#cybersmut

He’d make crude remarks about your soaked pussy while he slams into you from behind, whether it be in his dressing rooms or his Pacifica apartment bedroom for a late night fuck he called you up for.

“Listen to ‘er, fuckin’ cryin’ for me.”

A cigarette dangling from his lips as he wraps your hair in his fist, using it as reins. His other hand squeezes your ass, ash falling from his cigarette onto the dip in your arched back. The headboard/couch slams into the wall with each thrust while vulgar noises emit from your wide-open mouth.

He’d purposely randomly stop thrusting as a test, and to what he already knew would happen since he does it often to fuck around with you, you pick up where he left off and throw your ass back onto his hips.

He’d cockily chuckle and grab your ass to get leverage before continuing with his hips, but at a relentless pace this time, bringing you both closer and closer to your orgasms.

“Fu… fuck… you, Johnny.” You breathlessly say through the slams of his hips against your ass with a continuous clap clap clap.

He’d only tighten his grip on your hair and shove your upper body into the bed/couch, finishing you off as drool rolls out from your mouth, soaking through the fabric beneath you.

He almost always fucks you in doggy. A rare moment he'd fuck you missionary, hands planted beside your head of course for no attachment. Easy like that.

He'd fuck you at a steady pace, watching your face as it contorts in undeniable pleasure, eyes closed and mouth parted.

“Pussy’s gettin’ loose,” he'd murmur and your eyes shoot open at that, cock-drunk, as you look up at him with a snarl. “Been fuckin’ someone else? Hm? Gettin’ bigger dick?”

“What's it to you if I am? Thought we’re only fucking.” You’d get in his face and his silver hand would come up and grip your jaw to push you back into the bed.

He'd see the marks on your body. Not the ones from him, but the other ones. The intricate ones. On your neck, above your belly button. Not like the ones he leaves: big blooming bruises on your ass, your hips, above your pussy, then the scratch marks on your back, that's where he leaves his marks.

Afterward, when you’re wasted on his cock, body limp as he aimlessly plays in his cum on your skin with his tip, smearing it in swirls as if he’s marking you or autographing you, he wouldn’t waste another second before sitting back and lighting up another cigarette after stubbing his other one out.

You’d lie limp beside him, both your breaths slowly easing into stable ones, until you finally groggily push yourself up and begin collecting your discarded clothes from the floor.

“Where you goin’?” He asks, carelessly manspreading, tucking his cock back into its constraints.

“Got somewhere t’be.” You monotonously say, grabbing a tissue and cleaning him from your skin before slipping your panties on and dressing in your clothes with your back turned to him.

“Yeah,” he shortly chuckles, following up with a deep inhale of his cig and shamelessly watching you dress, eyes cascading over your body. “You always say that shit, but we both know that ain’t true.”

“You don’t know shit, fuckface,” you whip around to him, finally done dressing. “I got a life, y’know. Not always about you and your little rebellion act or—or your fuckin’ dick, like you think it is.”

“Mm… but we both know you live on this cock. Too good not to.”

That did it.

You snatch a couple of the many empty whiskey and tequila bottles from the table and chuck them at him, one by one as they hit his shoulders and stomach with dull thuds. He mindlessly deflects one of them with his silver arm making it shatter and crumble to the floor.

“Aw, s’real cute y’know, thinkin’ you scare me or actin’ like you’re real mature or something. Wrong, but cute. Y’know m’right.”

Your chest heaves as you snatch up your purse and leave his room with heavy treads.

“Fuckin’ cunt,” he mutters, though you cut him off by opening the door and slamming it hard enough to make the sound reverberate through the space, causing Johnny to pipe up louder, knowing you wouldn't be far down the hallway. “That’s all you are! A cunt to fuck when I damn well please!”

Roles reversed, since he's a self-hating, egotistical, and self-centered bastard all wrapped up into one, you'd use his appearance, attitude, and his past to your advantage.

You'd ride him into dawn, only making what he tells you, true, that you live on his cock, utterly addicted to the depths it reaches in your used and greedy cunt. You'd ride him into multiple orgasms each until he looks pussy-drunk, eyes closed, head lazily tipped back onto the pillows/headboard/or back of the couch, hands loosely resting on your hips, allowing you to do whatever you want.

Once you’re spent, you’d lean against him, his cock still inside as you come down from one of your many orgasms, breath steadying as you gather your bearings.

