#robert john linder

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"Maybe you should try being useful and suggest something instead of just complaining," you snap, pushing past his flickering form toward the kitchen.

Johnny follows you, his hologram phasing through the wall to reappear leaning against your counter. "Fine. How about you take some fucking painkillers? Or better yet, those omega blockers you've got stashed away. Knock me out so I don't have to feel this shit."

You rummage through a drawer, pulling out a bottle of ibuprofen. "Already took some. They're not working fast enough."

"Then take more," Johnny says, his voice tight. "Chase it with some liquor. Who gives a fuck if it's bad for you? You're dying anyway."

You pause, the bottle halfway to your mouth. He's not wrong, but the casual way he says it still stings. "Thanks for the reminder."

"Just being practical," he says, watching you swallow two more pills dry. "Christ, this is brutal. You sure this is normal? Feels like there's a fucking parasite trying to chew its way out of my intestines."

"It's normal for me," you repeat, leaning against the counter. The cramps are still there, a deep, twisting ache that makes you want to curl up on the floor. You can see Johnny feeling it too—the way his shoulders tense, the slight tremor in his cybernetic hand.

"You know what helps?" Johnny says, his tone casual like he's suggesting a brand of cigarettes. "An orgasm."

You freeze, the painkillers halfway down your throat. You swallow hard, staring at him. "What?"

"An orgasm," he repeats, leaning against your counter with that infuriating smirk. "Had a few girlfriends back in the day who swore by it. Said it helped with the cramps. Something about... muscle contractions, endorphins, whatever the fuck."

You feel your face heat up, a mix of embarrassment and irritation. "You want me to... in front of you?"

Johnny shrugs, his holographic form flickering. "I'm already in your head, V. I feel everything you feel. I felt you take a shit this morning—that's definitely weirder than an orgasm, right?"

He's not wrong, but that doesn't make it any less awkward. You can feel the cramps twisting in your abdomen again, a sharp reminder of why you're having this conversation in the first place.

"Turn around, at least," you demand, your voice tight with embarrassment.

Johnny raises an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk still playing on his lips. "Fine." He makes a big show of turning his back to you, crossing his arms over his chest. "Happy?"

"Not really," you mutter, but you start moving toward the bedroom anyway. The cramps flare up again, a sharp reminder of why you're even considering this.

"Just so you know," Johnny calls over his shoulder, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It doesn't matter if I'm watching or not. I can still feel everything. Every touch, every little shiver. I'll know exactly what you're doing."

You pause in the doorway, your hand on the frame. "You're such an asshole."

"Takes one to know one," he shoots back. "Now are you gonna do this or not? My phantom uterus is killing me."

You hesitate, the weight of the situation settling over you. Masturbating while a digital copy of a dead terrorist rockstar feels everything you feel. This is your life now.

"This can't be normal pain," Johnny insists, still facing away from you. His holographic shoulders are tense, his cybernetic hand clenched into a fist. "You should see a doctor."

You let out a bitter laugh. "A doctor? Johnny, I'm dying. The relic's eating my brain. What's a doctor gonna do about period cramps?"

He turns around then, his aviators reflecting your tired face. "You don't know that. Maybe there's something wrong. Maybe it's not just... you know." He gestures vaguely at your abdomen.

"It's my period," you say, the words coming out sharper than you intended. "I've had cramps like this since I was fifteen. They're just worse now because I'm stressed, I'm dying, and I've got a rockerboy terrorist living in my head."

Johnny's expression shifts, something almost like concern flashing across his face before it's replaced by his usual scowl. "Fine. But if you're not gonna see a doctor, at least do something about the pain. The pills aren't working fast enough, and I'm not exactly enjoying this shared experience."

The cramps twist again, a deep ache that makes you press your hand against your lower abdomen. You can see Johnny flinch at the same moment, his jaw tightening.

"There are ways to stop the cramps," you explain, leaning against the doorframe. "Implants, hormonal regulators, neural blockers. They're just not compatible with my OS."

Johnny stares at you. "Your OS?"

"My operating system," you say, tapping your temple. "The relic's rewriting my neural pathways. Adding anything else right now would probably turn my brain into scrambled eggs."

"Fucking technology," Johnny mutters, running a hand through his hair. "In my day, we had aspirin and whiskey. Worked just fine."

"In your day, people died of appendicitis," you point out.

"Fair point." He shifts his weight, his holographic form flickering. The pain is still there—you can see it in the tension around his eyes, the way he keeps pressing his hand against his abdomen. "So what's the plan, then? We just suffer through this until you bleed out or the relic kills you?"

The bluntness of his words hits you like a physical blow. Dying on your period. That would be fucking annoying.

"Fine, I'll try it," you say reluctantly, turning toward the bedroom.

