#KILLS me just. best friend lovers struck by tragedy. V still in the throes of intense puppy love when he’s taken from him…. Oouuuugggh

[civilization-illstayrighthere]

uh-huh, honey, a jackie welles / m!V fic ( rated E, 2.5k words, smut & angst )

“C’mon, Jackie, you’re a big boy. You can take it, yeah?”

He is a big boy, takes up half of V’s shitty little alcove bed. All broad shoulders sloped and shivering, the size of a mountain range; the hills of Heywood. Hanging between them is Jackie’s bowed head; from V’s position, he can just see the glint of his facial cyberware, the way his parted lips curl upward.

“Fuck you, mano.” There’s no venom in his voice; heat, but not anger. Tremulous and low and raw, the way tequila from a plastic bottle goes down. It digs a pit straight to the bottom of V’s gut.

“Nah, man,” he drawls, “fuck you.”

Jackie chuckles lowly. “Y’think you’re funny.”

“Know I am.”

Jackie’s mouth opens as if to say something, but V curls his fingers, pressing just so, and a low sound escapes Jackie before he can cut it off; one of the arms propping him up wobbles, buckles, and he presses his forehead to the duvet.

V tuts. He could grab him by that bun of his, yank his head back; a fleeting thought of his more sadistic tendencies, but it’s gone as soon as it startles into his mind.

Six months ago, maybe. Six months ago, he was something a little more wild, something a little less human-conditioned. Now, it’s hard being mean to his best choom, especially when he looks like this. The muscles in his back and shoulders glow with a lavender sheen of sweat from the neon lights peeking through V’s apartment shutters. On his hands and knees, too embarrassed to face him, but not enough to say no when V had pushed him, after successful post-gig celebrations, playfully towards the bed.

He puts on that tough guy act but he’s a big softy, deep down, and especially in these matters. Has to be handled with kid gloves; needs to be worked open slow, and steady, patient and kind.

And all of those things had been foreign to V six months ago. But for Jackie, he can be sweet, he can be soft. He’s got the time. They both do; fuck, they’re young, all they have right now is time on their side.

Still, as much as he likes working him apart, three fingers crooking deep into his best friend, V’s going to need a little something more. And Jackie will, too, from the look of his thick cock twitching hard and untouched against his belly, precum beading at the tip.

“Shit, V,” Jackie’s murmur is muffled against the bed.

V pulls his eyes away from the lewd display of Jackie spread before him; the plunge of his overly-slick fingers in, and out. “Mmn?” The noises of it are the beat to his musical hum.

Jackie huffs, strangled. He won’t say it.

V pushes all three of his fingers in with a particularly wet noise, excess lubricant sliding down the cleft of his ass, his balls—

Jackie curses low, something in Spanish that V’s optics helpfully translate to Jesus Fuckin’ Christ.

“C’mon, choom,” V purrs. He leans in, brushes his lips against Jackie’s ass; his skin shivers, and V gives in to his immediate inclination to bite into ample flesh. Not hard. Just enough to make Jackie swear again, hide his face in the swell of his tricep, especially when he crassly croons: “Lemme fuck you. I’ll make you feel so good— you’re practically beggin’ for it—”

“Ain’t beggin’ for nothing,” Jackie protests weakly, even as V’s fingers crook, and stroke a spot that makes his back automatically arch. “Fffuuck—“

“You’re beggin’—“

“Am not—“

“Are too.”

“Fuck, V, puta mierda—“

He finger fucks him in earnest now; crowds behind Jackie and slides a hand up his flank, fingers skimming over his sides. Jackie groans, shivers. The way he moves back against him drives V wild; he’s subtle with his neediness, only lets his hips sway back every other thrust of V’s fingers. Doesn’t want to let himself give in—

But V’s a mercenary, and an ex-nomad from a family that acted more like Raffen Shiv than Aldecaldos. He likes the thrill of the chase. Likes city boys who underestimate how wild any other jungle save the concrete is.

V peppers kisses against his lower back, down his spine. Pulling out his fingers, Jackie lets out a low groan, dazedly looking behind him over his shoulder. V slicks his hand over the head of his own cock with the residual lube; his own touch is not enough.

Jackie’s thick brows knit together in concern. He rocks back against V, protests, “Hey, now,”

V flashes him a grin, gold incisors gleaming. “Yeah?”

Jackie laughs, low and incredulous, eyes sweeping over him. Tattooed just as heavily as Jackie, but in contrast to his old school ink, V’s all filled black geometric pieces, hundreds of hours worth of time. “You ain’t allowed to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Touch yourself.” He jerks his chin, “Not ‘til I…” He catches his tongue, then blusters on, “Not ‘til I come.”

