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Johnny wanders in like a stray, though V muses that the comparison might be an insult to Nibbles. The sphynx never came in yowling quite as loudly as Johnny did. Didn’t make the same mess, either, stripping off his merc gear with barely one foot through the door. While his shouts rang through the villa, the sound of his infuriated unclothing came right after: the clunk of his heavy Malorian in its holster hitting the floor, the thwip of him ripping his leather jacket off and flinging it to some far corner. All of this while complaining about whatever two-part gig he’d just come back from that Rogue had sent him on: some fucking bang-up job in a distribution warehouse, a grenade sloppily thrown, more Maelstrommers than had been on the docket—
“—and now I stink like fucking gun powder and Spunky Monkey.” Johnny finishes his diatribe as he strides into the room, dressed down now in his slim cut leather pants and a gray tank flecked with blood. Not his own, from the looks of it.
V drapes his white chrome hand over his mouth to cover his smile. “I thought civilized people said, y’know, hi when they entered?”
Groaning, Johnny simply flops down on the couch next to V. Boneless and wide legged, he sinks into the cushions, his head falling back and eyes slipping closed.
V snickers.
“Hi.” Johnny finally grunts.
“Hi,” V replies.
Johnny peels one eye open, glancing at V.
V’s smile grows crooked. “C’mere,” he mutters, even as he himself is the one leaning over to skate a hand up his silver arm, chrome clicking against chrome. He slides his palm over and up the back of Johnny’s neck, fingers playing with the hair there. Johnny snorts incredulously, rolling his eyes even as he leans into his touch like a cat playing hard to get, but he doesn’t move any closer.
“Johnny…” V sing-songs.
Johnny’s eyes slide closed once more. “Hm?”
V firmly wraps his fingers around the back of his neck; firm but careful, especially knowing the potential strength in his weaponized hands, the same ones that brutally took apart gangoons in his day-to-day. He rubs his thumb against the base of Johnny’s skull, starts to rub up and into his scalp with enough pressure that it pulls an unintended groan out him.
“Johnny.” V calls. Fondness and irritation sound so similar in his mouth, he thinks sometimes they’re one and the same.
Johnny peels open one eye to look at V, subtly angling his head to get his fingers exactly where he needs him. It’s a play at resistance, the same way V’s mock scruffing gives him the excuse he needs to finally lean in and kiss V, a chaste press of lips, scoffing again when he feels his triumphant smile.
“You’re so annoying.” Johnny chuckles, lips curving upwards to match.
“Me? Shit,” V laughs, “that’s real rich, coming from you.”
He threads his fingers fully into Johnny’s mid-length hair, tugs him a little closer and relishes the way his breath comes out sharp against his lips. The black of his hair so dark it almost looked blue in certain lights, wrapped around his white chrome like an oil spill. He twists and topples over onto V, pushing him down into the couch. Johnny’s not shy in draping his full weight over V, pressing his chest firmly against his. Firm, like if he pressed down hard enough, he could sink back into V again in a haze of ones and zeroes. Johnny being physical, being corporeal— V’s still not used to it, not really, even though he tries to play it cool.
Playing it cool meant schoolyard shenanigans: tugging on his hair, teasing touches, always standing too close. The Johnny of his memories wouldn’t have tolerated it. The Johnny of his memories wouldn’t have even bothered to warn someone that tried to pull that kind of bullshit; he would just swing.
While Johnny was an engram, there had been no real boundaries, except one big, glaring one: V couldn’t touch him. Johnny could touch V, could manipulate his body like a puppeteer pulling the strings, but V’s hands went through him every time. And when Johnny came back, for that first month when he was still trying to get the hang of his vat-grown body, all V could do was touch him. He relishes his weight, all the little points of contact from his chest to his waist to his long, lean legs settled between his own.
“You do smell like Spunky Monkey, by the way.” V adds off-handedly. It’s a sickly-sweet fake strawberry lime scent; this close, V can now see half of the droplets of supposed blood on Johnny’s shirt was just the condensed energy drink syrup, still mildly tacky to the touch. Johnny huffs against his mouth.
“That shit is disgusting.”
“Yeah, red’s gross. Blue’s good though, that’s my favorite flavor.”