Johnny doesn't say anything, but you can feel his attention like a physical weight. You close the bedroom door behind you, but you know it doesn't matter—he's already in your head. The room is dim, the blinds drawn against the morning light. Your bed is unmade, sheets tangled from a restless night.

You sit on the edge of the mattress, your hands trembling slightly. This is insane. Masturbating while a digital ghost feels every sensation. But the cramps are still there, a deep, twisting ache that makes you want to curl into a ball. If there's even a chance this will help...

You take a shaky breath and slip your hand under the waistband of your jeans. The fabric is rough against your skin. You're already wet—your period blood serving as lubrication, a fact that would normally make you cringe but right now just feels practical.

Your fingers find your clit, swollen and sensitive. You circle it slowly, experimentally. A sharp gasp escapes your lips as pleasure sparks through the pain. It's strange, feeling both at once—the deep ache in your abdomen and the building tension between your legs.

You close your eyes, trying to focus on the sensation, but you're hyper-aware of Johnny's presence. He's not in the room physically, but you can feel him in your mind, a constant pressure at the edges of your consciousness.

"Go on," Johnny's voice comes from your couch. You open your eyes to see him sprawled out, feet up on your coffee table like he owns the place. "Don't be shy. I've seen hundreds of women cum—this is nothing special."

His words should make you feel worse, but somehow they just piss you off enough to keep going. Your fingers move faster, the pleasure building despite the awkwardness. You can feel him watching, totally unashamed.

You let out a shaky breath, trying to block out his voice. You slide your fingers deeper, the slick heat of your period blood making the friction effortless. You find the rhythm you need, a steady, insistent pressure against your clit that sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

The cramps are still there, but they're becoming a background noise to the mounting pressure. Every time you arch your back, you feel a sympathetic twitch in Johnny's holographic shoulders. He's feeling it too—the sudden spike of heat, the way your breath hitches, the tightening of the muscles in your thighs.

"Fuck," Johnny murmurs, his voice losing some of its sarcastic edge. He sounds strained, his breathing syncing up with yours. "You're... actually getting somewhere."

You ignore him, your movements becoming more urgent. You're chasing that peak, the one that promises to wipe the pain from your gut and leave you empty and exhausted. The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the breaking point.

"You still feeling it, Johnny?" you tease breathlessly, your voice trembling as you push your fingers harder against your clit.

Johnny's holographic back stiffens. He lets out a jagged sound—halfway between a groan and a curse—and finally spins around. He's not smirking anymore. His aviators are slid down his nose, revealing eyes that look hungry and strained. He looks like he's fighting a losing battle with his own composure.

"Yeah, I'm feeling it," he rasps, his voice dropping an octave. "I can feel your heart hammering. I can feel the way your thighs are shaking. It's... fucking intense, V."

The pleasure is peaking now, a tight coil of heat that threatens to snap. You arch your back, your breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The cramps have vanished, replaced by a desperate, driving need to just hit the wall and collapse.

Johnny watches you, his gaze fixed on the movement of your hand beneath your jeans. He looks wired, his digital form flickering with a restless, electric energy. He takes a step toward the bed, his expression darkening.

"You're close," he murmurs, his voice sounding closer than it should, vibrating right at the base of your skull. "But you're doing it all wrong. Too tentative. You're holding back."

He pauses, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "Let me take over. I know exactly where to press. I can make you scream, V. Just give me the wheel for a minute."

"Fine. Do it," you gasp, the words barely leaving your throat as the pressure reaches a breaking point.

The shift is instantaneous. It feels like a sudden surge of electricity slamming into your spine, a cold snap that pushes your own consciousness into the passenger seat. Your vision blurs for a fraction of a second, and then you're watching your own hand move—but you're not the one moving it.

Johnny's presence fills you, his confidence and hunger flooding your nervous system. He doesn't hesitate. He slides your fingers deeper into your soaking wet cunt, his touch far more aggressive and sure than yours ever was. He knows exactly where the sweet spot is, his fingers curling upward to hook against the internal wall of your vagina with a precision that makes you cry out.

"There it is," Johnny groans, his voice echoing inside your head and vibrating through your own vocal cords.

He uses your other hand to reach up, grabbing your breast and squeezing the nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger. The dual sensation is overwhelming; you feel the touch and the intent behind it simultaneously. He's not just making you come; he's getting off on the power of it, his own digital pleasure mirroring and amplifying yours.

He begins to pump your fingers in and out of you, faster and harder, the wet sounds of friction filling the quiet room. Your hips buck off the mattress, driven by a rhythm that feels alien yet perfect.

"You feel that, V?" he rasps, the sound raw. "This is how a pro does it."

You arch your back, pressing yourself up into the mattress as you surrender to the rhythm. It's a surreal sensation—your own body acting as the instrument, but Johnny conducting the orchestra. He's relentless, his movements precise and demanding, driving you toward a peak that feels like it's going to tear you apart.

