phantomjam, I can only apologise.
I promise you porn. I give you smutless shit.
Title: Interlude
Fandom: The Matrix (I KNOW I SAID I WOULDN'T, BUT I PROMISED. And it's not porn, anyways D:)
Pairing: Smith/Neo
Rating: 15 at most for some abysmal language.
Length: 1,239 words.
Status: Complete.
Notes: Slots in in the first movie, between Neo being invited out by Choi and meeting Trinity at the club. I'm so in love with 90s club music right now it's stupid. Mainly inspired when listening to Marilyn Manson's Rock is Dead and Dragula by Rob Zombie. Oh, and Leave You Far Behind by Lunatic Calm. All of these on the Matrix soundtrack. Read through by fortassetu, who I love most dearly. Technically for phantomjam, who asked for Matrix porn and gets this. Sorry. I tried to write the smut and it just... didn't fit. Now crossposted to AO3 here.
The Matrix has you.
Follow the white rabbit.
Thomas is standing in the club.
Weird, he thinks, frowning. His spine’s on fire, like he’s being watched. Déjà vu.
He’s going slightly crazy with all of it. Fucked up computers and shiny green writing and friends who suddenly might be concealing more than they let on.
‘Follow the white rabbit.’
He looks at Choi and his whores spread on the couches; looks at the tattoo still resonant on her shoulder.
How did they know?
The lights are dizzying; the music captivating.
He moves onto the floor and he dances.
Trinity’s only just behind him. Some shit with a phone box and she’s a heartbeat late; she sees him slip into the mass of people and swears under her breath. So much for the mystical approach. Her eyes scan the dancefloor, but everything’s blurred into one.
The others are watching through her eyes, she knows, but out here she’s on her own.
“Shit, she missed him!”
They ignore Mouse, like they always do, and turn back to the monitors. The code’s almost indecipherable, merging and floating together with fucks and music and sweat, but the more capable keep track and the others just go by watching their reactions.
Thomas rarely dances. He rarely ever lets go. Thomas can’t remember his name any more and he loves it.
Trinity scans the floor. He’s indistinguishable and she’s worried; the air tastes of fear. Of something familiar.
She picks the figure out in the dancefloor; the only one not moving.
“Holy shit,” she breathes, and reaches for the phone in her pocket.
It’s echoed by Switch, and queried by Mouse, and they all lean in closer to the monitors to see.
“It’s an Agent,” Cypher notes, and they all mutter their own curses of fear.
“It’s Smith,” Morpheus says quietly.
The One is a dead man walking. It’s hopeless. They listen to Trinity’s desperate phonecall until Tank lets it register and punches it through.
Crackles announce; “Dammit, Tank, pick up the goddamn fucking - ”
“Nice to hear from you too, Trin.” Tank pushes her onto the main speakers, spines pricking with the risk as they stare at the Agent on screen. The line’s not safe, but when their entire future’s about to be shot to fuck by an Agent they don’t really care.
“What do I do?” she breathes. They’re all staring; Neo’s moving slowly closer and it’s like watching him walk to his death. “It’s got to be coincidence. They can’t know about him.” She pauses. “Can they know?”
“They can’t know.” Morpheus is determined. “They can’t.”
“It’s coincidence,” Apoc agrees. “Just coincidence.”
Neo’s moving closer. None of them are breathing.
“He’s not noticed him yet,” Mouse notes, and for once he’s right. Whilst the Agent is fixed entirely on Neo Neo is oblivious to anything but the music.
“Don’t intervene,” Morpheus finally instructs. “Watch.”
They all turn their eyes to one screen.
The dance is nearly over. Thomas, for once, is not getting fucked over by anybody but himself, and it’s electric.
And the guy in the middle of the floor still hasn’t moved.
“I think he’s noticed him,” Trinity whispers.
“The only one not moving in a packed dancefloor. You think?”
Mouse’s comment is left unappreciated as they come close to clawing at the screen. “At the first sight of a gun,” Morpheus breathes, “run.”
“What about Neo?” she begins, but Morpheus decides.
“If he is who we think he is, he’s safe.”
“He’s not ready. Not for this. Not for them.”
Morpheus opens his mouth but the two have met in the middle of the dancefloor and there’s nothing but silence.
He’s wearing a suit. He must be hot, Thomas wonders. His own skin is prickling, covered in unhealthy rises instigating bone-shivers. He’s so hot he can’t think straight and he’s barely wearing anything at all. He thinks the man’s watching him, but he can only recognise his own face in the lenses. He wonders the colour of his eyes.
He’s fascinated by the immobility, like a fucking moth to a flame. Everything around him is broiling so fast they’re actually pushed together against their own volitions, but none of the motion matters because the silence of sight in front of him is so much more fascinating. He opens his mouth to inquire a name, mutter a whisper but his voice is stolen by the music so he turns away and he’s lost again, pressing himself in the grind of activity around him. The man hardly matters when he’s surrounded with the euphoria of dance and the songs are screaming sex in every syllable.
