NETDIR://URBANDICTIONARY.WEB, a kerry eurodyne / V ficlet (1000~ words, rated E, humor & smut)
V swipes a hand across the fogged bathroom mirror. His chrome palms squeak against the glass, squeegeeing off a section that he can see his reflection in— freshly showered, a little ruddy from the residual heat and harsh scrubbing where his brown skin peeks through his blackout geometric tattoos. Even the worst gigs could be showered away with the combination of ten-in-one soap, shampoo and motor oil.
And he wants to look good. He’s got a date— a date, honest-to-God, not burritos at Caliente’s or a marathon of reality TV at the Villa, but a dinner at some expensive ‘ganic restaurant that Kerry invited him to. V combs his fingers back through his damp hair from root to tip, that bright green mullet, peers at himself in the mirror. He turns his head, side to side, rubs his fingers across the stubble on his jaw. Maybe he should shave. He shifts, lifts up an arm, flexes a little. Maybe he should jerk off.
V turns in the mirror. He looks good, maybe even good enough for Kerry Eurodyne. And he’s not posing, because that’s stupid, even in the solitary safety of his Megabuilding bathroom, but he may be flexing a little, watching the way the muscles in his arms jump, the way the gunmetal tendons attached to his gorilla fists bulge a little and the plates of his chrome arms threaten to separate underneath.
“Hey Kerry. Hey, Ker,” his voice pitches a little, tries on a few different purrs, lets himself taste the way Kerry’s name feels in his mouth. “Kerry, baby, how’s it going?”
He’s going to crush this date. Fuckin’ kill it. He slicks his hair back a different way, tilts his hips and grins in the bright bathroom lighting. “Y’look good tonight, Ker.” Number one Solo, number one date. There’s no way he can lose. He’s got this. He leans forward, raking his eyes over himself. Mutters, “call me NetWatch the way I’m gonna go through your Blackwall—”
“Call me NetWatch,” Johnny repeats, stressing each word, “the way I’m gonna go through your Blackwall?”
“God damnit, Johnny!”
V nearly jumps out of his skin, whipping his head around to glare at the engram. Looking thoroughly unimpressed, he slouches a foot away on top of the closed toilet, his aviators having slid down his nose just enough to really let V see how deeply, truly unenthused he is.
“I’m in the bathroom. Is nowhere fucking sacred?” V complains, turning back around to give Johnny the literal cold shoulder. “I didn’t ask for comments.”
Johnny ignores him. In the mirror’s reflection, he shifts where he sits, crossing his arms over his chest. “You think that’ll work? That’s a good line to you? A real panty wetter?”
“Okay, peanut gallery, you got anything better?”
“I mean, yeah, I can think of plenty of better lines then referring to— what, what the fuck is the Blackwall supposed to be in this hackneyed metaphor? Kerry’s asshole?” V rolls his eyes, though admittedly, he hadn’t exactly thought it through that far. Snidely, Johnny adds, “you’re not even a ‘runner.”
V glares at him through the reflection of the mirror. “I’ll workshop it, alright?”
Johnny groans, “Jesus Christ.”
——
The slap of skin-on-skin bounces off the walls of Kerry Eurodyne’s bathroom in tandem with his moans. V’s got one hand under Kerry’s thigh, lifting his leg up high enough that it’s nearly atop the counter as he fucks into him hard and fast. Kerry takes him so fucking well, looks gorgeous in front of the mirror, V’s white chrome hands indenting the skin where he grips him.
Kerry groans, catches V’s hungry gaze in the mirror’s reflection and bites his lip. He can feel him purposefully clench around his cock; it’s downright pornographic. V can’t help but moan.
“God damn, Ker,” he pants, presses his mouth against the back of his neck as he mindlessly thrusts. He licks a stripe up his neck, bites at skin salty with sweat. He moans, “feel so good—“
Kerry braces himself against the marble, his other hand moving to stroke his own cock. “C���mon, V,” his single-syllable name turns into multiple with each thrust jolting him; Kerry arches his back, groans, “fuck me, fuck.“
“Fuck, you feel so good—“ V groans, feels his orgasm build in his belly, nearly delirious with it, the burn in his abs and the way his balls tighten, “fuck, Kerry, say my name—“
“V, V—“
“Fuck, call me Netwatch the way I’m goin’ go through your asshole—”
Kerry stops. V’s hips stutter to a halt.
“What?”
“What?” Responds V.
“No, seriously,” Kerry’s flushed face, now pinched with utter confusion, stares at V through the mirror’s reflection; when V avoids his gaze, he tries to crane his neck back to catch his stare face-to-face, which is more successful than it should be. Rarely, V has hated Kerry’s steadfast yoga habit, but today is one of those days. “What the hell did you just say?”
He doesn’t even sound mad, just utterly perplexed.
“I, uh…” The words in V’s mouth have melted into molasses, sticky and unpleasant. “I… say? What did I say? I didn’t?”
He did. He fucking did. He knows what he said, and yet all he can do, in lieu of speaking, is gesture fumblingly with his hands, which he no longer knows what to do with. His dick’s still in Kerry. He’s vaguely bewildered with himself and his own place in the universe, and what sort of higher entity he must have angered to have fucked up so spectacularly.
Somewhere far away, and simultaneously much too close, V can hear Johnny cackle.
“You’re gonna netwatch my asshole?” Kerry asks with a kind of mild concern that makes V want to curl up and die, even if his eyes are kind. “That somethin’ the kids are saying nowadays?”
Forehead thunking against the back of Kerry’s neck to hide his face, V groans, “let the relic fucking take me now.”
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