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civilization-illstayrighthere · 1 year ago

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Ahh wait there are too many good options!!🫣You're too good to us Rama!! What about 87. for VxKerry with a hint of silverdyne? ( Take as long as you like ofc🥺)

87. he doesn’t fuck you the way you deserved to be fucked

I think I probably took this in a slightly different way than you may have thought when requesting, but this prompt absolutely gripped me and i ran away with it :’D Kerry/v, with silverdyne / silverVdyne, ~3.5k, absolutely explicit rating lol

“I think we should kill him.” Johnny Silverhand says.

Standing side-by-side, V exhales a plume of cigarette smoke directly into Johnny, watching his engram form fractal before the smoke dissipates into the open air.

“We’re not killin’ nobody.” V grumbles, though he’s feeling less and less committed to that as he keeps his gaze focused on the scene unfolding on the patio below.

Kerry Eurodyne’s parties were something of a legend throughout Night City; even before V had met his now-input, they’d been preem front page screamsheet tabloid fodder, blurry photos of the who’s-who of Night City bumping shoulders, gossipy quips about who was allegedly bumping uglies.

V was finding the tabloids weren’t as far off as he would’ve liked. The music world was downright incestuous; it felt like half the people here had at one point been Kerry’s one night stand, input, output, brief fling or fancy, and fuck, when did Kerry even find the time to do anything other than doing someone?

But V held his tongue. The Rockerboy was his now, besides; all those other guys and girls were in the rearview, as much as Johnny had been hissing otherwise in his ear.

He wasn’t Johnny. Kerry was enjoying himself; he’d been so flippant about it when he’d mentioned throwing the party, but now here, V could see the man was in his element. He flitted between groups of people, laughed and chatted and preened. There was an extra swagger in his step, and not just because of the easy flow of booze and drugs. Kerry looked good in the limelight. V could share.

To a point.

Kerry had introduced him earlier to a bulwark of a man named Patryk, ostentatiously chromed but not entirely unsurprising; after all, plenty of mercs went the private celebrity bodyguard route for the lucrative pay and relative safety compared to running fixer gigs. Him being an ex of Kerry was unsurprising as well. He was relatively handsome; built with broad shoulders, a shaggy head of straw blonde hair and a firm handshake that V’s sure he would’ve really felt if his own hands were not military chrome.

Patryk grinned. He squeezed V’s hand a little harder. “B, was it?”

“V.” He corrected tightly, flashing his gold canines in a mirroring grin. He squeezed Patryk’s hand back. Kerry, already tipsy, just chuckled and threw his arm around V’s waist, and Patryk dropped his hand.

“Nice to meet you, B.”

Patryk kept grinning that shit-eating grin. Behind him, Johnny flickered into existence; arms crossed across his chest, he prowled around him with agitation, looking him up and down.

“Helluva ex.” He muttered. Getting closer, Patryk was oblivious to Johnny’s proximity and scowl. “Kerry always knew how to pick them.”

V only barely held his tongue, arms intertwining with Kerry’s as he settled a hand on his hip. He slipped a finger into a belt loop and pulled him in snug against his side. Kerry seemed genuinely oblivious as the conversation continued to whatever it was before V had wandered over to be introduced— or maybe, Johnny’s acerbic voice hissed in his head, he’s just enjoying all this attention. Kerry always liked having a couple of meatheads fight over him.

He could argue with Johnny that it’d been fifty years between when he knew Kerry and now. He could feel the want to do something stupid grow.

Maybe that was some of Johnny. Maybe that was a lot of V, who found Patryk’s gaze faltering to where his thumb traced the soft skin just above the waistband of Kerry’s tight pants, right under the hem of his tank as he held him close.

“— good talkin’ to you Patryk, but I gotta mingle.” Kerry finished. He leaned over, pressing a kiss to V’s cheek. “V?”

V flashed Patryk a smug smile, his hand dropping down to Kerry’s ass as he lead them away. He could feel Patryk’s stare on his back.

“Gonna grab another drink, you comin’?”

“Nah,” V excused himself, “gonna have a smoke outside, get some fresh air.” Maybe the irritation simmering in his blood was more nicotine cravings than jealousy; either way, one would soothe the other.

Kerry smiled; he knew the party wasn’t exactly V’s scene. “Come get me when you're done?”

“‘Course. You know I always wander back.”

The new second floor deck Kerry had built with the Us Cracks collaboration advance was nice; more importantly, it was empty and relatively quiet, save for the full thumping of the base from the music inside making the windows practically pulse. Chain smoking cigarettes and flicking the spent butts out into the waterfall feature was probably not the most social way to spend a party, but V was not a social creature by nature. He’d hold Kerry back.

