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The concrete barrier, already weathered from time and exposure within the archaic nomad body shop, struggles to protect V against the onslaught of bullets that rain down on him. As per usual, he’s found himself charging into a den of lowlife gang grunts for some petty revenge, but all the same he’s looking for his payday when all is said in done. Whatever nets him the most eddies, he’ll take up.
The Malorian does well, especially since V has taken the time and effort to really maximize his damage output (with special permission from the gun’s rather particular previous owner). Still, against a swarm of enemies, he finds himself gritting his teeth and swearing as he flourishes a reload.
Almost muscle memory, how he handles the gun. A nostalgic familiarity that comforts him in times such as this.
Panam is doing her best to lay down cover fire from her perch whilst remaining clear of the action personally. Can’t fault, not as a stray grenade gets lobbed in his general direction. Hidden in the rafters, shooting with her rifle through the broken-in skylight, V is safely hidden from her sight while still maintaining optimal sightlines of the aggressors.
Glancing up from his weapon as he slips the slide lock back to make sure he’s not jamming the gun, he witnesses an assortment of visual glitches as Johnny materializes in front of him. He’s leisurely leaning over another concrete roadblock, loosely holding his cigarette, and brushing the hair out of his face as a few bullets interrupt his projection. Had he the time or patience to, he would’ve snapped a crude question as to what he thought to be so amusing, seeing as V was stuck between a rock and a thousand bullets.
Peering around the side of the barrier, he takes a few pot shots where he’s estimating enemies to be behind cover. The Malorian is specialized to pierce even concrete and drywall with ease, and he feels a surge of triumph as a few bodies slump out of their positions, lifeless.
“Feelin’ confident?” Johnny muses with a mouthful of smoke. He blows it out, grinning.
V shoots him a deadly glare.
“Now’s not the time, Johnny.”
“Don’t see why not.”
“Age make you blind, old man?” V snaps, flinching as a bullet catches the edge of the barrier and sends concrete dusts unto him. Patting his hip until he feels the familiar shape of his grenade bandolier, he gracelessly rips one off and unpins it before quickly throwing it across the building. The resounding explosion brings about a marked decrease in gunfire.
“Just sayin’. You’re the one that decided to do this,” Johnny says evenly. His calm and collected demeanor makes V’s blood boil.
“You can see where we are right now!”
“And I can see that you need to relax a little.”
Lurching over, V gasps suddenly before clenching his jaw with a harsh breath between his teeth.
“Cut it out.”
“Hm,” Johnny hums ‘thoughtfully’, ashing his cigarette. “Don’t think I will.”
Sliding down until he was slouching against the barrier, V takes a deep breath to steady himself. Of course, Johnny wore him down enough to get him to wear a stupid bullet vibe all day. ‘ Just the thrill of knowing I could.’
He should’ve fucking known better. Now he’s stuck in combat with his cock pulsing, throbbing with the low vibrations of the toy. Uselessly, he raises and rolls his hips against it, as if it’ll lessen the intensity, but the tautness of his jeans pulling over his crotch momentarily does the opposite.
He can handle this, it’s fine. It’s not at its most intense level, and he’s made it through fights with grievous wounds before.
Peering around the barrier and shooting, he finds his aim thrown-off.
“You can do better than that, V.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses. A few bullets whip past his ear, hot air ruffling his close-cropped hair as they nearly connect right where they’re meant to. Far too close for comfort, but before it sinks in how close he was to his certain death, the vibe slowly creeps up in intensity. Still not at its full potential, but it certainly demands attention. His free hand snaps down to relieve some of the borderline-teasing stimulation.
“Easy,” Johnny says. The space behind V shudders as Silverhand suddenly takes up residence, sans cigarette, and snakes a hand into his pants as naturally as if they were in the comfort of V’s apartment. The merc stiffens at the unexpected contact and an exasperated huff rushes past his lips.
“Here, Johnny?”
Comms crackle in V’s ears as Panam’s voice clips in. Lagging cracks of gunfire-hail snap over their connection, along with their corresponding muzzle flashes as unsuspecting bodies are picked off one by one. “You okay, V? You look hurt.”
