Archive of Our Own ^beta

(1)

The first time, Jack has no memory of. 

He’s told by a trembling lab technician, several hours afterwards, that some stupid endangered Pandoran plant sneezed sex pollen onto them. The lab was automatically put on an emergency lockdown, trapping both Jack and Rhys inside until a security team had chance to sweep the area and give the all clear. 

Something happened in the following twenty-five minutes that neither Jack nor Rhys remember a second of. All he knows is that Rhys is disheveled, sweaty, covered in bruises and bite marks, and Jack feels wired enough to take on a pack of skags with his bare hands. 

He spends the rest of the afternoon verbally attacking anyone who crosses his path. He’s pissed, first and foremost because he finally, finally, got his hands on his PA and he doesn’t even know what happened. Did Pollen-Jack, the bastard, get to see how far down the tattoo goes? Did he pay enough attention to Rhys’ little noises? Did he get those gorgeous legs wrapped around his waist, thrown over his shoulders, pressed tightly around his head? 

He’ll never fucking know, and now Rhys won’t even look at him, which puts the possibility of a round two at approximately zero. 

Jack flags down someone important-looking with the intention of asking how long until this miracle drug is making him lots of money. Then he remembers the defensive curl of Rhys’ shoulders, the way he tried so hard to keep himself from looking upset, and instead Jack finds himself saying, “You. I want that thing going from endangered all the way to extinct, like, yesterday. Comprende?” 

The girl, kudos to her, says, “Yes, sir,” even though she looks aghast at the thought of pushing a species to extinction for the crime of pissing off Handsome Jack. (For the crime of upsetting Rhys.)

(2)

The second time he remembers a little better. But not fully. 

They’re at an annual product showcase event on one of the Edens — which one, Jack doesn’t care to recall — and they have a new drink that tastes so good Jack doesn’t even care if it’s laced with a little something extra. Neither does Rhys, if the way he’s knocking them back is any indication. 

After drink 5, his memory only comes to him in flashes. 

The pair of them engrossed in conversation off in a corner somewhere, not a thought given to networking or, y’know, product showcasing. 

A Pangolin representative approaching their booth and promptly leaving after Rhys gives him a look and says, “Do you mind?” 

Ordering two final drinks before making their way back up to their hotel rooms to prevent actually drinking themselves into an early grave. 

Rhys drunkenly giggling about misplacing his room card, joking that he’ll have to go hunt down ‘that cute Pangolin guy’ for a place to stay for the night. 

Rhys pressed up against the inside of Jack’s hotel room door, gasping. 

Rhys’ fingers fisted tightly in Jack’s hair as Jack presses heated kisses down his chest. He’s still covered in the marks from the lab incident. 

Rhys’ long fingers wrapped around both of them, desperately working them both to climax. 

Rhys, Rhys, Rhys. 

The next morning, Jack wakes up alone. 

Day Two of the product showcase goes so smoothly that Jack begins to question whether Rhys forgot the whole thing or if he’s just that good of an actor. 

(3)

So, after Number Two, Jack comes to terms with the fact that Rhys is Not Interested. Seriously, if anyone else in the universe suspected they might have Handsome Jack wrapped around their little finger, they would jump on that train immediately. Rhys is attracted to him, sure — you don’t bang someone twice by accident if you think they’re hideous. Anyone else in Rhys’ situation would be grabbing this bull by the balls, but stupid, good, idiotic Rhys probably doesn’t want to lead Jack on or something equally as sentimental. 

A small part of Jack almost wishes Rhys would try to take advantage. For a higher salary, more power, a bigger office, shares of the fucking company. 

Then again, he probably knows he could have any of that from Jack anyway. No purchase necessary. 

Anyway — the point being, Rhys unfortunately has no interest in using Jack for his money or his dick. 

Which is why Jack is surprised when Rhys climbs into his lap and captures Jack’s lips in a heated kiss before he can get a single word out. Which is good, because it probably would’ve been a stupid word. 

