fic: Le Disko - Red :: Sensuality
Story: Le Disko
Prompt: Sensuality
Fandom: TRON: Legacy
Verse: Pilots & Poison
Characters: Sam/Tron
Rating: M
Word count: 1000
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.
Author's Note: For the teal deer version, read the A/N for “Red :: Fool For Love”. You can find it under the “story: le disko” tag.
tl;dr - a Pilots!verse time stamp using the Red prompt set at 7rainbowprompts.
I know I already filled this with art, but I can't post art to FFN. I also have a not-so-slight kink for things involving the circuits on Tron's fingers. And then I found out that I can indeed write 1000 words of PWP.
There's obscene - he's seen obscene, nobody escapes porn on the Internet - and then there's this. This is Tron that Sam's straddling, back arching up and head thrown back, moaning and keening helplessly as he clutches at Sam's hip and kneads on the sensitive nerves - circuits, hidden until someone touches them - embedded in his skin. This is Sam pinning Tron down on the bed with a splayed hand on his chest, fingertips sliding against the flickering violet circuits, and trying to keep his composure despite the energy pulsing up his arm. This is him holding the program's wrist a little too tightly, holding it up to his mouth, and wrapping his tongue around the circuit-lined fingers. They taste like metal - like brand new pennies, like the iron tang of blood - and they hum against the roof of his mouth and under his tongue, hot and slick with spit.
Sam doesn't know what thrills him more - the heady energy pulsing down his throat or the program writhing underneath him. He never sees Tron losing his composure, never sees him be vulnerable, and yet Tron let him take over, let Sam crawl on top and push him back down on the bed. And he really is a sight to see, all violet light and disheveled hair and wet mouth breathing out Sam's name. And Sam-well, he wants to lean down and swallow up his name from Tron's mouth, wants to slide against the circuits marking Tron's front, wants to bring the program to orgasm with his mouth and his hands. But he'll wait and enjoy the show, see how far he can push Tron with just the circuits on his fingers.
He'd always wondered about the long blue lines on Tron's thumb and index and middle fingers. He just couldn't ignore their dexterity, their inhuman grace as they manipulated antagonistic programs and the complex circuits under his skin. The first time he merely brushed his mouth over the circuits and Tron looked at him in confusion even as his circuits flashed purple. The second time he sucked Tron's thumb in and held it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, watched the light switch on in the program's eyes. The third time he grabs Tron's hand before it reaches his hip and pulls it up, looks down and waits for a nod before breathing out slow over the index and middle fingers; the circuits flare and tingle against his lips, promising so many things, and then Sam opens his mouth and sucks them in.
Taste doesn't register on the Grid the same way it does on the other side. There's sweet and bitter and the indescribable tang of energy in everything. He tastes it in the cocktails Crystal mixes, the sterile air, the scheduled rain that washes the Grid clean, Tron's circuits, even in his blood when he accidentally cuts himself. He tastes it along the textured pads of the program's fingers, in the glow flooding his mouth with an intoxicating sweet thrum.
Slowly he pulls the fingers out of his mouth, teases with the tip of his tongue and with teeth. Tron shudders, groans, jerks against him; his heels dig into the bed as he rides out a wave of energy. Sam feels it through the hand on his hip and the wrist in his grasp, shuts his eyes and grits his teeth as it rushes through his body and hits him like a freight train. Stars blink in and out of existence as he gathers himself and looks down at Tron, face flushed purple from his circuits.
Sam leans down, bracing himself carefully on the hand still on Tron's chest, and kisses him. His lips are fuzzy and his mouth is numb, and Tron is just brimming with heat and light and barely bridled force. He feels the program rake shaking fingers through his hair and slide his hand down the side of his face. Sam pulls back, breathing hard, and Tron caresses his wet swollen lips, looks at him with searching, pleading eyes. Sam opens his mouth and Tron presses his fingers in, watches as he swallows around them.
He feels rather than hears Tron groan as he swirls his tongue around the digits, stroking circuits that shiver hot-cold down his throat and coil tightly in his chest. The program suddenly thrusts up against him and Sam pushes him back down; fingers flex and curl as Tron keens, tenses up under him. The heated air is thick with ozone, full of static that prickles exposed skin and lungs. Everything's becoming charged, wound tight full of building energy; every move elicits a hiss and Sam grounding down against him, toes curling and arms shaking with too much pressure that's got nowhere to go. He's so close to the edge despite doing nothing more than tastes the circuits on Tron's fingers, so close that he thinks just listening to Tron's wanton mewling might undo him. He didn't think it was possible for the program to make those sounds.
He needs to hear them again, he decides, so he sucks on the fingers, drags them halfway out of his mouth slowly, feels the circuits slide against his upper lip. There's a hitched whimper that hits him even harder than whatever metaphors his disoriented mind tries to come up with, and Tron curls his other hand tightly against Sam's hip, twists and pushes up against him as pressure and friction reach an incomprehensible limit. The fingertips in his mouth throb - or he's throbbing, everywhere, and so ready to fall apart - as Tron presses on a node on the inside of Sam's hip, and he rocks his hips forward reflexively; he moans around the static-laced fingers, feels the energy blaze a line down his throat as he wraps his lips around them.
They curl against his tongue, burning circuits flooding his mouth with intoxicating electricity, and Tron falls apart, dragging Sam down with him.