“I’m fine ,” he all-too-quickly snaps back, and even in her lack of response, he can sense the concern practically radiating off of his companion. No one would be insistent in such a peculiar way unless they were hurt. Or they were being harrassed by the ghost of a washed-up rockstar living rent-free in their head with a top shelf bullet vibe in the middle of a firefight. Either-or.
The bastard’s hand creeps closer to his hole after giving a polite greeting to his cock, fingertips delicately working him before anything else. Compounded with the vibrations, it’s already almost too much.
His shooting hand jerks as if controlled by a puppet master—and in a way, it is. He can feel the distinction between his own arm and the odd pseudo-heat of Johnny’s simulated flesh, but where their wrists meet, their bodies become one.
Somehow, the gun feels even more familiar in his hand. His tendons work effortlessly to dispatch the last few remaining enemies nearest to him. An excellent display of marksmanship, but only buys them a few more seconds. And earns him a surprised remark from the Aldecaldo perched in the rafters.
“Think she’ll wonder how you found your aim all of the sudden?”
V doesn’t even grace it with a response—can’t. Not without risking a rather obscene noise being cast out over comms as Johnny’s free hand worms its way further down. The digits grace his hole.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“What’re you gonna do to stop me? It’s our body.”
“Fucking die .”
“Gotta happen someday.”
In this moment, V wants nothing more than the ability to knock the lights out of the devil on his shoulder; to earn himself a little peace and quiet for the seconds-long interim between waves of enemies. But he doesn’t have his blockers, nor the self-control to avoid indulging in the soft buzz of the toy Johnny managed to wheedle him into wearing.
It’s just too little stimulation—Silverhand knows—to actually bring about any sort of climax; it’s a mere dull buzz, almost causing him to ache with arousal, to remind V who he supposedly belongs to. Perhaps for some semblance of control, or because he merely likes to watch his host squirm under his command.
Growling, V squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to focus. He cants his hips at an angle to allow Johnny to do as he wished.
Won’t be easy, seeing as he’s going to be twisting about and shooting with an aggressive recoil jerking his body, but Johnny has never shied away from a challenge.
Ejecting the clip and slamming another in, he doesn’t remember to check for a jam before he’s leaning out of cover. Panam is doing her part, clicking heads the moment they peak, but it’s still too much to handle on her own. V isn’t going to be deadweight.
“On your left, V!”
He hardly catches the adversary coming for his flank, covering the short three meters between them. They make it easy, at least, dashing in a straight line. Their body slumps over just like it was a mere foot-fumble, a new hole in their face eating the concrete floor.
Simultaneously, Johnny pushes two fingers into him. It makes him tense involuntarily, hissing through his teeth as he forces his lower body to relax. With the stimulation of the vibe, he’s slick enough for it to be painless, if just uncomfortable. He’s really not fixated on enjoying it as much as he’s worried about keeping his head on his shoulders.
“Good boy,” Johnny praises patronizingly. It brings V’s blush to his ears, and if he could’ve, he would’ve kicked the rockerboy.
“Can’t shoot like this—“
“Better fucking learn.”
He snaps around and unloads into the crowd before slumping back down. Resting for a moment, he tells himself.
The low din of gunfire has long since stopped roaring in his ears with his heartbeat. Panam’s rifle fire has been waning as well, finding less to aim at. V takes that as permission to release the baited breath it feels like he was holding the moment the shooting started, though he knows it to be a foolish mistake to act as if they were out of the woods yet.
Johnny looms over him, his implant casually propped on the concrete barrier. Pumping just two digits in and out, he stretches and scissors and massages V’s sensitive insides. It garners a soft breath and the fluttering of V’s lashes as Johnny rubs his fingerpads over the bundle of nerves that makes his back arch and his toes curl.
Coupled with the constant buzzing of the vibe on his cock, he’s finding it hard to restrain the noises wanting to spill free. It feels too good, just being touched and teased like this, though he’s not going to let Johnny know that. Doesn’t need the positive reinforcement.
“Gotta be quiet. You’re on an open channel.”
