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[bodyoftheseus]

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Vince and Vincent somewhere quiet like an hour after sunset

[bodyoftheseus]

It felt like no matter how things went or how well Vincent was doing for himself it was only a matter of time before he felt himself stumble a few steps back. His mood always dipped and he pulled away from those he cared about and spent too much time in his head (which was, quite frankly, a dangerous place for him to be).

The question had surfaced in his thoughts and had sat like a boulder on his chest since it'd arrived. Surely Vince could feel it and had been waiting for Vincent to simply speak it and let it go. God knows why Vincent kept sitting on it and refused to speak it but he eventually sighed and let his hand rest on the beer bottle he'd been nursing, contemplating a drink.

"You got any regrets, Vince?" A pause, then he clarified and asked the real question on his mind. "Like, knowin' all you know, and livin' all you lived, would you go back and change anything?"

[disrupts]

Learning Vincent's ups and downs has been a labor of love for Vince. Knowing when the other man needs space versus when he just needs to be pulled into a hug hasn't been the smoothest of educations, but it doesn't matter. When all's said and done, Vince wouldn't choose to be anywhere else or with anybody else.

It's been days of something hanging over Vincent, and Vince has been biting his tongue, leaving plenty of space in conversations for the other man to fill when he's ready.

Which is apparently now.

Glancing over with a curious gaze, he takes his sweet time to think it over. Does he have regrets?

"Most people do, and I'm not sure the people who say they don't got regrets are on the level.

So, yeah, guess there's a few things I could label like that. But nothin' that would change things here and now.

Why'd ya ask?"

[bodyoftheseus]

Vincent glanced at Vince when he started to speak and it wasn't long before it was Vincent's turn to consider his answer. The tension in his body was already releasing. It didn't fully fade away but it really was a testament to how comfortable Vincent was around Vince. All the struggles were well worth it: Vincent trusted him with every fiber of his being.

"Yeah, think I gotta agree that anyone who don't got regrets isn't right," he admitted with a small, humorless chuckle. He paused long enough to sigh.

"Just curious, I guess. Been spending too much time in my head lately." He shrugged. "Been wondering what could've been."

He vocalized it in a way to try to brush it off and make light of the statement but it was pretty obvious that these what-ifs were what had been keeping Vincent up at night. For some reason, he'd started thinking about all of the misfortunes in his life and if only he could change something, save someone, stop that event. It had sunk its claws deep in him and had been slowly tearing him up.

[disrupts]

Shifting how he's sat, he purposely presses the length of his thigh against the side of Vincent's. A silent promise of support, of being present in this situation.

What Vince knows of Vincent's past is the small glimpses that the other man has allowed. And when they talk like this, sometimes he can see the energy and emotional fortitude it takes for the man to open up.

"Lotta wonderin'. Why'd ya think it's on your mind? Something happen?"

A random heist

[yondu]

One good heist and he'll have enough. He could afford a new Eclector, hire a whole new crew with out the history and baggage that burdened his old one. He could begin again, without being tied to bosses that he don't believe in and his life hanging by threads that don't matter much to other folks.

But he's only got the one guy what can help him. At least one he'd depend on not to skip out or turn on him, not that he'd admit that outright.

Everything about V's hardware's looked good compared to Yondu's hackjob mess. Someone did beautiful work putting that guy together, both the God that chiselled him out of stone and the tech designers that filed and polished it all. And here's Yondu, walking beside of him with his own nasty scalp scars and a face that looked like he tried to lean into a blender. Not that he'd trade it to look perfect- what was the use in that.

He's holding a tablet where V can see it, someone's public social media profile for that world emblazened on the page. A real pretty heiress bedecked in her finest, with plans to attend an event in the area. And she apparently brought some nice jewelry for the gala, not to mention a crystal-spangled dress.

"This is her," he comments idly. "She's that kinda rich where she might cry about it but the worst it'll do is make her put off her nose job."

nsfw~

[fixerbrew]

Cultivating a mysterious virtual persona is easier with the hindsight of experience and Hands is long in the tooth. It makes moving around Night City easier at times, harder others. This evening is a networking opportunity, one that doesn't particularly thrill him in terms of location but it hadn't been at his request. His client is, like the rest of this city, with a mind bent around pleasure of the carnal kind. And so he finds himself in the depths of a kink club. Exclusive, yes. But a kink club no less.

