a/n:

2.38 am, June 23rd, downtown Montreal. I hear the roaring of traffic still speeding up Cote des Neiges – it's the beginning of F1 weekend and there is a party on every street. I have just returned home to the cats I am babysitting for the next few days – two tabbies named Rocky and Preche. They seem content, but not nearly as content as I am, with my Second Cup cappuccino poured into a mug, the froth still fluffy. God, I love city coffee. It's made for people like me, addicts, who are hopelessly dependent on the system. (wink to Zn, one of my favorite elements – tied for first with elemental Pt)

The weather is hot and muggy, and the air in my ground-floor one-and-a half is so still, it sticks to me. At this point, I realize I'd gone out in my skirt and flip-flops without wearing any underwear.

And then it hits me. This is the perfect time for Matrix smut.

June 30th. A week later, I sit on a café terrace at 3.30 am, reading over the final draft of this fiction (if any of you are wondering: a celebratory iced mocha with whipped cream, and a croissant). Upon final review, I conclude that this piece of writing is a little different from other smutfics in Matrix fanfiction. I don't pretend to have a plot – other than the loving exploration of powerplay between our two favorite redpills – with some angst at the end, tying this story in with my other writings. But certainly, I believe it can stand on its own as a Oneshot.

I dedicate it to Plen, Zn, Elemental, Ashes, DW, DFS, MadameStevie, Mercy… who inspired and encouraged me on the boards TLG.

Consider it all yours, with red hot drops of kink and love.
-Syd

Synergy

She stands with a soldier's stamina, shoulders flexed back like an archer's bow, forcing her chest forward as her long neck curls up into a proud chin. Like an Amazon queen. Or some other avatar of strength. Her bare skin prickles, covered with the filth of the city and a film of perspiration, shed in the Zionist heat. She can taste her own salt as she licks her lips… sensually, conscientiously, hoping to unhinge him. Hoping he's watching, feeling weak in the knees. You think you can handle this? she asks with her posture, standing like a muse to her sculptor. Her heart pounds relentlessly. You think you can handle me?

But he has become very good at handling her. And the smug bastard knows it, too. That was when she began to lose control – when he went from awkward to good to insane when loving her. Trinity is now in the centre of a whirlwind, the core of a spectacular affair with a man who'd give up his last breath for one more touch. He'd crawl to her on his knees, snatch her clothing over her head and rip it past her hips, lick her cries from her mouth and bite his passion into the swell of her breasts like pure madness tearing through her body. Neo once told her that he only really lives when he is inside her, and he lives only so he can die. And Trinity has committed his orgasm to memory. His weight, his pace, the scent of his sweat as he trembles, erratic and desperate. Hers, as he whimpers, gasps and pours into her. As he dies in her arms.

"Trin?" Neo says into her ear.

She starts, tilts her head to the side, surprised that he'd been standing behind her. And very close, too. "Hm?"

"You like this?" he asks, and not in the usual triumphantly rhetorical tone. There is genuine uncertainty in his question.

Trinity parts her lips, but doesn't know what to say. This is not the first time he's blindfolded her. In fact, it is one of their favorite arrangements in the dojo, and in the sparring arenas here in Zion. In the real world, it's the only way he can beat her; if she's fighting blind.

But this is their bedroom, where her lover hardly requires a competitive advantage.

And yet for some reason, she didn't slap him and pull herself free when Neo jokingly wrapped the long, thin scarf of her dress over her eyes. They'd been play-fighting, wrestling a little, and he chuckled that he was leveling the playing-field. And then he told her he rather likes her like this, a little less in control, a little more at his mercy. He pulled the knot taught at the back of her head, and waited for her to object. She did not.

Perhaps it's curiosity. Perhaps it's something more.

"I don't know," she manages to utter at last, in a voice so unlike her own she nearly doesn't recognize it. "Do you like it?"

Neo nearly faints. He is grateful she can't see the expression on his face- it's the kind of expression that makes women like Trinity feel degraded. He circles her, gaze roaming over the beige gown that clings to her body, then back up to the fabric covering her eyes. "Uh-huh."

