Ram's never gonna stop being surprised at this place.

It was overwhelming enough the first time, this glorious club full of energy and music and programs ready to welcome him into the new liberated System. But it seems every single time Tron and Yori bring him here, he finds something new and wonderful to experience.

This time, Tron took him here on a just-the-two-of-them date, during an an event with "a dress code." And Tron told him that what that meant was gonna be a surprise, one that Ram would like.

Tron was right. The experience of finding out about PoMu's dress code... Ohh. Ram shivers in purple waves, smiling, gliding a hand over the new, fascinating surfaces of his body.

An event with a dress code means that when you enter the club, it applies a mod to the code of your outer appearance render. Changing the way you're dressed-- the patterns and textures and colors of the shell covering your base code. The skin that Ram got used to during his imprisonment, the intricate blue circuit-patterns on their white base, forming the shapes of vest, belt, shoulder and wrist armor, comfortable only because of how familiar Ram found them-- those all shimmered away in the entryway to PoMU.

To be replaced with...

He keeps touching himself, fascinated.

His legs are smooth, plain white, covered in a soft stretchy material... up to the juncture of his thighs at the bulge of his I/O functions, where the V-striped pattern of the leotard begins. Nesting chevrons of circuitry glow pink on a paler pink background, seeming to point lewdly toward that already excited swelling.

Draped loosely over the leotard is a short, teal-blue garment, soft and fuzzy as static-- its neck wide enough to hang over one shoulder, its sleeves also wide, shorter than the leotard's chevron-striped arms. Those are tight-fitting and go all the way to the wrists, where they're covered in the thick padding of white arm-warmers to match the leg-warmers at his ankles and calves, above smooth pink slippers. The leotard has a deep V neckline, showing more of that bright gray base-code skin than he's ever seen on himself before...

He touches it, shivering happily at how sensitive it is. Sensitive in a soft, intimate way, different from the circuits on the leotard, which burn and spark sensation with the lightest brush. All together, it makes an exquisite glow of pleasure, a backdrop to every thought and sense.

He wishes he could see how his face looks-- he has a feeling it must be different from usual. His helmet is gone; something has been added to shape the soft curls of his hair into firm spikes, and large white earrings dangle from his earlobes, swinging and clacking.

It's strange, but in a pleasant, exciting way, all of it. Ram looks around him... Tron isn't nearby, right now. When they arrived, he told Ram that this was the sort of event where you have to mingle with the crowd for a while, and encouraged Ram to go off on his own and explore.

So far, the exploring has just led him here. In fact he seems to have been herded here. Whenever he started to ask someone where he should go, they directed him toward this area, and eventually this specific point. Near the middle of a big round platform, concentric-circle-patterned like an identity disc.

There are chairs and stools here, geometric and colorful, and Ram has sat down on one that's little more than a dodecahedron in soft orange material. It's comfortable, and he's happy to stay here for the time being. But what is this platform, anyway, and what's supposed to happen on it?

Perhaps it's got a similar function to a Tower Guardian's dais. Because right in the very center, cross-legged on the floor, in a hooded robe that almost seems to meld pod-like into the platform itself, there sits an elder program who Ram thinks may be one of those Guardians.

He has a deeply lined face, a short white-and-grey-streaked beard, a posture of great dignity and grace... right now he looks like a Guardian in the act of bestowing a blessing, as he gives close attention to a young program who kneels before him.

A youth barely out of beta, fresh-faced and blushing in what seems to be self-consciousness over his modified render, which includes a leotard and off-shoulder sweater similar to Ram's. He looks embarrassed about it. But also excited-- there's purple and pink in every line, and his I/O bulge is tight with desire.

The elder's eyes linger on all of this, as a hand strokes reassuringly along the youth's arm and shoulder.

Looking around, Ram notes that there are several other young-looking programs here, in various similar leotard renders, and various degrees of awkward arousal about it.

All of them are boyish in appearance, though the outfits have a definite femininity to them, and many of the boys' faces are decorated cosmetically-- eyeliner, mascara, even dark lipstick on some of them. (Ram traces a hand thoughtfully over his own face, wondering if he's also been made-up, and how that would look on him? A pleasant shiver accompanies the thought, and he bites his lip in anticipation.)

Perhaps he was guided here because he was assumed to be one of them-- whoever they are. He's sure they're all younger than he is, and certainly they're more embarrassed and nervous... But perhaps the difference isn't obvious to everyone. And who knows, maybe they do all have something in common, regardless.

With a slight disorientation, Ram notices that the round platform is beginning to rotate now, very slowly.

Views of the more distant areas of the club-- energy walls, bars and lounges, dance floors-- slide gradually by, an intriguing variation to the scenery. This coincides with a change in the auditory ambience, as well. What has been a gentle music until now, fading into the background, begins to increase in volume and speed until it's quite hard to ignore.

A lively beat, rhythmic, complex, with a creatively wide range of sound effects. It's a pattering, sparkling energy that pulses into Ram's code and stimulates movement-- his head nods along with it, his leg bounces as he shifts on the seat.

And his own arousal, which was also a gentle background feeling until now, begins to sharpen a little. Heavy warmth pooling between his legs; a new crackle of energy in the pink lines of his leotard. With a fast little inhalation he tips his head back, watching the others around him in a sudden renewed interest.

The Guardian has beckoned another young program to his side, and now the two youths kneel facing each other as the Guardian joins their hands together, with an almost ceremonial solemnity. His hands then move to their shoulders, and there is a glow of energy as he touches each of them.

When his hands lift, it really does seem to Ram that some kind of blessing has been conveyed-- but what kind, in what direction? The boys look at each other with a new, hungry fire in their eyes. But the Guardian has also changed, and for a moment the look on his face really seems to mirror those on the younger faces before him. As if perhaps he has joined his mind to theirs for a while, feeling what they feel.

Fascinating. Ram's tongue runs over his lip as he watches, with his own kind of growing fire and hunger.

One of the youths, the taller and more heavyset one, gets to his feet and turns around, finding a new seat in one of the more comfortable geometric shapes. It's a sea-green semi-sphere with a large concave area that cups him from beneath, and it seems to mold to his shape a little, as his smaller and slimmer companion climbs eagerly into his lap.

They both make low, quavering sounds of pleasure at the contact, and begin to move almost instantly. Legs tangle, awkward, plenty of passion and little grace. The slender one on top straddles the other's thigh and rubs himself on it in a frenzy, left leg bent and the foot braced on the seat beside his partner's backside, while his right leg simply slides in between the thick thighs underneath him and lies there, barely holding him up with a foot that trembles on the floor.

His companion bucks up beneath him with a groan, and his own leg comes up on the other side to hook around the slim waist with a flexibility that Ram hadn't quite expected. They're pulled together hard, each one fully riding the other's thigh now, the speed and energy of their movements redoubled, more trembling and awkwardness but also a lot more urgency.

Ram watches the clench of muscle in the legs and backside of the one on top, and finds his own thighs rubbing together, his own lower functions pulsing with energy. His fingertips dig in to the tops of his thighs, find only frustration at the absence of his usual circuit lines... and begin to move over himself, a slow press and slide of hands against the smoothness of this new render, in search of lines that will respond.

