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Cover art by JugumPuppet
Whenever Rhys wants to see Jack during business hours he has to make an appointment. An appointment. Not just any old appointment either - he has to arrange it with about a dozen people first before he can get anywhere near him. ‘Preparations’ have to be made, security have to know he’s coming so they can calibrate the turrets not to fire at him on command, and he has to have a guard attachment to walk him onto the new site. What’s more, he doesn’t even get the pleasure of strolling in his office alone, because the receptionists usually prepare him an access card and lead the way, like teachers escorting a deviant to the principal’s office. All of this would be fine and dandy for the common businessman who needs a moment of Jack’s time, but not for Rhys. He doesn’t come to talk business, he comes to see the man who’s both his lover and the proverbial thorn in his side.
Jack’s attitude always makes the whole thing worse too. He’s consistently oblivious to the effort it takes Rhys to get this far, as well as the fact that he’d clearly prefer to see him on a more informal basis. There’s no middle-ground with him, no happy-medium; it’s always just one extreme or the other. He’s either too busy for so much as a chit-chat or a quickie, or he'll clear his entire schedule and expect Rhys to fill every second of it. It’s all or nothing, and most of the time it’s on his terms. His. Fucking. Terms.
It’s on the long list of reasons as to why Rhys can never see their relationship as more than just sex.
Today, he’s forgoing all the usual decorum.
Eos is a whirlwind of confused chaos around him, but Rhys barely pays attention to any of it. He has tunnel vision, storming through the Hyperion stronghold in his black-and-amber threads as if he’s untouchable.
His ECHOeye has taken care of countless turrets and locked doors that might have stopped him en-route, and the shock baton at his belt has already handled the security detail.
The reception-turned-waiting area outside of Jack’s new office is filled with people, many of which look white as ghosts at the prospect of a meeting with their great and powerful leader. Rhys charges past them all, prompting the head secretary to jump to her feet and gibber uselessly after him. She recognises him; she’d have known him by reputation alone even if she’d never met him before. After all, he’s the upstart head of their burgeoning competitor; the heart-throb Adonis that’s supposedly involved with Handsome Jack in more than just business.
Rhys is not oblivious to the way they look at him - the cocktail of awe, concern, envy and hero-worship. He’s here far too often. He needs to put a stop to that.
Regarding the waiting crowd as if they’re pathetic for offering themselves up to Jack’s whims, Rhys’ face is stony with anger. Though the intensity of his gaze is enough to make people shrink back in fear, it also only serves to highlight how handsome he is. Maybe it’s the way the fury settles in his eyebrows or the way his pout pronounces his sweeping cheekbones; either way, it leaves no doubt as to why Jack took an interest in him in the first place.
A gathering of trembling researchers, all clad in white and clutching presentations to their chests, part for him as he obnoxiously weaves through them. If anyone is annoyed with him jumping the queue, no one dares raise their voice to say so. Rhys couldn’t care less either way; about them, about Jack, or about the precious but stifling system that he was ignoring. He’s feeling so rebellious that he considers knocking one of the manicured topiaries over as he stalks towards the corridor to Jack’s office. All the while the receptionist is following him close behind, dogging his heels, her stilettos clicking noisily on the floor with every step.
"S-Sir? Sir! Mr... Mr Atlas-President? Sir? You- You really can't go in there right now,"
Rhys blanks her entirely. His pace far out-matches hers, and by the time she's made headway after him he’s already put ten feet between them with the distance only growing wider. His stride is effortless, while she’s left gasping from her attempts to keep up with him.
What could be so important that he can’t have a moment of Jack’s time? If he’s screwing someone in there then that’s only going to fan his fury, and right now he wants to find any reason to be mad at him.
The doors to Jack's office are impossibly large. The corridor and the adjoining room are two-storeys deep; have to be to hold all that ego. The young president of Atlas focuses on the wall-panel beside them, the golden-yellow iris of his ECHOeye lighting up. Hacking into the Hyperion network is a piece of cake, almost stupidly so. Deep-down he knows that if Jack minds him dropping in unannounced then he’d have done a better job at locking down his sub-systems access, but nevertheless Rhys feels invincible; like he’s storming the Bastille. All-power, all-revolution. He’s in in a matter of seconds, directing the office doors to open up for him. They only part a crack before he’s impatiently striding inside, far ahead of the clamour of noise coming from the waiting area behind him. The stilettos are anxiously retreating, and it sounds as if the crack security team are back on their feet and giving chase. Once he’s inside Jack’s office, however, Rhys knows the only one that can put him in his place is the man with his name on the door.
Jack's new office is as large as the one on Helios had been. While the view it commands is not as breathtaking as the surface of Elpis, the panoramic, snow-capped peaks of Three Horns isn’t bad either. Without the bleakness of space at every observation point it’s not as cold or as formidable. If anything it seems more luxurious, like a long-awaited upgrade. Without the imposing threat of an airlocking, something needed to be put in place to make Jack seem unapproachable. The mounted guns, the gold-leaf statues and the neoclassical commissioned portraits achieve that somehow. They’re larger than life, enough to make even the most confident of men feel small. Long-accustomed to them, however, they aren't enough to strike fear in Rhys’ heart.
Jack is at his desk, lounging in his mustard yellow chair with his feet up and his shoulder to the door. He seems to be having a very threatening talk with one of his employees via communicator, and as Rhys charges forward he can clearly gauge from his expression that the sadistic bastard is enjoying every damn minute of it.