He hadn’t expected to see Kerry descend the stairs below to the shadowed patio below; he definitely hadn’t expected to see him followed by Patryk, either.

“One punch to the trachea,” Johnny goads, “easy as syn-apple pie.”

“No.” V grouses.

“Just a little love tap to the temple.”

“We’re not killing anyone at Kerry’s house.” V replies to Johnny in his head, watching as the two talked below. The moving water kept him from hearing much of anything. It seemed Kerry had a similar idea as V, smoking as he chatted. “He’d immediately be suspected.”

“He’d get charged accessory at most.”

V rolls his eyes. “I don’t think he wants the media circus of what accessory at most will bring.” Eyes still on Kerry, he holds out his cigarette; he only briefly feels Johnny’s chapped lips on his palm, taking a short drag. He’d be more surprised at the sensation if he wasn’t so distracted. Patryk steps closer to Kerry; just as easily, Kerry keeps distance between them, his rumbling, nerve-filled chuckle rising over the dull roar of the waterfall.

“Like he doesn’t have the money to pay off whatever they might try and throw at ‘em.” Johnny complains.

“Again, I’m not fucking zeroing—“

Ice prickles up his throat as he watches the ex start to slowly corral Kerry backward, towards the darkness of the patio chairs; he can’t hear over the roar of the waterfall and the muffled din of the party still going on behind, but Kerry’s cringing body language and his reluctance couldn’t be telegraphed more clearly if he’d yelled it. The chrome fingers of V’s left hand twitch, instantly crushing the filter of the cigarette between them.

He’s expecting a smug “I told you so” from Johnny but is met, surprisingly, with a twin feeling of possessive fury, a second internal voice matching his own that is propelling him into immediate action. V vaults over the balcony railing; his reinforced tendons easily absorb the impact of the short fall when he lands in a crouch.

Save the lights coming through the glass where Kerry’s Aerondight is parked above, it’s relatively dark down here under the house; even the faraway lights of Night City don’t seem to pierce the gloom of the nook. Kerry’s eyes seem to glow.

“What’d I say, Pat?” Kerry’s voice is strong, but he’s cringing as his ex-output steps forward, “I’m not fuckin’ interested. I got a mainline.”

“Yeah,” the man purrs, “but he doesn’t fuck you the way you deserved to be fucked, does he?”

V straightens to standing. Spying V past Patryk’s shoulder, Kerry alights with recognition.

“You always moaned so sweet for me, baby doll,” Patryk practically croons as he advances. Kerry takes another step back— his heel catches the edge of a lounger, and when he falls back onto his ass with a “whuph,” Patryk perks up like a slavering dog over a bone. “You were the best cock sleeve I ever had, and I know for sure I was the only dick good enough to fill your sloppy boy cunt. Lemme remind you—”

V allows his next step to fall heavier.

The man’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t turn around. “Fuck off. We’re busy.”

“Y’know, actually,” V clears his throat. “I think you’re done here.”

Patryk turns around. He’s got an inch or two on V; he looks him up and down with a sneer. “Ah, the little mainline.”

Johnny crackles into existence, pointedly placing himself between Patryk and Kerry, as if he could do anything; his Hand twitches towards the holster on his thigh.

“Yeah, uh,” V sniffs, real loud, real obnoxious, and he reaches up to scratch at his nose with one crooked finger. Purposefully, carefully, because all of the blades of his knuckles are fully deployed. Kerry’s gold looks real nice with all of his house's professional lighting, but he thinks the way the lights plays off his silver serrated edges look good, too. “Man of the hour already asked you to, but now I’m insistin’. You should delta, choom.”

“Yeah?” Patryk snorts. He rolls his broad shoulders. “Make me.”

Kerry shakes his head, raking a hand through his hair. “Patryk, please just fuckin’ go—“

Patryk whirls, snapping, “shut the fuck up, Eurodyne.”

The man’s chipped, of course— Kerry had a type, unfortunately— but the momentary dumb display of anger gives V an easy turned back to lunge towards, viper-quick, to grab the back of his neck with one hand and the back of his shirt with the other.

He can feel Johnny’s anger nipping at his heels, coursing through his veins of blood and chrome plasma alike— Patryk immediately grapples for V’s arm as he walks the man stumbling towards the edge of the patio, hand fisted into the meat of his neck so tightly he thinks he could crush his spine if his grip twitched just so. He barely feels the ex’s fingernails biting into his syn-skin as he scrabbles against his arms.

“First of all, you’ve got a lot of fuckin’ balls just coming here.”

The roar of the waterfall nearly drowns out V’s snarl, though he knows Patryk can hear him.

