Archive of Our Own

It had only been a scant few years that Rhys had so far spent navigating the cutthroat corporate world, but in that time he had come to understand a thing or two about the type of people with whom he shared the advanced weapons industry. When he had graduated, and had begun to claw his way up from the bottom, he quickly realized that the concepts of hard work and dedication were absolute bullshit; they were buzzwords meant for nobodies that never climbed more than a handful of rungs up the ladder of success. It wasn’t about rolling up your sleeves and putting in a hard day’s work, no — it was about knowing, hurting or fucking the right people (up, over, or — whatever — it didn’t really matter, as long as someone suffered). The only other way in was good ole’ nepotism, but even that only got you so far.

The business world, especially that of the fiercely competitive weapons industry that spanned several solar systems, was a game. And like any game, it had rules. It took Rhys time, and his own share of mistakes, to learn these rules, but now, he was sitting comfortably amongst the titans.

And he was annoyed.

Rhys hummed his irritation over his glass of champagne, staring out over the massive, converted ballroom with distaste. The room itself wasn’t the problem, and was in fact a spectacle in its own right — densely packed and sheltered below an impressive reinforced glass ceiling, beyond which there was only the cold dark of space. In the distance, Eden was the singular, stark source of colour that disrupted the void, a monstrous swirl of hydrocarbons, phosphorus, and sulfur bands. And between, the odd speck of a moon, barely distinguishable in the looming shape of the gas giant beyond.

It was particularly terrifying to observe, and not simply for the humbling effect that came as a result of looking upon a planet and its moons from far outside its atmosphere, pondering at one’s own insignificance as a mote of space dust. No, it was for the fact that very little existed between him and the cold vacuum of space just past the windows above, through which he continued to stare. It was likely safe — had to be, considering the pedigree of the guests in attendance, but it nagged at him, regardless.

He seemed to be the only one put off by the splendour above. The rest of the room was buzzing with activity, alive with avid chatter and supplemental, ambient music. Rhys observed quietly from his perch, alone on a balcony overlooking the lot. Jakobs put on one hell of a party, drawing a prestigious crowd. Vladof, Maliwan, Torgue, Tediore, Hyperion — all were in attendance. 

And to think, it was all for Atlas. More specifically, it was for Rhys, and his “humanitarian efforts” performed in partnership with Wainwright Jakobs.

It was all a farce. He’d even been hesitant to sign on in the first place, had in fact only done so as a PR stunt, as well as an effort to leech off the success of one of the older, more established corporations in the bunch. And it had worked — almost too well.

Their little project had begun as a charity, providing resources and bolstering settlements for the downtrodden on both Promethea and Eden-6. As those settlements grew, so did their need for protection, which came in the form of Atlas and Jakobs firearms. Soon, they received calls for aid from all across the borderlands planets, and Rhys was more than happy to oblige.

In the media, he was touted as a hero to the destitute. In reality, he was funding and arming “peacekeeping” forces across the galaxy, the mere existence of which inevitably led to clashes, which led to more sales, which led to profit for all of the companies present. War was a business, after all.

And in an industry where guns were considered a cosmetic necessity, his work was looked upon favourably. So while he was being recognized for the good he had done in the galaxy, he was actually being celebrated for the morally bankrupt side effects.

Either way, this was…unnecessary. It was little more than an event for self important narcissists and war criminals to jack each other off.

Speaking of jackoffs—

Rhys spared an idle glance into the crowd below, honing in on a painfully familiar figure. The source of his annoyance. The problem. The other man was thankfully distracted, chatting with some nameless upstart from Maliwan whose advances Rhys had already previously rebuffed the very same evening.

Once Rhys had learned the truth about the corporate rat race, he had become more adept at handling his conniving colleagues. It had taken some time to acclimate, some small errors, but once he had figured them out, it wasn’t hard to guess their intentions, to race to fill their needs, and quietly slip back out with exactly what he wanted in return. At the end of the day, they were all snakes, and were all more than willing to play the game.

With the exception of two. The first was Wainwright Jakobs, his partner in his latest business venture. And the other—

Rhys had been more than a little peeved with Handsome Jack’s arrival at the event. Why the hell was he even there? The irksome man did not usually bother with public occasions that were not about him, and even dodged a few that existed solely for the benefit of stroking his massive ego. He normally sent his hapless double, Timothy, in his place, opting instead for more private affairs (sniff sniff, glug glug), so when he strode his way into the opulent space station, Rhys couldn’t help but glare, cursing inwardly.

Handsome Jack was an enigma in their field, and a goddamn frustrating one. He broke all the rules, and he did it with style. Whereas Rhys had been forced to adapt his behaviour with the majority of his ilk, guarding his true intentions and concealing his plans behind all the usual bullshittery of the industry, Jack did the exact opposite. He breezed through meetings, casually threatening his way to success.

And it wasn’t simply that he was intimidating, which he certainly was, it was that he had the sadistic streak to go along with it. Plenty of the other corporate heads menaced one another, even coming to violent exchanges once in a while, but Jack — when Jack made a threat, he carried it out himself, often with his own bare hands.

Rhys wouldn’t expect any less from the man who had risen to power by strangling the previous Hyperion President to death.

It had taken so much clawing and thrashing and fighting for Rhys to finally gain traction. Toiling away in the dirt. But Jack always got what he wanted, regardless of the complications. There were few others who could woo another executive only minutes after having vented their colleagues out an airlock.

He’d tried the same thing on Rhys a time or two. Hell, he had done it that very night, having waltzed into the hanger where Rhys and Wainwright stood welcoming various guests. He had practically strutted in, waving away Wainwright’s bitter greeting before advancing directly on Rhys.

The exchange had been short lived, but caustic enough for Rhys to realize in an instant with whom it was he was speaking. Then Jack had moved on, but not before pointedly stepping in to smooth a hand along Rhys’ side, using his thumb to stroke a quick, intimate circle around his hipbone before disappearing somewhere into the crowd.

He’d left Rhys stiff with incredulity, nearly too appalled to blink past his stupor. Thankfully, Zer0, his close friend and bodyguard, had noticed the interaction, and was at his side in the next moment. He remained cloaked, but Rhys could sense the presence of his tall, lean, helmeted assassin lurking at his 4 o’clock.

“Shall I take him out?” Zer0 had hummed at his ear. “I can do it subtly or / make a show of it.”

Rhys clapped a hand across his mouth to stifle his laugh.

“It’s fine, Zer0. I can handle him. But thank you for the offer. I’ll keep it in mind.”

The friendly banter served its purpose in improving his mood that had been devastated in Jack’s wake, but Rhys couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Because if Jack was here, it meant Timothy was not.

He let another growl go, continuing to stare down from the balcony in disdain. By some small miracle, Jack had so far otherwise kept his distance for the evening. It gave Rhys the space he dearly needed to ruminate on the complications of his presence.

Why didn’t he send Tim?

Rhys had been looking forward to seeing the body double, especially considering how long it had been since their last meeting. So really, he shouldn’t have been surprised that Jack would dash his hopes on what was supposed to be his night. He should have expected it, really. Jack had been expertly getting on his nerves from the first time they’d met.

It was a little over two years before, and only the second or third conference Rhys had attended as Atlas’ freshly minted CEO. He had not yet been widely accepted into their detestable little community, and had even been placed next to Torgue in what he suspected to be a childish hazing attempt. Thankfully, due to his early arrival to provide himself the time to settle, to acclimate, Torgue’s seat was vacant.

The room had been quietly, slowly filling with activity that he mostly tuned out, waiting for the keynote presentation. But it wasn’t long after he lost himself to the stream of updates on his datapad that Handsome Jack had sauntered past only to pause, backtrack, and casually sink into the unoccupied chair that had been intended for the ridiculously boisterous but oddly amicable tank of a man, Torgue.

Rhys did not notice him at first — this oddly coiffed shape leaning into his peripherals. At least not until a warm, stroking sensation found his knee under the table.

He went rigid, eyes wide, turning his head in wonder and what the fuck?, only to be pinned in place by Jack’s penetrating stare.

Oh shit.

“Well, hello there,” Jack crooned, tilting his head to give Rhys the once-over. “And who the heck are you?”

“Rhys Strongfork. New CEO of Atlas,” he answered, once his brain managed to reboot itself. 

Somewhere at the back of his mind, he had been aware of the remote possibility that Handsome Jack himself might be in attendance, but had never expected to garner his direct attention. Never mind the fact that Jack considered the rest of them to be below him, but what had Rhys done to catch his eye?

“Ahhh. So you’re the one reviving that dried out husk of a company, huh?”

Rhys reacted with a pulse of defensiveness; he tugged his knee aside to break free, but Jack’s hand clamped down onto his thigh, holding him in place. Rhys’ bewildered gaze dropped to it — the hell kind of power play is this? — and locked onto the absurdity of its size. His entire hand easily cradled the narrow part of his thigh, swallowing it whole, and gods, those fingers!

“And you are?” he eventually managed to spit, fighting back the bile crawling up his throat.

“Pf,” Jack snorted dismissively. “Don’t do that, kiddo. Don’t play games like the rest of these idiots.”

“Oh, and you don’t play games?” Rhys raised a brow in judgment.

“Maybe. But the games that I play are actually fun.” Jack’s hand slid ever slightly up his thigh, closer to his crotch. “If you get my drift.”

Okay. So this was Handsome Jack.

Rhys carefully placed the datapad in his hand onto the table, easing back into his seat. He took his time in scrutinizing Jack, making sure to look unimpressed all the while, and parted his legs to tear his knee free from his grasp. Jack let him go, but otherwise remained still, holding his gaze.

“What can I do for you, Handsome Jack?”

A chuckle followed. Jack’s eyes flickered downward, to Rhys’ parted legs, then back up. He edged closer, tugging his rolling chair into Rhys’ proximity, where Rhys remained tense and alert.

He’d heard the stories about Handsome Jack, even before he had graduated. He knew his reputation. Jack was a wolf, but he did not bother with the cloak of sheep’s clothing like the rest of them. His behaviour was blatant, unapologetic, and presumptuous — a true predator.

And while Rhys had anticipated an eventual run-in, hopefully as a result of his company outperforming Jack’s, he hadn’t been ready for it to happen so soon. Not that he’d ever be prepared. Especially not now, with the way Jack was eye-fucking him. No doubt it was a simple play to make him uncomfortable, unseat him. But damn if he didn’t actually seem like he’d follow through if Rhys gave in to his advances.

“Well,” he breathed, voice low and thick with intent. “Since you’re offering—”

Their first meeting, and Rhys’ first misstep. He quickly made a mental note that he’d have to choose his words more carefully from then on, given the man’s clear predilection for innuendo. Thankfully, he was spared the need to defend himself, when a hand descended onto Jack’s shoulder.

“Move away from him, / or I will do it for you. / Choose carefully, Jack.”

Jack did not respond, did not even turn to acknowledge Zer0’s presence. He looked annoyed, sure, but his eyes remained firmly on Rhys, a stare so unwavering that Rhys almost buckled under its intensity. Then, slowly, he turned to examine the hand on his shoulder with distaste. His expression shifted.

“What the hell are you?” he grunted, staring at the place where a fifth digit should have rested.

“My bodyguard,” Rhys casually hummed. “You two might actually get along. See, he likes games, too.”

Jack met his gaze once more. A beat passed, during which Rhys was certain his heart was working its way up his throat, then Jack offered an amused smirk.

“…alright, Rhysie,” he nodded. “Have it your way. I’ll see you around, kiddo.”

Rhys remained still long enough for Jack to stand, smooth out the wrinkles in his jacket, and continue along to his assigned seat. Then he let out the breath he’d been holding, turning to conceal the hand he pressed against his chest to still his beating heart.

Seriously, what the fuck was that? And why was he a little turned on?

Thanks to Zer0’s presence, Jack avoided him the rest of the time. And it wasn’t like the conference was a total bust, either. It was his first time meeting Jack, but also Wainwright Jakobs — the rather curious heir to the vast Jakobs corporation. He had intrigued Rhys from the start, as he was simply so unlike the others, seemingly disinterested in their pursuits. Rhys would come to learn from his loving partner, the equally charming Sir Hammerlock, that it was due to the fact that he never cared to helm the company in the first place. It was only out of honour for the Jakobs name that he took up the mantle following his ailing father’s retirement, striving to continue the line of reliable, unique firearms.

And the man was just about as peculiarly extraordinary as his guns. He wore a suit of crisp white with red filigree, along with a fitted vest and dangling pocket watch chain, and steel-toed cowboy boots. His hair was untamed and so was his drawl, resulting in the same old timey look and feel that was the hallmark of his family’s brand. He also happened to be incredibly cordial and magnanimous, which worked to Rhys’ advantage.

