Summary: New players enter the fray. Whiskers has a good time.

Last time on Cyberpunk: Fixers, Jhonny seeks out Rogue Amendearies to find out her stance on his attempt to save V and is attacked by an unknown third party and V's old friend Panam Palmer. He barely survives.


Notes: This story has been bumped up to explicit, that out of the way, this chapter (TW: Dacryphillia) isn't my best work and was originally supposed to be twice as long. I've been sitting in it for too long though.


Soft pink pastel nipples stiffen without the warm bedsheets to cover them. Morose eyes blankly stare as a shapely teen walks over to the center of the room and picks up the medic yellow-green underwear on the floor. She sniffs at it. Her face scrunches up instinctually. She sighs and proceeds to slip it on slowly. Without so much as waiting for a second, she exits into the empty corridor. One fleshy footfall after the other, she noisily pads toward the lift.

She pauses.

A door slightly ajar is new. The nameplate reads 'Ryukishi07 F. Hill' She should just go on. She really should. Underwear girl is curious, she doesn't really have much to live for. Her last two years on the moon have been self-imposed hell composed of bland mindless repetition. Why not sate her curiosity? She squeezes into the room doing her best to not open the door any more than it already is.

It isn't all that different from her room, maybe not as plain. Why was there so much smoke coming from the bathroom? Is that a leg? Fucking hell, is that a bathtub? Does the leg-person have a death wish? Was that steam? Are they dead? She should leave, once the 'safety teams' find them there will be hell to pay even if she were ultimately declared innocent, which she silly won't ever happen.

"Like what you see Luce?"

That voice. It can't be. This has to be some kind of sick joke.

"Come on over Lucy, I won't bite" So bright and cheerful.

She should run. Spare her heart at the very least, but it's the kind of morbid curiosity that she knos she'll regret that carries her toward the steamy bathtub. Surely enough in front of her is David. Her David. With not as much chrome either.

"David?"

She should be going, what ever the fuck this is, it's bad for her frazzled emotions and bad for her self-exile. If she's caught, they will find her experimental Araska deep drive port during the ensuing strip search. Then she'd be turned into a glorified test subject, unwitting slave, or corporate exchange currency. She rather die than help the coprs, but she wouldn't be allowed that option.

She really can't afford to concede to her curiosity and hope.

Concerned eyes turn toward her, "Yeah?" There's that awkward grin but not, "Uh, I'm not dead?"

There are so many feelings burning within her right now. It's all too much. She just freezes. The boy she knew gets up ever so slowly takes one step toward her and holds her close up against his own naked body.

She doesn't know how she feels and she has a million questions but she pulls her hands around him in return. His body heat and caring attention are just such "David things" she could use a lot more of right now. She raises her arm to his back and tries to pull herself closer, to feel his chest against hers, his thighs against hers, his crotch against her, all of him against all of her.

She shouldn't have done that either.

Her fingertips sink into his back which feels stringy, slick, and a little like a degraded sponge. Her face angles to his to ask if he's ok, but her breath catches, and her body freezes. David's eye is falling out, and his face seems to be a patchwork of decaying, rotting flesh. She backs away, it's a knee-jerk reaction. A good one too because David seems to get older, and dead-er.

Her chest constricts. It's too tight. She backs away barely noticing the brown slick on her clothes. She pushes past the door, the skin scraping off of her arms barely registers. David follows. She can't hear his words, they are lost to the moment. He's falling apart in front of her. The ends of wires poking through his flesh turned slurry. It reminds her of David during his final moments at Araska tower. She can't bear the reminder anymore.

Her hands find no hold on the smooth door, try as she may, the door doesn't budge close, and David is ever so much closer. She does the most rational thing she is capable of. She turns around and runs. Away from David, toward her bleak present, toward the elevator. it's coming up to her floor too, how convenient.

She's barely three bounds from the lift when the doors start sliding open. Opulent red liquid flows out like a tidal wave. The wave front impacts her like a tidal wave. She might have mistaken it for wine if not for the consistency of the liquid. The blood tides carry her like a ragdoll.

She hits her head on a chair swept up in the currents just before being slammed into the wall shoulders first. The wave is seemingly unrelenting and endless. The little air in her lungs is already lost. Is she going to die here? In such an absurd and outlandish way?