“Second, cute as you think that B bullshit was, my name is fucking V, you got that? V, the one who zeroed Jotaro, cleared out countless Scav nests, makes Maelstrommer’s shit their pants, goes solo toe-to-toe with Arasaka and Militech spec ops,” V grits out with a swiftly rising fury, coinciding with a ramping of his processors that has the chrome in his body audibly humming with the promise of violence.

“The VDB that are left call me Agau, the Wraiths call me Dakota’s dog, but you, princess?”

V grins as Patryk’s face drops.

“You can call me V.”

He thrusts him into the direct steam of the waterfall, sudden enough that he knows Patryk takes a full gulp as soon as he’s under. Warnings flash in the corners of his vision’s HUD as he deploys all his chrome to keep him there; he can feel his body temperature rapidly rise, his chrome tendons creaking and some of the closest spray turning into mist where it touches exposed skin.

“And then bothering your ex-output? Kerry fuckin’ Eurodyne? You’re not even worthy of lookin’ at his fuckin’ reflection. The stupidity of that, choombatta, I mean—“ V chuckles tightly, barely upholding the veneer of a casual conversation atop his white hot rage. He pulls the man out of the spray; he wheezes, flailing uselessly under his grasp.

“W-wait—“

“Nah, think I’m done waiting.” V interrupts, further cutting the man off by thrusting him back under the torrent. Choking loudly, his struggles grow more frantic as he keeps taking on water. “You wanna talk more about my output? My output? ‘Cause clearly he wasn’t interested in you and your pathetic dick, so even when he kept saying no, you really had to push, huh?”

All V would need to do was let go and this two-enny hack would tumble right over the side of the cliff-face. His body wouldn’t stop until he had rolled all the way down to Charter Hill.

“I want you to keep Kerry’s name out of your mouth, you got that?” V snarls, “mine too, while you’re at it. I’ll bounce your skull off the pavement if I so much as catch you thinkin’ his name again.”

He’s clearly a merc; hell, V might’ve even seen him skulking around the Afterlife. He could threaten his ties he’s got with fixers, scare him out of work until he had to leave the city to even make an enny with his name. But V didn’t need anyone else's name to invoke fear; not a fixer, not Kerry’s, not Johnny’s, nobody but himself.

It takes a moment before he realizes Patryk can’t respond while still under the water; he pulls him out, impatiently listening to him hack and wheeze in a full breath.

“I got it, I-I got it, alright,” Patryk sputters, clutching fruitlessly at V. All the bravado’s been wiped from him; there is snot down his face, spittle across his lips as he gasps, “man, I’m sorry!”

V slaps the whimpering merc across the face, open-handed, laughs at the way he flinches and cringes. When V steps back and tosses him onto the ground, away from the edge, his left fist balling up in his peripheral is silver.

“Get the fuck out of my sight.” V spits.

The man scrambles to his feet—tries to, but the fear is making his limbs uncoordinated, and slick from the waterboarding, he stumbles and falls face first onto the deck. It takes another try before he’s up and running, dripping, the long way around and away.

V could follow the bastard, and watching his disappearing back makes something predatory pulse in him; he wants to hunt him down, a hound to a hare, press his teeth to the back of his neck until he crunches through bone and shake his body until he goes limp. He wants to rend him in two; wants to carve his name, his moniker, into his skin with his knuckles, a potent portent to any other gonk who thinks they could even conceive of laying a hand on what’s his and his alone—

“V…” Kerry’s voice, unnaturally small, breaks through behind him.

V turns. He crosses the gap between them in a few long strides, immediately dropping a knee onto the patio chair between Kerry’s legs to bend down and cup his face; he’s unharmed, and shaking, though maybe that’s actually V’s hands trembling in the comedown as his body starts to unwind from its tight coil.

“Ker.“ He murmurs, swiping a slick thumb over Kerry’s cheekbone, his temples, leaving behind a trace of wetness that makes the gold inlaid in his skin shine, “you alright? You okay?”

Kerry’s chest heaves. He says nothing; he kisses him, meeting him with a voracity that makes V groan, muffled by his lips and tongue. When Kerry fists his hand into V’s mullet and yanks his head back, he goes as docile as a lamb, only just managing to silence the whine bouncing behind his bared teeth.

“I thought you were gonna kill him.” Kerry breathes. His lips are spit-slick, just a touch puffy from the abuse of the hard kiss.

“You want me to?” V demurs. “I’ll go get ‘im. I meant it all. I’d do it for you, Ker.”

Kerry sucks in a breath. “Fuck, V.”

“Throw him off the side, pummel him to a paste, whatever you like.” V continues, a deluge of words on the current, “I’ll go out there and do it now, gorgeous, you just give the word.” He feels frenzied, only kept in check by Kerry’s ringed fingers holding him tight by the root of his hair. “Let me kill him for you.”