When he turns around, the man hasn’t moved. He seems to flicker imperceptibly in the light, like he’s not really there.
Thomas approaches again.
His hands vaguely register the man’s hips, still and stoic under a questing touch. Not even the vaguest shift - not even away, like he’d been expecting. His clothes aren’t even damp, his skin isn’t even stained dark with sweat. Impossible, not to be sweating amidst all of this.
Maybe he’s an alien, Thomas thinks irrationally, and dismisses it. He’s got one of those things in his ear - he sees them at work, saw them on the ears of the bouncers outside. Thomas’ head lolls back as the bass pounds through his kneecaps and for a second he thinks it’s better than coming, better than sex because it’s all around him right now.
So it’s totally not his fault when he opens his eyes and all he can think of the strange man is how much he wants to fuck him.
“What’s he waiting for?” Mouse whines irritably, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Why hasn’t he attacked?” He’s not hushed by the others so much as his words are silenced from mere disapproval; but they’re all watching the dancefloor and thinking the same question.
Thomas is so close he’s breathing on the man’s cheek. He still hasn’t moved. “Come on,” he whispers, both hands finding his hips and his lips pressed to his jawline. “Live a little,” he murmurs, and pulls out the earpiece with his teeth.
“Ho-ly shit.”
It kind of sums it all up, really.
All of them are braced for a reaction; the one they receive was expected on Thomas’ behalf but certainly not on board the Nebuchadnezzar.
The man turns into his touch.
Thomas smiles and pushes his lips further across his jaw.
“What do I do?” Trinity asks helplessly as she watches them leave together.
“Watch?” Mouse echoes hopefully, but he doesn’t even get glared down.
“Get the fuck out of there.” They turn to Morpheus. “Neo will come back.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
She turns and nods. Tank tells her an exit point, and she leaves the club with a snap as she terminates the call.
Thomas is fucked and he thinks the Matrix has you, Neo as he comes blind and scrabbling and the man’s fingers destroy his hips.
He wakes up and he’s late.
No surprise there, then.
He staggers around, swearing at the discarded clothes, swearing at sticky sheets, swearing at the burn eating his spine and swearing most of all at the fact he’s alone again.
He goes back to the club and watches the dancefloor with something close to desperation, but the man’s not there.
“Hello, Neo.”
He turns and likes to pretend he never thinks about him again.
Title: Interlude
Fandom: The Matrix (I KNOW I SAID I WOULDN'T, BUT I PROMISED. And it's not porn, anyways D:)
Pairing: Smith/Neo
Rating: 15 at most for some abysmal language.
Length: 1,239 words.
Status: Complete.
Notes: Slots in in the first movie, between Neo being invited out by Choi and meeting Trinity at the club. I'm so in love with 90s club music right now it's stupid. Mainly inspired when listening to Marilyn Manson's Rock is Dead and Dragula by Rob Zombie. Oh, and Leave You Far Behind by Lunatic Calm. All of these on the Matrix soundtrack. Read through by fortassetu, who I love most dearly. Technically for phantomjam, who asked for Matrix porn and gets this. Sorry. I tried to write the smut and it just... didn't fit. Now crossposted to AO3 here.
The Matrix has you.
Follow the white rabbit.
Thomas is standing in the club.
Weird, he thinks, frowning. His spine’s on fire, like he’s being watched. Déjà vu.
He’s going slightly crazy with all of it. Fucked up computers and shiny green writing and friends who suddenly might be concealing more than they let on.
‘Follow the white rabbit.’
He looks at Choi and his whores spread on the couches; looks at the tattoo still resonant on her shoulder.
How did they know?
The lights are dizzying; the music captivating.
He moves onto the floor and he dances.
Trinity’s only just behind him. Some shit with a phone box and she’s a heartbeat late; she sees him slip into the mass of people and swears under her breath. So much for the mystical approach. Her eyes scan the dancefloor, but everything’s blurred into one.
The others are watching through her eyes, she knows, but out here she’s on her own.
“Shit, she missed him!”
They ignore Mouse, like they always do, and turn back to the monitors. The code’s almost indecipherable, merging and floating together with fucks and music and sweat, but the more capable keep track and the others just go by watching their reactions.
Thomas rarely dances. He rarely ever lets go. Thomas can’t remember his name any more and he loves it.
Trinity scans the floor. He’s indistinguishable and she’s worried; the air tastes of fear. Of something familiar.
She picks the figure out in the dancefloor; the only one not moving.
“Holy shit,” she breathes, and reaches for the phone in her pocket.
It’s echoed by Switch, and queried by Mouse, and they all lean in closer to the monitors to see.
“It’s an Agent,” Cypher notes, and they all mutter their own curses of fear.
