That lazy morning haze after tangling with Rogue again? It wrapped around V like a warm, sticky fog, the kind that lingers after a night of pure, unfiltered fire, making every muscle ache in the best damn way. Her cramped little Heywood apartment—walls patched with flickering holo-posters of old merc legends, a beat-up couch sagging under the weight of scattered chrome parts, and a kitchenette that smelled faintly of synth-coffee and last night's takeout—felt intimate, almost too small with Rogue lounging right there beside her. The fixer queen looked like sin incarnate, sprawled out in just her lacy black bra that hugged her firm, pierced breasts like a second skin, straps slipping teasingly over her scarred shoulders, and those tight leather pants clinging to her toned legs. Silver hair tousled wild from their romp, she sipped black coffee from a chipped mug V had scavenged from some dingy diner, steam rising slow and seductive, curling around her sharp features. Rogue's aura was effortless dominance, even in repose—eyes half-lidded, watching V with that predatory gleam that said she could flip the switch from casual to commanding in a heartbeat.
V paced the room in her loose silk robe, the fabric so thin it whispered against her pale skin with every step, barely tied at the waist and gaping open just enough to flash deep glimpses of her voluptuous cleavage, the swell of her heavy breasts threatening to spill free. The robe rode up her thighs as she moved, hinting at the curve of her ass and the fresh Afterlife skull tattoo on her hip, still tender and raised from Rogue's inking. She felt Rogue's gaze on her like a physical touch, stirring that low heat again, but V's mind was already grinding gears—shifting from the night's ecstasy to the cold calculus of the Militech gig. God, how they'd hooked up again? It was this magnetic pull, casual as a street deal but intense as a firefight, reigniting like they'd never cooled off.
It all sparked the evening before, right after Rogue handed over that data shard in the Afterlife's back booth. V had slipped home alone, mind buzzing with the mission's risks, but Rogue showed up uninvited—her knock firm and insistent, like she owned the night. V opened the door, robe already loose from a quick shower, and there she was: Rogue leaning against the frame, eyes dark with hunger, that smirk playing on her lips. "Couldn't shake you from my head, kid," Rogue had growled, stepping inside without a word of invitation, her hands immediately finding V's waist, fingers digging into the soft flare of her hips through the silk. V's breath hitched, body responding instantly—that casual flame they shared flaring up hot and needy. No drama, no declarations; just two women who knew how to scratch each other's itches without complications.
They crashed together right there in the narrow hallway, backs against the wall, kisses turning fierce and demanding from the jump. Rogue's lips claimed V's with bruising force, tongue invading deep, tasting of smoke and tequila as her teeth nipped at V's lower lip hard enough to draw a sharp gasp and a trickle of blood that only fueled the fire. V moaned into her mouth, hands fisting in Rogue's jacket, yanking it open to expose that lacy bra, her palms sliding up to grope those firm breasts, thumbs flicking over pierced nipples that hardened under her touch. "Fuck, Rogue... you always know how to start this," V panted, arching as Rogue's knee pushed between her thighs, grinding against her core through the robe.
Rogue chuckled low, a rumble that vibrated through them both, her hands roaming possessively—sliding up to untie the robe's sash, letting it fall open completely. V's voluptuous body was bared: those full, heavy breasts heaving with each ragged breath, pale skin glowing under the apartment's dim lights, subdermal tattoos flickering faintly as her adrenaline spiked. Rogue's eyes devoured her, hands following suit—groping V's tits roughly, squeezing the soft weight, rolling nipples between fingers until they ached deliciously. "These curves... goddamn masterpiece," Rogue murmured, mouth descending hot and wet to latch onto one breast, sucking hard on the peak while her tongue swirled circles, teeth grazing just enough to sting. V cried out, head thunking back against the wall, her hips bucking into Rogue's thigh for more friction, heat pooling slick between her legs.