Kerry’s blue Kiroshis are so bright, just a sliver around the dark, fat pupils. He looks tempted. He looks drunk off the ultraviolence of it all. V would give him everything; he doesn’t even need to ask, not when Kerry looks at him like hat.

“You would, huhn?” Kerry quietly marvels. He reaches up, rubs his thumb over one of the prominent scars patterned across V’s cheek; he turns into his touch, mollified.

He pulls V into another harsh kiss by the back of his head; their moans muffle underneath each other's lips.

V’s greedy hands roam downward. He paws at his sides, gropes his chest. Beneath him, Kerry arches. The thought of that fuck touching Kerry comes back to mind, unbidden, and he feels another fresh bolt of possessive fury course down his spine.

“You’re mine,” V mouths against Kerry’s bearded cheek, and his voice lowers a too-familiar octave when he repeats, “mine.”

Kerry shudders. When V pulls back, his eyes are dragged behind Kerry; leaning back against the lounger, Johnny reclines. They hold eye contact for a beat. If he was solid, Kerry would be in between his legs, lying against his chest; now, his flak jacket wavers where Kerry clips into him. He strokes an unfelt hand down the length of Kerry’s neck, and his cyberware; V follows the motion, and Kerry bares his neck with a groan, slides his hand up to cradle V’s. Underneath those million-eddy hands, V’s blades lie dormant.

“Fuck, V,” Kerry croaks, intertwining their fingers; he lets his head fall back, his hips rocking, his body a delicious supine. Johnny's hands follow where Kerry drags V’s down, across his collarbone, pushing at the neckline of his white tank top.

He wants what’s underneath; he doesn’t take a moment of reflection, hooking his fingers into the collar and ripping the shirt down the middle with an elastic tear.

He can feel the collective weight of their stare on Kerry’s exposed body, even if he’s none the wiser; V cups his pec, really takes his time to squeeze him, lets his flesh bounce a little under his hand. Only when Kerry starts to squirm does V run his thumb over one of Kerry’s pert nipples, pinching it sharply before rolling the pad over in a soothing, rocking motion. The breathless noise Johnny makes is nearly drowned out by Kerry’s breathless panting.

“Wanna fuck you.” V mumbles. He pinches Kerry’s nipples again; watches his body arch into the twin pain and pleasure, as enraptured with that as by the silver hand possessively stroking up and down his neck. “Can I?”

“Jesus, kid, like you have to ask—“ Kerry groans. And he seems to realize the irony, an almost wild laugh escaping him as he starts to writhe underneath V, fumbling to shove down the tight pants clinging to his hips. “Of course, fuck, fuck me.”

Anyone could come downstairs to the waterfall loungers, looking for the man of the hour; if they did, they’d see Kerry Eurodyne, hastily stripped down to only his ripped tank hanging off him like a vest, getting down on his hands and knees like a dog in heat, reaching back and spread himself with a growled command to “spit.”. They’d see the best merc in Night City get on his knees and do him one better, pressing his face inbetween where Kerry was shaved smooth and lick his hole, over and over, until the man was mewling under his tongue.

They wouldn’t see a silver hand stroking down Kerry’s spine, detouring across the freckles that still dot his syn-skin. They wouldn’t see Johnny Silverhand perched on the back of the lounger, watching them both, the front of his leather pants painfully tented. He’s silent as he palms himself, his heavy gaze shifting between the two of them. That was just for V.

V gets his pants down just under the curve of his ass, pulling out his cock; with only spit as lube, it takes a few moments of delicious, tight stretching before he’s in, and then he’s fucking Kerry in slow, deep thrusts, hips slapping hard against his ass each time. He takes him so well; fits perfectly around his cock, clinging tight each time V nearly pulls out, moans when V buries himself back in to the hilt.

V’s eyes slip closed in rapture. Only for a moment; his face jerks to the side as a slap lands soundly on his cheek, and when he opens his eyes, Johnny is glowering there, gripping his chin tightly.

“Keep your goddamn eyes open, V.” Johnny says. His voice is wrecked with disuse; with want. “And fuck him harder.”

He flickers back to the lounger, hungrily watching Kerry and V. V can feel Johnny’s annoyance simmering under the surface, too keyed up to hide his thoughts; he wants to be there, he wants to fuck Kerry until the plastic slats imprint into his knees. But time is dwindling for V, and this is as close as he can be; stroking his cock in time to V’s brutal thrusts, drinking in the sight of Kerry’s arched spine, the way his ass bounces on impact, the moans he wrenches from his output. Their output, and his; and that’s one and the same.

And that scares them both.

#silverdyne #silvervdyne #Kerry eurodyne #johnny silverhand #cp 2077 #cyberpunk 2077 #Nsft #stomping in a glass house

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