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High Praise

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Looking down at Jack's tanned and muscular body beneath him, tallying up every bead of sweat, every gasp for air, and revelling in each moan the older man struggled to keep back, Rhys thought to himself: This? This beats everything. Better than getting out of the rat-race, better than owning Atlas. This is it. This is the Big Time.

He was glowing with both satisfaction and pride. It was very nearly happiness, but anyone could've told him that "happiness" and Handsome Jack didn't mix. It didn't matter to Rhys then, just as it didn't matter that Jack might've thought they were in the middle of wild sex, when (to Rhys' mind) they weren't having 'wild sex' so much as they were making love.

God, why-- why do you have to be such a dork? His conscience chided him. It was the part of him that was currently gesturing at Jack - the Handsome Jack - and reminding him that the 'L' word hardly factored into the man's vocabulary.
But it was just a matter of opinion, wasn't it? Just a harmless term - one that indicated tempo, atmosphere, feeling. Rhys was the one setting the tone and pace, and he could feel enough of the 'L' word for both of them.

Straddling and riding the CEO of Hyperion, Rhys' gaze was locked with those intense blue and green eyes - eyes that stared back up at him with equal amounts of lust.
Rhys was the only person that could hold Jack's gaze for an extended period of time, the only person who had learnt how to match it rather than shrink beneath it.

Jack wasn't doing any of the work here, but that was at Rhys' own request. He was just lying there, taking it, watching his lithe, long-legged boyfriend thrusting down into his lap. They were both appreciating the view; it was like they were also fucking with their eyes. 

Lying back with his arms resting either side of his face, Jack looked like the cat who'd got the cream. He'd never leant back like that before. The pose would have been submissive had it not been for the powerful look upon his face, the expression that spoke volumes about who was really in charge.

When Rhys' left hand travelled up the bedsheets to Jack's, the older man didn't pull away. Their fingers roughly laced together, and Jack squeezed so hard - pressing down on his knuckles - that Rhys' fingers couldn't hold his hand so much as hang suspended in the air; caught up in the bear-trap of his grip.

Listen, Rhys told himself, even though his voice of reason had long since quietened. No one's being a dork here. There's a difference, ok? And the difference between this and a simple 'fuck', is his hand in mine and not on my throat.

And there might be a kiss, of course. Because kisses made all the difference.

Working up to anything remotely 'affectionate' had taken months and Jack still routinely moaned about it, as if affection were the bane of his existence. He didn't have time for all that mushy crap, damn it, and he made that very clear.

Rhys wondered if it might ruin the moment, but he chanced it all the same. He leant down and pressed his lips to Jack's, probing with his tongue.
Surprisingly, Jack didn't resist. He returned the kiss hungrily; maybe because he was feeling generous, maybe because he had the simple task of lying back so it gave him something to do. Either way when Rhys pulled back, their lips wet and tantalising close, Jack tipped his head up slightly and said: "Gay,"

Rhys grinned back at him, his eyebrows curved mischievously low.
A great observation there, Watson.
He began riding Jack with more intensity, trying very hard to make it seem like he could go on like this for hours.

Mouth parted and loosely grinning, Jack stared up at Rhys beneath semi-lidded eyes and heaved with a sigh.
"Atta boy, Rhysie..."

With his wrists practically ghosting his temples, the dark ink of Jack's tattoo brought out the colour in his eyes. He wasn't wearing his watch or a single piece of clothing upon his person, just a ring that Rhys had already kissed and a devious, electric smile.

He hissed as Rhys circled his hips in a downwards spiral, tearing his gaze away only to peek at where their bodies met. Rhys had taken every inch, with nothing more than spit for lube.
"Fuck," Jack hissed again, and his dick throbbed at the sight. "You're so good at takin' daddy's cock, babe..."
As ever, the kinky title just rolled off of Jack's tongue like it was the most natural thing in the world, but it was the compliment that forced a high-pitched moan out of Rhys. He rode Jack harder, clutching hold of the man's upper arms now.

"T-Tell me how good I am, Jack..." He gasped needily, grinding back on him in such a way that his own swollen erection bobbed to and fro.
"Amazin', baby boy. The best," Jack's hands were travelling south down the bed. "That's why I keep you around, ain't it? 'cause you're damn good at your job?" The last he pronounced like both a question and a fact, grabbing Rhys' ass and squeezing hard.

The best... Rhys thought with a shiver, and let out another moan past his stupidly giddy smile.
He still had enough of his senses left to be coy however, rocking his hips back and forth in a smooth, rhythmic motion.
"Mhhh... I don't work for you anymore, remember?" He reminded him, eyes so very nearly closed with pleasure that he looked as if he were gazing at him through soapy eyes.

"Shhshh..." Jack soothed, sitting up to nip at his collar bone, dragging his tongue across the edge of Rhys' blue tattoo, getting at any exposed flesh he could reach. "Y'know what I mean, baby..." The hands at his rear were caressing now, squeezing, massaging up and down. "You're my number one, Rhysie,"

Oh god...

"Y-Ye-esss...." Rhys groaned, arching his back. His cheeks had flushed a radiant shade of pink, a satiated expression on his face, and the sight was so damn attractive that Jack didn't think he could stand it. It was as if his words were a physical hand upon Rhys' body. The reaction was so palpable and the older man ate up every minute of it.

