Fic: Tron: Mercy (Tron/Alan)
This fic is for lixia84, via the 'Write for Relief' charity auction for Japan! It's somewhat belated for which, again, grovelling apologies, and this is still only the first part - more to come, hopefully quickly :) Thanks for your patience, lixia84, and I hope you enjoy <3
Title: Mercy, pt 1/2
Fandom: Tron
Pairing: Tron/Alan
Rating: NC-17 overall (this part is maybe more of an R)
Kinks: BDSM, delayed gratification, dom/sub relationship. On which note, Tron and Alan's personal philosophy of their relationship isn't to suggest that everyone who chooses that lifestyle thinks the same way they do - it's their own particular take on what it means for them.
Wordcount: About 1800.
Summary: "The most profound and beautiful expression of free will was to entrust it to another."
Mercy
In the world of the Users, many things appeared strange to Tron. Time was one of them. In Encom's system, and later on the Grid, Tron had always been intimately aware of the passage of time. He never - what was the User phrase? - lost track of time. It simply wasn't possible for a program.
Here, in this world, time seemed to pass...haphazardly. Moments which would have been of standard length on the Grid went by in an eyeblink here, or else seemed to drag on forever. Sometimes both things were true of the same time period, a kind of incongruous double-think of which Tron had not thought himself capable.
And yet, these last few hours...perhaps they were minutes. Perhaps they were days. He had no way of knowing. Time, that disconcerting phenomenon, had ceased to be.
He was immersed in silence and warm darkness, unable to move, unable to speak. A blindfold, secured firmly but not painfully, gag likewise; ropes, soft and silken, binding his hands and feet, crossing across his belly to bind him further to the mattress beneath him.
Not an easy task, to keep Tron bound and helpless. Even now he could probably free himself, if he chose; he was strong, on the Grid or off it. Stronger, physically, than any User.
And yet he did not so choose. He elected, in fact, not to choose.
It had never occurred to Tron how difficult, how painful, how exhausting the possession of free will could be. Having achieved it, at last, through the efforts of first Kevin Flynn and later his own User, he had realised also how wonderful it was, how crucial, how essential. The freedom to choose had quickly become the most important thing in his life, just as it was for any User. And, like many Users, to begin with he had no idea what to do with it to make it worthwhile.
When Alan-One had told him that, as his own man, he had the right to go where he wanted, be with whom he wanted, that he was no longer bound to his User, Tron had at last reached his epiphany: that the most profound and beautiful expression of free will was to entrust it to another.
He had therefore presented Alan-One with the most complete gift he had to give: himself. Carrying out his User's commands became not an obligation, but an act of love.
As, Tron now understood, it always had been.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Before departing for an early-morning meeting, Alan-One had spent almost an hour patiently and methodically securing Tron to the bed in which they had woken up together. He had given him water to drink, but no food (“I want you to be hungry when I get back. In every sense.”), made sure the room was of a comfortable temperature, and would remain so, and then - had left. No instructions, aside from “don't fall asleep”. No descriptions of his plans for Tron when the User returned. He had closed the door - click! - and vanished, leaving Tron in silence, unable to move, unable to see, unable to speak.
Tron had no fear, because he trusted Alan-One completely.
Time continued to pass...he supposed.
Alan-One did not reappear.
Tron waited, eyes shut beneath the blindfold, listening to his own heartbeat. Steady and calm since Alan-One had left, it was beginning gradually to speed up, as though some part of him sensed an approach his conscious mind could not.
The door opened.
x-x-x-x-x
There was a presence in the room. Tron did not address it. He had not been given permission to speak. He had not yet been spoken to.
He heard breathing, rapid and harsh. Hungry. His own.
His heart was racing.
His muscles clenched against their bonds. He began to sweat.
A light touch on his bare skin, fingers splaying across his belly just beneath the slightly chafing rope.
Tron licked his lips, remained silent.