She's spun off the wall, as she's forcefully turned against a door. Her door. The liquid rushes past her. She isn't carried with it, as if her door were a grate, but completely solid. It doesn't make sense but she's too panicked and hurt to think about it.

Her bones creak far louder than the gallons of liquid rushing past her, and suddenly the liquid's mostly gone. She's on her back. She's breathing heavily. Her years as an edgerunner don't allow her to stay on her back in such a situation. She scrambles onto her feet without so much as thinking about it.

The world reaches out into endless blackness around her. The water at her feet is clear if only ankle deep. Crimson lilies surround her, stretching into the blackness except for the small clearing she stands in. She turns around to survey her surroundings. It's a sharp, jittery, and ugly movement.

Across is a torii gate, why she doesn't know. She should have stopped and asked herself about her situation. The thought never strikes her.

It's eerily quiet, yet she doesn't hear her own breathing.

She pads toward the torii. Her eyes only now catching the disgusting tendrils slowly writhing upward from the lilies. She sensibly keeps her distance.

The wood of the torii is cold like only dry wood can be. Smooth as if worn down by sea and salt. Inherently orange, not colored.

"Selfish child, greedy for love, self-righteous enough to claim you were trying to save others, simply lying to yourself and others."

She instantly spins, her arms up, monowire between them. Except there's no monowire.

"Working alone, keeping to yourself, and what did it bring you? The deaths of everyone." The voice continues, seemingly from everywhere, "You could have called out, held hand to force your dear ones down a better path, yet you chose silence. You could have reached out and held your family together, yet you did nothing and they devoured each other. How much blood must be spilt for your selfish wishes child?"

There isn't anyone around. It's almost a cruel joke.

Past the torii, there's a smooth expanse of what is clearly a woman, but no nipple or bush or slit. Lucy would have thought she was wearing a netrunner suit if not for her being clearly naked. "What would you do for love child?" It's the same voice, but much more kind.

"Not like it matters anymore anyway, does it?" She doesn't even have to try to fake the anger, hurt, and defensiveness in her tone.

The woman simply looks on softly with sorrow that doesn't show up in her face. It's not patronizing, but Lucy can feel the solidarity in her eyes and her feelings collapse. All that's left is her pain.

She sits slowly. Curls up. Head tucked into her knees.

Soft finger-pads brush against her cheeks as the first of the tears start to roll down them. They don't feel solid, but they lift her face up touching her without ever making contact.

The womans face is blank, but not in an uncaring sterile way, "Save the vitriol for those who deserve it child."

"And what good will that do?" It's a quivering choked voice, and lucy hates herself in that moment.

"A second chance. A chance to go back and save your dear ones."

Was that really possible? A chance to try again? Save David? Maybe Rebecca to? Oh yes, make Kiwi s suffer. Make her suffer quite a bit. Lucy wasn't kind. Arasaka's black wall research project all but ensured that. Kiwi all but ensured that. If this was possible, it's too precious an opportunity to give up on.

A chance to save David.

A chance to deny Kiwi the fast death she didn't deserve.

Wouldn't she have to deal with corpos again? No, no, no, no, no. She can't think like that. She'd do anything for David, even if it meant being turned into a corpo plaything.

"Tell me how."


Sami is having a shit time. She is frustrated, flustered, and seconds away from pissing her pants, the fucking smiling demon is somehow involved in her case. She can't quit this case without committing literal and corporate suicide either. Apparently, almost dying makes her feel inspired, what the fuck? She doesn't know how to feel about that. She needs a re-set, and that's how she finds herself seated on a barstool, a thick cream-colored milkshake with chunky lemon green Kit-Kat bits in it.

The barefoot jeans and wife-beater clad man with a messy blond bun has been openly drinking her in for the last few minutes. She is done with his shit at this point.

"Mama never tell you staring at a woman is rude?"

He leans in slowly, telegraphing his every movement. He knows what he's doing. Faster movements and he'd have a shattered nose. "You're wound up tight girl." His voice is so damn low and throaty, naturally deep. Under different circumstances, it would have raised the hair on her hand.

Screw that, it still does.

"And that gives you permission how?"

"Haha. My bad" The man sheepishly brushes his index under his nose. "I just figured that you're the kinda person who likes fresh takes, if I pushed too much, I'm sorry."

