Work Text:
You think you've got it all worked out
But you don't know nothing
You think that you can rub me out
But I'm made of something
I can teach you a thing or two....
V enters his office with about as much ceremony as he expects. She flicks her curtain of neon red hair out of her eyes, takes the three steps from the door to his lounge and deposits herself with loud vinyl jacket and dirty heeled boots in tow.
“Hands,” V says casually.
“V,” is his usual reply. Except usually, this conversation with his favoured merc would be taking place over a holo-call. And usually, he’d already have the elevator clearance set to absolutely nobody permitted under any circumstances. But here they are. And here she is. So he says, “To what do I owe this particular pleasure?”
V — or Valerie, as her very illustrious NCPD database entry lists, though he suspects few have been allowed to call her that and live to tell the tale — tips her bright hair from side to side. She folds one leather-clad leg over the other and jiggles the toe of her boot.
“Gotta have a reason to drop in?” she asks. “Thought we had an open invitation type of deal now. I mean, since I helped you play politics in Dogtown ‘n all.”
Ah. He places a metal bookmark carefully between his favourite part of The Chessmen of Mars. Tara, his lovely heroine, finds herself trapped by the alien race of Kaldanes. What ever will she do to escape?
“While true,” he says languidly and drapes an arm across the back of his side of the lounge. V has opted for the opposite corner. “I’m also a busy man. You’ll have to be more specific.”
She takes this information in with a small amount of consideration. He watches one of her smooth, tanned hands tap at her knee. A rip stretches two finger widths across the black leather. A sliver of skin shines at him.
“Tea,” V says.
“Tea.” He repeats.
“Last time you didn’t offer me any,” her finger slides into the rip. “Figure you owe me some.”
He takes this information in with the smallest amounts of consideration. It’s a fun little dance, this.
“How positively rude of me,” he says and places The Chessmen of Mars to one side. “V, would you be so kind as to keep me company while I brew some tea.”
To which V noisily rips a new stretch of skin bare on her knee and grins all teeth. “Yeah, I can do that Hands.”
It’s a deliberately slow walk, a saunter even, to the table he keeps by the windows, the slanted surface reflecting off the holo projected above and the point of the pyramid. He makes a show of the process; unfurls the expensive, imported tea leaves, sets the timer on the boiler, places two cups to the side. He keeps one eye on the merc in the flash of the lights from the club.
“Humour me,” he says while reaching for a set of gold spoons. “How is the adoring public of Dogtown responding in the wake of, as you so aptly put it, my politicking?”
V is a smart cookie. He knows this because her file didn’t contain enough information to truly satisfy him. No, there was a runner involved for that; a shard barely bigger than his thumb revealed a whole sordid history on the streets bouncing from gig to gig. Who needs an education when Night City provides generously with a healthy dose of despair, death, the drudgery of modern life. And as smart cookies are to wont, she’s laid her ear dutifully to the ground in the corners of Dogtown he prefers not to visit personally.
“Took a few nights of borged out behaviour to settle some internal disputes,” V says. A hot stream of water fills the teapot as he listens with his back turned. “But, the dust is settlin’. Maybe even some of it blew away. Streets feel cleaner.”
Of course, this matches his own intel. But he does enjoy hearing it from the horse’s mouth.
“Why V,” he effects and closes the lid on the pot. It’s a long spouted, beautiful specimen brought back from a long ago trip to Beijing. “It’s almost as if the information I gave you turned out to be right after all.”
She’s spread one leg up on his well maintained lounge. This is the only room on the upper level of the Heavy Hearts that stands in its original condition, due to being something of a showpiece for visiting investors to the abandoned Serenisands project. As such, he tries very hard not to tut like an annoyed housekeeper. Fortunately for V he finds her boorish qualities strangely endearing.
“What,” she snorts and flicks her hair away again. “Like you coulda predicted Bennett had ‘saka backing and Jago wasn’t as fucked as you made him out to be?”
“I never turn away a welcome bonus,” he says and places the teapot and matching cups (as he had to buy the set, of course) onto the low table in front of the merc.
The silence that stretches as she watches him pour is as comfortable as a boardroom meeting; he feels her lingering stare rake over him like he’s the new hire being sized up. Or maybe it’s something closer to the quiet, unassuming underling that she’s suddenly seen in a new light. Not that he’d willingly give her a power trip like that. Not for free.
“Thanks,” V says and her short, black nails clack against the cup when he hands it to her. Chipped in the corners. Her nails, not his perfectly maintained china. She raises said cup. “To your fledgin’ career in politics.”
“I’m sure it’s bad luck somewhere to be toasting with tea,” he says. “However, it’s the sentiment that counts. Thank you, V.”
And he gingerly raises his own cup to mock clink it to hers across the four cushions that separate them. V appears to be in the habit of closing her eyes when she takes a sip of a drink. He relishes in the advantage of watching the line of her throat constrict at the hot tea, and her vaguely painted lips press against his gold china.
In a way, she reminds him of his first wife. Oh, but they made quite the pair in the late fifties; a couple of brazen fools streaking their way to the top of the corpo ladder, stepping on whomever they pleased. He thinks wistfully of the parties she used to throw. A wild spirit that couldn’t be contained, and certainly not by him. It was Kang Tao that had her in the end. He hopes Beijing is treating her well.