It's made conversation a challenge at times, practically impossible at others. He has no interest in fighting for more than three words strung together in a manner that makes sense. And so he's left the client enjoying herself with stilettos across the back of a young man, decides that a drink is the very least he'll look to get out of the next hour.

Luck - good or bad, it may not be immediately clear - has him running across a very familiar merc. Tied up and presented like a gift on a dark, sleek plinth. He takes a moment to appreciate the fine knot work from behind, even as the merc seems otherwise engaged orally. Whatever look he shares with the other punter seems to have him pulling free with a grunt and leaving.

"My my. Quite the presentation. Artful."

[bodyoftheseus]

Vhad a long history of sex work - starting too long ago and up until now, it was the gig that he just could never quite work out of his schedule. Sure, it supplemented his income less and less, but every once in a while an opportunity arose that he didn't turn down. This was one such occasion. A rather exclusive club - the type Vincent had heard of, but never had the polish to wind up in - in need of one (of many) display piece. He almost stuck out here compared to the others. He wasn't pretty, he was covered in tattoos, but it was obvious at a glance that he was rough and would have been dangerous if not for the ropes binding his limbs so that he seemed apparently harmless.

There was an allure in it, yes, he understood. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed choking on someone's cock and having no choice but to be at their mercy, or how rough some of the rich fucks here got with his cunt or ass. The people using him knew that in any other context seeing him likely meant death, and they all knew that in this context he was powerless against them. Well, physically at least. He didn't look or talk like a netrunner.

V couldn't see why his latest visitor seemed to leave in what he decided was a hurry but his heart skipped a beat when he heard the voice speak up and he placed it: Hands. It made sense that Hands would be at something like this rubbing shoulders, but the actual setting seemed so antithetical to the image of the fixer that V kept in his mind. There's an undeniable way his muscles pulled in his surprise. The tension that was snaking through V's body and coiling in his muscles was on full display for Hands to witness: a transparent honesty usually hidden under the casual clothes V wore. It took all of V's self-control not to try to crane his head to see Hands to confirm to himself who it was.

"Yeah? You like what you see?"

[fixerbrew]

"I like unique. One-offs. Limited editions."

Does he need to spell out that he's enjoying the view? No. It's V he's talking to, after all. The merc with more intelligence than the other 95% of his peers put together. Of course, his own peers have been enjoying this otherwise dangerous man in ways that make Hands want to roll his eyes.

The various different raised welts on the man's body is testament enough. He knows well enough that while powerful, rich magnates might have an eye for business, their creativity can sometimes be lacking.

"I hadn't expected to be greeted by such an exquisite sight."

He's still standing behind V, purposefully not rounding the little platform to walk into sight.

"My mistake for imagining you filling your time in other ways. How many different visitors have called you 'slut' or 'whore'? I expect, from this group, you've been left wanting."

He's close to the other man's ass, movement of the air likely easily felt at the exposed split between his legs. Not yet touching, but the threat of it remains.

[bodyoftheseus]

V wasn't particularly one that cared for flattery or honeyed words (especially coming from a corpo or ex-corpo) but the way Mr. Hands spoke of him now while he was so vulnerable and on display was a little different. It was antithetical to the image he worked hard to build and maintain, the one that Hands normally saw.

"Limited's right." This wasn't something that Vincent made much a habit of anymore, that was for sure. The money was right, though. "Got to admit that I didn't expect the pleasure of your company tonight."

Especially from the vantage point Hands had, it was easy to tell V was already clearly aroused, glistening in the artfully placed light meant to accentuate such things. Part of it was that V'd already met a few patrons and enjoyed their company, but far more of it was the man hovering behind him, close enough that V's skin prickled with awareness. When air did pass over his hungry slit there was an automatic contraction of his muscles within trying to grip on nothing, hungrily and greedily trying to pull something that didn't exist deep inside while there was a faint tremble along his spine as the muscles tightened then released in a wave that started at the base of his spine and ran up to and through his shoulders. Most would find the display shameful but V's dignity had never been tied to something so fragile.

