Author's note: I rated this M because this encounter is technically of a sexual nature. However, it's not sexual in the traditional, human sense, so, yeah. I've tried to write it with plenty of maturity and a focus on the emotional exchange involved with the act as much as the physical, and I also tried to avoid getting truly pornographic. My goal with this, as always, is character- focused, QUALITY writing, and I sincerely hope that all of you will review when you're done so that I can assess how well I achieved that. If you feel it is at all below par when compared with my other pieces, or that it lacks in any way, please let me know! Brutal honesty is always welcome.

That said: enjoy.

End of line.


I am wearing something new when he walks in the door. Clean and white, my outfit is intersected by winding patterns of haunting violet that twist and weave together like something from another, less geometric world. Gauzy material drips from my arms from the elbow down, and the same occurs at my legs from the knee, forming little skirts that surround my limbs; transparent enough for him to see the way the patterns of circuitry continue beneath them. Form fitting, like everything I own in this place, and yet free, I feel like I'm flowing through the room just by turning from the window to look at him.

My hair is free, as well. The intricate braid in which I keep it is exposed, blonde strands reflecting the lights of our shared quarters. On my feet is a new type of shoe, little heels lifting me up from the floor and shaping my legs anew.

The look on Tron's face says far more than he probably realizes.

I catch myself smiling, suddenly shy though it may be. He's been upgraded again. He looks more impressive each time I see him, these days. His circuits, even, seem to have multiplied tenfold. A sudden, jolting, electric longing shoots through me to run my fingertips across each of these new patterns.

My eyelashes flutter, though I imagine I look coy, not modestly embarrassed, because of my train of thought . . . which I am.

"Yori," he says, and there's something in his tone that is at once excited, eager, and uncertain.

"Hey, baby program," I tease, "like it?"

He scowls a little at my kidding, but I know he doesn't mind all that much. We don't care. We realize that he's young. Though he's been around for a few cycles, now, he's not even fully written. His base programming, though intact, is still being constantly added to and fleshed out by his persistent user, Alan-1. It seems that every time I come home from work, he's disappeared to the I/O tower again for another upgrade.

He doesn't reply to my teasing, but crosses the room in a few of those long, confident strides, and draws to a halt with very little space between us.

His eyes rove over my body, taking in the way I look in this new concoction that is so far removed from the severity of work clothes.

He doesn't move, doesn't reach out, but those deep blue eyes are already brighter than they were a moment before.

And then he does move, taking my hand in his, gently inserting his finger under the gauzy drape that is on my arm and pushing it further and further up my wrist till it is tucked at my folded elbow.

He seems to be studying the single, tapering line of circuitry there on the underside of my forearm.

I wish he would touch it.

"Tron. . ." I begin, and his eyes snap up to meet mine, his head is bent low, and it occurs to me that he's obtained a helmet since I saw him last.

I knew something was different. . . .

It suits him, though, framing his face and drawing out the simultaneous sharpness and softness of his features.

"Say something."

I am partially pleading, and partially commanding. He looks back at me for a nano in silence, eyes narrowing as he studies my expression.

"You look beautiful," he says finally, the words tumbling out quickly and almost curtly. But I hear the tremor of affection, the enveloping warmth of emotion, in his low voice all the same.

I place my hand against his face, and then I am guiding him the few, fragile and tentative steps to our bed.

We sit together, our fingers entwining as our hands come to rest between us.

To think, my friends used to call me a tease.

Then again, perhaps I was. Never more than a brush, a little shock of another's energy before I was off again, distancing myself and already seeking someone new . . . someone who felt right. But this. . . I'm not teasing now. With Tron, there's nothing that doesn't feel right. I find myself wanting him with a kind of unbridled and unashamed fury, and I don't care to resist it any longer.

With my free hand, I reach up, and begin, gently, to trace the circlet that surrounds the central symbol on his chest. At first, it's only a touch.

But then, as much from my own will and his acceptance as from the sheer righteousness of our joining, the purple in which my energy is currently manifesting begins to color his circuits.

His grip tightens on my hand, but his free one now reaches for the arm I have raised to trace him, and his fingers slip beneath the sleeve that covers it, and with a sweet and shocking jolt, meet the line of circuitry there at last.

I gasp. I'm not prepared for the . . . strength of his energy. For the way it sizzles in my circuits and invigorates the whole of me with a single touch. I release a shaking breath, but I am smiling as I look back up to him.

