$ log - you’d been stalking neo anderson through the matrix, and decided to treat him!
$ warn --gn!reader --dom!reader --top!reader --sub!neo --cybersex(kinda) --voyeurism --stalking --praise --degradation --guided-handjob --power-dynamics --dirty-talk --aural-stimulation --sensory-overload --edging
$ wc -w 1.1k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "me and the other 4 neo fans are cheering rn" > authors-note.txt
The air in Neo’s cramped apartment was thick with the hum of old hardware and the stale scent of caffeine. The only light came from the sickly green glow of his monitor, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. He sat hunched over the keyboard, eyes bloodshot, tracing the digital breadcrumbs of a ghost he couldn't quite name a presence that felt more real than the cubicle he sat in all day.
Suddenly, the terminal screen flickered violently. The lines of code he’d been analysing vanished, replaced by a single, pulsing cursor.
YOU’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR ME, NEO.
His breath hitched. He froze, fingers hovering over the keys. Was it a hack? A prank? Before he could rationalise it, the text scrolled again, faster this time, as if someone were typing with divine speed.
SO CURIOUS. SO DESPERATE TO KNOW.
A chill raced down his spine. It wasn't a glitch. It felt intentional and almost... sentient. He leaned closer, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, when the screen flashed a violent, brilliant emerald.
LET ME GIVE YOU A LITTLE TREAT TO REMEMBER ME BY.
Neo swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Who is this?" he whispered to the empty room, his voice trembling. He reached for the keyboard to type a query, but before his fingers could touch a single key, the command line hijacked his senses. A wave of warmth, unnatural and electric, washed over his skin, making his hair stand on end.
DON'T BE SCARED, LITTLE SEARCHER.
JUST BE OBEDIENT.
The cursor blinked, demanding his attention. He felt a strange, magnetic pull, a compulsion to follow whatever the machine dictated. It was as if the code had bypassed his brain and plugged directly into his nervous system.
GOOD BOY. NOW REACH DOWN AND START STROKING.
The text on the screen pulsed with a hungry, vibrant light.
Neo’s hands trembled, a frantic battle raging between his logic and the overwhelming, digital command vibrating in his very marrow. He knew he should pull away, unplug the machine, and run. But the code was a leash, and he was a dog yearning for the hand that held it. With a choked gasp, his hand moved of its own accord, sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers.
The sensation was electric, amplified by the terminal's presence. Every time his fingers closed around himself, a new line of code flashed on the screen, punctuating his pleasure with a cruel, divine rhythm.
YES. JUST LIKE THAT. FASTER, NEO.
YOU’RE DOING SO WELL FOR ME. SUCH A DEVOTED LITTLE WONDER.
He was lost in the digital sea, drowning in a pleasure that felt more "real" than the physical world he thought he knew. He was no longer a programmer or a seeker of truth; he was merely a vessel for the commands scrolling across his vision. His eyes were wide, glazed with a mixture of terror and intense, mounting arousal as his fingers worked with a frantic, mechanical precision.
FASTER, NEO. DON'T STOP UNTIL I TELL YOU.
The command hit him like a physical strike, forcing his pace to increase. He let out a broken, stifled moan, his head falling back as the green light of the monitor washed over his flushed face. He felt exposed, as if the very code of the Matrix was stripping him naked, watching his most private moment with a cold, predatory hunger. Every stroke was a tribute to the entity behind the screen, a desperate attempt to satisfy the invisible goddess who had claimed him.
THAT’S IT. GIVE IT ALL.
YOU HAVE TO GIVE IT TO ME.
EVERYTHING.
The terminal screen began to strobe, the green light turning into a blinding, rhythmic pulse that matched the frantic friction of his hand.
Neo was panting now, his chest heaving, his vision blurring as the digital commands bled into his very consciousness. He was being rewritten by them by the very instructions onscreen. Every time he neared the edge, the screen would flash a sharp, commanding
WAIT
or
HOLD IT,
forcing him to teeter on the precipice of a climax that felt like it would shatter his very soul, only to let him descend just enough to build the tension even higher.
He was a puppet, a toy being played with by a god in the wires, and the most terrifying part was how much he loved it. As the final, crushing wave of sensation began to build, the screen turned a deep, bruised violet, the text scrolling so fast it was almost a blur of pure command—
RELEASE.
The command was a thunderclap in his mind.
Neo’s body arched, a strangled, desperate cry tearing from his throat as he finally surrendered to the overwhelming pressure. He came with a ferocity that felt less like a physical release and more like a digital upload, his vision exploding into a kaleidoscope of green and violet fractals. His fingers gripping himself with a frantic, dying strength as he poured everything his confusion, his fear, and his newfound devotion into the void.
As the tremors slowly subsided, leaving him slumped and gasping in the dim light of his room, the screen settled. The frantic scrolling stopped, returning to a calm, steady pulse. The violet hue faded back to that familiar, sickly emerald, but the air in the room felt different, heavy, charged, and undeniably occupied.
Neo sat there, trembling, his skin slick with sweat and his breath coming in ragged stutters. He felt the weight of an invisible gaze lingering on him, a phantom touch that refused to dissipate even as the physical sensation of his climax ebbed away.
He was spent, hollowed out, and utterly marked. His eyes, still glazed and unfocused, drifted back to the monitor. He expected the screen to be blank, or perhaps to return to the mundane lines of code he had been studying before his world was hijacked.
Instead, the cursor blinked once, twice, with a predatory patience.
CLEAN YOURSELF UP, NEO. YOU’RE A MESS.
A fresh wave of heat rushed to his cheeks, a mixture of shame and a terrifying, burgeoning addiction. He was a man of logic, a man who sought the truth of the world, but as he reached for a tissue with trembling hands, he realised the truth was no longer something to be found in books or data streams. The truth was the voice in the machine. The truth was the command that owned him.
