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Any shyness V had about fucking or touching himself had disappeared after that first breakthrough with Johnny and a few hookups. Now that getting off is on the table, it's, well, on the table, the couch, the bed, the roof, his bike—anything and anywhere goes. If Johnny thought V was frustratingly horny when he was holding it in, he's downright demonic when he lets it all hang loose.
A quirk of an overclocked hormone implant, V tells him, and Johnny can't help but notice that he never tries to have it fixed. Not that he's complaining. Johnny hasn't had this much action since the peak of his career, but he also hasn't craved it that much since then. It would probably be exhausting if he still had a body but as an engram, it's more baffling than anything else.
V's revolving door of fuckbuddies moves fast enough that Johnny can't keep up. He has an arcanely curated system of emoticons to organize hookups in his phone contacts and browses them like he's trying to figure out what kind of takeout he's in the mood for. Sometimes money changes hands, but rarely.
Johnny might think he's a joytoy, but he fights even more than he fucks, dragging Johnny along as his unwilling passenger on every shootout and espionage mission that dubiously pays his bills.
Much to Johnny's annoyance, V almost exclusively fucks men. Not that there's anything wrong with that, he would say, if V wouldn't mock him mercilessly for being so pedestrian. V likes them tall, with dark hair and broad shoulders. Johnny doesn't miss the cosmic mockery of it all when V bangs dudes that look an awful lot like him, and neither does V; if anything, he seems to revel in Johnny's discomfort, makes lascivious eye contact if he happens to manifest at that inopportune moment. Sometimes, Johnny stays and watches, even if the experience of being fucked by someone who looks vaguely like himself gets a little uncanny.
Today, mercifully, V feels like staying in for the night, and none of his phone contacts or their photos entice him. He's nursing a bruised ego and some nasty road rash from earlier that day, during a job, where a fall from his motorbike had skinned part of his leg, hand, and almost ruined his pretty face. Despite all that, V had still had the energy to flirt relentlessly with Vik while being patched up.
But Vik hadn't taken the bait, so now he's home alone, bored and restless.
Naturally, V turns to his modest collection of sex toys. The crown jewel is a set of neural link-capable devices that simulate and transmit sensory data wirelessly. They're advertised as long distance couples' toys, but V has them synced to his own body and mostly uses the dildo as a strap-on for partners; alone, he uses the tech for sucking his own dick or fucking himself—and he calls Johnny the narcissist.
V has the toy propped up on a pillow, a couple fingers wrapped around the base to keep it steady as he bobs his mouth up and down the shaft. He looks up through his eyelashes, locks eyes with Johnny where he's manifested to watch V suck his cock. V winks, the cheeky bastard, so Johnny bumps his hips to jostle deep enough into V's throat that he gags.
Tears spill over the waterline of his eyes but he doesn't stop, nosing down into the crease of his pillow—Johnny's hip—so that they both feel the tight clutch of his throat as he swallows around the head of their cock. When he draws back up, it's with a hard suction that has V humping air while Johnny fails to hold back a ragged moan; at the peak, V drools open-mouthed around the end of the toy, his tongue teasing the sculpted silicone frenulum. His imagination is strong enough to have them both swallowing down the phantom taste of precum.
"Fuuuck, V," Johnny rasps out, his head hitting the wall with a thump. His hand rests on V's scalp, a ghostly pressure, only able to follow as his wet lips plunge back down and up again.
V gags himself on the toy just to feel the spasm of his own throat. He's fucking his own mouth at this pace, and even though Johnny feels the echoes of a dick being shoved down his throat, it's hot—weird and alien, but hot—even as his lips taste like the salt of tears and snot that he can't wipe away from V's face.
Moaning a tickling vibrato, V nestles his nose down into the hard line of Johnny's abdomen, chin tucking against his balls. He swallows hard, keeps working him over with the seal of his lips and throat until Johnny loses it, cumming hard fully sheathed in his mouth.
They both reflexively swallow cum that isn't there as V lifts back up to catch his breath. He looks a mess: hair disheveled, eyes bleary, his face shiny with tears, saliva, and mucus. Despite that, he looks as smug as ever as he stares Johnny down and leans back to lift the hem of his top—a decrepit band tee with the sleeves cut off—to smear ineffectively at his face. It leaves a wet trail of fluids dripping from his nose and chin down in a streak to the bottom of his shirt.
