Tron (film): and it's anyone's guess how he does this
Author: jack_infinitude
Title: and it's anyone's guess how he does this
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 758 words
Summary: Sex and Flynn and everything in between.
Disclaimer/Author's note: A fill for the tronkinkmeme : Alan/Flynn. Alan riding Flynn, Flynn's hands on his hips, helping him rise up and down, gripping so hard he leaves bruises.
Even with all the noise in the arcade they still have to be quiet, have to be subtle, or else someone will notice, might see a silhouette against the blinds. That's the last thing he wants, for Alan to be exposed. He doesn't care what anyone thinks they know about him, but Alan --
His glasses are on the bed, somewhere by Flynn's hip, but he can't remember who took them off or if maybe they just fell away and ended up there. He vaguely hopes that they don't get crushed, but his hands are occupied, and he can't rescue them quite yet.
Fuck, but he loves it when they end up like this: Alan riding him like a lightcycle on a corrupted line of code, his hair going this way and that from all the times Flynn has run his hands through it. There's only his unbuttoned dress shirt between him and the office air, and this angle gives Flynn the perfect view of his chest and stomach, of the way his cock slides in and out of Bradley's ass, the fabric hiding the hard edges and giving at least the illusion of softness.
Kevin swallows and grips Alan’s sharp hips even tighter, wringing a grunt out his bed-partner. There's nothing soft about Alan, though. Quite the opposite, really. He's harsh angles and straight lines and long, long legs that go on forever --
"Flynn," Alan says through gritted teeth, and even in this place, at this time, Kevin recognizes his Oh my God, pay attention to something important now, voice.
"Just enjoying the view," he replies, and he doesn't care how strained and undone he sounds because Alan's blush is worth it. Then it’s all ruined when Alan just sinks down, and his cock is sliding ininin, and Kevin whines and pulls him down with his hands because he needs to meet him just so.
"You're always thinking," Alan says. "Even when we're doing this, you're thinking--"
"Says you," Flynn wheezes, because Alan has absolutely no room to talk, but he doesn't bother with another retort, since against all their common sense the pace is picking up, and he's pulling and pushing on Alan's hips trying to match his speed, and he can hear their desperate breaths mixing and if he could freeze time this would be it, God, this would be it. He doesn't want to forget Alan's face or his sharp hipbones or the way the shirt clings to him to accentuate the beautiful lines of his waist and shoulders, or the way he feels around Flynn's cock, the way he feels, dear God, Flynn would trade almost anything to never forget that.
Alan's soft breath is coming in shorter and shorter gasps and Flynn can tell he's close from the way he shakes at every thrust. He wonders if his grasp hurts him, if Alan minds.
"You're always thinking. Even when we're doing this, you're thinking--"
He thrusts up, sudden and sharp, pulling Alan down to meet him and his thumbs are white and bloodless from his grip and his fingers must look the same from where they're digging into the curves of Alan's tight ass. He is hurting him, must be hurting him, but Alan doesn't do anything except gasp and let Kevin wrench him this way and that.
Coming is like jumping off a cliff. There’s the fear, the exhilaration, the knowledge that it can’t be undone, can never be taken back, and Kevin just has to look straight into Alan’s eyes and he shoots.
--
His hips still ache in the morning, long after he's collapsed into his own bed, sore and sated. He belts his pants tightly as he remembers -- what? The way he had thought Flynn would crush him between his hands? The way his eyes looked, right before his orgasm hit him and carried him away to that place where Alan can't go?
Or maybe he just doesn't want to forget Kevin's hands, how they traced patterns on his skin afterward, following some line of thought that would prove to be inscrutable if he tried to explain. His friend is doing that a lot these days. Being amicable and open, but distant too. Something has him preoccupied, something that isn't ENCOM or Sam. Or Alan.
It hurts. He won't deny it.
He ends up in Flynn's office later, discussing their competition with Gates and Jobs. Kevin keeps wrapping a hand around his hip, thumb stroking the bruises. Alan will take what he can get.