The program on top seizes his partner's face in both hands and pulls him in for a frantic kiss. Mouths meeting wet and hot and open, for just a nano or so before they break, panting for breath, and then go back at it again.

Ram's mouth stalls half-open, tongue between lips, swollen with want. This mouth-on-mouth kissing is a new thing in the System, he understands... introduced by Flynn, spread through Tron and Yori, but it seems everyone's doing it now. And oh, Users-- Ram can see why.

The boy in the chair doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands for a moment. But then as his whole body lurches up in renewed pleasure, he seizes his companion by the hips, hands sliding quickly onto the curves of his backside, fingers sinking into muscled softness, and gripping to pull him close, hard. Desperate little high-pitched cries flicker, muffled, into the gasping press of mouths.

More movement catches the corner of Ram's eye, draws him reluctantly away for a pico.

The Guardian (who's been watching too, with bright eyes and somewhat quickened breath, but thus far no reaction notable enough to distract from the main event) has made a sweeping hand gesture that got the attention of two more of the young programs.

And they've now run to his side, kneeling together like the first pair. Once again, his hands on their shoulders; that flash of glow, and the swell of desire in their energy as they face each other.

This time one of them puts his arms immediately around the other's waist and brings eager lips to his neck, making him arch back, weak-kneed-- and they both fall to the floor right there. This time the one on the bottom rolls into an immediate hands-and-knees pose, shaking with desire as he presents himself to be mounted, and his companion wraps himself around him from behind with a fervor that Ram can hardly believe-- lips and tongue at his neck again, and hands reaching around to stroke him between his legs, and both programs glow and moan as they rock together.

The Guardian pairs up two more couples before Ram truly starts to ache from watching it all. He's fully hard now, the bulge of his I/O unit pulsing and glistening as he positions his legs wider-- and the V-shaped stripe-circuits over it are a whole new sensation as they get more and more excited, strobing in a spectrum from indigo to magenta.

There's a dizzying shift from two senses, vision and balance, as the rotation of the dais accelerates a bit more. And sound follows in its wake. The music has quickened, the beat resonating deeper, even as a wider variety of strange melodies and rhythms intertwine on the surface.

Ram feels each pounding drumbeat deep in his functions... and knows, somehow deep down there, that if he just sat still like this long enough, with absolutely no movement except feeling that beat, it could eventually bring him to overload all on its own.

But he'd rather not wait that long, not this time.

Should he go look for Tron? Or ask the Guardian to--

As if hearing his thoughts, the Guardian raises a hand again. And the gesture, this time, clearly aims at Ram himself.

Thankful that he's so nearby already, Ram stumbles to his feet just long enough to fall to a kneeling position right where that mysterious robe shades into the concentric rings of the floor. He's more lightheaded than he expected, and it takes him a while to raise his head when he feels the strong hand of the elder on his shoulder.

Turning him to face the one who's apparently his partner now.

No one that Ram recognizes; just another of these athletic youths, his render similarly dressed. This one has no sweater; his muscular shoulders are bare and his leotard is sleeveless, pin-striped in thin blue vertical circuits that glitter here and there in purple. At the top it splits into straps that cross in a suggestive way, as if to cover breasts, though the boy's chest is as flat as any of the others. He has longer, wilder hair than Ram, held back partially by a pink headband, and his eyelids and lashes are heavily accentuated with makeup.

He kneels with legs spread wide, like Ram himself, showing off how very aroused he is. Their eyes meet, taking in each other's well-matched seductive smiles.

Slowly, drumbeat still pounding between his own legs, Ram gets to his feet, trying to decide on a good place to take this.

But his assigned partner still has a tight grip on his hand. And instead of letting himself be led to a chair, he pulls Ram with him as he eases himself backward onto the lowest piece of furniture around, a soft navy-blue rectangle that's little more than a raised mat on the floor of the dais. He can't quite make Ram lose his balance to fall on top of him... but by the time he settles himself into the reclining position he seems to want, Ram is standing over him, legs on either side of his supine body. Their eyes meet. The stranger gives a devious, sparkling smile--

--then, with no further warning, releases the handclasp and lunges back up into a sudden sitting position to clutch Ram by the hips, mouth hot and eager, gasping hot breath between his legs.

Ram very nearly does collapse, then. He groans and throws his head back, lost for a pico in unbearable pleasure-- knees weak from the shock of it, when he's been hard and wanting for this long--

Oh, Users, this new friend does have a clever mouth. Showering such varied forms of stimulation on all the sensitive I/O code enclosed within that aching bulge... as if he knows exploits and hacks that can be triggered through the swipe of a tongue, the graze of teeth, the gentle grip of lips.

It would be so, so very easy to surrender right now. To let the sensory input of all that oral seduction sweep him away into overload all at once, to let go and just crash, spilling energy-reserve and data-cache right through the glowing, sparking chevrons of this render onto that affectionate tongue-- oh, it would feel so very, very good--

But Ram is also a bit of a hacker, deep in his core. And, as lovely as this young program seems to be, Ram has to admit he doesn't really know him... and he does know better than to allow himself the total vulnerability of a crash and restart when he's alone with strangers, with no ever-vigilant Tron within sight to watch over him.

And Ram is experienced... he's certainly not going to lose control just because someone's got mouth skills. Ram has plenty of those himself, in fact-- and two can play that game.

He sinks to his knees, still letting the pleasure course through him as much as he can without giving up his self-control. Soon he's practically straddling the eager face between his legs, which smiles against him, seeming pleased at the return to a reclining position. Ram obliges further, shifting himself to be more and more horizontal, legs out of the way, moving around, letting that mouth access different sides of him for a while, until--

Until finally he's maneuvered himself to an inverted mirror of the body underneath him. Sprawled out so that his companion's face is still busy between his thighs, but Ram's face is now at the other end, in optimal position to return the favor.

He makes it as much of a sweet surprise as that first lick was for him.

Ducking his head down there with his mouth eagerly open against the swell of arousal, the tip of his tongue already pressing in hard to trace a wet path down one of the pin-striped circuits that outline where the crux of that leotard strains up to meet him.

It has a similar tart-sweet electric burn to the flavor of Tron's circuitry, but the sense of temperature is intriguingly different. Hot, almost too hot, where he touches, but with the sense of a chill chasing after it. Fascinating. His hands cup the program's hips, tracing the circuitry there around the edges of the leotard and holding him tight as he begins to squirm and buck in delighted response to Ram's attention.

Ram's own thighs clench at the feeling of his partner's mouth moaning, low and deep, against him. Hands on Ram's own hips clench tight, and the once-dexterous mouth falls almost slack in overwhelm, all the sensation now coming in the form of pleasured gasps and groans from the face still buried against him. "Ohhh, that's --nice," Ram thinks he hears the boy say, at one point. And he can't help but agree-- the feeling of those words, moaned against the swell of his own hardness, is even nicer than the sound.