“Hands,” V has decided to rest her cup on the back of the lounge in her outstretched hand. “What’s the deal with this place? Luxor Heights, they wanted it to be some kind of kitschy corpo playground or somethin’ like that?”
“You’re too young to remember,” he says lightly and places his own cup onto a coaster. “The Egyptian revival movement was all the rage some twenty or so years ago.”
“Egyptian?” V pulls a face. It makes a wrinkle appear across her nose, displacing the silver thread of her cybernetics momentarily. “How’s that fit into any of this other shit ‘round Dogtown.”
It would be nice to remove his memories of the last war, and the ensuing madness of Pacifica. But — it’s allowed him to establish himself as a free agent so to speak, and as such he can’t reflect on it too morosely. “You are free to ask that to the architects, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they no longer reside in Night City, or met an unassuming end at the hands of a corporation.”
“Which one?” She takes another sip of tea and pins him with her messily applied kohl-lined eyes.
“Take your pick.”
V makes a quiet sort of noise under her breath, like letting the weight of history rest on her chest for a brief moment. The attention span of youth is fleeting and quick though and she soon moves onto other topics. With a sort of wild grace, she pulls herself off the lounge and sways towards the stack of books he keeps tucked against the wall.
“Preem collection,” she says and picks up his nearly one hundred and fifty year old copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. “You read all your material like this?”
The idea of her slightly dirty fingernails all over his embossed book doesn’t necessarily bother him. It was an easy acquisition, thrown in during a long winded job he’d prefer not to think about. He could easily buy another - provided it’s survived more than a handful of wars and the near destruction of America itself.
“There’s something to be said for the feel of real, ‘ganic paper between one’s fingers, isn’t there?” He says whilst knowing fully that she’s probably never read anything not from a datashard. V’s nose crinkles again. This time it looks embarrassed. Put in its place.
She places the emerald green book back where she found it.
“Got a way with words, Hands,” V says and drifts a look to the painting above her. She doesn’t give it much thought, so much as uses it as a convenient distraction. “Fixer like you must’ve been ‘round the block more than a few times to talk like that. Really know how to make a merc feel like she’s puttin’ her trust in the right place.”
He nearly laughs. V isn’t green. Anything that the netrunner couldn’t dig up for him he’s learnt from whispers between the other fixers in Night City; not that he’s in the habit of holding weekly get togethers over a glass of wine, but Ms. Okado was kind enough to spell out exactly the reputation V has earned. Ruthless, cunning to a fault. Not afraid to get the job done by whatever means necessary – gunfire preferred versus as a last resort, the bloodier the better. It’s just one of the many reasons he chose to work with her after the auspicious call asking for the Voodoo Boys contact. Any other Fixer might have very well laughed in her face.
“Trust. Now there’s a word not thrown around lightly,” he takes a sip of his tea. The jasmine pairs down so nicely when he can get the real deal and not the synthetic copycat. He continues after sufficiently wetting his palette. “Did you come to discuss – “
And he’s stopped quite firmly in his tracks by the sight of V dropping her bright purple, garish vinyl jacket to the carpet of his office with absolutely no preamble, and stretching her tanned arms above her head, revealing a sizeable amount of chromed skin between her leather pants and very small shirt. The shirt looks like it’s been through the wash on the most violent setting at least a dozen times and is nearly so threadbare he can see where the chrome travels over her back and ends at the red fuzz of the nape of her neck. It’s not often that he’s lost for words, as V has so clearly told him mere moments before. This, however, is something new.
“Trust,” she mimics his long vowels. Free of the confines of her jacket, V lazily moves towards the windows overlooking the club below. The silver of her chrome catches on the light as she gets close; it flickers blue, purple, green. Lines that carve up her arms and around the slim muscles. “You’re so full of shit, Hands. You know that?”
She’s hardly the first person to tell him so, and nor will she be the last. And if he wasn’t so suddenly enraptured by the way her leather pants are curving around her body as she leans over to peer down to the dancefloor below, the denizens of Dogtown happy to while away the hours pepped up on whatever drug flooding the black market this week, he might’ve been quicker to shut down this entire conversation. But he hasn’t. And he won’t.
“Quite a trip you’ve insisted on making just to tell me,” he says and replaces his tea onto the coaster. “A holo-call would have sufficed.”
V’s chipped nails tap on the railing. They follow the beat of the music blaring inside the club; it’s an incessant, deep rhythm filtered by the thick glass and the two floors between his office and the Heavy Hearts. Usually he doesn’t pay it much attention. He considers it background noise to the aesthetic he’s been particular to cultivate. With V here though – she might as well have a glass of champagne perched between her fingers waiting to be led onto the dancefloor. The line of her shoulders ripples as she listens to the music, infectious.
“No fun in that,” V says more to the crowd on the dancefloor than to him still seated on the lounge. She leans over until her forehead thunks onto the glass. He can see her breath puff onto the surface, hot in the crisp air-conditioning. She’s watching the people below. He knows because his top of the line Kiroshi implants – in startling bright blue – have a fabulous zoom built in, which he easily switches into until he can see the figures in the reflection of her face-plates. Of course, he remains the picture of calm. This dance she’s led him into requires a little finesse.