Breath, soft and cool, replaced the touch, dispersing and evaporating the beads of sweat on his skin. After so much stillness, the sensation was overwhelming. Tron gasped, fidgeted.
“Program,” said a voice, the voice he had been waiting for, and he froze. Deft hands removed the gag from his mouth.
“User,” Tron whispered back, his own voice scratchy from hours - minutes, days - of silence.
The bed creaked as Alan-One sat down. Tron suppressed another gasp as a feather-light touch ghosted across his chest.
“Did you carry out my instruction, Program? Are you hungry?”
“Yes, User.”
“What are you hungry for?”
“You,” Tron breathed.
“Good.”
As before, the touch was replaced by a gentle flow of air, and then, this time, the press of a warm tongue, lapping at the pooling sweat on his chest. The very tip of the tongue flicked, lightly, across first Tron's left nipple, then his right. Tron arched his back as much as he could, restrained by the rope across his middle, the tether binding his hands above his head.
Fingers traced their way down his body, pausing between his legs. They closed, momentarily, around Tron's half-hard cock - and were gone. The bed creaked again as Alan-One got up, his sudden absence creating a painful void.
“Not hungry enough yet,” the User said, simply.
The door closed.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Time passed. Minutes.
x-x-x-x-x-x
The door opened.
“Program.”
“User.”
A creak; a touch; a breath. Tongue licking at the sweat on Tron's belly. Hand placed over his heart. Fingers closing on his wrist. Taking his pulse.
Fingers teasing down his body, grasping his cock, testing its girth, its tumescence. Hand replaced by tongue, flicking, licking, swirling lightly. Withdrawing.
A disappointed sigh. “Still not hungry enough.”
“Please, User...”
The door closed.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Time passed. Hours.
x-x-x-x-x-x
The door opened.
“Program.”
“User.” A throaty whisper.
“Are you thirsty?”
“Yes, User.”
Cool water trickled over his lips. Tron opened his mouth to catch it. It tasted wonderful. “Thank you, User.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, User.”
“For what?”
“For you.”
“Let's see.”
Cool water trickling over his chest, his belly, mingling with the sweat, the sensation dizzying. Fingers tracing paths through the water, following it down, caressing hot flesh. Press of a fully-clothed knee against Tron's bare thigh. Creak of the bed as the User's weight compressed the mattress. Straddling Tron now, rough cloth chafing his damp skin, inflaming the swollen head of his cock as their groins pressed together. Thumbs caressing Tron's nipples to near-painful hardness. Lips pressing against his, a tongue sliding slowly, questioningly into his mouth. Tron groaned, sucking at the invading organ, trying to thrust his hips, grind himself against his User.
Mouth and hands withdrew. Tron whimpered.
“What's the matter, Program?”
“Please...please, User.”
“What are you pleading for? It can't be for me to continue. You obviously aren't hungry enough yet.”
Tron moaned response was desperate. “I am. Please don't leave again. Touch me, my User.”
A considering silence.
The door closed.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Tron lay trembling, his whole body burning, aching.
Time passed.
Days.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Time passed - a few more minutes.
Alan opened the door a crack, just enough to peer through. His program - Tron - lay on the bed, still blindfolded, hands and feet still bound. Alan took a moment simply to gaze at him; a touch egotistical, perhaps, but he allowed himself the indulgence as he took in the perfect contours of a body for which his had been the template.
A long time ago. Years.
The differences between them, not inconsiderable at the beginning, had become more pronounced with each passing year. Alan no longer thought of Tron as some mindless extension of his will (if he ever had); far from it. The fact that Tron possessed his own strong and disciplined personality (rather more disciplined that Alan's own, if he were to be honest) made it all the more meaningful, the more wonderful, that Tron had made the choice to submit to Alan's will.
Alan had never, and would never abuse such a beautiful gesture of trust; it was about control, and power, yes, but power both given and received with love. A tender smile touched his lips as he pushed open the door fully.