"Pretty milquetoast, this group," he said in agreement. "Most here're pretty typical." Present company being the exception, of course. But Hands knew that. The statement was heavy with an expectation, too: if Hands was going to comment on V's disappointment then certainly he would do better. Be better.

The way Hands was carrying this conversation and staying out of sight so that V couldn't actually see what was going on was so very typical for the fixer, and V was finding that it was working. He'd perhaps had some idle fantasies regarding Hands, but they were just that: idle. He'd never had intention on even attempting to see them through. That they were both here was something neither of them could have expected, and the way that Hands was conversing with him as if they were in his office talking about a job while V was on full display just made V more aroused. The restraint that Hands must have, and how would that translate into sex? V was so badly starting to want to know.

[fixerbrew]

[ A week after their last rendezvous... ]

V, I have something I believe will tickle your fancy. Come to my office and I'll brief you properly.

[bodyoftheseus]

Sure. Be there soon.

V would have asked for more details on this job but he'd worked with Hands enough to know that if he was being invited to his office it was something that required discretion and shouldn't be broadcast over the holo or in a text. The man also paid well enough to afford a little bit of a trust with that regard as well. It wasn't long before the white and gold Caliburn pulled into the drive and parked and V entered the club and crossed the floor to the elevators, gently disengaging from any advances that may come his way on the floor.

He didn't even think of their last meeting until he was safely enclosed in the elevator. It was a chance meeting that had wormed its way deep into his thoughts and there was no way for V to stop himself from recalling it as he stepped out of the elevator and found himself outside of the office. Already he could feel a coil of desire growing between his legs and settling there as he recalled the end and how if only Hands hadn't been so clothed he could have found perfect relief.

The thoughts were shoved out of his mind and V entered the office. It was a somewhat futile exercise as the thoughts only came crashing back once he saw Hands, but he had enough control of his expression to keep that steely professionalism that Hands had come to expect of him.

[fixerbrew]

At no point has Hands considered V will let their playtime tryst affect him because he knows how much the man values professionalism. Had he not, Hands likely wouldn't like him as much as he does. Professional and talented. A combination guaranteed to draw his attention and keep it.

Just as he supposes V will expect similar, and precisely how Hands regards him as the tall merc walks through the door. There's not a shred of a lewd look or sexual comment to be found, just the Dogtown and Pacifica fixer glancing up from a book and fixing V with a welcoming expression.

"Ah, V. I call and ye shall appear. Splendid."

The book is carefully snapped closed, rested upon his leg crossed at the knee and he smiles.

"What do you know about Petrochem?"

[bodyoftheseus]

"Caught me at a good time." As much as he may act as if it were only because he had spare time he took it, Hands likely would have gotten the impression that V prioritized his jobs and gave him a certain level of special treatment at some point in their relationship. Unless V was actively in a job, he always responded promptly and would move his work around to accommodate Hands' requests.

He moved into the office and took a seat as Hands asked what he knew about Petrochem. He took a moment to get as comfortable as he'd allow himself in the fixer's office, making himself recall what he did know about Petrochem to distract from remembering the feeling of the other man's fingers inside of him.

"Corp based out'f Texas. Work with Biotechnica to make CHOOH2, which they're most known for. They also do a lot'f chemical engineering and keep their hands in a lot'f other sectors they don't like to talk about. Work real hard to keep friendly with industrial corps like Arasaka so they can be their sole fuel provider. Harvest having record lows last year caused a lot'f issues for 'em. I know there's plans to buy Soviet land to try to expand their farming operations, but I haven't followed that real close."

It was hard to know if that was the extent of his knowledge or if he was simply abbreviating for the sake of brevity. He mainly wanted to show he was more or less up to date with what was going on and aware of the fact that they did a lot more than what their public marketing curated their image to be.

more nsfw~~ probably a couple weeks after the last thread cw: just drugs for now

[fixerbrew]

Hands drops a location to V without much in the way of explanation. The pin leads to a nice hotel near Charter Hill, a room number attached to the original message and a time. 9pm.

