the honey trap | johnny silverhand
you had been watching him for three weeks before you made your move. not continuously. that would have gotten you made in a heartbeat. johnny silverhand was many things, but oblivious was not one of them. he had the kind of paranoid awareness that came from years of corporate assassination attempts and back alley betrayals. he scanned rooms when he entered them. he checked his six without obvious head turns. he had mirrors installed in his dressing room at the club not for vanity but for security.
so you watched from angles. from the bar where you pretended to nurse cheap synthetic bourbon that you never actually drank. from the balcony where you leaned against rusted railings and let the smoke from your cigarette curl upward in lazy spirals. from the street below his apartment building where you sat in a stolen beater car with tinted windows and counted the minutes until his lights went out.
you knew his schedule. knew he played at the atlantis club every thursday and saturday. knew he left with a different girl at least half the time but never brought them back to his actual place. knew he kept a safe house in the combat zone for recreational activities and treated his main apartment like a fortress. knew he took his coffee black and his whiskey neat and his anger straight to the vein.
the fixer who hired you was corporate affiliated but smart enough to keep that distance wrapped in deniability. militech wanted silverhand compromised. not dead. dead made him a martyr. they wanted him watched. tracked. they wanted to know where he slept and who he talked to and when he planned his next terrorist spectacular against arasaka or biotechnica or whoever had earned his wrath that week.
your job was simple: get close. get inside. plant the bug in his guitar. the custom that never left his sight. that he slept with in arm's reach. that he treated with more tenderness than he showed most human beings.
you prepared for six weeks. changed your look. dyed your hair from corporate plain to something darker, edgier. got the right cyberware. not too much. johnny hated chrome junkies. just enough to make you look like you belonged in the underground. a subtle ocular implant for low light vision. neural jacks that didnt show. you practiced your backstory until it felt like memory. you were a sound tech. you had worked the circuit. you loved chrome rock and hated the corps and you thought johnny silverhand was the second coming of musical revolution.
the first time you spoke to him was after a set at the atlantis. the club was thick with smoke and sweat and the chemical tang of performance enhancing stims. he was backstage, bare chested, wiping sweat from his torso with a rag that had seen better decades. you had engineered your presence there through a combination of bribery and bluffing. the actual sound tech was currently sleeping off a bad batch of black lace in a motel on the edge of town thanks to a spiked drink you bought him.
you stood in the doorway holding a coil of cable like you belonged there and when he looked up his eyes hit you like a physical force. blue and sharp and assessing. you felt the weight of that gaze like hands on your throat.
"you're not marty," he said. it wasnt a question.
"marty's sick," you answered quickly. "i'm covering."
he stared at you for a long moment. you didnt look away. that was important. johnny could practically smell fear. could smell deception. but he could also recognize competence and confidence. you gave him both wrapped in a tight black shirt and ripped jeans that showed the subtle curve of muscle in your thighs.
"you touch my board?" he asked.
"only if you want me to."
the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile, but close enough.
that night you didnt push. you did your job. you managed the mix while he played. you watched him from the booth while he screamed into the microphone about corporate slavery and digital ghosts and the coming revolution. his body moved like a weapon. all kinetic energy and sharp angles. the crowd worshipped him, and you understood why. there was something feral about him. something that made you want to get close even as every professional instinct screamed that proximity to johnny silverhand was where people got burned.
after the set he found you packing up cables. he leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed and that famous smirk playing at his lips.
"you're good," he said. "mix was clean. didn't fuck up my vocals."
but he didnt walk away. he stayed there while you finished. he stayed while you wiped down the equipment. he stayed while you pulled on your jacket and prepared to walk out into the night.
"you got a name?" he asked.
he pushed off the wall and closed the distance between you. he smelled like sweat and cheap soap and something metallic underneath. ozone. like a storm coming. he was taller than you expected up close. broader. the holovids didnt capture the physical presence of him. the way he seemed to take up more space than his body actually occupied.
"everyone knows who i am. question is whether you know what i am."
"a narcissist with a guitar?"
that got the smile. full, genuine and dangerous as hell.
