Tangible Schizophrenia


Upgrade 2: Honeymoon

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: NC-17. Mindsex.
Pairing: Sands/El, Trinity/Merovingian (Lucifer)
Feedback: Much appreciated. Feed the muses (but not the bunnies, dammit; they're breeding just fine on their own)
Disclaimer: Belongs to a multitude of other, far cooler people.
Notes: Have no knowledge of Matrix fanon, so am extrapolating my own stuff. Viewing of all three Matrix movies suggested.
Summary: Vignette from 'The Mexico'.


"Goddamn it."

Ensconced in a nearby armchair, El looked up from his laptop just in time to grab the pistol away from Sands. "No shooting the computers," he reminded the other man. "We talked about this. I don't want to set any more hotels on fire."

"Hey. That was all Lorenzo, fuckmook." Sands kicked off the edge of the desk, letting his swivel chair spin wildly for a few seconds before stopping it. "I did the bank."

Sighing, El put the gun away and then scooted forward, leaning out to turn Sands' computer toward him. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong," the American muttered. "What's wrong. What is wrong. Hmm. Well, I've got the ultimate hacker in my head, ready and willing to lay out the U. S. government mainframes before us like open-legged whores in a Mardi Gras parade, and you know what? I can't see the damn keyboard, and that whole muscle-memory thing? Absolute bullshit. So I'm fucking up two keystrokes in three, and it's taking three times as long, and you know what else? The motherfucking crapful of electronic evil is fucking cheerful!"

To emphasize his point, Sands banged the laptop, which promptly chirped a warning. And as he had said, it was indeed happy.

Cocking his head, El favored the computer with a wary look; he still wasn't very comfortable with the technology, despite him now being capable of hacking anything with a phone number. And quite a few that didn't. "What were you doing?" the mariachi asked.

"Oh, just fuck off." Sands waved his hands irately in the air, then sprawled, jello-like, in the chair. "I know, I know. Let the nice man help; we'll make it all feel better. Well, you won't." That generous mouth set itself in a daunting pout, made all the more surreal by the lack of liquid doe-eyes above it.

He really is a bastard.

El gave a mental shrug, twisting around to put both computers on the far end of the desk, safely out of range. I told you. He's difficult. In his head, Trinity muttered something feminine about pissing contests. Luc was a little more helpful.

"El?" The American lifted his head from the back of the chair, expression morphing swiftly from puzzled to alarmed. "El? What are you-ooooh God…"

Straight-faced, the other man settled back and watched intently as Sands' hands clamped down on the armrests, the rest of the American's body going equally tense. Half-formed prayers dripping from his open mouth, Sands arched up and back, rolling into an unseen caress. His legs fell gradually apart, and like an obscene, mesmerizing crest of sea, his pelvis thrust towards the ceiling. Breathing quickening, Sands whipped his head from side-to-side, moaning, and then he abruptly jerked still, torso curved to the ceiling. "Shit!"

El could see the spreading wetness across the crotch of the American's jeans as the other man dropped limply back into the chair, sending it into a crawling, squeaking spin. The mariachi grunted thoughtfully. "Better?" he inquired solicitously.

"When's the next time we get to shoot somebody?" Sands asked breathily, throat sounding a little strained.

"After dinner."

"Righty-o." Bearing a striking resemblance to a coiling cobra, Sands brought his head down to face the other man. "I'm going to go change my clothes now. And then I'm going to work. And after that, I'll eat dinner. Pleasantly. Making nice conversation. But-" raising a finger, which cast a huge, demonic shadow on the wall behind him "-let me just say: I know exactly how you did that. I know exactly how I can do that. And thirdly, I know exactly when you really don't need a distraction."

With that Parthian shot, the American stood up and wobbled over to the bathroom. As the door clicked shut, El flopped heavily into his seat and undid his zipper with one hand. He wiped himself off with some of the hotel tissues, and then grabbed his computer, resuming work.



You're not killing anyone until tomorrow. In fact, you're not planning to do anything tonight.

I know.


Trinity, chère, Sands is more likely to end up underneath if he's confused. And as El is rather tender at the moment…

Oh. Oooh.

I told you two. He's difficult. You have to handle him carefully.



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