Assuming V shows up, two delicate glass flutes are waiting in a lavishly appointed room, a bottle of very expensive bubbles recently popped but yet to be poured. A few packets of cigarettes are stacked on the table next to a selection of the most popular luxury drugs around.

The man himself sits in a sleek armchair, optics flicking up from his holo when V eventually steps through the door, followed by an appreciative smile.

"Hello, V. I'm glad you could make it."

[bodyoftheseus]

Everything about this was highly unusual. Normally Hands has some formal little note that he had a job, or they needed to meet, but all that Hands had sent was a time, and a location. When Hands had fingered him, he thought was a one time thing. When Hands had him get on his knees like the good boy he was, V had thought that was surely the end of it. Equal exchange, after all.

The implication of this, though. The time, the location - the time wasn't unusual for a business meeting, but the location didn't make sense. This was private even for Hands, a location away from work and biz, somewhere quiet without a booming bass blasting through the floor. Was this a date? It didn't matter. He was going to show regardless. Before he entered the room, however, he - just for a moment - hesitated outside the door. There was just a moment where he had to wonder if this was a trap of some sort. He shook off the feeling and stepped into the room.

"Hands, hey." The door latched behind him and he stepped into the room, taking a cursory glance around much like the first time he was in Hands' office. He sank down into the armchair that matched Hands', glancing over the array of goodies that Hands had on the table. His gaze did linger for a moment on the drugs, interested, before returning back to Hands. "What can I do for you?"

[fixerbrew]

Cerulean blue optics follow the young man's movements from door to chair and his then sweeping gaze over everything available, of a kind. These are simply small gifts Hands thinks the merc will enjoy, though not the main attraction for the evening.

"Do I need an excuse to spoil my favorite business associate?"

He smiles and it's the smile of a man who is deeply certain what he wants is within his grasp. There isn't much that stays outside of his wants for very long, not when he puts his mind to it.

"I thought we could have a... private little party. Just the two of us. No interruptions, no other appointments."

[violenti]

John Seed's bunker must surely account for one of the seven levels of Hell. John Seed is dead, Rook knows he is, he put the bullet between his eyes himself, but he half expects to see the sadist down here anyway. It's weird and twisted with its Cold War-era concrete and its haphazardly placed altars to Joseph Seed set atop ammunition crates and its scrawled messages that seems more threatening than comforting. He'd found Joey, tortured and traumatized and scared half out of her wits (— she fought like hell though, even so, if he'd been half a second later he'd be bleeding out on the floor right now), but now the plan was to get out as many of the cult's prisoners as they could manage before blowing this place sky-fucking-high.

He's halfway through already. The lifeless grey walls pulse rhythmically with red warning lights, the sirens wailing over the robotic female voice advising evacuation. A series of explosions of Bliss and fuel on the lower floors has given way to a roaring flame. Joey should already be out with the prisoners from down there, Rook estimates, he just has to finish releasing the gates on the upper levels and make it out himself. Another explosion from below almost knocks him to the ground. He keeps moving, leaving Peggies strewn in his wake, dead from a slit throat or a blade between the ribs or, once the jig was up, a bullet from whatever gun he could get his hands on that still had ammo.

He's clawing his way to the top floor, tooth and nail and knife and gun, the prisoner cells all opened and half the cultists dead, when he sees a collection of cages. One is covered in black tarp, and two are bound with nylon strap and metal chain, but seem empty - or at least, empty of life. But one isn't. Rook curses under his breath. It's going to be a dogfight to get out of here, he knows it, the top will be swarming with peggies... It's a hell of a risk, but he can't leave someone down here where they're guaranteed to die, either.

The man that skids to his knees in front of Vincent's cage is young, barely old enough to be called a man, with deep tanned skin and a braid swung over one shoulder that still nearly falls to his waist. His forest green uniform shirt marks him as a Hope County deputy. (Dutch had said to burn his outfit, but Rook couldn't bring himself to. — It wasn't like it mattered. He stood out whether he wore the uniform or not.) "I'm gonna get you out of here," he promises, because he's fucking terrified but this other man must be more terrified still. The lock gives way with a well-placed swing of a piece of pipe, and the door springs open. The deputy holds out his hand.