“Am I to believe your visit has, shall we say, an ulterior motive?” He says and reaches for the golden cigarette case he keeps perfectly straight on the corner of his coffee table. It has a pyramid etched onto one side, with a real emerald embedded on the point. A commission he might’ve considered passé once upon a time. He’s leaning more into the theme these days.
V barks out a very un-ladylike laugh. It comes from deep in her throat, but does nothing to ruin the beautiful shape the club’s lights trace from her neck to the straight of her leg squared against the glass. He stares shamelessly at this while retrieving a Japanese imported cigarette and tapping it once onto the case. The sound makes her lift her head.
“Can I have one?” she asks and plucks herself from the window to wind her way towards him. V isn’t wearing anything under her thin shirt. He can see her well-toned breasts between the lovely printed words in black that read, Fuck Corpos.
“Hm,” he pretends to think. Lights his own cigarette and lets the smoke fill his synthetic lungs almost as satisfyingly as his old, ‘ganic pair he lost ten years ago. V watches him unfurl the smoke back out through his mouth.
“C’mon Hands,” she says with a cock of her hip. “Deserve one of your fancy cigs at least.”
“And make me wait three weeks until the next shipment docks?” He says and tuts. This little banter could’ve been light and easy. But with the hologram stretching over the windows casting a blue light around her frame, making the edges of her shirt nearly transparent, and her shock of red hair falling just so across her brow, and the look she’s fixing him with – the vision of a cigarette between her smudged lips might be too perfectly delicious. He removes one neat, red-embossed cigarette from his gold case. V eagerly takes it and leans towards him for a light. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“‘Course I do,” she says and breathes the nicotine hit deep. It’s everything he expected and more: V closes her eyes in the same fashion as on her first sip of his tea. Her very much ‘ganic throat hums in pleasure.
“You’re welcome,” he says. To which V opens her eyes and smiles at him like a cat lapping at its synthetic cream. She rests the cigarette between her lips and turns her attention back to the windows.
“Think they have any idea what’s up here?” She muses, smoke curling in a trail behind her. “Must be a trip, comin’ out to party with Dogtown’s puppeteer pullin’ strings right above their heads.”
“A bold claim to say they think at all,” he taps his cigarette into a glass ashtray with a Black Sapphire holo-ad slowly rotating above. A fun souvenir.
“No but,” V exhales. “Think about it. There’s already VIP booths down there for the cashed up gonks. Might as well be empty up here, for all they know.”
It’s not something he’s put much thought into, past the initial set up months ago when Dogtown was reforming into its current stature. He had enough eddies to make sure the entire floor belonged to him. God knew Hansen couldn’t give a damn what happened with the Heavy Hearts as long as the money making machine kept rolling.
But that’s not what V means.
He picks himself up off the lounge slowly, bringing the ashtray with him. V’s resumed her spot by the window leaning over the railing. She watches him approach through the reflection in the glass.
“Cigarette, meet ashtray.” He turns his back to the glass to lean beside her. V looks at him wryly before dutifully tapping her ash into the glass.
“Don’t tell me you never look down.” she continues with a fresh inhale. As if on cue, the music shifts below and starts a low, dull beat that has V shaking her hair from her eyes, her optics clouding over. She’s easily entranced, he understands. Almost as if she’s putting herself on the dancefloor like an engram fluttering into life.
“And this interests you for what reason,” he plays along. The ashtray finds a place beside the rest of his tea set.
V spends more than a good moment watching the scene below; he follows her field of view to the dimly lit dance floor, where brightly coloured bodies writh against each other and drinks spill freely onto the sticky floor and Cleopatra-esque waitresses float around with trays held high. It’s a particularly busy afternoon at the Heavy Hearts. Dogtown is a party all day, party all night type of place and this club is no different. It could be the middle of the morning outside and the scene would play out exactly the same. In some ways, it’s a comfort to him. Like a yellowed pillow he really should throw away.
She turns to him, tanned skin tight over the bend of her shoulders and loose shirt draped low over her chest. Another line of silver threading chases up over her collarbones. It looks purely decorative. Enticing.
“Indulge me for a sec,” V says and tips her chin up to blow a long plume of smoke. It turns blue in the light of the hologram above her. She rests her optics back onto him. “What would happen if someone on that dance floor turned their chromed-out face towards us?”
He folds one of his cybernetic hands over the railing. He paid dearly for these; after the whole mess leaving Petrochem, and the business with the assassination – well, he found himself in desperate need of a set of implants. Fortunately for him, technology had just about caught up by the time of his corpo demise and the implants offered had all the bells and whistles of a pair he could easily have installed today. Touch sensitivity, fully integrated sensors for a range of temperatures. Fine motor control. Like a brand new pair of hands. But with a sleeker, all chrome finish.
“They’d see an unlikely pair having a mutually agreeable conversation,” he says and enjoys another luxuriously slow pull of his cigarette. V waits patiently for him to continue, optics whirring. “For the time being, at least.”
“Meanin’?” V says.
