/•Harmless Fun 8•\
Former and further chapters here.
You (fem!reader) and Johnny and Simon watch a movie. CW: Fingering, handjobs, cum-eating. For @/laughroditee.
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Sharing a bathroom with Johnny and Simon turns out to be a lot more invasive than you expected.
It's not actually the bathroom that’s the invasive part. That is no more invasive than sharing any public space, really. You’re a little more secretive with your tampons, and they’re likely a little more stringent in their efforts to clean up after themselves. Even-Steven and all that. You’re all very careful to never even so much as knock when the door is closed, lest you disturb the person within.
The worst part is that the bathroom can only be accessed through your bedroom.
You had envisioned (somehow, sillily) that they would only need the bathroom during daylight hours, and likely when you weren’t home. You trusted them not to go through your belongings, but it felt so personal for Johnny to knock on your door and ask to piss when you’re dressed in your skimpy relaxing clothes (the ones you don’t even subject the rest of the apartment to).
It felt even more personal to wake up in the night to the water running and catch Simon coming out of the bathroom twenty minutes later with dripping hair in nothing but one of his compression t-shirts and boxer-briefs. The two of you freeze at the sight of the other. He jerks a thumb toward the shower, like that explains everything. You hold up a sleepy thumbs-up, though you’re decidedly less sleepy than you were twenty minutes before you were given a front row seat to just how thick Simon’s thighs are.
Laying in bed, smelling the steam and scent of Simon’s body wash waft gently from the bathroom, if you roll over onto your belly and slip a hand down your panties, nobody ever has to know.
Except that’s a problem too. Your time for dedicated masturbating (not the frantic, haphazard rubbing-one-out that you’ve taken to since the other bathroom flooded) has decreased dramatically. Before, you would have felt no guilt locking the door and taking care of your own needs—but now just beyond your door was an intrinsic piece of the apartment. You couldn’t just lock your roommates out and tell Johnny or Simon to come back later. You had to be accessible. It was a nightmare.
Johnny was the opposite of a help. He was happy to let you rub against his cock (and more than once you’d come to one of those superficial, limb-tingling orgasms) but he was masterful at distracting you from asking for more.
It led to some stressful days.
Today was a bad pain day for Johnny, which had turned him sullen and taciturn. He spent most of the day stationed on the couch (finding every excuse to avoid standing up) and in charge of the remote control. It didn’t help that repairs were being done to the bathroom today, with strangers filtering in and out of the apartment. Simon hadn’t been able to go out on a single run, and you could tell that he was drawn tense as a bowstring.
You made it a personal mission to remain in your bedroom during the repairs, anxious at the strange men in the apartment and the tense feelings tangible in the air.
By the time dinner rolls around and the repair people are gone, you are eager to be outside of your own four walls. You can’t help craving Johnny and Simon’s company—or any company really, after an entire day spent listening to drills and hammering, feeling trapped thanks to your own social anxiety. Simon helps Johnny to the balcony and lets him smoke, the tension in his shoulders melting away some. By the time dinner rolls around, Johnny is in a better mood, and starving.
All three of you eat at the sofa instead of the table, brushing elbows and thighs and trying not to make messes of yourselves. A cool breeze comes in with the evening, and Simon stands to shut the balcony doors.
“Sit with me?” Johnny asks, spreading his thighs.
You frown. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then be gentle to me, aye?”
You sit with your back against his chest, his arms looped around you. “Jesus, yer freezing.”
“You’re warm,” you murmur, pressing yourself more firmly against him, careful not to jostle his bad thigh. Simon takes a seat at the other end of the couch and you meet his eye accidentally—but he doesn’t look angry. There’s something surprisingly tender and fond in his gaze. He overhears your conversation and drags the duvet off the back of the couch, laying it over you both. Immediately you are swathed in warmth, melting deeper against Johnny. You loop your arms through his, keeping them wrapped securely around you.
The three of you get sucked into a movie on the television—some of you more than others.