"C'mon, we gotta run." Time is running out.

[bodyoftheseus]

What a mess he'd gotten himself into this time. He'd left southern California to be free of what may as well be a cult in its own right to stumble into this new, special brand of fucked up crazy. He'd minded his own business, he'd kept his head down, he was just passing through, but some whacked-out wannabe Christians had gotten the jump on him (shame on him, really) and started talking about sin, atonement, the like. He'd always rolled his eyes at his Catholic counterparts, always ribbed them before he'd decided to burn every bridge he knew, but this was different. This wasn't what a Sunday morning congregation here to find a path through life, no, this was something else.

He did give them hell, though. He'd certainly done a number on the handful that had stumbled upon him as sheltered somewhere quiet and small. A single man couldn't take down a militia, though, and eventually he felt a crack at the side of his head and he was out before he'd even felt the pain blossom where the impact was.

Vincent woke up in this cage, head pounding. Was he afraid? Yes, definitely. He saw no way out of this and try as he might he couldn't squeeze through the bars, even if he were to dislocate or break something. He eventually sat and waited, filled with shaking rage. The next time someone opened this cage he would rip their eyes out of their skull and feed it to them, then run. Maybe he'd be gunned down, but he'd take that to whatever the fuck that Johnny Appleseed motherfucker was selling.

So when shit started to hit the fan, Vincent could feel all of that fear come to a head, along with all of his rage-induced adrenaline, but as the first explosion gave way to more, and the sound of gunfire and yelling, that sense of rage turned into pure, feral survival. By the time the young cop appears before this cage and breaks the lock Vincent is ready.

Rather than believing the words the unfortunate man said and taking his hand, Vincent sprung from the cage and took a wild swing at Rook. He was aiming for the head - the thought was to break his nose, or clock him hard enough he saw stars, buy some time to run - but the punch was sloppy and desperate, from the arm of a man who learned to fight to survive rather than was actually trained. He was a scared dog, really, biting at the first hand offered regardless of friend or foe, and the wild look in his eyes told as much of a story.

[violenti]

The deputy startles, ducks— but not fast enough. The man's fist connects with a cheekbone, hard enough that his jaw seems to rattle. He reaches, instinct, to grab the other's wrist, but sorts himself out enough to not. Instead, he holds up both hands in a 'peace' or 'surrender' gesture. That's the only consolation he can offer right now, or they'll both be dead.

"Fuck, ow. Listen, dude, you can hit me all you want once we're clear but we gotta get the fuck outta here or we're dead, you understand me?"

He points to a cultist sprawled on the ground, blood matted in his hair. "Grab his gun if you know how to use it. Follow me."

hot or not network sample for magisteria (ducky prompt)

[bodyoftheseus]

[ It all started when Kerry took his phone, took a candid picture of V while he was working on the programming of his car, and posted it on V's profile asking to be rated hot or not on a scale of 1 (frigid) to 10 (surface of the sun).

So.... What do you rate him? ]

[noonecandestroythemetal]

[Well, Sam's not immune to various types of eye candy. It's rather unlikely she'd ever make a pass out in a social situation, but...this isn't that, so it's 'safe'.

For now, at least. The dude is no elf, but...]

A good, solid 8.5. You'd have to be an elf or an incubus to get higher on my scale, but I'm not being stingy, here! :)

[bodyoftheseus]

Well, I guess I can't complain too much with that!

If I knew that getting a little procedure to make my ears pointed would net me more points maybe I would have done that when I was younger...

[ text ]

[unspooling]

Did I get punched in the face last night?

[bodyoftheseus]

Maybe I punched you a little too hard, if you don't remember what happened.

How did you get this number??

Probably about 45 seconds pass by, and then:

Oh, wait, I think I gave it to you actually. Before I punched you.

[unspooling]

[ There's a long pause his side too as he tries to remember and comes up with absolutely nothing. Awkward. ]

Since you punched me I assume I wronged you. Which makes me messaging you on this number a bit wrong, doesn't it?

I can lose it if you want me to.

(And sorry about whatever I did? I'm glad you're still able to message me back... people never usually message me back)