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“Fuck!”
It’s useless. Fingers fall to the mattress as she lets out a heavy exhale, eyes closed.
“Having some trouble there?”
“Not now, pisshead.” She’d really, really rather not deal with him right now, especially when she’s never had this problem before. Getting off? Hell, she could do it in her sleep. Sometimes she did. Toys were nice and fun, but fingers were just fine. Lately, though, there’s been nothing. A surge of pleasure and that warmth between her legs, but when she expects the peak—
nothing.
She can’t remember the last time she came.
“I’d say it happens to the best of us, but—“
“Let me guess. Never happened to you? Cock always ready to go?"
“Pretty much.” There’s that smug smirk, the bastard. She wonders if he realizes how his biceps—or bicep, rather—flexes when he folds his arms across his chest. Maybe he does, and maybe it’s intentional. He’s certainly not helping her predicament.
“No, really—you know I could. Never done it from that angle before, though.”
“Wait.” She sits up, legs tucked to the side to offer her some modesty (as if it really matters at this point). “You’re seriously asking to take control to—to fucking get off?”
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
She stares at him, waiting for the punchline, and when it doesn’t come, she can only laugh. “Fuck off, gonk. You’re out of your damn mind. Why would I let you do that, huh?”
“Because you’re horny, and I can feel it, and it’s starting to piss me off. I can’t do nothing about it, but you could let me.” He pulls his shades off, drops the cigarette that simply glitches out mid-air, and walks to the edge of the bed. “‘Sides—always wondered what it’s like to have a cunt.”
The logical, rational part of her brain, however small and warped, screams that this is a terrible idea. Giving control to Johnny fucking Silverhand, the man who tried to kill her? The man currently killing her, even if he says it isn’t intentional? Best case scenario, he gets rid of her immediately. Worst case, she’s backseat to a man riding her body like a new goddamn chauffeur.
But it’s not like things haven’t changed. There’s some honesty between them now, ripped out between relived memories, and there’s a camaraderie here she never expected to form.
And—she really, really does want to get off.
“You know what? Fuck it. Fine.”
Johnny stares at her. “Serious?”
“What the fuck do you mean, serious? Do you want to or not?” She already has the pill bottle in hand, but his surprise makes her hesitate. Maybe it was just a joke?
But no—he merely grins, cracking his knuckles and nods towards the bottle. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
And so she takes the pill, and feels the world slip away—only to come back just as suddenly. She can feel her body, the hardness of the mattress beneath her, the sweat stuck to her skin, but she’s unable to move. Hands stretch out before her, as if she’s examining them for the first time. One reaches for her chest, squeezing and thumbing at a nipple.
She shivers.
“Nice tits.” It’s her voice, but she can picture his smirk easily enough—can imagine, maybe even hear, the rasp of his own voice melded with hers.
He spends some time on them, more than she’d like, quite frankly, but when he squeezes her breast again, thumb gently circling her nipple, she lets out a gasp.
“Damn that feels good.”
Yes, she thinks, but there’s more, so get the show on the fucking road—and he laughs, and something tells her she’s not as out of control as she thought.
“Patience, young padawan.”
Old fuck, she thinks, and the next pinch to her nipple is sharper than the others, verging on the edge of painful—and not the kind she likes.
Her legs spread of her own accord, hands smoothing along her thighs as she scoots back, sitting up against the wall. Fingers trail slowly, curiously, down her stomach and pelvis, squeezing the inside of her thigh before a single finger just barely brushes along her cunt.
Hurry up, you bastard.
“Oh, I’m taking my sweet, sweet time with this.”
She tries to resist, but there’s no use—even if she can share some of her thoughts, he’s the one in control here, and he’s the one who sets the pace.
A moment of hesitation. “You sure you want to do this?”
For the love of—
Yes, but only if you hurry up.
Her lips turn up in a smile. She can’t tell if it’s his or hers at this point.
The tip of her index finger circles her clit until it finally brushes against it, but the touch is once more brief. He returns to teasing her instead, fingers brushing along her folds and finding the remaining wetness from earlier. With her fingers slicked up, he returns to her clit and brushes against it in a steadier rhythm, one that has her closing her eyes, not of her own accord—and not of his, either.
“Fuck. No wonder girls love this.”
No shit, she thinks, but it’s garbled by the sudden loss of her hand—only to find one finger pressing into her, right down to the knuckle.
“You’re tight.”
Thanks. Haven’t been laid in months.
“I wonder if this counts.”
She’s not really interested in a philosophical debate, but he isn’t, either. He slowly fucks her with one finger, and it isn’t long before he adds a second, adding to the stretch as he sinks them in as far as they’ll go. Her other hand picks up the slack on her clit, fingers alternating between squeezing and brushing and simply touching as he pistons his fingers in and out of her.
It’s her, but it’s him, too, somehow, and the fingers feel a little thicker, a little longer, and when he crooks them just the right way and she arches her back and gasp, she can hear a chuckle, low and throaty, right in her ear.
“Damn. Shame I can’t eat you out.”
With what little control she has left, she grasps her wrist in her free hand—the one not shimmering with the illusion of metal—and lets out a warning. I don’t fuck joytoys.
“Didn’t say I wanted someone else to do it,” he says, as if it’s that easy. For him, maybe it is. She doesn’t know how much he feels or how many thoughts he hears, but she has an inkling he understood that sometimes, it was his face she thought about when she tried to get off.
His—her—their fingers return to that rhythm, a third added, stretching her good and plunging in deep, crooking at just the right spot. Her other hand reaches down, swipes up some of the slickness and takes her fingers right to her mouth. She's not sure which of them tongues them, the taste new and familiar all at the same time. Fingers return to her clit, pressing and rubbing as he fucks her hard, and she can hear both of their voices when he says, "Fuck, I think I'm—"
Coming, she thinks—and she does, and she doesn't know if it's because it's someone else, or if it's just been that long, or if she's feeling the echo of two climaxes at once, but she moans loud enough to alert the neighbors five doors down, back arching off the bed as her legs tremble and those fingers keep fucking her, and she can hear Johnny grunt, and he keeps going and going and going until she's shuddering on the bed, curled over with her legs pressed tightly together, a hand trapped between them as her fingers spasm.
Finally, he lets up, but she's not sure if it's from choice or necessity. He felt some—maybe all—of that, too, and from the uncharacteristic quiet in her head, she has to wonder what's going through his mind right now.
Soon enough, he lets her know. "Fucking hell. That might just be the best tug session I ever had."
Wasn't tugging shit. But there's a lazy, dopey smile on her face, her body still trembling as it works down from her high.
"Damn," he says, and she's not sure which one of them nods before her eyes slip close and she succumbs to darkness.
When she awakes, he's laying on the bed beside her, cigarette in hand. She can smell the smoke. When she looks over at him, he grins.
"We should do that again sometimes."