Rhys has no context, of course, but none is needed for a phone call like this. Someone has screwed up, and Jack is going to make them pay for it.
"... an’ that's exactly why it's your job t' figure this out, princess,” Jack sneers into the communicator, pausing for a moment to look at his buffed nails. His feet are up on the desk, and he’s squeezing some kind of stress-ball that looks remarkably like Pandora. When he speaks again he’s deceptively casual. He still hasn’t noticed Rhys striding into the room, even in spite of the steady pace of his skag-skin boots. “Now - if we don't get any results in, say... oh, I dunno, how 'bout twenty-four hours? I'm feelin' generous here. Twenty-four hours to get your shit sorted, and get me that new Eridian-tech weapon o' yours, or we use you as target practise. How's that sound, pumpkin?"
Approaching feet and frustrated cries stop short at the office doorway. Rhys takes the opportunity to shoot a death-glare at the yellow-clad Hyperion guards who’d chased him down the corridor before the doors slam to a final, deafening close. It doesn’t take him long to close the gap between his current position and Jack’s desk, a thick metal construction in the shape of a vault-symbol. It’s then that Jack finally catches sight of him, his face lighting up. Lighting up! As if he hasn't done anything wrong! As if he’s completely, one-hundred-percent innocent of any villainy. Rhys burns at the sheer nerve of it. He’s about to open his mouth and wipe that look off the older man’s face when Jack holds up a finger, stalling him for a moment. Rhys doesn’t know why he obeys, but his thwarted cry stops dead in his throat.
"-- I-I tell y'what, sport. You give me a buzz when y' got what I need because, right now? I-- ha-- I could care less what happens to ya,” He’s grinning almost lecherously, though if he thinks he’s about to be nailed in that chair then he can think again. Rhys scowls as Jack winds down the call, drawing back from the - also goldleaf - ECHOcomm to practically purr into the receiver. “Eridian tech. Twenty-four hours. Ciao ," He disconnects the call with an almost dainty press of his finger before swivelling in his chair and dropping his feet from the desk.
Jack looks up at his on-again-off-again lover with a dazzling smile and wide open arms, every bit as arrogant as he had just been on that phone-call. Rhys has never wanted to punch him so much in his entire life. Sure, the endoskeleton business had come pretty close, but this? He has no time for pleasantries. He outright ignores Jack’s cry of - " Thee-eere's my favourite boy-!" - and instead pulls a manila folder out from the inside of his vest. He holds it aloft with a polished, chrome hand, fury rippling off of him in almost tangible waves.
"What the hell is this?!" Rhys demands, slapping the file down on Jack's desk hard enough to spill the contents. He’s enraged, it’s written clearly across a face that’s twisted up with it. A face that Jack probably doesn’t recognise right now. "'The Two Titans’?! 'Merger of Hyperion and Atlas'?!" He’s quoting, word-for-word, and stabbing the surface of the proposal with his index finger. "Are you kidding me right now?!"
For a moment Jack just stares at him, his own toothy grin slowly disappearing. It’s like an animation in a flipbook - with each page his expression subtly shifts until he finishes on a confused gawk.
Jack glances down at the manifest littering his desk, tracing the eponymous title that Rhys had so helpfully supplied. He doesn’t have the good grace to look apologetic, however. Instead he makes a face, one that clearly doesn’t take the situation seriously. 'Oh. Pfff! That ol' thing?’ His confident sneer seems to say. He even chuckles and slides it back across the desk towards him. "Heyyy... don't be like that, Rhysie. I thought you’d be stoked, babe, you know it makes sen- "
Without warning, Rhys draws back his fist and punches his almost-boyfriend full in the face.
Jack clearly hadn't seen it coming. After all this time, he’s gotten too comfortable around him, too damn sure of himself. He’s fallen into the trap of only seeing Rhys as a dork, a klutz, or somebody spineless and subservient. He forgets that he’s ambitious with a bite far, far worse than his bark.
The right-hook hits Jack with enough force to break the hinges of one of his mask clips, knocking the green contact lens right out of his eye. Rhys rarely throws a punch with his cybernetics. He’s left-handed, so he’ll usually instinctively hit out with his flesh arm first. Throwing his weight behind the one arm that could do serious damage? It meant that this was planned more so than instinctive. While it’s Jack's mask that takes most of the impact, that’s only a small mercy. His skin is incredibly sensitive - had been ever since the scarring - and it doesn’t take much to break the blistered skin around his eyes.
For a moment there’s just shock. Sure, Jack is screaming bloody murder, but he’s too focused on clutching at his own face and testing to see if anything is broken to think about hitting him back.
It’s been a long time since Rhys last regarded Jack like this and now much of his anger is directed at himself for being naive enough to fall into this trap again. Apparently once-bitten, twice-shy is a statement he’s never had the common sense to live by. The last time he’d felt like this he’d been standing in his Helios office, looking up at a monitor above a golden, inanimate body and realising he’d been duped.
Never again, Rhys promises himself, wanting to believe it this time. It’s almost easy to convince himself when Jack’s hands fall from his face, revealing a bestial snarl that’s all-teeth. Above his mask there’s a bleeding split in the skin right where it’s pulled into the broken clip, but that’s not what’s holding Rhys’ attention. He can’t stop staring at Jack’s blind left eye, with such ocular thermal damage that for a moment it just looks like an empty socket.