It was just as Rhys made the attempt to introduce himself that he overheard the man speaking with Sir Hammerlock, bemoaning their recent bad luck involving a number of settlements down on Eden-6. They were experiencing more and more smuggling, more and more inductees into something called “The Anvil”, and were discussing how best to improve their situation.

Rhys seized his chance, although hesitantly. He sidled up, apologized for the interruption, for having eavesdropped, then made his pitch. And within a few weeks, there was a marked improvement. Months later, they were turning a profit.

It wasn’t long before Rhys could hand off the reins to one of his subordinates, and more or less forget about the foundation he’d built with Wainwright. After all — it had never been his main focus, and there were bigger fish to fry. Now that he, or Atlas, was getting noticed, it opened more connections, and more opportunities for inter-corporation collaboration. He took the time to schmooze his way into the good graces of every last company, with one exception.

Following his initial meeting with Jack, Rhys had avoided everything Hyperion. The exchange had felt like a failure on his part — he simply wasn’t sure how to handle Jack. He was not intimidating enough to drop subtle threats, nor was he suave enough to subvert his manipulations. He was also fairly certain that he had nothing Jack wanted, and so he purposely skirted Hyperion’s presence wherever he went.

But in attempting to avoid Jack’s attention, it seemed like he somehow wound up directly within his sights. Or at least, in his proxy’s sights.

“Heya, cupcake.”

Rhys ground to a halt, digging in his heels. His fists tightened; his back snapped straight with a shudder of indignation. It was the fourth day of yet another frustrating conference, and Rhys had already been at his wit’s end. He was not in the mood for Jack’s shit, which had become an ongoing reoccurrence in the more recent months. Pivoting on his heel, he narrowed his eyes on the man’s now familiar shape.

“…call me that again.”

There came a strange, uncharacteristic pause before he’d cleared his throat, and taken a step forward.

“Cup—”

Jack’s eyes shot open wide the second his back hit the closest wall. He did not look fearful, not in the least, but at least Rhys managed to take him off guard. He would realize later it was a minor miracle it hadn’t been Jack, or he might have ended up with a few rounds in his skull right then and there, but in the moment all he saw was red.

“Listen to me, you pompous, peacocking prick,” he sneered into the man’s face. “I’ve taken too much shit today to deal with your condescending bullshit. You might be the centre of your own little universe, Handsome, but you don’t even register in mine. In fact, every time I have to see your smug, stapled-on face, you know what I think of?”

Jack said nothing. Which — odd. Either way, Rhys continued.

“I don’t think of how Hyperion has declined in Atlas’ shadow in the stocks. Nor do I dwell on the puzzling question of why you waste your time trying to civilize a shit heap of a planet like Pandora, other than some possible, weird nostalgia from your childhood years spent on that barren rock. No, I look at your stupid face and I wonder, is he disfigured under there? Or was he just born really fucking ugly, and wears someone else’s face to compensate!?”

At the conclusion of his rant, Rhys was left breathless. He was vaguely aware, on the periphery of his mind, that what he said was very, very dumb, and would have gotten him killed on a bad day. Luckily for him, for the entirety of the barrage, Jack had remained silent, and simply stared.

And then the fucker smiled.

“You get that out of your system?”

Rhys blinked, panting.

“…I think so.”

“Good. Looked like it felt good, too.”

Jack lifted a hand to his, stroking at his flesh fingers in a reassuring manner. Rhys remained mostly stunned, staring at the detestable man that he was still pinning to the wall.

“Just a word of advice,” he hummed quietly, tilting his head. “Never, ever say that to the real Handsome Jack. I don’t care how much he likes you, you’re liable to get your face blown off, and then you’ll have to staple it back on, too.”

Rhys involuntarily grimaced; his hands lost their nerve. He released the other man, but was unable to step away, as his wrist was caught in his strangely gentle grasp.

“You aren’t Jack.”

“No.”

“Why.”

“Luck of the draw, I guess.”

“No, I mean—” Rhys pouted in frustration. “Why are you here? And not Jack?”

“Are you kidding? Jack wouldn’t waste time at an event like this. That’s what he pays me for.” The body double frowned, glancing away. “At least I hope he’s paying me. He better be. I should check when I—”

“Who are you, then?”

The man met his gaze, straightening. 

“Me?”

“Yes. You.”

He paused. Considered.

“My name’s Timothy,” he smiled. “But I go by Jack. Obviously.”

Huh. Not exactly what he expected.

“Tim, huh?” he tried.

Timothy’s features furrowed ever slightly with concern. “Yeah, but — Jack.”

“Right. Jack.” Did the body double just admit something for which he could be fired? Rhys had no interest in sucking up to Jack, so if his secret was safe with anyone, it was Rhys — although Timothy had no real way of knowing that. “I, uh, sorry. Was there something you wanted?”

He felt almost ill behaving cordially with someone wearing that face. But until Timothy behaved like an absolute douche like his employer, he was willing to give him a chance. Albeit a small one.

“Nah, kinda useless now that I’ve exposed myself,” he grinned weakly. “I was instructed to annoy the shit out of you.”

The humour drained out of Rhys’ face.

“Of course you were.”

“That, or get close to you.”

He paused. “…as Jack?”

Rhys’ look of perplexity earned him a bark of laughter from the other man.

“What can I say? Boss man has an ego the size of a sun. I wouldn’t put it past him to believe that even you would jump into his bed, given the opportunity.”

“Hah, of course—” Rhys snagged onto his words too late, stiffening. “Wait, he wanted me in his bed?”

“Well. I assumed. I mean, you’re definitely his type.” Timothy gave a shrug. “The endgame was probably to fuck you over in some sense of the word.”

“...right.”

Well, that changed things. It was a delightful revelation, almost straight from the source — Jack intended to take him down a peg, which meant that Atlas really was on his radar.

The shiver that followed was entirely involuntary on his part, garnering another quirk of a smile from the body double. It was then that something very surprising overtook Rhys, something he had thought he’d buried down very deep. He gave Timothy another once over, daring to lean into the nudge of suggestion curling between his hips.

“And…if I had ended up in your bed?”

In his college years, the ability to utter such a come-on had been almost second nature. And while it had been a while, and as such he was dusting off the old skill, it seemed to do the trick. Jack’s — Timothy’s eyebrows raised in tandem; his lips parted.

“There you are, Mister Strongfork!”

Rhys grumbled, glancing over his shoulder to the man who’d been his guide around the event the last few days. The man he thought he’d finally managed to ditch. He apologized to Timothy, slipping away, but on the following day, he noticed him standing with a few of his reps near the docking bay, likely about to disembark. He seized the opportunity, ducking over to him.

Timothy turned his head, immediately providing a Jack-like smirk. But before he could say anything, Rhys reached out, plucking up his hand to give it a businesslike shake.

“A pleasure to have spoken with you again, Jack,” he started, before slipping forward as if to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. At this distance, concealed as he was by the angle of their bodies close together, he slipped his other hand along Timothy’s abdomen, nudging gently with his thumb. “Perhaps next time, we can find somewhere private to continue our discussion.”

Timothy went stiff, eyes wide. His lips curled with a grin tainted by arousal.

“Consider it done, kiddo.”

Rhys left with a wink, managing to hold it together long enough to make it to his ship. There, he collapsed into a chair, a furious, blushing mess, much to Zer0’s shock. He waved the long suffering assassin away, allowing himself to indulge in the aftershock of having propositioned a man with Handsome Jack’s face.

The exchange had been delightful. He was only regretful that he hadn’t indulged in his traitorous desires, and promised to permit himself a little gratification the next time they crossed paths.

Unfortunately, he still occasionally ran into Handsome Jack himself. And the last exchange left a particularly bitter taste in his mouth. It was at the headquarters of the failing S&S Munitions, a company whose slow death had caught the attention of larger, opportunistic predators that were swooping in for the kill, that he encountered the real Jack once again.

Maliwan had arrived before him, and had snagged factory deeds right from under his nose, much to Rhys’ chagrin. It was after a spiteful, malicious exchange of barbs with the arrogant Katagawa Senior that he was stalking angrily back to his ship. Annoyed, and exhausted from a week of toiling without much success, he’d had his head down, and had run directly into someone headed in the opposite direction.

He landed on his ass, hard. A lance of pain spiked up his spine, then curled around his tailbone. He hissed against the sting, only to be toppled backward when the other man landed right on top of him.

Rhys groaned, wincing at the pain and his continued bad luck, grasping at his forehead where they had knocked skulls.

“Shit,” he swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“You goddamn better be, you—”

A pause. Rhys opened his eyes, blinking past the fresh throb of a headache to find Handsome Jack staring at him from a startlingly close proximity.

“…well. That changes everything.”

Rhys’ lips tugged into a snarl. He glanced down to the space between them, which wasn’t much, and tried to wriggle free from where Jack was braced against him.

“Should have known you’d be here,” Rhys growled his displeasure. “Though I’d hoped not.”

“How could I resist dismantling this sad excuse for a company?” Jack chuckled. “And hey, maybe next time, it’ll be Atlas.”

Rhys’ eyes narrowed with a pulse of anger. He barely managed to retain his composure, knowing too well from the stories he’d heard that it was better not to engage with Jack, not to encourage him when he was playful. So he merely relaxed, letting his head rest back against the floor, and stared straight over top Jack’s dumb hair.

“Get off, Jack.”

The masked man chuckled. He seemed to consider, as a moment of silence lapsed, then he was shuffling over him. One by one, he repositioned his legs, using his knees to cage in Rhys’ long limbs. In the next instant, he had pinned Rhys to the floor with troublingly practised ease.

“If you insist,” he hummed.

A flourish of heat struck up under Rhys’ collar. He gave an experimental tug of his legs in suspicion, stiffening in realization. When he raised his hands to throw Jack off balance, the larger man quickly snagged his wrists and pinned them sharply to the floor on each side of his head. Jack ignored his gasp of disbelief, leaned his body weight forward, and stroked his nose across Rhys’ cheek — a gesture that was repulsive, infuriating, and exactly the type of unnerving power play move Rhys should have expected from the corporate tyrant, especially after what he’d learned from his double.

“It’s good to see you again, Atlas.” Jack’s breath ushered past his ear, too warm and too close.

“My name,” he seethed back, in the barest form of rebellion he could muster despite his growing unease. “Is Rhys.”

“It’s good to see you, Rhysie,” Jack breezed past in dismissal, as though he wasn’t bodily restraining Rhys against the floor. “Really, I mean it. Y’see, I’ve been busier than usual with this stupid takeover business, and it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to, ah, how’d you put it?”

Rhys froze as Jack bucked his pelvis, grinding their hips together. Jack’s hardening length announced its presence as it rocked against his groin.

“Get off.”

Ah. He’d neglected his first rule.

“Are you fucking serious?” Rhys hissed. He twisted his head backward, relieved to find that the hallway was clear, at least for the moment. It would destroy him, and maybe even Atlas, should anyone witness Hyperion straddling him on the floor. It was a very real possibility that S&S wasn’t the only company going down that day. “Okay, Jack, I get it. You’re big, you’re bad, you intimidate me. Now knock this shit off, it’s not funny.”

“Who’s joking?”

Jack hitched his hips again, and Rhys groaned at the friction. He was most definitely hard now, no doubt straining uncomfortably in his jeans. Rhys could not prevent the full body tremble that passed through him; Jack’s eyes widened hungrily in response.

“W-what’re you—”

“Don’t worry, kitten. I’m so pent up, it shouldn’t take long.”

Before Rhys could even voice his complaints, Jack’s grip turned painful; his teeth found the exposed flesh of his neck. But it wasn’t until he established a rhythm against Rhys’ crotch that the younger man truly realized what was happening. Handsome Jack was dry humping him into the floor.

“Don’t you dare,” he cried out in panic. “You are not using me to get your rocks off!”

“Shhh,” Jack groaned. His voice buckled under the pressure between them. “Just, hush, darling.”

“Fuck you, Jack!”

“Don’t have time, I’m afraid,” Jack grunted back. “Maybe next time. Or, well, definitely. But if you’ll just—”

He reached down, coaxed Rhys’ hips into a tilt toward him, then locked onto his wrist again.

“That’s it. That’ll get it done.”

He returned to grinding against him, and Rhys felt every inch of him along the crease between his thigh and bulge.

Rhys wrenched his prosthetic free from Jack’s grip, easily overpowering his flesh and blood grasp. But before he could snag onto Jack in an attempt to extricate the rest of his body from his intimate hold, Jack had reached to his hip as though to retrieve something. His hand came back toting a pistol, of which Rhys only managed a glimpse before he heard it thunk against the floor just beside his head. He immediately snapped rigid, but for the slightest shiver, the origin of which he had trouble pinpointing.