When you’d finally come to, you’d rise from his somewhat-limp dick before lifting your hands to his neck and mindlessly rubbing his sticky skin with your thumb, taking in his appearance while he’s in this state. Hair roughed up, his body limp, his skin sticky. Vulnerable.

“Look atchu,” you murmur as you shake your head. “Pathetic.”

He’d let out a humorless, short chuckle, finally raising his head and meeting your eyes with hazy ones, then speaking in a quiet, rough tone, “Don’t flatter yourself. Ain’t because of you. You’re convenient, not special.”

You’d smirk, leaning close to his ear, his pitch-black hair brushing your skin as your lips move in a condescending whisper, grazing his ear, “Tryna act like you’re a man, but can’t even grow chest hair. Just face it, Johnny boy. You're still that lost little soldier boy, tryna find his way.”

It’s quiet for a beat. You remain next to his ear, smug, thinking of what you just said, and expecting something harsh in return. Nothing. Not even a tightening grip on your hips. Yet.

You move your head and softly plant your lips against the space next to his ear, as if you're sealing your words.

His silver hand shoots up so quickly that you can't process it before he grabs your roots and yanks your head back, on the cusp of damaging your tendons from the immediate force. Though you quickly tighten your grip around his neck in return, breathing out in gasps.

You expected to be met with biting words from him, but instead, he had none. He just lifted his other hand to your jaw, squeezing your cheeks together, gritting his teeth as he looked at your face with pure hatred.

Then, he'd shove you to the side, off his lap, like you were discarded garbage. As you were to him, as many people were to him.

You'd lie helplessly, neck hurting with a pinching-pulling pain as you breathe heavily, tears forming.

“No… no. I’ll tell Mama and Daddy.” You grabbed the edge of the crisp comforter and backed up to the corner of your bed.

“Girl, why this, now? Did it last time, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, and it was a mistake, Mr. Wildes.”

“A mistake? You sure about that? I made you feel pretty good, didn’t I?” He finally reached your bed and leaned down on one knee, reaching out to grab the edge of your comforter out of your grip.

You quickly shook your head. “No… no. I swear to God I’ll tell them. I’ll push the button. I’ll do it.”

“No, you won’t, girl.” With a lunge forward, he grabbed your legs and pulled you to him, making you yelp. His hand landed on your mouth as he leaned down to your ear. “They won’t believe you anyway, you slut. I’m their best man around here.”

And he was right. They didn’t.

You breathed heavily as you tried to pry his hand away and kick him, but he quickly shut you down by painfully gripping your leg and pinning it back to the bed. You whimpered in pain behind his hand until he had had enough and jerked his hand away from your mouth before landing it on your face with a loud crack.

“Don’t you fight this. You know you want it. Just tryna start shit that ain’t there.” His hand came down around your neck and gripped it just enough that he could pin you without leaving bruises, and his other hand went behind to rip your underwear from your body underneath your nightgown. “Always prancing around here with your skimpy tops, just wanting attention. Like a whore.”

“Hellooo? Helloooooo?” Gage sings into your ear. “Wakey, wakey. Jesus… how much’a that shit did you have, baby?”

You groan and reach out, flailing your hand, trying to find him and push him away, but he has already straightened. You roll over on your back, blocking the morning light with your arm, and groggily sit up. You hastily rub your face up and down with both hands. “You know how it is, Gage.”

“Yeah, well, I also know we gotta get goin’. We’re not messin’ up again today. It’s one of the last rehearsals, girl. C’monnn. Me an’ Henry’s already ready.” He grabs the many empty beer bottles and the tipped-over sleeping pill bottle from the hotel nightstand and heads out, turning your light on.

“Shit…” you mutter in disgust as you stand on wobbly legs.

“Alright, alright, alright. On time, just like I said. Wow… finally you kids listen.” Mr. Wilson claps as he walks onstage with his datapad. You all were occupied with readying yourselves for the third song on the setlist: BLK STATIC’s number one song, Blood Pit ’Til the End (BPTE).

This was your most and least favorite song to sing and perform. It was dark, sensual, soft, but the emotions still seeped through your threaded, armored veins. You, your boys, all of Night City, and half the globe will always remember when it shocked headlines.

“SHOULD BLK STATIC LEAVE CHROME ROCK FOR GOTH ROCK?”

