines of her vulva, feeling how hot she is between her thighs. The hair between her legs feels sensational against your skin, especially in your high, and you get lost in the feeling of it. You’re touching her. You’re touching her. And she likes it.

She lets you continue to stroke at her, all around her, everywhere but the place she wants you most. Then, you realize you feel a trickle of wetness from her, and you dip your fingertips down to catch it. You slide back up, through her folds, catching so much slickness. She’s wet, she’s so fucking wet, and she’s wet for you. 

You rub your fingers together, obsessed with the almost egg-white slick stringing translucent between them. Everything that you wondered about yourself, worried was an anomaly, proven absent in porn–it’s like a revelation. She’s just like you. And she’s totally different. She’s a mirror, and an entity complete and singular.

She’s a fucking goddess.

You pull her hood back and swipe a slick thumb lightly against her clit. Immediately, you’re dizzy at the sensation of her rolling her hips against you, pressing against you, towards your fingers, trying to get more friction. You barely get any physical contact from her the way you need, but the proximity alone is overwhelming. 

You rut up against her, knowing there’s nothing for you to get yourself off on here without changing position entirely. But the closeness is incredible. You feel your own wetness smear on her back and her ass, the way you’re dripping. And Tess, her back pressed against your breasts, occasionally dipping to nibble kisses along your throat and jaw.

Lost between sensation, and curiosity, you reach through the fog. You want to do a good job. You want to make her feel good. It’s interesting, you think, all the ways she feels different to you. Her labia are a little longer, spreading over your fingers as you stroke along her slit again and again. She’s making the loveliest sounds, whines and moans and whimpers, sounds you never thought you’d hear from her.

When you press your fingers against her clit again, she almost yelps, but the yelp morphs into a deep moan as she starts rocking against the pressure, chasing the sensation. It feels so similar, but totally foreign at the same time. You dip a couple of fingers into her opening. You stroke her how you stroke yourself. And then you move to press in deeper, and the angle’s all wrong. You suddenly feel embarrassed. Of course vaginas aren’t all the same! You try again, relaxing your fingers, slowly massaging into her. She gently rests her hand on yours. You think she might pull it back. Instead, she guides it, angling your fingers just right so they’re slipping into her tight heat and lets out a heaving sigh.

If she’d been trying to stay quiet, to hide from you the effect you’re having on her, that all goes out the window when you start pumping into her.

Now that you have the angle right, you drive your fingers in again and again, scissoring her open, pressing all the soft and lovely bits inside her till she’s howling.

“Fuck,” she hisses, “Oh baby that’s it, keep fucking me with those lovely fingers, you’re doing such a good job–”

You slip in a third finger and her words turn to a breathy jumble of yes, please, more—

She feels so delicious against your fingertips, massaging into her again and again. You love the texture of her. 

Flicking a thumb over her clit as you pump in and out in measured strokes, her whole body begins to convulse.

“Fuck!” She shouts, “Fuck, I’m—”

She comes with a cry, shaking in your lap, and you continue to stroke her through it.

When her body stops trembling and her breathing slows, she tilts her head back, resting on your shoulder, gracing you with a throaty laugh.

“Shit, kid,” she she looks dazed, totally fucked out. You should really get a trophy for this. Or a medal. Made Tess Servoupolous Nut So Hard She Saw God, it would say.

As she finishes catching her breath, she reaches her arm around you and strokes your hair. “You did good,” she tells you, “A real natural.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Fuck if I haven’t been needing that.”

She peels herself from you, the sweat between you adhering your tits to her back, and it’s almost funny the squelch that your bodies make. 

And then, she’s on top of you, moving you again, body soft and malleable. She’s spreading your thighs, your soaked cunt grinding against her own– puffy, slick and spent. 

She smiles at you. “Last chance, sweetheart. You want me to make you feel good? Play with that pretty pussy? Pop that cherry, once and for all?”

The haze returns, and it can’t be just the high, not coming over you like this. No. It’s her. It’s her scent, her power, her skin against yours, and you need need need–

“Give it to me–,” you beg, and she does.

Long fingers part you, slide inside, scissor and twist. It’s slow at first, almost gentle. But you don’t need gentle right now. You need her, every part of her.

You grind against her fingers, the heel of her palm putting pressure right against your clit. 

“You’re being such a good girl,” she coos, “Opening up nice and wide for mommy, that’s it–”

It’s unexpected, and if you’re being honest, it’s a little bit weird.

But that doesn’t fucking matter because fuck it’s hot–

Your legs spread further, in part from Tess’s coaxing, and in part because they seem to want to fling themselves open all on their own. 

Two fingers increase to three, and then to four, and she’s pumping in for all she’s worth with her hand, her thumb pressed against your clit, pressing your button like she’s made for it. You’re trying to find words but you can’t–all you can do is moan and whine and rut against her, with nothing more than “Tess, please– Mommy mommy oh my god mommy your fingers feel so fucking good—”

And she grins at you wickedly, and keeps at her ministrations as she praises you– “Taking my fingers so fucking well. That’s a good girl, that’s it, oh honey– I can feel how you’re dripping down my wrist, how good you’re clenching round me. It’s okay, baby, you can let go. Let go for me, sweetheart, c’mon, let go–”

You come with a shout, pussy drenching her as she fucks you through it.

As you catch your breath and come down, she strokes your thighs, trails pruney fingertips across your stomach.

“You’ve been so good for mommy,” she smiles, eyes crinkling, “Big girl, taking all of that her first time, huh?”

“Mhmm,” you agree, totally worn out. “Thank– thank you, Tess–” you sigh.

“Hmm,” she snorts, “I thought you’d do well with a lesson.”

“I did good?” you ask.

“You did great, honey,” she laughs. “And what did we learn?”

You take stock of yourself. Of your body, your mind, the fog and the lingering high, and the absolute euphoria of the past however long you’ve been fucking and being fucked.

A smile creeps across your face. You try to tamp it down, but it’s pointless. “I’ve learned that I should always smoke weed in Charlie’s mom’s house, and maybe, if I’m very lucky, I’ll even get caught!”

Tess laughs, a full-bellied, beautiful thing. 

“I think, princess, you’ve got a lot more to learn.”