“Atta boy,” Jack breathed. “Don’t worry, kitten. I’m almost there.”

“You—” Rhys swallowed hard, finding it suddenly difficult to gather his thoughts. “Jack, you wouldn’t.”

“Course not. Just needed to ditch it for balance, Rhysie.” Jack raked his eyes over Rhys’ prone frame; he gave a catlike grin. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

“I hate y—”

The next roll of Jack’s hips dragged out a lecherous moan that surprised even Rhys. He twisted his flesh hand in Jack’s grip, unable to snap it over his face to contain it, and Jack chuckled without even breaking his pace.

“Knew you’d be into it,” he teased. “It’s a shame we don’t have more time.”

“I’m going to murder you, Jack.”

“Sure you are, sweetness. Now — over you go.”

Rhys was too confounded to combat what was taking place until Jack had completely manhandled him onto his belly. He balked when Jack ground down against his ass, shivering at the second resulting groan of desire.

“Gods, yes,” Jack hissed. “So close.”

“You fucking asshole.”

“Shhh.”

The air was forced out of his lungs under Jack’s full weight. Jack caught the heat of it in his hand, the one that had snaked its way under Rhys’ arm and up his throat to cover his mouth. Rhys barked in surprise as it clamped over his lips, more than tempted to bite down. And he would’ve, if Jack hadn’t started grinding against him with renewed vigour. He clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, at last resigned himself to the fact that he simply had to ride it out.

Whatever was pissing Jack off that day seemed to fuel his desire. His rhythm had picked up, along with the force driving his hips. He was fully thrusting against Rhys’ ass, generating a wholly uncomfortable warmth in Rhys’ slacks. Rhys summoned all sorts of ungodly images to mind, pressing his forehead tight to the floor to stave off the pulse of interest in his cock, which was starting to twitch where it was pinned beneath him.

Jack paused for a moment, seeming to dig around in the space between his groin and Rhys’ ass. When he resumed thrusting against him, however, Rhys realized what he had done. The barrier of his stupid jeans was gone, the fly tugged open, and only the thin layer of his underwear held back his straining dick. Jack repositioned himself lower, pressing himself down between Rhys’ thighs, and Rhys could feel the distinct shape of him through his slacks. Modest length, but the girth, oh gods. He bit his tongue, clamping his eyes shut.

Eventually, resentfully, he surrendered to his predicament. And when Jack at last finished, he tried not to notice the way Jack seized up, grunting above him, viciously ignoring what sounded like his name choked off under Jack’s breath.

Jack at last went limp, panting heavily. He placed a surprisingly gentle but no less repulsive kiss on the nape of Rhys’ neck, and sank back onto his knees. Finally, Rhys felt a pat on his ass before Jack’s weight disappeared fully.

“Glad I didn’t go commando today,” Jack chuckled dryly, dusting himself off. Rhys turned his head against the floor to watch Jack from his peripherals. “Thanks, Rhysie. That will go a long way.”

He sneered, furrowing his brow. “Why the hell are you still here, anyway? Maliwan got here first. The deal is signed.”

“You’re adorable, kitten. So much left to learn.” Jack briefly dropped back to his knee to stroke Rhys’ cheek. “If the ink is already dry, just burn the goddamn paper.”

Rhys frowned, despite the removal of Jack’s hand.

No. There was no way—

“Thanks again, Rhysie,” Jack chirped, stuffing a hand into his jeans to adjust himself around the mess as he strode off. “Looking forward to the next time.”

Rhys groaned, rolling onto his back.

“Go fuck yourself, Jack.”

But he was gone. He left Rhys, heated and annoyed and half erect on the floor. The younger man uttered a few dozen curses before eventually climbing to his feet and finding his way back to his ship.

And sure enough, a few days later, the news reached him. Jack had not only secured S&S’ old factories, but had nabbed a handful of patents that the founders had been insistent on retaining. And Rhys’ immediate thought was — I wonder if he would have pulled it off if he hadn’t just dry humped me to completion. Because that was a healthy first instinct.

“Goddamn asshole,” he whispered to his champagne. Of course the blatant sexual assault had left him outraged, but it was also Jack’s gall, his ability to break all the rules and still come out on top, that left Rhys infuriated.

As the night went on, Jack continued to keep his distance. It almost seemed purposeful, as Jack was always in his line of sight, always present. Rhys absently wondered if his intentions had been to torment him, to remind him of what he’d done to him, even during his own celebration. It was a very Jack move, but only if he had something else planned.

Maybe Jack did want something from him after all.

And just as the consideration made its sick curl through his head, he realized with a punch to his sternum that he had been staring at Jack the entire time, and now, Jack was staring back.

Rhys tensed. His initial instinct was to look away, but he smothered it, realizing that if he broke eye contact, he would lose. Another one of Jack’s dumb intimidation tactics that he’d come to loathe, despite the few interactions they’d had. And all the while, his throat grew tighter; his heartbeat hastened.

“We have a problem.” Zer0 appeared at his side, and Rhys startled, nearly dropping his champagne glass. “Suspicious activity / outside of your ship.”

Rhys frowned. “We stationed men inside and out. What is the problem?”

“There’s been no response / since I requested a check. / Radio silence.”

His eyes found Jack once more. Zer0 lingered at his side, following his gaze in question.

“His presence is strange. / I would not put it past him / to have tried something.”

“He’s typically more upfront about his schemes, though,” Rhys hummed. “Damn it. Check on our team, would you?”

Zer0 took a step, but immediately paused. Rhys raised a hand to his shoulder in reassurance, offering the barest smile that he could muster.

“It’ll be fine,” he breathed. “Keep in contact. Enlist Jakobs security if needed.”

Although he seemed hesitant to break away, Zer0 obeyed. And just as his lean silhouette shivered out into nothing, slipping away under the cover of his cloak, Wainwright Jakobs took his place. He slowly made his way up the curving staircase to Rhys’ left, offering a nod and a raised glass. Rhys smiled back, lifting his own to meet the toast.

“The man of the hour,” Wainwright crooned. “And how are we feeling this fine evening?”

“Nervous,” Rhys admitted. “This is all very humbling, Wainwright. I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“It’s well deserved, son,” he nodded. “And it was about time you took your place with the rest of them.”

He sauntered over, slowly, coming to stand at Rhys’ side. After passing a wistful gaze over the crowd, he gazed Rhys’ way once more.

“Would it bother you if I asked a potentially uncomfortable question?”

Rhys absolutely adored the way he spoke, leaning into each syllable of the word. It was disarming, in a way, so that he agreed with a hum before he even realized what he was doing.

“What’s going on between you and that devil of a man down there?”

He choked on his champagne, swiping an arm over his face to try to conceal it.

“Not, ah, not sure what you mean?”

Wainwright gave him a hard look. “I’m more than certain that you do.”

Rhys met his stare, considering. Of all the people in that room, Jakobs was genuinely trustworthy. Anything he admitted to him wouldn’t be used against him, so he didn’t see the harm. He simply didn’t need to share all the details.

“...I somehow wandered into his sights a while back. Ever since, he seems determined to annoy me. That’s about all I can tell you.”

“That is his style,” Wainwright sighed. “But he was a little less... hands-on with the other poor fools he tormented in the past.”

“I think it’s the only way he knows how to get under my skin,” Rhys growled. “Either way, I’ll be keeping my distance for as long as I can manage.”

“A wise decision.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why do you entertain his presence, when you clearly have your own distaste for the man?”

Wainwright hesitated, gazing back out over the room. His head tilted back, ever slightly, as he appraised the view overhead.

“...we have our own unfortunate connection. But all of that is in the past.”

He did not elaborate, and Rhys did not ask it of him. Instead, he returned his gaze to the floor below, frowning upon realizing that Jack was no longer there.

“Well, it’s almost time.” Wainwright gestured toward the stage at the opposite end of the room. “Would you care to join me in the spotlight, or hide away in the shadows for the duration?”

Rhys’ lips quirked with a smile. “I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.”

“It’s your night, Atlas.”

Wainwright gave a little bow of his head before turning on his boot heel and moseying back to the stairs. Once he disappeared from sight, Rhys allowed himself to relax a little. Perhaps it was all a coincidence. If Jack had some sort of involvement with Jakobs’ in the past, it would explain his eagerness to attend. I guess. So Rhys settled back against the railing, shaking off the unease that had gripped his shoulders the last hour.

Of course, it was then that Jack found him.

“Heya, Rhysie. What are you doing up here, all alone?”

Detecting a curl of suggestion in his voice, Rhys rolled his eyes. He supposed it was an inevitability that Jack cornered him, and of course his timing was impeccable. Sparing a look over his shoulder, he watched the imposing man’s shape emerge from the doorway a ways behind him. He shrugged, and turned away.

“Oh, just thinking.”

“What about?”

Jack casually sidled up next to him like it was no big deal. This wasn’t surprising behaviour, but what gave Rhys pause was his subdued, relaxed nature, like they were old friends. Jack looked out over the crowd with minor disinterest, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans.

Of course he wore his jeans. Rhys grumbled, glancing down at his own particularly expensive waistcoat, button up, and slacks.

“About how psychopaths do better in business.”

Jack’s eyebrows drifted upward; he turned a mildly amused but genuinely shocked look onto Rhys. Why shocked?

“Really, now?” His features twisted with a smile. “Is that why you keep looking at the glass ceiling?”

“No. Ass.”

Rhys shivered, unable to stop himself peeking once more at the transparent dome overhead.

“…that’s unrelated.”

He expected barbs, some biting joke directed at him or his company or both, but nothing came. Jack leaned into the railing at his side, giving him a look he could not decipher. He was briefly put off by its friendliness.

“Talk to me, kitten.”

Rhys scanned Jack’s face for a moment, wondering idly if he had been wrong, and it really was Timothy standing at his side. Jack had called him “kitten” before (and no one else, he’d noticed), but his chill demeanour was throwing off his doppelgänger detector. Regardless, with an uttered sigh, Rhys again cast his gaze overhead.

“It makes one feel small, I guess.”

“Sorry, I tend to have that effect.”

“Not you, asshole.”

Jack chuckled, then waved for him to continue.

“I’ve come a long way in the last few years. But when I look out into the stars, I can’t help feeling… insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. Small, like all my problems and struggles are infinitesimal next to the vast designs of space.” He dared to gaze back toward Jack, warily, and found the man staring back without a taunting expression. “Do you ever feel that way, Handsome Jack?”

Jack considered. His brow even briefly creased in thought.

“No. Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Rhys parroted, stealing another sip. “Not sure why I even bothered to ask.”

“I mean, who gives a crap about the planets?” Jack went on. “It’s fine to feel small looking at Eden — because you are — but why would you ever feel less accomplished because you’re pointless in the quote unquote ‘grand scheme’ of things?”

Rhys blinked. He opened his mouth, only to forget how to speak. In all fairness, this was the longest conversation he’d ever had one-on-one with Jack (where he wasn’t being actively molested). While he wasn’t certain what he should have expected, it wasn’t this.

“Besides,” Jack grinned. “You’ve got my attention, Rhysie. And that’s all you’ll ever need.”

And there it was. Rhys groaned, finishing his champagne in a final, long gulp before stabbing the glass down onto the railing.

“Why am I not surprised?”

Jack snorted. “Because I’m Handsome friggin’ Jack, kitten. Why the hell would I care about anything so outside of anyone’s control?”

He hummed, leaning into his palm to gaze out over the crowd.

“But I see why you would feel that way.”

Rhys straightened with a rush of indignation.

“You absolute dick munch.”

Jack’s brows shot up; his smile faded away as his eyes darted back to Rhys. “You might’ve taken that wrong.”

“How else would I have taken it, Handsome friggin’ Jack?” he hissed. “Why the hell are you even here? What could you possibly get from raining on my parade like this?”

His expression darkened, but he did not move.

“...I mean, how could I resist, after our last meeting?”

Rhys glanced away, unable to tolerate even looking at Jack. He struggled fiercely to contain his anger, turning his head toward the crowd, gripping tight at the railing.

“The damn nerve. How dare you walk in here and install yourself like anyone actually gives two shits that you’re here at all.”

A beat of silence followed. Rhys exhaled his derision into his glass, only to remember it was empty. He set it aside, accidentally breaking it at the stem with his cybernetic fingers, and cursed his continued bad luck.

Fuck. Fuck. He’d promised himself that he’d control himself. That he wouldn’t let Jack get his goat the next time their paths crossed.

Well. At least he wasn’t being pinned to the floor.