The end of his cigarette is nothing but ash, and he extinguishes it into a last hurrah of red and orange glow into the glass ashtray. A fitting metaphor might be pulled of the inevitable phoenix rising from the ashes, as V has already proven, but the subject matter is much too heavy handed for his liking. And really, she’s arrived on his doorstep for something altogether more base.
“Turn,” he says.
V stares at him. Blinks once, twice.
“Hands – “
“Valerie,” he clips, and plucks the remains of her cigarette from between her half-chewed off lipstick. “It’s a simple instruction – “
“Who said you could call me that?” V narrows her eyes. He sees something flicker in the arch of her brow and the tell in her left cheek.
“Hearing you call me Hands defeats the very nature of this, so I think it’s best we default to a first name basis. Ergo, you are Valerie and I am Wade.”
Mirth splays across her face and makes the little line of chrome across her nose dance. “Wade! The fuck kind of name is that!”
Unfortunately, his patience for dull discussions dried up somewhere between her jacket dropping to his floor in an apparent show of seduction, and watching her smoke one of his very expensive, very precious imported cigarettes. As such, he delights in the sound that pulls garbled and high from the attractive line of her throat when he lays one of his sleek, all chrome hands on the back of her neck. And tightens.
“Fuck – “ V hisses. Her hands scramble to find purchase on the metal railing.
“You asked me a question,” he begins cooly. The sensors on the cybernetic pads of his fingers work quick to tell him her skin is hot; blaringly hot, in fact, as if the air around them isn’t a chilled seventy-two degrees. “It would be amiss of me not to provide you with an answer. However, I find myself lacking the right words.”
V laughs under his grip. In response, he thinks it only fair to calmly push his weight behind her until the cheap leather of her pants rides up against the cashmere of his Avante suit. A custom make, this one. Personal favorite.
“Like I said, you got a way with them,” she breathes out and conspicuously arches her back into him. It’s brazen, like a plastic doll spreading her legs in a neon window. “Try me.”
“Valerie,” he says. And dips down low against her ear. Close enough that he can count every line of silver threading marking the shiny, new behavioural imprint plate so generously gifted to her. “Just when I thought we knew all we could about each other, you’ve managed to surprise me.”
“‘The fuck you know about me?” V shivers when he places his other hand on the small of her back. His chrome is cold to the touch. The heat sensors only work one way. He continues on as if she’s spoken to dead air.
“A decade-long history of arrests, criminal behavior, back alley deals – all culminating in one very poorly planned heist on Konpeki Plaza, which against all odds you somehow survived.” he says. “And yet never in my wildest, most audacious dreams could I have guessed that this tough as nails merc known simply as V has something of an exhibitionist streak.”
“Christ, do you ever shut up – “
V delivers this particular smart mouth comment over her shoulder with a flash in her optics, a kind of feral look that elicits something in him. He finds himself pressing her neck down hard enough until she buckles. V strains and folds further over the railing. Ah. There we go.
“Look down,” he instructs calmly. And taps the leather of her inner thigh with his knee until she knocks her legs further apart. He considers himself a hard man to please these days; ten years into his third marriage, an ensuing dead bedroom, cold-blooded murder becoming increasingly frequent, tiresome, boring. Where does one get their kicks, when everything is so very much the same? Perhaps he’s been looking in all the wrong places. At all the wrong box-dyed, red-haired mercs.
V proves pliable under his hands. Not without a fight, of course. And he does like them with a little fight. She struggles to push herself against him again but manages to do it; the leather of her pants catches and drags down, down down. It’s been a long time since he’s had to watch his mouth. He folds his tongue behind his teeth.
“Years hidin’ behind your lil’ holo-calls,” she baits him. “And you’re really gonna throw it all away to fuck a merc like me above a full club. Callin’ your bluff right now.”
He removes his hand from her neck.
“I see,” he sighs as if she really has called his bluff. As if she, with her chipped nails and poorly applied eyeliner and tendency for mindless violence with no forethought, hasn’t just walked into his office like no other merc could possibly dream to, and seduce him so recklessly that he’s about to fuck her above a full club. He digs his sleek, chromed fingers into the side of her hips until she gasps. “I hate repeating myself: look down.”
And finally she looks. V places two hands onto the freshly wiped surface of the windows, her palms creating foggy imprints, and tilts her head until the jagged cut of her red hair falls into a diagonal line. He sees the reflection of her face in the glass; the way her bottom lip tugs hard between her teeth, the line of her chrome glinting over her cheekbones, the dark swipe of her eye make-up. He is going to enjoy pulling her apart, he realises suddenly.
“So you can follow instructions when you deign yourself to Valerie,” he says. “How very novel.” And he hooks his chin over her shoulder, which elicits another delightful gasp at the graze of his beard on her smooth skin.
“Yeah,” V says between her teeth. “Wade.”
It really shouldn’t have an effect on him. Wade is a construct. A personality he leaves at home, like a shirt one sleeps in and leaves crumpled by the bed. He’d considered giving her a fake name, something plain and simple like Jack, or John. But, as she’s already reminded him – where would be the fun in that? His cock twitches with excitement as he presses himself firmly into the shape of her. In response V tightens her grip on the railing and pushes back.
