The first time, it had been quick and chaste. Uncertain. He hadn’t kissed anyone besides Yori—there was, truthfully, no one else who really knew what kissing was in the first place—and Flynn was the Creator. There were levels to their relationship, complex and numerous. He hadn’t wanted to add another one, but the lighting in the club had been just right, the noise soothing enough, and Flynn’s gaze had wandered down to his mouth. And Flynn’s lips had been soft, warm, too much like coming home to chalk it up to an accident or a mistake or a simple whim. But Flynn had, miraculously, kissed him back, and he’d smiled when Tron pulled away.
The second time was slow. An exploration of something new. Kissing a User was so unlike kissing a fellow program—Flynn, for example, knew of several things that his tongue could do—and the wetness that met Tron’s mouth was shocking, foreign. But he indulged—they both did, their touches gentle and soft, and Tron could simply close his eyes and lose himself in the sensations surrounding him.
The third time is hot, urgent need. He has Flynn pinned to the wall, their hands roaming over each other, and he swallows all the little sounds that slip past his lips. And Flynn’s body is moving against his, the friction doing wonders to Tron’s sensitive circuits, an intensity he’d never quite experienced before building painfully, irresistibly between them. He moans into Flynn’s mouth, sinks into him, feels that intensity become overwhelming—and when they’re finished, he keeps his mouth on Flynn’s, tastes him, and wonders if he’ll ever let go.