“I know,” V says softly. Rocking his hips, he finds himself enjoying the rather gentle rhythm too much for the moment. Then the light stretch of three fingers brings him back to the present, as if jolting him awake from the edge of sleep.
“It clear?” he says aloud. There was no movement to be heard, no more gunfire. He can see the barrel of Panam’s rifle still scanning the area from above him but nothing more.
She doesn’t need to see him like this, but she’s going to inevitably clamber down and regroup.
“Seems so. Coming down now,” she says after a long pause.
With that, Johnny takes it as his God given sign to stop holding back. That easy pace is suddenly tripled and he’s driving into V’s now-pliant hole like he’s got a debt to pay. Slapping his hand over his mouth, V barely catches a startled moan before it escapes.
At this rate, he’s going to cum in his pants like a stupid teen.
“Huh. Hole is practically begging to be filled,” Johnny muses.
“ Johnny.”
“No better time than the present,” he says, grinning wickedly. Just like that, he slips his hand free and wipes the slick on V’s thigh. The loss makes V’s body sag and only intensifies his glare.
“I’m not taking my fucking pants off here.”
“Don’t need to,” Johnny says simply. He leans back and easily unzips his fly and frees himself from his briefs. Already dripping, cock flushed with a visible throb in the open air, V can’t help the flutter of arousal in his guts. Classic conditioning, at this point.
V’s anger shifts to confusion.
“What?”
“Don’t need to,” he repeats. “Can choose when and where I want to be solid. Learned that much after spending so much time in your head.”
As Johnny shifts into the space between V’s legs, lowering to his knees as if in going down to pray. Unfortunately for V, he’s doing anything but. The vibe shifts aside, still noticeably humming away against his cock, but now frees his hole for more.
The merc pointedly looks away from where Johnny’s hips draw closer to his own—and instead watches the door through which Panam is due at any moment. As much as he is able to maintain his collectedness under pressure, there is only so much he can do to keep a deadpan expression as the blunt head of Silverhand’s cock presses into his slick.
“Fuck,” he mutters, though he’s uncertain whether or not it was strictly to Johnny, or aloud into the mic. He gets his answer just as the construct feeds more of his length to V’s greedy hole.
“You sure you aren’t hurt, V?” The sounds of her footsteps on the metal grating above him only draw closer, though if any consolation, she doesn’t seem in a particular hurry.
“Yeah, just ah—drenaline,” he grits. Johnny chuckles in his ear at the noise, his nose grazing V’s cheek. V wrenches his eyes shut as he bites his tongue.
“I’ll be down in a second.”
Clearly, the nomad is unconvinced, certain that V is merely masking an injury in an attempt to keep his masculinity intact, rather than being dicked down in broad daylight. A whimper falls past his lips as Johnny bottoms out.
Johnny pulls almost out to the tip once more and forces in again. It rips another sigh from V as his body is forced to accommodate, and his cunt is less-than-quiet in doing so. If his moans didn’t get him caught, the squish of slick or rustle of fabric would.
“Hurry the fuck up.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Silverhand smirks. Always smug. Always has to have the upper hand over V.
His pace becomes mean. Almost doglike in how he holds the mercenary’s hips to the cold concrete below, he pumps his hips as though he can’t get enough of V’s heat. He has no regard for the amount of noise he’s making anymore, eager to simply have his way with the younger in such a high-stakes situation. They’re in no real danger with the lack of bullets raining down on them anymore—the most unpredictable part of the situation is how Panam would react if she pieced together what’s happening.
“Fucking hell, gonk. Hurry .”
As much trash talk V spits, it’s clear he’s getting flustered by the incessant pounding. Color sits high in his cheeks and his mouth slacks open in pants as Silverhand fucks into him mercilessly, meanly. His toes curl and his legs hitch further upward, sending him slouching yet further against the dusty floor.
The concrete barrier above V’s head crumbles just so as Johnny tightens the grip of his prosthetic to the point of cracking the weakened cement. Using the leverage, Johnny drives into the younger’s pliant body with pseudo-sweat clinging to his forehead and trapping stray hairs that fall out of place.
