Work Text:
He's lost track of time.
The portal has been gone for… Sam doesn't know how long, actually. He doesn't have the knack for measuring time in millicycles, and even if he did, he's not always privy to the passage of time. Clu prefers keeping him off balance—likes to fuck with Sam's code like he's just another program, just to prove he can—and Sam will wake up sometimes and barely know who he is, never mind having a grasp of how long he's missed.
Besides, there's no daylight on the Grid.
Sam can guess what a minute feels like, an hour, maybe even a day. But guesswork's all it is, and he's been here a hell of a lot longer than that. Long enough for the Games to start feeling like a dangerous routine. Long enough that it doesn't throw him off anymore that there's no such thing as daylight.
He's not sure he remembers what the sun looks like.
He's been here long enough that he can almost hold his own in a fight against Rinzler. Not quite—he's still got reason to be glad Clu doesn't want him dead—but when they spar, he lasts long enough to feel the strain of fatigue, and he knows Rinzler isn't giving ground on purpose.
Rinzler drags him off to spar more often now. All the damn time, actually, which confuses Sam. He wonders what the draw is, honestly.
He doesn't figure it out until one day (night, morning, fuck if Sam can tell) Rinzler knocks him flat and finally shows his hand.
The arena is empty. It's not The Arena, with its chanting programs and shifting contours and giant ephemeral scoreboard. It's just a sprawling indoor quad, boxed in on all sides by walls and lights and locked doors. There's no one here but Sam and Rinzler, and today Sam didn't last as long as usual.
He's on his back. Rinzler kneels on top of him, holding him down, and Sam feels flushed and conquered. He'll never be good enough. He'll never get out of here. Sam could wallow in the rush of self pity curling in his gut, roll himself up in the feelings of defeat and never come out.
Or he could startle at the sight of Rinzler's helmet retracting, revealing the angular face beneath.
Sam has seen Rinzler's face before, of course. He knows what to expect, and the resemblance to Alan barely registers at this point.
But this isn't the routine.
Routine is Rinzler standing as soon as Sam is defeated, leaving with a bow and abandoning Sam to whatever guard is assigned to march him back to his cell.
This isn't how his battles with Rinzler end: with Rinzler putting his discs away and staying curled over Sam's body, keeping him pinned with strong hands and slim fingers; with Rinzler's eyes and face visible, watching Sam with an almost feral intensity; with Rinzler sliding against him in a way that feels deliberate, making Sam's pulse shatter loudly in his ears.
Then Rinzler kisses him, and Sam's train of thought (already confused) screeches to a noisy, grainy halt.
Programs aren't like people. They aren't. Sam has sure as hell been on the Grid long enough to know that. So how the fuck does Rinzler know how to kiss?
But Rinzler is licking his way into Sam's mouth, and his restless hands crush their bodies together with unmistakable intent. The air pulses brighter with the startled surge of Sam's circuitry, and he tries to twist away. Instinctive retreat.
The attempt gets him nowhere. Rinzler's hold on him tightens and he grabs Sam's jaw, forcing the kiss deeper.
Something twists low and hot in Sam's gut—at the sensation of Rinzler's tongue in his mouth, or maybe at the eager grasp of Rinzler's hands—and for the first time in too damn long, Sam's dick stirs with interest.
Heat rushes to his face, and he realizes he's got nothing left to lose. He's already fucked in every other way. Why not add one more?
As quick as that, Sam's mind is made up. He arches against Rinzler deliberately, and is startled when his hard-on is met with a matching hardness between Rinzler's legs. Sam's having to reevaluate what he thinks he knows about programs, and his head spins with unexpected questions.
Then Rinzler trails a deliberate finger along the circuit at Sam's hip, and Sam stops thinking coherent thoughts for a while.
Sam is a jumble of sensations after that. Cool friction, Rinzler's lips and teeth, a mounting swirl of power building in his body, his blood, the very air around him. He's a gasping mess beneath Rinzler's hands, and he doesn't know how to process all the input coursing through him.
Everything comes into disconcerting focus when Rinzler penetrates him.
Light flares behind Sam's eyes, and his jaw drops on a silent, startled breath. His entire body falls still in the span of an instant, his back arched sharply against the floor. His palms press flat to Rinzler's bare chest, fingers splayed across intricate lines of circuitry that normally hide behind the black-on-black contours of Rinzler's battle suit. They're both naked (fuck, when did that happen?), and Rinzler is holding position, buried deep inside Sam, their bodies pressed flush together. Waiting as though he wants Sam paying attention before he starts to move.
Sam stares up into the severe contours of Rinzler's face. He struggles to breathe, and to untangle the sensations twisting him up inside. Naked as they both are, the feeling of skin against skin doesn't feel quite real.
Rinzler has one hand curled around Sam's hip, holding him in place—offering leverage for the moment Rinzler gets tired of lying motionless above Sam and begins fucking him in earnest. Rinzler's other hand is fisted in Sam's hair, commanding attention—as if Sam were physically capable of looking anywhere else right now.
"User…" Rinzler murmurs, and red light flashes in his eyes.
The cock filling Sam feels human enough, if larger than he's accustomed to, and Sam swallows past the tightness in his throat.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't make any overt movement or gesture. But something in his face must look like a green light to the program. Rinzler's hips rock back, almost gentle, before snapping forward so hard Sam cries out, surprise and a jolt of pain knocking the sound from his chest. Fuck, how can it hurt so much and feel so fucking good at the same time?
Sam forces himself to meet Rinzler's eyes as the program drives a rough rhythm into his body. He can't quell the sounds escaping his throat as pain gives way to pleasure so intense Sam almost can't tell the difference. He can't stop himself grabbing for Rinzler and hanging on as his body jostles with each invasive thrust.
Rinzler's quiet, constant purr is mounting to a louder pitch, and the air around them is fuzzy with blue and red light, edging brighter and brighter. Sam's heels dig into Rinzler's back, and he bites his own lower lip as he comes. The orgasm spins in on him like a vortex, blocking out all but the ragged rush of power, and Sam blacks out.
When he wakes, Rinzler is gone. Sam's own circuited suit of armor is back in place, and his identity disc lies on the floor beside him. The arena is empty, though he knows his appointed guard will be waiting outside the door, same as always.
Sam's body aches in all the right (wrong) places, and fatigue twists beneath his skin.
"Fuck," he mutters.
Sam reaches for his disc, and slowly, reluctantly, stands.