Chapter 1: +1.0 to Fire Rate
Helios is a scrambling madhouse upon the Return of Handsome Jack. The power vacuum that developed after his death had been constantly in flux, one asshole rising above the rest only to be knocked down by some other asshole. Vasquez had only been one in a long line of those able to break through to the top before his good backstabbing fortune turned sour.
Because now Jack was back, with renewed ambition and a new body to match. A new body that he’s apparently been testing out.
Word going around is that the first thing he did after his digital implantation and revival was order one of the doctors to take a swing at him. Not that any of them had the balls to it; he eventually had to threaten one of his own security staff to just wind back and deck him good.
Rhys can’t validate that though; if there is a bruise, it’s hidden behind the mask, but he likes to imagine it- hell, he would have volunteered to do the hitting himself, had he thought he could do any actual damage. All he can do right at this moment is stare wide-eyed as Jack looms above him, hands on either side of his head on the desk. Rhys’ is bent back at an awkward angle, legs and feet trying desperately to keep him from sliding onto the floor because all that would do is put his crotch in contact with Jack’s, who’s less than a couple of inches away, and he really doesn’t need that right now.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen, Rhysie,” Jack says, hand coming to grip Rhys’ chin. “You’re gonna lose the pants and hop your skinny ass up on the desk for me. You listenin’, pumpkin?” Rhys stares at him for a full five seconds before blinking.
“For the love of-” Jack grabs at his belt. “This is my welcome back party, idiot. I’ve had a brawl, I’ve gotten shitfaced, and next on my list is getting laid. This body’s got a cherry to pop so congratulations, your greatest wish is about to come true.”
“You killed Vasquez,” Rhys says without prompt. He’s trying to make a point, an I can see you for the horrible psychopath that you really are now point. He doesn’t think he conveys that well when Jack raises an eyebrow.
“You’re welcome?” he says irritably and okay, that’s fair. Rhys might have had something of an uncontrollable laughing fit when he watched Vasquez’s body float by the windows of the Finance department. Jack rolls his eyes pulls Rhys’ pants open. Rhys’ hands automatically grab for Jack’s shoulders to steady himself when Jack bends to pull off his shoes and tear off his slacks before grabbing him by the ass and practically throwing him on the solid desk behind him. He grabs Rhys’ thighs before he can close them and digs his fingers in so tightly that Rhys knows there’ll be marks.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! W-wait a minute-!”
Jack ignores him, leaning over to search through a drawer, pulling out a bottle before slamming it shut. Rhys feels himself blush all the way to his roots but his hands simply grip Jack’s shoulders tighter becausefine. Maybe Jack was kinda sorta right and this is something he’s imagined for a ridiculously long time. He’s not a saint, alright, and probably can’t even be considered a good person, so as much as he wants to punch Handsome Jack, he also really, really wants the guy to fuck him.
He’s not expecting Jack to kiss him. That seems a little intimate for something Rhys is pretty sure is just meant to be a one time thing, quick and dirty and never mentioned again. But suddenly Jack’s tongue is in his mouth and his teeth are biting his lips and Rhys has no other choice but to respond with enthusiasm, burying his left hand into Jack’s hair and leaning back on his right. He gets kind of lost in it to the point where he doesn’t notice that Jack has lifted his hips just slightly. It’s the push of a slick finger inside of him that makes him break away from the kiss with a surprised sound.
“Easy now,” Jack says hotly against his ear. Rhys shudders out a heavy breath but drags his lips across the cheek of Jack’s mask and the kissing resumes. Rhys leans back more, pulling Jack with him with the hand at the base of his neck and he’s relieved when Jack follows without hesitation or annoyance. If anything he seems eager, his fingers pressing more deeply into Rhys and dragging out appreciative sounds. When Rhys wraps a leg around him to pull him closer, Jack hisses and pulls back, hand stilling in its effort to work Rhys open. His grip on Rhys’ thigh becomes painful and Rhys quickly draws his leg back, thinking he’d pissed the man off. But Jack catches him, putting his leg back in place but not moving beyond that. Rhys blinks dazedly at him, about to ask what the problem is when he sees Jack’s eyes screwed shut, his chest taking slow but shallow breaths.
“Jack?” Rhys asks, his voice low and breathy beyond his control.
“Stop talking,” Jack demands and Rhys does. Jack opens his eyes then, frown deepening as he removes his fingers. “Goddamnit.” He quickly undoes his pants one handed, pulling himself out and pushing them past his hips. Rhys’ eyes widen again when he sees how hard Jack already is, his cock swollen and dripping. Jack pulls Rhys’ other leg around him before grabbing his ass to lift him again. Rhys lays more fully back unto the desk and can’t help the moan that comes out when Jack starts to push in. Nor can he help the gentle roll of his hips when Jack bottoms out.