They’re on the concrete floor of a dark basement cell, Jack sitting, leaning against the wall with his legs spread wide. They’ve been here for… maybe twenty hours? No sign of rescue yet, but Jack knows it’s coming — if he doesn’t check in with the ECHOnet once every 6 hours while he’s off-station, a veritable army of loader bots is dispatched to his location with an instruction to kill anything in their way. The tracker is installed in his femur for extra safety. 

Rhys doesn’t seem to know this as he pulls back every few kisses to murmur platitudes into Jack’s mouth.  “Just this once,” he says. “We might not get to leave here, so just this once.” 

As if Jack needs any convincing at all. 

Rhys sucks him off right there on the cold concrete floor. The wet, soft, tight heat of his mouth is a delicious contrast to the crisp air around them. Jack can’t find it within himself to be ashamed when he tumbles over the edge just a few minutes later, straight down Rhys’ throat. 

Jack pulls Rhys up bodily back into his lap. He’s boneless and clingy like he’s the one who just got his soul sucked out through his cock. 

Jack reaches a hand between them to bring Rhys off, and Rhys is reduced to half-words and helpless moans pressed right into Jack’s neck. “Please, please, please,” he whispers as he cums all over Jack’s hand. 

They have plenty of time to clean up before rescue comes —and Jack always knew that rescue was coming. Maybe that makes him a bad guy, but he finds it difficult to care. 

He doesn’t forget a single second. 

(4)

Jack doesn’t have even a semblance of an excuse for Number Four. It goes like this:

Rhys stands at the side of Jack’s desk during trade discussions with a Maliwan representative. Jack absolutely kicks ass at the negotiations, as always, and knocks their exorbitant price down a little closer to market value. And then he halves it. 

It’s only after the ink is dry, after Jack has his customary obnoxious brag, that the man finally seems to snap and pull out a gun. 

Jack only just gets his hand around his pistol when there’s a meaty crunch — a telltale sound of a nose being crushed — before the man tumbles down the stairs leading to Jack’s desk. 

Jack doesn’t spare the man another glance, instead looking to Rhys, who is inspecting the bloody knuckles of his cybernetic hand with a frown. “Gross,” he complains. 

And suddenly Jack can’t think of anything else. He ignores the man’s pained groans, ignores the sound of the bots appearing from hidden holes in the walls, and ignores the sound of the man being swept into the trapdoor. (Jack usually finds it hilarious when he can hear the screams getting quieter as they plummet.) 

He’s completely absorbed by the vision of his innocent little PA getting his hands dirty for Jack, who was perfectly safe behind a shield and forty-three years of not being shot dead, at least twenty of those years spent with people actively trying it at least once a week. 

Jack gathers Rhys up onto the throne and sinks to his knees before it. Rhys, so sweetly, goes easily with wide eyes, like he can’t believe it. And Jack… can’t explain it. He doesn’t know where this comes from, this need to have Rhys feel even a fraction of what Jack feels. He needs Rhys to feel how he should feel — how he deserves to feel — powerful, capable. 

It’s been a hot minute since Jack’s blown anyone but he finds his way back quickly, and it isn’t long before Rhys is gasping and breathing out Jack’s name. The fingers of his cybernetic hand find their way into the hair at the base of Jack’s neck. He manages to hold himself back from pushing Jack’s head down for a while, until he starts to get close. His gasps steadily turn to low, long moans, and the hand on Jack’s head starts to tighten up. Jack finds himself unable to lift his head as Rhys’ breaths start to fall shallow — one cut-off, desperate moan of Jack’s name, and Rhys is flooding Jack’s mouth. 

Jack leans back on his haunches to make eye contact with a flushed, messed-up, utterly debauched Rhys. He swallows. 

Rhys moans helplessly at the sight, and that just makes it all worth it. 

“Set up another meeting with Maliwan,” Jack instructs. “And mention the fact that they sent us a murderer. Make sure to sound real offended, m’kay pumpkin?” 

Rhys takes the hint, jumping up from the throne with unsteady legs. “Of course.”

Unsurprisingly, Rhys stares a hell of a lot that day. A couple of times, when Jack looks over to catch him in the act, he finds Rhys staring open-mouthed at Jack’s stomach. 