“Let’s try something more difficult,” he says evenly. With ease he flicks into the zoom of his Kiroshi optics. Below, the crowd of the Heavy Hearts thrums on the coloured dance floor, iridescent dresses riding up chrome-lined thighs and glossy suits prowling the corners. He zeroes in on a corpo standing at a bar table in V’s direct sight. Unassuming, unaware. A blank canvas, so to speak. “Cast your appraising eye on the man in the grey suit and orange shirt.”
V’s heartbeat is picking up. He feels it as he traces his fingers over her ribcage.
“See him,” she says in a very poorly feigned tone of nonchalant. “So?”
His path reaches the hem of her shirt. A ripple runs over V’s skin. She expects him to say more, to continue on this delicious line of thought he knows she’s already traveling on – because V is a simple creature at heart, with a filthy imagination that might mildly shock anyone that hasn’t scrolled a BD this past century. Instead he reaches up, shifts the fabric of her shirt under her chin and cups the silky, firm weight of her breasts between his chrome fingers. The pink of her nipples harden immediately under his touch – and aren’t they a sight between the white gloss finish of his implants? The honest joys in life.
“Shit – “ she breathes.
“Look at him,” he says and tugs deftly on one nipple. V hisses. “A whole club full of salacious bodies, and my, what a sight would await him if he looked up to see you on display.”
Her breasts fit nearly perfectly in his hands. And feel even better when he squeezes until the meat of them redden, wholly ‘ganic and real.
“F-fuck – “ V says ineloquently. “No way this doesn’t get you off – “
It’s true, to some extent; his cock jumps while he kneads her breasts, the touch sensitivity pads in his implants working overtime, but then again, he hasn’t had the pleasure of such a natural pair in over a decade. He is but a man, afterall.
“Does this excite you, Valerie?” he says against her ear. “The idea of being caught in such a compromising position – ”
V grits her teeth and smooths her tanned cheek to the square of skin above his beard. “With such a compromising person. Two of us here.”
It’s not difficult to muster a throaty moan out of her, not when his chrome is warming up quickly with the exertion of rolling her breasts between his hands. He fans his fingers out and presses her skin together. Beautiful. But there are other things to move on to.
“A solo act then,” he says. Ignores the painful twitch in his cock when he regrettably removes his hands from her chest to reach for the waistband of her leather pants. V’s hip buck. He’s quick and dryly efficient as he easily unzips the cheap fabric, uncurling himself from her form to rest against the railing beside her. V closes her eyes against the window and shudders. The underwear peeking through her open fly is synthetic lace in bright green.
“What,” she huffs out a shaky laugh. “Gonna make me get myself off now?”
He spends a decadent moment studying the picture in front of him; her hands slick against the glass, threadbare top exposing those gorgeous, tanned breasts crisscrossed with red markings of his own doing, pants open and shifted just so over her hips. Lips bitten raw. He should really be scrolling this for a keepsake to come back to on cold and lonely nights.
“You have but a waiting and adoring audience,” he says and uncrosses his legs to fall enticingly open. His cock lays thick against his thigh under the thin, expensive cashmere of his suit pants. V is quick to look. Her tongue pokes out fast to swipe a wet line over her lips. The coil in his stomach tightens in satisfaction.
V removes one hand from the window and snakes it, slowly, over her breasts and the silver chromed lines of her stomach, his optics never missing a beat. When she reaches the flat expanse at the top of her bright green underwear she pins him with a look. The very same one she gave him when taking her first long, deep inhale of his imported cigarette. V licks her lips again.
“Oh, how quaint,“ he says and chuckles low in his throat. Pushes down the excitement spiraling up his chest. “You think I’m the adoring audience.”
She stops short of pushing past the green lace. V’s cheek twitches and he knows she wants to say something smart, a backhanded reply that’s quick on the tongue. And he’d welcome it gladly.
(He does like them with a bit of fight).
Once upon a time he watched an archaic, grainy movie from the last century where a man of some out-of-date prestige takes it upon himself to give a little class to a whore. It’s an age old story, really. And by the middle of the film, she’s walking and talking just like a real doll. V flicks her optics back and forth between the window. She turns her head and looks down again. He watches the holo-lights flash bright shapes over her skin as she lowers her hand into her laced underwear, and those fingers worn from years of pulling triggers move between her folds. He can see it, the outline of her finger pressing down, and her back arches in response.
“What a fast learner you are,” he mock praises.
“Fuck you.” V says into the glass and he has to ignore the pulse in his cock when her lips smudge onto the surface. A nice memento to come back to later. Her fingers slide up, then down, then flick twice over her unseen bud which regrettably, he finds himself more and more desperate to see, especially from the way her throat swallows high and parched.
“I’m sure our friend down there all by his lonesome would like to see a little more,” he continues and just for added effect, and not because he needs to look anywhere else, he peers over his shoulder to give another glance to the man in the grey suit. He hasn’t moved. Good. “Pants off, please.”