And he can’t help the “Wha?” when he feels Jack’s body shudder against him and swear against his skin when something begins to run down his crease of his ass. “Did you-” He’s almost afraid to ask. “Did you just-”
“Shut. UP.” Jack’s voice has an embarrassed pitched to it and Rhys can see the skin peeking from behind the mask turn red.
He did. Holy-
“It, uh-” Rhys swallow, unsure of what to do in this situation. “It happens to everyone?”
The sudden gunshot into the desk right next to his head causes his whole body to clench up, and Jack groans almost painfully before dropping his gun onto the floor and pitching forward, pressing his forehead into Rhys’ chest. He hears Jack mutter “fuckfuckfuck” with ears definitely turning a bright red, and takes a moment to appreciate the irony of it all.
Handsome Jack is terrible in the sack.
Turns out a new body means a body not used to certain stimuli. It also turns out that an embarrassed Jack immediately gives way to a defensive, vindictive Jack. Rhys doesn’t get off that night and gets yelled at plenty, for random, inconsequential things. A spiteful part of himself whispers that this is it, this is the kind of rumor mill fodder that could really hurt Handsome Jack’s image. A more sensible part reckons that the next bullet fired at him wouldn’t be a warning shot.
But for fuck’s sake, there’s only so many times they can do this pathetic song and dance before Rhys feels like he will actually explode from the sexual frustration. Because it wasn’t just a one time thing, despite beinghilariously quick and dirty. It’s like Jack has something to prove, determined to show Rhys that “this has never happened before, I’m serious, stop laughing before I fucking kill you!”
Except that it keeps happening and Rhys only has so much patience, even for the most powerful man in the galaxy.
His frustration is shared, because Jack’s triumphant victory over death and confident air has twisted into unreasonable demands and unstable moods. He’s dismantled development teams, turned departments upside down, and rearranged management to fix what he sees to be wasted resources and premature product launches.
Heh, Rhys thinks to himself. Premature.
He actually can’t help the soft snicker, and he immediately feels Jack stiffen behind him, he’s fingers stopping their teasing push and pull. This is Jack’s third attempt to get Rhys riled up enough before sex so that they’ll both be quick to finish and hopefully no one involved will notice, but Rhys is left unimpressed and unsatisfied every time and it’s eating away at Jack’s ego. Rhys does yelp when Jack slaps his ass, bending over to place his mouth next to Rhys’ ear.
“Something funny, kiddo?” his voice tight with barely checked anger.
Yes, actually, Rhys wants to say. Instead he sighs deeply, turning to glare at Jack over his shoulder. Jack actually seems surprised when Rhys pushes off from his elbows and turns around, grabbing him by his lapels and twisting them around. When Jack’s ass hits the corner of the desk, Rhys uses his weight to push him down. Before Jack can shout at him or attempt to strangle him, Rhys climbs up, his knees coming to rest on either side of his hips.
“We’re done doing this your way,” Rhys says, knowing he’s a dead man after this, but god-fucking-damnit he needs to get off, so Jack’s just gonna have to deal with it.
And to Rhys’ surprise, he does.
There’s anger at first, yeah, and Jack’s grip on waist suggests he’s seconds away from throwing Rhys to the floor, but then Rhys gets his flesh hand down the front of Jack’s pants and the man stills again, watching Rhys pull his half-hard cock out and begin to palm it. Of course, it doesn’t take long before he’s fully erect and leaking so Rhys doesn’t focus on it for long. Jack grits his teeth but says nothing, just slowly lies back and waits.
Rhys is pretty sure this is what it’s like to feel dizzy with power.
He lowers himself slowly, letting Jack’s cock slide inside with only a little resistance. Jack’s head hits the desk, hissing as Rhys sits fully on top of him. Oh no, Rhys thinks, not this time. Without really thinking about it, Rhys reaches out with his left hand, pushing Jack’s shirt up and raking his nails down his chest, roughly catching a nipple.
Jack likes dishing out pain, but he doesn’t seem all that into receiving it, at least during sex.
Rhys lifts himself up and pushes back down, his hand making another pass. Jack’s face twists, wanting the pleasure but too focused on the discomfort. His grip on Rhys’ waist tightens again and Rhys wraps his robotic fingers around his wrist. His right arm might only be made for interfacing with the ECHOnet, but metal gripping bone is never gentle. Again he manages a few more lifts of his hips, slowly establishing some semblance of a rhythm.