Prompt: Sensuality
Fandom: TRON: Legacy
Verse: Pilots & Poison
Characters: Sam/Tron
Rating: M
Word count: 1000
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.
Author's Note: For the teal deer version, read the A/N for “Red :: Fool For Love”. You can find it under the “story: le disko” tag.
tl;dr - a Pilots!verse time stamp using the Red prompt set at 7rainbowprompts.
I know I already filled this with art, but I can't post art to FFN. I also have a not-so-slight kink for things involving the circuits on Tron's fingers. And then I found out that I can indeed write 1000 words of PWP.
There's obscene - he's seen obscene, nobody escapes porn on the Internet - and then there's this. This is Tron that Sam's straddling, back arching up and head thrown back, moaning and keening helplessly as he clutches at Sam's hip and kneads on the sensitive nerves - circuits, hidden until someone touches them - embedded in his skin. This is Sam pinning Tron down on the bed with a splayed hand on his chest, fingertips sliding against the flickering violet circuits, and trying to keep his composure despite the energy pulsing up his arm. This is him holding the program's wrist a little too tightly, holding it up to his mouth, and wrapping his tongue around the circuit-lined fingers. They taste like metal - like brand new pennies, like the iron tang of blood - and they hum against the roof of his mouth and under his tongue, hot and slick with spit.
Sam doesn't know what thrills him more - the heady energy pulsing down his throat or the program writhing underneath him. He never sees Tron losing his composure, never sees him be vulnerable, and yet Tron let him take over, let Sam crawl on top and push him back down on the bed. And he really is a sight to see, all violet light and disheveled hair and wet mouth breathing out Sam's name. And Sam-well, he wants to lean down and swallow up his name from Tron's mouth, wants to slide against the circuits marking Tron's front, wants to bring the program to orgasm with his mouth and his hands. But he'll wait and enjoy the show, see how far he can push Tron with just the circuits on his fingers.
He'd always wondered about the long blue lines on Tron's thumb and index and middle fingers. He just couldn't ignore their dexterity, their inhuman grace as they manipulated antagonistic programs and the complex circuits under his skin. The first time he merely brushed his mouth over the circuits and Tron looked at him in confusion even as his circuits flashed purple. The second time he sucked Tron's thumb in and held it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth, watched the light switch on in the program's eyes. The third time he grabs Tron's hand before it reaches his hip and pulls it up, looks down and waits for a nod before breathing out slow over the index and middle fingers; the circuits flare and tingle against his lips, promising so many things, and then Sam opens his mouth and sucks them in.
Taste doesn't register on the Grid the same way it does on the other side. There's sweet and bitter and the indescribable tang of energy in everything. He tastes it in the cocktails Crystal mixes, the sterile air, the scheduled rain that washes the Grid clean, Tron's circuits, even in his blood when he accidentally cuts himself. He tastes it along the textured pads of the program's fingers, in the glow flooding his mouth with an intoxicating sweet thrum.
Slowly he pulls the fingers out of his mouth, teases with the tip of his tongue and with teeth. Tron shudders, groans, jerks against him; his heels dig into the bed as he rides out a wave of energy. Sam feels it through the hand on his hip and the wrist in his grasp, shuts his eyes and grits his teeth as it rushes through his body and hits him like a freight train. Stars blink in and out of existence as he gathers himself and looks down at Tron, face flushed purple from his circuits.
Sam leans down, bracing himself carefully on the hand still on Tron's chest, and kisses him. His lips are fuzzy and his mouth is numb, and Tron is just brimming with heat and light and barely bridled force. He feels the program rake shaking fingers through his hair and slide his hand down the side of his face. Sam pulls back, breathing hard, and Tron caresses his wet swollen lips, looks at him with searching, pleading eyes. Sam opens his mouth and Tron presses his fingers in, watches as he swallows around them.
He feels rather than hears Tron groan as he swirls his tongue around the digits, stroking circuits that shiver hot-cold down his throat and coil tightly in his chest. The program suddenly thrusts up against him and Sam pushes him back down; fingers flex and curl as Tron keens, tenses up under him. The heated air is thick with ozone, full of static that prickles exposed skin and lungs. Everything's becoming charged, wound tight full of building energy; every move elicits a hiss and Sam grounding down against him, toes curling and arms shaking with too much pressure that's got nowhere to go. He's so close to the edge despite doing nothing more than tastes the circuits on Tron's fingers, so close that he thinks just listening to Tron's wanton mewling might undo him. He didn't think it was possible for the program to make those sounds.
He needs to hear them again, he decides, so he sucks on the fingers, drags them halfway out of his mouth slowly, feels the circuits slide against his upper lip. There's a hitched whimper that hits him even harder than whatever metaphors his disoriented mind tries to come up with, and Tron curls his other hand tightly against Sam's hip, twists and pushes up against him as pressure and friction reach an incomprehensible limit. The fingertips in his mouth throb - or he's throbbing, everywhere, and so ready to fall apart - as Tron presses on a node on the inside of Sam's hip, and he rocks his hips forward reflexively; he moans around the static-laced fingers, feels the energy blaze a line down his throat as he wraps his lips around them.
They curl against his tongue, burning circuits flooding his mouth with intoxicating electricity, and Tron falls apart, dragging Sam down with him.