V leaves the shirt on but quickly wiggles out of his boxers, which draw away from his body with a dewlike strand of fresh cum. He's easily soaked through his underwear already but still pulses hot and needy. The boxers end up discarded on the floor as he rearranges himself on the bed and grabs the toy again.
Johnny hisses. "You ever just let yourself enjoy a moment?" He dematerializes, hardly able to believe he's the voice of moderation and restraint here.
"Can't keep up, old man?" V's on his back, hips propped up with the pillow he'd been slobbering all over and the gaudy toy in his hand. He teases the shaft along the slicked down lawn of his pubic hair, rubs his clit against the ridge of a vein. The moan from his open mouth is ragged and carefree.
"We're the same fucking age, gonk," Johnny gripes as he reappears between V's legs, slips his cock ever closer to his warm, inviting hole.
V grins. It's not clear which one of them pushes in. Maybe it's both of them, in a rare unspoken agreement. Either way, V's grinding down on Johnny's dick until he's full to the brim, until their pelvises meet in a barely-there electric mimicry of flesh touching flesh. V's hole is still fluttering and soft from his orgasm but clenches hard as Johnny pulls out like it's trying to suck him back in; he lets it, plunging back in with a wet squelch.
If there's one upside to being a dead man's ghost in some future punk's mind, it's sharing his refractory period. Johnny doesn't revel in the nervy oversensitivity in the immediate post-orgasm like V does, but it's fading into the normal pleasure-seeking rush of sticking his dick in something warm and wet. And V is practically drenched, from his orgasm to the steady drool of his pussy because of how full he is, because Johnny is fucking him, because he can feel what Johnny feels and knows Johnny is feeling everything he does too. It's still weird, but Johnny is starting to wonder—if the impossible happened, and he got his own body—if he would ever adjust to normal sex again. The passing thought makes V laugh.
"Fuck normal sex," V snarls gleefully. "Oh, fuck, Johnny, don't stop."
Johnny doesn't stop. They can both feel another orgasm fast approaching. A fine sheen of sweat breaks out on V's quivering thighs, and every thrust of the toy punches out a precious, whining little huff of air. V's head falls back.
When Johnny opens his eyes, he sees the dimly lit canopy sheltering V's mattress. Every needy, panting breath feels jostled out of him, rhythmically forced out of his lungs.
He looks down to see V between his spread thighs. It's a lagging moment before he realizes something's off, looking down the familiar landscape of his own body, his own scars and tattoos and the rucked up hem of his black tank top, down the muscled plane of his stomach and the trail of pubic hair that fans out between his legs. That's where the familiarity stops, where instead of his dick and balls he sees the candy pink of V's dildo disappearing into his cunt.
Johnny cums on the spot which means V gets dragged along too, stuttering his hips deep where Johnny is spasming around him. At this point they've had a number of orgasms together but Johnny doesn't think he's ever felt it this viscerally. Even the texture of the sheets on his skin, the strain of his thighs, the weak putter of the air system are all bizarre in their clarity at that moment. Strangest of all is the very real stretch of his vagina around V's dick. An oversensitive shudder rolls through him.
"Of course you're such a fucking narcissist that you'd be turned on by imagining yourself with a pussy," V sneers, meanly flicking his—Johnny's?—clit. Johnny's the one who reacts, with a hiss and an involuntary flex of his abdominal muscles. Then V rubs his clit—Johnny's clit—with the heel of his hand as he grinds his hips deep enough that Johnny can feel the synthetic leather straps of his harness against his thighs.
Johnny's nerves are on fire, sensitive and confused and overwhelmed with sensation. His breaths come out as hoarse pants. He can feel himself drooling stupidly, feels tears on the verge of spilling. V looks flushed but otherwise unaffected; Johnny wants to be angry with him about it. Instead, he moans like a bitch in heat at the drag of V's dick against his walls as he's left nearly empty and abruptly filled up again.
"That's it, Princess," V coos. "Just take my cock, that's a good boy." He's putting his back into fucking Johnny now, bullying past his oversensitivity with every thrust. Johnny's still reeling but everything feels too good and too real for him to care, and the hedonistic animal in him is happy to go along for the ride.