“Program?”
“User...” Tron's voice was trembling with unabashed need; that he, Alan, could affect his stoic program so with a single word sent the blood rushing to his cock so fast he felt momentarily in danger of fainting.
“Are you thirsty?” Alan asked, touching Tron's chest, lightly spreading the droplets of sweat he found there.
“No, User,” Tron moaned.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, User...”
“For what?”
Desperately, insistently: “for you!”
Alan pressed his mouth to Tron's neck, licking, nuzzling.
Tron whimpered, arched his back.
Alan moved away long enough to slip out of his own clothes, folding them neatly, placing them in a pile on a table in the corner. He could hear Tron's rapid, urgent breathing. His cock, the twin of Alan's own, was swollen, leaking, begging for Alan's attention.
“All you have do is ask,” Alan told him, “ask your User nicely.”
“Please, User!”
“Please what, Program? Be explicit and precise. Isn't that how I designed you?”
“Yes, User. Please...touch me.”
“Where?”
“Touch my...my cock. Please.”
Alan smiled at the hesitation - which reflected not an unwillingness to plead, but a kind of situation-specific shyness Alan found endlessly appealing, perhaps because it reminded him of his own youthful awkwardness in the bedroom, back in the day. Tron's coyness only evidenced itself around Alan; outside this room, in a world he was rapidly making his own, Tron was confidence itself. Masterful, even. This aspect of his personality - submissive, needy, adoring - was for Alan alone, and he had never felt so privileged in his life before.
Alan ignored Tron's plea for the moment, tracing his fingertips over his program's muscular thighs and flat belly, deliberately skirting past his cock. Tron moaned, more than a touch of frustration in his voice now.
“I know I shouldn't say this myself, but you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” Alan murmured, by way of compensation for the torment he was inflicting, as, at last, he wrapped his fingers around Tron's straining cock. A near-sob of relief rewarded him. “Now, Program,” he said, his tone hardening, becoming colder, more authoritative: “explain to me exactly why you think you deserve my mercy.”
-x-x-x-x-
Continue to part 2...
Title: Mercy, pt 1/2
Fandom: Tron
Pairing: Tron/Alan
Rating: NC-17 overall (this part is maybe more of an R)
Kinks: BDSM, delayed gratification, dom/sub relationship. On which note, Tron and Alan's personal philosophy of their relationship isn't to suggest that everyone who chooses that lifestyle thinks the same way they do - it's their own particular take on what it means for them.
Wordcount: About 1800.
Summary: "The most profound and beautiful expression of free will was to entrust it to another."
Mercy
In the world of the Users, many things appeared strange to Tron. Time was one of them. In Encom's system, and later on the Grid, Tron had always been intimately aware of the passage of time. He never - what was the User phrase? - lost track of time. It simply wasn't possible for a program.
Here, in this world, time seemed to pass...haphazardly. Moments which would have been of standard length on the Grid went by in an eyeblink here, or else seemed to drag on forever. Sometimes both things were true of the same time period, a kind of incongruous double-think of which Tron had not thought himself capable.
And yet, these last few hours...perhaps they were minutes. Perhaps they were days. He had no way of knowing. Time, that disconcerting phenomenon, had ceased to be.
He was immersed in silence and warm darkness, unable to move, unable to speak. A blindfold, secured firmly but not painfully, gag likewise; ropes, soft and silken, binding his hands and feet, crossing across his belly to bind him further to the mattress beneath him.
Not an easy task, to keep Tron bound and helpless. Even now he could probably free himself, if he chose; he was strong, on the Grid or off it. Stronger, physically, than any User.
And yet he did not so choose. He elected, in fact, not to choose.
It had never occurred to Tron how difficult, how painful, how exhausting the possession of free will could be. Having achieved it, at last, through the efforts of first Kevin Flynn and later his own User, he had realised also how wonderful it was, how crucial, how essential. The freedom to choose had quickly become the most important thing in his life, just as it was for any User. And, like many Users, to begin with he had no idea what to do with it to make it worthwhile.