“Got you,” V growls, “Promise.”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t say anything— just paws at his hips, drags Jackie down to the bed onto his back. Splayed out underneath him, there’s nowhere for Jackie to hide his face. His swallow is so comical V can nearly see gulp in big bright letters above his head.

It amazes V that people look at Jackie Welles and just see some big, gnarly ‘Tino. A ruthless gangoon. Not like he can’t be; they both are mid-contract, when the lights come on and it’s show time.

But here in V’s apartment, Jackie relaxes underneath him, beams up at him and the metal in his face highlights the apple-swell of his smile. So earnest it makes V want to cry; so instead, he kisses his best choom, sloppy and uncoordinated like a poorly trained puppy.

“Enough,” Jackie groans, laughs, “C’mon, V,” and his voice gets real low, hand on his neck, tracing a ridge of one of his many scars, “you gonna fuck me, or not?”

“Fuck, choom,” V huffs, “Ask a man like that, how can I say no?”

Jackie chuckles, gives V an honest to god wink, “Y’can’t.”

V bites his tongue before he gets too sappy. But Jackie’s just grinning, bristling with good humor and warmth, most of the nerves shaken out of him with banter. V has that effect on him, same way he does on him. Brings out the best in him.

Until Jackie, V hadn’t even realized that it could be this good, this easy. The gigs were dangerous and the rent was too high and nobody knew their names, but this? Night City was better than anything he could have ever found in the desert, and a laugh bubbles up and out of V like Champaradise. He leans down and smothers Jackie with kisses again, uncoordinated, until Jackie starts to laugh and paw at his head in protest, pulling him back by the tail of his acid-green mullet.

V practically shreds the wrapper to get the condom out, rolls it without ceremony over his shaft. When V lines up, sinks in slow, he does it inch by inch; rubs slow circles into the soft part of Jackie’s thighs where he’s clutching him tight.

He can’t tear his eyes away. Underneath him, Jackie gulps in shallow breaths, sweat glinting across the swipe of gold on the bridge of his nose. V would immortalize him, this moment, right now in a brain dance if he could; Jackie spread out, bun undone, dark hair spilling over white sheets.

V bottoms out, groans.

“You feel— you’re— Jack,” a gasp, “Fuckin’ preem.”

Jackie chews on his bottom lip as he breathes through the stretch of the intrusion. Only when he catches V’s intense stare does he hide his face in the crook of his elbow; his breath coming out in pants, punched out of him with each snap of V’s hips.

His curses sound like prayers. Santa Muerte is for deaths both big and small, and Jackie is rapidly approaching. His hand twitches across his belly towards his cock.

“C’mon, V,” He huffs, “Need ya. More.”

His voice cracks at the end. Shit like that makes V’s throat tight. He does not touch anything harder than alcohol for the same reason; he has an addictive personality, and when something feels that good, shit like that could make a dumb gonk like himself fall in love.

So he rears back, plasters a smirk on his face. “More, you said?” He only just manages to still his hips; he relishes in being a low grade menace, sometimes to his own detriment.

“For fuck’s sake.” Jackie swears.

And in the next moment, V is flat on his bac. Above him, the corners of Jackie’s dark eyes crease in amusement.

How easily Jackie manhandles him, how little exertion it takes a man of his size and strength to grapple him right under the ribs and roll V over. V’s no flower, but Jackie makes him feel like he could be crushed under his hands; and V would not hesitate to let him.

Jackie wouldn’t. But V would let him.

“Fuck, Jackie—“ V croaks.

On top, the weight of Jackie pins V down by the hips. Grabbing both of his wrists in one large hand, Jackie pulls them above his head with a triumphant grin.

“You play too much.”

He reaches back and guides V home. Sinks down in one smooth motion that sends electricity arcing up V’s spine.

Jackie swivels his hips, sets a constant, steady pace. His low groans are almost drowned out in the slap of skin on skin. Jackie leans down, captures V’s lips in a bruising kiss. Tastes like tequila, like Mama Welles fresh tamales, like home as a person, as a place he never wants to wander from. Tastes like Jackie. And that pushes V over into his release, blinding white, Kiroshi optics rebooting—

“— would you stop making me watch you fuck that fat fuck?”

V shouts himself awake: looming above him, Johnny Silverhand’s gaunt snarl peeks through the greasy tangle of hair falling in front of his face. Adrenaline strikes like lightning up his spine; it’s still not fast enough to get him out of bed before Silverhand’s hands are ripping him off of the mattress and onto the ground.