Rhys forced himself to settle, closing his eyes to draw in a slow, calming breath. After a few moments of this, once he’d regained control, Jack spoke again.

“Least I’m not a goddamn tease.”

“Hah,” Rhys blanched, head swivelling around in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You know what your problem is?”

Rhys laughed bitterly. “No, Jack. Why don’t you tell me?”

“You think you’re different. Like you’re only playing their game as a farce, fitting in just to get what you want. But you’re just like the rest of them. Two faced and sanctimonious. Worse — you know you’re smarter, so you’re also pretentious on top of being a complete tool.”

There was something ironic about being called pretentious by someone with the word “handsome” in their self imposed moniker. But Rhys was more taken aback in that Jack actually sounded pissed off.

The muscles in Jack’s forearms tensed. “Maybe it’s time.”

 Rhys swallowed uneasily at the simple gesture.

“For what?”

Jack straightened, slowly pushing off the railing.

“To put you in your place.”

Well. That was foreboding. Rhys stared back at him, knowing full well that his anxiety was apparent in his features. And then the lights around them dimmed.

It wasn’t a trick of Jack’s, thankfully. Wainwright had finally taken to the stage, to deliver his speech in Rhys’ honour. Rhys turned to watch, as the darkness settled around him and Wainwright was awash in the circle of a spotlight. It had been the moment he was waiting for — after which he could duck out and find something better to do for what remained of the evening. Just twenty more minutes, or so. Maybe more, depending on what Wainwright had planned. Almost there.

It was then that Jack took a step closer. Rhys spied him from the corner of his eye, lip twitching with a snarl.

“Don’t even think about it, Jack,” he hissed. “This isn’t gonna play out like last time.”

“Oh, kiddo,” Jack hummed. “Not sure you get a say in that.”

Rhys’ heart thudded against his chest. He activated his arm, lowering it behind the railing at his hips to conceal its glow.

“Zer0. Buddy, you’re back, right?”

A crackle of sound. Then silence. Rhys tensed.

And Jack’s hand slipped onto his hip.

“It’s a shame, really,” Jack started, moving into place close behind Rhys. His warmth consumed Rhys’ back in a rush, a press of heat even through his clothing, embracing his spine. “I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been a manipulative little tart since you arrived on the scene. And, well, I do enjoy the chase once in a while.”

The collar of his shirt was tugged backward, aside, revealing a hint of skin. Jack’s lips ghosted across it, sending a shiver through Rhys’ body.

“What are you talking about?” Rhys hissed, though it was markedly fragile beneath the tremble of his fear. “I’ve never encouraged you.”

“Oh?” Jack snorted softly into his hair. “So you propositioning me on Junpei-7 wasn’t encouragement?”

Rhys’ brow furrowed. “Junpei-7…That wasn’t you—”

He stiffened with realization. Timothy.

“And I will admit, fleeting as it was, it got my engines running,” Jack purred. He placed a solitary kiss on the skin behind Rhys’ ear, tracing the hair away with his finger. “Working you over on the floor helped for a bit, but I’ve been eagerly awaiting that private time you suggested. And, well, look where we are.”

Casting his gaze about, partially in response to Jack’s utterance but mostly in a vain search for help, Rhys swallowed hard to find they were, in fact, painfully alone. There was a full room of people below, but there, on the balcony overlooking it all, it was just Rhys and Jack.

“Jack,” he choked. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“It’s too late to get cold feet, kitten,” Jack grunted. “I see through you, now. You thought you could toy with Handsome Jack, huh?”

“N-no, I thought you were Ti—”

“Well, two can play at that game.”

Jack’s hands folded around his frame; Rhys cried out in alarm as he was swallowed by the broader man’s arms. His touch was everywhere, stroking along his chest and abdomen, reaching, groping. Jack had buried his face against his neck, breathing heavily past his hair, losing himself to the perfect fit of the shape of Rhys against his body. It was painfully intimate, and Rhys found himself floundering beneath the smothering reach of Jack.  

Did he even hear me? Or did he ignore me?

He wasn’t certain he wanted to know. Suddenly, he didn’t really care. Because this — it was so unlike before, when Jack had almost been playful, taunting Rhys as he dominated him with a power move against the floor. This — there was intention to this. Jack’s movements were punctuated with motivation that he couldn’t name.

Then he was gone, and Rhys stumbled in place. With the sudden departure, Jack’s hands slipped away from his frame; his heat faded away. Rhys turned an accusatory, and somewhat uneasy glance over his shoulder in question to find Jack grinning back at him like a shark, only for the pair to be swallowed by a blinding light.

Rhys winced, spinning back toward the crowd, and the spotlight that had consumed him. The massive screens behind Wainwright, the ones that lined the rear section of the main stage, displayed his dumb, flushed face for the entire room to see. He immediately straightened, lowered his hand, and hastily flashed a charming smile.

It seemed to work. Wainwright continued on without pause, busily extolling Rhys’ foundation, and all the money he’d personally dedicated to the cause. Or something — Rhys couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears. For the entire time that the spotlight was on him, Rhys schooled his demeanour, cool as a cucumber, though he had turned ever so slightly to keep Jack in his periphery. The Hyperion President behaved himself, lingering at a casual distance, which only served to add to Rhys’ growing uncertainty. His vicious unease gnawed hungrily at the back of his head, and as soon as the spotlight turned away, Jack’s hands found his hips once more.

“...you knew,” Rhys choked on the startling revelation. “You knew when the cameras would turn this way...”

Jack chuckled against the nape of his neck, where his nose glided along his flesh.

“I happened to catch Jakobs’ rehearsal speech. I knew exactly how long I’d have before he stopped to heap praise on almighty Atlas.” Jack’s fingers dug in past the lip of Rhys’ slacks; Rhys stiffened at the touch of Jack’s lips on his ear. “And I know just how long I have to force you down against this banister before they do it again.”

No. No, no, no.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Rhys snarled under his breath.

“Oh, kitten. It’s like you don’t know me at all.” Jack drifted forward; his tone darkened “…would it be better if I were Tim?”

He was again caught off guard, unable to temper his response in the wake of Jack’s casual accusation. His eyes widened; he faltered.

“Did you hurt him?”

“No,” Jack grunted. “He did his goddamn job.”

Vicious loathing swirled in his stomach.

“You go any further, and my man will kill you, Jack.”

“Your man isn’t here, Rhysie.”

His breath snagged in his throat. He glanced around in desperation, knowing fully well that he was right.

“You…” he groaned; his eyes fluttered shut. “You messed with my ship.”

A soft, taunting snort of laughter.

“I may have been involved.”

“You knew I’d be alone.”

“I planned on it.”

“Why?”

“Because, Atlas—”

Jack’s fingers slid down from his hip to the line of his pelvis; Rhys almost barked in alarm as Jack palmed him through his slacks.

“I’ve always found you intriguing. Brash, arrogant little thing, but whip-smart. Like you might actually know what you’re doing. But you keep making the mistake of trying to be like the others. And for some reason, you keep behaving like a petulant child.” Jack’s tongue flicked at his earlobe. “I think it’s time to teach you a lesson.”

As if to punctuate his threat, Jack squeezed Rhys’ cock through his pants. Rhys bucked his hips with a hiss, attempting to turn in his arms and confront the larger man, but Jack was faster, latching down onto his wrist to crush it against the railing. He thrusted his hips forward, effectively pinning him in place.

“Get the fuck off me,” Rhys snarled. “People will see, Jack. Someone will—”

“You best stay still, then,” Jack grinned. “Be a good boy and behave.”

Rhys sneered. “You think I’m just going to stand here and let you assault me again?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Jack sank back slightly, without providing Rhys the room he needed to escape. “What would people think...seeing the CEO of Atlas pinned down by Handsome Jack?”

“What?!”

“The bright, up-and-comer… Everyone expecting big things from you... Dominating the galactic weapons market before you’re even thirty...” Jack leaned forward to again nibble at his ear. “And yet you couldn’t even protect yourself at your own honorary dinner.”

“That’s prepost—”

Well, wait. Holy shit, Jack had a point. It had been the very same fear Rhys had felt at potentially being discovered beneath him on the floor at S&S’ HQ.

Rhys had always understood just what it took to survive amidst the massive corporate entities, all of whom were represented in the very same room where Jack was pressed against him. It was a cutthroat industry (often literally), and showing any amount of weakness was the quickest path to getting steamrolled. Even a hint of it — the smallest drop of blood — and the sharks would descend.

Handsome Jack wouldn’t suffer, even if he was caught forcing Rhys into submission against the railing. At most, he would be barred from Jakobs events, but the damage would already be done to Rhys’ reputation, and nothing otherwise to Jack. Hell, it was probably expected behaviour from a man like him. Jack got what Jack wanted.

And apparently, he wanted Rhys.

“God fucking damn you.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“What do you want from me?” Rhys hissed. “Do you want Atlas? Our tech? Why are you doing this?”

“I told you, Rhysie.” Jack bodily leaned into him, and Rhys squeaked under his weight. A very present bulge pressed into him. “I want. To fuck you. In front of all these people.”

An icy sensation flooded his veins, crackling, consuming. Rhys immediately panicked at his words, snapping straight in an effort to escape, and was quickly crowded against the railing by Jack’s broader frame. Despite the anxiety levels spiking as a result of Jack’s proximity, Rhys snarled in defence.

“Not. Happening.”

“Tick tock, Rhysie,” Jack chuckled. “Ol’ Wainwright has a drawl, but even he can’t go on forever. You want to get caught mewling on my dick?”

Fuck. Fuuuuuck. 

In the absence of Rhys’ retort, Jack’s free hand moved down to his belt. He flipped it open with ease, continuing on to his fly.

Shit. Okay. So — he had a gun. But it would draw attention, which is exactly what Rhys was hoping to avoid. He also had his arm, and so he could potentially fight back, but the commotion would not go unnoticed, and he wasn’t certain he could fend him off anyway.

This was happening, then. This was really happening.

Rhys slumped forward against the railing in resignation, gritting his teeth.

“Get it over with, then.”

A chuckle.

“Atta boy.”

Jack leaned forward, a full, warm presence against his back. Rhys choked on his disbelief as Jack’s arm wound around him, cradling his throat in the crook of his elbow, righting him and pinning him in place against his chest. It was shockingly intimate, the most he’d ever felt of the other man. He resisted the urge to grab onto the arm at his neck, keeping his hands firmly on the railing.

Even despite his careful consideration of his reaction, the reality of his situation did not fully register until Jack’s hand slipped into his slacks, and worked its way past the band of his boxer briefs. Rhys went rigid, slack jawed, stunned at not only the man’s audacity, but the gall. This was assault, raw and undignified, potentially within view of hundreds of people, and not only did Jack not care, he almost seemed fuelled by the knowledge. He was hyper focused, intensely devoted to touching and feeling Rhys’ frame, groping his ass cheek with a tight grasp that bordered on painful.

But what surprised Rhys the most — at the edge of his mind, beyond the shame and the dread at being vulnerable at Handsome Jack’s whim — was that this didn’t appear to simply be an act of exhibitionism. In fact, Jack didn’t seem to pay any attention to the crowds below, except to keep an eye and ear on Wainwright’s progress. He wasn’t there for them. They were secondary, an excuse, an opportunity.

Handsome Jack was there for Rhys, and Rhys alone.

He choked on his words, floundering in place, struggling uselessly against the arm that tightened around his throat. But it wasn’t until Jack’s hand maneuvered between his ass cheeks, prodding a finger against that tight ring of muscles, that Rhys seized in panic.

“J-jack,” he croaked. “Please, wait—”

“What’s wrong, Rhysie?” Jack murmured into his ear, voice thick and curling with intent. “Is your situation finally sinking in?”

He pressed the finger inside.

Rhys snapped straight; his cry of strangled, startled disbelief was smothered beneath Jack’s wide hand clamped tightly over his face. He whimpered, grabbing onto Jack’s wrist with both hands, canting his hips against the penetration from behind. It wasn’t much; only the tip of Jack’s finger hooked inside, just past the first joint, but Jack’s hands had always been stupidly big.

“Breathe through your nose, kitten,” Jack instructed. “Deep breaths. Good boy.”

He closed his eyes, obediently inhaling through his nostrils, shivering in fear and outrage and something unexpected. Then Jack’s hand fell away from his mouth.

“Ah, hold on—” Jack maneuvered to his side, expression reverting to something casually subdued. “Give a smile, Rhysie.”

He paled when the spotlight found him once more.

Oh, gods. Holy fucking gods.

Handsome Jack’s finger was still inside him. In front of hundreds of people.