Rhys hesitates, long enough for Jack to bolt upright. On his feet, he’s immediately lunging across the desk to grab Rhys by the throat.
"You little shit!" He screams. The force of his anger is almost enough to generate g-force, like going from zero to one-hundred miles per hour at breakneck speed. Nobody throws a punch at Handsome Jack, apparently not even the long-legged hottie he’s screwing on the side.
Rhys lets out a grunt as Jack’s hand closes around his windpipe, managing to dodge his other outstretched hand to grapple hold of it with his own. For a split second they look like a couple of very angry kids fighting in the playground, bearing their teeth at one another and throwing themselves against their joined, scrapping hands.
"I am-- not at your disposal, Jack!" Rhys yells despite the hand around his throat, his voice winded but nevertheless thick with rage. He means it, every damn word. The idea that Jack could do something like this, especially without consulting him first, comes as no surprise, but that doesn’t mean the betrayal is any easier. Rhys has fought so hard for Atlas, to make something of the company and of himself. It’s one thing to be a loose consortium of a kind, as they had been, but quite another thing to be a partnership in black and white. Hyperion-Atlas. God, the whole thing reeks of Jack’s ambition, Jack’s ego, Jack’s inability to accept Rhys can go toe-to-toe with him. He wants Atlas back, that’s all this is. A power move and a giant ‘fuck you’. To think Rhys had spent so long convincing himself that Jack was getting better, and now this?! Eating his own words is like shovelling back poison, because he’s not getting better, he will never get better. Jack is and always will be a conniving asshole that’s simply out for all he can get.
They’re fighting for dominance now, wrestling one another over the surface of the desk.
Jack manages to free his hand long enough to grab hold of Rhys by the collar, tugging him towards him so that their foreheads butt up against one another.
"It's my name on the certificate, princess," He hisses through clenched teeth, fisting his hand tight in the black fabric of Rhys’ shirt. "I bought those shares, remember? Atlas is mine, so whatever I say frickin' goes!"
Another man might be pissing themselves right now, to be face-to-face with Handsome Jack’s wrath. Rhys, on the other hand? His adrenaline is pumping, blood rushing south and his wits are sharpening. It’s practically second-nature to deal with Jack after you come to accept he’ll one day be the death of you. Why not now? Why not right this minute?
Rhys finds himself laughing bitterly, almost hysterically. He might be slightly deluded - after all, Jack is correct in what he says. The deed of ownership is still in his name, and Rhys doesn’t know how legally binding ‘finders keepers’ is. But he’s stubborn; he’s stubborn and he’s just as arrogant as the man stood in front of him. "Oh please,” Rhys gasps around Jack’s tightening grip. “Think of it as compensation for all the hell you put me through!"
"And where's my compensation, huh, shitbag?!” Jack demands, shaking him. “You gonna pull a space station out of your ass?!”
Rhys manages to slip his cybernetic hand free. Raising it before Jack has more of an opportunity to rant at him or throw him back like a ragdoll, he slaps Jack so hard in an upward swipe that he catches the clips at his chin and his sideburn, denting the metal there and causing his right-most hinge to unlatch. Jack’s mask swings open like a door. It isn’t designed to do that, but to come off in one swift motion in the palm of a hand. Now one side of his face is bearing all of the weight and the skin is pinched and raw, splitting further where it’s drawn into the bolts above his brow. It’s excruciatingly painful. Painful and humiliating.
Jack barely notices that he’s making sounds like a wounded animal, because he’s all too aware that Rhys is staring at him.
The expression on the younger man’s face is one of horror and repulsion, as if he’s seen something that’s just crawled out and bitten him, something monstrous that needs to be crushed. His nose is wrinkled, and an offended scowl is tugging at his lips. It dawns on both of them that Rhys has never seen Jack without his mask before, not in the light of day. They’d been close once. Rhys had crashed at Jack’s after one of their late-night booty-calls, and Jack had removed it without fanfare, in virtual darkness, when he’d thought Rhys was asleep. He hadn’t been asleep, but he hadn’t quite seen either. Rhys had had no idea just how bad the damage was until this moment.
He thinks he’s staring into the face of someone who should still be in hospital for treatment. The vault symbol is carved so deep into Jack's face that it’s created a kind of canyon across it, and the tissue doesn’t look as if it's healed right, as if the scar is in flux and in a permanent state of searing the flesh over and over again. He’s missing an eyebrow, the skin there blistered and cracked, and his blind eye looks more and more like an empty socket. The burn damage is so severe that it seems chemical in nature, it’s pulled some of his fleshy waterline into the cornea itself and both the iris and pupil are just vague red orbs. Even the general shape of his face is different - his jaw is much less chiselled, his cheekbones less defined. The mask, like everything else, is a lie.
Now, eye-to-eye with Jack’s horrific scarring, Rhys doesn’t even have the capacity to feel pity for him. He lets out a burst of startled laughter, the kind with no real humour in it. It gains malice as it escalates, a laugh that’s more natural coming from Jack’s mouth than his.
"'Handsome',” Rhys gasps with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Well, y’know what, Jack? It looks to me like the outside matches the inside," He knows it’s low, but it’s too late. The words are out, hanging in the void between them, and he can’t take them back. They seem to lance right through Jack, straight through the chest. He flinches as if he’s been struck again and if Rhys didn’t know any better, he’d say Jack looks hurt.
