Tag: text

Rhysothy, Shape of you by Ed Sheeran.

thethespacecoyote:

The similarity in Timothy’s face is striking. 

It’s easy to fall into that familiar pattern, to stroke the same sharp cheekbones and prominent chin and lips that curl up ever so slightly at the corners. The heavy eyebrows and bright, round eyes move and shift in the same expressions, but behind the mismatched irises and enlarged pupils there is love and affection there that runs deep, instead of flashing superficial on the surface. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Timothy whispers, letting his head rest into Rhys’ palm. The younger man’s forefinger brushes lightly against his boyfriend’s cheek as he kisses his nose. 

“Your freckles are starting to come back.”

No me Ames Timothy and Jack

thethespacecoyote:

This time, it’s Timothy that storms out as soon as they’re done fighting. 

It’s almost shocking, to see Timothy’s passive anger–his cold annoyance in the face of sweltering fury Jack usually radiates–suddenly shatter as he shouts right into Jack’s face. The older man had froze, stunned as Timothy had stormed out, knocking the coat rack over across the threshold as he’d grabbed his jacket, throwing it across his shoulders before slamming the door behind him. Jack had stayed in place, eyes wide and misty as he looked where Tim had been moments before, his arms still frozen in a tight cross over his chest. 

The sound of Timothy’s car starting up, stuttering through the old engine they kept meaning to replace, finally snaps Jack out of it, and as the lights from the headlights tear through the darkness outside the living room window Jack snarls, slamming the door to his bedroom even harder as he jumps onto the bed and suffocates himself into Timothy’s pillow. 

Despite his burning anger and frustration, Jack must have fallen asleep at some point, because he’s suddenly being awaken by a weight above him. He jolts at the touch, trying to turn around only for the weight to sit on his thighs. Harsh, hot breath pants against his ear.

“I’m still pissed at you,” a voice from the darkness growls as a hand pressed hard against his lower back, another palm rooting his throat against the sheets. Teeth nip sharply at the shell of his ear, earning a groan from Jack’s lips.

“But I’m hoping once I’m done here I won’t be, so…” the hand at his lower back moves to the waistband of his pants, pulling them down his ass without even bothering to remove his belt.

“You better scream pretty damn loud if you want me to forgive you.”

OOOH okay- rhack while listening to New Perspective by Panic! At the Disco, song’s been stuck in my head for like a week

thethespacecoyote:

idk what kind of AU this is? but maybe some kind of college-age “rhys experiments with his sexuality” thing. 

It’s not that kissing girls is bad, no. Rhys really likes it, honest, they usually have nice soft lips and smell like nice shampoo and all around it is just. Very. Nice. 

But there’s nothing nice about the way Jack kisses him, and Rhys isn’t sure if this is a guy thing or a Jack thing but whatever kind of thing it is Rhys really, really likes it. Jack bites his lower lip and draws it back with a look on his face that makes it seems like he knows just how hot the sudden fire inside of Rhys is starting to burn. His eyes are predatory, stalking under the hood of his eyelids as he leans in to push his tongue inside of Rhys’ mouth again, pupils dilated and fixed upon the young man’s face. 

Rhys distantly feels his fingers clench into the thin fabric of Jack’s shirt, his lungs tightening at the lack of air as Jack practically sucks it out of his throat, only breaking their lips apart when Rhys starts to go limp. Thankfully, Jack’s broad hands move from his waist to his upper back, supporting him as he pulls back to look into Rhys’ stunned, glassy eyes. 

“That help you forget about Stacy, pumpkin?”

Petshop Boys- What have I done to deserve this? Jackothy :3

thethespacecoyote:

Jack can’t wait to see the bastard who thought he could kidnap the likes of the CEO of Hyperion. 

Even with his arms bound behind him in something definitely stronger than regular rope, he sits up straight and confident, anger and defiance burning in his face as he glares into his darkened surroundings. 

The tracker embedded in his mask must have already detected his stress levels and sent out a beacon to his army to come and get him. He only hopes that he gets to see the guy who masterminded this before his men decimate the entire complex. Hopefully they would take the fucker hostage first, so Jack could shoot him in the face for his insolence. 

Or maybe let Tim do it, once they sprung him from wherever these assholes were holding him. 

Jack’s thoughts of gruesome revenge are shorn as the main door scrapes open with a metallic crunch, revealing two men. Jack squints against the darkness, making out the large, stereotypical shape of a man dressed in the usual, hodgepodge mercenary attire. But the man next to him is smaller, slighter, with a criss-cross of bandages covering his face. Jack can see green eyes peaking out from the covering, as well as the slightest patch of freckled skin. 

He laughs at the both of them as they shut the door. 

“You people are so frikkin’ stupid. This is like, the most boring kidnapping ever. At least throw in a twist or an interesting motive or something somewhere before my army blows your little operation apart and gets me n’ Timmy outta here and back up in Helios drinking champagne and sucking each other’s dicks.”

Neither men move or even respond to Jack’s statement, which is annoying. Tough crowd. 

