fic: Le Disko - Stay Over
Story: Le Disko
Chapter: Stay Over
Beta: gqgqqt
Fandom: TRON: Legacy
Verse: Pilots & Poison
Characters/pairing: Sam Flynn/Tron
Rating: M
Word count: 3679
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: There is no summary - it’s porn.
Author's Note: My god why is this so long. It’s even longer than the time stamp it’s the coda for. This is officially the longest PWP I’ve ever written.
Coda for Starts With One.
The next time Sam doesn’t wait. He takes just minutes to skim through the list of updates, problems, and queries Enyo and Shaddox present him, tells them what to do, grabs Tron by the forearm, and drags him away to the portal before he can get in a word about one of the queries Sam marked as “postpone”.
“Sam,” Tron says, exasperated, following him to the edge of the portal’s light. “What is it? Is something-”
As soon as Sam’s disk floats out of his hands he grabs Tron and hauls him in, crushing their mouths together. Intent sparks at contact, blazing a smoldering line down his circuits, and Tron moans, fingers curling around Sam’s arms to drag him closer. He barely notices the world shift, sensors distorting, lines of code becoming flesh and blood, until he feels the weight of the User world bearing down on him. But mostly what he feels is Sam’s mouth, hard and soft and wet and hot, claiming every inch of his mouth while hands mold to the curves of his face and yank him even closer. Caught off guard, Tron stumbles over his feet and they almost crash into still-dusty equipment shoved against the wall.
Sam laughs as they untangle themselves but his voice is rough and heavy, loud against the whirring hum of the towers and the apparatus across from the interface. He leans against the table the equipment sits on, braces himself with one hand while the other rests against the side of Tron’s face, stroking along his jaw line. His eyes shine but where the inky irises swallow up the light.
Distantly Tron remembers that he was going to tell Sam...something, something about the increased gridbug attacks on the new sectors at the border of the Grid, something about the security breaches and groups of red-orange lit programs trying to sabotage the reconstruction. He tries to bring himself back to the list even though they’re no longer on the Grid, saying, “We need to-”
He gets cut off again as Sam leans up and nips at his bottom lip. “No we don’t.”
His words are a low growl that leaves Tron shivering, a strange contrast to the almost tangible heat curling and twisting in his chest.
“But-”
“Later.” Sam scrapes his teeth along his jaw and Tron shivers again, breath stuttering as Sam kisses the side of his neck and licks a long line along taut muscle. The heat in his chest starts moving south as his grip on Sam’s arms tighten, settling heavily within uncomfortably tight jeans. There’s a buzzing in his head and a thrum under his skin; he feels a little loose, a little tense, a little like he’s losing control.
“Told Q I’d be back soon so we can show you the sunrise,” Sam murmurs. His nose presses against the pulse while he nips at oversensitive skin and Tron hisses. “But she can wait. The sunrise can wait. Everything can wait.”
His voice is getting harsher with every syllable, something that almost always provokes Tron into pushing Sam against the nearest flat surface and pressing fingertips to white circuits. Here though he’s not so sure about how things work; he only knows that Sam’s constant need to be touched everywhere is a habit from the User world. Maybe it has something to do with how his senses keep snapping with every touch, every press of Sam’s chest to his as Sam tilts his head to kiss the underside of his jaw. Maybe it has something to do with how badly Tron wants to let his hands roam all over Sam, see what the difference is between here and back on the Grid, indulge like he used to before maintaining the half-build Grid started taking over their time.
His hesitation must be that obvious to Sam, who pulls away from the side of his neck to lean up and whisper into his ear. “Let me show you.”
Sam lets his hand slide down Tron’s neck and chest at an excruciatingly slow pace; Tron shakes as it traces the taut planes of his body, clenches his jaw and sucks in air through gritted teeth. The weight of Sam’s hand presses cold fire on his senses, taunting and teasing, promising pleasure. The lower it goes the more unbearable it gets, with everything in his body suddenly at attention as Sam’s fingers brush along the front of the jeans, and then he curves his hand around the bulge that Tron is just now noticing-
If not for Sam he’d be a heap on the floor. Tron leans heavily against him as he tries to get his feet under him, dimly hears Sam chuckle while something roars in his head. The hands on his waist holding him up only add to the building pressure low in his groin; Tron hisses when Sam purposefully brushes the back of his hand against the front while letting him go.
“Come on,” Sam says and the husky drag of his voice doesn’t help Tron at all. “Too cramped in here.”