“It’s Smith,” Morpheus says quietly.
The One is a dead man walking. It’s hopeless. They listen to Trinity’s desperate phonecall until Tank lets it register and punches it through.
Crackles announce; “Dammit, Tank, pick up the goddamn fucking - ”
“Nice to hear from you too, Trin.” Tank pushes her onto the main speakers, spines pricking with the risk as they stare at the Agent on screen. The line’s not safe, but when their entire future’s about to be shot to fuck by an Agent they don’t really care.
“What do I do?” she breathes. They’re all staring; Neo’s moving slowly closer and it’s like watching him walk to his death. “It’s got to be coincidence. They can’t know about him.” She pauses. “Can they know?”
“They can’t know.” Morpheus is determined. “They can’t.”
“It’s coincidence,” Apoc agrees. “Just coincidence.”
Neo’s moving closer. None of them are breathing.
“He’s not noticed him yet,” Mouse notes, and for once he’s right. Whilst the Agent is fixed entirely on Neo Neo is oblivious to anything but the music.
“Don’t intervene,” Morpheus finally instructs. “Watch.”
They all turn their eyes to one screen.
The dance is nearly over. Thomas, for once, is not getting fucked over by anybody but himself, and it’s electric.
And the guy in the middle of the floor still hasn’t moved.
“I think he’s noticed him,” Trinity whispers.
“The only one not moving in a packed dancefloor. You think?”
Mouse’s comment is left unappreciated as they come close to clawing at the screen. “At the first sight of a gun,” Morpheus breathes, “run.”
“What about Neo?” she begins, but Morpheus decides.
“If he is who we think he is, he’s safe.”
“He’s not ready. Not for this. Not for them.”
Morpheus opens his mouth but the two have met in the middle of the dancefloor and there’s nothing but silence.
He’s wearing a suit. He must be hot, Thomas wonders. His own skin is prickling, covered in unhealthy rises instigating bone-shivers. He’s so hot he can’t think straight and he’s barely wearing anything at all. He thinks the man’s watching him, but he can only recognise his own face in the lenses. He wonders the colour of his eyes.
He’s fascinated by the immobility, like a fucking moth to a flame. Everything around him is broiling so fast they’re actually pushed together against their own volitions, but none of the motion matters because the silence of sight in front of him is so much more fascinating. He opens his mouth to inquire a name, mutter a whisper but his voice is stolen by the music so he turns away and he’s lost again, pressing himself in the grind of activity around him. The man hardly matters when he’s surrounded with the euphoria of dance and the songs are screaming sex in every syllable.
When he turns around, the man hasn’t moved. He seems to flicker imperceptibly in the light, like he’s not really there.
Thomas approaches again.
His hands vaguely register the man’s hips, still and stoic under a questing touch. Not even the vaguest shift - not even away, like he’d been expecting. His clothes aren’t even damp, his skin isn’t even stained dark with sweat. Impossible, not to be sweating amidst all of this.
Maybe he’s an alien, Thomas thinks irrationally, and dismisses it. He’s got one of those things in his ear - he sees them at work, saw them on the ears of the bouncers outside. Thomas’ head lolls back as the bass pounds through his kneecaps and for a second he thinks it’s better than coming, better than sex because it’s all around him right now.
So it’s totally not his fault when he opens his eyes and all he can think of the strange man is how much he wants to fuck him.
“What’s he waiting for?” Mouse whines irritably, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Why hasn’t he attacked?” He’s not hushed by the others so much as his words are silenced from mere disapproval; but they’re all watching the dancefloor and thinking the same question.
Thomas is so close he’s breathing on the man’s cheek. He still hasn’t moved. “Come on,” he whispers, both hands finding his hips and his lips pressed to his jawline. “Live a little,” he murmurs, and pulls out the earpiece with his teeth.
“Ho-ly shit.”
It kind of sums it all up, really.
All of them are braced for a reaction; the one they receive was expected on Thomas’ behalf but certainly not on board the Nebuchadnezzar.
The man turns into his touch.
Thomas smiles and pushes his lips further across his jaw.
“What do I do?” Trinity asks helplessly as she watches them leave together.
“Watch?” Mouse echoes hopefully, but he doesn’t even get glared down.
“Get the fuck out of there.” They turn to Morpheus. “Neo will come back.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
She turns and nods. Tank tells her an exit point, and she leaves the club with a snap as she terminates the call.
Thomas is fucked and he thinks the Matrix has you, Neo as he comes blind and scrabbling and the man’s fingers destroy his hips.
He wakes up and he’s late.
No surprise there, then.
He staggers around, swearing at the discarded clothes, swearing at sticky sheets, swearing at the burn eating his spine and swearing most of all at the fact he’s alone again.
He goes back to the club and watches the dancefloor with something close to desperation, but the man’s not there.
“Hello, Neo.”
He turns and likes to pretend he never thinks about him again.