Title: and it's anyone's guess how he does this
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 758 words
Summary: Sex and Flynn and everything in between.
Disclaimer/Author's note: A fill for the tronkinkmeme : Alan/Flynn. Alan riding Flynn, Flynn's hands on his hips, helping him rise up and down, gripping so hard he leaves bruises.
Even with all the noise in the arcade they still have to be quiet, have to be subtle, or else someone will notice, might see a silhouette against the blinds. That's the last thing he wants, for Alan to be exposed. He doesn't care what anyone thinks they know about him, but Alan --
His glasses are on the bed, somewhere by Flynn's hip, but he can't remember who took them off or if maybe they just fell away and ended up there. He vaguely hopes that they don't get crushed, but his hands are occupied, and he can't rescue them quite yet.
Fuck, but he loves it when they end up like this: Alan riding him like a lightcycle on a corrupted line of code, his hair going this way and that from all the times Flynn has run his hands through it. There's only his unbuttoned dress shirt between him and the office air, and this angle gives Flynn the perfect view of his chest and stomach, of the way his cock slides in and out of Bradley's ass, the fabric hiding the hard edges and giving at least the illusion of softness.
Kevin swallows and grips Alan’s sharp hips even tighter, wringing a grunt out his bed-partner. There's nothing soft about Alan, though. Quite the opposite, really. He's harsh angles and straight lines and long, long legs that go on forever --
"Flynn," Alan says through gritted teeth, and even in this place, at this time, Kevin recognizes his Oh my God, pay attention to something important now, voice.
"Just enjoying the view," he replies, and he doesn't care how strained and undone he sounds because Alan's blush is worth it. Then it’s all ruined when Alan just sinks down, and his cock is sliding ininin, and Kevin whines and pulls him down with his hands because he needs to meet him just so.
"You're always thinking," Alan says. "Even when we're doing this, you're thinking--"
"Says you," Flynn wheezes, because Alan has absolutely no room to talk, but he doesn't bother with another retort, since against all their common sense the pace is picking up, and he's pulling and pushing on Alan's hips trying to match his speed, and he can hear their desperate breaths mixing and if he could freeze time this would be it, God, this would be it. He doesn't want to forget Alan's face or his sharp hipbones or the way the shirt clings to him to accentuate the beautiful lines of his waist and shoulders, or the way he feels around Flynn's cock, the way he feels, dear God, Flynn would trade almost anything to never forget that.
Alan's soft breath is coming in shorter and shorter gasps and Flynn can tell he's close from the way he shakes at every thrust. He wonders if his grasp hurts him, if Alan minds.
"You're always thinking. Even when we're doing this, you're thinking--"
He thrusts up, sudden and sharp, pulling Alan down to meet him and his thumbs are white and bloodless from his grip and his fingers must look the same from where they're digging into the curves of Alan's tight ass. He is hurting him, must be hurting him, but Alan doesn't do anything except gasp and let Kevin wrench him this way and that.
Coming is like jumping off a cliff. There’s the fear, the exhilaration, the knowledge that it can’t be undone, can never be taken back, and Kevin just has to look straight into Alan’s eyes and he shoots.
--
His hips still ache in the morning, long after he's collapsed into his own bed, sore and sated. He belts his pants tightly as he remembers -- what? The way he had thought Flynn would crush him between his hands? The way his eyes looked, right before his orgasm hit him and carried him away to that place where Alan can't go?
Or maybe he just doesn't want to forget Kevin's hands, how they traced patterns on his skin afterward, following some line of thought that would prove to be inscrutable if he tried to explain. His friend is doing that a lot these days. Being amicable and open, but distant too. Something has him preoccupied, something that isn't ENCOM or Sam. Or Alan.
It hurts. He won't deny it.
He ends up in Flynn's office later, discussing their competition with Gates and Jobs. Kevin keeps wrapping a hand around his hip, thumb stroking the bruises. Alan will take what he can get.