He bucks his hips gently down against it until the moan softens into one long slow purr of vibration, and the tongue comes back out to lap at him again. Then he lets out a moan of his own, lets it vibrate through the ministrations of his own tongue, and relishes the thrust and arch of pleasure it brings.

Ram knows his limits, though, and he can't let this go on much longer before his own self-control is compromised-- he's already having to hold back, more than he wants, to stop himself from just letting go and riding that affectionate face into an explosive overload. Oh, yes, he wants that overload, wants to fall apart in its brilliance, and he knows it's building inside him, impatient to burst free-- but not now, not yet.

So he buries his face hard between his partner's thighs, redoubles the efforts of his own expert mouth, and delights for now in the pleasure he is giving.

Which, yes, is always its own kind of great feeling. To feel the release of all inhibition under his touch-- to be the reason sweet uncontrolled moans come back to caress breathily against his own arousal again-- to be the reason legs spread wide and hips rise up-- and to answer that movement with hands to slide underneath and between, stroking sensual pleasure along every circuit and into every sensitive fold, until there's a new, quaking, shivering motion and a series of hard, fast little jolting thrusts, and a sound that builds to a scream muffled between his own legs.

Oh, oh, oh yes-- there's the release, and it tastes of electricity and light and liquid at once, bursting onto his tongue, as fast as he can lap it up from the spasming bulge that rocks blindly against his face in the throes of that shattering pleasure. He drinks the pleasure like ambrosia, licks up every drop, holds and strokes his partner's hips as the final thrusts become stiff, slow, hard, before finally, finally letting go and melting into that utter bliss of relaxation.

The satisfaction of bringing someone to that peak of ecstasy, it's a warm glow to merge with the afterglow underneath him. Ram shifts position to accommodate the transmutation from flesh into free energy, as his companion melts into restart, becoming that peaceful cloud of light that is a program's ultimate and most beautiful time of relaxation, the reward for succumbing fully to pleasure.

Ram is still waiting for that release for himself. He shivers as he gets to his feet and bids farewell to the happy energy-cloud... every motion now is an exquisite ache, and his own arousal now misses that mouth and tongue very much. He is going to need to find Tron, soon-- or someone, at least--

The first face he sees, upon refocusing his eyes, is that of the Guardian. A face now somewhat flushed and breathless-- even the dignity of that robe, that gray-streaked beard, those lines of age and wisdom, can't hide the fact that the Guardian has been vicariously feeling at least some of what's been going on around him.

Perhaps... Ram feels his mouth curl in a smile. Perhaps Ram will try to bring relaxation to him next.

But on meeting that smile, the Guardian just draws himself up more austerely, and raises his hand again in that beckoning gesture.

"Victor to victor," he intones, as he moves his hand to indicate Ram-- and then another program off to Ram's left side, just out of his field of vision.

Victor...?

Oh! Yes. As the word and gesture bring up some half-repressed memories from the game grid, Ram's mind finally makes the connection.

This must be a... a tournament, of sorts. The encounters of pleasure around him have been, in a sense, competitive matches, and the winners-- those still conscious at the end, waiting for overload-- are to be pitted now against each other.

Ram moves forward, to kneel again at the Guardian's feet. The structure of this event is becoming clear to him. As the "victor" of his last match, he will now be assigned a new partner, the winner of one of the other matches that were going on nearby... His eyes slide to the left as the second program approaches to kneel beside him.

And-- oh, Users--

He recognizes this program.

"Crom?" he murmurs under his breath, turning his head, to meet a soft, familiar face that responds with a shy nod and smile.

A shock, certainly. Ram hadn't seen this one come up onto the dais. He'd thought this program was dead, actually-- derezzed in the Games some time after their first meeting-- when Ram had offered him pleasure to ease the despair of that danger, since he didn't know any other way to help.

But perhaps he survived, somehow, against all the grim odds that Ram had calculated back then?

Or maybe-- well, Ram has heard that some of the programs seemingly destroyed by the MCP came back to life after Tron's victory, their code released from the monster that had devoured them. Maybe Crom was among those lucky ones. Or maybe he was found by recovery software in time to rerezz him? Or he might be restored from a backup, but then he likely wouldn't remember Ram...

Which he does. There's excited recognition in that shy face, and a spark of joyful energy as the Guardian joins their hands.

Well. If Ram is to be pitted against Crom in battle... this is certainly the best sort of circumstance for it. He returns the smile, a sly promise in the curve of his lips. Everyone's going to be a winner here, one way or another.

"It's good to see you again," Ram purrs as he clasps Crom's hand to pull him to his feet. Hands slide over Crom's wide chest, stroking him across the smooth surface of his dress-coded render. It's a long-sleeved leotard in dark shimmery blue, over dark purple tights, and the fluffy white sweater is tied around his waist by the sleeves. A matching white headband around his brow holds up a surprisingly thick mane of dark, heavily-sprayed hair, and complex gold earrings jangle on both sides, made of intricately interlocking rings. Crom's hands, the wrists cuffed in smaller fluffy white bands, come up to press gently against Ram's fingers, but make no move to stop him.

There's another jolt of acceleration in the floor beneath them, another shift in the speed of distant sights whirring by. And the music, again, speeds and deepens-- the bass pounding in Ram's core functions, the surface melodies so frantic they make him want to fly.

Their eyes meet. Dark eye makeup accentuates the intensity of Crom's gaze as Ram steps forward, backing him toward the dodecahedral orange chair.

When it hits the backs of his legs Crom sits down abruptly, thighs parting already as Ram slides in to wrap arms around him.

"Glad you're alive," Ram murmurs, suppressing the fast pounding in his own code to feign calmness, to press a gentle kiss onto Crom's pliant lips, as his hands continue to explore chest and sides in search of circuitry.

"I'm not that easy to take down," Crom gasps, smiling into Ram's mouth. "You think you're gonna wipe me out here, don't you? Because--"

"Oh, no." Ram's fingers finally locate a spot where their caress activates a lightline, something previously hidden in the deep blue of the render.

It blossoms vibrantly blue-green into a branching starburst of circuits, glowing over Crom's whole pectoral region, as he encourages it with touch after touch. "I've got no assumptions about you anymore. You've impressed me already by surviving. And making it far enough in this tournament to face me. By all appearances you're a worthy opponent."

His hands have been tracing downwards as he speaks, trailing blue-green beauty as these lovely hidden circuits come to life. At the knot of soft white sweater-sleeves at Crom's waist, he pauses a moment-- the sleeves hang in front, semi-obscuring the bulge that he recalls being half-hidden beneath a tunic in Crom's previous form.

Gently, with one hand, he pushes the soft material aside, as the other hand traces down onto that swell of arousal, activating one more gloriously sensitive cluster of circuitry that makes Crom whimper and press up against him.

Ram blows out a half-whistling breath, admiring it all. "You're more gorgeous than I remember. No wonder you've been winning so far. Gonna take an experienced program to go up against this and not overload right away."

"Hah." Crom chuckles breathlessly under Ram's ministrations, chest rising and falling. "Is flattery one of your tactics? 'Cause it's not gonna work on me-- not as well as if you just get on with it."