He did not smile. Couldn’t. But he managed the barest glance toward one of the screens below. Thankfully, from this angle, nothing seemed amiss. The screens did not capture the way Jack’s arm curled behind his back, reaching down into his slacks. Just the peculiarity of the CEO of Atlas standing abreast Handsome Jack, with Jack supplying the cameras a charming grin. Rhys was simultaneously relieved and outraged to be spared the embarrassment. And then Jack’s finger began to move.

Rhys almost bit through his tongue in an effort to focus, to restrain his reaction. His muscles clamped down on the twisting digit, which only encouraged the man, as Jack shoved it deeper, all the way to the knuckle, prodding around Rhys’ insides like he was searching for something.

And, oh shit, did he find it. By some miracle, it was only once the spotlight turned, and the two were again cast into near darkness. Then Rhys was collapsing onto the railing, mewling and cursing in equal measure.

“Oh my god.”

“Hoo boy,” Jack mocked. “First time, Rhysie?”

“No, fuck y—” His words cut off under a hiss of shock and a punch of pleasure. It was followed shortly behind by shame, for having experienced such a stimulating sensation by Jack’s touch. It was then that Jack added a second finger, prodding and stretching and rutting while Rhys struggled to maintain any semblance of his demeanour, quickly losing his mind to the curl of desire in his groin. His cock gave a traitorous twitch in his pants, threatening to tear itself free from the confines of his boxer briefs.

All the while, Jack mouthed at his earlobe, his neck, the corner of his jaw, covering a frankly impressive amount of ground. His movements were charged, methodical, as though restraining an appetite that had gone unsatiated for a long time. And while his grip was tight and possessive, and his fingers frenetic and eager, every kiss and caress of Jack’s lips against his flesh was gentle, plying. An invitation, at which Rhys almost turned his head.

No. Jack would not win. Rhys remained still, remained silent (mostly), remained resistant. He had no other way to fight back against Jack’s assault, other than to stay strong and deny him the full pleasure of the experience he sought.

“Can you hear me, my dear boy?”

Rhys stiffened, eyes snapping wide.

“Jack,” he gasped, latching onto the larger man’s wrist. “Stop for a second!”

“Kitten…” The heat of Jack’s breath washed over his ear. “When did I give you the impression you had any say in this?”

“Just— fucking stop so I can answer this call!"

Jack seethed a growl, but relented — which really only meant he went still. Rhys remained bent over the railing, three of Jack’s fingers pressed into him from behind. He grumbled, and connected the ECHO, turning his palm over.

“Sir Hammerlock,” he swallowed, doing his damnedest to sound fine, perfectly fine. “What can I do for you?”

He scanned the crowd below, spying the cybernetic hunter in the dull glow, just off stage. Then Jack bobbed his index finger once; Rhys slapped his flesh hand over his mouth.

“Are you well?” the dashing adventurer continued, voice tinged with concern. “You have some rather curious company with you up there…”

Not even Sir Hammerlock’s naturally mellifluous accent could save him now, as he struggled simply to control the tremble in his knees.

“I’m—” Rhys considered, glaring daggers over his shoulder. “I’m fine. Thank you, Alistair.”

“Are you sure?” Sir Hammerlock paused. “Is Handsome Jack attempting to bully you?”

Jack made a sound like he was choking.

“…he’s certainly trying,” Rhys answered with a slight growl, ignoring him. “Don’t worry. I can handle him.”

He hated to lie to the man, but it was preferable to the alternative. Jack wouldn’t back down now, even if help was on the way. What worried Rhys, however, was how quiet Jack went just then.

“If your situation does not improve, please call on me.”

“I will. Thank you, Alistair.”

Rhys turned his hand over, pressing his forehead into the railing with a groan.

“Rhysie,” Jack purred, tone shifting to something dark. “That sounded like a challenge.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less—”

A thunk between his feet echoed out; his gaze snapped downward in alarm to see his belt, and by extension, his pants, gathered on the floor around his ankles. Jack continued on to pry his boxer briefs free, caught only by the strain of his cock, which snapped against his belly once the material was wrested away. 

“Jack, please,” he whimpered. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know I don’t,” Jack snorted. “But I want to.”

There was a brief pause in which Rhys snagged onto a crinkling noise from behind. He glanced over his shoulder to catch Jack with a condom packet held in his teeth. He blinked in surprise, taken off guard by the absurdity of the scene, but could not deny the wash of relief.

“Oh, thank Tyche,” he mumbled, turning back to check on the speech.

“You kidding?” Jack snorted. “Who knows where you’ve been. Looking like that.”

“Oh yes,” Rhys rolled his eyes. “My waistcoat especially screams fuck boy, doesn’t it?”

“You’re goddamn right it does,” Jack hissed. He moved his hands to Rhys’ hips to give a desirous squeeze. “Look at the cut of your suit, princess. Puts those legs on display. That waist. And don’t pretend like you aren’t flashing that hint of chest tattoo for a reason…”

Briefly, Rhys was overcome with the heady temptation to reach his cybernetic back and crack Jack’s dick in twain. He had not, however, forgotten the pistol Jack had rested alongside his head during their last go around. So instead, he simply grumbled, neither admitting or denying the accusation, as Jack rolled the condom onto his cock with one hand.

“You ready for me, kitten?”

“Stop fucking wooing me, Jack,” Rhys snarled. “And just—”

Jack didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. He forced himself inside, and Rhys seized up at the lance of pain. The stretch was unbelievable; Rhys went absolutely still as his senses overloaded to simply deal with the fresh sensation.

And—oh. Okay, just—

He screwed his eyes shut, exhaling in a stutter. Jack, too, braced himself with a breath, if the slight tremor in his hands were anything to go by. They’d both returned to Rhys’ hips, feeling around for a firm grip, in preparation for what came next.

After a few moments, once the stars alighting in his vision subsided, Rhys shuddered. The sensation was all consuming, complete, and he sagged against the railing, collapsing as much as he could while still impaled on Handsome Jack’s stupidly big cock. With no small amount of effort, he summoned back the strength in his legs and braced against the railing, waiting, anticipating.

Jack pushed in further, grunting quietly for good measure. Rhys bit into his lower lip, etching lines across the railing in some cursive jumble of nonsense with his metal fingers, staring blindly into the dim room below. All he could pay attention to was the stretch, and Jack’s warmth, and the pulse of heat in his cock.

And Jack’s hands. Their grip was firm, commanding, possessive. When once he’d marvelled at the sheer size of them, he now realized with a great revelation that it was the lesser of their qualities. No, it was their strength that captivated him now. He could feel every bit of it in the way they engulfed his hips, cradling his pelvis, fingertips dug into his abdomen. They were tight with restraint and wicked potential.

Rhys gasped when those very hands gave a sharp, final tug, and Jack was completely and fully buried within him.

“Oh good god.” The words tumbled off the edge of his tongue and out of his mouth before he could snap his lips shut on them. In a hasty, altogether too-late attempt to backtrack, he tried to fumble his hand over his mouth to prevent anything else spewing free, but Jack had beaten him to it. His hand clamped over his face, conforming almost entirely to the shape of his jaw, and Rhys leaned into it with a whine.

“You can call me ‘Jack’, sweetness,” he purred, repositioning his other hand to assist in the slow draw of his hips, as he began to work the two into a rhythm. “Or ‘sir.’”

Rhys made a sound of derision, or tried to, anyway. It was lost beneath a wordless mewling he desperately tried to keep quiet under Jack’s fingers. But with every thrust, with every lick of Jack’s cock inside him, he lost a little more control. It wasn’t just his hands, after all. He could feel everything, every bit of Jack, Handsome Jack, tucked around him. Rhys suddenly felt very small, overwhelmed. He lost sense of the room around him, and it was just him, the railing under him, and Jack above him.

It was all a very roundabout way of describing Rhys’ discovery of how large Jack actually was, pressed down over his spine. His bulk draped over him, cradled him, pulling him closer. It smothered him, forced the breath from his lungs, so that Rhys could only take the barest sips of air between each thrust. All of his thoughts and energy were dedicated wholly to Jack, who was clawing and biting and grunting over him. It was maddening, to be so possessed by his grasp.

“Hell,” Jack cursed. His thick hand gripped tighter at Rhys’ hip, so hard that bruises were assured. “So goddamn tight, kitten.”

Rhys wanted to respond, to condemn Jack’s actions, but he couldn’t. Every line of thought fizzled and popped in his head, a failure of the synapses, and all he could focus on was the heat and the length and the girth of Jack inside him. His mouth fell open, slack jawed; his eyelids drooped, his vision foggy. Somewhere in the background, he vaguely heard someone talking about Atlas. About the pleasure of having worked in collaboration, and a toast to continued success with—

A toast? Oh. Oh no. Wainwright’s speech was coming to an end!

Jack’s name was lost in a curse into the man’s palm. Rhys snagged onto his wrist, trying in vain to tear his head free, but Jack’s face had buried into his hair, effectively locking them together. Unable to break away, Rhys effectively seized up — a rabbit, frozen in place, praying to its little rabbit gods that some miraculous intervention would take place to prevent the light swallowing him whole.

Wainwright ambled off stage. And just as a vicious, gnawing sensation dug through Rhys' stomach, the screens changed.

“Oh, thank fuck.”

Jack’s fingers had drawn away, enough that Rhys uttered his relief aloud. The video had shifted, not to him, but to some pre-recorded presentation. A halfway decent collection of shots taken from their project sites across the various planets.

“Mmm,” Jack muttered, pressing a kiss against the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t want to end too soon, would we, baby?”

Baby?

“Just fucking blow your load already,” Rhys hissed, suddenly repossessed by anger. He was still pinned in place, still stuffed full with Jack’s stupid dick, thoroughly shamed and the slightest bit aroused.

Okay, more than the slightest. But he was still pissed about it. He resisted the temptation to palm his cock, despite its straining for relief, for his touch.

“I’m not a goddamn teenager,” Jack grunted back. “You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily.”

“Like a friggin’ c-cockroach, or something.”

Jack sniggered, leaning forward to nuzzle the side of his head.

“What was that stutter, kitten? Having trouble keeping it together?”

Admittedly, Rhys was starting to lose track of his thoughts. Less so his outrage.

“Get. It. Over. With,” he seethed past clenched teeth.

Another chuckle.

“Okay, Rhysie. Have it your way. Hold on to something, kitten.”

Rhys stumbled forward with the press of Jack’s weight; his hips became flush with the railing, his cock painfully pinned in place. Jack’s left hand slicked down ever slightly, folding fingers into the crease above Rhys’ thigh. His right hand moulded to the shape of his throat — sturdy but not painful. Then Jack’s feet edged farther apart, digging his heels in.

Rhys took a breath.

The first thrust punched the air out of him. The second took his voice, and his mind, with it. Jack set a modest pace, but punctuated every movement with an opposing heave of his arms, effectively driving Rhys down onto his cock the same time he forced it up inside him. He felt it in his bones, a crunch of his spine. The slap of his own cock against his belly.

Jack’s teeth found his neck, clamping in place as though to steady each thrust. Rhys craned his head back in response, resting it on Jack’s shoulder. Here, he could hear the sounds Jack made — the grunts, and the rapid, intense little breaths that escaped in short bursts.

There came a very brief reprieve, when Jack suddenly stumbled to a halt. Before Rhys could collect his frayed mind, however, Jack’s hand, slick with saliva, found his cock. Rhys cried out in disbelief and holy shit, when Jack gave him a few pumps. He settled his hand close to the base of its length, gently but firmly encircling his shaft in his thick, warm fingers, and began to rut into him once more.

Every time Jack slammed into him, he brought his hand driving down his cock, matching each delicious thrust. Rhys drifted, leaned into the shape of Jack around him, and surrendered.

His eyes found the stars above. Suddenly, they were beautiful. Drifting, aglow, hazy in his blurred gaze.

Jack had won. And it was infuriating and disgusting and Rhys couldn’t get enough. He shivered, lifting his arm overhead to curl fingers in Jack’s hair. He turned his head, lips hovering at Jack’s ear, and allowed a small moan to slip free between thrusts.

“Please, Jack.”

And all at once, the world stopped turning. Rhys almost collapsed with the loss of Jack; his hands, his heat, his body. He had withdrawn so expertly that Rhys had canted his hips back to meet his next thrust and almost toppled over backward when it never came. He dropped forward to compensate, landing roughly against the railing, and shot an incredulous look over his shoulder in fury.

“What the fu—”

And the lights came on.