One hundred percent correct, Sami is now intrigued with his seemingly one-eighty change in behavior. With him casually leaning against the bar top sipping his coffee-smelling milkshake, the soft undulating muscle of his upper arms are thrown into sharp detail. There are a whole bunch of thin faded scars there. Gangster? Unlikely. Too subdued. Police? Unlikely, way too many cuts. Torture? Possibly.

"Free tip, you're doing a much better job of it now."

Brat has such a smug voice, "Thanks . . . Name's Whiskers. What's yours?"

Weird name, but who is Sami to judge. She stirs her kit-kat with a mirrored metal straw as she spies Whisker's legs outta the corner of her eyes. The loose-fitting jeans give away nothing about the physique underneath. All she can see is his toe tendons through his skin. Sexy. Time to do the conventionally dumb thing and give her name to an apparently predatory if interesting stranger, but Sami is fucked in the head and is a writer and an Araska counter-intel agent to boot. She can handle the dangers of her curiosity. "Sami."

"I don't get a full name?"

"I'm not even getting your real name."

"I kinda don't really remember." He hasn't turned, but the swirling movements he's making have his biceps and shoulders rippling subtly, slowly.

"Hmmm, I sense an interesting story there."

"Maybe."

"Does this pretty lady get to hear it today?" Could the name be after the many think cuts on his arm? Curiosity kills the cat. Whiskers? Cat? Get it? She blames her hormones, it is nearing that time of month after all.

"Sure, if you can give me a reason to tell ya?"

Sami raises an eyebrow, "and what would you want in return?"

"An equally interesting story."

"Deal. You first."

"No."

He's making her fight for ground, there's more to him than just trying to get into her pants, that just makes her more likely to give him access. "But then how am I supposed to know how interesting my story's gotta be?" Or it's all a ploy to get into her pants and it's working.

"Go hog wild, me forgetting my name is wild fuck corpo land tall tales."

"Nah, you first."

"I'll wait." No attempt to negotiate. A final declaration.

Most people find silence uncomfortable, stay with them and keep silent and they'll break. Him? He just sits there sipping at his milkshake, eyes half-shuttered like he's halfway to sleep.

Such soft and devious tactics ain't working. Curious. Let's see how he's going to react to what's next.

She sucks up the last dregs of her milkshake, it's noisy considering there's more air being sucked than milkshake. She can be as stubborn as this mystery man.

A second later, she makes to stand, and she's yanked roughly back into her chair. "Are you just going to leave after I put in all this effort?" There's a scheming glint in his eyes.

"So you have ulterior motives?" His phrasing kinda makes it obvious.

Whisker's ain't blinking, "How can I not when you've got such a sweet voice?"

Eh? Sweet voice? That's a first. She's been called many things, but 'sweet' isn't a word she'd use to describe her damp wood on sandpaper voice or her slight 5'5" frame that basically looks like someone slapped muscle onto toothpicks. She had no clue if he was messing with her or not. He was drawing her on a merry chase and she didn't mind following. In this city, that could be lethal.

"Sweet?"

"Well, not in the traditional sense. Your voice has history to it, one, voice-box injury if I were to guess and, two, you got the build of an extreme endurance athlete, no curves, just flats, and cylinders. You're a puzzle, you're enticing to me, and that's probably why I'm biased."

And your a puzzle for me kid, he does kinda look young. Well, she can play this game too, "Sex."

He blinks, openly confused. "Uh, what?"

Ain't that just cute. "Sex for a story," and also to loosen your tongue. A traitorous part of her mind brings to her attention that she's feeling a lot warmer. She isn't conventionally sexy, which makes getting non-hooker action from non-creeps very hard for her.

"Uh, you sure you wanna give something like that away so easily?"

"I know full well how to enjoy my time without growing attached kid."

He pauses gazing into nothingness past the counter not really judging as she expected before getting up, intertwining hands with her, and mock bowing "Please lead the way ma'am."

Real curious about this kid. Athletic and not overly muscular either. If he's as assertive as in the shop, she's gonna have a good time and possibly even get her head on straight. An image flashes through her mind — her lying down hip dangling off a bed, him leaning over her, torso pressed against her crotch, his breath tickling her abs. Her nipples harden. She does her very best to push the thought away.