Her lip curls, and damned if she doesn't blush, too.

"You're… very sexy like this," he hears himself admit, a little nervous. He stops himself from saying any more that might offend her, or humiliate him. Instead, he takes her jaw in his hand, carefully bringing them together for one of their lingering, airless kisses. It's a good one, and they enjoy it for a few beats longer than usual before Trinity reluctantly pulls away.

"So, you've thought of this?" she asks, voice low and raspy. "Before now?"

His palms are sweaty, and he slides them down to her hips. "Well… maybe."

"Maybe?" she echoes. Her hands casually (but not casually at all) roam over his chest. "No. Tell me. Is this what you want? Have I discovered your secret fantasy?"

Only one of many; she has no idea. An embarrassed, boyish grin spreads across his lips, and his pulse races. He wants to speak but he can't bring himself to form the words. Trinity moves closer, the long, flowing curve of her body pressing onto him. And now there can be no doubt she knows how excited he is. "Hm?" she prods, arching an eyebrow. "You want to make love to me like this? You've imagined it, haven't you?"

She has reestablished the upper hand, somehow. How does she do that? Turn the situation around so quickly, at the slightest sign of his weakness? Is that her way of challenging him? Taking back the dominance she thinks he is unfit to have?

"Yes," he answers more directly, tightening his grip on her hips. "I've imagined it. Though in my fantasies, you are wearing only the blindfold."

The head cocks, and the mouth opens. She falls silent. Then, "Alright."

Alright? And now she turns to give him access to the knot behind her neck. Lifts her short hair out of his way. Waits. Poses, bare back beautifully displayed. Another test. Will he fumble like a fool with her clothing between frantically blathered thank-yous?

Neo summons all his nerve, and presses his mouth just above the first plug on her spine, then a little higher, overlapping the kisses, using his tongue. Over the halter, up to her brain jack. She doesn't move or make a sound, but holds her hair compliantly. He senses no impatience, so he doesn't rush, and slides his hands up over the front of her, from waist to ribs, up to unsupported bust. He is thinking, processing this new attitude of hers. Trinity has never been this passive before. She is always watching him, directing him, teaching and correcting. Evaluating. Even in bed, she never really takes the uniform off. Even here… especially here, she is his commanding officer.

It's only now that Neo realizes how much he wants to make her let it all go. This has been his desire for a long time. To have free reign to please her, at his own pace, on his own terms; to control everything, and have her scream for more. It excites him and terrifies him at the same time, to even attempt such an endeavor with a woman like Trinity. Strong… feral… domineering… risk-averse Trinity.

Thinking of the possibility, he is more aroused than he has ever been in his life. Neo lightly bites her shoulder, then her neck, feeling her body straighten as he pulls her bottom flush against his groin. "You trust me?" he asks, throbbing against her. "You trust me this much?"

"Yes," she whispers. "Though my arm is getting tired."

"No it isn't." He has witnessed her support her own weight with that single arm through fifty push-ups. "You're impatient."

"Hum-humm."

Taking her hint, Neo tugs at the strap, his hands trembling a little. This is not the usual way he undresses Trinity. This is like unwrapping a sexual gift. Neurotransmitters flooding synapses and saturating receptors, Neo suddenly freezes, drops the strips of cloth, and impulsively reaches down to gather the flare of her dress. He pulls it up around her hips until he has access to her legs, and before she can stop him, he cups her between the thighs. No underwear, as he suspected. She gasps. Her hand snatches his wrist, but doesn't pull him away.

"Let me touch you," he says, his fingers coated in her already. He has never found her this wet. Struggling to maintain his composure, he strokes smooth, swollen lips, breathing hotly into her ear. She shudders, and shifts her weight onto one leg, bending the other knee to give him more access. He hears the tiniest oh, my God, under her breath as she releases his wrist.

