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“You’re staining the carpets, kiddo.”
It doesn’t matter, really. He’s rich as hell, and it’s not like Jack’s never gotten blood on his rugs before. The right cleaners can make it look like nothing ever happened, and after so many incidents, Jack knows exactly who the right cleaners are.
The only problem, in all honesty, is that usually he’s the one getting blood on the carpets. And it’s usually the result of some sort of home invasion gone terribly wrong (for the invaders, at least), not… Whatever’s going on here.
Some Hyperion grunt, probably a lower-level office worker, is splayed out on the floor. He’s still alive, Jack can tell by the way he’s whimpering quietly as he bleeds out from the gaping hole where his left arm used to be. Yeah, his arm’s gone. From the looks of it, it was cut off with some sort of knife or cleaver- jagged bone protrudes from the stub where it was messily hacked at.
Sitting right behind him and staring at the body is Rhys. He’s absolutely drenched in blood, and it isn’t just from the sorry shitshow slowly dying on the floor next to him. An intimidating-looking knife rests a few inches away from his hand. There’s a gash in his forehead, he has a black eye and a bloody nose, and he’s staring at the body in front of him intently.
“Hey. Hey.” Jack snaps his fingers, trying to get Rhys’ attention. It works, startling Rhys out of his trancelike state, getting him to stare up at Jack. “Mind telling me what exactly is going on here?”
There is something very wrong about the way Rhys is looking at him. Jack recognizes the expression- it’s one he sees in the mirror at least once a day. Eyes dark with a terrifying intensity, a singleminded want. What could the kid possibly want that he didn’t already have? He had money. He had power. He has me, Jack frowns.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” Rhys says. Despite the look in his eyes, there’s something fearful in his tone of voice. Like a child who’d gotten caught by their parents doing something they weren’t supposed to do. “I’m sorry, I-I made a mess. I would’ve cleaned up.” He squeezes his eyes shut as if admonishing himself mentally. It’s cute, Jack thinks, which is weird, but he’s still avoiding the question.
“I don’t wanna have to ask twice, cupcake.” Jack crosses his arms, and taps his foot steadily on the floor.
Rhys sighs, defeated.
“It’s stupid,” he admits, mumbling. “It’s really stupid. I was on a lower level, visiting a friend who works down there, and I heard- I heard him talking. About you.”
He presses his lips shut, and looks away. Jack crouches down so they’re at eye level, and grasps Rhys’ chin firmly in one hand. He pulls the other man’s head, not rough, but with an unyielding firmness that forces Rhys to look at him again.
“He said…” Rhys sucks in a breath. He’s trembling now- his body must have been running mostly on adrenaline, and as it wears off, signs of pain and fatigue are obvious. “He said that when you were rising through the ranks here, you offered people some… favors. The unsavory kind.”
“What, like killing people?” Big whoop. “Good at murdering people who stand in your way” was a skill on the resume of most, if not all Hyperion executives.
“He said you fucked your way to the top.” Rhys spits it out like saying it burns his mouth. “Said you never had any talent, or skill, or guts, so you used what you had- your body. His words, not mine. I know- knew what he said wasn’t true, but I was just so angry, I couldn’t control myself. I followed him, I told him that I needed to see him for something later in my office, brought him here instead, and… I killed him.”
There are small tears budding in the corners of Rhys’ eyes, and blood spattered over the rest of his face, but there’s a hardness in his voice. Jack pictures the scenario in his head. There had been a fight, Rhys had gone for a knife, and brutally, viscerally hacked a sorry, pathetic excuse for a human being to death. All for him.
“Hey, c’mere.” Jack sits on the floor, and tugs on Rhys’ face, ushering him over.
Rhys resists the pull at first, then gives in, crawling over the body, which gives one last gurgle before turning into a corpse, and into the offered lap. He still looks like he’s about to cry, rubbing at his eyes softly, smearing blood into his hair. Jack moves Rhys’ hands away from his face, turns his chin up, and kisses him with as much ferocity as he can possibly muster, deep and hungry. It tastes like blood, obviously, iron and salt, but with something fondly familiar underneath that Jack finds himself craving.
For his part, Rhys looks shocked. His eyes have widened, his entire body stiffening and going slack at the same moment (an impressive feat, but one he manages to pull off nonetheless). The familiarity and warmth of the gesture is comforting, though, and he kisses back after a moment, wrapping his hands around Jack’s neck and scooting closer on his lap, pressing their torsos together.
When Jack breaks the kiss, the skin around the edges of his mask is flushed, and his pupils are dilated.