"Oh, I do plan to." Ram licks his lips as he moves to straddle Crom's lap, embracing and burying his face in silken blue, tasting emerald sparkles of circuitry-- reveling in the delicious warmth and softness of the render beneath him--

Well. Softness, except one part. And oh-- it sends such sparks of pleasure up and down every circuit, to feel hardness push up against him where he straddles-- even warmer and more eager than all the rest of it. Getting more and more difficult to pull himself back, to marshal the speed of his grinding hips before they send him hurtling into an overload he's not ready for-- not yet, not yet--

"Mmm." It's a throaty purr from Crom, trying and mostly succeeding at hiding how close he himself already is. "C-can't control yourself so well now, can you? Won too many matches already?"

"Mmm-maybe," Ram gasps, legs opening wider to allow the thick swelling of Crom's I/O unit to slide more fully against his own. Oh, he is skating close to the risk of overload, he knows, but it's just too, too good right now for that risk assessment to feel like any kind of obstacle anymore. Green circuits spark against pink ones, and deep purple begins to suffuse them both.

And the game isn't lost yet. It's been a while since the last time Ram saw Crom, but he finds it hard to believe that the quivering, desperate newbie from back then is really as confident now as he seems. Programs don't often change that much.

The way Ram figures it-- ahh, that's good, yes-- ohhh, but the only way a program like Crom could be this sure of himself is if he has some extra weapon up his sleeve, some little insider-trading secret to give him an advantage in just how that interest is gonna get compounded...

And already, Ram's speculation has narrowed down the possibilities to a few that are probable. And then to just one.

He knows something about the functions of Crom's body-- helped him discover them, in fact, way back then. Functions specific to being a certain kind of calculator. Tucked away most of the time, hidden coiled up around the disc on his back: a little something extra beyond the usual User-mirroring body parts, beyond the ten decimal-counting fingers that most ordinary programs have got.

An extra feature that's quite handy for calculations requiring a few more digits (up to hexadecimal, if Ram remembers correctly)... and also quite handy for other, off-duty applications.

But (Ram pointedly shows no response, no attempt to look down, as he feels the tickle of new touches, not quite like hands, that ghost along his sides)...

Well, a surprise advantage can also be a surprise vulnerability.

That which stimulates can also be stimulated.

Without unlocking his gaze from Crom's desire-dark eyes, Ram lets his hands slide down... gently grip... and feel the jolt of aroused flesh react to his touch. One in each hand. Pulsing, slick, wanting...

Those eyes in front of him widen, the lust-swollen mouth opens in a soundless gasp.

Ram has to move fast, and keep his expression unchanged while he does it-- letting Crom stay confused, for a few more picos, about just what's happening. His hands tighten around the shafts, and stroke, fast but gentle.

Holding still with the left hand, but turning the wrist of his right hand to bring it-- the secret feature, the tentacle-- upward, toward where he wants it.

Oh, Crom will like this, though. It'll be as lovely a surprise as anyone could want...

And in one swift motion, Ram's mouth is around the spade-tipped end of one of Crom's secret weapons, applying all his oral skill, the undulating dexterity of his tongue along its central circuit--

oh, oh, ohhh it's good, and Ram moans around it, surprising himself almost as dangerously with how good, how sensual the feel and taste of it is.

A taste of desperate arousal, a slickness and movement like the pulsing of I/O code nearing its release, and Ram's hips buck forward in a dizzying pleasure that almost, almost forgets his directive to get Crom there first.

But his muscle memory doesn't forget. As soon as he's sure that his lips are holding it securely in place, he lets go with his right hand and reaches blindly out until he finds another of the reaching tentacles. And now, oh, now he has three of them in his control.

Each hand grips, squeezes, gently and expertly slides and pumps along as much of the length as he can reach... while his mouth and lips and tongue and now even his throat are fully, fully devoted to lavishing on the third one as much pleasure as mathematically possible.

"Oh, oh, oh Users!" Crom arches, head thrown back, small incoherent cries continuing to spill from his open mouth. Nothing on him moves, except for a throbbing pulse of arousal everywhere Ram is touching, a rhythm almost syncing with the deep bass of the music.

Ram knows, in the back of his mind, that there are six of those things, which means three more unaccounted for-- but he took the risk, and now he sees it's been a good gamble. Because he was right: occupying three of them has utterly shorted out Crom's processes. All six are now just quivering in helpless need, while Crom's hips and the pent-up energy of his I/O transmitter are glowing with the tension of potential movement.

Well. Ram will make him move.

Still voraciously sucking and stroking, Ram leans forward in search of pressure between their legs, dragging his arousal against Crom's at last in an utterly delicious slide of code against code, stimulus and response, input and output. Oh, yes, oh yes-- Ram lets go and allows the whole of his mouth and throat to vibrate in a long, wavering moan, expressing every frustration in his whole neglected and pent-up render, every blissful wave of relief at being able to finally, fully grind against Crom in the unrestrained frenzy he's been craving--

There's not very much warning when Crom finally breaks. He just locks up, entirely still and tense and surrendering to the one movement his body will even allow now-- the jolting throb of release.

Crom lets out a long, shaky, wordless groan of pleasure as he gives in to it, a sound that's music to Ram's ears, just as much as the sensations of release are pleasure to his skin. The glorious pulse of energy, bursting hot and electric in Ram's hands, and his mouth, and arching to press rapturously against him down below as everything floods free and shatters into glittering particles.

The mist of Crom melting into blissful afterglow is a sweet golden taste in Ram's mouth, and a warm tingling embrace around the hands that had been holding him. He lies in it for a while, letting the cloud embrace him-- warm and proud and deeply glad to have given Crom this experience once more, and now excited too, because he'll probably see Crom again around here, and maybe sometime he can come home with Ram and Tron and all three of them can...

Oh. Ram's I/O unit throbs in neglected need, dragging him reluctantly from this warm relaxation. His circuits still tingle hot and violet all over every surface of him, and the longer he basks in Crom's afterglow cloud, the more the tingle of it torments him. He's outlasted two of these matches now, but at a cost, and he aches... oh, oh, oh, if he doesn't find someone to actually discharge his own energy soon, he's going to--

The Guardian is now looking at him, Ram realizes. A flushed, flustered look, clearly holding back so very much excited energy from all the matches that have been happening all over his dais-- but also a very smug look. Aware of how much more ...compromised Ram is, even now, than that Guardian is ever going to be.

"Victors, approach." His voice is still loud, booming, but with a sudden gentleness to it.

And from all areas of the still-spinning dais, marching to the wilder-than-ever beat of the music as they leave the shimmery overload-clouds of their defeated partners... the victors do approach.

Ram counts, as they come to a halt before the guardian. He is one of four. Four purple-flushed and trembling programs, lips bitten and legs spread as they try to stand still before the Guardian, overcharged to the edge of madness from all they've been through.