(5)

The fault switches between them. Number One wasn’t anyone’s fault, apart from the nerds down in R&D. Number Two was Jack pushing Rhys up against the door. Number Three was Rhys climbing into Jack’s lap. Number Four was Jack kneeling before Rhys. So, as the pattern goes, Rhys’ move is next. 

Rhys always surprises him. So, when Jack makes the conscious decision to let Rhys make the next move, he doesn’t expect it to be as soon as later the same day. 

Under the guise of bringing up a report, Rhys hops up the stairs two at a time until he reaches Jack. There’s no hint of wanton seduction in his eyes, just a steely determination, making Jack wonder how long he’s been hyping himself up to come up here. Too freaking cute. Reports forgotten, Rhys slides in the space between Jack and the desk and drops to his knees.

There’s a layer of nervousness behind the resolve. Like he made it all the way up here, but now he’s actually up here, with no excuse, he doesn’t know what to do. Jack reaches a hand out to glide through his hair on one side in a comforting gesture and says, “Rhysie, baby.” 

Rhys’ eyes flutter closed and he leans into the hand in his hair. That’s all he needs — a little reassurance. A little guidance. 

Jack makes quick work of pulling his own cock out, barely holding back a smug grin as he watches Rhys’ eyes darken at the sight. 

“Just stay there, okay pumpkin?” Jack rasps as he takes himself in hand and begins to stroke. 

Rhys watches, rapt, soaking in all the praise as Jack doles it out freely. It only takes a few minutes before Rhys is biting and licking his own lips in a shameless, mindless display. He doesn’t even seem to notice himself leaning forwards and forwards until his lips are just touching Jack, then it isn’t long at all before he’s licking and sucking at the tip and Jack is hurtling towards orgasm. 

“You’re desperate for it, huh?”

The look in Rhys’ eyes says yes, yes, yes, and that’s all Jack needs before he’s finishing with a groan all over Rhys’ face. 

That image follows him around for a while. 

(+1) 

There’s blood everywhere. 

Not right now, not anymore, but it’s all Jack can see whenever his thoughts stray for even a second. 

There was no real danger, Jack tells himself, over and over again. Nothing happened. 

But all he sees is Rhys, flat on the floor of his office, with a pool of blood rapidly growing around his head. 

He thought it was too late — a clean shot through the head, who lives through that? — didn’t even check. The other man didn’t stand a chance against Jack, vision hazed over with pure red, lunging bodily. The man didn’t have enough time to reload his gun before his skull was being cracked open on the edge of a metal coffee table. Over and over. 

Over and over until a lifeline came, one weak cough. 

As it turns out, and funnily enough, Jack already knows this, even non-fatal head wounds bleed profusely. He didn’t think to check. He didn’t think. He just thought, for 15 seconds, that Rhys was—

The Maliwan bastard had a friend on Helios, of course. Someone who was willing to take revenge on his coworker’s behalf. 

Jack has spent a lot of his time in the medical wing making sure nobody from Maliwan sets foot near the station again. He’s had multiple Pandoran satellites reassigned from surveillance to defense. He’s diverted a production line to manufacturing protective loader bots. 

So, yeah. He’s coping fine. 

He doesn’t begin to settle down until Rhys is discharged the following day. Rhys isn’t allowed back home, obviously, so he’s brought up to the penthouse. He complains about it like hell, but Jack leaves no room for compromise. 

It isn’t until they’re both inside that Jack can breathe properly again.

He realises, with an exhale, that this is serious. He’s Handsome goddamn Jack, possibly the most dangerous man in the six galaxies, definitely the richest, and he has feelings for someone who thinks of him as an overbearing fuckbuddy. 

Rhys hugs him. And the universe reminds Jack, once again, that he should never assume he has the upper hand with this man. 

It’s a little uncomfortable at first — Jack hasn’t participated in a hug in a long ass time — but he settles, wraps his arms around Rhys, and holds, content in the knowledge that Rhys is here and he is safe. 