"My bike kid." she sits before patting the space behind her. To his credit, the kid doesn't hesitate. He's got balls. He leans flush against her, his arms wrapped around her midriff, not too high, definitely lower than it needs to be. She can feel his fingers settle under her loose oversized shirt in the dips between her abs and trace upward to the lower edge of her navel. As the bike starts moving, he closes his thighs, firmly squeezing her t-shirt covered running shorts between his legs.

UZUMAKI requesting shortwave comms . . .

She accepts.

UZUMAKI
"Comfortable? Want me to grip lower? Pretty sure It'd feel a lot better."

SAMI
"Cheeky kid. Very cheeky."

"Go for it."

Dripping and drenched might be a far cry, but damn if she wasn't aroused. There's a small stumble. Fuck, this kid's bold, the brat just ran one hand over her crotch with enough pressure that she felt that clearly through her thin shorts and briefs. Being extra receptive wasn't helping.

UZUMAKI
"You ok there ma'am?"

Brat might as well have a thousand-megawatt smirk in his voice. She simply pushes back into him.

SAMI
"You ok there kid? It can't be all that comfortable for . . . some parts of your anatomy right now."

UZUMAKI
"I'm pretty sure you'll take care of that pretty soon, won't ya?"

The utter complete trust with which he basically announces that has her hyper-aware of her own dampness as he presses his hand into her, rubbing slow circles. When did she get this aroused? Her short black hair and loose clothing are why she's usually mistaken for a man, but it should also provide the kid with easy access. Access that he's not using. Purposeful fuck. She easily ranks this as one of the hottest moments of her life so far. She also tries to slow down for good measure, half to not crash, half to punish him. She's probably prolonging her own torture right now.

His hand moves back to her midriff.

SAMI
"Why'dya stop?"

She was really doing her best to not sound whiny.

UZUMAKI
"It'd be pretty tragic if we crashed before I give you an amazing time."

SAMI
"Hmmm, you sure that's the only reason?"

UZUMAKI

"Truth be told, no. I'd rather not break my dick before we reach. So instead you tell me what you like? Like being groped in public? All frisky?"

Well, at least the kid gets points for his husky mental voice. She twitches downstairs. Fuck, she totally blames the hormones.

SAMI
"I like it when you're flush against me with your straining dick right between my ass cheeks. I love it when you worship my body. When you're turn–"

Her mental voice stutters for a second when she feels his lips against the bone at the base of her neck.

UZUMAKI
"When I'm?"

He has god-darned soft lips. She shivers as he runs his tongue lightly against the bone. She has to take a deep breath before continuing.

SAMI
"When you're all hot and bothered because of me."

Fucking soft cheeks too. Was he leaning against her? She so wants to coo and coddle the kid like he were her own baby right then and there. In her defense cuddles are always great. He pulls his arms tighter around her midriff, pulling him into her more. She can feel where his chest starts and end now. And she stops at the red light.

UZUMAKI
"You don't have an ass ya know?"

Brat.

UZUMAKI
"But I can still drag you to heaven by the cunt, so . . . tell me how . . . tell me how to ravage ya." His voice is a clouded whisper pushing him on as much as it's burning away at her.

So wholeheartedly sincere. She's twitching again. Also, fucking hormones. Well, at least her house is just past the next turning.

SAMI
"And also . . ."

UZUMAKI
"Also?"

SAMI
"It's nothing." her voice trails off into the morning traffic.

He's suddenly pulling her into him aggressively enough that she can feel his fingers digging into her sides and she really can't move further into him. It's uncomfortable, slightly painful, bad for travel.

UZUMAKI
"I asked you a question woman."

Should she tell him? Will he think her a freak? Well, might as well, twenty seconds of courage and embarrassment and all.

SAMI
"Uh, when you asked me what I like, uh . . ." Even her mental voice betrays her very real discomfort.

His hands dig in tighter.

SAMI
"Tears." If her voice was any tighter, it would have sounded choked.

He resumes a loose hug.

SAMI
"I have a thing for tears, uh, dacryphilia. It's called Dacryphilia."

It startles her just how smooth her own mental voice sounds, like it's freed of a burden. In a way, maybe she is. He's quiet though, maybe she shouldn't have shared. He's probably thrown for a loop. Hopefully, he'll just ignore the revelation.