He’s too winded to ask what Sam’s talking about and almost trips over his feet as he lets Sam pull him out of the room and up the stairs. Halfway up Sam pushes him against the cold wall and kisses him, tongue pressing into his mouth and probing deep. Tron widens his stance as far as he can without losing his footing, waiting for Sam to settle against him, but the press of their bodies is all too brief and Sam is pulling him up the stairs again. The growl deep in Tron’s throat doesn’t go unheard and Sam gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.
The arcade is alive with a cacophony of lights and sounds, and, like the first time, Tron stops at the doorway to take it all in. He only has a second to look around before Sam yanks him out onto the floor. He kisses Tron quick, mutters, “Wait here,” and then heads off for the doors. Tron shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other while watching Sam lock them and then go to a large metal box mounted on the wall and hidden by several games.
The arcade abruptly goes dark except for the dim glow in the room on the second floor. Tron holds his breath in the ringing silence, then hears Sam curse loudly and flip several switches. The lights turn back on and the chaotic harmony starts up again. One of the machines is belting out an unrecognizable melody; Sam gives it a sour look and kicks it before walking back down the aisle to Tron.
“Well I tried,” Sam says, eyes raking over Tron from head to toe. “Really need to fix that soon. Guess we’ll just make do with what we got.”
In any other situation Tron would be taking his time studying the red blush, the wet and swollen lips, the pupils crowding out the blue rings that sometimes glow brighter than his circuits, the halo of neon light around his head, but something about the look has him flushing hot and his mouth going dry; the pounding in his chest accelerates, urging him towards something he has no idea about. Sam steps closer and Tron struggles to find his voice, slides an unsteady half-step back. “Tried what?”
“Shut off all the fucking noise.” Sam presses up against him, mouths his jaw as fingers curl around the collar of the leather jacket; he starts walking Tron backward as they kiss, murmurs, “Don’t mind the light show but I could do without Journey or Billy Joel or fucking A-ha in the background.”
Tron frowns, not recognizing the names or what the problem is. If anything the beat bouncing off the walls is only adding to the incessant drumming in his ear and the buzzing under his skin. If it’s bothering Sam, though... “We could go elsewhere.”
“No we’re not.”
Tron bumps into something and looks behind him at a strangely built table, with a barrier running along the border of a surface perforated with little holes.
“Air hockey.” Sam’s voice is suddenly in his ear, following its curves. “I’ll show you later. We’re doing this first.”
“Sam-”
He’s hushed with a mouth sealing over his, lips and tongue insistent. Tron leans back against the table, hands planted on the smooth surface, while Sam slides in between his legs like he’s always meant to be right there. His hands skim over Tron’s chest and even with the layer of fabric in between Tron feels every press and slide; unlike circuits the touch is a fast-fading impression like a brilliant spark of energy, making the simulation on his senses more intense and as tantalizing as the anticipation and the shivering ghostly trail it leaves behind.
As Sam’s hand trails down lower Tron notices that he’s tracing where the circuits would be, fingers pressing down at very specific points from memory. There’s no sudden electrifying flare on his sensors, no fire through his circuitry, but he’s still impossibly sensitive there; when Sam presses his thumb in on a place right over his right hip where a circuit would be Tron flinches, body jerking forward and knees buckling; his fingers curl over the table’s frictionless surface as he tries to stay on his feet. Sam pushes up against him, kisses him while steadying him, and Tron can hear the amusement in his smile as he then kisses a line along his jaw and down his neck.
“Easy, easy,” Sam says as he brushes his lips over the pulse point. “Take it easy.”
He rests his hand around Tron’s waist and lifts his head to give Tron a steady, calculating look. Tron has no idea what to make of it, then his breath hitches as Sam slips his fingers in the small gap between shirt and jeans to brush skin. He starts, feels a muscle twitch as Sam slides the flat of his hand under and pushes the shirt up. The rush of cool air on his exposed abdomen shocks his heated nerves and Tron hisses, pushes against the table as Sam continues tracing circuit patterns on his skin. The flat of his hand is rough and padded in places, something Tron had noticed but never really paid attention to until now. There’s a drag to his dexterity in comparison the nimbleness that belies his User status on the Grid but here he more than makes up for it with experience, with knowing exactly what he’s doing.