V stills her hand. Lets the other slide down the glass, slowly, until she straightens herself up. There’s but a hair’s width between them and he could so easily grab her arm, twist it just so, mold her into the position he wants. But V splits her tanned face into another wild, toothy grin. With very little grace, she bends over and noisily unstraps her boots, kicking them off until she stands a considerable head shorter. Then come the leather pants. She hooks her fingers into the open waistband and peels them down over her hips, which she sways like a cheap doll giving her best performance for far too little eddies. He’s entranced by this shameless display, can’t quite tear his optics away from how little the awful lace underwear covers. The fabric pulls tight between her legs.
V turns back to the window. Widens her stance until he can see where the rest of the lace disappears and darkens.
“Wonder what he does,” she says casually, though he doesn’t miss the telling hitch in her throat. Her fingers by-pass the top of her green underwear and inch down. “Think he spends his days workin’ at a desk for some big corporation?”
“An interesting line of thought,” he watches as one of her fingers hook into the side of the green fabric. “Please, go on.”
The skin at her apex is darker, though he isn’t sure if it’s because of the flush of arousal spreading over her curiously neatly shaven mound. V’s hair is a strip of black that glistens in the flash of the lights and when she pulls her violently green, faux lace underwear aside he sees the deep, delicious shade of pink of her centre.
“Guy like him,” she says and twists the fabric around her finger. It digs into her skin. “Gotta – gotta have a nine to five, y’know.”
V rests her hips against the railing. Brings her other hand down. His cock twitches hard against his thigh.
“Do tell,” he says. It’s not difficult to see the strings she’s trying to pull. But ah, such a dance is led by only one person truly. The mystique of a back and forth, an equally shared balance of power is, at the end of it all, entirely transparent. But it is fun.
“Yeah,” V sighs when her fingers part the pink of her lips. She teases over her bud and from his position he can just see the flesh red and aroused. “Probably has a wife at home too, somethin’ fucked up like that.”
The music below thuds satisfyingly low in his stomach, edges on the excited throb of his cock. V rubs a tantalizingly slow circle over her clit and when she pulls on the taunt fabric of her underwear, making the fabric spear between the dark blush of her lips, he slides the cold surface of his chromed hand to her back. V hisses in surprise.
“How traditional,” he says and swallows down the growing thrum of arousal threatening at his throat. V’s fingers slip further into her folds. “Is this a common theme in your fantasies, Valerie? Reducing yourself to something of a plaything for powerful, unreachable men.”
She chokes out a laugh. Breathes it back through her nose when he squeezes her flesh.
“Really – really like the sound of your own voice don’t ya?” V bites back. He notes she doesn’t stop the rub of her fingers, teasing around her bud until she flicks over it once. Her bare hips scrape against the railing. Below by the dancefloor the man at the table takes a long, unaware sip of his brightly colored drink.
“I think you’d like him to watch you being fucked,” he says and he feels her skin jump at his sudden change in tone. It’s been so long, perhaps too long, since he’s been this hard. The soft chafe of his suit pants against the wet tip of his cock is nothing short of painful bliss. He rarely wears a layer between. Today is no different. Wing-tip brogues plush against the carpet he digs his fingers into her hips to move himself behind her again.
V sinks two fingers inside herself and gasps.
“I think you’d like nothing more than having him see my cock split you in two,” he continues in an unaffected manner. His hands arrive at the green lace of her underwear. “To see you stretched so wonderfully wide on it.”
Her flesh is oh so red between his fingers, still marked from his earlier ministrations. He lifts her tanned, round cheeks until he can see her knuckles disappearing into the wet of her pink hole. His cock arches sharp.
“F-fuck – “ V clenches.
He does mean to continue, because it doesn’t take much to realise what kind of effect his words have on her (despite her earlier claims), but he stops short at the glint of something underneath her lace underwear. Carefully, teasingly even, if the shudder along her back has anything to goad him by, he pulls the fabric aside. A green gem shines in its enticingly snug fit between her cheeks. For the second time tonight he finds himself lost for words. Speechless, dumbstruck. Enthralled.
He slides the offensive underwear down her hips until it catches on her fingers lodged inside her wet heat.
“Like what you see, huh?” V pants and he can see her grin in the reflection of the glass, that feral kind of look again. The one that has him calmly reaching for the buttons of his cashmere pants, undoing them one by one. Her ass sways from side to side. The emerald gem catches bright in the neon of the hologram above them.
“A gift for me, you shouldn’t have,” and he realises his voice is far from the even tone he wills it to be. Oh well. Every man has his pleasure, his vice. Is he any weaker for having such a crudely base one?
V slicks her fingers from herself. Skin glistening, she places her hands onto the railing in front of her. “And what makes you think it’s for you?”
Christ, but isn’t he hard. His cock sits heavy in his hand as he draws it out from his suit pants. He’s leaking like a boy on his first trip to a dollhouse, and though he knows it’ll be an absolute pain to remove it from between the crevices of his implants later, he shucks the substantial amount of precum over the length of himself, letting the viscous texture create a delicious friction on his tight skin.
“Valerie,” he tuts and bites back the pleasure of his own touch. “Valerie, Valerie, Valerie.”
Her cheeks spread eagerly under his other hand. The sight of her pink hole slick with her arousal, throbbing and open and wet and waiting for him – it nearly has him pressing the tip of his cock straight in. Patience.