Are they now to be pitted against each other? Ram looks around, sizing up the competition. Two of the three other victors are from the original cohort of young athletic guys-- one with black leggings under a loose white crop-top decorated with colorful geometric shapes, and the other in what seems to be a full bodysuit, teal with already-violet circuitry in swirly patterns, and a belt and a small pair of briefs on over it, both magenta.

There's a cheerful little Bit zooming around between the two youths, flashing YES from time to time. Ram finds himself grinning in delight-- it's always fun when Bits come along to these events. He isn't sure whose it is, but it seems affectionate with both the young programs.

The remaining contestant is another one who must've shown up later... as tall and formidable-looking as Tron, with the sort of almost-triangular top-heavy build that makes Ram think he may have once been one of those scary staff-wielding sentry guards. But his scariness has been tempered with a pink mini-skirt over a lavender leotard and tights, and a matching pink scrunchie holding his wavy dark hair back in a mid-length ponytail.

Ram giggles, although the shaky pleasure of it sets off those desperate tingles of arousal again. This "dress code" is so fun. No matter who he gets paired up with this time, Ram's gonna absolutely explode in pleasure pretty soon, and mmmm, oh, he is more than okay with that, by now. He licks his lips, tilts his head back and looks up at the Guardian, waiting.

"Victors," intones the Guardian. "Confer."

The other three cluster together, a sudden tight huddle that glows with the energy of their overexcited bodies.

Ram shoves his way gently in, between the two younger contestants. "What are we, um, conferring about?"

"Ha!" The one in the white top and black leggings throws his head back in giggles. His hair is bleached and tied up in a side-ponytail, and he's chewing something that snaps and pops as he talks. "Hel-lo, world? Like, we've gotta plan how we're gonna take him on, duh!"

"The Guardian? We're all going up against him together?"

The Bit zooms around its companion's head, twinkling. "For sure!" it chirps, flashing the yellow Yes shape. Ram grins in spite of himself-- clearly this is one of the Bits with a varied library of synonyms for Yes and No, and it must belong to the guy in the crop-top and leggings, since its vocabulary is in sync with his. Ram allows himself a giggle, even though he gets the feeling that the Bit is laughing at him too.

The one in the teal-and-purple bodysuit nods, with a blush and a dimpled smile. "Always takes a lot to get a Guardian off. We prob'ly won't make it before he overloads us all. But he's gonna give us a fighting chance to try."

"So what'll our plan be?" says the Sentry-guard guy.

Teal-and-purple guy laughs, violet circuits flashing brighter with the sound. "Ooh-- oh, you all can worry about that yourselves. I'm too overcharged to even think-- gonna lose it the moment anyone touches me."

"I am, like, totally almost there myself, for real," the leggings-guy admits. "But I'm gonna go down, um-- going down. Dibs on licking him right in the I/O circuits, okay babes?"

"Fine by me," Sentry-guard says. "I'll get his disc-dock and any other, um, vulnerabilities I can find back there. Rest of you-- that includes you, Bit-- just go after any other circuits that look like they need it."

There's a chorus of agreement (including "For sure!" in unison from Bit and leggings-guy) and Ram finds himself nodding along, licking his lips in anticipation. The huddle disperses, and all of them face the Guardian again.

The Guardian rises to his feet, still cloaked in his long hooded robe, seeming to become an extension from the center of the turning dais...

Ram watches, transfixed. There's such an air of power about that Guardian. Such authority. It makes Ram almost afraid, like there's a part of him that still fears doing the wrong thing and being punished -- even though all his experience with PoMU so far has consisted of pretty much nothing but freedom to do whatever he wants.

Which he loves-- but still can't quite always trust to be real.

"Any, um, rules I should know about?" he murmurs to the leggings-guy.

"Oh, as if!" The guy gives a high little laugh, drunk on his own arousal. "Anything goes, babe. He's, like, a Tower Guardian, duh! The most fabulous. He can so totally just stop anything going down that he doesn't like. But, like, if he ever does that, it's in a totally chill way, do not even worry. You are absolutely welcome to try all the things. And oh... I am so going to."

He makes a few more snapping sounds in the side of his cheek, blows a dark teal bubble that sparkles with geometric facets before it pops, and then pulls the gum from his mouth, letting it morph into a small teal cube between his fingers before he tucks it into some hidden pocket. On all fours, black leggings sliding against the floor, he licks his lips as he advances toward the Guardian.

Ram still hesitates, watching his teammates approach their quarry, as his lust-clouded mind tries to formulate his own part of the plan.

They're all close to the Guardian now, though not yet touching. The sentry-guard program has made his way carefully around behind, and appears to be examining the area of upper back where one would normally find a docked disc. The one in the violet-flashing bodysuit is sprawled on the floor beside the Guardian's legs, staring up unfocused, lost in the intensity of his own need; if he's got any thoughts in that head now, Ram guesses he's thinking about just leaning in and rubbing himself on whatever body part he can reach.

The Bit is flashing a fast pattern of "Yes" as it darts back and forth between him and the one in the leggings, who seems frustrated as he kneels right in front of the Guardian, his face seeking I/O circuitry to lick but still finding only the plain material of the cloak.

"What even is this," Ram hears him mutter. "Hel-lo? What's his damage? Where are the freakin' circuits, babe? What am I supposed to, like, even do here? I mean, seriously. Mouth full of this robe thing? As if! Gag me with a--"

And then, wordless, the Guardian makes one smooth shrugging motion... And the fabric, in one equally smooth motion like a rush of shimmering liquid, slides to the floor.

"Oh."

The program kneeling at his feet chokes on his own voice, eyes going enormously wide as he takes in the sight of the Guardian's suddenly bared form. "Oh. Oh. My. Freakin.' Users. ....Okay, yeah. Holy yes..." His mouth hangs open a moment, closes, swallows, then opens again, eager. "Yes. Gag me with that."

Ram's own mouth can't fully close; he feels his tongue tracing the outline of his lips in expression of his own desire. And his own eyes, equally wide, equally fixated, on the shape of this newly revealed body.

The I/O code between one's legs is a versatile sort of function. Varying from program to program, the only constant is that it's for transmission of data and energy -- which can mean a lot of things, and the exact shape and appearance can adapt as needed.

So far, Ram himself mostly hasn't felt a need for it to manifest as anything beyond the usual bulge-shaped arrangement. It's enough. Simple, effective, capable of answering any touch with swelling pleasure and releasing any pent-up overcharge through the surface.

But what this Guardian has... Oh.

Ram cannot stop staring. It brings a new understanding of why that code on one's body, written to respond to the I/O Tower's call, is sometimes called a "Tower" in its own right.

Form follows function. And on this Guardian's body, a Tower calls to a Tower.

It rises from between his slightly parted legs, impressively long and thick-- glowing with the same patterns Ram has seen on the ceremonial headdresses that Guardians wear when fulfilling their function. But a smoother, stylized version. The circuits are striking-- simple clean lines, echoed in the understated circuitry of all his body, which nevertheless connects to them in a way that calls them into focus as the central point of the energy in his system.

Lavender chases the deep blue of the lines all along their length, deepening in color with each pass. His wide chest rises and falls in rhythm with it.