And what he’s doing, Tron decides, is purposefully not dip his hand even lower. The coiling heat and pressure in his groin hadn’t gone away at all but Tron had been so distracted that he didn’t really notice until Sam backed him into the table. It’s the familiar maddening buildup of static energy but he knows what to do with it on the Grid, how to manipulate it and unleash it and ride the resulting high; here it’s all in Sam’s mouth and Sam’s hands, and Sam either doesn’t know how much Tron needs or he’s deliberately holding it off. A rumble starts at the back of Tron’s throat as he shifts purposefully, angling his hips up as he puts all his weight on his right hand and lifts his left off the table and forward to wrap fingers around the back of Sam’s neck and tilt his head up for a kiss. He doesn’t find that need but Sam’s mouth is a welcome distraction from it and Tron presses forward with a slick slide.
Sam chuckles, pulls away after a few seconds; when Tron tries to follow he stops him with two fingers to his mouth, says, “Not going anywhere. Relax.”
Something about the way he whispers the words has Tron wary and wondering what he’s about to do. He rumbles when Sam nips his bottom lip and worries at it for a shivering second before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, the underside of his jaw, and along his neck; Sam pulls down the collar of his shirt to expose part of his sternum and brushes his lips over it, sucks and licks at the skin while Tron throws his head back and moans. His fingers curl against Sam’s neck as he feels a hot, callused hand slide along the side of his body under his shirt, following imaginary circuits; the cool air in the arcade is only a temporary respite for the feverish buildup of heat throughout his body and he wonders very briefly why he hasn’t shut down yet.
Sam leans back a few inches, fixes him with a dark and hungry look as he sinks to his knees. Tron thinks of the only other time Sam was in this position, back in one of the control towers near the center of the Grid, but has no idea what he’s up to. Then Sam slides his hands up along the inside of his legs and Tron shuts his eyes tight, shivers at the sensations and the building pressure; a hand presses against his groin and Tron can’t stop the choked-off sound at the back of his throat, snaps his eyes open to stare at the slow grin on Sam’s lips.
Tron watches, breath caught in his chest and fingers curling against the table, as Sam pops the studs on the jeans and tugs the zipper down. Pressure - physical pressure - lets up, a short-lived relief, and Tron almost sags against the table. His body still hums with pent-up energy, though, a deep persistent thrumming under his skin. Then he catches sight of…well, Tron’s not sure what to make of the strange extension of his body, but the questioning thoughts flee his mind when Sam brushes his mouth over its straining tip through the briefs he insisted that Tron wear under the jeans. His hips jerk forward at the touch and Sam quickly pushes him back against the table; he sits back on a bent knee and looks up, taking the light but loud pressure away. Tron decides that he doesn’t like that and pushes against the bruising grip on his hipbones, seeking more of the sensation like the slide of Sam’s tongue against his circuits. He growls when Sam doesn’t comply.
“Easy there,” Sam says instead and his voice is a low purr in Tron’s ear.
He hooks his fingers around the top and pulls the fabric down. Tron hisses at the rush of cold air, shivers at the discomfort while his fingertips press hard against the table; he watches, wide-eyed, as Sam licks his bottom lip in momentary hesitance and then swipes his tongue around the flushed tip. His hips jerk forward of their own accord as something roars in his head and tight heat begins to uncoil low in his body. Sam pushes him back up against the table and Tron lets him, unable to trust himself to stay in control.
Sam tilts his head and slides his tongue along its length, watching Tron all the while; it’s exactly like the hot slick slide on his circuits, tip of tongue tracing the hypersensitive borders, and Tron bites his bottom lip hard as the pleasure reaches a fever pitch. He’s not prepared at all for Sam to wrap his mouth around the length, enclosing it in smooth wet warmth; he gasps sharply, back arching up at the shivering rush spreading outwards through his body. Tron feels the pressure bearing down on him, feels something build within him like a cascade, feels Sam swirl his tongue over and around oversensitive skin, feels fingers bruise while holding him in place. A low, broken keen breaks through his clenched teeth as Sam slides his mouth off with an almost comical pop.
“Not gonna last long, are you?” Sam muses. He breathes hotly against the wet length and Tron bites off a moan, breathes heavily as he tries to find his voice.
“I-I don’t-”
Sam runs his tongue in an agonizingly slow circle around the tip and Tron hisses, shifts and pushes against the hands still braced against his hips. He looks down to see Sam looking up at him, face flushed and lips swollen red, eyes almost black with deep hunger. Tron wants to reach out to him but he can’t make his hands move from the desperate grip on the table behind him; it’s the only thing grounding him down now, and he shuts his eyes and drags in air, trying to center himself. When he opens them Sam’s leaning back, giving him an unreadable look.