In fact, Jack is sort-of hurt, or at the very least his pride is bruised. Anyone else who'd dare insult him like that would be dead in a heartbeat. Back on Helios, he’d never needed much of an excuse to offer a good airlocking as capital punishment. He’s had to get creative down on Pandora - adding corrosives, hungry skags, and needle stalker acupuncture to his repertoire. But this is Rhys. Rhys, who he actually-- actually likes. Who he wants to sort-of be with , if Rhys didn't put the brakes on it all the damn time. Sure, he's tried to kill him at least three times to no avail, but if he’s honest, he’d given up trying, especially since he'd found out how good he is in the sack. But if this is over then--
Then-- fuck it.
Jack grits his teeth hard enough to contort his face into a snarl, shoving Rhys backwards by the throat. Ripping the remainder of his mask off and slamming it down onto the desk, he vaults over it to tower threateningly over Rhys. All the while Jack's breathing heavily, blood seeping from the cut in his forehead and a dark bruise already forming beneath his ravaged eye. "Ohh-hhh, Rhysie... You're-” He’s shaking with so much rage that he’s struggling to get the words out. “You're dead,"
Irregardless of how winded he is after landing sprawled on the floor, Rhys is far from waving the white flag. He raises his chin arrogantly, using his elbows to draw himself up. "Go ahead," He snaps back in challenge, ready to call his bluff. "Something stopping you?"
“Not a damn thing,”
Jack reaches for the cloaking device at his lapel.
No longer so confident that he’s bluffing and panicked at the prospect of facing an invisible entity, Rhys resorts to plan B. He didn’t come to this fight empty handed, and by the time Jack notices that he’s pulled the shock baton from his belt, it’s too late. Rhys thrusts upwards, catching Jack in the torso. The stalker gland wired into the cloaking unit is as susceptible to shock damage as it was in life, and Jack only manages a disappearing act for half-a-second before the full-force of the electric shock throws him back with the strength of a bomb blast. He practically folds in on himself, narrowly missing his desk only to hit the ceiling-to-floor window at speed. Jack crumples to the floor on impact. Reeling, it takes him a moment to recover and realise just what's happened. Even Rhys is frozen with surprise, before his jaw locks in grim determination. He doesn’t have time to feel guilty. He steps around the desk, approaching Jack until his shadow is looming over him. He watches as the older man grits his teeth, desperately trying to push himself up off of the floor. He doesn’t want to show any weakness, but in doing so he just looks… pathetic.
Breathing heavily, Rhys clutches ahold of the baton so hard that his knuckles begin to turn white. "Atlas isn't a trophy, Jack," He wheezes, and for the briefest of moments he looks like he’s about to cry. "W-What even is this to you? One big game? You think this is just one-- one massive joke? You don't get to decide what happens to Atlas anymore, asshole. Not after I worked so damn hard to make something of it,"
Jack's hand almost gives out from underneath him. Almost. He grunts and thrusts himself into a sitting position, falling back limply against the window for a moment as he attempts to gather his breath. He looks up at Rhys with lidded eyes, hesitating long enough to spit blood between his splayed legs. "... Did ya ever stop to consider that-- it wasn't s'posed to be a dick move, smart guy?"
Rhys has heard this song before, especially in that condescending tone of voice. This is what Jack always does when he’s been found out and is near defeat: he switches tactics. Starts appealing. Soon he’ll play all the cards in his repertoire, stoop to emotional blackmail and crocodile tears if he has to.
Rhys is laughing that humourless laugh again, one hand fisting and resting on his hip. " Oh please. We're talking about you, Jack,"
"Uh. Ye-eah?" Jack agrees, his frown deepening. “I’m makin’ a point here, kiddo. Christ, you don’t think I’m makin’ one huge fuckin’ exception in your case? This is s’pposed to be about loyalty, kid. Strength in numbers. Y-You thought you were getting a demotion? Don't you fucking read?"
The younger man barely hesitates. Rhys had read that pro forma cover to cover, letting the anger sink ever deeper with every line, every graph, every underlined estimate of profit until he could storm over here. He’s not about to back down now, or let himself be wooed by Jack’s bullshit. "I'm not gonna be your arm candy, Jack,” He growls, insulted that he would dare think he’s that gullible. “That's all your 'co-CEO' would be, so you can stop sugar-coating it, okay?”
Jack’s eyebrows begin knotting together in offence. He’s wheezing, one shoulder against the window for support and the other hunched forwards, staring at Rhys as if figuring out that he never really knew him. "Ya... say that like being on my arm would be the worst thing in the world,"
"It would be,"
"Since when?"
"Since this!" Rhys throws his arms up in the air, gesturing all around them. Not at the office, but at the very moment itself. "You think you can control anyone who even remotely cares about you. I'm sick of it, Jack! I'm sick of you blowing all hot an' cold!"
Groaning with pain, Jack somehow manages to pick himself up off of the ground. His voice drops deeper, darker. "... So what’re you gonna do about it, you little shit? Huh? You gonna leave?" He laughs darkly, teeth flashing red with blood. "You tried that before, kiddo, and you didn't last a year without findin' a way to bring me back. You. Thinkin’ you’re all high-and-mighty. Mr Atlas, Mr World At His Frickin’ Feet. You still needed me. Soo-oo-- can’t help but notice you’re still here. The door’s right there, dickface, somethin’ stopping ya?"