"come have a drink with me," he said. "tell me what else you think i am."
you should have said no. that would have been smarter. playing hard to get would have made him chase. but you were running on a timeline and you had three weeks to get this done before the fixer started getting impatient. so you said yes. you followed him to a bar that didnt have a name. just a door with a broken neon sign that used to say open but now just said “op”.
he bought you whiskey that tasted like gasoline and felt like forgiveness going down. you sat in a booth with cracked leather seats and talked about music. you told him you grew up on his early stuff. the samurai albums. the bootlegs from the european tour. you told him you thought chippin in was the most honest song ever written about corporate warfare.
he watched you while you talked. his eyes tracking your mouth. your hands. the way you leaned forward when you were making a point. he was studying you. cataloging you. you knew it and you let him. you gave him real pieces mixed with the fiction. that was the trick. the best lies were mostly true.
you told him about your brother who died working construction on an arasaka orbital platform. that was true. you told him you had been fighting the corps ever since. that was true too. you just left out the part where you were currently taking their money to spy on him.
by the third drink his hand was on your thigh under the table. by the fourth you were in his lap in the booth and his mouth was on your neck and his fingers were digging bruises into your hips that you would still feel three days later.
"you're trouble," he murmured against your skin.
that was the first night. you didnt go back to his place. he took you to the safe house in the combat zone. a converted warehouse with minimal furniture and maximum security. you fucked on a mattress on the floor with the windows open and the sound of distant gunfire as your soundtrack. he was rough in a way that suggested he didnt often let himself have this. like he was trying to fuck out all the anger and paranoia and revolutionary fervor and just be a body for awhile. you let him use you. you used him back. you came with his hand over your mouth and his teeth in your shoulder and his cock buried deep enough to hurt in the best way.
afterward he smoked and you watched the cherry glow in the dark.
"you're different," he said.
"than the usual groupies. they want the legend. you look at me like you want the man."
"i want what i want," you said.
he laughed. "cryptic bitch. i like it."
you stayed until dawn. you didnt plant the bug. that would have been too obvious. too soon. instead you built the pattern. you became a regular presence. you worked his shows. you shared his bed. you learned that he talked in his sleep sometimes. fragments of code and lyrics and names you didnt recognize. you learned that he kept his guitar in a locked case when he wasnt playing it. you learned the code to that lock by watching his hands when he opened it. 0912. the date samurai released their first album.
you spent three weeks becoming indispensable. you patched him up when he got into a fight with a biotechnica recruiter outside a club in city center. you brought him coffee in bed and kissed the scars on his chest while he pretended not to care. you argued with him about politics and won sometimes. you made him laugh. you made him think. you made him trust you.
and all the while you waited for the right moment.
it came on a tuesday. he had a show that ran late and the afterparty ran later. he was drunk but not sloppy. high on stims but not twitchy. you had spent the night flirting with him from across the room while he worked the crowd. letting him see you. letting him want you. by the time you got back to his place he was already peeling your clothes off in the elevator.
"missed you," he growled against your mouth. it was the closest he had come to something vulnerable. something like need.
"missed you too," you said. and that wasnt entirely a lie.
he fucked you against the door when it opened. then against the wall. then on the floor of the living room because you never made it to the bedroom. he was desperate tonight. something had him spooked. you could feel it in the way his hands shook when they touched you. in the way he kept checking the windows even as he was inside you.
after he fell asleep you waited. you counted his breaths until they evened out into the rhythm of real sleep. you waited another hour. then you moved.
the guitar case was by the window. you knew the code. you had practiced the movement in your head a hundred times. open the case. lift the guitar. plant the bug inside the cavity under the pickup selector. it was a device no bigger than a grain of rice. militech tech. military grade. it would broadcast his location and record every conversation within ten feet for the next six months.
you had the case open. your fingers were reaching for the instrument. you were so close.
"you know," his voice came from the darkness behind you. clear and sharp and completely sober. "i really hoped that i was wrong about you."
you froze. your hand was still on the guitar. your heart was hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
"turn around," he said. "slow."
you turned. he was sitting up in bed. the sheets pooled at his waist. he was holding a gun. not pointed at you. just resting on his knee. but the threat was there. implicit and absolute.
"since the second night. you think you're the first corporate whore they sent after me? you're the fourth. the others were obvious. you're good. i'll give you that. the backstory was solid. the fucking was enthusiastic. but you made mistakes."
he didn’t answer that one.
you said nothing in return to his silence. was nothing to say. you had been made. you had failed.
"who sent you?" he asked.
"militech," you said. "through a fixer. they want to track you. monitor you. not kill you."
he stood up. the gun stayed in his hand but he didnt raise it. he walked toward you. bare feet silent on the concrete floor. he stopped when he was close enough that you could feel the heat coming off his skin.