“Hey,” he says softly and now his voice is a caress, wrapping around them and creating a little bubble in this large, bright room. “I got you, okay?”
Tron wants to ask what Sam means, wants to know how this flesh and blood body handles the inevitable overload, but all that comes out of his parted lips is a hiss as Sam leans back in and swallows. His tongue - his tongue curves around its length, stroking it, coaxing it - and Tron - along. There’s thunder in his ears, the first flashes of lightning behind shut eyes and through wildly firing senses; Tron tilts his head back, shivering and gasping at the relentless stimulation. The heel of his foot skitters an inch or two across the floor but Sam holds him steady against the table, keeps him in place and here. But for how long? Tron feels ready to fly.
“Sam,” he tries to say but his voice skips, breath hitching once, twice. “Sam.”
He’s falling apart, giving in to the electric curl of release; he drags in air through clenched teeth as his body tenses and his hips jerk forward while Sam swirls his tongue around the hypersensitive tip. Sam’s fingers dig bruisingly into his sides but he can barely feel it for the overwhelming rush of pent-up heat and pressure, of a high so strong that everything roars white-hot and drowns out the world.
...Tron stares at the play of colors on the ceiling while he tries to make sense of the music now filling up the arcade. He dimly hears Sam spit on the ground, and then flinches, hisses when fingers tuck that part of his body back under the thin layer of fabric and tugs the zipper up. Then he hears Sam rise to his feet, feels him lean forward and press his lips to the side of his neck; Tron closes his eyes and breathes in deep while Sam hums against the pulse point and snaps the metal studs shut.
“Hey,” Sam says softly.
Tron doesn’t know if he has it in him to reply. He doesn’t get to anyway, with Sam mouthing along his jaw and then pressing in a deep kiss. His tongue slips inside, bittersweet with a strange salty tang; Tron finally lets go of the table behind him and lets his shaky hands slide up Sam’s jacket and curl around its collar like a lifeline. When Sam draws back Tron follows, teeth closing gently on the swollen bottom lip and worrying on it before moving to the upper lip. He feels too tired to chase the flavor, closes his eyes and leans forward to rest his forehead against Sam’s.
“You okay?” Sam asks.
Tron just hums. It sounds kinder than the constant whir in the Grid, sounds more like a low warm purr. He imagines that if they were on the Grid he’d be glowing everywhere. His limbs feel heavy and his mind is slowing but it’s not a concern, not while Sam is here. He thinks he could drift off into stasis even though he’s still on his feet.
“Liked it, didn’t you?”
He buries his face into the crook of Sam’s neck, breathes in something earthy and salty and alive. And warm, very warm.
“Come on.” There’s an insistent hand on his elbow, a gentle pressure pulling him away from the table. “Got a better place to crash than here. Got something to show you, too.”
“You just did.” Tron finds his voice and it’s barely there, lost under the layers of noise and music coming from the flashy machines they’re walking by.
Sam laughs. “Well, that’s just one of the awesome things about this world. There’s something else, too.”
“You said you were going to show me a sunrise. We’re going to meet Quorra and you’re showing me a sunrise.”
They’re at the doors of the arcade. Tron leans against the cold wall while Sam unlocks and opens the doors to let in a weak bluish gray light, shudders and tugs the collar the leather jacket around his neck as a cold breeze sweeps in. Sam walks around the corner to shut off the lights and sounds; the sudden silence following the loud clang sends a shiver down his back. Tron stares at the light, wondering where it’s coming from; it can’t be one of the lampposts lining the street outside but there’s no way the sky itself could change.
“You okay with being gone more than an hour?” Sam asks quietly. Tron hadn’t heard him come back around. He looks at the stream of light coming through the open doors, at the expression on Sam’s face, at the ground, and closes his eyes, thinks for a moment.
Sam’s offering him a choice.
And Tron knows what he’s going to say.
“Two hours,” he says. “I’ll stay over for two hours. Show me the sunrise, Sam.”
Sam once told him he had to describe the sun to Quorra; he then said the first thing he showed her after that night a very long time ago was a sunrise. Tron has never seen the sun, had never thought to ask, and now Sam’s going to show him it, too.
“Come on.”
Sam takes Tron’s hand, weaving their fingers together, and leads him outside to the waiting motorcycle.