She completely misses his eyes dimly flashing, a telltale sign of looking up the internet.

UZUMAKI
"Tears eh? Mine or yours?"

Is he really continuing this line of thought?

SAMI
"Anyone's really, but, I've forgotten how to cry." She doesn't even have to try to sound hollow and bitter.

I mean if he's really asking, why not be truthful? If it's too much he'll just walk away. And she lets herself the smallest of hopes that he's just as much a deviant as her.

UZUMAKI
"Ohhhh," he's mentally whispering against the back of her ear again. It sends a physical shiver down her neck. "So you're the kind of person who fingers herself, hot and bothered when people cry under torture huh?" And what a 'huh' it is — a question, invitation, and suggestions all rolled together into a single sound.

Sami is lost in the wonder of a person who isn't immediately disgusted and is also conclusively wet from the pure acceptance this stranger is affording her. His words fade into background chatter, the strangeness of his wording never really registering. Nothing much does, her warmth doesn't, the sweat beading her brow under the helmet doesn't, and their arrival at her parking doesn't. Things only snap into place when the smooth vibration of her bike dies under her ass as she shut off the bike by rote.

As she removes her helmet, he hooks his palm around her crotch and bodily pulls her backward and upward to the point her ass isn't even on the seat but on his legs. He's leaning into her neck, his nose brushing past the back of her ear. She hears him breathe in deeply and she's hyperfocused on that one instant. It's weird, she shows she's hyper-focusing, but she doesn't know why nor move to break it or lean into the feeling or anything really. Then a slice of pain blossoms along her neck. Her entire body tenses up, it doesn't help her sensitive bottom in the least, it's writhing and wanting but empty, and she can't even close her legs with the bike underneath. The pain is eased moments later and replaced by soft wetness. The tension takes a few more moments to leave her. Her mind takes a few more moments to process the kids' soft wet lips caressing her new hickey. And only then does she realize how boneless she feels. He whispers in her ears again, so breathy it's barely audible, "The only thing you're going to be tensing up to is me." And then he's off the bike, walking over to the elevator.

And she follows. Wanting but not yet desperate.


Her 'home' isn't much to look at, it's a loft — essentially one big box — with massive floor-to-ceiling one-way windows across an entire side and a mezzanine floor that spans only half the loft. The bed and bathroom are atop the mezzanine, the kitchen, and armory below it. There aren't any walls for privacy, this is a single-person accommodation.

Kid vaults over and settles into the sofa, pulling out cushions of various shapes from under his ass and behind his back. "Hop over, I wanna try something, dattebasa?" The way he says 'dattebasa' meaning 'ya know' stands out to her, it's probably a verbal tick of his.

She pulls her shirt off as she moves to sit flinging it over onto a different couch.

"Feeling hot?" He's now openly grinning at her. She nods, for his sexy smugness, that's all she'll give him. Why must he be both so infuriating and also nice? "Here girl," his open arms welcome her as much as the playful lilt to his tone. She rolls over into his open arms and is then wrapped up in them as she sits snugly against him. Somehow it's more warmth-filled and less lust fueled for now. It might just be in her mind but the arms wrapped around her fat-less un-soft, muscle-firm, no-curve body seem neither a courtesy nor lust driven. And she finds that she doesn't quite mind all that they're both warm and sticky from sweat and grime at the moment.

He brings up two plain, simple, and sleek metallic half-crowns with slots at the open ends for the ears. "Modified braindance wreathes. I'd like to share a memory with ya."

She sighs, she shouldn't accept, but she is running Arasaka ICE — Intrusion Countermeasure Electronics — for once, she can be selfish enough to risk company backlash. "Ok."

"Uh, not going to ask why?"

"I just want you to show me a good time." It's the raw truth, small and hopeful, and nothing else.

"Hmm, well, you still should know. I looked up your tear fetish, uh," he pauses trying to recollect something, "dacryphilia, ye?" He's absent-mindedly tapping her thin thighs, high up and on the inner side. "You said you were numb to emotion, I assume you mean mild ones, and strong enough emotions to cause tears would probably be far too physically intense to be considered safe, so yeah, I share a memory and you experience my feelings. You cry."