Smothering his mouth with his hand, V tries his damnedest to stay quiet, but it’s almost impossible when Johnny is so deep inside of him that it’s making his head spin with each thrust. With a weak whimper, his leg jerking out of Silverhand’s grip, V pants harshly through his fingers.
It’s good— too good. He shouldn’t enjoy the thrill of being fucked senseless, out in the open, by an amalgamation of data as much as he does. But the added rush of the gunfight and from the risk makes his stomach twist up in knots and his eyes roll into the back of his head.
A slurred demand for faster passes through, and all he's met with is a breathy chuckle. Managing as much force he could muster, Silverhand made for a good candidate to represent the true rock and roll lifestyle— rough, fast, and nasty, chasing that high only offered by sex and drugs. There isn’t an ounce of kindness behind his hips, not as he’s fervently chasing his end with V’s an afterthought.
Johnny catches his stray leg and starts to push it back, splaying V’s legs as much as his jeans will allow, when scuffling of dirt and gravel hits both their ears at once. It makes V’s feverishly hot blood run cold, and in an instant, Silverhand snaps his hips forward and buries himself to the hilt in the younger’s heat.
There’s no way it isn't obvious what’s happening; V is blushed down to his throat and sweating buckets with drool shining across his lips. If she hadn’t caught the sound of slick and heady breathing, the picture he paints should say a thousand words.
“Stay still.”
“I’ll consider it.”
V glares at him, a blend of abject horror and anger. Johnny laughs through his nose and pats his hips in consolation as he lowered his leg to the ground. With Johnny’s hips preventing him from shutting his thighs and hiding the damp spot seeping through the seat of his jeans, V takes a deep breath and holds it as Panam rounds the corner, trying to act natural.
She seems more concerned for his safety than anything before V’s disheveledness sinks in. It’s not body language of pain, but rather one of a moment of intimacy. V paints the picture of someone just deprived of their climax, still teetering on the edge.
Even his short hair is wild, as if run through by fingers. His lips are red and spit-slick as he bit them to prevent crying out, cheeks painted a similar pink. Naturally, her eyes drop between his legs, where the buzz of the vibrator fills the seemingly-empty space and a markedly damper spot stains the crotch of V’s jeans.
Usually, Panam isn’t one to judge. What people do in their free time is of no concern to her. But here, in the middle of hostile territory with almost certain death closing in on them with each passing moment—well, to say the least, it’s not exactly her idea of a romantic rendezvous.
“V… are you—?”
“I-I’m fine. Just give me a second.”
His words come out almost labored as he fends off aroused twitches around Johnny’s cock. The lack of lube is finally catching up with him as he’s given the chance to feel the rockstar’s cock filling him out. It’s a struggle to keep a straight face, between that and Johnny beginning to slowly roll his hips again.
“I said stay still ,” V snaps at Johnny.
“Decided I didn’t want to. Your output gets to learn who you belong to.”
The merc shakes his head briefly as if to dismiss the thought. As though simply ignoring Johnny would make him go away instead of making him even more insistent.
“I’ll go scout ahead. Come find me when you’re ready,” the nomad finally finds her words. She nods to herself, giving V one more look-over before doing as she said. He and Johnny are alone again, for better or for worse.
No sooner than Panam exits the building, out of line of sight, does Johnny begin to act up again. With an unexpectedly sharp thrust, he knocks all the air out of V’s lungs as a low groan.
She definitely heard that. But there isn’t much hope in salvaging dignity after what she just saw, so while a bloom of self-conscious mortification heats his cheeks, he now only tries to stifle himself somewhat.
“Fucking— you’re a ba-ha-stard,” V growls, trying his hardest to convey his great vitrol towards the other through his choppy and interrupted speech. And per usual, the anger only spurs Johnny onward, devolving into a fitting level of meanness.
“Wonder what she'll think,” Johnny says lowly, “knowing that you’ll spread your legs anywhere. Roll over and let your cunt get used like a toy.”
“F-fuck off,” V tries, he really does, but his mouth falls slack as Johnny adjusts his angle and hits that perfect spot. It makes V whimper, biting down on his bottom lip to catch the embarrassingly loud sounds that would escape.