They stumbled toward the bedroom, a trail of discarded clothes in their wake—Rogue's jacket tossed, pants unbuckled but staying on for that teasing edge, her bra straps slipping down her arms to expose more of those scarred, toned breasts. V pushed her down onto the bed with a surge of strength, straddling those powerful thighs, robe pooling around her waist like a forgotten prop. She ground down hard, feeling Rogue's heat through the leather, her own breasts bouncing with the motion as she leaned in for a deep kiss—tongues tangling wild, bites on necks and shoulders leaving red marks that would bruise come morning. Rogue's hands were everywhere: gripping V's wide hips, guiding her rhythm, then sliding back to knead her ass, fingers digging deep into the firm cheeks, spanking lightly to elicit sharp moans. "Ride me like you mean it, beautiful," Rogue commanded, voice husky, but V had other ideas.
She flipped the script, sliding down Rogue's body with predatory grace, biting along her collarbone, sucking on a pierced nipple hard enough to make Rogue hiss and arch. "My turn to drive you crazy," V whispered, hands unbuckling Rogue's pants, yanking them down to expose her slick heat. V's tongue delved in without mercy—lapping slow at first, savoring the taste, then faster, circling her clit with expert flicks while two fingers thrust deep, curling to hit that sweet spot. Rogue bucked wildly, hands fisting in V's raven hair, pulling her closer as growls turned to moans. "Shit... yes, just like that, don't stop," Rogue gasped, her body trembling, scars flexing under V's free hand that groped her breast, pinching and twisting the nipple.
The intensity built—Rogue coming first, hips jerking as waves crashed over her, flooding V's mouth with her release. But she wasn't done; flipping V onto her back with surprising speed, Rogue grabbed the strap from V's bedside drawer—a thick, veined toy that promised fullness. She strapped it on quick, eyes locked on V's spread form: breasts splayed invitingly, hips wide and waiting, ass sinking into the sheets. "Gonna pound you senseless," Rogue promised, entering slow at first—stretching V inch by inch, the fat length filling her completely, making her gasp and clutch the sheets. Then the rhythm turned wild: deep, hard thrusts that slapped skin on skin, Rogue's hips snapping forward with force, driving deeper each time. V's curves jiggled with the impact—breasts bouncing wildly, ass rippling as Rogue's hands groped everywhere: spanking cheeks red, then up to squeeze tits, pulling V back onto the toy for even deeper penetration.
"Fuck... harder, Rogue!" V begged, legs wrapping around her waist, nails raking down her back, drawing thin lines of blood that only spurred Rogue on. Bites littered V's neck and shoulders, teeth sinking in as Rogue pounded relentlessly, the bed creaking under them. Pleasure coiled tight in V's core, building to a shattering climax—she clenched hard around the toy, screaming Rogue's name as ecstasy ripped through her, waves pulsing endless. Rogue followed, grinding through her own aftershocks, collapsing atop V in a sweaty, tangled mess. They laughed breathlessly, bodies entwined, casual kisses lingering as they caught their breath—no clingy words, just that satisfied hum of two equals sharing heat.
Now, in the morning light filtering through the grimy windows, V's focus sharpened like a monoblade on the Militech infiltration. Rogue lounged beside her on the couch, bra straps still askew, teasing the edge of her nipples as she sipped her coffee, one leg draped casually over the armrest. The air smelled of sex and caffeine, a heady mix that kept the tension simmering low. "Diving straight in, huh?" Rogue asked, voice amused and gravelly from the night's moans, setting her mug down to trace a finger along V's exposed thigh where the robe had parted. "Thought you'd want round three first."
V smirked, settling next to her, the robe gaping wider to flash more of her cleavage, a nipple peeking teasingly. She felt the pull—that casual intimacy they shared—but the gig called louder. "Tempting, but Militech won't hack itself." Plugging the shard into her deck, the holo-projector flickered to life, bathing the room in blue schematics: the Badlands black-site sprawled like a fortress of death—razor wire perimeters, humming drone swarms, armed patrols in Militech red. V's Kiroshi optics whirred, scanning every detail: guard rotations ticking like clocks, access points glowing red-hot, the prototype AVs and neural-linked drones buried deep in secure vaults. "Security's a nightmare—biometrics everywhere, AI overwatch that'd spot a ghost. Need an inside edge, someone to slip me through the cracks."