She twists around in his lap, her eyes scanning his face for the slightest sense of disgust or ulterior motives. This seems too good to be true. His brows furrow slightly as she does this, as if he's confused. Her eyes linger on this innocent expression of his inner state, and then she dives forward capturing his lips with hers. She can feel the surprise in his lips, but not in his body. Such duality, such surprises, such realness, such acceptance. Such thoughtfulness. Women would kill for a man like him and she just gets lucky? With closed eyes, she tries to convey the breadth and depth of her gratitude. She doesn't try to push her tongue into his mouth or suck on his lip, she's just contented and thankful.

As she draws back, she's vaguely aware that it might have been quite a long, dull, and boring kiss. Her eyes are still closed, unwilling to confirm his disappointment at the mostly static kiss but ever thankful that he was simply willing to wait her out. "People aren't as accepting of my freakishness." Her voice trembles, for once, she's ok with that. "Thanks."

Then she looks and finds only amusement written on his face. Maybe she shouldn't be surprised, he's been nothing but accepting and hasn't really played to her expectations so far, why would he start to now? "Then you're spending time with the wrong people woman. You're you, quirky and amusing and amazing, don't you dare let anyone tell you otherwise."

"People just aren't like you."

"I know."

And he just had to go ahead be act smug again. He flips her back around before pulling her snugly against his chest, "Like I said, your spending time with the wrong people." Then, handing her a wreathe, "Ready to mind meld?"

There's an eager smile across her lips, "Why not?" And she slips the wreath on.

It's patchwork software. A custom job. Her vision flickers for a split second before fading to black. The quietness is punctuated with short banter.

"Kid?" A tinge of worry.

"I ain't that young, ya know?"

"I can't see anything."

"A blind girl is more receptive to a good dicking, the anticipation heightens everything."

"But then she won't get to see how good she makes the guy feel. Do you even realize how hot someone getting off to you is?"

"Aww, I feel hurt that you'd think I'd blind ya so. Cuz when we get there, the sheer perverted delight on your face will be enough for me to spunk ya."

A few beats of silence, "I like it when you're assertive, and does it usually take this long?"

"It'll take as long as it needs to and you'll wait it out in my arms."

He plants a wet lick across her neck and she shivers, a full-body shiver this time. He adapts pretty fast, she can't complain.

And then her vision returns, fog coalescing into blurry shapes and sounds and smells which after about ten seconds suddenly sharpen into clarity. She experiences a fragment of his childhood — a younger version of herself, hand in hand with a bob-cut girl, giggling uncontrollably. Their mischievous plan to surprise their mother unfolds into a spectacular failure, a rush of fondness and longing. It isn't quite a memory though, more like she's seeing herself from afar but not. The wave of sheer unadulterated love that passes through her as she 'remembers' a cute kiddy version of herself holding hands with a bob-cut girl makes her eyes wet. The nostalgia, longing, desperate need to belong, not knowing why, and hilarity of their attempt create this pervasive happy-sad mix that leaves her half laughing, half choking. Her lungs burning for air.

She doesn't know how long it's been.

Tears trail down her cheeks.

As the scene fades away, her very distinct seen-through-her-own-eyes loft reappears behind the seen-but-not-quiet memory. Her eyes are wet, and she moves to wipe away the errant tears only to find her cheeks dry as when they began.

Those weren't her tears, those were his.

And that tips her over.

The openness and vulnerability, and hurt he was willing to show to her, a complete stranger . . . The trust and vulnerability and courage that takes . . . her own tears overflow, tracks warm even against her warm skin. Remnants from the sharing and this heady feeling of power that comes from an unknown man bearing out his life for her. Down from her eyes, against the side of her nose, up over the crest of her lip, down between her lips. She tastes them. Slightly salty. Through this emotional fuzz, normal reactions don't register.

Her tears fascinate her.

Was she really crying? She wipes it across her skin, a unique texture, like latex but smooth and not sticky.

She really is.

That sends even more tears down worn trails. She's really feeling things enough to cry! She's not a numb husk of a corporate human. She's alive. She's . . . She's burning up, her bra is too constricting against her nipples. Her shorts two layers too many. This man, this beautiful man, he deserves the best she can give him and she has denied him long enough. She slides off of him, hand eagerly reaching for his pants only to have it slapped away.