“BLK STATIC IS MAKING A NAME FOR THEMSELVES WITH THEIR HIT SONG ‘BLOOD PIT ’TIL THE END’!”

“WILL BLK STATIC TAKE SAMURAI’S SPOT ON TOP CHARTS?”

That’s the one that hit Johnny worse than his hangovers. Maybe that’s where his hatred for you rooted.

Mr. Wilson did a quick once-over of the stage before retreating to the front row seats and taking one.

You all had motored through Viper and A Like Supreme obediently, surprisingly. Neither you nor Johnny looked at each other. You stuck to your own strings, your own volume, and played together. As one. Kerry was actually able to hear his own voice, as Gage and Henry were able to hear their basses. The sound techs in FOH were definitely happy.

“Transitioning into BPTE!” James calls out over the loudspeaker. You switched spots with Kerry, taking over center stage for your vocals. Johnny stayed put, not inching closer or trying to put himself in the spotlight as usual.

“Three. Two. One,” you whisper to yourself before breaking into your dark, slow opening riff, Kerry and Johnny lightly nodding their heads, waiting for their cue to join the bridge.

“You taste like smoke, and that clear you like

Still let you burn my mouth”

By the second line, your shoulders got a bit stiff as you softly sang, the same emotions coursing through your body as they have every time you’ve sung this song.

“Sixteen and locked behind chrome gates

They said I was safe, they were wrong”

You start gently swaying, looking down at the stage floor as the chorus builds tension.

“I learned your name in empty rooms

Learned your touch by countin’ bruises

He wore their badge, knew every code

Knew how to keep quiet ’til dawn”

Johnny and Kerry join you with their strings, strumming a dark, slow riff.

“You say my pain looks good on me

I don’t argue anymore

I screamed into money and glass”

You glanced over at Johnny at that line, though he was focused on his fingers.

“They said I dreamed it instead

If I bleed, you drink it up”

Denny and Henry came in with the drums quietly, building up to the bridge.

“If you fall, I hit the floor”

Full drums. Full guitar. Full bass. You let your guitar hang from your body as you grab the microphone and aimlessly pace back and forth, nodding your head. You stop for a moment and feel the rhythm with your hips, which just coincidentally made Johnny falter on his strings. Your long, f(r)ohawk swayed side to side against your back with each pull of your hips

Back to Johnny’s and Kerry’s guitar only.

“We don’t need love

We need somethin’ loud

Somethin’ sharp

Somethin’ that drowns us out

Blood pit growin’ ’til the end

I don’t trust hands that swear they care

I learned early”

Drums lead in again. You return to the mic stand and put the microphone back in the holder, gripping your guitar again as you lean into the microphone, joining Johnny and Kerry.

“No one’s there”

You look over at Johnny once more. This time, he catches your eyes before quickly looking away, out to the seats. You just wanted him to get this hint of your past through that thick, self-centered head of his.

Nancy finally comes in with the distorted, dark instrumentals on her keyboard.

“I’ll take the knife

And I’ll take the blame

You pull me closer

Blood pit growin’ ’til the end–stay

You were just a boy when they bled you dry

Takin’ what was to keep ’til you had a say

And carrying that with you to the blood pit growin’ ’til the end–stay”

You sang straight ahead, somewhere far away. Your boys noticed even behind you. Of course they did. Gage stepped forward a bit to remind you that you weren’t alone.

“Your mouth says sorry

Your hands say stay

I’ll take the pain

You pull me closer

We don’t get clean

We don’t get out

We make a mess

Then we worship it loud”

Kerry joins in with his vocals, and Johnny harmonizes in a deeper, darker tone.

“We don’t climb out

We dig it deeper

Knee-deep now

And still won’t break

I’ll bleed you dry

You’ll say you need it

Blood pit growin’ ’til the end–stay”

Nancy cuts the distorted sounds. Drums abruptly slow into soft thumps and cymbals. Guitars fade naturally, quietening into a soft riff.

“If this is hell,

Then don’t wake me up

I learned to live

With you on top of me”

Everything naturally fades, and everyone lets out breaths they didn’t know they were holding in. This was the first rehearsal of this song alone that you all have actually managed to complete without gnawing at each other.

“WOOO! That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout, baby! First time!” Gage yells out into the air, arms raised with his bass. You chuckle and shake your head at him.

“Good job, kids! You actually got through it without chomping on each other!” Mr. Wilson stands with his datapad. “Alright… break time!”