It’s hard for you to focus on anything besides Johnny and the ache between your legs. Being so close to him has awoken it, stoked it from embers into a deep burn. It doesn’t help when one of his hands drifts down to grip your thigh softly, thumb stroking dangerously high on the inseam of your leggings.
Your thighs inch open a little, hoping you can pass it off as just getting comfortable, but Johnny seems to take no notice at all, his eyes glued to the television screen. Sometimes he makes a comment to Simon about the plot, and the other man will hum in agreement.
His other hand gets restless and slips beneath the hem of your t-shirt to rest against your belly, calloused fingertips trailing softly over smooth skin. Something must give you away—a sound or a movement—because his lips brush your ear as he whispers: “Okay?”
You nod, not trusting your voice. You’re okay. You’re dying, but it’s fine. His thumb finds the crease of your pelvis and traces along it. You’re so sticky between your thighs that you’re sure you could hear it if you shifted too much. Something about his distracted touches make you feel combustible, like C4 in his hands.
Johnny’s hand on your belly drifts up—you catch it with your hand.
“‘M not wearing a bra,” you mutter.
He snorts softly, breath ruffling your hair. “Trust me. I know,” he says. Then his thumb brushes the full softness of your breast. “Been thinking about it all night.”
“Do you two mind?” Simon says dryly, popping the soap bubble of arousal that Johnny had created around you both. You tense, shame in your belly. How horny did you have to be to be willing to let Johnny touch you on the same couch Simon was sitting on?
“Sorry,” you mutter.
Johnny nails him with a throw pillow in the chest, asking: “Do you mind?”
Simon’s head turns away from the telly, the pillow resting innocuously in his lap. He’s got the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen, nearly black in the dim light. The television lights up the edge of him, throwing his features into sharp, harsh light.
“No,” he says at length. “Play wherever you want.”
The three of you turn back toward the movie, not a single set of eyes truly watching it. With Simon’s explicit permission, Johnny’s hand comes up to cup your breast softly, thumb stroking over your puckered nipple. A sound slips from your throat—you can’t help it.
“Pent up?” Johnny asks. You can hear the grin in his voice.
“Be nice to me,” you mumble.
Simon snorts softly at the other end of the sofa. Then Johnny pinches your nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger, and the pleasant ache goes straight to your clit.
“Fuck,” you sigh.
“Like it?” he asks.
You nod.
“Want more?” Your head nearly disconnects with the force of your nod. If he doesn’t touch you, you might go mad. Merciless, Johnny says: “Ask for it, and I’ll give it to you.”
You swallow, mouth dry. “Johnny…”
He hums.
You turn your head a little, til you can see him out of the periphery of your vision. It’s on the tip of your tongue to ask for him to touch you, to kiss you maybe. But instead something more honest comes: “Johnny—do whatever you want to me.”
Johnny groans, burying his face in your hair. “You hearin’ her, LT?”
“I hear.”
“Sweet as can fuckin’ be,” Johnny says, pressing the words to the soft skin beneath your ear. “Stay that sweet, no matter what I do, aye? Now watch the movie.”
You turn your eyes back to the television. It’s just a conglomeration of color and shapes that your eyes follow, but your brain doesn’t register a lick of what’s happening. All you can think about are Johnny’s hands, the way they cup your breasts. He touches you like you’re something precious, something friable and likely to come undone if he presses too firmly. He hums, a pleased little sound in the back of his throat and rolls your nipples between his fingers.
Your thoughts leak out of your ears the longer that he toys with your body. It’s hard to sit still with how bad you need something in your pussy—you’re so turned on that it hurts. Against your back you can feel the solid line of his erection and you wish that you were in a position to get your hands on him, to map the shape of him beneath his sweatpants.
When your mouth is dry from panting, your hands aching from the way your nails have bitten into your palms, Johnny finally smooths a hand down your tummy and cups your pussy over your leggings., your cunt a match for the burning heat of his palm.
“Stop me if you don’t want it,” he says, coming to slip his fingertips beneath the waistband of your panties.