“Blue isn’t a flavor.” Johnny counters, then frowns, “I thought you hated the blue one?”
V immediately bites down on his lip to keep from smiling so wide; Johnny always called it his shit-eating grin, and he clocks it instantly even as V tries to quash it, his expression suspiciously narrowing. What’s he supposed to do, not smile like a gonk when they remember those kinds of little details?
“I like arctic blue, not dark blue.” V pauses thoughtfully, as if he really could get into a Socratian debate regarding the merits of all one hundred and fifty plus Spunky Monkey flavors. “Regular blue is fine, I guess.”
A short laugh escapes Johnny. It vibrates out from his chest into V’s. “You are annoying.”
“Maybe we’re both annoying.”
“Maybe?”
Both their heads swivel in unison to turn to Kerry. They had been too caught up with each other to even hear him enter until he was nearly on top of them. He’s got a laptop tucked under his arm. V can feel Johnny momentarily tense on him, automatic— and then he relaxes, wedging his arm between V and the couch to push himself up a bit, as if he wasn’t lying sprawled on top of V.
“Hey, Ker.”
“Hey, J,” Kerry replies with one of those warm smiles that reach his eyes. He’s clearly taking in the sight of them tangled up with one another, gaze sweeping up and down. “What is this, the pot-kettle convention?”
“I mean, yeah,” Johnny says drolly, mouth twisted wry, “now that you’re here.”
Kerry snorts, though V thinks he makes a good show at a pout. There’s no room on the couch, so he perches next to them on top of the arm rest. When one of Johnny’s legs swings up, he wraps a hand around his ankle, thumb playing with the bone there. “Hey, no gangin’ up on me.”
“That’s not what you said last night.” V says, much too quickly. Both Kerry and Johnny groan at the quip, but when V raises his hand with an expectant grin, Johnny still gives him a high-five in return.
“Nice.” V chortles, drowned out by another of Kerry’s exasperated groans.
“Alright, alright.” He swats Johnny’s ass, and the man shoots him an indignant glare over his shoulder without any real heat. Kerry smirks, pushing himself up to his feet and giving the laptop still tucked under his arm a short knock with his knuckles. “C’mon, Johnny, I need your help on the bridge of that one song we’ve been working on.”
“Yeah, you still want to keep that second line?”
Kerry’s face twists. “What’d I tell you? It’s not the second line that’s what’s off.”
V exaggeratedly groans as Johnny rises to his elbows, pushing at and into V. Of course, the reaction means he has to make the effort of digging his silver elbow somewhere into V’s ribs, a lighthearted threat with the knife tucked safely into the socket there.
“It’d be better if you dropped it. Get a rhythm guitar in—“
“Huh, wonder who will do that?” Kerry interrupts. “I wonder who’d want to fulfill that role.”
“Probably have to hire someone through the label—“ V chimes in, before he’s abruptly cut off by another pointed dig of Johnny’s elbow to his ribs.
Kerry’s eyes light up in silent laughter at the two of them. His mouth curls, tapping exaggeratedly at his chin in faux-thought. “Hm, you’re right, V. Who was that guitarist I liked? Real tall, dark an’ handsome?”
“Anton was his name, pretty sure,” V wheezes with fiendish delight as Johnny’s silver elbow puts further pressure on his softer organs.
Johnny scoffs. “Smart assess.”
“Hey, don’t puncture my input.”
“Yeah,” V gasps, “don’t puncture his input.”
Johnny rolls his eyes, giving V one last good dig before sitting up. Johnny’s warm tangled up in his legs, and he can’t help but notice how quickly he misses it as Kerry helps him up. Johnny sways a little on his feet, and it’s just as good of an excuse as any for Kerry to lean in and steady his hands against Johnny’s waist.
“Huh,” Kerry muses, doing a double take to lean into the crook of Johnny’s neck and sniff, ”there a reason you smell like Spunky Monkey?”
V’s hand pressed to his mouth hides his smile but doesn’t quite suppress his laughter.
All three quickly dissolve into back-and-forth banter— a dramatic retelling about why Johnny smells like energy drink, about the pros and cons of Spunky Monkey in all of its hundreds of artificial flavors. That turns into recounting annoying ad jingles, turns to lyrical parody in which V pledges to write a rock opera with grave severity, turns to a sudden debate in song writing minutiae between Johnny and Kerry the musically-disinclined such as himself quickly starts to tune out as background noise. It’d sound like bickering if it were anyone else. To V, it’s music to his ears.
