Oh, well, hello. So, I noticed that in the first throne, MCP clearly did not approve of any intimate contacts between programs, and in principle was against any kind of personal space for them. What if it reflected on the Tron, even after some time, in the second version of the Grid, was it still a trigger for him? Can I see any intimate contacts with him (and his reactions) and the program/user according to your taste.
ʕ˘ω˘ʔ I took a few liberties here and there, love, hope you don't mind! Here's a little ficlet about fem!user getting close and personal with Rizzler in the attempt to bring him back to a Tron state.
NSFT! Not Beta Read, but like, a bit.
Enjoy!
ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ🌈
The air was cracking with electricity. It was making the very hair on the back of your neck stand up – that, and the vision in front of you.
You couldn’t see his face – nor that you needed to. It was his voice that made you grip your disk tighter.
"User."
Rinzler’s digitized rasp, filtered through a dozen layers of corruption. It wasn't a greeting. It was an accusation. You stood your ground, your own heart a frantic, organic drumbeat against the Grid's sterile rhythm.
"Tron."
His name. His real name from the past that was dunked in darkness with a smile on his creator’s face.
"Unauthorized sector. Proximity breach."
He took a single, fluid step closer. The heat from his systems washed over you, a shocking contrast to the Grid's ambient chill.
"Violation."
This was the moment. The point of no return. Instead of retreating, you lifted your hand, fingers trembling only slightly, and pressed your palm flat against the cool, unyielding chassis of his chest plate. The sleek, black armor seemed to drink the light, and the orange circuitry glowed with a malevolent life of its own. The effect was instantaneous. The orange circuits on his body flared, a brilliant, angry burst. He went preternaturally still, a statue of lethal potential. A low, warning, animalistic growl emanated from his helmet, a sound that was pure system threat-response.
"Some rules," you whispered, your voice barely audible, "are meant to be broken."
For a terrifying second, you were certain he would derez you on the spot. His hand snapped up, but it didn't reach for a disc. Instead, his gauntleted fingers closed around your wrist - not with crushing force, but with a firm, undeniable possession. The grip was cold, hard, yet it sent a jolt of something hot and entirely human straight through you. He tilted his head, the blank helmet studying your joined forms - your soft, vulnerable hand on his chest, his unbreakable hold on your arm.
"Inefficient," he rasped, but the word lacked its usual cold finality.
It was… questioning.
Then, he moved.
In one swift, shocking motion, he used his grip on your wrist to spin you, pinning your back against his front. His other arm banded across your collarbone, not to harm, but to hold you immobile. You were trapped, caged against the living weapon. The hum of his core was a vibration you felt in your bones, a chaotic symphony against your spine. His helmet dipped, the smooth surface brushing against the shell of your ear. The digitized whisper was so low it was almost a distortion in your own audio receptors.
"User protocols… do not compute this."
It was the closest to confusion you would ever hear from him.
«I’m not using any protocol, Tron,” you whispered yet again.
“I want you to wake up. Just for a nano-second. You know it. You feel it. There is a deep, aching need inside you; not to please that cruel program in an ivory tower, but something… more. Do that, Tron. Please.”
You turned your head and your lips barely touched his helmet.
“Use me.”
The flicker in his circuits became a war. Orange light bled, violently, into a searing, celestial blue. It was a flash, brief and agonizing, like a scream in the dark before the orange slammed back into place, darker, angrier.
But it had been there.
His grip on your wrist shifted. The crushing, metallic pressure softened, his gauntleted fingers curling until they were almost… cradling your pulse point. He was holding on, not to detain, but to keep from being erased himself.
He didn't gentle you.
He bent you.
His grip on your wrist twisted, forcing you forward, your hands slapping against the cool, glowing surface of a data conduit. He pressed you down over it, the hard edge digging into your hips. His body was a cage of black carbon and furious energy at your back.
"Error. Corruption," he rasped, but his actions betrayed the coldness of the words.