So far Jack is still with him. Dividing his attention like this is helping, but even still Rhys has to stop every once in a while, let Jack come down a bit before starting up again. Every time Jack leverages his hips up or tries to pull him down by his waist, Rhys stops, to scratch, to bite, once even to pull Jack’s hair. When Rhys did that, Jack actually growled, teeth clenched together and hips thrusting almost in defiance. Actual defiance, as if he wasn’t the one in control here.
It doesn’t help Rhys’ power drunk state to realize Jack isn’t in control.He is. It definitely makes him more ballsy. He doesn’t lift up this time, instead starting a slow rolling back and forth, grinding down and throwing his head back when he hits just the right spot. His right hand slides down from Jack’s wrist to grip his forearm, his left hand digging into the rows of red lines that have appeared on Jack’s chest. He grinds down again, trying to chase that spark of pure pleasure when suddenly Jack wraps a hand around his dick and squeezes.
“Ah! Oh-” Rhys is forced to lift up again, pushing himself through Jack’s fist before slamming back down. Shit, he thinks as he feels that balance of power begin to tip. Just when he was really starting to get into it. He can’t stop now, though, because he’s close. Finally, finally, he’s close. But Jack is closer, and that’s not fair. He doesn’t reign in the pace again, fine with it becoming faster, more chaotic. He does, however, bend his head down and tongue Jack’s abused nipple before closing his teeth around it. Jack’s moan tapers off into an actual shout, one of his hands coming to grip Rhys’ hair, trying to pull him off. But Rhys just tongues it again, choking back his own moan when Jack reflexively squeezes him harder.
It only takes a few more passes before he’s coming over Jack’s torso, white lines joining red in a cross pattern. He rides out his orgasm as best he can, once again rolling his hips with it, smirking when Jack arches off of the desk, coming inside shortly after him.
He honestly does try to catch himself, but he ends up falling forward anyway, burying his sweaty face into Jack’s bunched up yellow Hyperion shirt. He thinks he’s just about caught his breath when Jack bites the shit out of his ear.
“See, kitten?” Jack says, tone weirdly light and jovial after what just happened. “A little practice and I’m back in business. Next time go for the reverse cowgirl, because if you bite me again, I’m knocking out your teeth.”
Rhys really wishes he was better at punching, because that arrogant, smug look is frankly undeserved and decidedly not handsome and really, really, pisses him off.
He bites his shoulder instead.
Chapter 2: +0.5 to Reload Speed
There is some questionable consent going on, so please be aware of that.
There is something kinda nice about watching the kid lose himself on top of him, Jack thinks. Flat out on his desk and straddled by some hot young thing is definitely on his short list of Best Ways to Spend a Monday. But it’s Wednesday now, and as admittedly sexy as it is to grab onto Rhys’ hips and let him ride, Jack also thinks it’s about time he took back the reins.
But, you know, there was kind of a reason Rhys had the reins to begin with and every time Jack moves to flip them both over and go to town, his own body turns against him and puts him that much closer to the edge, much closer than Rhys and isn’t that a pain in the ass. It’s actually something that starts to really get to him, watching his slut of a PA walk around the office in perfectly tailored slacks, or talk enthusiastically to robotics R&D scientists with his too-pretty mouth, or, god forbid, flush that stupidly fetching red color when he catches Jack staring.
The boy needs a heavy hand to curb that inviting behavior and Jack’s been able to do fuckall about it.
So maybe he gets a little desperate, what of it? There was a first time for everything- because this was absolutely, without a doubt, no reason to question why he had half a blister pack, the first time- and he could use a little, tiny, itsy bitsy help proving a point.
Though he’s pretty sure those ENGORGE! pills were blue when he first got them however many years ago, not purple. Whatever. He told Rhys to be at his penthouse at 2100 on the dot, but it’s 2050 and he’s regretting taking that double dosage ten minutes ago. He should probably count himself lucky that Rhys is perpetually fearful of being late to anything in his life and lets himself in with his biometric signature at 2055, looking around with the cautious awe of a baby deer.
Christ, Jack wants to ruin him.
“In here, cupcake,” he says. Rhys jumps and strains to look into the darkness of Jack’s study, clutching the ECHOpad in his hands a little tighter. Jack takes a long sip from the glass of Scotch hanging limply in his hand, not that he needed the added liquid heat contributing to the fire that’s trudging through his veins now. As Rhys approaches the office, he nervously taps at the pad.