He is strong, thick-limbed... not tall, but still regal, imposing. Under the fallen cloak his whole form is rendered in the same bright-gray base code that other programs usually reserve only for faces and sometimes hands-- and it suits him, it speaks somehow to his connection with that Other World.

To Ram he seems, for just a moment, achingly sensitive, profoundly vulnerable. Enough to make Ram wonder what other pleasures he knows; what other uses he makes of that impressive Tower. Does he have partners, other programs who love him and touch him there? Or is his love only for his User.... and for events like this?

Does this ritual in itself mean something to him, something sacred, beyond the game it is for everyone else?

Almost as one-- as if answering a mystical Call of their own-- the other contestants move to touch him. And when the onrush of input comes from all sides, the Guardian seems well-prepared.

His breath quickens but remains stable, as the sentry-guard program rests both hands on his shoulders and dips his head down to lick into the intricate patterns of the disc-dock. Only a little tightening, a slight arch of the upper back-- he feels it, certainly -- but he is in control.

The program in the teal-and-purple suit is clinging to the Guardian's leg, now, just long enough to pull himself to his knees and position that leg between his-- the boy just can't hold on anymore, his need to overload has washed away all finesse and he's whimpering in utter desperation, rutting clumsily on the elder's calf like a wild gridbug--

--Ram might almost laugh at him, if the feeling weren't so painfully relatable right now. For his own part, he still remains almost frozen. Overwhelming desire, and indecision, and his inexperience with this game, are all warring inside him, holding him immobile, as much as he yearns to be part of that frenzy of motion bringing pleasure to those sacred circuits.

The Guardian, again, just gasps a quick little breath and stays still... although the colors of his lines do begin to shift, subtly, everyplace where he is touched.

And the boy in the black leggings-- oh, Ram can see he's already trying to take what he laid claim to.

...And realizing that it's more than he bargained for. Hands gripping and stroking thigh-circuits, his own legs spread beneath him as he kneels, he makes effort after effort. Bowing his head again and again at slightly different angles, salivating with desire--

--but as eager and clever as his mouth is, he lacks Ram's varied experience with different anatomy. Certainly he could not have serviced someone like Crom as well as Ram did. The gag reflex is proving to be a real obstacle, and he can never get much more than the tip inside-- Ram watches with a little amusement alongside the sympathy.

Narrowed, mascara'd eyes look up reproachfully at Ram from that daunting task. "Like, hel-lo ! You get your sparkly butt over here and help, babe!"

Ram suppresses a giggle and obeys, without another thought. Before any calculations can even go through his mind he's kneeling beside the Guardian-- at his other hip, opposite side from teal-and-purple about-to-overload guy, and between the Sentry at the Guardian's back and the boy in the leggings at his front.

Only place left with room for him, really. And, since hip circuits do tend to be sensitive, there's certainly help he can offer here... he rubs his cheek on the smooth skin, gauging the electric load of the circuitry as it burns hot against him. Watching his Tower-worshiping neighbor, with keen interest, as he does so.

Watches his scowl turn easily into a smile of welcome, and watches him go back to work.

The frustration is short-lived, the program resilient. Having accepted that he can't get the whole thing in his mouth, Leggings-guy vents his frustration away with a breathy, "Oh, what-ever!" and bows down once more, attending to the circuits of the shaft with a dexterous tongue and a hyperfocused vigor.

And it seems an effective tease-- clearly those are sensitive, but less so than the head that he's now neglecting.

There's a renewed tension, a barely suppressed quiver under his touch. Almost imperceptibly, hips tilt toward him. Ram sees the Guardian's eyes narrow; the very edge of his lip catch in his teeth.

As Ram presses his face into the side of an upper thigh, stealing another peek through half-hidden eyes as he tastes a lightline... he sees the Bit hover closer and closer to its devotedly occupied Program, practically vibrating with excitement.

Oh.

And then Ram shivers in response, realizing what's coming.

Bits are versatile little assistant subroutines. The interface, the part you see, is the only part that's literally a binary bit, and it's how you communicate with the entity. Which, itself, is a sort of... echo of one's own intellect, Ram supposes you can call it. Each Bit has all the mental capacity of its associated Program, plus a slightly removed viewpoint... another set of eyes, essentially, to double-check calculations.

Can we merge with this memory? Does this color look good on my hair? ...A Bit can be counted on to give a viewpoint that's in line with your own, but just a little more objective.

It's like an extra backup of oneself-- which is why it never needs more than one bit of data to communicate an answer. It's already so much on its Program's wavelength, there's no risk of misunderstanding.

And this one... well, it clearly knows what its Program needs help with, right now.

Fascinated, it floats nearer and nearer to the needy head of that Tower. It's still all positive curiosity, not a red-spiked No in sight... but Ram can see it phasing a little differently between the golden diamond and gray spheroid that represent yes and null. The interface that communicates its binary responses has begun to look.... translucent, almost fluid, a hint of the sort of shine you see in an energy spring.

Ram has heard that Bits can change the texture of their manifested form, in a few other ways besides just the shift between three shapes. Ram hasn't witnessed it in quite this way before. He trembles with a fascination of his own. The taste of the Guardian's circuit is powerful, bright, refreshing, and yet somehow gently sweet at the same time, and for now it's... almost a backdrop to the sight that Ram's eyes get to feast on.

Suspended for a moment in gray neutrality, the Bit gives the tip an exploratory touch. Despite all the ambient music and crowd noise, Ram's perception is somehow still so focused that he hears the contact make a soft, wet sound.

And maybe it's the shock of that unexpected touch-- or maybe it's how the Bit's program licks a long stripe up the circuits of the shaft, at the very same instant-- but the Guardian actually moves. Hips jerk suddenly forward, stuttering, trembling. A low anguished sound bursts from his throat as his head tilts back.

With the wobbly shimmer of a semisolid, the Bit responds in wild enthusiasm and dives down. Coordinated with the urgent thrust of hips, it rushes to meet him--

--and it takes him, fast, with its opacity lowered-- merges eagerly with the pulsing head of his arousal. Two renders occupying the same space, combining all that can be perceived-- shape, color, and almost certainly feeling--

Ram can only imagine.

But his imagination is vivid. He throbs and aches in sympathy... burying his face in those sweet hip circuits... fighting to hold his own hips back, because he'll overload himself so fast now if he lets anything touch him there.

The Bit glistens like a mass of semi-liquid energy, still in gray null-form but wavering between opaque and almost clear, and Ram can almost feel it on his own skin.

The Guardian's movements are suddenly, jerkily fast now, and the Bit struggles to keep up-- but when it finally manages one good hard lunge toward him, well-synchronized with his thrust into the center of its mass, the response is electric.

Arcs of hot pink and violet branch joyously down all the Guardian's circuits from the point of contact. The fire of the color change is a rush in Ram's mouth, a shift from sweet to salt to spicy in the span of picocycles--

--and the Bit, wracked in its own jolt of sensation, bursts into a bright, gold diamond of "yes!"

Which must have made an absolutely delicious ripple in that inner texture-- because the Guardian actually cries out, a series of little cries, mostly incoherent but there's... there's definitely a "yes!" in there too.

