Rinzler’s hands are gloved as he moves his fingers in Clu’s ass, stretches him out. Clu whimpers against the discomfort, his eyes screwed shut—and then Rinzler’s fingers hit there and his eyes fly open and his whimper becomes a moan. He knows this is unbecoming of him, but Rinzler’s mask is blank, impassable. And he knows the face beneath it is, too.
“Rinzler,” he says, his voice commanding even now, and Rinzler obediently pulls his fingers out. Clu reaches between them and runs a hand down Rinzler’s front. His suit dissolves under the touch, carving out a gap from chest to groin, and now Clu can see the crisscross of circuits in his skin. The T-shaped nodes at Rinzler’s sternum remain bright, small landmarks on his body. Clu’s gaze drags lower. Rinzler’s dick is erect—compliant.
Perfect.
Clu grips Rinzler’s ass and brings him in at the same time that he moves his hips, just enough to feel the tip of Rinzler’s cock at his entrance. Rinzler understands; he presses in, painfully gentle, and Clu grunts as he adjusts. He lets go of Rinzler’s ass to dig his nails into his back.
Rinzler’s fully in now, and Clu lets out a breath.
“Move,” he says.
Rinzler does, slowly at first. Even through the mask Clu knows his attention is rapt, and when he looks up at his own reflection, he can’t quite suppress a shiver. He holds tighter as Rinzler’s pace begins to pick up, feels muscle work under his hands. That rattling hum Rinzler’s always emitting starts to whirr higher.
Rinzler suddenly shifts his angle and it’s just right—Clu gasps, shudders, bucks his hips and meets Rinzler’s thrusts. He needs, suddenly, and it’s with an embarrassing desperation that Clu groans, “Harder, dammit,” digs his nails deeper. And Rinzler complies, as he always does. He doesn’t have much choice.
Clu’s getting there. He can feel it in the heat trapped between them, the energy coiling deep in him. He grunts with each thrust that slams into him, like Rinzler’s shocking the sounds out of him, and when he glances up at the sheer black of Rinzler’s mask, he decides he’s close enough.
He reaches up and touches the mask, but it’s more a demand than a caress. “Take this off,” he says, his voice coming out a growl.
Rinzler doesn’t hesitate. The mask folds away, and Clu lets out a shaky breath as he meets his old friend’s eyes.
Tron had never wanted him like this. He’d been too fixated on Flynn, too occupied by someone who’d barely noticed his affection. But Clu had been there. Clu had waited.
And now?
Rinzler’s gaze is piercing, and the rhythm his hips move in is becoming frantic. Clu shudders again, his legs wrapping around Rinzler’s waist, dragging him closer.
“Good boy, Rinzler,” Clu purrs breathlessly. “Good boy”—Rinzler thrusts extra hard, enough to make Clu’s words fall apart and his head spin, but he pulls himself together enough to meet his eyes, watch his once-friend exert himself for him—“now come for me.”
It’s a command. Rinzler’s rattling stutters, his thrusts turn erratic, and his gaze becomes blissful as he shudders, jerks, stills. Clu watches and quickly follows, energy finally releasing in one explosive burst.
A bone-deep contentment settles in Clu’s skin. His breathing becomes steady, deep, and he feels some kind of triumph when Rinzler collapses on top of him, his face burying into the crook of Clu’s shoulder. Rinzler’s rattling revs back up quietly, soothingly, and Clu runs a hand through his hair, over his back. The touch isn’t quite comforting, but it was never meant to be.
No—it’s proof that Rinzler is his.
That he owns Tron, whatever’s left of him.
That he won.
“Good boy,” Clu says again, his voice low, and he relishes how Rinzler purrs against him.