When Alan-One had told him that, as his own man, he had the right to go where he wanted, be with whom he wanted, that he was no longer bound to his User, Tron had at last reached his epiphany: that the most profound and beautiful expression of free will was to entrust it to another.
He had therefore presented Alan-One with the most complete gift he had to give: himself. Carrying out his User's commands became not an obligation, but an act of love.
As, Tron now understood, it always had been.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Before departing for an early-morning meeting, Alan-One had spent almost an hour patiently and methodically securing Tron to the bed in which they had woken up together. He had given him water to drink, but no food (“I want you to be hungry when I get back. In every sense.”), made sure the room was of a comfortable temperature, and would remain so, and then - had left. No instructions, aside from “don't fall asleep”. No descriptions of his plans for Tron when the User returned. He had closed the door - click! - and vanished, leaving Tron in silence, unable to move, unable to see, unable to speak.
Tron had no fear, because he trusted Alan-One completely.
Time continued to pass...he supposed.
Alan-One did not reappear.
Tron waited, eyes shut beneath the blindfold, listening to his own heartbeat. Steady and calm since Alan-One had left, it was beginning gradually to speed up, as though some part of him sensed an approach his conscious mind could not.
The door opened.
x-x-x-x-x
There was a presence in the room. Tron did not address it. He had not been given permission to speak. He had not yet been spoken to.
He heard breathing, rapid and harsh. Hungry. His own.
His heart was racing.
His muscles clenched against their bonds. He began to sweat.
A light touch on his bare skin, fingers splaying across his belly just beneath the slightly chafing rope.
Tron licked his lips, remained silent.
Breath, soft and cool, replaced the touch, dispersing and evaporating the beads of sweat on his skin. After so much stillness, the sensation was overwhelming. Tron gasped, fidgeted.
“Program,” said a voice, the voice he had been waiting for, and he froze. Deft hands removed the gag from his mouth.
“User,” Tron whispered back, his own voice scratchy from hours - minutes, days - of silence.
The bed creaked as Alan-One sat down. Tron suppressed another gasp as a feather-light touch ghosted across his chest.
“Did you carry out my instruction, Program? Are you hungry?”
“Yes, User.”
“What are you hungry for?”
“You,” Tron breathed.
“Good.”
As before, the touch was replaced by a gentle flow of air, and then, this time, the press of a warm tongue, lapping at the pooling sweat on his chest. The very tip of the tongue flicked, lightly, across first Tron's left nipple, then his right. Tron arched his back as much as he could, restrained by the rope across his middle, the tether binding his hands above his head.
Fingers traced their way down his body, pausing between his legs. They closed, momentarily, around Tron's half-hard cock - and were gone. The bed creaked again as Alan-One got up, his sudden absence creating a painful void.
“Not hungry enough yet,” the User said, simply.
The door closed.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Time passed. Minutes.
x-x-x-x-x-x
The door opened.
“Program.”
“User.”
A creak; a touch; a breath. Tongue licking at the sweat on Tron's belly. Hand placed over his heart. Fingers closing on his wrist. Taking his pulse.
Fingers teasing down his body, grasping his cock, testing its girth, its tumescence. Hand replaced by tongue, flicking, licking, swirling lightly. Withdrawing.
A disappointed sigh. “Still not hungry enough.”
“Please, User...”
The door closed.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Time passed. Hours.
x-x-x-x-x-x
The door opened.
“Program.”
“User.” A throaty whisper.
“Are you thirsty?”
“Yes, User.”
Cool water trickled over his lips. Tron opened his mouth to catch it. It tasted wonderful. “Thank you, User.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, User.”
“For what?”
“For you.”
“Let's see.”
