A happy ending?
For folks like us?
Wrong city, wrong people.
Night city promised all manner of things. Fame. Glory. Riches. Pleasure. Decadence. An escape. Endless indulgence. Every manner of sin and Vice and hedonistic distraction you could ever imagine. But happiness? Well, no, not per-se. The only happiness Night City ever promised were the moment to moment “happinesses”, the transient satisfaction found at the bottom of a bottle, lurking in a syringe, or inside the velvet embrace of a Joy-Toys cunt.
That was your job.
You were just making people happy.
At least that’s what you told yourself. How you justified your life as a joytoy. It made it easier to look yourself in the mirror.
You weren’t ashamed of being a prostitute;not in a city like Night City where everyone either had blood on their hands, dirt on their knees, and filth of one kind or another running in their veins. Innocence didn’t exist in this city, and nobody was pure enough to judge.
Nonetheless. You’d done things as a Joy Toy that you never thought you would. In the year or so you’ve been working this job you’ve been used in ways you hadn’t imagined. It let you live, reasonably comfortably. You weren’t on the street, you had some cyberware to facilitate your job and daily life, both functional and cosmetic, and you had avoided falling to the bottom of the joytoy heap where girls like you became truly broken.
Looking in the mirror difficult without a reassurance like. “I make people happy.”
Perhaps you’ve even enjoyed more than a few of the things you’ve experienced. And sometimes that makes looking into the mirror even more difficult.
But you make people happy. You put the joy in Joy Toy.
And you took what joy you could, too. Because it was the only thing giving you one more day before Night City broke you.
A happy ending?
For folks like you?
Wrong city.
Wrong people.
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In his culture, a name was a powerful thing. A source of meaning. Unlike most clans, gangs, cultures, and the general riff-raff of the world, the Reaver clan held names sacred. Names were considered the first shaping of a person, the first molding of the being that would one day walk the world for good or Ill. Agmundr, or ‘Ag’ to the very few people who knew him well, was a man living in conflict with his name, and thus, with himself.
Agmundr meant respectful or steady protector. Agmundr the protector, imprinted on Ag’s soul since birth. A guiding principle, an ideal he had been striving before he knew words, since before he knew what an ideal even was. Ag’s entire life revolved around that fierce, steady protector he was destined to be, the calling he felt as deep as bone and sinew.
The naming, then tormented him all the more grievously, now that he’d failed to live up to it.
The Reavers were a small but fearsome clan. Or gang, as Night City coined them. Even back in their home country, half a world away in Europe, the Reavers were dying out. Too few from the start and fewer with every generation. The small, terribly proud, terrifyingly fierce warrior clan traced their bloodlines back to a heritage of warriors a thousand years gone and a thousand more. And though times changed, the Reavers adapted, changed, replacing steel axe with one of synthetic, cybernetic sharpness, and an iron sword for an iron of a more modern era. And year by year, the Reavers faded, and their glory dimmed, but they raged against the inevitable dying of the light, and if they were to go into that good night, they would not go alone.
For as fearsome and proud as they were, the Reavers should have never come to Night City. Agmundr knew it in his bones as soon as he and a handful of his clansmen set foot in the place, drawn, as everyone inevitably were, to the false promise of glory and prosperty, Night City’s ever-present siren call deception. It was no place for men of honor, even a violent and savage honor such as theirs.
Ag was a protector. By blood and by name and by nature. But in the end, he could not protect his clansmen, as Night City took them one by one, doing what it does to all who venture into its heart.
Until only Ag remained.
He could have returned home, once. He had the means. And he would have been welcomed back, as his ancestors had been welcomed back, come home from the raids so many, many years ago.
But he could not bring himself to leave. Too full of wounds and too full of pride, was Ag. He could not let the loss of his clansmen go. Could not let the loss of his pride as a protector, go. Night City had taken too much from him.
And he was determined to take that and more from the city in turn.
Years pass. Ag becomes a Solo and sets about a bloody quest to amass wealth, power, glory, and a means to strike back at Night City and all its ugly wretchedness in any way he can, no matter how ineffectual. He fights, and he seeths, and he feels the violence he does warring with the void where his protective spirit and honor once lived. The dual nature of his honor and his hate festering inside, filling the void where his protective heart once sat. And while Ag does not grow cruel, per-se, he does grow cold, and detached, and his reflection in the mirror is that of a stranger.
Like his ancestors, Agmundr has become a force of nature, a fury fierce enough to survive the merciless brutality of Night City.
But while the city cannot kill the fearsome might of the Reaver’s body, it doesn’t have to, for his spirit languor’s and fades, sick with the warring natures his life has become, with only his iron will to sustain the increasingly isolated warrior.
And, for all its ugliness and wicked ways…Night City is nothing if not patient.