I give him a very long look, searching his face. As I do, the smile fades to a softer semblance of itself, wherein the expression hangs at the corner of my mouth while my lips simply rest, parted and inviting.

His hand releases mine, and reaches up behind my head, drawing me up towards his face. Our noses brush, and then he is tucking his head in against my neck. The tip of his nose, and just barely the surface of his lips, brush the exposed skin there before his breath sends yet another surge into my circuits.

The back of his helmet is in my view as he poses this way, and I reach up to trace the curving, racing lines of circuitry on the back of it, reveling in the closeness of our embrace. There is a tiny T pattern, just like the one on his chest, at the very center of his newest accessory. I light it up, one square after another, with the tip of my gloved finger.

And then I move down the back of his neck, and find the center point of the disc he bears on his back as a soon-to-be warrior. I press my palm against it, and a shock of purple energy ripples out from my hand, racing through each concentric circle of the disc; and then outward, coursing through his every circuit in a shockwave of intimacy.

His body jolts with this sudden rush, and whisper of air slips out of him, sending a surge of gratification through me with the sound.

We fall back, disappearing together on our sides amidst the cushions and pale yellow pillows, wrapped in one another as if we will never let go.

It is no longer our hands, but our entire bodies, that are joining. The tip of my toe drags up along the side of his leg as I bed my knee, pressing my inner thigh against him just below the bend of his hip, and his torso becomes suddenly and simultaneously in contact with the whole of my own; a gesture which connects our circuits at so many pints that it pulls a sigh from my own lips that I can't control and don't wholly want to.

We roll, my hands seeking his sides and the circuits on his back as I pull him over top of me, the masculinity and impressive size of his body filling my tiny palms.

He suspends himself above me, not resting the weight of his solidity on me completely, yet somehow touching me . . . everywhere.

He is immensely good at this. . .

It creates a burning in my systems me to match him.

I encircle him with my legs, pressing myself against him and breathing a soft sound into the expanse of his broad shoulder. I allow my hands to race across him, all the while spilling forth my energy into his circuits, pressing him more and more firmly against me. I can feel us connecting, racing into one another with pulsations of energy and the harmony of physical contact.

His hands run up my sides, trail across my hips, his fingertips slipping down the circuits that dance across my thighs. And then he retracts, chasing the patterns all the way back to my center chest, where his palm flattens against my identifying triangle of circuitry.

A kind of ecstasy thunders through my body, running out from that point like the shockwave after an explosion, his energy consuming me like a power surge. I can't seem to find me after that, not amid the pulsing, throbbing wonder of him that is consuming my circuits. The sound that comes from me as all this occurs is something I never would have expected from myself. It is carnal and broken, yet strangely sweet, and he responds to it, a surge of energy running through him that sends his body into a glorious collision with my own.

I pull him down, almost roughly, so this his forehead is resting against mine, our eyes falling shut as we become lost in the exchange of energy, our bodies twisting and folding and undulating in a kind of impassioned dance that rolls us over again so that I am on him, stretched across the whole, impressive, warm expanse of his torso and pulling myself closer and closer as our hands press each of our energies into the other.

Even though it is dark, I see the glow of blue and purple combining all around us as we fill each other with our own essences. I see it through fluttering eyelashes that can't seem to stay still as we encroach on some kind of unknowable moment together. It is all becoming impossibly bright now, as our sighs cut the silence, as we find, in this fervent exchange, a place wherein we are no longer two.

We combine, bursting together so that the glow of us fills my vision absolutely, and I am blinded. The sound that hisses from between his clenched teeth is all that I can hear, pleasant and warm, and rough and masculine.

Our energy is one now, and we are one as well. Ecstasy and pleasure accompany this depth of feeling, this sudden lifting of the curtain between us as we come to know each other at our most intimate and essential levels.

We collapse together, back into the cushions, chests heaving as the glow finally fades from the room in the wake of our bursting. Pinpoints of lights now dance in my vision, and my breath is a whisper through my parted lips.

We lie there in silence after, each of our energies wholly absorbed by the other, our sensual act a beautiful thing that brings to us a sense of completion to mirror the exaltation of the physical exchange.

I find myself tucked into the fold of him, and in this embrace we are slowly slipping into stand by, utterly consummated and joyously exhausted.

Me, caught in the welcoming circle of his arms, wherein his presence fills me with a sense of safety, of strength. . . of love.

Him. My counterpart.

. . . My Tron.