Chapter: Stay Over
Beta: gqgqqt
Fandom: TRON: Legacy
Verse: Pilots & Poison
Characters/pairing: Sam Flynn/Tron
Rating: M
Word count: 3679
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Summary: There is no summary - it’s porn.
Author's Note: My god why is this so long. It’s even longer than the time stamp it’s the coda for. This is officially the longest PWP I’ve ever written.
Coda for Starts With One.
The next time Sam doesn’t wait. He takes just minutes to skim through the list of updates, problems, and queries Enyo and Shaddox present him, tells them what to do, grabs Tron by the forearm, and drags him away to the portal before he can get in a word about one of the queries Sam marked as “postpone”.
“Sam,” Tron says, exasperated, following him to the edge of the portal’s light. “What is it? Is something-”
As soon as Sam’s disk floats out of his hands he grabs Tron and hauls him in, crushing their mouths together. Intent sparks at contact, blazing a smoldering line down his circuits, and Tron moans, fingers curling around Sam’s arms to drag him closer. He barely notices the world shift, sensors distorting, lines of code becoming flesh and blood, until he feels the weight of the User world bearing down on him. But mostly what he feels is Sam’s mouth, hard and soft and wet and hot, claiming every inch of his mouth while hands mold to the curves of his face and yank him even closer. Caught off guard, Tron stumbles over his feet and they almost crash into still-dusty equipment shoved against the wall.
Sam laughs as they untangle themselves but his voice is rough and heavy, loud against the whirring hum of the towers and the apparatus across from the interface. He leans against the table the equipment sits on, braces himself with one hand while the other rests against the side of Tron’s face, stroking along his jaw line. His eyes shine but where the inky irises swallow up the light.
Distantly Tron remembers that he was going to tell Sam...something, something about the increased gridbug attacks on the new sectors at the border of the Grid, something about the security breaches and groups of red-orange lit programs trying to sabotage the reconstruction. He tries to bring himself back to the list even though they’re no longer on the Grid, saying, “We need to-”
He gets cut off again as Sam leans up and nips at his bottom lip. “No we don’t.”
His words are a low growl that leaves Tron shivering, a strange contrast to the almost tangible heat curling and twisting in his chest.
“But-”
“Later.” Sam scrapes his teeth along his jaw and Tron shivers again, breath stuttering as Sam kisses the side of his neck and licks a long line along taut muscle. The heat in his chest starts moving south as his grip on Sam’s arms tighten, settling heavily within uncomfortably tight jeans. There’s a buzzing in his head and a thrum under his skin; he feels a little loose, a little tense, a little like he’s losing control.
“Told Q I’d be back soon so we can show you the sunrise,” Sam murmurs. His nose presses against the pulse while he nips at oversensitive skin and Tron hisses. “But she can wait. The sunrise can wait. Everything can wait.”
His voice is getting harsher with every syllable, something that almost always provokes Tron into pushing Sam against the nearest flat surface and pressing fingertips to white circuits. Here though he’s not so sure about how things work; he only knows that Sam’s constant need to be touched everywhere is a habit from the User world. Maybe it has something to do with how his senses keep snapping with every touch, every press of Sam’s chest to his as Sam tilts his head to kiss the underside of his jaw. Maybe it has something to do with how badly Tron wants to let his hands roam all over Sam, see what the difference is between here and back on the Grid, indulge like he used to before maintaining the half-build Grid started taking over their time.
His hesitation must be that obvious to Sam, who pulls away from the side of his neck to lean up and whisper into his ear. “Let me show you.”
Sam lets his hand slide down Tron’s neck and chest at an excruciatingly slow pace; Tron shakes as it traces the taut planes of his body, clenches his jaw and sucks in air through gritted teeth. The weight of Sam’s hand presses cold fire on his senses, taunting and teasing, promising pleasure. The lower it goes the more unbearable it gets, with everything in his body suddenly at attention as Sam’s fingers brush along the front of the jeans, and then he curves his hand around the bulge that Tron is just now noticing-
If not for Sam he’d be a heap on the floor. Tron leans heavily against him as he tries to get his feet under him, dimly hears Sam chuckle while something roars in his head. The hands on his waist holding him up only add to the building pressure low in his groin; Tron hisses when Sam purposefully brushes the back of his hand against the front while letting him go.
“Come on,” Sam says and the husky drag of his voice doesn’t help Tron at all. “Too cramped in here.”