That rush of energy, shocking all over the Guardian's skin, is the last little trigger for the poor desperate program in the teal-and-purple bodysuit rubbing against his leg. His thighs clench as he arches back with a pathetic whimper, and grinds himself down hard one last time as his climax explodes, legs and hips shuddering helplessly in the shimmer of energy-release that swirls out from his I/O circuits to absorb him. His face is a rapture of sensual overwhelm, dark-lashed eyelids shut tight against flushed cheeks, lips open in silent-screaming pleasure until the hot glow spreads all the way to overtake it, enveloping him entirely.

But he goes out scoring maybe one last point against his competition. The afterglow bathes a whole side of the Guardian's body in stimulating tingles. Ram feels it, even from the other side, making him gasp against the soft hip flesh-- and now even the seasoned elder himself has begun to shake in the sensory paradise of it all. Motion speeds up, Bit and Guardian jerking ever harder against each other....

...and the Bit's young program, moaning around his own eager tongue, redoubles his frantically lapping efforts on the shaft-circuitry.

He's close, though, too-- panting as he struggles to hang on a little longer-- but his hips rock against air, and his mouth keeps starting to go slack in pleasure against the sparking circuits. The crux of his black leggings must ache with the strain, glistening and dripping his overcharge.

He's absolutely gorgeous. Ram's breath catches, the stance of his folded legs widening in the ache of his own response.

The bond between Bit and Program is a lovely thing, but it must be so very tantalizing for those two right now. As an echo of the same life energy, the wants and thoughts of a Bit are of course always well-aligned with those of its Program-- and yet, that necessary separation that keeps the Bit's perspective at just the right degree of remove-- it means they can never share thought and sensation directly in real-time.

Each wants, desperately, what the other is feeling. Together they have the whole experience, but neither can have all of it-- and that must be an exquisite part of the ache for them both.

The Bit stalls a moment in neutral, as its Program takes a trembling moment to catch his breath. The Guardian's groan of frustration is so deep it seems to rumble the already spinning floor beneath him.

"Don't-- stop. You-- you can't stop now."

"No," the Bit agrees, spiking a fierce red star around its lovingly captured flesh, and Ram can only begin to imagine what that feels like inside--

--and the Guardian's low grunt and shove of hips seem to jolt the entire room under Ram's feet, and his entire body flashes a nova of deep and sensual purple--

--a blaze of violet light that even pours from his disc-dock, catching the Sentry-guard program by utter surprise in the mouth, where he's been hard at work the whole time adding to the Guardian's pleasure with artful licks and kisses around the sensitive patterns there....

And to Ram's startlement, the sentry-guard arches and sobs in ecstasy, just from that torrent of energy crashing onto his face. His own oral worship must have been turning him on, much more than Ram had thought-- oh, and he must have also been rubbing himself against the Guardian down there, that would help explain it--

--but whatever the cause, his whole broad-shouldered figure now twists and spasms in response, hands barely holding him up as they cling to the Guardian's sides. "Oh, Users yes yes YES," he rasps-- and with one more thrust of hips he's gone, a blaze of little-deresolution that takes him apart instantly into glittering sparks, sweeping upward from his own lower functions so fast that Ram just barely gets a last glimpse of his mouth wide open, lower lip trembling. And then he's nothing but a blur of hot rainbow light, with some groans of utter bliss echoing inside it for a nanocycle until that, too, subsides.

And his overload-cloud, too, is yet one more tease for the Guardian... who's having real, genuine trouble controlling himself now. Wrapped now on two sides in affectionate tingling light, with the remainder of his body under attack by two equally affectionate mouths and the most energetic Bit that Ram's ever, ever seen--

--now cycling fast through yes and no and neutral, with no regard for their meaning at all anymore-- just chasing that fast hard beat of change in sensation between one shape and the next.

The sound of the Guardian's moans is as low as the pounding bass of the music, enough to make things resonate deep in Ram's abdomen-- and now Ram's bracing himself against pulses of pleasure reverberating into his whole body from all of it, til he can only sob in response-- sinking lower and lower toward the floor-- not because he's got any more taste for the Guardian's calf than his thigh, but just because he can barely even hold himself up anymore.

The program at the Guardian's front is doing the same, writhing and twisting in the effort to keep his face where it is and not fall to the floor in a derezzing-cloud of his own. His knees shake in near-orgasmic pleasure, his hands grip onto circuited thighs for dear life--

--and Ram, with new pangs of sympathy-- and with his tongue tracing the elegant lines of the Guardian's ankle now-- struggles to twist his own body closer to his comrade, hoping he's got enough coordination left in him to offer some help.

His leg sweeps out... catches under a black legging... earns him a gasp of thankful relief, as his new friend starts to buck against that awkward contact--

And, in the process, Ram somehow notices when his own foot grazes over a line of the floor pattern-- the curve of one of the concentric circles on the spinning dais beneath them, still pulsing luminescent indigo.

He notices, because there's a response.

And that response-- a certain timbre of moan, a certain intensity in how the guardian's whole upper body tosses back, as if trying to lean into something--

Ram's seen that before. On Tron, on a lot of the frightened conscripts he used to comfort, back in those cells--

It's how a program very, very close to overload will often respond to a gentle stroke along the lightlines of the disc.

And... of course.

The Guardian didn't have a disc in his dock-- the sentry-program's approach would have been all different if he had. This Guardian doesn't have a normal program's disc at all.

The dais is his disc--

And Ram, hands and mouth still worshipping at the Guardian's feet, swings his legs around again now in a much more lascivious offer of pleasure. In between the black leggings, his thigh retreats and then pushes back upward with a lustful vengeance. Meanwhile, the rest of his body contorts like he's performing a wild dance, and perhaps he is-- a dance that does everything it can to rub legs and feet and hips against every reachable curve of concentric circuitry on this floor--

--because he is reduced in this last desperate, edge-of-climax moment to the basic essentials of what, by now, he has come to consider his most fundamental function--

--He's Ram, and Ram gives pleasure, and he has a partner in need, and the lines of this floor are where that partner needs to be touched--

The rest of it seems to happen both too fast and too slow. Ram's perception is wrecked. He is aware of events, and probably their order, but not a lot more.

The Bit and its program, in unison, rend the air in a cacophony of wild shrieks as they climax together, their joined energy-cloud ionizing the air with its delight-- becoming a hot wave of sheer power that crashes against the Guardian, right onto his whole front, a deluge that completely engulfs his Tower.

The Guardian, crying out soul-deep sobs in what may be a User language, goes into whole-body convulsions, shocks of his energy reverberating electrically into everything he touches-- and the frenzy of it jerks Ram around like a plaything--

and Ram's sweeping floor-dance begins to escape his control, his mouth leaving the Guardian's circuits as he fights just to hang on with both hands, and this means he's flailing in all directions and getting dragged over more and more and more of that floor-circuitry--

which, of course, has its effect on the Guardian, and--

--and the Guardian explodes, a gargantuan steam-hot geyser of shimmering energy that flames out in all directions, and with Ram already barely hanging on, the sheer shockwave of it serves only to fling him outward, just ahead of the explosion's wake--

and he tumbles off the edge of the still-spinning dais in a series of somersaults, the shock of that oblique impact with the floor only slightly dulling his still-unbearable arousal--

until he comes to a stop, sprawled half on his back on the first solid floor he's encountered in a while, dizzy eyes straining upward--

--to see Tron looking back down at him, grinning in mad joy and near-disbelief.