Rhys, in a manner of milliseconds, retrieved his clothes from around his ankles. He holstered himself (awkwardly), zipped his fly, locked his belt into place, and even adjusted the bottom buttons of his shirt in record time, as though their little indiscretion was practised. He smoothed his hands along his waistcoat, through his hair, glanced around to confirm he hadn’t garnered any unwanted attention — no, thank fuck — then turned to set a searing glare onto Jack.

Jack, who’d also somehow wrestled his cock back into submission, and was standing there, hands in his pockets like nothing was amiss, including the tightness of his pants.

“You son of a—”

“I don’t mean to disappoint you, baby, really,” Jack purred. “But you were a good sport. I’ll spare you the embarrassment of being caught having jizzed yourself from my cock.”

Rhys’ eyes narrowed, outraged both at Jack for, well, being Jack, and at himself for having been upset they hadn’t finished.

“I hope you get blue balls so hard your sac ruptures.”

Jack gave a hearty laugh. “That’s not how—”

“I know how it fucking works!” Rhys spat. “Go the fuck away!”

A shit-eating grin crossed his mask; Jack gave a curt bow.

“Congratulations on your special night, Rhysie,” he hummed, waving over his shoulder as he turned to head down the stairs. “I’ll see you later.”

What. What. 

Rhys shivered in indignation. And, well, something else. He rested against the railing once again, staring down at the damage left behind by his cybernetic hand. He realized then that he continued to tremble, a shiver Jack sent coursing through him that would not subside. His cock strained uncomfortably in his slacks; he panted lightly; his heartbeat thudded in his chest.

His skin was on fire. And it was—

“Jack, wait.”

Rhys turned, brow pinched, but Jack was gone. He gazed frantically into the crowd below, to no avail. Finally, in a daze, he spun, pressed his back to the railing, and slid to the floor.

And he stared. Not at anything in particular — at nothing at all, in fact. His vision gave precedence to his heavy, cloying thoughts.

Jack had set out to prove something that night, and he still wasn’t entirely sure what it was. The message was lost to the covetous pull of Jack’s hands, the all consuming sensation of his broad frame, wrapped around Rhys. He’d mentioned something about a lesson. Putting Rhys in his place. Rhys recalled this with yet another shudder, squeezing his eyes shut.

His place.

…well. That was an interesting revelation. It struck Rhys in his core, like Jack had punched through his chest, settled a hand around the base of his spine, and gave a hearty wiggle.

No. No. He was the goddamn CEO of Atlas. This was his night, his small victory, his induction into the traitorous pack of hyenas, his well deserved place amongst snakes.

Rhys blinked. Sank back. Stared.

Zer0 eventually returned, taken aback to find his employer sitting on the floor. He was in rough shape himself, his armour marred by a few singe marks, but Rhys didn’t notice. Distantly, he heard the bodyguard offer a dozen apologies, all in elaborate, eloquent haiku, but he did not  process them.

His mind was idle, overwhelmed.

It wasn’t until he was safely tucked away in his suite that it hit him. Then it struck like a freight train, a bone-shattering, heart stopping realization.

Damn Jack. Damn him.

Long after he'd showered, changed, and Zer0 had left, Rhys did not move. He remained in place, on the sofa directly across from the door, waiting.

And waiting. Stewing, plotting, but waiting.

The minutes ticked on. A full hour had passed. And still, nothing.

Jack never showed.

Rhys was fuming, but he wasn’t sure why. He stared daggers at the door that remained closed, chin perched in his hand. Finally, he climbed up off the sofa, pistol in hand, and advanced toward it.

“Okay, Jack,” he hissed. “Let’s play.”

It was a little after 11:15 PM Eden-6 time when the knock came at the door. A knowing smile flitted across Jack’s mask, followed by a minor pulse of heat in his groin; the glass decanter made a small tink of noise when he placed it back down on the bar. He pivoted, practically strutted across the room, paused to smooth out the wrinkles in his jacket, then palmed the interface to his right, opening the door to reveal a rather dour looking Atlas CEO.

“Well, well,” he grinned. “Look what we have here.”

Rhys blew through the door, barrel first. Jack, of course, had entirely anticipated this, and hooked him by the wrist, reeling him in close. He did not, however, account for Rhys’ cybernetic grip snagging onto his lapel. The two ended up tumbling to the floor as a result, caught in a desperate battle to wrestle the other into submission. They remained locked together, rolling one over the other — which was quite the display with Rhysie’s long legs — grunting and cursing until Jack ended up on top. He barely managed to hold him there, awkwardly draped across Rhys’ side; the younger man struggled furiously for almost a full minute before surrendering, dropping his forehead onto the floor with a thunk. The fight had not left him, far from it — he simply appeared to be taking a moment to acknowledge both the thrum of adrenaline and his compromised position underneath Jack.

Panting into the floor, he gave a half-hearted, rebellious little tug at his pistol wielding hand that Jack had twisted against the floor. Jack chuckled, straining his pinky to stab it at the release mechanism, effectively unlocking the dumb little bracelet securing it to Rhys’ wrist. The pistol rolled to the side, where Jack aimed an elbow to knock it across the room.

“Shit,” Rhys cursed. “How’d you—”

“I don’t give a shit about Atlas,” Jack reiterated in a pant. “But I know my competitors’ guns.”

Rhys’ reply was a grumble, but Jack did not miss the way he’d turned his head, to conceal a flourish of red in his cheeks. It was a little irritating that Rhys continued to play his role, embracing the haughty, dismissive demeanour of a brash, young CEO, but it was also somewhat entertaining. Like he was trying to convince himself he’d showed up at Jack’s door for any reason other than to take Jack’s thick cock.

Shit. Jack swallowed hard against a surprising flourish of saliva, adjusting himself to alleviate the heat under his collar. He could not deny he’d been looking forward to Rhysie’s arrival, but it was hitting him a little harder than he expected.

Leaning forward, he snagged Rhys’ ear between his teeth, swiping his tongue along it. Rhys gasped quietly in shock, but did not fight; he turned his head ever slightly to glance Jack from his blue-tinged peripherals.

“Your man better not be waiting in the hall, Rhysie,” Jack teased, breathless. He gently humped against Rhys’ leg for good measure, pressing a smirk to his shoulder. “I don’t think you’ll want him to witness what I’m about to do to you.”

“He’s not there,” Rhys growled. “I came alone.”

Neither of them acknowledged that Rhys’ reply had not denied Jack’s intentions. Jack felt a throb of interest in his groin, and paused long enough to allow a heavy, silent moment to pass between them. Then he deliberately ghosted his lips across the back of Rhys’ neck.

“Oh,” he said simply. “Interesting.”

The younger man did not struggle at his touch. It was a reassuring lack of response — an acceptance. It confirmed for Jack all that he had suspected of the Atlas CEO, from the very moment he’d first stroked his hand over Jack’s abdomen and whispered seductively into his ear. He could fool himself into thinking he had been after Timothy all along, but Jack knew better.

After all, Timothy was about as charismatic as an old shoe. If Rhys was after anything, it was the likeness in which the body double was strutting around.

“Drink?” he hummed in Rhys’ ear.

A hesitation.

“Fine.”

Jack spared the discarded pistol a glance to confirm its safe distance across the room before he pressed his palms to the floor and climbed off of Rhys. The younger man was playing ball, but there was uncertainty — best not to take the risk. He offered his hand, which Rhys begrudgingly accepted, and hauled him to his feet, reaching forward to dust him off. And all the while, Rhys allowed him to, but kept his eyes averted.

Coy, even now. Adorable.

“What’s your poison?” Jack asked, turning his back to cross over to the small bar.

“Surprise me,” he breathed airily, wandering over to the couches nearby. “As long as it’s not actual poison.”

Jack took his time uncorking the bottle, passing its mouth underneath his nose. He selected the glass carefully, guiding it into place with care, but did not really pay attention to what he was doing. He was actually listening, waiting, entirely too invested in what the man behind him was up to. Rhys hadn’t taken a seat, ever wary. He lingered at a distance, wordless, tense with anticipation.

Jack knew all this and continued to drag out the process. He wanted the kid to agonize, to be forced to acknowledge what it was he was waiting for Jack to do. He hadn’t been reduced to a whining, mewling wreck on two separate occasions for no reason, after all. 

Jack’s cock gave another twitch, and he mentally chided himself. To distract from the delightful inevitability, Jack finished what he was doing, turned, and looked Rhys over.

He’d changed. Of course he had — Jack had left him a sweating, leaking mess earlier. The cut of this suit, however, was a little slimmer. His cybernetic arm was fully on display, along with a hint of his chest tattoo that peeked out from beyond a silk, black dress shirt. Jack allowed his eyes to linger there, intentionally obvious, before he licked his lips.

Rhys’ eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“Eden’s finest,” Jack extended a glass toward him. “For Promethea’s finest.”

“Shut up,” Rhys snapped, plucking the tumbler of whiskey from his hand. He dully clinked it to Jack’s proffered glass, the barest gesture of gratitude, before he downed it in a single swallow — hot — and immediately grimaced. Jack watched him closely the entire time, focusing on the thick bob of his throat when he swallowed the offending liquid. “Holy hell, how do you drink that shit?

Jack gave a half-hearted shrug. “It grows on you.”

Rhys made another face, continuing to avoid Jack’s hard stare. “Like a fungus?”

“Always such a dandy,” Jack drawled. “Can’t handle a little hard liquor, kitten?”

“I, fuck, forget I even asked.” Rhys gave a petulant roll of his eyes, turning his attention to the room, to the bar, to anything but Jack. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Jack made a sound of disapproval, slipping forward to steal the glass back before he casually returned it to the bar.

“I’m afraid that’s not how this is going down,” he breathed, turning to lean against the wall as he lifted his own tumbler to his lips. “You want the Handsome Jack experience, baby, you get the full experience. This isn’t a five minute, pants-round-your-ankles fuck like you’re used to.”

Rhys, the cheeky minx, quirked an eyebrow. “You mean like earlier?”

“That,” Jack grinned, cocking his head to the side. “Was just a sample.”

“A sample.”

“Just enough to pique your interest. Get you hooked. And, look. You came back for more,” Jack laughed into his glass. “Hungry little thing.”

“Holy shit, I’m already regretting this.” Rhys absently glanced back toward the door. “Too late to back out now, I’m guessing?”

“You are free to try.”

At the heavy shift in Jack’s tone, Rhys finally looked his way. His eyes edged wide with uncertainty; his lips parted ever slightly, as though he were almost too afraid to ask.

“…I’ve already locked the door,” Jack admitted, tapping his wristwatch. “Though I don’t think I needed to, did I?”

Rhys’ brow contorted with his glare.

“You’re a piece of work, Jack.”

“Rhysie, baby…”

Jack pushed off the bar to advance on his prey. Rhys almost shrank back — almost — but managed to hold his ground, the precious little thing. It would have been the smarter thing to back away, really, but Rhys was almost half as arrogant as Jack, and twice as easy to manipulate. Poor bunny was playing right into his hands.

“If you didn’t like a little force, you wouldn’t have come crawling back after I stuck my cock in you in front of all your adoring fans,” he smirked, lifting a knuckle to stroke it across Rhys’ cheek. “Or did you forget the fact that it was involuntary on your part?”

Rhys’ cheeks burned a stark blush. Gods, Jack wanted to lean forward and sink his canines into that pink flesh.

“Maybe I’m here for revenge,” Rhys snapped. “See how confident you are with the barrel of my gun between your teeth.”

Jack couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped him then, sparing a glance to the gun halfway across the room.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he crooned. “Threats don’t really suit those sweet lips of yours, Rhysie. Unless…”

He allowed a brief, but heavy pause to permeate the space between them, enough to snag Rhys’ full attention, keep him wary. Jack gingerly placed his glass onto a nearby coffee table, tilting his head to scrutinize the younger man. He was flushed, frustrated, eager. And trembling oh so slightly. It filled Jack with heat.

“…that a kink of yours, baby?”

“Stop calling me that,” Rhys hissed. “And, no—what?”

“I’ve heard you exchange barbs before. Witty repartee. But never have I witnessed you menace anyone with one of your piddly Atlas pistols — which, by the way, have goddamn tiny barrels…” he cackled. “Which leads me to believe you simply have a very specific craving rocking around that skull of yours.”

Rhys sneered. Opened his mouth. Closed his mouth.

Jack chuckled.

A solitary step brought him to the closest sofa chair. A pivot dropped him into place. His hands slicked down his thighs, tracing his thumbs along his inseams, before he gave a gentle pat on his lap.

“C’mere, kitten,” Jack beckoned. “On your knees.”

Rhys did not immediately move. When Jack retrieved his inventory device from the nearby table, summoning a modest, basic Leverage pistol into his grip, then relaxed back into the seat, the Atlas CEO stiffened at the sight, gaze lingering on the length of the barrel boasted by the particular model.