He’s too winded to ask what Sam’s talking about and almost trips over his feet as he lets Sam pull him out of the room and up the stairs. Halfway up Sam pushes him against the cold wall and kisses him, tongue pressing into his mouth and probing deep. Tron widens his stance as far as he can without losing his footing, waiting for Sam to settle against him, but the press of their bodies is all too brief and Sam is pulling him up the stairs again. The growl deep in Tron’s throat doesn’t go unheard and Sam gives his hand a reassuring squeeze.
The arcade is alive with a cacophony of lights and sounds, and, like the first time, Tron stops at the doorway to take it all in. He only has a second to look around before Sam yanks him out onto the floor. He kisses Tron quick, mutters, “Wait here,” and then heads off for the doors. Tron shifts uncomfortably from one foot to the other while watching Sam lock them and then go to a large metal box mounted on the wall and hidden by several games.
The arcade abruptly goes dark except for the dim glow in the room on the second floor. Tron holds his breath in the ringing silence, then hears Sam curse loudly and flip several switches. The lights turn back on and the chaotic harmony starts up again. One of the machines is belting out an unrecognizable melody; Sam gives it a sour look and kicks it before walking back down the aisle to Tron.
“Well I tried,” Sam says, eyes raking over Tron from head to toe. “Really need to fix that soon. Guess we’ll just make do with what we got.”
In any other situation Tron would be taking his time studying the red blush, the wet and swollen lips, the pupils crowding out the blue rings that sometimes glow brighter than his circuits, the halo of neon light around his head, but something about the look has him flushing hot and his mouth going dry; the pounding in his chest accelerates, urging him towards something he has no idea about. Sam steps closer and Tron struggles to find his voice, slides an unsteady half-step back. “Tried what?”
“Shut off all the fucking noise.” Sam presses up against him, mouths his jaw as fingers curl around the collar of the leather jacket; he starts walking Tron backward as they kiss, murmurs, “Don’t mind the light show but I could do without Journey or Billy Joel or fucking A-ha in the background.”
Tron frowns, not recognizing the names or what the problem is. If anything the beat bouncing off the walls is only adding to the incessant drumming in his ear and the buzzing under his skin. If it’s bothering Sam, though... “We could go elsewhere.”
“No we’re not.”
Tron bumps into something and looks behind him at a strangely built table, with a barrier running along the border of a surface perforated with little holes.
“Air hockey.” Sam’s voice is suddenly in his ear, following its curves. “I’ll show you later. We’re doing this first.”
“Sam-”
He’s hushed with a mouth sealing over his, lips and tongue insistent. Tron leans back against the table, hands planted on the smooth surface, while Sam slides in between his legs like he’s always meant to be right there. His hands skim over Tron’s chest and even with the layer of fabric in between Tron feels every press and slide; unlike circuits the touch is a fast-fading impression like a brilliant spark of energy, making the simulation on his senses more intense and as tantalizing as the anticipation and the shivering ghostly trail it leaves behind.
As Sam’s hand trails down lower Tron notices that he’s tracing where the circuits would be, fingers pressing down at very specific points from memory. There’s no sudden electrifying flare on his sensors, no fire through his circuitry, but he’s still impossibly sensitive there; when Sam presses his thumb in on a place right over his right hip where a circuit would be Tron flinches, body jerking forward and knees buckling; his fingers curl over the table’s frictionless surface as he tries to stay on his feet. Sam pushes up against him, kisses him while steadying him, and Tron can hear the amusement in his smile as he then kisses a line along his jaw and down his neck.
“Easy, easy,” Sam says as he brushes his lips over the pulse point. “Take it easy.”
He rests his hand around Tron’s waist and lifts his head to give Tron a steady, calculating look. Tron has no idea what to make of it, then his breath hitches as Sam slips his fingers in the small gap between shirt and jeans to brush skin. He starts, feels a muscle twitch as Sam slides the flat of his hand under and pushes the shirt up. The rush of cool air on his exposed abdomen shocks his heated nerves and Tron hisses, pushes against the table as Sam continues tracing circuit patterns on his skin. The flat of his hand is rough and padded in places, something Tron had noticed but never really paid attention to until now. There’s a drag to his dexterity in comparison the nimbleness that belies his User status on the Grid but here he more than makes up for it with experience, with knowing exactly what he’s doing.
