Lucy

The hum of Night City's underbelly vibrated through the cracked concrete walls of the repurposed Arasaka warehouse, now a clandestine chapel strung with holographic vines and flickering LED roses. It was 2078, and weddings like this one skirted corpo oversight—quick, anonymous, sealed with a neural handshake rather than rings. The air reeked of synthetic incense and ozone from the jury-rigged altar projector, casting ethereal blue glows over the sparse crowd: a handful of edgerunners, fixers, and joytoys who'd crashed for the free booze. Hours earlier, the pre-ceremony had unfolded in a haze of cheap champagne and last-minute hacks. Lucy had arrived in her bridal gown, the satin whispering against her skin as she stepped from the armored AV, her pastel rainbow hair catching the neon bleed from overhead signs. You'd helped her adjust the veil in the back room, your fingers brushing the synthetic skin over her deep-dive port, and she'd met your eyes with that quiet, unreadable stare, murmuring a soft "...Ready whenever."

Now, the officiant—a grizzled netrunner with chrome eyes—droned through the vows in a monotone augmented by vocal mods, the words echoing off exposed rebar. Lucy stood before you at the altar, her form a vision of restrained allure in the sexy ball-gown, the white satin hugging her slender build like a second skin. The high slit on her left leg parted just enough to tease the creamy expanse of her thick, plush thighs, those strong yet impossibly soft pillars that pressed together with a subtle quiver, promising to envelop you in their warm, yielding grip later. No bra restrained her full, heavy breasts; they strained against the low bodice, rounded and prominent, spilling softly with each shallow breath, her pale pink nipples faintly visible through the sheer fabric, hardening into tempting peaks that begged for rough hands or hungry mouths. Her heart-shaped ass curved generously beneath the gown's drape, plush and hypnotic, the kind that jiggled with every subtle shift of her weight, inviting you to imagine sinking your fingers into its cushioned softness, spreading it wide to reveal the thin white thong nestled between.

Lucy tilts her head slightly, her red-purple eyes reflecting the holographic lights like shattered prisms, locking onto yours with serene detachment.

Moon's probably nicer than this dump, but... this'll do. Warm enough here with them.

The officiant nods to you. You repeat the neural vow prompt, your voice steady as the link pings in your optics—binding Lucyna to your last name in the city's undergrid registry. Lucy's response is minimal, a faint "...I do," her voice soft and even, like a whisper over static. But her body tells more: a deeper breath making her breasts rise and fall, jiggling enticingly, her thighs shifting just enough to widen the slit, exposing more of that smooth, creamy skin that flushes faintly pink.

She reaches out, her gloved fingers brushing your wrist in a rare flicker of tenderness, the elegant choker at her throat bobbing as she swallows.

Feels... content. Whatever comes next.

The crowd murmurs approval, but Lucy's gaze stays on you, neutral yet inviting, as if waiting for your lead—whether to seal it with a kiss, or something more immediate, more primal, right here under the flickering holos. Her laidback apathy hums beneath it all: strip her now, fuck her without asking, and she'd comply with that same straight face, her heavy breasts bouncing freely, ass arching back, thighs wrapping tight, quietly savoring the heat building between you.

Lucy steps closer, the bouquet of white roses clutched loosely in one hand, her free elbow-gloved arm looping lightly around your neck.

"...Your wife now," she murmurs, voice barely above the hum of the city outside. Her skin radiates warmth through the gown, her curves pressing against you—full breasts squishing softly, nipples grazing your chest like electric promises, her plump ass just a hand's reach away, thighs parting instinctively as if to say, take what you want.

Nice... easy like this. Don't care how it goes, as long as it's us.

The underbelly chapel in the gutted Arasaka warehouse pulsed with the same low-grade chaos as any Night City ceremony that dodged corpo licensing fees. Holographic roses flickered like dying fireflies against rusted girders, synthetic incense clashed with the faint metallic tang of coolant leaks, and the sparse gathering of edgerunners, runners, and hangers-on nursed their drinks while the AV engines outside idled like impatient beasts. Earlier, in the dim back room while you adjusted Lucy’s veil, you’d half-joked—half-meant it—about her walking down the aisle without the gown, just the choker, heels, thong, and that flowing white veil trailing behind like a surrender flag. She’d only tilted her head, red-purple eyes catching the low light, and murmured a soft “…If that’s what you want.” No blush, no protest, no questions. Just quiet acceptance, the way she always did when the moment felt easy enough.

Now the officiant—a chrome-eyed fixer with a voice modulator that made every syllable sound like bad synth—reached the point where tradition demanded vows. The projector cast pale blue halos over the altar, and Lucy stood there already stripped of pretense.

She had walked out exactly as you’d suggested.

The satin ball-gown lay discarded in a careless heap near the side entrance, abandoned the moment the doors slid open. Lucy stepped forward barefoot on the cold concrete at first, then slipped back into her white high heels with unhurried grace, each click echoing like a deliberate heartbeat. The thin white thong clung to her hips, barely a whisper of lace that disappeared between the generous, heart-shaped swell of her plump ass—cheeks so full and cushioned they jiggled softly with every measured step, the pale skin glowing under the holos, inviting every eye in the room to linger on the hypnotic sway. Her thick, plush thighs pressed together just enough to create that enticing crease at the top, creamy flesh dimpling faintly where muscle met softness, strong enough to lock around you later, soft enough to make your hands ache to grip and spread them wide.

Above, nothing restrained her full, heavy breasts. They bounced freely with each stride down the makeshift aisle, perfectly rounded and prominent against her slender frame, pale pink nipples already peaked and sharp from the cool air and the weight of attention. The natural spill of them swayed enticingly, heavy yet firm, begging to be palmed, squeezed, or watched as they jiggled harder with more vigorous motion. The elegant choker hugged her throat like a collar of quiet possession, the rose tiara still pinned neatly, and the long veil cascaded down her back, brushing the tops of her ass cheeks with every movement—a bridal ghost trailing a naked body that radiated serene indifference to the stares, the murmurs, the sudden hush that fell over the crowd.

Lucy stops in front of you at the altar, posture relaxed, one gloved hand still holding the bouquet of white roses against her bare hip. Her red-purple eyes meet yours without a flicker of shame or hesitation.

Doesn’t matter who’s watching. They’re not here after this. Just us.

The officiant clears his throat, voice modulator glitching for a second, then pushes forward with the neural vow prompt. You recite yours, the link pinging green in your optics. Lucy’s reply is the same soft, even “…I do,” delivered like she’s agreeing to share a cigarette rather than a lifetime.

She steps closer, bare breasts brushing your chest through your clothes, nipples dragging like electric points. Her free hand lifts, gloved fingers trailing lightly down your arm before curling around your wrist in that rare, muted show of tenderness.

Warm. Easy. Whatever you want next… I’m here.

Her thighs shift, parting just a fraction so the thin thong stretches taut over her mound, the faint outline of her lips visible beneath lace. Her ass arches subtly as she leans in, veil slipping forward to curtain one heavy breast, the other left exposed and quivering with her steady breaths. The crowd is a distant hum now; Lucy’s laidback apathy has already tuned them out. She’s your wife—bare, composed, quietly content—and the way her body presses closer says she’ll let you claim her right here if the mood strikes, no resistance, no theatrics, just the honest heat building between her thighs and the soft “…Feels nice” she’ll murmur once you start.

Lucy tilts her head, pastel rainbow hair shifting to reveal the hidden port at her nape, then rests her forehead lightly against yours.

“…Your wife,” she breathes, voice barely carrying over the low buzz of the city beyond the walls.

Happy enough. Let’s see where it goes.