“I want it—Johnny please—“
Simon shifts on the couch beside you both, and it draws your eyes to him, your face burning hot. He isn’t even looking at you, is instead staring at the television with a bored expression. At your movement, his eyes flicker to meet your own, and his mouth quirks at the edge. Against your will, your eyes shift down to where his cock would be visible—
His knuckles are pale where he clenches a hold of the throw pillow in his lap. He flexes his fingers when he catches you looking, working the circulation back into them, but it’s too late to hide. Simon isn’t unaffected by this—you’d swear that he was turned on too, and the thought makes the last little whisper in your head (the one that says this is nogoodbadwrong) quiet.
Johnny slips his hand into your underwear and finds you soaked, the fabric sodden where it drags along the back of his fingers. His cock twitches against your back.
“Fuck, y’re wet,” he groans. “Just from having your tits played with?”
“It counts as foreplay for a reason.”
Johnny laughs, breath brushing your temple. His fingers sink into your folds before you can say anything else, stroking deep along the length of your sex which is so tender it feels like a blissful bruise. Your hips jerk upward into the touch, and his fingertips nearly slip inside you. Instead he tempers his movements, careful to follow along with the motion of your hips to keep from giving you any more stimulation than he’s ready to.
“Easy,” he breathes. “Relax—just let me play with you.”
I’ve had enough playing, you think to yourself, eyes rolling. But you work to loosen your death grip on the blankets around you, work to relax your hips until they rest back against Johnny’s cock again.
He plays with you like this: the lightest brush of his fingertips along your vulva, spreading your wetness all over you. Sometimes his thumb will find your clit and stroke over it, but more often than not he avoids it altogether, content to play with the rest of your pussy, to coax more slick from it until his every touch is audible over the sound of the television.
Simon must surely hear it. The thought makes you clench around nothing, an unhappy sound rising up in the back of your throat.
Eventually, something happens to you—something breaks in you, maybe. You go soft and pliant against him, your hips still even when he slips two fingers inside you easy as anything, stroking along your walls as best as he can from this angle. Your noises are louder, too, like the muffler dampening them has rusted and worn away. When he sinks inside you, you let out a groan that has Johnny laughing softly against you.
“Oh, she’s hungry, isn’t she? You’ve been starvin’ her, haven’t you?”
He’s talking about your pussy. Jesus.
“Haven’t,” you pant. “Not on purpose, I—“
Johnny just hushes you softly. “It’s alright. Bet you need it so bad, it hurts, don’t you?”
You nod against his chest, tears filling your eyes, this foggy headspace amplifying your own emotions like an echo chamber.
“I’ll make it all better,” Johnny promises. He slips his fingers free from you and drags the burning, wet warmth of them up over your clit.
Just a few firm circles, and you’re climbing that peak, the cord in your belly drawn tighter and tighter until it snaps and sends you free falling, your back arching against Johnny’s chest. Frantic, you reach down and grip his wrist, urging his fingers lower until they slip back inside you, filling you up just right as you clench and spasm around them. The meaty part of his palm rubs against your clit and it’s enough to make you cum again before you’ve properly finished the first time, a choked gasp born and dying in your mouth as he fucks you through it with his fingers.
Your body goes limp against him. This, this is what you needed.
Awareness filters back, your fingers cramping with the strength you use to grip Johnny’s wrist. You let him go, muttering a sorry. You admit: “It feels better to cum when there’s something inside me.”
“I’ll remember that,” he says, voice rough. He nuzzles against your temple. Carefully, he withdraws his hand from inside your panties and holds it up to the light; he is slick all over from palm to fingertip. Fuzzy headspace gone, you have plenty of room inside now for embarrassment, your face warming as you bury it in your hands. “Jesus, make me still. You made a mess of me. Who gets them?”
“Who—? Gets what?”
He wiggles his fingers. You pull a face.
“Don’t like the taste of yourself?” Johnny asks mildly.