Jack did not need to ask twice. He only had to wait another moment before Rhys drifted forward, hesitated, then lowered himself carefully onto his knees. As soon as Rhys settled into place, warily gazing upward at him through his eyelashes, Jack rewarded him by dragging his fingers through his hair, scrubbing gently at his scalp. Rhys bit down on his lip, as if to stifle a groan, and Jack’s lips twitched with a smile.

Atta boy.

“Okay, sweet thing,” he breathed. “Open your mouth.”

Rhys did as he asked, only to pause.

“That thing isn’t actually loaded, right?”

“I dunno. Probably.”

“…probably is, or probably isn’t?”

“Not knowing is all part of the fun, Rhysie.”

He wouldn’t admit the truth. Rhys didn’t need it. He was still eager as ever, licking his lips as he eyed the thing. Jack did not need to tell him that the gun wasn’t loaded, that he’d anticipated this, hoped for it. He’d prepared for a few dozen possibilities, really, but ever since Rhys had gone so obedient and pliant under him the first time he’d pulled his pistol, Jack had been dying to give it another go. So, yeah, he was ready ahead of time, having little interest in accidentally blowing the brains of the CEO of Atlas across the wall.

At least not until after he’d gone for a ride on Jack’s cock.

“Show me what you’ve got, kitten.”

His offset gaze found coordination when drawn together at the muzzle of Jack’s pistol. He was suddenly hyper-focused, brow pinched oh so slightly, as he took a moment to consider that small, foreboding little hole. Then his eyes fluttered shut, and his tongue slipped out past those thin, tempting lips.

Jack almost bit through his cheek, staring so hard that a pulse of a headache throbbed in his skull. Rhys was a little uncoordinated, fumbling his tongue along the barrel of the pistol, but once his mouth embraced the end of it, he gave a small and indecent suck, settling into place. His lips conformed to the shape of the barrel, the sight, cheeks tenting before drawing taut, and Jack dug his fingertips into the arm of the chair in desperate restraint.

He almost flinched when Rhys lifted his hands, cautiously placing them onto Jack’s thighs. What he did was actually lose focus, gaze drifting down to that delicious chest tattoo in interest, and the gun bobbed forward as a result. Rhys’ eyes widened; he drew back, tearing his head away to gag and cough. Saliva dripped down his chin, and Jack had to force a grin to prevent a moan.

“Too much to handle, sweetness?”

Rhys spared him a brief, hateful glance. “It’s been a while.”

“What?” Jack laughed, easing into the seat. “Going through a dry spell, Rhysie?”

The younger man pouted, eyes narrowed. “No, not— I meant it’s been a while since I’ve sucked cock, you ass. Or a gun, I guess.”

He eyed the barrel again, cheeks flushed red.

“With lips like that?” Jack smirked. “What a shame. Been neglecting your duties, princess?”

“Shut up, you prick,” Rhys sneered. “I’m just a little more versatile than you seem to think.”

“Nah.” Jack leaned forward, gripping Rhys’ long face in his hand. Rhys immediately slackened, wholly receptive to his touch. “You’re a bottom through and through, baby.”

The resulting shiver that rippled through the younger man did wonders for Jack’s already half-strained cock. But as keen as he appeared, he was almost as equally as resistant, continuing to refrain from overindulging in what he clearly desired.

“You annoy me so much,” Rhys grumbled.

“Hm. And why’s that?”

He didn’t really care. He was simply interested in watching Rhys attempt to maintain his CEO demeanour while Jack stroked a Hyperion pistol against his cheek.

“I—” Rhys trembled, closing his eyes to lean into its shape. Jack’s heart palpitated. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“On this station, or in my suite?”

“Here.” Rhys’ hands squeezed his thighs in explanation. “Between Handsome Jack’s knees.”

This time, Jack couldn’t help the little growl that escaped through his teeth.

“That’s where you’re wrong, baby,” he breathed. He reached forward, tenderly stroking fingers through Rhys’ carefully sculpted hair. “You belong between my knees.”

Rhys’ brow furrowed; he leaned forward, pressing his cheek to Jack’s thigh. Jack ever so gently bucked his hips in response, tempering himself, gaze flickering between Rhys’ soft face and his ever expanding bulge.

“Glad you came around, Rhysie. Not sure what I would have done if you continued to be such a goddamn tease, but I’m sure it woulda been violent.”

“I told you,” Rhys complained against his leg. “I thought you were Timothy.”

“Look at me, baby.”

He did. He opened his eyes, blinking upward at Jack, wary. Jack huffed a little, then stroked his fingers over Rhys’ cheek.

“You look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to be fucked by Handsome Jack.”

The recalcitrant young man wavered for only a brief moment, during which a small crease formed and faded from his forehead.

“…I don’t like that I want to be fucked by Handsome Jack.”

A throaty chuckle reverberated up Jack’s chest.

“I guess it’s good that my desire is stronger than your pride, then, huh, Rhysie?”

Rhys’ eyes widened.

“Let me help you,” Jack went on. He gestured with the gun, cocking his head to the side. “Stand up.”

Rhys’ glare darted to the gun, then back to Jack. He braced himself against Jack’s knees to climb up from the floor, brushing the wrinkles from his slacks before righting himself entirely. Jack sank farther into the seat, reaching for his whiskey to take a slow sip before nodding to the young CEO.

“Take off your clothes.”

The fleeting moments of resistance were starting to get on Jack’s nerves, as much as he enjoyed Rhys’ misery. Jack was not exactly known for his patience, and had been waiting months to get a shot at Atlas. Having walked away earlier that evening without having completed had almost driven him mad, but he had shown an inhuman amount of restraint and even stopped himself from jerking it the second he got back to his suite.

Because he wasn’t finished with Rhys. And he wasn’t about to waste an orgasm on his hand.

Rhys’ waistcoat hit the ground first. Jack stared at its formless shape on the floor, tracing its outline, before he lifted his head to watch Rhys tug his tie free. The buttons of his shirt came next, and with each one freed, a little more of that tattoo was revealed. Jack watched in appreciation as it took form, curling around his soft pectoral. He’d left the nipple bare — wuss — but Jack was almost glad for it. The circular spot became a target, a fixation, much like the tattoo on his neck.

It almost meant that it was very likely sensitive as hell.

“You felt so good earlier,” Jack began, speaking idly as Rhys continued on to his belt. “All flushed and hot under the collar. Looked so goddamn pretty, writhing against the railing like that. Needed to have it for myself, all over again.”

Jack did not mind heaping praise onto the little upstart, as long as it resulted in him exposing his skin. And Rhysie definitely moved along faster under his instruction, stripping off his slacks with ease. But before he could continue, their progress ground to a halt as Jack’s eyes descended to his socks.

A beat passed. An awkward, delayed beat. Then a snort of laughter escaped Jack’s chest.

“You, ah—”

“Would you believe they were a dare?”

“No.”

“No, you’re right,” Rhys sighed, gazing down to wiggle the toes of his Jackentine’s Day socks, the ones with Jack’s face all over them. “They matched my tie. Plus I always kinda wanted to see you with a foot in your mouth.”

Jack sat back.

“I mean, you’ve got an interesting share of kinks.”

“Shut up, idiot.” It was short lived, but Jack could swear Rhys almost laughed. He latched into it, storing it away.

“Don’t worry, sweetness. I’m into it,” he waved the gun again. “Ditch the socks, Rhysie.”

He did. And then he was down to his boxer briefs, almost entirely exposed in the chill of the air in Jack’s suite.

Jack, being benevolent, did not leave him to linger for long; he gently set down his pistol, and maneuvered onto his knees. Rhys balked, watching warily, but did not falter back, simply staring in wonder as Jack half crawled to him. Jack lifted his hands to cradle Rhys’ hips, thumbing along the now familiar shape of his pelvis, and leaned forward to lave his tongue over Rhys’ abdomen.

“Oh god.”

The rapturous, gasped admittance went straight to Jack’s cock. He tightened his possessive grip, memorizing the soft expanse of skin, the ever so light smattering of hair in his happy trail, the narrow “v” of his hips. And Rhys’ spine curled with him, propelling him forward into Jack’s grasp.

A request. And damn if Jack wasn’t just gentlemanly enough to acquiesce.

The band of his underwear easily surrendered to a tug of Jack’s fingers. He guided it around Rhys’ straining cock, only to let it fall with a fwump to his ankles. He ghosted a warm breath over Rhys’ exposed length, and the younger man whined over him, a lewd little sound that Jack wanted on ECHO recording for his own selfish purposes.

Rhys in no way lacked for size, but Jack’s hand swallowed him up all the same. A hiss of a gasp followed; Rhys’ hands grasped onto Jack’s shoulders, bracing against him. He very nearly craned his head to meet him, to capture his lips, but he was entirely too invested in the effect his touch had on the younger man.

At the base of his cock, just beneath the tuft of hair and under the pads of Jack’s fingers, he felt a throb. The smallest twitch, but more than enough to spark a similar reaction in Jack’s pants.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he started, dragging his fingers along Rhys’ shaft. Rhys winced in his grip, at the dry tug of friction. “This is the last time either of us are going to touch your cock. You’re gonna keep your hands off of it, even if I have to bind them over your head. You got me?”

A hesitation. Rhys wavered, gripping tighter onto his shoulders. Then he felt a sway, which he presumed to have been a nervous nod, and Jack rolled his eyes. 

“Use your words, cupcake,” he grunted, lifting his head to meet Rhys’ wary gaze. “I’m not always gonna be focused on that pretty little face of yours.”

Rhys’ eyes narrowed.

“…yes, Jack.”

“Good.”

He gave another pump of his hand, and Rhys curled closer in on him with a groan. His smell was apparent now — something cinnamon scented that had Jack’s mouth watering.

“Now. When I release you, you’re going to walk to the bedroom. You’re going to lay on the bed, and you’re going to put your ass in the air. Understood?”

A pause. Then—

“Yes, Jack.”

“Good.”

He leaned forward, and licked a long, solitary line up Rhys’ cock. Rhys gave a reedy whine, curling his arms around Jack’s head, losing his fingers in his hair. As Jack climbed to his feet, those same hands slipped along his shoulders, down onto his chest, and when Jack met his gaze, he found wide, cautious eyes looking back.

Jack stared into them, focused more on his natural, brown eye, than the glow of the cybernetic. There were flecks of gold within it, a play of the light, and it drew Jack in. Rhys’ lips parted; he exhaled ever so softly past his nostrils. He remained otherwise still, hands still conformed to the shape of Jack’s chest.

And then Jack let him go.

Rhys swallowed hard, turned, and headed for the hallway nearby without another word. Jack retrieved his pistol and Rhys’ tie from the floor, and followed behind, watching every line of Rhys’ stark, nude frame as he moved through the shadows of the darkened hallway. He was almost aglow, so pale, moving rigidly toward the bedroom at the end. And Jack held his pistol aloft, not because it was necessary, but because he knew it was expected, and who was he to deprive little Rhysie of his delightful fantasy.

Also — marching the CEO of Atlas down the hall, naked and directed by his pistol, was definitely an image going into his spank bank for later, lonely nights.

...if he played his cards right, however, there wouldn’t be a need for those anymore.

Rhys lifted a hand to press past the bedroom door, wavering slightly at the threshold. He gazed over his shoulder, to the gun in Jack’s hands, and quivered before stepping inside. Jack lingered there as he watched Rhys cross to the amply sized bed, crawl onto the mattress, and lower himself onto his forearms.

Gods, what a sight. Rhys’ ass was perfectly curved, exposing that tight, enticing ring of muscles. His gaze held it, then moved down his perineum, to where his dick and balls hung, giving the odd twitch in anticipation. Jack shifted between his feet in an effort to alleviate the discomfort of his jeans.

“Jack?” Rhys asked softly, face buried in the blankets.

“I’m here, baby.”

He moved across the room, letting every footfall echo out, telegraphing his approach. Rhys grew more rigid the closer he got, until he wasn’t certain he was allowing himself to breathe anymore. Jack lifted one hand to his lower back, stroking the material of the tie almost affectionately across his skin, and brought the other up to press the cold gun to his thigh. This prompted a sharp inhale on Rhys’ part, and he sank deeper onto his chest.

“Open yourself for me, Rhysie.”

With a fumbling, Rhys managed to free one of his arms. He maneuvered onto his shoulder, reaching his arm back, and with his ring and forefinger, stretched himself outward. His middle finger prodded down, settled, and pressed inside. His breathing snagged a little, but quickly evened out, as he set to work.