“Wade,” she sighs in such an overly pitched tone that he knows she’s doing it to toy with him. “Wade, Wade, Wa – “
And he pushes down on the emerald gem with his thumb. V groans sharp.
“Valerie,” he begins again, decidedly more strained. His cock traces a wet line over the shape of her ass. “I want you to hold yourself open. And I want you to look at him, while he watches you take every last inch of my cock. Is that clear?”
V nods dully against the window. When she folds herself over the railing, hand peeking through from between her legs to spread herself wide for him – and oh, he can see her nearly dripping – the green gem perched in her pink, pretty asshole catches on the lights. Winks at him just so. And with his cock brushing against her slick fingers, he pushes himself into her waiting heat.
It’s not often that he curses, but the moment calls for it: Fuck. Fuck, she is a God-given, church-ordained level of tight. Her flesh draws him in something fierce, pulls and pulls and pulls until he bottoms out and his balls sit flush against her wet lips.
“That’s it – “ V moans. Keeps her fingers snug around him. “F-fuck – “
Her eyes have fluttered shut in pleasure and were it not for the pathetic excuse of her underwear now twisted and bunched into a thin line in the crease of her thigh, displaying clearly her slick fingers pulling her lips apart to show his cock tucked up into her hole, he might’ve been satisfied. But that’s not how the dance goes. He stills himself. Wraps a chromed hand around the back of her neck.
“Don’t you want him to see you being fucked like this, Valerie?” he says against her ear. “Aren’t you curious how he feels about your tight little hole spreading so wide?”
V shivers under him. She turns her head just enough to rest her lips to his cheek.
“You think I’m tight?” she grins against the brush of his beard.
He contemplates this with the smallest amount of consideration. Then draws himself out of her wet heat, moves back and lays a hard slap to her tanned asscheek. V keens sharp and high and he snaps his hips back into her at the peak of her pained pleasure. Her flesh throbs around him.
“Yes, you’re oh so tight,” he repeats with a tug of her red hair. He pulls until her throat lays bare to the window and she faces the scene below. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
V whimpers as he begins a languid pace into her, savouring every little muscle twitching around his cock. She’s sensitive, he’s starting to realise. Maybe not quite the well-used trash in the back alley he was almost expecting. And yes – tight, deliciously so, so much that he’s finding himself struggling already. Her plush hole grips him as he pulls out, as if begging him not to leave her empty.
“How – “ V starts with her forehead pressed against the glass. “How long?”
When he pulls long and slow out of her this time, the sleeve of his cock is streaked white with her slick. His stomach jumps. He releases her hair to grip at her neck again.
“Use your words,” he swallows. Fucks once into her sharply to hear her gasp.
V hisses out a breath. “How long – you been thinkin’ about this? Wantin’ to fuck my – “
He delivers another firm smack to her ass. This one leaves the most beautiful mark of the pads of his implants. V shouts out. From between her cheeks the green gem sparkles under the lights. It’s teasing him, she’s teasing him, and perhaps he needs to pull the ace from his sleeve.
“Oh, if only our little audience could see what I see,” he says and gathers the flesh of her cheeks between his chrome fingers. “Your pretty little hole asking to be filled. Valerie, humor me once more: what would you say if I told you I’m linked to every device in this building?”
From beneath him her grip tightens on the railing. V pulls back – and he lets her – until the tip of his cock kisses the edges of her luxuriously stretched out, creamy entrance.
“You wouldn’t.”
It’s easy to rock his hips ever so slightly. To let his cock catch again and again on her open hole. To tease her.
“I could stream this exact sight,” he says languidly. Lets the coil that’s been building too quick in the pit of his stomach loosen just a little. “Right onto the tablet sitting at his table.”
The green gem quivers. V turns to look at him. The hastily applied, smudged eyeliner has made tracks down the tips of her cheeks, filling into the edges of her silver chrome threading. Her mouth hangs open wide and inviting; all her lipstick has long since been licked away.
“Fuck off,” V whispers.
“Don’t you think he deserves to see?” he continues, and plucks V’s chin to stare at him squarely. It takes little effort to extend his connection; she watches the crisp blue of his datastream flash over his optics and freezes, before realising the nudge of the link in her system. She hesitantly lets him connect. Her own optics glaze over red. V blinks into existence as a number in the corner of his deck.
He keeps her chin pressed between his fingers. And then looks down.
“Fuck – “ V groans low, and he knows its because she can now see the way his cock is spreading her entrance, pushing past the tight rim of her hole, while simultaneously feeling the sensation herself. V’s thighs begin to shake.
“He should see the mess you’re making, Valerie – “ he says from between his teeth, watching himself disappear between her flushed lips. “Dripping all over my cock, begging for it. He’s enjoying seeing you debauched like the whore you truly are.”
That does it. V crumbles underneath him, pulses around his cock until she’s so tight he can barely move. She milks him rhythmically; he’s sure his tip is pressing on the edges of her cervix, wanting him to give her everything he’s got. Not yet.
“That’s it,” he says with a slight tremble, his control wavering, and thumbs at the emerald jewel before gently tugging it free. The pink of her asshole gapes at him invitingly. “You need to be filled, don’t you?”