"the bug," he said. "give it to me."
you reached into your pocket and pulled out the tiny device. you handed it to him. he examined it. then he crushed it between his thumb and forefinger. the pieces fell to the floor.
"you know what happens to people who betray me?" he asked quietly.
"no. you can't. because if you could guess you would be running right now."
you looked up at him. his eyes were cold. furious. but there was something else underneath. something that looked almost like hurt. you had wounded his pride. his trust. and johnny silverhand did not forgive wounds easily.
"i should kill you," he said.
he stared at you. the silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut. then he moved. fast. faster than you could react. his hand was around your throat and he was walking you backward until your spine hit the wall. the gun was gone. dropped or tucked away. both his hands were on you now. one at your throat. one gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.
"you played me," he said. his voice was low. dangerous. "you made me think you were real. you made me think you gave a shit. all while you were planning to sell me to the highest bidder."
"i did give a shit," you said. the words came out rough because of the pressure on your windpipe. "that was the problem. i was supposed to just fuck you and plant the bug and leave. i stayed. i kept staying. i kept telling myself it was part of the job but it wasn't. i wanted to be here. i wanted you."
his grip tightened. you couldnt breathe. you didnt struggle. you just looked at him. let him see whatever he wanted to see. let him make his choice.
then his mouth crashed into yours.
it wasnt a kiss. it was an assault. teeth and tongue and fury. he was punishing you. proving dominance. taking back control of whatever narrative he thought you had stolen. you kissed him back just as hard. you had nothing left to lose. if he was going to kill you he would do it after. you would take this last thing.
he spun you around and shoved you face first against the wall. your cheek pressed against the cool concrete. his hand was in your hair pulling your head back. his other hand was between your legs rough and demanding. his fingers found your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear and pressed hard enough to make you gasp.
"you don't get to enjoy this," he snarled.
he laughed. it wasnt a happy sound. it was broken glass and rusted metal. he pushed two fingers inside you and you were wet despite everything. because of everything. the danger. the betrayal. the fact that you had both been playing each other and neither had won. his fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made your knees weak, pumping in and out while his thumb worked your clit in tight angry circles.
"you're so fucked up," he said against your ear.
he pushed into you then. no warning. no preparation beyond his fingers. you cried out at the stretch and burn of it. he wasnt gentle. he didnt try to be. he fucked you against the wall with the same intensity he brought to everything. angry. focused. relentless. his cock filled you completely, thick and hard and unforgiving. he pulled your hips back to meet his thrusts, angling deep enough to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
"you think you can use me?" he growled. "you think you can play your little spy games and then spread your legs and make it better?"
"no," you gasped. "i think we used each other."
he pulled your head back harder. your neck arched. he bit down on the exposed column of your throat. not a love bite. a claim. a brand. you would wear the bruise for days. his hand moved from your hip to your breast, squeezing roughly through your shirt before he yanked the fabric up to get skin on skin. he pinched your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, rolling it between his fingers while he continued to pound into you from behind.
"you don't get to be right," he said. "not about this. not about us."
"there is no us," you said. "there never was. you said it yourself. i'm just another corporate whore."
he went still. buried deep inside you. his breath hot against your neck. his heart hammering against your back. you could feel the war in him. the part that wanted to throw you out into the street and the part that wanted to keep you here and break you properly until you were honest.
"you want to know the truth?" you whispered. "i quit three days ago. i told the fixer i was out. i told him he could keep the money. i was going to ghost. i was going to disappear. i just wanted one more night. one more morning. one more time feeling like i belonged somewhere even if it was a lie."
he didnt say anything. he just started moving again. slower this time. deliberate. each thrust calculated to make you feel him. to make you remember who was inside you. who had won this round even if the game was rigged from the start. he reached around to find your clit again, rubbing tight circles that made your legs shake. you were close. embarrassingly close. the betrayal and the danger and the feel of him inside you winding you tight.
"you're going to tell me everything," he said. "every name. every contact. every safehouse and dead drop and code phrase. and then you're going to tell me why i shouldn't put a bullet in your skull and dump you in the harbor."
"then maybe i let you live. maybe i even let you stay. but you'll be mine. not theirs. mine to use. mine to watch. you want to be a spy? fine. be my spy. turn your shit back on them. work for me. earn your keep on your back and on your knees and however else i want you."
you laughed. it was shaky. breathless. "that's your offer? sexual slavery in exchange for not murdering me?"