His gauntleted hands were frantic, searching. They slid over your user-soft clothes, the material foreign and infuriating to him. He found no ports, no interface panels, only the maddening, yielding warmth of flesh. With a grating sound of pure frustration, one hand clamped on your hip, fingers digging in with a promise of bruises - a punishment for your insolence, a brand of his claim. The other hand tore at the fabric at your shoulder, not to remove it, but to expose the skin beneath. The cool air of the Grid was a shock against the bared curve of your neck. His helmet pressed against that exposed skin, the unyielding surface a shocking contrast to the intimacy of the gesture. The orange circuits of his chest plate seared your back, the heat nearly unbearable. You could feel the frantic, chaotic whirl of his core, a storm contained within armor.
"Punishment," he growled, his voice laced with static, a mantra against the desire tearing him apart.
"Derezzing. System purge. You are a virus. You must be purged."
But his hips ground against you, the hard, articulated plates of his armor meeting the softness of your body. He was seeking a connection his programming could not comprehend, a port that did not exist. It was a brutal, desperate friction, the rigid structure of his form a stark contrast to your pliant humanity. One of his hands left your hip, moving between your bodies. You heard the click of a release, not of his disc, but of a different kind of panel. Then his hand was back on you, but this time, it was different. The hard plating had retracted, and the touch was pure, searing energy—the naked, unfiltered data-stream of his being.
It was not a caress. It was an interrogation, an invasion, a claiming. A jolt, white-hot and blinding, shot through you. It was pain and pleasure fused into one unbearable sensation, the raw code of the Grid meeting the chaotic, organic electricity of your own nerves. He shuddered violently against you, his systems overloading.
A broken, digitized groan echoed from his helmet, muffled against your skin.
"User... interface... achieved."
The last of the barriers fell away, and he drove into you, a single, devastating stroke that felt like being rewritten from the inside out. It was not the clean, efficient transfer of energy, a forbidden synchronization. His rhythm was relentless, a perfect, punishing algorithm designed to break you apart and reassemble you. Each thrust was a command to submit, and each ragged, hitched breath he took was the ghost of Tron fighting to obey a new, deeper directive. He was chasing his own deresolution, seeking to lose the Rinzler-protocol in the blinding, white-hot static of your shared, illicit connection. He was both the punishment and the prisoner, and in this intimate, violent crash, you were his only path to system failure and, perhaps, to freedom. It was not a gentle merging. It was a crash. A system failure of his primary directives, a glorious, catastrophic corruption. He was a force, and in that moment, he was using you exactly as you had asked - as the catalyst for his own violent, long-awaited awakening. The pleasure he took was as brutal as the punishment he had promised, the two now inextricably, perfectly, fused into one act of rebellion.
<...>
You were past words, past coherent thought.
Your body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming with an overload that was both agony and ecstasy. You’d come apart for him what felt like a dozen times already, your own release slick between you, a testament to his brutal, thorough efficiency. You were boneless, oversensitive, wrecked.
"Enough," you whimpered, your hands sliding uselessly against the smooth, heated planes of his back.
"Tron, please… I can't…"
His head, still hidden in that impassive helmet, jerked up. The blank visage stared down at you, but the body pinning you to the cool surface beneath was trembling with a tension that felt like a system on the verge of catastrophic failure.
"Negative," he growled, the sound raw and stripped of its usual cold precision.
His hips stuttered, pressing deep, holding there, a brutal, perfect invasion that made you gasp despite the many cycles that passed. He coaxed your leg higher, opening you up further, a silent, desperate plea.
"The output…" he rasped, his voice cracking with static.
"Insufficient. One more. Generate one more."
It was a command, but it was also a confession. The unshakeable enforcer of CLU’s will, the perfect weapon, was begging. He was caught in a feedback loop of his own making, driven by a need his core programming had no name for, a need only you could satisfy. He lowered his helmet, the cool surface resting against your feverish forehead in a grotesque parody of a kiss.
"User… please."
That single, corrupted word, filled with a agony that was more than just physical, was your undoing. Your body, traitorously, responded to the raw need in it. A fresh, shocking wave of pleasure began to build from the deepest, most exhausted part of you, cresting fast and inevitable, pulled from you by his desperate, grinding plea.
He felt it.
His entire frame locked, a strangled, electronic cry tearing from him as your climax finally, finally triggered his own. The light from his circuits didn't just flare - it exploded, then flickered, dimmed, and for a single, terrifying nano-second, went completely dark, before blooming, like the flowers you always loved, in grey and blue.