"That's it," Johnny groans, his voice a low vibration in your skull. "Stop fighting it. Just take it."

He shifts the angle of your fingers, digging deeper, his thumb circling your clit with a punishing speed. The pleasure is white-hot now, drowning out the last remnants of the cramps and the noise of the city outside. You feel his own arousal spiking alongside yours, a digital echo of lust that makes the air in the room feel heavy and electric.

Suddenly, he pulls your hand away from your heat. Before you can even process the loss of contact, you feel your own hand rise to your face. Johnny guides your fingers to your lips, pushing them into your mouth.

"Taste yourself, V," he commands, his voice thick.

You taste the salt and the metallic tang of your period blood, the sensation sending a fresh jolt of arousal through you. Johnny lets out a jagged breath, savoring the taste through your own tongue. He's obsessed with the physical reality of it, the raw, visceral nature of your body that he can only experience as a ghost.

He doesn't let you linger. He plunges your fingers back inside you, faster than before, hitting that one specific spot that makes your entire frame shudder.

You squeeze your eyes shut and let go, abandoning the last shred of control you had over your own skin.

The sensation is a landslide. With Johnny directing the movements, the friction becomes a blur of precise, punishing heat. He hits the spot again and again, driving you upward with a ruthless efficiency that leaves you gasping, your head tossing back against the pillows.

The tension in your lower abdomen snaps.

A violent, rolling orgasm crashes over you, a wave of white noise that drowns out everything else. Your cunt clenches around your fingers in rhythmic, desperate pulses, and your entire body stiffens, toes curling into the sheets.

Because you're linked, Johnny feels it all. You can feel his own shock, a digital spike of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. He’s never felt a female orgasm before, and the sheer, enveloping scale of it seems to blow his circuits.

The intensity of the climax acts like a physical blow, a surge of neural energy that forcibly ejects him from your motor cortex.

You slam back into your own body with a sudden, jarring thud. Your hand goes limp, resting heavily against your thigh, as you sink deep into the mattress. Your breath comes in ragged, uneven hitches, and the cramps are finally, mercifully gone, replaced by a heavy, humming languor.

Johnny is suddenly fully visible again, standing at the foot of the bed. He looks shaken, his chest heaving as if he'd actually been the one exerting himself. His aviators are gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, and his brown eyes are wide, staring at you with a mixture of awe and genuine disorientation.

"Fuck," he breathes, his voice raw. "What the fuck was that?"

"You okay there, Silverhand?" you murmur, your voice still thick and airy from the aftershock.

Johnny stays frozen for a second, staring at you with those wide, uncovered eyes. He looks like he just got hit by a freight train. Slowly, he blinks, and the disorientation clears, replaced by a look of intense, focused hunger. He lets out a long, shaky breath and runs a hand over his face, pushing back his hair.

"That," he says, his voice raspy and low, "was fucking mental. I've had a lot of sex, V. A lot. But I've never felt... that."

He takes a slow step toward the bed, his gaze dropping to where your hand still rests on your thigh. The air in the room shifts. The humor is gone, replaced by a heavy, predatory tension. He stops just inches from you, the blue flicker of his holographic form casting a cold light over your skin, though you can feel the phantom heat of his presence pressing in.

"Having the sensation is one thing," he says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "But doing it through your own hand... it's a bit like eating with chopsticks when I could just use my mouth."

He leans down, his face hovering just inches from yours. He smells like old leather and stale cigarettes, a scent that exists only in your mind but feels overwhelmingly real.

"I'm tired of being a ghost, V. I want the real thing."

"What exactly are you proposing?" you ask.

Your voice is still a bit shaky, but the cynicism of a Night City street kid is starting to claw its way back to the surface. You look up at him, your head still resting on the pillows, your chest heaving.

Johnny lets out a short, dry laugh. He reaches out, his holographic hand hovering just over the curve of your hip. You feel a spark of static electricity, a phantom warmth that makes the fine hairs on your skin stand up.

"I'm proposing we stop playing around with fingers and imagination, V," he says. His voice is a rough growl, stripped of the usual sarcasm. "I'm in your head. I feel everything you feel. When you come, I come. But I want more. I want to feel you wrap around me. I want to hear you scream my name while I'm buried inside you."

He leans in closer, his breath a ghost of a sensation against your ear.

"I can take control again. I can make us both feel things that would melt a normal brain. Or," he pauses, his gaze sliding back to your lips, "you can just take me as I am. Hallucination and all. Your brain's already doing the heavy lifting; it just needs a little push."

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression raw and desperate. "What do you say, V? You want to see if a dead man can still fuck?"

Wanna make your own choices and see what happens next? READ/PLAY HERE! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

🎮interactive fanfic "Projecting Your Period Cramps on Johnny Silverhand" by @sinfiction