"it's better than you deserve."
he pulled out and turned you around. he lifted you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist. he carried you to the bed and threw you down on it. he climbed over you. his eyes were wild. his hair was falling in his face. he looked like a man who had lost something and was determined to take payment in flesh.
he kissed you again. brutal and deep. his tongue invaded your mouth like he was trying to taste every lie you had ever told. he pulled your shirt off completely and tossed it aside. then your bra. he paused for a moment to look at you. really look. his eyes tracked over your breasts, your stomach, the curve of your waist. he touched you like he was memorizing the terrain of enemy territory.
"spread your legs," he commanded.
you did. he settled between them, his cock hard and heavy against your thigh. he didnt enter you yet. he made you wait. made you watch while he stroked himself slowly, his fist tight around his length. you wanted to touch him but when you reached out he grabbed your wrist and pinned it above your head.
"no touching. you lost that privilege when you decided to betray me."
he kept your wrist pinned with one hand while the other guided his cock to your entrance. he rubbed the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit until you were arching off the bed. then he pushed in. slow. so slow it was torture. he watched your face while he filled you. watched your mouth fall open. watched your eyes roll back.
"look at me," he ordered. "i want to see your eyes when i fuck you."
you forced your eyes open. held his gaze. he started moving. deep strokes that hit every nerve ending. he shifted his angle slightly and you moaned because suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. his free hand moved between your bodies to rub your clit in time with his movements. the dual sensation was overwhelming. you could feel your orgasm building fast and hard.
"don't you dare come," he said. "not yet. you don't get to come until i say you can."
"please," you gasped. the word escaping before you could stop it.
"please let me come. please johnny. i need it."
he fucked you harder. the sound of skin on skin filling the room. the bed creaking. his breath coming in harsh pants.
"beg me," he said. "beg me properly."
"please. please johnny. i'll do anything. i'll tell you everything. just please let me come. i need you to let me come."
he pinched your clit between his fingers and thrust deep and held there. "come. now."
you shattered. your orgasm ripped through you like a storm. your back arched off the bed. your vision whited out. you clamped down around him so hard you felt him curse. you rode it out while he kept fucking you through it, not letting up, drawing it out until you were sobbing his name.
he didnt stop. he flipped you over onto your stomach and pulled your hips up. he entered you again from behind, deeper this time, hitting places that made you see stars. his hand wrapped around your throat from behind, not choking but holding. controlling. his other hand gripped your hip so hard you knew you would have fingerprints there tomorrow.
"you're mine," he said. his voice guttural. broken. "say it."
"i'm yours johnny. i'm yours. only yours."
he groaned and thrust harder. you could feel him getting close. his rhythm faltering. his grip tightening. then he pulled out and flipped you onto your back again. he straddled your chest and took himself in hand.
"open your mouth," he said.
you did. he came across your lips and chin and throat. marking you. claiming you. his seed hot on your skin. he kept stroking himself until every drop was spent. then he collapsed beside you. his chest heaving. his eyes closed.
you lay there. covered in him. your body aching and used and satisfied in ways you had never expected. you didnt move. you didnt speak. you waited.
finally he opened his eyes. he looked at you. at the mess he had made of you. something flickered in his expression. satisfaction. possession. something that might have been tenderness if he were capable of such a thing.
"shower," he said. "then we talk."
he got up and walked to the bathroom. you heard the water start. you lay there for another minute. collecting yourself. then you got up and followed him.
the shower was small. he was already under the spray. his head tilted back. water running over the hard planes of his body. over the scars. over the chrome. he didnt look at you when you stepped in. just handed you the soap.
you washed yourself. washed him off your skin. he watched you. his eyes following your hands. when you were clean he pushed you against the tile and kissed you again. softer this time. but no less intense.
he pulled back to look at you. water streaming down his face. his eyes piercing.
"choose," he said. "the door or the bed. you can walk out right now and i'll find you later. or you can stay and we find out just how much punishment you can take before you actually break.
you looked at him. at the anger and the hurt and the terrible lonely need underneath it all. you thought about the door. about running. about disappearing into night city and never looking back.
then you reached up and pulled him down to you.
"show me what you got," you said.
his smile was sharp enough to cut. "oh sweetheart. you have no idea what you just signed up for."
he kissed you again. hard. claiming. his hands roaming over your wet skin. finding places that made you gasp. you wrapped your arms around his neck and held on.
this was your life now. no more pretending. no more masks. just the truth and the violence and the complicated terrible thing that had grown between you in the dark.
you were his now. for better or worse. and something told you that with johnny silverhand, it was always going to be both.