“I, uh. I have that list of names you wanted this afternoon? Um, from the meeting with-” His words die in his throat when he’s close enough in that dark room to take in his boss. The open button-down shirt was intentional (of course it was, he practically never really wears them), as is the popped button of his pants. Jack is pretty sure he screams office affair.
But Rhys isn’t looking at his body.
Idly, Jack brings a finger up to rub against his nose and remembers he’s not wearing his mask. Oh. Well, shit, it’s not his fault. He’s surprised any blood is making it to his brain right now. There’s enough, though, that it pisses him off a little. His scar isn’t nearly as pronounced on this body, hell the damage to his eye isn’t even that significant. But the fact that… the fact that it was so thoroughly punched into him, into his very DNA, that it’s become a part of him is like a constant thorn under his nail that he can’t pull out, minor in the long run but maddening all the same. Looking like this, he’s probably just fucked up his plans for tonight.
Wait, the hell is he thinking? As if Rhys would actually deny him.
“Get over here,” Jack bites out, his words sounding strained even to his own ears.
When Rhys immediately closes the distance between them, something that Jack won’t call relief floods him for just a second, followed by another wave of heat as Rhys’ eyes finally fall from his scar to his chest. From there his gaze travels lower, blushing like the virgin Jack damn well knows he isn’t when he sees the too obvious bulge in Jack’s pants. Slowly, Jack threads his fingers into the hair close to the nape of Rhys’ neck. Swallowing, Rhys looks back up at him, eyes once again tracing the scar before settling on Jack’s, blinking when he notices something.
“Are- are you okay? Your pupils are super dilated.”
Jack ignores him and takes the ECHOpad from his hands, sparing it half a glance.
“So early in the week, so many people to fire. Nothing to really put you in a strangling mood quite like incompetence. Tell me, Rhysie, you got any ideas on how to relieve all this work induced stress?” Turning his head into Jack’s hand, Rhys starts to smile.
“I’m sure I can think of something.”
Blushing virgin straight into office tramp. Jack can appreciate efficiency. He knocks back the rest of his drink, tossing it to the side. Neither of them pay attention to the shattering glass as Rhys’ left hand trails down Jack’s abdomen, fingers catching the band of his pants. Rhys starts to crowd him, metal hand coming up to push Jack back toward the desk. Jack grabs both wrists with a growl, startling Rhys.
“We’re done doing this your way, princess.”
Rhys actually squawks when Jack’s hands tear at his clothes, literally sending buttons flying and throwing those tacky-ass boots to god knows where. When he throws Rhys down on his desk face-first, the kid’s lucky he still has his dress shirt hanging off of him, ass on display and body braced against the solid wood. And Jack? Jack’s so hard it makes his teeth hurt.
He drops to a knee, hands pulling Rhys open as he presses his tongue forward. He hears Rhys’ head hit the desk, choked sounds making his body shake against Jack’s mouth, but Jack doesn’t relent. He nips and laves the ring of muscle before pushing in, starting up a rhythm that matches Rhys’ attempts to push back. His fingers soon join, going deeper than his tongue and scissoring him open further. Jack continues to lick around them, getting Rhys as wet as possible until he just can’t fucking take it anymore.
With a final bite to one cheek that makes Rhys gasp, Jack stands up, pushing his pants just past his hips and taking himself in hand. He groans, angry red and dripping all over the place as he guides in.
“Jack,” Rhys breathes, pushing back again like some cock starved whore. Fingers digging into those narrow hips, Jack rams in as hard as he can.
And comes with a jolt.
The groan Rhys makes is anything but aroused he punches the desk.
“Are you fucking kidding me wi- AH!” Rhys quakes in Jack’s grip as he thrusts again. “Wha-? Jack?” Another thrust and Rhys can feel the added wetness between his legs. The man definitely came. “How are you still-?” The breath is knocked out of him with the next one, face driven back down to the desk by a hand at his head.
“Pay attention, sweetheart,” Jack says, his voice breathy and strained. He doesn’t give Rhys the chance question him, just continues to push into the kid with abandon, soaking in all those sounds, every inch of that tight ass, every spark of too sharp pleasure running up his spine. And Rhys takes everything, body arched in such a way that Jack slides in even deeper, rocking back every so often into Jack’s pistoning hips.
Such behavior, Jack feels, should to be rewarded. He snakes a hand around, fingers closing around Rhys’ erection and working counter to his thrusts. The cry that accompanies his actions nearly tips him over, but the sudden rush of warmth over his fingers is like a goddamn victory and that’s what makes him come.