He walks away, filling out his screen. “Eat, drink, or do whatever the hell you guys do! That excludes killing each other! Next set is Chippin’ In, then The Ballad of Buck Ravers!”

Denny stood, stretched her back, and leaned over her set towards you. “Still fuckin’ good, girl!”

“Thanks,” you say through a grin, looking back at her.

As you turned your head back around, you caught Johnny’s intense stare as he just watched your and Denny’s interaction.

You twist your eyebrows in confusion but not much in surprise. “What?”

Johnny blankly stared at you, grabbing a smoke from his pocket.

“Annnd we’re not goin’ there today.” Your Henry comes up behind you from his set, resting his hands on your shoulders, leading you away. “C’mon… let’s get some air.”

“Weirdo…” you mutter under your breath. Henry lifts his hands, allowing you to pull your guitar off and hold it, then drapes his arm over your shoulder.

You look up at him, smirking. “Shouldn’t you be with your loverrr?” You playfully tickle him once in his abdomen.

He mindlessly looks around, grinning. “Nahhh, she keeps giving me mixed signals. One minute she’s giving me googly eyes, the next she’s glaring at me. Last night, she called me up, and we were talkin’... actually talkin’. Okay… well, she starts crying about her man, and I’m just sittin’ there like… ‘what the hell do I do?’. Y’know?”

“Jeez, yeah. Well… you’ll find the right one someday, I know it.” You hop up on the edge of a random elevated walkway, leaning against the rails, draping your guitar across your lap. Henry hops up beside you.

“Yeah, me." Johnny says from somewhere behind you guys, making you gasp and both of you turn in confusion.

“Hey, I don’t swing that way.” Henry holds his hands up, but his and Johnny’s eyes linger on each other a second longer than necessary.

“I don’t either, dickhead. It was a joke.” He struts over to the stack of crates in front of you and Henry and plops down on one, lying back and kicking his feet up onto another. “I’m just messin’ around. Christ…”

You look over at Henry with pure disgust and confusion on your face. He shrugs, looking back to Johnny. You do so too. “Shouldn’t you be jackin’ off?”

“Thought about it.” He reaches into his pants pocket to grab a cigarette and light it up. He inhales deeply and exhales loudly before continuing, “But that can wait ’til later. Nobody else to hang with. Nancy’s fightin’ with her boyfriend on the phone, Denny and Henry are tongue-fuckin’ each other's faces, and Gage is suckin’ Kerry off, so…”

You scoff and hop down, leaning your guitar against the wall.

“Where ya goin’?” Henry twists his eyebrows.

“Gettin’ water. You want some?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“Can you get me some’a my shit from my room? Forgot it.” Johnny asks, staring at the sky through his aviators.

“No.” You monotonously and plainly say before walking away.

“Cunt…” he mutters under his breath.

“Dick.” You throw your middle finger up behind you.

Your heel boots fade down the concrete sidewalk, and once you’re out of earshot, Henry speaks up after a moment of watching Johnny’s nonchalance. “Hey, man. Why you always gotta come at her like that?”

Johnny barks out a laugh, short and sharp. “You serious right now?”

Henry doesn’t rise to it. “Yeah, man. I’m serious.”

Johnny sits up, shaking his head and taking the last drag of his half-smoked cigarette before grinding it out on the pavement with the heel of his boot, lighting another one. “She’s fine,” he takes a long drag. “You act like I kicked her off the roof of her glass tower.”

“You always call her shit, man. She’s a girl. A human being.”

Johnny shrugs. “She called me a dick.”

Henry exhales slowly through his nose. “You started it. Called her a cunt.”

“Well, she is. ’Sides, keepin’ score now?”

“I’m sayin’,” Henry evenly replied, “you only talk like that when you’re tryna get a rise out of people.”

Johnny stops at that and turns to Henry, his boots scuffing against the pavement. “Hah! Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t try with her. Comes natural.” He continues pacing.

“Then why do you?” Henry tilts his head, squinting.

Johnny drags on his cigarette, eyes fixed to the ground. “She pisses me off,” he finally says.

“That’s not an answer.”

Johnny snaps his head up at Henry. “It is when it’s the truth.”

“She hasn’t done anything to you, though.”

Johnny laughed again, exaggerated this time. “You kidding? She walks around everywhere like she owns the whole goddamn world. Just like a corp.”