In moments like this she makes him feel like a god. Only a god could do this to Trinity. She wouldn't give herself to anyone less. And so she must know something about him that he doesn't. Something beyond the prophecy. And he trusts that. He always has.

Trinity reaches up and scratches at his shirt sleeves with both hands. She sees only black, and stars, as she leans against him. His erection hard against her backside, and his fingers slipping in circles around hypersensitive tissue, she feels coherent thought dissolving away. Neo has imagined this. Her, naked on a bed with a blindfold. Is this also part of his fantasy? There is so much about him she still doesn't know.

"Relax," he breathes. "You're mine tonight."

Her impulse is to spin around and touch him back, rub her palm over the bulge in his pants until they are moaning in tandem. But there is something about this position that is intensely erotic to her. It's exotic, even dangerous, to surrender all power in this manner. Submission runs contrary to her nature; there is safety in control. But freedom in trust. And she trusts him. The duality of her nature clashes like bolts of electricity through her mind, like eddies of fire between her legs, tension against which she wriggles and writhes. He is relentless. He doesn't give her a moment. There is no way out.

"Neo… I'm… oh, my God…" She blindly reaches up and tangles her fingers in his hair. Her head thrashes, and she knows that her hips are moving in tiny circles as he masturbates her. It's his wont to torment her a little, to prolong her agony, so she again tires to tell him, she's close. But that isn't the only reason she calls his name and fruitlessly attempts to interrupt the stimulation. She's suddenly afraid. Blindfolded, clawing at him, moaning like this… she isn't sure she wants to finish so helplessly.

"It's okay," he speaks against her temple. A broad hand cups her breast. "Come for me."

She doesn't have a choice. It's almost as if she is being forced to climax – by her lover, by her body, by every feminine instinct she has had and suppressed in the last decade of exhausting battle. She yells out, bucking against him, pleasure screaming through her body and ringing in her ears, again and again and again in waves. Somewhere, she's vaguely aware than he his holding her down, and then, turning her to face him, holding her up. Still trembling, her body is more liquid than solid, euphoria effervescing in her veins, melting her onto his chest.

"Your eyes." He pulls the blindfold off and looks into her face with intensity. "You're beautiful."

Trinity hears her own pants on his neck. Feels the sweat on her body. Catches the scent of herself in the still, hot air. His. All of it was his.

"Okay?" he asks softly, running his fingers through matted hair. Trinity nods, and pulls his mouth down for a sloppy kiss. She's raw and spent, yielding and still hungry.

More, lover. If you please.

"You're still dressed," he mumbles against her brow.

She grins. And she takes a few steps back, feeling moisture on her thighs as she moves. Their gazes meet and lock, as she reaches up under her hair. Silently, Trinity makes the request, hoping he'll understand the rules of her newfound game.

May I, Master Neo?

His eyes are wild. "Take it off."

The grin becomes a sparkling smile, and she pulls the slipknot out in a single pull, a technique that he has never been able to perfect. She doesn't even glance down at herself as the fabric puddles around her ankles, as she enjoys the nearly comical expression that flashes on his face. He looks her over, mindfully toying with the scarf he is still holding. Winding it around his palms. Snapping it. Rubbing the silky material between his thumb and middle fingers. What is he thinking of?

I uh, kinda thought… you were a guy.

The irony is palpable. Her nude body, pale, fit and sylphlike, is a paradigm of the feminine ideal. Neo's attention wanders to a few favorite places. Her breasts take precedence, naturally, and the well-defined line down the center of her torso, which is blemished with a pattern of old scars, some of which he has yet to ask her about. She has a tattoo of a triquetra over the ridge of her left hipbone, and she harbors the belief that it brings her luck. Keeps her safe, she claims matter-of-factly. Superstitious, Trin? Well, I'm alive, aren't I? So don't jinx it.

He wouldn't dare. Their lips meet as they crash together again, tongues seeking each other out, their hands everywhere. He wrestles his top over his head and throws it, mindful to see it doesn't land on the rack of burning candles, as it had one ill-fated evening. Noticing his concern, she laughs, and the sound of her mirth sends chills down his spine. This is his Trinity. Nobody else has a clue.