And what he’s doing, Tron decides, is purposefully not dip his hand even lower. The coiling heat and pressure in his groin hadn’t gone away at all but Tron had been so distracted that he didn’t really notice until Sam backed him into the table. It’s the familiar maddening buildup of static energy but he knows what to do with it on the Grid, how to manipulate it and unleash it and ride the resulting high; here it’s all in Sam’s mouth and Sam’s hands, and Sam either doesn’t know how much Tron needs or he’s deliberately holding it off. A rumble starts at the back of Tron’s throat as he shifts purposefully, angling his hips up as he puts all his weight on his right hand and lifts his left off the table and forward to wrap fingers around the back of Sam’s neck and tilt his head up for a kiss. He doesn’t find that need but Sam’s mouth is a welcome distraction from it and Tron presses forward with a slick slide.
Sam chuckles, pulls away after a few seconds; when Tron tries to follow he stops him with two fingers to his mouth, says, “Not going anywhere. Relax.”
Something about the way he whispers the words has Tron wary and wondering what he’s about to do. He rumbles when Sam nips his bottom lip and worries at it for a shivering second before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, the underside of his jaw, and along his neck; Sam pulls down the collar of his shirt to expose part of his sternum and brushes his lips over it, sucks and licks at the skin while Tron throws his head back and moans. His fingers curl against Sam’s neck as he feels a hot, callused hand slide along the side of his body under his shirt, following imaginary circuits; the cool air in the arcade is only a temporary respite for the feverish buildup of heat throughout his body and he wonders very briefly why he hasn’t shut down yet.
Sam leans back a few inches, fixes him with a dark and hungry look as he sinks to his knees. Tron thinks of the only other time Sam was in this position, back in one of the control towers near the center of the Grid, but has no idea what he’s up to. Then Sam slides his hands up along the inside of his legs and Tron shuts his eyes tight, shivers at the sensations and the building pressure; a hand presses against his groin and Tron can’t stop the choked-off sound at the back of his throat, snaps his eyes open to stare at the slow grin on Sam’s lips.
Tron watches, breath caught in his chest and fingers curling against the table, as Sam pops the studs on the jeans and tugs the zipper down. Pressure - physical pressure - lets up, a short-lived relief, and Tron almost sags against the table. His body still hums with pent-up energy, though, a deep persistent thrumming under his skin. Then he catches sight of…well, Tron’s not sure what to make of the strange extension of his body, but the questioning thoughts flee his mind when Sam brushes his mouth over its straining tip through the briefs he insisted that Tron wear under the jeans. His hips jerk forward at the touch and Sam quickly pushes him back against the table; he sits back on a bent knee and looks up, taking the light but loud pressure away. Tron decides that he doesn’t like that and pushes against the bruising grip on his hipbones, seeking more of the sensation like the slide of Sam’s tongue against his circuits. He growls when Sam doesn’t comply.
“Easy there,” Sam says instead and his voice is a low purr in Tron’s ear.
He hooks his fingers around the top and pulls the fabric down. Tron hisses at the rush of cold air, shivers at the discomfort while his fingertips press hard against the table; he watches, wide-eyed, as Sam licks his bottom lip in momentary hesitance and then swipes his tongue around the flushed tip. His hips jerk forward of their own accord as something roars in his head and tight heat begins to uncoil low in his body. Sam pushes him back up against the table and Tron lets him, unable to trust himself to stay in control.
Sam tilts his head and slides his tongue along its length, watching Tron all the while; it’s exactly like the hot slick slide on his circuits, tip of tongue tracing the hypersensitive borders, and Tron bites his bottom lip hard as the pleasure reaches a fever pitch. He’s not prepared at all for Sam to wrap his mouth around the length, enclosing it in smooth wet warmth; he gasps sharply, back arching up at the shivering rush spreading outwards through his body. Tron feels the pressure bearing down on him, feels something build within him like a cascade, feels Sam swirl his tongue over and around oversensitive skin, feels fingers bruise while holding him in place. A low, broken keen breaks through his clenched teeth as Sam slides his mouth off with an almost comical pop.
“Not gonna last long, are you?” Sam muses. He breathes hotly against the wet length and Tron bites off a moan, breathes heavily as he tries to find his voice.
“I-I don’t-”
Sam runs his tongue in an agonizingly slow circle around the tip and Tron hisses, shifts and pushes against the hands still braced against his hips. He looks down to see Sam looking up at him, face flushed and lips swollen red, eyes almost black with deep hunger. Tron wants to reach out to him but he can’t make his hands move from the desperate grip on the table behind him; it’s the only thing grounding him down now, and he shuts his eyes and drags in air, trying to center himself. When he opens them Sam’s leaning back, giving him an unreadable look.