“Never tried it I guess,” you admit. Is that a silly thing? That you’ve never tasted your own cum? You wish you hadn’t admitted it, anxious about looking like a prude (which you are anything but, thanks. See the casual sex with your married roommate for more information) but Johnny just brushes over it like it’s nothing.
“Would you like to?” Johnny asks. It’s on the tip of your tongue to say no, but at the last moment you decide what the hell. You open your mouth, and obligingly, Johnny feeds his first two fingers past your lips to let them rest on your tongue. It doesn’t really taste like anything—clean, a hint of musk. Feminine. Not at all what you had expected. You take Johnny’s wrist when he goes to pull away and lick his palm clean, relishing in his stuttered breath. “Converted you, didn’t I?”
“I think I converted myself, thanks.” Speaking of thanks—you toss the blanket off of you both and slip down to the floor at Johnny’s feet, turning around to rest your hands gently on his knees, hyper aware of his bad thigh. Johnny’s cock stretches his sweatpants obscenely, the fabric darkened around the head from how much he had been leaking pressed against your back. “Let me return the favor.”
“It’s not about being reciprocal,” Johnny says smoothly.
“Big word, Johnny,” Simon says. It makes you jolt. You had nearly forgotten that he was there—he is so quiet and still, unmoving on the other end of the sofa. God, he had watched you lick Johnny’s hand clean. The thought makes your face flush with warmth, though he seems cool and calm as anything, not repulsed like you might have expected.
“I know a few, aye,” Johnny says, eyes rolling. He admits to you: “Math is my strong suit.”
“Well, subtract your pants.”
Johnny guffaws. It takes him work, wincing as pressure is placed on his bad thigh, but eventually he is able to draw his cock free, and fuck, what a cock it is. He’s uncut, thick. Just looking at him, you can tell that the stretch of him inside you would be blissful. It’s almost enough to have you aching again between the legs.
You reach out and then hesitate. “Can I?”
“‘course you can,” he says. “Don’t take this as any representation of my stamina, I’ll have you know—“
“Tighter.”
You both glance towards Simon. He’s loosened his grip on the throw pillow, though it still rests in his lap. He’s abandoned any facade of watching the television and has angled his body towards you where your hand looks downright dainty wrapped around Johnny’s cock.
“What?” you ask him, unsure if you heard him correctly.
He wets his lips and says: “Johnny likes a firm grip.”
Your hand tightens, reflexively responding to the instruction, and Johnny groans above you. Precum leaks from the head, dripping down over your knuckles.
“That’s it,” Simon says softly. “Good. Go ahead.”
Maybe that ache between your legs wasn’t as gone as you had thought. Grip firm, you give Johnny a single, slick stroke from head to base, and it has his head lolling back against the couch cushions, his groan echoing around the apartment.
“Don’t team up against me,” Johnny breathes. “Please, I already don’t stand a chance.”
“Twist on the upstroke, if your wrist can manage it,” Simon says, eyes glittering as he watches your hand work over his husband. “Just like that—keep doing just that and—”
Johnny sucks in a breath, wrenching the hem of his t-shirt up just as his cock bursts, pale seed splattering his tanned abs as his face twists with pleasure, eyes screwed tightly shut. His hips jerk upward on instinct until he hisses out a pained breath, and Simon shifts to reach out and place his broad palm over Johnny’s bare sternum, urging him into stillness as you work every last bit of cum from his cock.
“Jesus,” he groans, palming at his eyes when you have finished.
“Your turn,” you tease, holding up two sticky fingers to Johnny’s mouth.
Johnny laughs. He takes your wrist—guides it towards Simon.
You expect Simon to refuse—not because of Johnny’s cum, but because of your fingers. Simon looks like he thinks about refusing, his eyes careful as he looks over your hand and then your face, examining the slope of your brows, the raised corners of your mouth even as it likely slips into an anxious frown. He takes your wrist gently and brings your fingers to his mouth. His tongue is burning hot where it laps between your fingers.
You stare, wide-eyed.
Simon doesn’t stop until your hand is clean.