Cool water trickling over his chest, his belly, mingling with the sweat, the sensation dizzying. Fingers tracing paths through the water, following it down, caressing hot flesh. Press of a fully-clothed knee against Tron's bare thigh. Creak of the bed as the User's weight compressed the mattress. Straddling Tron now, rough cloth chafing his damp skin, inflaming the swollen head of his cock as their groins pressed together. Thumbs caressing Tron's nipples to near-painful hardness. Lips pressing against his, a tongue sliding slowly, questioningly into his mouth. Tron groaned, sucking at the invading organ, trying to thrust his hips, grind himself against his User.
Mouth and hands withdrew. Tron whimpered.
“What's the matter, Program?”
“Please...please, User.”
“What are you pleading for? It can't be for me to continue. You obviously aren't hungry enough yet.”
Tron moaned response was desperate. “I am. Please don't leave again. Touch me, my User.”
A considering silence.
The door closed.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Tron lay trembling, his whole body burning, aching.
Time passed.
Days.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Time passed - a few more minutes.
Alan opened the door a crack, just enough to peer through. His program - Tron - lay on the bed, still blindfolded, hands and feet still bound. Alan took a moment simply to gaze at him; a touch egotistical, perhaps, but he allowed himself the indulgence as he took in the perfect contours of a body for which his had been the template.
A long time ago. Years.
The differences between them, not inconsiderable at the beginning, had become more pronounced with each passing year. Alan no longer thought of Tron as some mindless extension of his will (if he ever had); far from it. The fact that Tron possessed his own strong and disciplined personality (rather more disciplined that Alan's own, if he were to be honest) made it all the more meaningful, the more wonderful, that Tron had made the choice to submit to Alan's will.
Alan had never, and would never abuse such a beautiful gesture of trust; it was about control, and power, yes, but power both given and received with love. A tender smile touched his lips as he pushed open the door fully.
“Program?”
“User...” Tron's voice was trembling with unabashed need; that he, Alan, could affect his stoic program so with a single word sent the blood rushing to his cock so fast he felt momentarily in danger of fainting.
“Are you thirsty?” Alan asked, touching Tron's chest, lightly spreading the droplets of sweat he found there.
“No, User,” Tron moaned.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, User...”
“For what?”
Desperately, insistently: “for you!”
Alan pressed his mouth to Tron's neck, licking, nuzzling.
Tron whimpered, arched his back.
Alan moved away long enough to slip out of his own clothes, folding them neatly, placing them in a pile on a table in the corner. He could hear Tron's rapid, urgent breathing. His cock, the twin of Alan's own, was swollen, leaking, begging for Alan's attention.
“All you have do is ask,” Alan told him, “ask your User nicely.”
“Please, User!”
“Please what, Program? Be explicit and precise. Isn't that how I designed you?”
“Yes, User. Please...touch me.”
“Where?”
“Touch my...my cock. Please.”
Alan smiled at the hesitation - which reflected not an unwillingness to plead, but a kind of situation-specific shyness Alan found endlessly appealing, perhaps because it reminded him of his own youthful awkwardness in the bedroom, back in the day. Tron's coyness only evidenced itself around Alan; outside this room, in a world he was rapidly making his own, Tron was confidence itself. Masterful, even. This aspect of his personality - submissive, needy, adoring - was for Alan alone, and he had never felt so privileged in his life before.
Alan ignored Tron's plea for the moment, tracing his fingertips over his program's muscular thighs and flat belly, deliberately skirting past his cock. Tron moaned, more than a touch of frustration in his voice now.
“I know I shouldn't say this myself, but you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” Alan murmured, by way of compensation for the torment he was inflicting, as, at last, he wrapped his fingers around Tron's straining cock. A near-sob of relief rewarded him. “Now, Program,” he said, his tone hardening, becoming colder, more authoritative: “explain to me exactly why you think you deserve my mercy.”
-x-x-x-x-
Continue to part 2...