Henry timidly raised his eyebrows, looking down at the ground, thinking of how Johnny acts the same way.

“And she walks around like she didn’t crawl out of a corpo penthouse with a silver spoon shoved down her throat.”

Henry looks back up. “You don’t know her, though.”

Johnny steps forward, jabbing a finger in Henry’s direction. “I know the type.”

“No.” Henry hops down, running a hand through his hair and grabbing your guitar. “You know what you think the type is.”

“The hell’s that s’pposed t'mean?” Johnny’s jaw tightens.

“It means,” Henry pauses a second, choosing his words, “that not everyone who comes from money gets out clean. And not everyone who leaves does it easy.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Here we go. What, you her spokesperson now?”

“I’m just sayin’—”

He cuts Henry off. “You feel bad for her? That it? Poor little rich girl slumming it out with us?”

Henry’s voice hardened, looking Johnny dead in the eye. “I feel bad for anyone who gets treated like shit for no reason.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Henry had to flick his eyes away for a moment, then return them to Johnny’s, a smirk creeping up on the prick’s face.

“You’re gettin’ soft, man.” Johnny lets out a short laugh. “Next thing I know, you’re gonna be tellin’ me to apologize. Wouldn’t that be somethin’, hm?”

“Wouldn’t kill you.” Henry shot back, not blinking.

“Oh yeah?” Johnny throws his cigarette on the ground before grabbing Henry’s tank top, shoving him against the wall, and making Henry audibly wince when the back of his head hit with a loud thud. “Well, I could you. But you know that already, don’t you?”

“What the… hell, man?” Henry says through a struggling breath.

“Say it.” Johnny gets closer to his face, noses almost touching. “Say you know.”

“Okay, okay. I know… just… what the hell are ya doin’?” Johnny pushes his balled-up fists further into Henry’s chest. “I… I’ve never said anything about that time.”

“I made that clear that night, didn’t I?” Johnny brings his metal fist up to Henry’s cheek and wraps his ‘ganic hand around his throat with a bruising grip, digging his nails into his skin. “I can do it again, too. Righhht here.” He aimingly places his fist on the corner of Henry’s eye, making him wince as he remembers that night.

How did that night have anything to do with now? Henry thought. He’s just an insecure asshole bully.

“Orrr…” Johnny slides his fist down against Henry’s face, stopping right between his cheekbone and jawbone, slightly twisting his knuckles into his skin. “Maybe right here. Yeah, that’s perfect. It’d look good on ya. You want that?”

Henry quickly shakes his head, saliva starting to build in his mouth, unable to swallow it. 

“Can’t hear ya.” 

“N-no…” Henry chokes out, reaching up and wrapping his hand around Johnny’s wrist, trying to pull him off. “Y-you made it… clear then… and now. Shit, man.”

Johnny's jaw tightens. "That night was nothin'. Didn't mean a single damn thing. Just needed t'get my dick wet an' so did you. It was convenient, s'all it was." Johnny lowers his fist to Henry's chest and places it there again, keeping his grip tight on his neck. Henry kept his eyes fixed to the ground beside them, avoiding Johnny's watchful gaze.

"Just lemme... go, man," Henry grunts, flicking his eyes to Johnny’s and catching them. "What, you want... another one?" He smirks, testing him, which only causes him to push his head further into the wall.

"Okay... okay. M'sorry." He gurgles out. Johnny gives him one last, good shove to his neck before stepping away. “Fuck-ass dickweed. Get outta here… pissbrain.” He reaches up and threads his thick fingers through Henry’s spikes, ignorantly and deliberately roughing them up.

“Was goin’ anyway,” Henry shoves past him with your guitar still in hand, the other rubbing his throat. “Bitch…”

“Pussy.” Johnny shoots back. “Go on.” He shoves the back of Henry’s head, making him speed up. “Go cry to corpo pussy, too.”

He lights up another cigarette, muttering profanities as he watches Henry walk away. 

“Henry, are you okay?” Your eyes widen as you near him, returning with two bottles of water.

“Yeah, m'fine. Here…” He hands you your guitar, and you grab it, handing him his bottle of water before you walk back to the audience seats to sit for the remainder of the break. 

“Johnny?” You wrap your arm around his waist, and he drapes his across your shoulders. 

“Yeah, you know how he is. Said somethin’ he didn't like. Bastard..."