"No." It's almost growled.

She's grabbed by the neck and half-shoved, half-dragged till she's pinned against the windows.

"You thought I was lying. Playing you. Being polite" It's pained, "I was open and real and you doubted me through it all," pained and confused.

"No baby I–"

The hand's gone from around her neck and instead he'd bodily caging her in place, his forehead against the wall, their ears brushing against each other, "Don't 'baby' me." It's grim and ugly, "I'm going to show you just how much I meant everything." His tone has switched to low and dangerous, "Does your bed have a headboard? And do you got some rope?"

"You want to tie me up?" She regrets it from the moment the first word slips out, the incredulity in her voice doesn't help.

"And you still doubt me after sharing that with you?!"

Her body is wound up and coiled in. Guilt she realizes, "No, it 's just that–" He can't possibly be in his comfort zone, if he's done so much she can acquiesce this much. "Upstairs. Sorry."

She's being half pulled, half dragged towards the only staircase in her house and even though she can keep up, she feels like she doesn't deserve to. She's shoved sitting into the bed instead of thrown sprawled across it.

"Rope?" It's determined and impatient.

"I don't have any," she's fidgeting with her hand and her voice is small.

He invades her space, his hand running the length of her abs and smoothly down her shorts, curling into her cunt without any trouble. And then he pushes (pulls?) her up the bed, "When I said that I'd drag you to heaven by your cunt, I wasn't kidding." She doesn't register the two forceful circles he rubs around her clit in quick succession before he centers his thumb over it and pinches from both outside and inside. Her pelvis tightens, her back arches off the bed, and he immediately pulls out.

She's on the edge. Was she really so keyed up? Her hand instinctively moves to her pussy, but is immediately blocked. She tries to close her legs but that fails too. Her arms are pinned down at the biceps by his, her thighs pinned under his shins. She later notes that he'd have to have implants to pin her legs in place. Far too fast for her pent-up, release-craving mind, she's shackled to the bedposts. Where did strengthware safe handcuffs come from? She doesn't know. Does it matter? heck no, because he's biting down on her shoulder again. One knee tantalizingly just out of reach to her cunt.

Despite the pain, she's writhing, trying to break free, reach her wet folds. But it's futile. The pain is clearing up her mind just enough and the pressure in her pelvis is reducing. And then he trails his tongue and lips down to her exposed nipples. Not tiny pert ones but big distinctive buds. Chocolate on bronze skin. Sensitive as hell. His greedy gnawing and nibbling has her back on edge. The strain she feels between her legs is so bad it might almost border on pain.

Then he's away again, pants pulled down in a hurry. The strain remains. The pain not so much. And then he strokes himself maddening slowly, fully in her vision from in between her legs. Legs that rattle the handcuffs and bed but are no closer to touching, she can't take this. It's cruel. The pressure is bordering on uncomfortable now.

And he's back onto the bed, sweat beading along his neck, "Do you know how god damned hard it is not instantly climax to you squirming so desperately?" It's less words and more growl, "Do you?" She does. He climbs over her, body to body, sweat and lust pooling around them as he thrusts into her, deep and fast, all the way in, then all the way out. And in that tiny instant that passes, she's both full and has her non-existent dick clamped down on, her eyes roll back, and her neck seems to want to shrink into her chest. Her mind is completely blank and full and occupied by sensation. She's slammed back into reality — into the bed — by greedy lips around hers, tongue darting into hers, while also wantonly sucking at her. Doing everything and nothing all at once. Desire and want and need freely offered to each other. Literally and by link.

The pressure in her cunt isn't normal. It's uncomfortable. She needs it out. She can't stand it anymore. Her unending writhing is now directed against his body desperately hoping to rub one out against him. Despair sinks into her desperation. He's draped over her, his dick captured between then pressing into her stomach. Each thunderclap of pleasure from her desperate writhing against his dick feeding back into her, winding her up tighter and faster than ever before. And fear joins the mix, she is terrified of what this will do to her. Is it even safe? And the sheer feeling of wanting and arousal tiding over from him. And add to that the fact that he finds her desperate need so very very hot that any more proper stimulation would have him cumming all over her? The fact that she did that to him?