He directs her onto the bed, where she assumes a position below him, his oral fixation already directed towards her neck, the space between her breasts, her nipples. Between his teeth, he barely pinches, and her fingernails rake over his back. He grabs her wrists and presses them to either side of her head. Holds them there, and kisses her passionately. She nibbles at his bottom lip, and he bites back. She tries to twist her hands loose but he presses down insistently, his thumbs rubbing circles on her pulse. "No. Be good."

Her eyes flash fire at him, and in half a second one of his arms is twisted at an unnatural angle. Neo yelps in pain and shock. Trinity's doesn't let go, and reaches down to his waist, unbuckles his belt, and yanks it though the loops. She offers it to him.

"To avoid further injury… you'd be wise to tie me down."

He blinks. Looks from the strap, to her azure eyes, wide with anticipation. "Huh?"

"I can be dangerous. Even deadly." She presents two dainty wrists. "If you're not very. careful. with me."

Neo swallows hard, and a thrilling rush of adrenaline tingles through him. What is particularly frightening is that she isn't role-playing at all. She came within an inch of breaking his arm just now. "You're sure?"

"It's for your own good. And the blindfold…"

"The blindfold?"

"As my request." She gives his cheek the gentlest touch, and then murmurs in the softest voice, "As my fantasy. Please."

He is amazed by how intimate she can make such a request sound. Tie me up, lover. Somehow, he can imagine her saying that. And why should he be surprised that a woman who dresses in a leather catsuit and adopts the alias Red Queen would want to turn his belt into an erotic toy?

Neo brings their brows together, whispering an I love you. They smile, and he covers both her forearms in kisses. Lifts them above her head. Wraps the black band around ivory skin. He works slowly, more out of concern of her comfort than a desire to prolong the foreplay, but the end result is the same. They are panting, lips meeting often as she insists that the buckle be tightened. Three times he adjusts it before she is satisfied, before she is genuinely unable to escape. She struggles a little, then lets her arms rest limply on the pillow.

"Okay?" He runs his hands along the soft skin over her triceps, then down to her breasts. They seem more exposed somehow, with her back slightly arched, tissue pulled up and away. He caresses her in circles, lovingly, tenderly.

She whispers, yes. Either in response to his question or to his ministrations, he can't be sure. He is losing her, or perhaps they are becoming closer. The deep blue eyes are burning, frantic on his, pleading and powerful and suddenly more animal than human. He regrets her request that he cover them, but cannot deny her, and so after a prolonged gaze and a sorrowful look, he obligingly masks her most striking feature. She breathes in shallow gasps through parted lips.

Neo knows her well enough to be certain that she's slightly anxious and tremendously aroused. And so he teases her a little with his tongue, reaching up to interlace their fingers often. The full responsibility of what happens next is on his shoulders; she has placed her body in his hands. The challenge appeals to a purely masculine part of him, the instinct to claim, possess, keep and protect. He will drive her to the edge of insanity. He'll prove he is worthy to have her. He'll spoil her for any other man.

He isn't touching her. Trinity stops breathing and focuses, listening to the silence, feeling nothing but stillness in the candlelit humidity. It's too quiet. Like watching sentinels twirl their lethal dance in the sewers. Like anticipating the screech of the first bullet of a gunfight. Waiting for the first kiss. But where will it land? What kind of seduction lies before her? Her imagination is wild and untamed, fuelled by the new and overwhelming need to be ravaged, whether she wants to be or not, past the point of no return.

Rustling next to her. And then a hand takes her jaw, cradling her face not quite gently, but firmly, a thumb resting over her lips. Without hesitation, she takes it in, her tongue sliding over the tip, her teeth lightly pressing down. He slides deeper, in and out, and she takes her cue to suck, stroke and devour. She loves the taste of his skin, with the faintest suggestion of her still lingering under his brackish flavor. His index finger is next, before she accepts the middle one alongside it. He coats her lips in her own saliva, then her chin, then a line down her neck and torso. Painting her in sex.