"'Princess'?" Johnny sneers as he finally gathers his wits. The shock is wearing off, and his need to assert some kind of control is coming back. "Gonna make me call you 'daddy' next?"
"Maybe if you beg," V scoffs and flicks Johnny's clit again. They both moan as he clenches and rocks back against V's hips.
As he looms, V's hand closes firmly around Johnny's throat. He doesn't squeeze, not at first, just rests his hand there where his fingertips flirt at compressing his arteries. Every time he rocks forward he does press down, just a little, giving Johnny a taste of the headrush he's promising.
Johnny's pulse hammers rabbitlike under the pads of V's fingers. He can feel every shallow, needy breath through his palm, the way it hitches when V fucks him deep enough to hurt. Like this, he's surprisingly pliant and vulnerable, even as he regains his bearings and defiance returns to his gaze. V wants to break him.
He starts to squeeze. Johnny's eyelashes flutter, as deliciously fragile as the column of his throat. V can feel the bob of his Adam's apple when Johnny reflexively swallows; he crushes it down with a squeeze of his hand to draw out a ragged gasp. The tears that have been welling in Johnny's eyes finally fall in jagged streaks down his cheeks, and as they complete their journey, tipping over the cliff of his stubbled jaw, they wet the hard edges of V's hand and leave shining fingerprints when he adjusts his grip. Johnny looks caught between wanting to say something smart and begging for more. The way he looks at V is simultaneously rapturous and contemptuous. The jut of his jaw is still too defiant, too lucid, so V makes use of his augmented strength to crush his neck.
The effect is immediate, heralded by a horrible grinding noise in Johnny's throat as he tries to sneak in a breath. His body locks up, all fearful instinct, but he's gushing around V's strap and practically chanting a mantra of 'yesyesyesyesyes' across their minds. V doesn't let go. Johnny starts to see spots, they both do, but Johnny's eyes roll up in bliss as he feels V use him in the last straggling moments before they both potentially pass out. When V lets go it's like his hand is scalded, letting in a too-quick rush of air that floods them with enough adrenaline and endorphins to make Johnny squirt all over himself, on V's dick, on the already dirty bedspread. Johnny thinks it's the longest orgasm he's ever had, and it wracks his entire body in terrible shivers and jolts as he soaks the pillow under his hips. Every time his cunt squeezes down on V's dick he can feel how deep it is and how blissfully it fills him.
They lie on the bed like that for a minute, panting in the humid, sex-drenched air until two breaths shift tempo into one, until V is the one staring at the ceiling alone on the bed.
V turns off the dildo before pulling it out, wincing a little at the wet slurp of it, then shuffles tiredly to his feet and stretches tall. On the short walk to the bathroom, he tosses the toy into the sink. He strips off his filthy shirt before he can try to make the mistake of wiping his face with it again; the fabric is sticky, physically heavy with the saturation of a menagerie of bodily fluids. It lands on the tile floor with an unpleasant, wet plop. Naked, he sits on the toilet to piss. There's a pack of cigarettes in the medicine cabinet, just within reach, so he lights one and locks eyes with Johnny through the rising smoke.
Naturally, the bastard looks fresh and clean in his usual outfit, free from the lasting consequences of reality. He leans against the wall opposite V affecting the feigned disinterest of a housecat. V knows he's only there to enjoy the cigarette or make a bitchy comment—maybe both. Neither of them speak until V finishes washing his hands, rinses his face, and takes a look at himself in the mirror.
In his reflection, he can match his fingerprints to the bruises on his neck. He slots his hand there easily and cracks an amused smirk when he blinks and Johnny's behind him, cradling his neck with his chrome hand.
Johnny looks hungry, with an edge to his jaw that's almost a grimace.
"Tryna rile me up again?" He practically snarls, but there's no venom left in him. His body is the ghost of warmth up against V's naked back.
"Not my fault you're such a pathetic slut for it." Between the deepthroating and the choking, V's voice sounds like a wreck. He clears his throat to little effect. The cigarette isn't helping, but he doesn't put it out.
"Not tonight honey, I'm tired," Johnny sneers. The illusion of him wavers before flickering away, leaving V alone, grinning at his reflection.