Rogue leaned in closer, her bra-clad breast pressing warm against V's arm, sending a little jolt of heat. "That's your specialty, kid. Use the playbook—that body of yours is the ultimate hack. Find a weak link, bend 'em to your will." Her hand slid higher on V's thigh, thumb stroking the sensitive inner skin, but V stayed focused, fingers flying over the deck's controls. She dove into the intel: employee manifests scrolling endless, psych profiles popping up with vulnerabilities highlighted—addictions, debts, secret kinks. Cross-referencing with street nets, net dives into shadowy corpo forums where gonks spilled dirt for creds.
The hours dragged into a focused blur—Rogue refilling coffee, her casual touches keeping things charged: a hand on V's lower back, fingers brushing the tattoo on her hip, stirring memories of the needle's sting mixed with pleasure. V muttered to herself, piecing it together. "Too low-level... nah, he'd crack under pressure... wait, this one." The profile locked in: Meredith Stout, Militech's acquisitions shark—a higher-up with a rep for ice-cold deals and brutal takedowns. Looked every bit the corpo powerhouse: sharp jaw, athletic build under crisp suits, eyes like laser sights. But V's hacks unearthed gold—whispers from joytoy black markets, encrypted chats in seedy netrooms. "Holy shit," V breathed, zooming in. "She's futanari. Looks all woman, but packing serious heat—a fat cock, from the leaks. And a total weakness for curves like mine. Jackpot."
Rogue laughed low, her hand squeezing V's thigh possessively, fingers inching under the robe. "Knew you'd sniff out the juicy bits. Seduce her slow, get under her skin—use that access. But watch your back; Stout's no pushover. She's got teeth." V nodded, mind already mapping the play: honeytrap dialed to eleven, building intimacy over time to extract every drop without suspicion. Over the next month, she'd weave a web of romance and lust, turning Stout's desires into her gateway.
The seduction kicked off subtle, like a stealth hack slipping past firewalls. V cracked Stout's schedule first—spotting her at a swanky City Center bar, the kind with velvet booths for "private negotiations" and drinks that cost more than a week's rent. V dressed to destroy: a crimson dress that clung like wet paint, low-cut neckline plunging deep to showcase her full, heaving breasts, fabric stretching taut over her narrow waist and wide hips, the skirt slit high to flash toned thigh with every step. Her ass swayed hypnotically as she entered, turning heads, but her optics locked on Stout at the bar—sipping whiskey, suit sharp but eyes weary from corpo bullshit.
V "accidentally" bumped her, spilling a splash of her own drink on Stout's sleeve. "Oh fuck, sorry about that!" V exclaimed, leaning in close to dab at it with a napkin, her cleavage right in Stout's eyeline, breasts brushing her arm "unintentionally." The scent of V's perfume—musky and inviting—wafted over, and Stout's gaze dipped, lingering on the soft swell, a flush creeping up her neck.
Stout cleared her throat, eyes flicking up with a mix of annoyance and interest. "No damage done. Careful next time." But she didn't pull away, and V pressed the advantage, flashing a sultry smile.
"Let me make it up—buy you a replacement?" V purred, sliding onto the stool next to her, crossing legs to let the slit flash more skin. They chatted easy at first: corpo gripes, Night City's chaos. V played the enigmatic merc with ex-corpo vibes, flirting light—touching Stout's arm, laughing at her dry jokes, her breasts rising with each breath to draw eyes. Stout bit, buying the next round, her hand brushing V's knee under the bar. "You're not like the usual barflies," Stout said, voice lowering, eyes tracing V's curves. "What's your story?"
V leaned closer, breath warm on Stout's ear. "One that'll keep you up at night. Call me V." Numbers swapped, and as V sauntered out, hips rolling, she felt Stout's stare on her ass like a targeting laser. Hook sunk.
The romance built over weeks, a slow burn turning wild—dates in hidden spots where intimacy could bloom without eyes. First real one: a dimly lit Watson diner, V in a tight tank top that strained over her ample bosom, nipples perking in the cool air, paired with shorts hugging her ass. They talked deeper—Stout opening up about Militech's cutthroat ladder, V sharing fabricated "corpo exile" tales that mirrored enough truth to bond. Stout's hand found V's under the table, fingers interlacing, then sliding to her thigh. "You intrigue me," Stout admitted, eyes dark with want. V pulled her into a booth kiss—soft at first, then hungry, tongues exploring as Stout's palm cupped V's breast through the top, squeezing gently.