His eagerness was going to be Jack’s undoing. He had expected him to put up more of a fight, but he supposed what he’d experienced earlier that night had proven to be too much of a temptation. And that was fine; Jack was not about to argue. Not after having listened to the little noises he made, the gulps and gasps and whines that came out as whispers as he struggled to hide their indiscretion.

Those noises possessed Jack. He’d always loved Rhys for his mouth — his sass, his biting wit. But now, he had the lovely knowledge of the sounds he made when he was undone on Jack’s cock, and nothing else would compare ever again.

Jack let the tie drop to the bed, in favour of taking a handful of Rhys’ ass cheek. Rhys’ finger stopped for a moment, as he gave a muffled moan into the bedspread, but he picked up again before Jack had to resort to pressing the pistol to the back of his skull.

“Good little Atlas,” Jack breathed. “Knew you’d obey. Knew you’d grovel for Hyperion’s power.”

Rhys cursed into the blanket, but kept working. He even added a finger, jackknifing himself open.

“S’not what it was about.”

Jack chuckled. He leaned forward and reached around Rhys’ chest to give his nipple a gentle pinch, earning a bark of alarm and lust that drove Rhys’ fingers deeper.

“That’s exactly what it was,” he breathed, flicking at the nub, stroking a circle around it. “You’d wormed your way into the good graces of all the big boys. All but the one you wanted most. The biggest and baddest. And all you wanted was even a glimpse of the power and influence that only someone like Handsome Jack could yield.”

He noticed Rhys had stopped moving his hand, so he ducked in and painted it with his saliva. Rhys groaned again.

“Tell me I’m right, baby.”

He slipped the barrel of his gun in between Rhys’ thigh and cock, gliding the cool metal along his length.

“Shit,” Rhys hissed. “Yes. Yes, okay, fine.”

“Yes?”

Jack sank back to check on his progress. He had three fingers pressed desperately deep, with his pinky impossibly bent to shove farther in. It wouldn’t be enough, but it was a sufficient start.

“Always wanted to be like you,” Rhys admitted with a growl. “Always w-wanted to dominate a room like you. Command that kind of respect.”

He turned his head against the mattress to meet Jack’s subdued gaze.

“Was never strong enough, though. C-could never be that person.”

Jack stared hard at the younger man, gently rocking the pistol back and forth. He tilted his head with a hum to press his lips against Rhys’ spine.

“That’s where you’re wrong, baby. And I’m gonna show you why.”

Jack straightened, resting the pistol beside Rhys’ knee. He first removed his jacket, tossing it into a nearby, empty chair. His vest came next, each clasp snapped deliberately slowly, drawing the process out. It slipped off his arms with the lab coat underneath, then sailed across the room. He stripped off his sweater, his pants, and his underwear. When at last he was gloriously naked, he retrieved the tie and strode around the bed, pausing long enough to retrieve a bottle of lube from the bedstand, and climbed over its plush surface to turn and set his spine against the headboard.

Rhys had shuffled his other arm under his chest to prop himself up and watch. When Jack was settled into the pillows, and worked his cock enough for glistening beads of precum to roll down its length, Rhys swallowed hard.

“Come here, kitten,” Jack growled. “Take what you deserve.”

Rhys fumbled his way across the bed, kneeing the pistol in the process. He came to a rest between Jack’s legs, staring. His hands trembled with intent, reaching out slowly, cautiously, to stroke their way across Jack’s abdomen.

Jack was no slouch when it came to personal fitness, but the years had been tempered with long office hours and somewhat poor dietary choices. What resulted was a dense, muscular frame, one that lacked carved definition, but boasted its own obvious strength and size.

Rhys noticed this, and his jaw had fallen slack. He groped along Jack’s abdomen, his chest, as if memorizing his shape. A slow, methodical appreciation of Jack’s physical potential, even at rest.

He maneuvered himself over Jack, lifting his legs over him, one at a time, then carefully settled back into his lap. He whimpered audibly when his hard, weeping cock brushed against Jack’s.

Jack spared it a glance, content that Rhys had obeyed, and hadn’t set a hand on it yet, despite an erection that almost looked painful in its need.

“Hands forward, Rhysie.”

He held his arms out, and Jack slipped the tie around them. With the final loop, he jerked it hard, tightening the knot with a solid yank, and Rhys whined, grinding against him. The press of his groin had Jack similarly grunting with desire.

“Okay, baby. Lean forward.”

Rhys’ eyes widened, but he acquiesced. He rested his bound hands on Jack’s chest, and hitched his ass into the air high enough that Jack’s cock grazed him from below. Jack grasped his shaft at the base, slathered his opposite hand with lube, and painted it with his slick touch. Then he lined himself up, and pressed its head against Rhys’ now twitching entrance.

“C-condom?” Rhys whimpered over him.

Jack chuckled. “No, baby.”

You’re mine now. And I want to feel all of you.

Rhys’ expression pinched with uncertainty, but it was quickly overwhelmed with a wash of lust, as Jack braced a hand on his hip, and rocked his pelvis.

The head of his cock embraced Rhys’ ass, nudging hard at the ring of muscles, and forced its way inside. Rhys gasped, dropping his face alongside Jack’s. His breath was warm on Jack’s neck, where he uttered curses to his flesh.

Once he was deep enough inside that he wouldn’t snap free, Jack pried his grip loose, and settled his hands on the blanket at his sides. Well, okay, he held tightly onto fistfuls of it, to resist taking hold of the man in his lap once more.

Rhys was delicately balanced, straining to prevent impaling himself too early while staring at Jack in bewilderment. Jack only offered a Cheshire grin.

“…on you go.”

His confusion was replaced very briefly with a hint of frustration, only to be snuffed out by a look of need. He gazed down, drew in a breath, and began to ease himself onto Jack’s length.

It was a slow process. A pause every few seconds for Rhys to take frantic sips of air, to control and prevent himself reaching for his own pulsing cock. Jack managed to restrain himself as well, but barely, feeling the tremble of Rhys' thighs working to prop him up.

Rhys was right there. Gulping and gasping and wincing and looking so damn pretty. Jack wanted to take hold, to ruin his hair, to force himself onto his cock and see him undone. But he would wait. He had something to prove, after all.

And eventually, his inhuman patience was rewarded. Rhys bottomed out with a moan, and for several moments they simply panted in the silence of the room, staring back at one another.

“O-okay,” Rhys eventually uttered. “And n-now?”

Jack swallowed against the thickness in his throat, somehow managing to draw a curved grin across his mask.

“Ride me,” he instructed. “If you can come before I do, without touching yourself, you are free to go.”

Rhys’ eyes edged wider.

“…and if I can’t?”

Jack chuckled.

“I guess that means you’re not free to go, dumb-dumb.”

Rhys pouted back at him — adorable. Then he gazed down at Jack’s hips, where he was still rooted in place by Jack’s cock, and leaned forward to guide his tight asshole up the full length of his shaft. His eyes fluttered shut, his lips drifted apart, and he arched his back, bending forward in an attempt to brush Jack against that delicious spot inside.

Jack stared. He controlled his breathing, his heartbeat, his grip on the bedspread, and he stared. Rhys was beautiful. His brows pinched together and he mouthed nothingness into the air between them — little quirks of his facial muscles as he fixated on his orgasm. Then Rhys’ eyes flickered open, settling on Jack’s chest, searching, exploring the expanse of dark hair and pearl scars. All the while, he continued to rock on his knees, which eventually began to tremble with the effort.

And Jack stared.

The heat curled and pooled in his groin. His balls tightened and softened and he bit down on his tongue. And Rhys continued to fuck himself raw on Jack’s cock. When he picked up his pace, and his ass slapped down on Jack’s pelvis, Jack summoned every ounce of his strength not to reach up, wind his arms around Rhys’ delicate shape, and pound up into him until he came.

Finally, finally, he had Atlas right where he wanted him. How often had he fantasized about this moment?

Too often. It didn't make sense. 

“Jack,” Rhys whined, voice high and needy. “Jack.”

Fuck. Okay, maybe it did. Jack's eyes rolled back into his skull with the effort, but he somehow kept the tone of his response even.

“Yes, baby?”

“W-what was the lesson?”

“The—”

He eased back, smirking. Ah.

“The lesson,” he breathed. “Was to show you that you were wasting your time, Rhysie. You don’t need to pretend you’re something you’re not. You don’t need to play their game to get ahead. Sucking up to those who are beneath you.”

He hitched his hips to meet Rhys’ movements to support his reply. Rhys whimpered, but did not stop. His hips continued to rock, to slam his ass down on Jack’s cock, and his own length slapped against his belly, painting trails of precum between them.

“You are more than them, Rhysie. This—” Jack at last grasped him tight, driving him down on his cock, wresting free a loud, lovely moan of pleasure and pain. “Is what you are, Rhys.”

“T-this?”

Jack chuckled. A deep, dark reverberation that sent a resulting shudder through Rhys. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

“Powerful,” he explained. “Capable of turning every head in every room you walk into and knowing it. Deceptively influential. A force to be reckoned with.”

Rhys whimpered. Jack smiled against his cheek — all fangs and heat.

“Mine.”

Rhys hissed an inhale of breath.

“Jack,” he moaned. Jack swallowed his own name with a bruising kiss. Their tongues met, fumbled over each other, before Rhys rocked back and broke away with a gasp.

He was bouncing on Jack’s cock now, keeping his face pressed to Jack’s cheek while rocking his spine to drive himself down. Jack closed his eyes, feeling every fantastic stroke of pleasure, of mounting pressure, of about goddamn time I caught you.

Rhys craned his head, meeting his gaze, suddenly certain. It caught Jack off guard with its sincerity, its burning desire.

“Jack,” he said again, in a breathy whisper. “Teach me.”

And Jack almost came right then and there. He grasped onto the back of Rhys’ head, tugging him down for another hard kiss of tongue and teeth. Then he drifted alongside his face, to his ear.

“You and I, Rhysie…” he hummed. “Are going to rule these idiots.”

Rhys seized up. He convulsed, crying aloud, and thick, heated spurts of ejaculate coated the skin of Jack’s belly. Rhys’ muscles tightening beyond belief, beyond restraint, and Jack almost followed closely behind.

“Fuck,” Rhys choked off, going stiff, then boneless. But before he could relax, Jack shoved them into a roll.

He pinned Rhys to his back, grasped him by the hips, and began to fuck him raw into the bed. His thrusts were possessed, frenzied, his expression contorting into a snarl. His toes dug into the mattress, the grip on Rhys’ hips tightening past the point of bruising. He jerked his forearms with every thrust driving his cock hard and fast into Rhys’ deliriously tight hole.

And Rhys whimpered and cried out and cursed and shouted Jack’s name.

And Jack stared.

Jack’s orgasm was sudden, a rush that gripped his entire being. He slammed into Rhys a final time, slipping his hands up, around his shoulders, pulling him close. And Rhys’ arms immediately wound around his neck; he gasped into his ear, curling into his shape to take every last bit of Jack’s cum. The feeling of Rhys' heels digging in, holding him there, had Jack jerking in another delirious motion.

They remained that way, locked intimately together, until Jack’s little spasms subsided. Until his heart stopped thudding against his rib cage, until his breathing slowed. But even then, he was hesitant to let go. In fact, Rhys was the first to move. One of his hands slipped away.

And a second later, Jack felt the cold press of his pistol against his temple.

His eyes snapped open. Rhys looked back, lips parted, searching Jack’s face. 

“…I could pull this trigger right now, you know.”

Jack almost shivered. He held Rhys’ gaze, feeling his heart begin to rush anew.

“Yeah,” he murmured back. “You could.”

His shield was gone, but only he knew that the gun—

“Because it was never loaded, was it?”

Jack blinked.

“…no.”

Rhys exhaled softly. Nodded.

“And I knew that,” he hummed. “What I don’t know is why.”

Jack, still situated firmly inside Rhys’ ass, gave a purr. There were few things he truly wanted in this life. Power and money, he had. Happiness was fleeting. Health — meh, close enough. There was little else that remained.

There was nothing but the burning desire that had gripped him when he’d first set eyes on Rhys Strongfork. The need to claim, to take, to keep. He’d spent months watching Rhys work and manipulate and flirt his way across the galaxy, but never in his direction. A touch, once. A temptation.

And now, he was Jack’s. And Jack was never letting go.

“You know why, Rhysie.” He lifted a hand, stroking it across his cheek.

Rhys’ eyes widened; he relaxed. The gun disappeared.

“No, I don’t,” he murmured. His hand returned to Jack’s head, gliding fingers across his scalp. Jack groaned at the sensation, eyes fluttering shut, and he leaned into Rhys, resting his forehead in the crook of his neck. Lips brushed his ear.

“I guess I’ll need another lesson.”