His mouth follows. Down and down, pausing at her hip, over the tripartite symbol of her name. Trinity. He says it aloud, fingers sedulously tracing the pattern. Only once finished does he descend, his breath hanging between her legs, sultry and trapped in curls of raven hair. Her knees bend automatically, and the reflex to hold his head shoots to her arms, pulls at the belt. No. Oh, no. But she is too lost to do anything but surrender.

Deliver me.

Release me.

Show me who you really are.

Nobody else has a clue. The shy, diffident man people call The One is passionate, creative, curious… boyishly esurient. Mischievous, as he explores her, leaving nothing unloved, sometimes going where he knows she likes it, sometimes meandering away on a tangent. Tangents like her kneecaps, her ankles, from her malleoli to the bottoms of her feet. She giggles, and tries to jerk away. But he doesn't let her go, carefully crowning each toe in the tiny osculations, tickling her just enough to make her laugh. And then whimper, as he lets his hands find their way back home. She has never been played with like this before. As if he were a musician, and she, his instrument.

He plucks. Strums. And tugs at her dampened strings, building a resonance that warmly hums through her body and wails sweetly in her mind. One slender, milky leg over his shoulder, he wires the other around his waist, and as he pushes his middle down on hers she realizes for the first time that he's naked. And magnificently so. Rigid and wet on her tummy, he leans forward until he can kiss her lips, folding her lissome body into a contortionist's position. With the utmost care he rocks, testing what she can only assume is a whimsical feat of ingenuity on his part, and an impressive display of flexibility on hers. They both grin.

"Yes?" he asks her softly, mouth flush with the blindfold. She shifts her hips, rubbing her wet onto his hard, thrilled to no end when he shudders. A taste of his own medicine. The smile is victorious, and he knows it. "Next time," he says. "I use more rope."

"Next time, I tie you down."

There is a moment of hesitation, and she wishes she could see his face. She chuckles. And gasps, as he overrules her with a subtle pivot, connecting them, slowly burying himself deep. Deeper than he's ever been, as he gently pushes on her calve, pressing her leg to her stomach.

Yes. Tear me apart. Maybe she said it aloud; she isn't sure. The sensation is exquisite. It might even be painful if she weren't so high, if the tension and pressure weren't so overwhelming. The end of him is touching the end of her, barely moving, thrusting almost imperceptibly. Her mouth opens in silent exclamation, and her heel digs into the small of his back. He can feel it, too. He must, because he remains like this for an indefinite time, gasping with her, dragging his mouth over hers, not quite kissing, in a glorious inertia. He finds her clitoris and circles it. Her body jerks. Twitch. Pang. Ache. Electric prick. The same finger slides into her mouth. And then into his.

He tears her apart. The intimate, nearly motionless lovemaking builds, locking them in a subspace where all that exists is the rhythm. She knows this rhythm, this style. It's theirs, and has not changed. And she recognizes his voice, the far away cries in the dark. The scent. It was like this the first time they made love, so sweetly and shyly she didn't recognize herself, utterly transformed by him. She is transformed again, now, in the torrid monsoon of what their love has become.

The tempest pours down on them. His thunder roars in her ears. And she feels the flickers of lightning in the center of her body, extending in claws and gossamers to the tips of her extremities. Her bound wrists lock around his neck, and she pulls his hair viciously. She curses. Yes. Prays. Yes. Implores. Please. He rips the blindfold away.

His eyes, more than anything else, send her over the edge. Dark and feral, he pierces through her, swallows her, and when she falls, it's into his warm brown abyss. She doesn't blink. Her forehead smashes against his. She knows he's coming, too; the sound he makes is devastatingly familiar. Like the first night. And the last night.

Yes, darling. Die with me.

It's excruciating. It doesn't end. It lasts almost too long to bear. She needs air. Pain squeezes at her lungs, her abs.

This is ours.

The agony and pleasure are allied. They are One.

This is Synergy.