“Hey,” he says softly and now his voice is a caress, wrapping around them and creating a little bubble in this large, bright room. “I got you, okay?”
Tron wants to ask what Sam means, wants to know how this flesh and blood body handles the inevitable overload, but all that comes out of his parted lips is a hiss as Sam leans back in and swallows. His tongue - his tongue curves around its length, stroking it, coaxing it - and Tron - along. There’s thunder in his ears, the first flashes of lightning behind shut eyes and through wildly firing senses; Tron tilts his head back, shivering and gasping at the relentless stimulation. The heel of his foot skitters an inch or two across the floor but Sam holds him steady against the table, keeps him in place and here. But for how long? Tron feels ready to fly.
“Sam,” he tries to say but his voice skips, breath hitching once, twice. “Sam.”
He’s falling apart, giving in to the electric curl of release; he drags in air through clenched teeth as his body tenses and his hips jerk forward while Sam swirls his tongue around the hypersensitive tip. Sam’s fingers dig bruisingly into his sides but he can barely feel it for the overwhelming rush of pent-up heat and pressure, of a high so strong that everything roars white-hot and drowns out the world.
...Tron stares at the play of colors on the ceiling while he tries to make sense of the music now filling up the arcade. He dimly hears Sam spit on the ground, and then flinches, hisses when fingers tuck that part of his body back under the thin layer of fabric and tugs the zipper up. Then he hears Sam rise to his feet, feels him lean forward and press his lips to the side of his neck; Tron closes his eyes and breathes in deep while Sam hums against the pulse point and snaps the metal studs shut.
“Hey,” Sam says softly.
Tron doesn’t know if he has it in him to reply. He doesn’t get to anyway, with Sam mouthing along his jaw and then pressing in a deep kiss. His tongue slips inside, bittersweet with a strange salty tang; Tron finally lets go of the table behind him and lets his shaky hands slide up Sam’s jacket and curl around its collar like a lifeline. When Sam draws back Tron follows, teeth closing gently on the swollen bottom lip and worrying on it before moving to the upper lip. He feels too tired to chase the flavor, closes his eyes and leans forward to rest his forehead against Sam’s.
“You okay?” Sam asks.
Tron just hums. It sounds kinder than the constant whir in the Grid, sounds more like a low warm purr. He imagines that if they were on the Grid he’d be glowing everywhere. His limbs feel heavy and his mind is slowing but it’s not a concern, not while Sam is here. He thinks he could drift off into stasis even though he’s still on his feet.
“Liked it, didn’t you?”
He buries his face into the crook of Sam’s neck, breathes in something earthy and salty and alive. And warm, very warm.
“Come on.” There’s an insistent hand on his elbow, a gentle pressure pulling him away from the table. “Got a better place to crash than here. Got something to show you, too.”
“You just did.” Tron finds his voice and it’s barely there, lost under the layers of noise and music coming from the flashy machines they’re walking by.
Sam laughs. “Well, that’s just one of the awesome things about this world. There’s something else, too.”
“You said you were going to show me a sunrise. We’re going to meet Quorra and you’re showing me a sunrise.”
They’re at the doors of the arcade. Tron leans against the cold wall while Sam unlocks and opens the doors to let in a weak bluish gray light, shudders and tugs the collar the leather jacket around his neck as a cold breeze sweeps in. Sam walks around the corner to shut off the lights and sounds; the sudden silence following the loud clang sends a shiver down his back. Tron stares at the light, wondering where it’s coming from; it can’t be one of the lampposts lining the street outside but there’s no way the sky itself could change.
“You okay with being gone more than an hour?” Sam asks quietly. Tron hadn’t heard him come back around. He looks at the stream of light coming through the open doors, at the expression on Sam’s face, at the ground, and closes his eyes, thinks for a moment.
Sam’s offering him a choice.
And Tron knows what he’s going to say.
“Two hours,” he says. “I’ll stay over for two hours. Show me the sunrise, Sam.”
Sam once told him he had to describe the sun to Quorra; he then said the first thing he showed her after that night a very long time ago was a sunrise. Tron has never seen the sun, had never thought to ask, and now Sam’s going to show him it, too.
“Come on.”
Sam takes Tron’s hand, weaving their fingers together, and leads him outside to the waiting motorcycle.