Rhys seems to know that this isn’t the time to speak, but Jack doesn’t receive those particular memos. “Don’t do that again,” he says into Rhys’ hair. 

“You say that like I did it to myself.” There’s a smile in his voice. “But I won’t.”

“You don’t understand,” Jack interrupts, pulling back. 

“No,” Rhys says. He moves both hands to hold the sides of Jack’s face. “I do. I understand.”

Jack has nothing to say to that. 

He doesn’t need to say anything, because Rhys leans forward for a gentle kiss. 

The softness doesn’t mesh well with Jack’s brain. His operating system doesn’t know how to process it, so he does the only thing he knows — he pulls Rhys in for a real kiss, a bruising kiss, a kiss that says don’t leave me. 

The floodgates are down as they fall into one another, no walls, no pretense. “You’re mine,” Jack says into the space between them, a question as much as it is a statement. 

“I’m yours,” Rhys agrees readily. “Of course I am.” 

Of course I am. It sounds so simple. 

Number Six is almost too much for Jack to handle. Rhys is sweet — he’s always been sweet, but when it’s all directed towards Jack, comforting him, reassuring him, Jack can’t help but feel like Rhys probably deserves better. 

He wants Jack, though. And Jack isn’t going to let him go for fucking anything. 

They take it slowly, excruciatingly slowly. Rhys lays back in Jack’s big, soft bed, and Jack gives himself a moment to appreciate the view before joining him. He covers Rhys’ body with his own and gets to work on leaving marks from his neck down to his thighs. 

“I couldn’t stop looking in the mirror,” Rhys gasps, “after the whole thing in the R&D lab. Then after the Eden showcase.”  

Jack growls, bites down hard. 

“Fuck, do that again.” Rhys tilts his head, extending his neck as an invitation. “I— I took pictures.” 

An image comes to Jack’s mind, unbidden, of Rhys in front of the mirror, fingers running gently over the marks left on him. Stopping occasionally to press in and gasp at the feeling. Maybe his hands traveled down, maybe he couldn’t resist… Did he? Would he? 

Jack makes a resolution, then. He litters Rhys’ body in hickeys, bruises, and bites. He promises, in between marks, that Rhys will never have to take pictures again. He’ll have new marks to look at every day. 

Rhys shivers as Jack speaks, soaking up the words. It’s fascinating to watch the way he absorbs praise — so willingly, so open, like he knows he deserves it. Like he’s been waiting for Jack to catch up. 

It’s clear, now, why he became so withdrawn after the lab incident and their drunken night together. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it to happen, he just didn’t want it to happen like that. 

Neither did Jack. 

He can’t say that in words, so instead he uses his hands. He works Rhys open slowly, taking his sweet time to prepare the younger man. He rubs small circles around Rhys’ prostate until there are tears building up in his lashes, he’s pushing his legs open further and begging, “Please, please, please, Jack.” 

When he hooks Rhys’ legs over his shoulders and finally presses in, the feeling is indescribable. From the look on his face, Rhys is right there with him. His breath starts out intentionally slow and steady to match Jack’s pace, quickly devolving into breathless pants as they speed up. 

Jack, famous for his lack of self control, doesn’t take long before he’s fucking into Rhys at full pace, using his leverage to pin Rhys to the mattress. He’s letting out little moans every time Jack pushes in. It’s obvious he’s getting close when the stilted noises morph into one long, drawn-out plea interspersed with Jack’s name, repeated, chanted like a prayer as he topples over the edge. He’s beautiful; there’s no other way to describe him. Head thrown back, eyes still open so he can watch Jack as he cums all over himself. 

That visual, and the spasms around his cock, send Jack over the edge right after Rhys. He pumps in again once, twice, three times, stays in as deep as he can get while he spills into Rhys. There’s nothing, not a thing, a feeling, or an amount of money that could compare to the look on Rhys’ face when he feels it — it looks like catharsis. 

In the afterglow, before Jack can even think about feeling defensive or shutting down the vulnerability, Rhys turns the lights off and coaxes him to sleep. It’s been a long few days, so Jack falls easily.