Rhys’ eyes widen. For a moment they’re just staring at each other, daring one another to decide the next move. They’d never really settled their differences, had they? As much as they gravitate towards one another like they’re addicted to each other, there’s still so much unresolved conflict. So much hatred underneath the surface. It’s a thrill unto itself, yes, but yet another reason why they’ve never really managed to get it together for real. They’re too busy being rivals by day and fucking through the night to actually talk to one another, because talking to each other only leads to arguments like this.
Feeling a column of heat spreading up his neck, Rhys holds the shock baton defensively in front of him. Jack is approaching slowly, back up to his full height and squaring up to him. It’s not long before they’re inches apart, both now subtly shaking with rage. Jack’s hurt pride is tangible, Rhys feels like he can almost reach out and tear at it.
A muscle in his leg jumps, telling him to run for the door like Jack is suggesting, but it’s such a small part of him now that he can overcome it. He watches himself let Jack reach out for the baton in his grip, doing nothing to stop him, as if he’s temporarily paralysed. Then Jack is not only holding fast onto the shaft of the baton but shoving, causing Rhys to lose his balance. It’s only for a second, but it’s enough. Jack lunges after him, grabbing ahold of the back of his head before angling it sharply to expose his throat. Rhys lets out a tangled cry, waiting for the snap, waiting for it all to go black, but Jack isn’t in the process of breaking his neck, because if he was it would have happened by now. Instead he’s darting forwards, biting into Rhys’ throat so hard that he draws blood. He starts sucking, nipping, marking him with a hickey so dark and deep as if it’ll scar.
In agony, Rhys drops the baton and screams. He tears at Jack's blazer, dragging it down his arms, hating the fact that the hard-on he had been ignoring until now is throbbing ever-present against the seam of his trousers.
Jack is mumbling against the white flesh of his throat, lapping at the blood pooling in his teeth-marks. "You're not gonna leave me, Rhysie..." He deduces in an awful chuckle, shedding his blazer before popping the clasps on his waistcoat.
Rhys recognises this move all too well too. It’s Jack at his most terrible… and his finest. Seducing him in spite of how angry he is and forcing him to yield. The worst part is how well it usually works on him. If Jack’s been an arrogant shit in a board meeting and Rhys is trying to take him to town over it, Jack only has to start unbuttoning their shirts before he’s swallowing his objections. He knows how to push his buttons and how to wind him around his little finger. It doesn’t matter how far he’s pushed him, he always gets him back in the end.
Well, not this time, Rhys tells himself, willing himself to believe it. He slams his eyes shut as if that’ll help him. Grunting through the pain, he balls his hands into fists at his sides.
"G-God, I hate you so fucking much--" He hisses, voice hitching midway through and then trailing off into something like a sob.
"Oh, the feeling's freakin' mutual, kiddo." Jack mouths against the brutal love-bite. His hands are at the low cut ‘v’ of Rhys' shirt, unfastening the off-centre buttons that peek out above his vest. He can feel Rhys tensing beneath the fabric of his clothes, resisting, and yet the closer he gets the more he can feel Rhys’ erection pressing against him. He’s a little surprised when Rhys tries to shove at him, and for the first time Jack doesn’t hesitate to backhand him in return. “Christ , would you stop being such an ungrateful piece of shit?! What-- the face not doin’ it for ya, cupcake?”
“It’s not your face that’s the problem, Jack,” Rhys is grimly aware that he’s shaking, and tries to convince himself that that’s not because of how much he wants him. It isn’t the face either, as much as it initially horrified him. It’s his attitude, it’s the fact that Jack thinks he will just roll over and take it in spite of being shafted by this shitty merger deal. He doesn’t owe him anything. Atlas is not his god-given right, nor is it his apology letter for Helios. “It’s that you’re an asshole, Jack. Y’know, you use people; use up the people closest to you until there’s nothing left of ‘em or until you decide they’re not worth it anymore. Your daughter killed herself to get away from you. How long do you think it’ll be until I do the same, huh?”
The pupil of Jack’s one good eye constricts right down until it’s the size of a pinprick.
“... Run that by me one. more. time? ”
Rhys snaps. Maybe it’s the acknowledgement of what he’d just said, or maybe he just refuses to let Jack be the death of him. Either way he’s suddenly too-hot and too-fit-to-burst that he’s screaming and shoving Jack so hard that he’s careless about following after him. “You’re an asshole!” He cries, the two of them crashing to the floor in a messy tangle. They’re both yelling now, faces contorting with anger as they tear at each other's clothes and fend off one another’s limbs. There’s an urgency to their movements but also a kind of futility, like two rams butting heads for the sake of dominance or two warring kids rolling down a hill. As soon as one of them gets on top, the other thrusts hard enough to overturn them, until they’re both endlessly tumbling across the ground, shedding clothes as they go and spitting insults at each other with every three-hundred-and-sixty degree turn.
Jack doesn’t play fair. He scratches, bites, kicks and even elbows Rhys across the face to try and turn the fight in his favour, hitting him hard enough at one point that it cuts the corner of Rhys’ lip. Tasting the coppery liquid spilling into his mouth, Rhys lets out a garbled cry and tries to reach for the shock baton, only for Jack to grab hold of his pinstriped trousers and tug sharply downwards, practically pulling him along with them. The action drags him a few inches from the weapon lying tantalisingly out-of-reach, but also serves to expose Rhys’ hard-on straining against his silver and amber boxers.