Back at Stout's sleek Corpo Plaza apartment—sterile luxury with views of the sprawl—things ignited. Clothes shed slow: Stout peeling V's top, eyes widening at her bare breasts, hands groping the heavy weight, thumbs circling nipples. "God, these are perfect," Stout breathed, mouth latching on, sucking hard while biting lightly, sending jolts through V. V moaned, hands unbuckling Stout's pants, freeing that fat cock—thick and veined, hardening in her grip. "You're huge... can't wait to feel you," V whispered, dropping to her knees, taking her deep—sucking slow and wet, tongue swirling the head as Stout groaned, hips thrusting gently, hands in V's hair.
They moved to the bed, Stout flipping V onto her back, biting down her neck, sucking breasts until they ached red, then lower—tongue delving into V's heat, lapping wild as fingers thrust deep. V writhed, "Yes... fuck, Meredith!" Climax hit her hard, but Stout wasn't done—entering slow, that fat length stretching her wide, then pounding deep and rough, hands groping ass, spanking as thrusts slapped loud. V's legs wrapped tight, nails raking Stout's back, breasts bouncing wildly. "Harder... own me!" V begged, and Stout obliged, biting her shoulder as she came, filling V hot and deep, their shared release a shuddering storm.
Intimacy grew with each meet—Stout softening, sharing more: frustrations with Militech bosses, hints at black-site ops. V listened, pillow talk turning to gold—access codes whispered post-orgasm, guard shifts mentioned in casual chats. Another date: a rooftop bar overlooking the Combat Zone, V in a backless dress, ass on display as she leaned over the railing. Stout pulled her close, hands sliding under to grope breasts from behind, whispering filthy promises. Back home, wildness peaked—Stout tying V's wrists with her tie, pounding her against the window, deep thrusts making V's curves slam against glass, bites on her tits leaving marks, intimacy blending with raw lust.
Over the month, V extracted every detail: drone patterns from a mid-fuck hack on Stout's comms, vault codes from a drowsy confession. Stout fell deeper, eyes softening with something like affection. "You're more than a fling, V," she admitted one night, after a session of slow, intimate pounding—missionary deep, kisses lingering as she groped and sucked breasts tenderly. V faked reciprocity, but inside, the gig ticked down.
Heist night: V arrived via Stout's "personal invite," posing as arm candy for an "off-site consult." The Badlands site loomed—dusty bunkers under starry skies, patrols marching crisp. V ghosted away during a "powder room" break, heart slamming as she quickhacked perimeter cams—loops frying silent, no blips. Drones hummed overhead; V rolled under one, sand grinding into her skin, mantis blades itching but holstered—stealth mode. A guard duo approached; she hacked the lead's optics mid-stride, daemon spawning hallucinations—him firing at shadows, distracting his buddy as V slipped past, pulse racing.
Deeper halls: sterile white, buzzing terminals. Server room guarded; V quickhacked the panel, door hissing open undetected. Inside, deck jacked in—data flowing smooth, blueprints sucking into her shard. Action flared: a roving patrol glitched closer, boots echoing. V hacked his implant fast—inducing "cyberpsycho glitch," him convulsing silent on the floor, foaming as she finished the transfer. Clean exit: framing a low-level tech via backdoor plant—digital trails of "embezzlement hacks," his face on the logs.
Back with Stout, V played innocent, sealing the night with one last wild fuck—Stout pounding her senseless, groping and biting as always, no clue her weakness had doomed the op. V ghosted after, data secure, frame sticking solid—some poor gonk arrested, Stout's rep intact.
Home to Rogue—bra and pants lounging, coffee steaming. "Nailed it?" she asked, eyes gleaming.
V stripped her robe, grinning wicked. "Flawless." But deep down, the corruption bloomed—that high of seduction, intimacy twisted for gain, Night City's vices calling louder. Legends built on flesh and fire.