“There he is,” Johnny coos, saccharine sweet and insulting in all the right ways. “C’mon, V. Scream for me.”
Defiantly, V only glowers at him through his lashes.
Silverhand doesn’t take too kindly to that. Ripping at V’s hips and forcing him flat, he uses his implant to trap the body beneath him. The unfair strength of the prosthetic all but pins V still, taking the full brunt of Johnny’s thrusts without budging an inch.
Then there is a hand between his legs, feeling about. Deft fingers find his cock and squeeze lightly with his thumb and middle. His index presses the bullet vibe down, forcing V to take the electrifying vibrations right where he’s most sensitive without mercy.
Immediately, V’s hand flies out to hit Johnny on the chest as if that'll alleviate the excruciating stimulation. His boots scuff the concrete where he reflexively kicks, seeking leverage to wrench his hips away from the euphoric agony. That edge he had been naturally working towards is now speeding towards him too fast, like a train towards a stalled car. The end is too soon and the aftermath is going to be messy.
Pushing weakly, he mumbles under his breath a mantra of swears wherever he isn’t busy panting and moaning pathetically. The bullet shifts just so, pressing against the hypersensitive tip of his cock, and V’s head falls back as his back arches from the borderline pain. He’s straddling the sharp edge of too much and too too much, as if he's going to shoot past his climax and keep climbing.
“Johnny—!” he whines, his thighs trembling around the rockerboy’s hips as they hitch and cling.
The beautiful note of his name simply tickles the engram pink, especially considering that V managed to squeal out loud. It resounds in the primarily empty space and faintly echos with its volume.
“There he is. Cum for me, V,” Johnny demands, eyes half-lidded as he continues to hit the spot that makes V nearly double over in borderline-overstimulation with each stroke. He slows down for nothing, not even the merc’s trembling legs or desperate whimpering. It’s been far too long since one of his partners made color rush to his cheeks, but V seems to be the exception to multiple trends for Silverhand.
In this case, his policy of pulling out to finish on his partner rather than finishing inside. He growls in V’s ear as he reaches his own climax, teeth grazing the shell, and meanly thrusts in to the hilt. As he empties his balls deep inside the smaller man, a litany of filth pours from his mouth.
He doesn’t stop even as each roll of the hips draws out more slick, and now cum, from V’s wrecked cunt. Doesn’t until V finally, in all of his frustration, reaches up to tug at the damp-tangled locks dangling in his face.
“ Fuck ,” Silverhand hisses, throwing his head back instinctively. It makes his jaw clench with replenished fury, but he reigns in his physical response. Realistically, he isn’t there to hurt V, just humiliate him. And he did a good job—really outdid himself this time.
He’s rewarded as V’s hole milks him in his own orgasm. An eye-rolling one at that, sending V’s eyes to the back of his head as his mouth gapes open in a silent cry.
“Fuckin’ whore. Jesus,” Johnny spits. The remnants of the less-than-gentle tug still ache in the roots of his hair as V’s aftershocks subside. “Who said you could fuckin’ touch me?”
“Fuck off,” V slurs. His eyes flutter shut. “Shut up.”
Each of their chests eagerly gulp air, panting as they try to recover from the particularly rough sex. How he’s going to manage to make himself at all presentable is beyond him, and Silverhand definitely doesn’t concern himself with such minor details. He’s already looking to pull out and make himself scarce.
“Mouthy,” Silverhand grumbles. With some finality, he lowers his head. The dark locks frame his face—beautifully, if it were anyone else—and he draws in a great breath. “Shit, V.”
“Did you seriously—?”
“Yeah. Inside.”
“How am I supposed to clean up?”
“Not my problem.”
V pauses before his nose crinkles in disgust. Faster than Johnny can process, his hand connects with the sharp angle of Silverhand’s cheek, stinging with the momentum. It elicits a gasp from the rockerboy before he finds the cool, collected persona again.
“The fuck?”
“Asshole. You’re an asshole, Johnny.”
“That’s the worst you got to say?”
“ Get off .”