Jack whistles, crawling back over him with an air of victory. “Oh-hohhh, what have we here, huh? A friggin’ hypocrite, that’s what! You, uh-- you a sadist, Rhysie? ‘Cause you kept that one from m--” Rhys’ knee connects suddenly with the underside of his chin and Jack almost bites clean through his tongue. Then they’re scrapping again. Though Jack tries everything in his power to come out on top, he doesn’t once attempt to knee Rhys's groin in retaliation. It’s as if this has become a power-play, a violent game of tug-of-war, and it’s only going to end one way. Rhys does his utmost to protect himself, but he focuses on dodging rather than looking for more openings. He keeps his energy bottled, holding it back for the final sprint like any good racer. He plans on waiting until the last moment to best the older man, all of his senses fine-tuned for any sign of Jack tiring. The instant Jack slows and pauses long enough to unfasten his own trousers, Rhys seizes the opportunity to overturn his rival and pin him painfully hard to the floor. The movement hits Jack with such surprise that he’s temporarily winded, until he’s bellowing into the floor like a man under arrest. Rhys has one of his arms thrust behind his back, in the tight clutches of his cybernetics. The pressure he’s applying is very real, and Jack can practically imagine the snap that might follow. One wrong move and Rhys needs to only move slightly to break his arm.
Meanwhile Rhys is focused on dragging down the waistband of Jack’s trousers with his other hand. His erection is pressing hard against the curve of Jack’s behind even through the fabric of his underwear, and the way Jack is squirming and attempting to buck free is only making it worse. He's silently thankful Jack goes commando, because it means there's only his own boxers hampering the way now. Jack, on the other hand, is much less thankful.
“Ohhh, don't you freakin' dare, Rhysie..." He spits out, floundering all while trying to throw him a filthy look over his shoulder. He’s tense beneath him, his ass cheeks clenched.
It takes Rhys a moment to appreciate that they’ve managed to completely strip one another almost naked from the waist-down in their furious whirlwind, all teeth and fists. Jack’s tan body is rigid beneath him, bested, and his threat is hanging in the air like a challenge. It sounds like he wants him to dare.
Rhys’ lips curl into a sneer, his eyebrows low over his heated gaze. He still looks enraged, gazing down at Jack as if he can’t decide whether to put an end to him here and now or simply put him in his place. It’s the latter that wins out.
"You know what, Jack?” He begins in a low, breathless voice. “I’m sick of rolling over for you. Sooner or later you have to learn how to give as well as take ,"
Jack quits squirming, remaining deadly still for a moment as if straining to focus. He’s slowly registering the bluntness to Rhys’ words and lets out an offended grunt. "Oh, please, kiddo, I give you everything -!" He barks in objection, but then Rhys’ flesh hand is wandering, and Jack clenches his teeth together as the younger man pries his ass cheeks apart.
“Except this,” Rhys breathes, speaking for the first time in a tone that’s void of fury. He sounds enraptured, longing even, as he frees his length from the confines of his boxers and begins sliding the underside of his dick against the cleft of Jack’s behind.
The older man slams his eyes shut and groans. It’s not the feeling of Rhys against him that bothers Jack, but that he’s being made a fool of and forced into place beneath him. He begins shaking his head to and fro, a humourless laugh escaping him. "You aa-aabsolute dick," He chides, knowing that to struggle any further means shattering every bone in his arm. "I'm gonna kill ya for this, y’know that, right? Don't matter how pretty you look between the sheets, you just threw everythin' right under the fuckin' bus."
"Riiight. ‘Under the bus’,” Rhys echoes dryly. He glances up at the gun clearly lying holstered on Jack’s desk, noticing that he’s had the opportunity to shoot him point-blank since the moment he’d first walked in here. If his life was truly under threat… why doesn’t it feel like it? Is it the adrenaline coursing through him? Rhys’ head and body both turn to look pointedly down at his rival. You've had every chance to kill me, Jack. He thinks. The unspoken question is back, thrumming in the air between them. So what’s stopping you?
“Is... this because I hit you?" Rhys asks, still dry-rubbing against him.
“Aw, gee, lemme think? Maybe because you wanna make me your friggin’ bitch and you can't even look me in th' eye as you do it. Am I that ugly to you now, Rhysie? Huh? That how shallow you are? God, I expected frickin' better.”
Cute. Rhys thinks, and for the first time since walking in here he’s actually smiling. It’s not a nice smile by any accounts, but it’s something. He reaches into his trouser pocket with his left hand, retrieving a small packet of lube that he then tears open with his teeth ready to smooth into the cleft of Jack’s ass. He expects a snide comment from him about being ‘prepared’, but hears nothing beyond a groan and a hitching breath.
"Fuhhh-- D-Dead..." Jack reminds him, but his objections are lost in amongst grunts of pleasure as Rhys' fingers begin to work him open, probing, teasing, then pushing with ruthless determination within him.
"Asshole," Rhys snaps suddenly, though not without some twisted amusement.
"Sh-Shitbag,"
As if reprimanding him for the insult, Rhys scissors his fingers length- and then width-ways inside of him, spreading him open. Then he begins pistoning them to and fro without mercy, fucking him open with two digits before slipping them free. The head of his dick soon replaces them, rubbing against Jack’s entrance while he applies pressure on his arm. A silent command, reminding him who exactly is in charge.
"Go ahead and tell me you don't want it," Rhys challenges, stalling long enough to be confident that he has consent.
Jack is so mad that he practically spits on the floor, his expression one of thunder. "Oh, please. Don't convince yourself for one minute this makes you better than me, princess,"
"Tell me, Jack,"
"Gave me a frickin' black eye-"
"Jack..."