“Shit!”

He scrabbles across the floor, tries to stumble to his feet. When V rises, he smears the back of his hand over his eyes. The chrome knuckles of his gorilla fists come away wet.

It’s barely been a day since Misty wheeled him back into his apartment from the failed Heist; he still has fawn legs, and his temple throbs in time with his hammering heart. The pills from earlier have worn off. Johnny rises from the bed, fists curled.

“Fuck you.” V screams, “Fuck you! Get out of my head!”

“Your head! Your head!” Johnny looks furious, “Christ, let me out!”

In an instant, Johnny’s behind him. Not like a ghost, or any of Misty’s spirits, because he’s man-made; he’s just data and corpo hubris, ones and zeroes. He’s not tangible. V feels him like air conditioning on the back of his neck. Johnny’s boots don’t make a sound, don’t even crush pixels underfoot like leaves.

V turns. Catches a fist to his face that sends him reeling, knees colliding into the edges of furniture, scrambling backwards as Johnny advances. The corners of his vision crackle, fractal streaks of white, every nerve in his body frayed with adrenaline.

He needs the pills— Vik’s pills, the pills on his floor, on his desk—

Everywhere he turns leaves him empty. Had Johnny moved the pills? His eyes dart, hands uselessly scrabbling over the detritus strewn across his desk. Figurines, keyboard, old plates caked with dregs of food. A combat knife. Backed into a corner, he whirls.

V is not stupid. He can’t fight a specter, not the same way Johnny seems to be able to hurt him, to touch him. The tip of the knife skitters hot against his neck before it slots into the shallow divot of his neural port. It would take some effort to shove the knife in, but not much; he’s got boosted biceps, titanium muscles.

Johnny stops. On instinct his hands fly up, pacifying palms out, but still he sneers at V, “Oh, yeah, asshole?”

“I’ll do it.”

“What? Kill yourself?” Johnny barks out a laugh, “Do it, pussy, go on.”

“No, kill you.” V snarls. “I’m just collateral.”

“You think I believe that? You’d jam a knife into your own skull?”

V’s lips curl back; a maw of gold teeth, a wounded animal baring its fangs. More grimace than grin. He can’t blame Johnny’s disbelief; he doesn’t know him.

Not like Jackie, who always approached him like a beaten dog when he got like this; the kind, lopsided smile, the worried crease between his brow. Easy does it. Same outstretched hands, even, but unlike Johnny’s, he had never laid a finger on him.

“What do you think.” V’s grin turns serpentine; in the back of his throat he can taste the anticipation of the knife, the tip notched into his port a tease. He could carve himself into an ouroboros. One good thrust of the pistons in his arm, the edges would crack, and the knife would plunge into the relic. “Fucking try me.”

That makes Johnny fall silent. V slides his way out from his desk, starts to walk backwards towards the door; he watches him the entire way.

“Oh, there we go.” He mutters, loud enough for Johnny to hear. Though, he wonders if Johnny can hear everything of his, being in his mind; his thoughts, his feelings. The hysteria lapping at the edge of his shore surges briefly. “Finally got through to the virus.”

Johnny’s lips curl into a mean sneer, “I’m not a virus—”

“Shut up.” V snaps. The need to escape rises like bile in the back of his throat, that feral panic of telling him to delta before the snare tightens around his foot.

He’s only managed to throw a raggedy tee over his bandaged chest since Misty had dropped him off; there’s an embarrassing dampness in the crotch of his sweats. But fuck it, he can live with it. He needs to get out, needs to get away from this room, and the sheets that still smell like him.

“Don’t follow.” V shouts, grabbing his bat by the door, and Johnny helplessly laughs; from where his engram’s shivering form stands in the middle of his apartment, from behind him, and inside his head.

But the sound of it cuts off abruptly as the door shuts behind him.

The noises of the atrium blanket him; children squealing and NCPD shouting and the distant sound of gunfire. Though from Second Amendment’s firing range or gang warfare, it’s impossible to tell.

It moves on a beat, like a pulse. V knocks his bat in time with it against his heel. Even if V’s not truly alone, he feels it, if only for a moment. Alone in the way only a city can provide; another body amongst thousands in this megabuilding, people pushing past him without a second glance in the hall. In his mind’s eye, he opens up his notifications and selects a fistfull; messages and missed holovid alerts swarm his optics like locusts. He chooses one from Wakado with coordinates attached, plugs them into the map floating at half-opacity in front of his path.

In the corner of his eye, V thinks he sees a shimmer in the air. Some string of code. He takes the steps down two at a time, skips the elevator. Hits the ground running.