As Ram gasps for breath through his giggles, he manages to appreciate Tron's dress-coded form... and oh, what a lovely form it is. Full-body white, like his signature render... blue-circuited too... although the blue is in a pattern of chevrons similar to Ram's, and they trace his hips and I/O bulge and down his thighs and legs in an absolutely tantalizing way.

Ram lets out one last hysterical burst of laughter, turning into a moan at the end, as he realizes that he still very, very badly needs to overload. It's agony, but it's also hilarious, because he-- oh, Users--

--he actually won.

...And here's his prize.

"Uh. Tron." A breathless smile, tongue running over lips.

"Ram." The smile that answers him is enough to take his breath away all over again. "Don't know how you survived all that. My little shareware." Tron's mouth turns up on one side, the infuriatingly charming smile and dimple, and oh, Tron is just such a-- "...Doesn't matter, though, does it? You're just about terminated."

"I'm very persistent," Ram groans. "But nothing's better than you, Tron. A little help here?"

Tron scoffs. "Like you need help. You're a pixel from the edge. I'm gonna just stand here, stroke my circuits a bit and watch you overload. Untouched, all over yourself, just from me looking at you."

"Tron..."

"Yeah." Oh, there is nothing else like the deep purr of Tron's voice, seducing Ram all over again as his eyes burn down into him, a towering figure of beauty standing over Ram's sprawled form with legs slightly apart. Tron's I/O code framed in glowing chevrons and swollen with want, central to Ram's view of him. Tron's powerful hands sliding down the circuitry of his own sides, trailing soft violet, while his voice seems to vibrate deeper in response. "That's it. Just like that, Ram..."

The pulse of need between Ram's legs is enough to make his back arch like something hit with electric shock; his head thrown back hard, his breath a series of fast rasps. He can't think, it feels so good. He's so close to the edge he can't imagine how he's not over it already-- it's like he's flying, soaring out of control. The beat of the music is still there, an ever-present bass throbbing in the background, through the floor deep into him, and each pulse pushes him just a little further. "Tron..."

And now Tron's speaking to someone else next to him-- Ram can tell from the tone of that velvet voice, even before his eyes focus enough to get an idea of the robed program who's just moved in close to Tron's side. A Tower Guardian-- not the one Ram just helped to overload, but another one-- Dumont? Probably Dumont; Tron seems awfully familiar with him. Ram's met him once or twice but knows him mainly from Tron's stories and shared memories; he guesses it's him, but his own recognition skills are nothing right now...

"Look at him," Tron says to his companion, ending in a gasp as his hands coax bright pleasure into his own circuits. Touching himself, so openly, in front of others, oh, this is a side of Tron that Ram rarely gets to see, and it drives him wild with desperation. But Tron sounds just as desire-mad right now, just as wrecked. "...Look at him, he's so beautiful, so, so good-- and he's mine." It trails off into an outright cry of ecstasy, taking Tron a few picos to recover from.

Talking about him. Oh, oh, yes... Ram feels the sound like a jolt in his own code. His hips twitch; he's trembling all over. Burning in every circuit...

"Well--" and Tron is still speaking, and his voice is even rougher now. "Well, he's everyone's-- but especially mine. Oh, oh, it's so good, Dumont--" (and yes, Ram was right, it's him) "--so good, you can't imagine how it feels. He could have anyone, everyone-- and he does, and I get to see it, see him so full of joy and pleasure and sharing it all over the system to everyone who'll have him-- and then he still comes back to me. Oh, oh, it's so perfect, I can't--" and Ram's whole body echoes the pleasured arch of Tron's, in sympathetic response to seeing the hot slide of fingers down in between Tron's thigh and the now-aching bulge of his arousal-- "How is he mine? How do I-- deserve this?"

Dumont is mostly hidden beneath the cloak, and his pose is hard to read-- Ram isn't quite sure what he's even doing here, he doesn't seem to be following the dress code, unless it's underneath that-- and yet... and yet there's a subtle violet blush to the circuits edging his robe; there's a huskiness in his voice, like he's feeling something of the pleasure around him, nevertheless.

"It's not a matter of deserving," he tells Tron, affection in the curve of his smile. "It's the Users' will. We all have whatever the Users see fit to give us, whatever their reasons may be. Perhaps they feel it's in the best interest of the System-- to have both you and Ram so happy."

"Yes," Tron moans, half-choking on the end of the word, and Ram can feel how close he is-- how close they both are, throbbing in sync, the room's ambient drumbeat pushing them on, irresistible. Tron's knees start to buckle; he falls to the floor between Ram's legs, one hand sweeping down the circuits of his chest, the other cupping himself as his hips buck into it slow and hard...

Ram can practically feel every touch, even though Tron still isn't in actual contact with him-- it's like the bass of the music joins them together. Every beat seems to rock his entire render now, and his hips rock in synchrony with Tron's, and his hands clench at his sides as he rides uncontrollable waves of violet fire that course down all his circuitry--

One more beat, and he feels the first pulse of release-- a mingled jolt that feels like static charge and heat and light and the wet warmth of liquid energy, all in one sensation--

One more beat and it spreads, a burning soaking rush across the surface of his I/O unit, and his back arches to shove himself still further into the slick pleasure of it--

One more beat and his entire form seizes, electrified-- the jolts of release now wracking him with rapid-fire shudders down below, as the ecstatic rush of all that sensation suffuses his whole lower half, hips and thighs and down his legs, and up his abdomen too--

--the fiery derezzing into his own long-awaited afterglow cloud of free energy-- adding to the music around him with his own complex melody of pleasure, a medley of resonant hum and twinkling chime, the sound of his whole form falling apart in utter bliss--

--it's starting, oh, yes, yes, finally it's here--

"Tr-TRON--" he gasps--

and, as Ram surrenders his whole self to the glorious full-body tingle of little-deresolution, Tron sighs, and arches, and lets himself fall down right on top of Ram--

--with an absolutely obscene groan of release, as he lets his own body scatter into glittering sparkles as well. Merging into Ram's at exactly the right moment to add one more oh-so-intense pulse of pleasurable sensation into it all-- a burst of glowing fire, a swelling, sonorous musical tone, expanding out from their joining clouds into something that for just a moment burns far bigger and brighter than the sum of them both.

They let themselves stay in that form a long, long time-- just a bright, soft cloud, lovingly caressing anyone who wanders through, making them feel the warmth and tingling aftershocks of pleasure. Another shade to the ambient lighting, another tone to the music-- just something to add to the beauty of it all.

It probably is in the best interest of the System. Happiness usually is.

.......

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(end of line)

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