"-fuckin' electric shock- "
" Jack,"
"-and now you're not gettin' on with it and screwin' me with that useless twig you call a cock. You know how to friggin' treat a guy, you piece of shi-- eeahh--ahhhhah....!" His protests die on his lips as Rhys pushes within him, slamming his eyes shut and shuddering at the feeling of being entered. The hold on Jack’s arm loosens, but Rhys nevertheless keeps him pinned with his own body as he starts fucking him into the floor. He doesn’t even wait to see if he can take it, doesn’t even give him a grace period. He’s realistic about what he’s packing, but to Jack with no experience? He may as well have been hung like a horse.
The older man practically head-butts the floor as he moans, adjusting to the feeling. While he doesn’t feel as violated as he thought he would - being forced to take rather than give - the sensation is still new, alien. Even with the lube he feels like he’s being twisted inside-out and yet it’s an entirely amazing feeling. He attempts to get up, to dictate the position, but Rhys keeps driving his hips with such force and pressing him down by his shoulders that whenever Jack tries he can only buck uselessly beneath him. The snarling look on his face is not indicative of a lack of enjoyment; he’s staying mad for the thrill of it.
"You want to merge with me, Jack? Is that it?” Rhys gasps between thrusts, raising his voice over the sound of his body slapping against his. “You-- You couldn't think of any other fucking way of asking me out?" He sounds enraged again, looking down at him like he’s the bane of his existence. He doesn’t know what he sees in him, what he ever saw in him, and yet here he is, balls-deep inside of him and desperately, painfully in love with him.
It takes Jack a moment to respond, his forehead still butting lightly against the floor as he braces himself. He’s trying to find a sliver of sense in amongst the parts of him that want to give in. "Nngh-- d-don't flatter yourself, idiot. I'd s-sooner date a Claptrap unit than you,"
"Huh. That right?” Even with a dick in his ass, Jack is still trying to bullshit his way out of showing any affection or any enjoyment whatsoever. And yet he’s not so tense now, his shoulders relaxing, his eyebrows climbing. Rhys grins, his left hand entangling in Jack’s hair and carding through it. “You see-eeriously hate me a lot for someone who calls me almost every night..."
"-'c-'cause you're easy , you little slut,"
"Easy," Rhys repeats through clenched teeth, only to begin pounding him harder.
Jack tries to sound like he’s not thrown off-balance, as if his movements are doing nothing for him. "Ohh-hh yeah... s-so eager for me, you little cock-whore, s-so--- ghhhh-!!” The facade is crumbling. Jack’s beginning to kick out with his legs, raising his hips off of the floor so he can grind his own erection against the tiles in the desperate pursuit of friction. “Rhys ! Rhys, you-- friggin’ s-shit-- t-touch me already-!"
Humouring him, though he knows he doesn't have to, Rhys slides his hand from Jack's hair.
While Jack has had one arm free, he couldn’t have started touching himself before now without forsaking his ability to keep his hips off the floor. He’s using his elbow to prop himself up, and pressing his fist against his mouth when he thinks he’s about to let out a sound that’s beneath him.
Rhys slowly, torturously traces the line of Jack’s back first before dipping underneath him and gripping hold of his length. He starts pumping his hand in time with the punishing pace of his hips, his smile spreading until it becomes something wicked and possessive.
"Like this? That what you want, Jack?"
"Aa-ahhhahh! Fuhh-- kin' finally...! God!” Jack’s hips are moving, and Rhys doesn’t know if he’s even conscious of it. “I'm gonna-- gonna choke the damn life out of ya, Rhys. I'm gonna get you for this, pal, m-mark my fuckin' words," It’s remarkable how threatening Jack manages to sound around grunts and sobs of pleasure.
Rhys looks down at him with a contrary mixture of loathing and fondness. "Yeah? Y'gonna do that, Jack?"
"Screw you," Jack growls, but he’s thrusting in and out of Rhys’ grip now, his voice pitching that little bit higher, that little bit softer. "Aaah-ha... s-screw-- you..."
The moment Rhys thinks it’s safe, that Jack isn’t about to scramble free or clock him hard across the face, he pulls out ready to turn the other man over. He’s more than satisfied to hear the disappointed grunt that leaves Jack; it fuels him as he quickly rolls him onto his back. Staring down into his scarred face, Rhys wastes no time before he’s entering him once again, and the sound that his lover makes is like a groan of pain. Jack's holding his gaze as if daring him to look away, searching for evidence of hatred in his eyes now that they’re face-to-face.
With the use of his arms back, Jack fists a hand in Rhys’ hair almost painfully tight, dragging him closer until they’re breathing the same small pocket of air and exhaling hot pants against each other’s lips.
“You’re fuckin’ mine, kiddo,” Jack warns him, writhing beneath him like something untamed. So much for wanting him dead, now he’s claiming ownership and spreading his legs wider to give him access. “You’re never leavin’ me, y’got that? Gonna hunt you down like the-- frickin’ dog you are the instant you think you’re fucking leaving me ,”
“You don’t own me, asshole,” Rhys reminds him, but he sounds awestruck, distracted by the feeling of him clenched around him. His cheeks are burning hot, a moan caught in his throat that he’s trying to keep quashed.