——
And to be fair to V, that bawdy joke of his, about teaming up on Kerry— that really wasn’t a joke.
Last night had been the first half of the job, which had been destroying a clinic’s generator in North Side that fed power to a sizable offshoot of Maelstrom goons for Rogue. They were like cockroaches, always popping up and coming back with a vengeance even after they were cleared. Easier to try and get them all together somewhere and burn the whole place to the ground. Without power, they couldn’t harvest cyberware; they’d all scatter to the nearby abandoned Spunky Monkey distribution center which still had working coolers big enough to keep their harvested cyberware on ice. Far from civilians, he’d be able to take them down without any casualties, per Rogue’s explicit orders; he argued that they could get it done in one night, that the clinic owner oughta bite it as well, but Rogue had pointed out that the man was only trying to keep himself and his family alive by giving in to the chromed out gangoons’ demands.
Last night had been a late one, but at least it came with the satisfaction of a plan starting to flawlessly come together. Johnny shuts the door behind him. The entryway of the villa is lit up along the baseboards in warm, orange hues; just bright enough for him to make his way further inside. His optics adapt; so do his ears.
Johnny would’ve mistaken his inputs being asleep otherwise.
The soft groans, rustle of sheets, the sound of skin on skin— it’s unmistakable as Johnny makes his way through the open-concept house, grows louder as he approaches the stairs. He pauses on the landing. Maybe a month or two ago— he wouldn’t have made his way up. A month or two ago, he was still being stupid, and there’s still a part of him that thinks he’s not allowed up there. Less what Kerry or V wanted, and more because of his own hang ups.
And as soon as he reaches the top of the stairs, Johnny’s rooted to the spot.
“You two havin’ fun?” Johnny asks, casually as he can, though his throat’s gone dry at the sight of them on the bed.
“Yeah,” V grins that golden grin of his. “Lotta fun. Wanna see?” He’s shining with a sheen of sweat that has his green hair sticking to his forehead, pairs real pretty against the bronze of his skin. Maybe pretty’s a weird word to describe V; there’s not a lot of people in Night City who’d call the merc that, even though he’s since pulled back on his jobs since Mikoshi. He’s still Dakota’s guard dog on occasion. Works with Rogue when she wants to make a splash, sometimes even double teaming a gig with Johnny.
Him and Johnny work well together. Johnny’s just the cleanup. V goes in first. His chrome fists, klepped Militech prototypes, interchangeable knuckles, integrated into the steel tendons of his forearms— those were real fucking weapons, Johnny won’t say anything different. Now that he’s not just an engram, V’s shown him first-hand the kind of strength he can wield around. Thumping him on the back, faux-wrestling in the conversation pit of Kerry’s villa; he’d known how it felt for V to throw the punches, but never had been on the receiving end. Those hands—
Those hands, now, are on Kerry.
Pulling him back against his chest, Kerry’s stripped bare and exposed to Johnny’s gaze; V’s cock sunk into him, his own stiff against his abs and pearling pre-cum at the tip. His chest hitching as he pants, the lines of his chrome catching in the far off city lights streaming in through the tinted windows. V rolls his hips, and Kerry groans. Glassy eyed and gorgeous, he looks at Johnny and his freckled face grows ruddier.
Absently, Johnny adjusts himself in his pants. He doesn’t miss the way Kerry’s gaze flickers down, heavy lidded.
“How long’ve you…?”
“‘Bout an hour.” V replies for him, nuzzling into Kerry’s neck.
Blearily, Kerry turns his face up towards V. “Only been an hour..?”
“Mhm,” V hums, and Johnny hears more than sees V drag his teeth across Kerry’s neck, the clink of gold against gold, and he’s speaking to Johnny now, even if it’s Kerry’s skin that’s muffling his words, “he’s been so good , too.”
With Kerry seated on his lap, all V can do is small, grinding thrusts into him; when Johnny moves closer, those stop, and he can see the tensing muscles of Kerry’s thighs, his stomach and abs futilely flex as he groans out his frustration and tries to grind down himself. V’s hands tighten to keep him in place.