"Look at'cha..." He raised one hand to Rhys' mouth, running his thumb across his lips before pushing it past them. Rhys didn't wait a second before sucking obediently, making such an erotic sound in his throat that Jack dug his nails into the flesh of his backside. "Jeeeezus, kiddo, y---"

Cutting him off, Rhys took the opportunity to impale himself harder, faster on Jack's length, gasping with every movement. Even his cybernetic arm was shaking with the strain, beads of perspiration trickling down from his hairline to his brow.

Jack groaned, slipping his thumb free. He wanted to clutch him about the waist now, to bring him down hard on every thrust.
"Such a good boy," He grunted, voice so low that it thrummed. Whenever he called him that Rhys would always, without fail, clench around him like he was about to come. It had become a sport to him; Jack wanted to see how many times the kid could stand to hear it before blowing his load.

I am a good boy, Jack. I'm your good boy... Rhys thought desperately, more resilient tonight than usual. He wanted to hear more, wanted to fuck it out of him. 

"Such a damn good boy, baby. Fuckin' down on that cock like a porn star. Give ol' Mox a run for her freakin' money,"

Rhys made to feign an offended laugh like a cough, but it was lost in amongst his escalating moans. He was too riled up to play pretend.
"O-Ohhhh, y-your ex, Jack? R-Really?" He teased in spite of his pleasure-addled haze. He could tease about it: he knew that that particular dust was long since settled and the name-drop was only meant to flatter, not compare. It did it's fucking job, he was horny as hell.

Even though Jack knew he was teasing, he rose to the bait immediately.
"Hey, no need to be jealous, sweetheart. She ain't got nothin' on ya. Nothin' on this tight little ass of yours," And with that, Jack, spanked him with the flat of his hand for effect.

"Fuhhh--!" The expletive died in Rhys' throat. He was too aroused to think straight, too busy holding onto the sweet-yet-dirty nothings he would never hear outside of the bedroom.
Tipping back, Rhys tensed until he was sat rigid on top of him once more. Jack rose to meet him, closing the gap between them so that Rhys was really perched on his lap, chest-to-chest and balancing on his legs. 

"Tha-aat's it baby," He jeered, and began pressing him down by his waist, fucking up into him even though Rhys had been doing a damn fine job on his own.

Rhys cried out, blindly clutching ahold of Jack's broad shoulders. Over and over again he heard the mental echo of Jack's compliments, words he had given him like he gave him his cock, bringing him close to the edge with every ounce of praise. 

"Jack..." Rhys breathed raggedly.

"You feel so good, Rhysie..."

"Ja-aaack!" He gasped again, louder now, tears pricking in his eyes. 

D-Do you love me, Jack? The sudden question was like a whirlwind in his mind, traversing back and forth, so loud until he thought he might scream it.

Are you insane? Don't you dare ask that, idiot! His voice of reason yelled back, horrified at the strength the thought had gathered. You'll ruin everything. Everything.  

And he knew it too. He knew if he dared ask then Jack would be so repulsed with him he'd probably turn flaccid immediately and shove him straight off his lap. But...
But-- do you love me, Jack? The tears gathering in Rhys' eyes began to overflow until he couldn't see through the bleary haze. Do you?

"So fuckin' good," Jack grunted aloud, oblivious to the tears, to the lovelorn expression on Rhys' face. "Like you were friggin' made for me, pumpkin,"

Rhys' expression broke, wrapping his arms around Jack so tight as if hanging onto a lifeline. It wasn't the 'L' word but he'd take being made for him.

With his dick pressing against Jack's stomach, grinding up and-down with every thrust, Rhys groaned against him. Even without being touched, the skin-on-skin friction was so delicious that he knew he was about to hit his peak.

"Oh, G-God, Jack..."

"You gonna come, sweetheart?" Jack asked tightly, practically speaking through clenched teeth as he held off his own release. "Gonna come just from hearin' how good y'are? How y'make me feel good?"

"Yes!" Rhys cried, his wet eyes beginning to dry. Jack was hitting his prostate now, pounding into it. It felt like a livewire had been pressed to his nerves. "I'm s-so close...!"

Jack had to slam his eyes shut and count to three before speaking again. He almost blew his load right then and there.
"That's my boy," He growled, driving his hips faster. "C'me on...! Come for me, kiddo! Y'know you wanna, Rhysie, c'me on. Give it to me," 

Rhys threw back his head, losing it at Jack's commands. He clinched around him, shooting off between their tightly compacted bodies and spasming in Jack's lap.

Jack lasted a few more rapid, driving thrusts, his balls heaving against the curve of Rhys' behind and smacking obscenely loud before he followed suit. Rhys was still in the grip of his release as Jack came hard and fast, near-simultaneous with him. 

"F-Fuck-- fuck! Rhys-!"
They gripped hold of one another hard enough to leave bruises, bucking and writhing as they rode out their orgasms.

When they were finished, when they were both still panting heavily and weighted down with their own exhaustion, Rhys pressed his forehead to Jack's shoulder and held him in a loose embrace, one that he knew that his lover was oblivious to. Then somehow Jack's hand was at the back of his head, ruffling his hair tiredly.

"Good boy, Rhysie..." He exhaled, sounding as if he were about to drift right off to sleep despite still being buried within him.

Rhys pressed his face into the side of Jack's neck, clutching him tighter, and smiled.