Johnny scoffs. Gracelessly, he pushes the younger’s legs off of him and all but shoves V from his lap. Abruptly empty, wet, and uncomfortably tacky, V hits the asphalt with a grunt.
“Can never have any fucking fun, can you?” Johnny bites.
V opts to just lay there and stare at the sky. Contemplating how the fuck he was going to sit in Panam’s truck and not ruin her seats with the cum and slick staining his jeans. She had already guessed that V was… releasing some pent up energy by himself, but she didn’t know the extent of it. Not that he was going to be stuck walking around full of cum.
He knows that Johnny has done well to disappear, taking the final word with him, leaving V to work out his conundrum by himself. At least he had the good grace to turn the little vibrator off before he ghosted.
“Be at the truck,” he says deadpan through the line still connected. Panam was kind enough to close the open end so that nothing was broadcasted directly to her, and he can only hope that she was far enough away that she didn’t catch wind of anything else.
“Gotcha. Be right there.”
Shuffling back against the concrete barrier, he nabs the Malorian from the concrete and checks its rounds before stuffing it in the interior pocket lining Johnny’s jacket. Has half the mind to leave his jacket to mold in this wasteland, but he realizes that the pettiness isn’t going to get him very far—just cold with a bitchy engram complaining every three seconds until he relents and returns for it.
V rises to his feet with a grimace. Not even briefs and denim jeans help to keep himself contained. Sparing a quick glance, he groans at himself at the obnoxiously large wet patch on his crotch.
Can think of another use for the jacket now. It fits snugly around his hips as he ties the leather sleeves in front of his waist, the ends falling below his belt. It… mostly obscures himself from detection, and will at least offer something to sit on in Panam’s truck.
He can already hear Johnny bemoaning his poor treatment of his signature jacket.
When he trudges his way back to the truck, Panam is already there. And very clearly avoiding his eyes. He says nothing of it, settling into the passenger seat when she gestures, and tries not to make it too obvious as he settles with the jacket beneath him.
“Get too hot?” Panam says awkwardly in reference to his undressing. Her voice is uncertain, and her eyes glued to the road.
“...Yeah, I guess a little.”
It wasn’t Panam's intention to spy on V. It just so happened that while walking the perimeter, there was a broken-in window that gave her a clear line of sight on the man and his… business. Whatever that was.
She didn’t care. People do weirder things in the desert to get their rocks off, so while it was incredibly awkward and not something she particularly wanted to see her friend doing, it wasn’t the oddest thing for V to want to get off following a firefight. Or in the middle of one.
Maybe it was an adrenaline thing?
The scuffling of dirt and clothes catches her attention. Too far away to properly hear thanks to the wind picking up, she doesn’t hear any of the little noises V is making, but Panam can see clearly what is happening. Until she doesn’t understand what she’s looking at.
His hand is out, seemingly braced against something looming above him, but there isn’t anything there. And the way his body is being bounced back and forth while anchored in place…
Shouldering her rifle after one more scan of the desert landscape, she creeps forward a little more. Curious, is all. Not interested, and definitely not tugging her collar open a little more as heat rose to her cheeks.
Then he makes a noise loud enough for her to catch as his legs kick and his back arches. A name.
“You’re joking,” Panam whispers to herself. Eyes locked on the scene, she watches as V is wrung through his climax and starts to come down. He looks beyond pissed at thin air. Or it seemed like thin air still. Her optics weren’t picking anything up at all except for the occasional fragment of a glitch near V that has become normal. His relic, he explained, interfering with other’s visual scanners if the engram is being a ‘big enough pain in the ass.’
V’s mouth is moving, talking. Even she doesn’t catch him winding his hand back until it connects, and for just a moment, she sees him.
“You’re fucking joking. ”
Johnny Silverhand appears in her vision for all of two seconds. He’s jumpy, not as solid as he is for V whenever he’s around, but undeniably there. Recoiling from the slap and snarling down at V.
Hands on V’s waist, firmly between the other man’s legs.
A thousand questions race through her head at once, mainly how’ s and what’ s that are far too inappropriate for her to even consider voicing. Stepping back from the window, she aimlessly meanders back to her truck as she waits for him— them— to finish up and come back.