Jack can see he’s faltering. He seizes the initiative, trying to gain back some control. “Wrong . You’re my friggin’ pet on a god-damn leash. You wouldn’t last five fuckin’ minutes without me,”
Sick of his loud-mouth talk, Rhys starts angling his thrusts, aiming for Jack’s prostate in an attempt to shut him up. His hand shoots up from where it was steadily jerking Jack’s cock to close around his throat. “Watch me,” Rhys purrs. He watches Jack’s strangulation kink materialise before his very eyes, the tight squeeze around his windpipe enough to make Jack’s eyes roll back in pleasure. His cock is heavy and solid against his stomach, pre-come dribbling into his belly button.
“You know what, Jack? For all your talk, for all your bullshit, maybe it’s you who couldn’t last without me,”
At first Jack can only gargle in response. Rhys thinks he’s finally done it, finally broken Handsome Jack, - pulled down his walls until he's nothing more than a quivering, debauched mess. He relinquishes his hold on his throat, giving him room to speak, but Jack only uses it to deny, deny, deny.
“D-Don’t... Don't flatter yourself, princess. F-Fanboys like you are a dime a fuckin’ dozen,”
Rhys sees red again. The hand comes back down on his throat, and he knows he’s driving his hips against the sensitive gland within him, because Jack’s eyes are going wide and he’s gasping his name like he’s dangling him over the edge of a cliff.
“Say that to my face again,” Rhys demands, daring him to call him a ‘fanboy’ one more time.
“Rhys--! Rhys-ss ! Sh-Shit---!”
“Say that again! ” He’s milking him, he knows it. Jack’s cock is swollen, bobbing, and he’s gritting his teeth and shaking his head so hard like he’s holding something back.
“-- kkkhh! Rhys-!! Rhys --!” As suddenly as that, Jack comes hard, shooting it all over himself. In their haste they’d barely managed to remove much of their top halves, and so his release is streaking it’s way up across his aged Hyperion sweater. He has no control, no say, he wasn’t even aware he was about to finish.
Rhys' eyes are pinched almost entirely closed. He's still thrusting within him, moaning out at how tight he’s become around him. He barely notices the filthy talk that he’s uttering, nor the way he’s pinning both of Jack’s hands down either side of his face. He’s never felt more alive than he does right now, nailing Handsome Jack in the middle of his office, unmasked and yielding.
“Ohh, that’s it, baby, jus’ let go. You feeling that, Jack? Really feeling that? Doesn’t it feel good to be wrong for once, huh ? It can’t be all that bad when I come out on top, can it? Not judging by your face right now...”
Jack’s panting beneath him, collapsed and boneless like he’s about to sink right through the floor. He looks as though he’s trapped in a state of euphoria or on the verge of a psychotic break.
“See, that’s called a prostate orgasm, Jack. You ever had one of those? Huh?” If he had, it had been a long time since judging by the way he looks so utterly at a loss. He’s too weak to reply, too dazed to rally to his own defense. His chest is rapidly rising and falling between them as he tries to get some air into his lungs, and when Rhys locks his fingers with his, Jack barely manages to squeeze back.
“Y’know what’s gonna happen, Jack? I’m gonna come so damn hard in you that you’re gonna be feeling it for days,” Rhys promises darkly. His pace is no longer quite so brutal. While it’s still fast it’s also rhythmic, chasing his own release as he slides in and out of him. “I don’t want a merger, asshole. I want you, and you are going to do everything in your power to tear that proposal up, do you understand me?”
“Rhys…”
“Do you understand me? ” He sounds desperate, needing him to know that this is make or break, that he’s serious this time. He’s never felt so strongly about anything in his life besides Atlas and, well, Jack himself.
I hate you. Rhys thinks as Jack looks up at him with a gaze so clouded with lust that he can barely focus. Whether he’s heard him or not, he can’t be sure, but gazing down into that face makes his heart physically ache in his chest. I hate you, Jack. I hate you so much and I hate that I love you so goddamn much.
Rhys bites down on the high-pitched cries threatening to slip free from him, moving his hips in much the same undulating motion as if he were writhing on top of him.
“Ja-aack…” His name skirts past his lips in a way that’s raw and agonising. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Jack around him, Jack underneath him, Jack gasping his name as Rhys moves within him and teeters on the brink. He finally spills his seed deep inside him with a couple of sharp thrusts and a grunt.
Rhys’ orgasm hits him like a ton of bricks, sapping what little energy he had left. He’s barely lucid, barely conscious, only just capable of pulling out of Jack, letting go of him and collapsing beside him.
The two of them lie sprawled - Jack on his back and Rhys on his side. They’re panting like they’ve just run a marathon, and somehow they manage to feel both weightless and heavy at the same time.
It’s a moment before reality sets in around them, before they hear the cacophony of noise in the corridor beyond and the sharp, persistent banging on the office door. The cavalry have arrived. They think Handsome Jack is being murdered in there.
Jack and Rhys stare at one another. They would laugh if the banging wasn’t so damn insistent.
Rhys finds himself looking at Jack as if awaiting his next move, while Jack looks back at him as if he’s in a whole new world of trouble. And yet-- he doesn’t ruin it by saying something. Ignoring the tenacious efforts of his security team outside, Jack homes in close suddenly, enough to make Rhys think about rearing back, only to press their mouths together with furious vigor. The kiss is intensely greedy and when Jack pulls back Rhys’ lips are swollen, puckered and parted.
I don't all-hate you, baby. Jack seems to say with his eyes, despite the arrogant grin spreading across his face.
I know, Rhys muses, imagining he can read the confession right there in his face. I know.