“We gotta treat ‘im right, Johnny,” V chides as if speaking to a child, though there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he rests his chin on Kerry’s shoulder, “don’t you think Kerry deserves it?”
Kerry deserves a lot of things. V holds him by his thighs, his grip firm enough that his fingers indent into the plush skin there. He’s all shaved and smooth— there’s muscle underneath, sure, but he always had liked that about Kerry. He was scrawnier in his youth, but he was always so fucking grabbable, always had that soft skin everywhere other than his guitar-calloused hands. The way Kerry took to bruises so well. Johnny’s wasted so many years letting all kinds of Kerry’s inputs and outputs demonstrate that to him. Now, V holds Kerry spread, just for him, just for them.
Johnny’s sure he could sink his teeth into him right there, suck wet, voracious kisses into his thighs until Kerry squirmed and begged. V would keep him there for Johnny, make sure he’d take every kiss and bite he deigned to dole out until he was thrashing under his lips.
The thought of it practically makes his mouth water.
“Yeah, he does.” Johnny finally agrees.
They both watch him as Johnny closes the distance between them. Johnny reaches out, takes Kerry by the chin with his ‘ganic hand and turns his face back to him. A breathy noise escapes him, makes Johnny smirk in reply. “Yeah?” He asks, like the noises Kerry was making was anything close to resembling cohesive language. His voice sounds hoarse in his own ears.
“Yeah,” Kerry replies back, and Johnny can see the way it takes him a moment to focus those Kiroshis on him, aperture blown out; a wide pool of black rimmed by thin rings of gold and blue. Breath quickening, his lips part, tongue lolling out; seeking Johnny’s thumb and groaning when Johnny gives in to the silent plea by pushing it into his mouth. Kerry latches on, sucks. His mouth’s molten. Johnny’s cock jerks in his jeans.
“Needy.” Johnny says.
“So give him what he wants.” V says it like a challenge, punctuating it with a shallow, dirty grind that ekes a breathy noise out of Kerry, makes his back arch and his spine shiver before he sags, boneless, back against V.
Johnny can do him one better, and give him what he needs.
He drops to his knees in front of them, sliding the elastic from his wrists up to his hand as he gathers his hair back in one fluid motion. Kerry and V’s eyes follow the movement of him twisting and tying his hair back; Johnny might not be Kerry Eurodyne levels of vain, but he knows how he looks. He was still the Platonic ideal of dirty 2020s rockerboy, the blueprint all those that came after used. He was the original, even if technically the body he was using now was just a replica. A really good one, a nearly perfect one, indistinguishable down to the DNA and his goddamn atoms, but still— a replica.
A few stray pieces fall out and frame his face. They like his hair, usually like to guide him by it, tug on it, and if they had the hands Johnny’s sure he’d have two sets of them right now buried in it pulling him forward.
Johnny slides his hands up V’s thighs, leaning in. Kerry’s spreadeagle, skin hot and trembling. Johnny presses fleeting kisses against the soft skin of his thighs, his balls. He takes them in his hand and moves them aside to get a good view of Kerry’s rim stretched around V’s cock. Rubbing a thumb there, he listens to Kerry and V’s breath unsteadily quicken in unison.
V’s sunk into Kerry as far as he can from this position, but there’s still an inch of exposed shaft at the base, dark and throbbing. V can reload quicker than either of them can, but he looks like he’s been holding back, too preoccupied with keeping Kerry on the precipice to let himself go over. Johnny leans in, licks V up to the point of where they’re joined.
Jumping under his tongue, V swears, “ Fuck , Johnny—“
V groans; his fingers flex into the meat of Kerry’s thighs. At this rate, there will be marks left there. Johnny’s found since returning to his own body that him and V have similar hand sizes, leave similar prints. He thinks the only person who likes that more than him and V is Kerry himself.
Johnny’s only reply is to chuckle, nosing up that sensitive exposed patch, lapping at Kerry’s stretched rim and the base of V’s cock. V’s hips buck. Kerry whines. As fun as it is to tease, though, he doesn’t linger; this is for Kerry, afterall, even as V’s newly-flustered red face peeks down at him half-hidden behind Kerry’s shoulder through heavy lids as soon as he stops.