“You killed him because you heard him badmouthing me?” he breathes, leaning in until his lips are an inch away from Rhys’. His face is smeared red now too, and his hands, and his shirt.
“Uh.. Yeah.” Jack closes the gap between them, kissing Rhys rough and openmouthed, again and again.
“Oh god, babe. That is so hot.” He means it. Rhys can feel something poking into his thigh. Was Jack seriously getting hard from this? “You friggin’ destroyed that useless piece of shit. Man, I wish I coulda seen the look on his stupid face.”
“Jack, are you okay?” The look in the other man’s eyes was one of manic intensity, a dangerous cocktail of bloodlust and arousal.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Jack says, and flips them both over so Rhys is on the floor, one thigh pressed up between Jack’s legs. “I am so much better than okay.” His hips jerk, rubbing his still-clothed erection against Rhys. “Did he beg for his life? I bet he did. Bet he cried and asked you to spare him for the sake of his stupid freakin’ kids.” He’s full-on humping Rhys’ leg now, rutting against him like some sort of animal. It’s dirty, it’s desperate, and it’s wrong.
And despite everything about this scenario, despite the fact that there’s a dead body less than two feet away from them, despite the fact that Rhys was responsible for putting it there, despite the fact that Jack is rubbing himself off against Rhys while they’re both covered in the blood from said corpse, Rhys feels his own cock twitch. He made Jack like this, so hot for him and desperately aroused that he’s about to come in his pants. As if on cue, Jack lets out a low moan, and Rhys’ dick stiffens fully.
Rhys raises his arms to clutch at Jack’s back. “He tried to fight, at first. I had a- a knife, though. Got it from the kitchen. When he saw it, he tried to run.” Jack grinds down on his leg, panting harshly. “I’d locked the door beforehand, though. Watched him struggle with it for a minute.”
“Hha, holy hell, kiddo. You know just how to sweet talk me.” Jack reaches a hand up, cupping Rhys’ erection, and Rhys keens and raises his hips into the touch. “How’d it feel when you offed him, hm? Feel good?”
“It was…” He struggles to find the right word, head going blurry as Jack touches him more. “Satisfying.” A rush of dark pleasure fills him, and he bucks up, craving friction. “More. Please.”
To his surprise, Jack doesn’t need any more encouragement than that to unzip his pants and shove a hand into his underwear. Jack’s fingers are warm and rough, and they know exactly how to touch Rhys to make him a trembling mess.
“You’ve more than earned it, baby,” Jack leans down to growl in Rhys’ ear, still rubbing himself off on Rhys’ leg like his life depends on it. “God, you have no idea how many of my buttons you’re pushing right now.” He rubs the pad of his thumb against the wet head of Rhys’ cock, and Rhys knows neither of them are going to last long now. “Wish you could do that to every asshole who’s ever pissed me off. Wish I could watch you tear ‘em to shreds for me. All for me, right, baby?”
Rhys gasps as Jack grips his cock harder, but manages to force out a breathy “yes”, and at the sound of it, Jack lets out a low moan, and his hips shudder to a stop. There’s a damp feeling on Rhys’ thigh, even through three layers of clothes (Well, maybe two. Jack lives an “underwear optional” lifestyle.). Through his orgasm, Jack doesn’t stop moving his hand, steadily jerking Rhys off, leaning down to lick stripes up his bloody neck, murmuring encouragement and pet names until Rhys falls apart beneath him, coming messily in his pants.
“Good boy,” Jack growls against his neck, and Rhys preens. Getting this sort of undivided attention and praise wasn’t exactly the result he expected from bleeding out someone in Jack’s living room, but it was still good.
“Should I try and, uh, clean this up a bit? It’s… Kind of gross.” The blood was congealing, getting sticky and itchy on his skin.
Jack slides his hand out of Rhys’ pants, and rolls onto the floor, pulling Rhys close until the other man’s head is resting in the crook of his arm
“Jus’ a minute, cupcake. Wanna enjoy the moment.” His voice is appealingly thick and lazy post-orgasm, and Rhys curls in closer, enjoying the feeling of Jack’s hand stroking his hair, the sensation of Jack’s chest rising and falling steadily under his arm. The man usually wasn’t so cuddly after what was barely long enough to qualify as a quickie, but Rhys wasn’t complaining.
This was something he could grow used to. He’d probably have to kill more people for it.
“‘M sorry about your rug, Jack,” Rhys says, and Jack laughs.
“Sweetheart, it’s fine. I’ll buy another one.”