Ag is a mountain of a man, even without his chrome and implants. Tall, with imposing, broad shoulders and a thickly muscled back, Ag’s build is nonetheless athletic and lean, giving him a devastating blend of speed and power, all reinforced by his implants and augments that are designed to push his body to the limits of performance. Despite this, Ag isn’t as heavily chromed up as the Maelstrom.
Ag’s hair was a thick, ruddy red, long and tied in a tail at the back of his head and rolling down to the middle of his shoulderblades. The sides and back of his head were shaven to the scalp in an undercut, and there was streaks of chrome at the sides of his head. His eyes were a fierce silver gray that ought to have been artificial in color but were, unbelievably, his natural color. A scar creased the right side of his face from his prominent, strong brow down to his thick, curly red beard that hung from his wide, set chin. Ag would be considered ruggedly handsome, if everything about his appearance and general demeanor didn’t scream ‘danger: do not fuck with me’. Chrome flashed most obviously at the points where Ag would be intent on damaging people; his knuckles, his elbows and knees, his shins and feet all sported solid chrome plating to deliver heavier punishment, while steel platting protected his vital organs, woven just under synthetic skin.
Though heavily Chromed, Ag knew the cost of going too far into cyberware, the inevitable creep of Cybersychosis. And while tempting, Ag reckoned that in his (sometimes admittedly nebulous) crusade to get back at Night City for all it had stolen from him, going Cyberpsycho would only be yet another way for Night City to have the last laugh. Ag was wreckless; sometimes horrifyingly so, and his fierceness in battle knew no caution. But he could not settle a score from the grave. And so he constantly balanced on that edge of chroming up, but staying on just this side of the tipping point into cyberpsychosis.
Agmundr was a man of duality, and it was never more prominently seen than the difference of him in battle vs him at peace. In a fight, Ag was a berserker, his iron firing hot and true, spitting lead and mowing down his enemies with no mercy, his cyberware axe flashing with glowing hot super-heated blade to cleave through anything within its reach. Though not a legend, not yet, Ag was quickly gaining a notoriety of street cred painting him as a force of nature more than a man.
When he wasn’t awash in battle fury, Ag was a pensive, thoughtful man often too consumed with the ghosts of his past and his failures, both real and perceived. He Stoic by nature and possessing an iron will, Ag nonetheless struggled silently to contain the roil of conflicting natures and emotions that plagued him, the clash of his violent lifestyle as a solo divorced for his protective nature, now that he had nobody to protect. And no matter how Agmundr focused his will on gaining the power to make Night City itself feel even a fraction of his pain, in his quiet, private moments, he couldn’t deny the hole in his spirit that left him feeling utterly hollow and incomplete.
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Hey DPP, thanks for reading my prompt.
I’m looking for a Joytoy to be a long form roleplay writing partner opposite my solo, either here in Reddit DMs or on Discord. I am literate, detailed, and descriptive in my writing and tend to write anywhere from 5 paragraphs to longer per post, and I’m looking for the same. I will post anywhere from once or twice a day to multiple times depending on my schedule and availability. I appreciate partners who are similarly flexible.
We could play this RP out a number of ways. Maybe I am a customer and visit you after a particularly taxing mission, feeling battle worn and a bit shell shocked. Maybe I am mid-mission and you somehow get entangled in violence unfolding around you, an innocent bystander, and I decide to save and protect you from the unfolding violence. I would be interested in discussing the way this all starts and formulating a plan together, or can present a few scenarios to choose from if you like.
The interplay of our characters can be whatever we like and agree upon. Maybe you and I start out hating eachother and disagreeing and slowly move toward caring for and understanding one another. Maybe we are deeply infatuated with eachother from the beginning. Maybe we are at odds and distrusting but cannot keep our hands off eachother. Let’s discuss how we’d like this to align and build this together.
Kink wise here are some of my top, all of which are relatively optional or tweakable:
Kinks: rough sex, deepthroating, anal sex, ass play, power exchange, free use, cock worship, scent kink, cock cleaning, cock warming, creampies, throat pies, breeding kink, choking, slapping, spitting, spitting in mouth, eager and willing submission, orgasm control, orgasm denial, orgasm on command, multiple (many) orgasms, overstimulation, braindead from too many orgasms, mild humiliation/degradation, objectification, raceplay(mild), wholesomeness, aftercare, praise kink, size difference, Big Cock.
Limits include: vomit, scat, underaged, heavy sexual violence (rough sex is fine) feet stuff, likely more but those are the immediate standouts.
For the sake of transparency, I’m married. My wife know I roleplay and enjoys reading all my roleplays. If that’s a deal breaker I understand.
Please DM me if you like what you read here and if we click we can move to Discord if you prefer that.
Have a good day, and looking forward to hearing from you, Chooms.