“Doin’ good, Ker?” Johnny asks.
His only response is a groan that borders on a whine of frustration.
V’s hands flex against Kerry. Johnny could ask if he’s doing fine, too, but he knows the chromed out merc can handle supporting Kerry’s weight for quite a while.
Johnny mouths at his balls, trails wet kisses up Kerry’s shaft. Wrapping his ‘ganic fingers around Kerry’s cock, he gives an experimental stroke up, watching Kerry’s eyelids flutter. V must have been edging him for a while, because the way his shoulders slump and his ribs hitch, the relief he’s telegraphing with such simple, fleeting touches is palatable.
Leaning in, he brushes his lips back and forth against the head of Kerry’s cock. Pre-cum smears across his Cupid’s bow. Reflexively, he licks his lips; tastes not only the bitterness of it, but the salt of his skin when his tongue just barely brushes against Kerry. It makes Kerry shiver, so he does it again; makes Kerry shake, so he keeps going, and dips his tongue into the slit and watches all the muscles in Kerry’s thighs twitch and his breathing grow audibly heavier.
V looks down at him with hooded eyes, and he seems to read it in Johnny’s face in that way that weirds Kerry out sometimes. Being together in the same head for that long just meant they could read each other in a way most other people couldn’t, fight club twins excluded. He doesn’t need to ask, but he starts off slow; hips rolling, he grinds into Kerry. It makes Kerry’s hips sway forward, pushes his cock into the loose circle of Johnny’s fist. The tip of his cock pushes against Johnny’s lips.
“He looks good down there, doesn’t he?” V murmurs in Kerry’s ear, just loud enough for Johnny to hear as well. Johnny pretends it doesn’t make him shudder.
He grinds a little harder; Kerry’s cock nudges into his lips, makes ‘em look plush and pouty against the blunt head. Johnny knows how he looks; his brows are furrowed like he’s kinda mad about it, except his face is flushed red and his cock’s so hard in his jeans it hurts. Johnny can see the muscles in Kerry’s arm jump as he flexes his fingers uselessly where they’re anchored in V’s hair.
“Yeah,” Breathing the word out, Kerry sounds wrecked. “So fuckin’ good.”
Being talked about like that— it’s like something to the left of embarrassment, egg running down his face. Except this feels molten hot, cascading down and settling into the bottom of his stomach. Slowly, he releases his grip on Kerry, flexing his hands into fists and pressing them down obediently against his clothed thighs.
“On his knees like that… should be on his knees more often. Think he’d only be prettier with your cock in his throat, right, Ker?”
On the next movement of V’s hips, Johnny’s lips finally part. Pushing past that thin veil of resistance, Kerry’s cock slowly inches into his mouth; down his throat, Johnny swallowing around his girth, his eyes locked with Kerry’s. V pushes Kerry’s hips forward, forward, until his cock is entirely sheathed in Johnny, and he couldn’t breath around it even if he tried; his nose touches Kerry’s pubic mound, shaved stubble prickling against his skin.
It feels like forever until V pulls his hips back, and with them Kerry’s. Johnny inhales in gasping, gulping breaths as his cock drags back out of his throat. He barely gets a moment to catch his breath before V thrusts forward again, Kerry’s cock sliding into his lax mouth with a groan.
“Think Johnny was made to suck your cock, Ker.” V purrs, brushing his lips against his throat.
“Fuck yeah,” Kerry gasps.
Maybe in another lifetime, that’d annoy Johnny; them talking about him like this while he was on his knees. Maybe he should take offense to it, considering they’re the ones who brought him back; went behind the Blackwall, built the body in a vat, literally making him, or at least paying the black market scientists to do so. Instead it makes something hot curl in his gut, helps relax his throat as V starts to thrust Kerry into him in earnest. A possessive arousal, because if Johnny was made to suck Kerry’s cock, he’s pretty sure Kerry and V were made just for him, too. He’d left indelible marks in them both; not just the ink on their skin, but an itch in their bones.