God! She clenches so darn tight, pinpricks of tears blossom at the corners of her eyes. There's no friction and she might as well tear her cunt apart clenching on thin air before she cums, never finding her orgasm. He wouldn't do that to her now would he? He's not that cruel right?

And then there's all-consuming despair, She brought this on herself didn't she? By distrusting him and putting him into the ground? Ignoring his feelings? Tears flow freely down the sides of her cheeks.

She's once again brought out of her mind but gentle hands redirecting her gaze to his blue eyes, his blond bun now sprawled over his shoulders and partly cutting them off from the world like a far too short curtain. His voice is oh so soft and gentle when he asks "It hurts doesn't it?"

A broken nod is all she can do. Her eyes close, and more tears flow. She tries to hold them back by closing her eyes. And the burning, faraway untouchable pain in her pelvis is in the front of her mind again. It's far away and haunting but also somehow simultaneously intense and all-encompassing. As if her clit was a candle wick, intensely hot and exposed and burning up. The rest of her pelvis the wax fueling it, compressed, tight, melting, tearing apart, her pussy lips just molten wax streaking down the sides and solidifying again and again and again in an endless cycle of agony.

She feels the need to apologize. She deserves this, and he deserves an apology so she does her best to choke out a pained, mangled "sorry." She can't find enough presence in her fracturing mind to say more, and she wishes and hopes and pleads for her own sanity that he'll have mercy.

His voice is centering, a welcome distraction, "If I'm dragging you to heaven by the cunt, it's gotta be you overstimulated and sobbing . . ."

And then he lifts her waist up and forces her feet by her head. His hands swipe predatorily across her wet dripping cunt. So wet that a few drops of her juices dripped down her stomach when he folded her in half.

"Only with your own tears down your dainty cheeks . . ."

So he really cares! There's a method to his madness. This was all for her?

The dam breaks.

She sobs freely. She doesn't know whether it's from joy or desperation or doubt or defeat.

"Your clit's so hard it's like it wants to leave your body, dattebasa?" There's an attempt at a chuckle somewhere but the lust drowns it out.

He cups one hand loosely over her thighs and plump lips squeezed between them, rears back almost horizontal, and starts thrusting. She can feel the friction against his own uncomfortably hard cock as it slides between her folds, his slick-coated hands, and over her clit.

It's almost a thighjob. She feels it as he does, slick with so many layers. Intoxicating.

She also feels the fucking torture he's putting her clit through. Pain rings up through her like someone stuck a tuning fork up her cunt, one prong jammed hard against her clit.

And with the next stroke going between her thighs, her cunt is to explode. Her eyes roll into her head, her body tenses up so bad that it's violently shuddering in place. And that bastard doesn't stop, he's still thrusting past her clit and between her thighs. The friction she produces against his dick being passed on back to her is driving her crazy. Melting her mind. Her own tuning fork on clit pain keeps her sane, prolonging this horrible pleasurable high that's threatening to shatter her body. She's screaming and choking and sobbing. She doesn't know anymore. And then the fucker cums, it's too much.

Her body's shuddering and arching and twisting. Her pelvis just feels wrong.

The blackness that follows is a welcome respite.


Whiskers is twitching and heaving, bent over Sami's limp and still semi-regularly shuddering body. He needs to get his shit together. He rolls off her body before pulling a small finger-length vial from his pants on the floor. The injector at the end goes straight into the bitemark on her neck from earlier. He should hopefully have an hour at the very least, but with cyberware, nothing is certain anymore.

That stereotype of sexy girls sleeping with men to get information? True. But also the reason powerful men are always cautious around good girls who give so easily. But hot guys? Women never see them coming.

He rolls off and pads into her loft naked. The lack of walls was unexpected, but it doesn't matter. He has a mission to complete.


Notes:

I've decided to put in a selection of interesting/informative research and other random tidbits I stumbled over while writing this chapter:

- Dacryphillia is a thing, I've taken some creative liberties with it in this fic though. It's emotional vulnerability that get through to them usually, not pain or acute emotional distress.

- Sami mentions how it's 'that time of the month' — positive changes in women's brains over the menstrual cycle ( BBC (D0T) com /future/article/20180806-how-the-menstrual-cycle-changes-womens-brains-every-month) — It's roughly the middle of her cycle.

- Sami is in part inspired by Gwen Jorgensen, the triathlon athlete.