Rhys completely sags again the desk, pinned in place by Jack’s body, which is good considering his legs are useless right now. His body is humming with heat and pleasure at finally being fucked by Handsome Jack the way he wanted in the beginning. So lost in that post-orgasmic haze, it takes him a moment to realize. Blinking, Rhys focuses his hearing to the ragged breaths behind him, noticing Jack’s fingers were still digging painfully into his hips.
And Jack is still hard.
The only response he gets is another hard ramming into his center. He cries out, pleasure bordering on pain as his body fights the sensations.
“W-wait, I just came. Jack, hold on-!”
An arm goes under one of his legs and pulls it up to the desk, opening him even wider as Jack’s hips pick up another brutal rhythm. Rhys claws at the desk, trying to pull away from the cock inside him threatening to shake him apart. But Jack just growls again, pulling him bodily back into a particularly hard thrust that sends Rhys’ vision swimming.
The pain/pleasure is like a knife to his spine, cutting into him and leaving him feeling raw and exposed. Literally all he can do is try to hold on, ride it out with the viciousness of Jack’s movements and pray this doesn’t kill him somehow. He feels it once more, that creeping feeling that starts in his legs and works its way up into the pit of his stomach. He’s close again, some way, somehow, and his choked moans turn into something like sobs when he comes again, this time with his cock untouched.
He barely has anything to give, but when Jack comes again soon after, Rhys feels like a mess, rivulets running down his thighs, leaving him both hot and cold. He almost cries in thankfulness when Jack pulls out, hole twitching from overuse, but when he’s flipped over and his knees are nearly pushed to the desk underneath him, Rhys’ remembers how fickle Jack’s mercy can be.
“Please, don’t!” he says, eyes beginning to water. “Jack, please, no more. No more…Just-just wait, okay? Then we can-!”
But Jack, standing there with wild eyes and Rhys’ legs in his hands, looks like a man possessed and without reason. He’s panting like an animal and Rhys swears he can feel the unsteady pounding of the man’s heart through the fingers digging even more bruises into his skin.
“One more time,” Jack says, pushing himself back inside. Rhys cries out, head hitting the desk once more. “Come on, baby, just one more…” Rhys can’t help but bring his hands up to push at Jack’s shoulders, but only seems to anger him, his pace increasing. Rhys’ hiccuping sobs do nothing to cover up the vulgar wet slap of their bodies, and he can feel the sticky remains of Jack’s release cling to their skin with every thrust. It hurts, it hurts it hurts it hurts-
It hurts so damn good. Rhys’ mind starts to empty, giving in to everything, to the pain, to the pleasure, and Jack. He knows his metal arm in leaving scratch marks all over the desk but he doesn’t care, can’t care about anything but the lost, animalistic look in Jack’s eyes. He brings his flesh hand up to trace at the edges of the scar, and when Jack grits his teeth and snarls at him, Rhys offers him his fingers for punishment at his lips, moaning when Jack bites down on them, sure to leave tiny bruises.
It’s over sooner than the second time, of which Rhys still finds himself grateful for. His body tenses, but he has nothing left in him. Jack pitches forward, head pressed into the crook of Rhys’ neck when he comes again, and Rhys has never felt so full. His legs fall tiredly to the side, and he has to try and breathe slowly to keep from shaking anymore, his hiccuping breaths still causing his body to tremble. It’s only when he presses his overheated cheek into Jack’s hair that his realizes that he actually had been crying.
Too completely ruined to think better of it, Rhys brings his arms around Jack, hands sliding over sweat slick and unreasonable warm muscles. Worriedly, Rhys’ brow furrows.
“Ja-” He swallows to regain his voice. “Jack? Are you… I think you have a fever. Hey, are you alright?” The bite at his neck tattoo causes him to jump and his body to clench.
He wants to start crying again when he feels that Jack is still hard inside of him.
“One more time,” Jack pants in his ear, hips already moving. The squelching forces Rhys to close his eyes tight and whimper. “O-one more time.”
As Jack slowly and painfully lowers himself into a chair against the wall, he honestly can’t decide if this could be marked down as one of the best or the worst decisions of his life. The long, thoroughly wrecked body in his bed suggests a resounding success, but the burning muscle in his groin speaks to the opposite. He adjusts the ice bag to sit more steadily at the crease of his thigh and takes a long drag of his cigarette.
Yeah, no, he’s probably gonna have to go with the worst. Nothing is worth the headache he’s got, or the sex injury, or the dizziness-
Rhys whimpers in his sleep, bruised legs curling up into himself, Jack’s name on his lips both fearful and adoring.
Jack moves the ice bag from his thigh to his growing erection with a hiss.