V gasps and twists her body towards him. The last of her orgasm ripples through the muscles in her back, and he regrettably pulls himself out of her fluttering, thoroughly creamed hole.
“Patience,” he holds one hand down on her back. The other nimbly reaches towards the single drawer he keeps under the table by the window. He may be high on the seductive fumes of her, on the way her body grips him and pulls at him and begs him – but he’s not stupid. He quickly wipes his sensitive skin down with a sterilised, disposable towel.
“Fuck – please – “ V shudders and pushes her hips towards him. He’s more than eager to oblige. With a fresh bead of precum spread over his tip, he blunts the head of his cock into the tight rim of her asshole.
“Breathe,” he says half for her and half for himself. She’s even tighter here. And he knew it, really, knew it from the moment she stepped into his office, from the moment he saw that glittering, emerald jewel staring up at him.
V swallows thick. Her hole is slick with whatever she’s used to apply that delicious little plug, and he’s thankful for the slide it creates against the sheath of his cock. Finally, he bottoms out with an undignified grunt. Well, he lasted this long. Tight flesh pulsating around him, he draws his hips back tentatively before splitting her further open.
“Jesus fuck,” V whimpers. “I can – I see it – oh fuck, I need to see it –”
One cheek in each hand, he spreads her flesh until her shaved hole sits pink around him, until he can see the rim of her sucking him in. And knows she can see it too. His filthy, little voyeur of a merc. V drops a hand to her flushed clit and with two, quick swipes comes all over the cashmere of his pants, buckles at the knees, holds onto the railing for dear life. She wails and gasps like a doll getting her first taste of a real cock instead of a cheap implant.
He feels the undeniable threat of his own orgasm pulling taunt in his stomach. With one, hard snap of his hips his cock tightens in pleasure, nestled deep inside her pretty pink asshole. V gasps below him and he knows she can feel the hot slick of his seed coating her. His hand presses down on her neck and the other grasps at her knee until it bends.
“Watch,” he says. And looks down as he slowly extracts himself from her, thighs far shakier than he expects. The evidence of his orgasm is milky white over her reddened, tanned skin, over the curve of her perfect ass. V moans and thunks her head to the cool metal of the railing. It might be the most glorious sight he’s seen in a good decade. Perhaps more. He relishes a good moment running the sensitive head of his cock through his own spend, painting her back and the retreating rim of her well fucked hole.
Below, the club continues on as normal. Another track thumps into existence; the dancefloor ebbs and flows, new people joining the writhing crowd, and others drifting off to the bar. The lights filtering through his tinted, one way windows flash blue, green, purple. He releases her flesh from between his chromed hands. V carefully lowers herself to the ground, eyes shut. In the most discreet fashion he can manage post-blissful orgasm, he quietly shuts down the connection between them and with a glint from the table, pockets the green jewel.
“Fuck me – “ V groans. She still has her threadbare shirt pushed up over her tanned breasts. His fingers tremble just slightly as he gingerly puts himself back into his pants. They’re stained, unfortunately. Luckily he keeps a spare set in the office. No point in going home with lipstick on his collar.
“V,” he says with a sigh. “I will need you to get off my carpet before you make any more of a mess.”
From the floor, V blinks open her optics. She regards him openly; the single strand of hair that’s fallen out of place, the scarf he doesn’t remember pulling out of the lapels of his jacket now resting on the table, the aforementioned stain on his pants. There are few people indeed that he allows to see him in such a state. She should count herself lucky.
“Yeah,” V says and after a second, splits into that wide grin he’s beginning to grow fond of. “Okay, Hands.”
He lets her dress in relative privacy, gathering himself up by the cabinets on the other side of the room where he keeps a sizable collection of cologne. One must never get too used to a single scent. Especially when leading two different lives. After an appropriate amount of time, he folds himself onto the lounge and watches as the merc retrieves her long forgotten vinyl jacket. V slips her arms into the purple, spiked sleeves.
She sniffs. “Thanks for the tea.”
“You’re welcome,” he says evenly.
V pauses for a long moment. He really does have other things he needs to attend to; the long list of waiting clients was neatly pushed to the side when she arrived at his door an hour or so ago. It now blinks at him furiously from the corner of his optics.
“They can’t see in here, can they?” she says suddenly.
He does what they call in France a gallic shrug; it’s a little uncouth, maybe, but the French do have a way of imparting meaning without all that many words. This one in particular means, but didn’t you know that all along? Wasn’t that just the fun, little dance we were doing?
“And this holds what importance, V.”
Her lip disappears between the bottom row of her rather neat teeth. She sucks it back out noisily. “Fuck it. Don’t care anyway.”
“Of course you don’t,” he says and sighs. His copy of The Chessmen of Mars soon finds its way back onto his lap. “Unless you have further business, we’ll have to continue this conversation at a later time.”
To which V smiles. “Pour me some of your tea again, sometime.”
“I’m already looking forward to it,” he says and just before she turns to leave, he lets her have a single, nearly missable flick of his optics over her frame. He looks as if he can see that pair of violent green underwear. And the lines of silver chrome over her shoulders. And the undeniable evidence of his spend dripping down her leg, underneath those cheap leather pants.
V scuffs her dirty heeled boots over his carpet and disappears much the same way she arrived.