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If Tron had a heart, it would be racing right now.
As it is he can feel the overwhelming pulse of sensation in his circuits, the thrum of power as Flynn skims deep beneath the superficial surface layers of Tron's programming and stimulates the root code beneath.
He's making low, shocky sounds—rough staccato as he comes apart under the relentless touch.
He can't see anything. He doesn't think he's blindfolded this time—though it's possible. He doesn't remember the feeling of fabric settling over his eyes, or a knot pulling tight at the nape of his neck. He's not even sure when the lights went out, just that now he's here and the darkness is complete, which means more likely Flynn has adjusted his code—has deliberately cut him off from the one source of sensory input that might be able to ground him.
It makes the sharp twist of pure sensation inside him impossible to ignore.
His wrists are restrained behind him, bound together tightly at the small of his back, and the floor is hard and unrelenting beneath his knees. His armor is gone. The room around him is cold, but there's warmth all along his back—everywhere Flynn is touching him.
Flynn presses closer, chest a line of impossible heat along Tron's spine, and one of his hands ghosts forward over Tron's hip. Ripples of pleasure reverberate beneath the touch, sinking through Tron's skin and making him gasp sharply as Flynn's palm settles low on his stomach.
"That's it," Flynn's calm, cool voice whispers. "Stop fighting me." His lips are warm where they brush the shell of Tron's ear, then lower along the side of his throat.
Tron grunts in surprise when Flynn's teeth close on a patch of skin low on his neck. He whimpers when Flynn sucks ownership into the spot then soothes the sting away with his tongue.
"Flynn," Tron breathes sharply.
"You know what I want to hear," Flynn murmurs. He drags his fingers up a sensitive line of circuits, making Tron cry out. "Say it."
Tron would say it—he wants to say it—but he's too overwhelmed to find the word Flynn wants. He can't think of any words beyond the name of the man touching him, and his whole body shivers, needy and lost.
Flynn shifts behind him, and the line of heat vanishes. A protesting sound sneaks out of Tron, unbidden, but the sound of Flynn's chuckle tells Tron he hasn't going far. The hand on Tron's stomach shifts but doesn't retreat, angle of the touch changing just slightly, and then Flynn's other hand is pressed palm-flat over Tron's heart.
Tron feels code ripple beneath the touch, data cascading and sifting like sand into a new configuration at Flynn's command, and suddenly the darkness dissolves around him and he can see.
The room itself is dim. The only light comes from the few panels in Flynn's clothing, and from the bright, unsteady glow of Tron's circuits.
Flynn kneels before him, watching him, eyes intense as his fingers ghost Tron's skin.
"Say it," Flynn orders softly. His voice is steel and heat and possession. It makes Tron feel dizzy and desperate.
But he does know what Flynn wants to hear. And now that he can see again—now that he can think—he finds the syllable with his tongue.
"Please," he whispers.
Flynn's expression breaks into a smooth, satisfied smile, and the hand on Tron's chest slips higher. Flynn's fingers trail across the bright configuration of panels at the base of Tron's throat in a way that feels too calculated to be an accident, and Tron cuts short a groan as Flynn's touch continues higher—as Flynn's fingers trace the length of his throat and tighten in his hair—as Flynn uses his grip to tug Tron's head back, baring his throat and forcing eye contact as Flynn edges into his space.
As though Tron would be able to look anywhere but Flynn's eyes right now.
"Good boy," Flynn says, and kisses him.