Kerry’s hot and heavy on his tongue. They’re not going to last long. Johnny can see the way V trembles with each thrust, each pull of Kerry’s hips back onto his cock, off of his cock and into Johnny’s mouth—
“I wanna see you come down his throat,” he pants in Kerry’s ear as he watches Johnny’s face. There is an unintended heat crawling up Johnny’s neck, flushing his pale skin red. He can practically hear his blood rushing in his ears; as much as V insisted he couldn’t read his mind, he knows exactly what to say to make his cock throb.
Kerry’s breathing is erratic, gaze arrested on Johnny.
“Fill him up.” V commands.
Johnny can feel Kerry’s cock twitch against his tongue before he floods his mouth; he swallows, sputters. He pulls back prematurely with a cough; a thick glob falls across the bridge of his nose. Kerry’s groan is just as explosive. He can hear V echoing his pleasure; Johnny knew from experience how tight Kerry got when he came, the way his ass would clench. His hands tighten on Kerry’s thighs, bouncing him on his cock once, twice— and on the third, he pushes his hips up, meets him on the thrust down, and buries his face into the crook of Kerry’s neck with a whine as he finishes in him.
Johnny wipes messily at his face, moving to his feet. Jerkily popping the button and tugging down the zipper of his jeans, the relief of pressure makes him groan as he pulls himself out.
V collapses back against the bed, sprawling; Kerry nearly follows him back until Johnny grabs his arm to keep him upright, still speared on V’s cock. All of Kerry’s chrome is made of new alloys, real strong but real light. Easy to manhandle. V barely has the wherewithal to groan when Johnny pulls Kerry off of him, passing him around like a cheap joytoy as he maneuvers him onto his lap.
Boneless, Kerry practically falls onto Johnny’s cock; as big as he is, he takes Johnny so well, letting out no more than a gasp when Johnny immediately bottoms out. He’s so fucking wet, easy as a cunt to slide into now that he’s been fucked by V and pumped full of his load. Johnny growls as much into the sweaty skin of Kerry’s neck, which smells good and tastes even better.
“Johnny—“ Kerry’s voice frays, that same chest-shuddering staccato he used to pant into a microphone next to him on stage. Eyes slitted, Kerry peers at him with those blue optics; and Johnny loves them, loves the way they glow, loves the way they crinkle in the corners with overstimulated bliss as Johnny drives into him with ferocity as he chases down his own orgasm.
“Jo-hnny—“
Johnny bites Kerry’s neck; sucks a bruise at the junction of his jaw, another love bite joining the marks him and V have left in a tableau across his skin that’d rival some of the best modern art he’s ever seen.
“Fuck,” he swears, groans low; Kerry makes a similar noise, in sympathy or overstimulation, Johnny can’t tell, too far gone as he is himself. He fits his hands, chrome and ‘ganic, in those same bruises V had left on Kerry, and thrusts one last time before fireworks explode behind his closed eyes.
When he finally, blearily regains his senses, Johnny finds himself on his back; still buried in Kerry, who lies heavily on top and only whimpers when his softening cock finally slips out of him.
Kerry slumps over with a groan, lying face down between him and V. V clumsily reaches out, palm skating down Kerry’s spine, petting his back. His hand momentarily stumbles into Johnny’s, rubbing a slow circle into Kerry’s skin.
The expansion of Kerry’s chest starts to even out; in less than a minute, Johnny can hear the telltale whistle of his nose.
“Out like a light.” Johnny mumbles fondly.
V laughs quietly. “Think we tired him out.” He pauses. “Should clean him up.”
“Don’t wanna get up.”
“Don’t either.”
Johnny lifts his head just far enough to look at V over the expanse of Kerry’s back; his eyes are closed, looking absolutely blissed.
“I’ll get it if you steer.” He mumbles, and cracks open an eye, seemingly feeling the weight of Johnny’s stare. Johnny can’t help but smirk catching the reference; when Johnny used to be an engram, he would seemingly get things for V, though it really had only been him temporarily piloting his body.
He reaches over Kerry’s sleeping form and pats V’s chest.
“Come on, kid. Let’s go. Up and at ‘em.”
“Ugh. Don’t wanna,” he says, protesting even as he rolls over and stands.
By the time V’s done stretching, Johnny’s made his way around the bed; and maybe it’s not the same, but he wraps his arms around V’s bare waist and guides him to the bathroom.