“Hello? You two just gonna stand around slack-jawed until my men’s guns rip you apart? Cause I–”

“Jack…”

The CEO freezes, heart cold as his own voice comes from the bandaged man. 

“What…what did you say? Hey, you freak, say that shit again,” Jack’s voice grows louder, fear suddenly sprouting up inside of him as he searches the man’s concealed face. His eyes flit away, shyly, hand grabbing the opposite wrist in an all-too-familiar gesture. 

“Hey! Hey hey talk to me! Say something!” Jack roars, writhing against his bonds only for the larger man’s gun to smack across his temple, sending him crashing to the ground. Jack spits out blood, the skin around his eye starting to throb and swell up as he squints through the pain. He can vaguely see the bandaged man bury his head in his hands, turning away from him as the large mercenary places a hand on his shoulder, leading them back out the door. Jack hisses, trying to sit up, voice straining as he calls out to the man he never truly knew. 

“Tim!”

thethespacecoyote:

Stone by stone
I left my only home
And brick by brick
Woke myself from happiness

The mountain air is cool, warming in the breath coming from Rhys’ mouth as he hikes up the trail, accidentally kicking a couple of pebbles that tumble down the trail he’s already transversed, the gentle sounds the only thing disturbing the humbling still of the twilight. 

The pack has grown lighter on his back since he first started out on the trailhead–partially because half of his food nows lies in the various trashcans that checkpoint his room and half because long dormant muscles are finally tightening with use, his body growing stronger with each step towards the summit, with each second he leaves the world below, behind. 

Some things cross his mind as he sets his pack down for the night, on a small clearing, more populated with boulders than trees compared to last night’s lodgings. His meal is beans and corn–simple, rustic, so very unlike the lavish, manicured meals he’d taken back in the city proper. 

He thinks, briefly, of residential polish, of sleek, modern comforts contrasting with the lived-in mess of a bedroom where he’d spent far too much time on his belly, face mashed up into the yellow silk pillows with his eyes screwed shut. 

His heart tingles, briefly, with a memory of warm strong hands and stifling kisses and nights spent with a solid weight wrapped like chains about his waist and a sky above of smooth white paint that now seems further away than the vast, twinkling canopy of stars that now rise in the sky above him. 

The musk of the trees around him plays at his nose, dancing with the breeze instead of smothering him like a damp cloth, instead of pressing against him–so impervious and unyielding that it clung to his clothes and skin despite scrubbing that wore the both down until they were weak and thin. 

He sleeps bare and weightless underneath the stars, arms tucked behind his head and body blanketed only by the amiable set of the wind. 

thethespacecoyote:

i’m busy thinking of cycles of abuse and how unhealthy beliefs can be passed down now

Jack’s father had been an omega. 

That’s what his grandma says, screams, whenever she catches him showing any care–when he scoops an insect off the split wooden floor and sets it on the windowsill, when he scrapes food from his own plate to give to hungry, heat-blasted travelers. 

When he takes in a stray from the desert sun and she drowns it in their bathing water and leaves its corpse cold and dripping in the thin sheets of his bed. 

And with the buzz-axe in her hand she screams about the bitch of an omega father that couldn’t handle the idea of raising his own child, that had hefted the burden from person to person until it’d landed with a wet thump on her doorstep. 

The thump echoes into Jack’s brain through the lash of the rusted, reliable blades against his back, burrowing the fault of his omega father deep into the soft, susceptible bone. 

So when the burning, painful feeling strikes as a teen all he feels is fear, raw and primal, coursing through his body, and what he wants is to dig his claws into his lower belly and tear through the meat of a stomach built through years of desperate, furious exercise and grab the traitorous, unseen organs because the wait is what’s killing him more than anything else. 

The swell of his first knot pops the fear swelled and grotesque in his chest, and with one hand braced against the windowsill and the other clenching furiously around his brutal, stabbing cock, he glares off into the endless still of the night sky. 

And when his grandmother wakes the next morning, he is already gone. 

Have you heard Walls Could Talk by Halsey? It always makes me think about Rhys and Jack being drama queens.

thethespacecoyote:

idk if this is what youre looking for but i went with it

Sometimes Rhys wonder what this must look like from the outside. 

The CEOs of Atlas and Hyperion having a sordid tryst together makes for mouthwatering gossip, even amongst the usually austere company heads. Rhys knows alphas, knows they like to pretend they’re above the lure of sexual deviancy all while craning their necks at their new secretaries’ asses and studying the looks Jack and Rhys send to one another under the guise of nodding along to the latest map of trade allocation. 

Once they’d realized that blackmail was useless–after all, in order for that to work, either Rhys or Jack would have to be ashamed of themselves–they’d been neutered into looking on with eyes darkened by barely concealed jealousy that fueled both alpha and omega into long, arduous rounds of sex on the boardroom table long after the meeting had concluded. 

“Sweet Talk” by Saints Motel or “Ultraviolence” by Lana Del Rey for Rhack?

thethespacecoyote:

did the latter

Rhys didn’t think it could be this easy. 

The man underneath him is breathing one moment, the sound harsh and heavy as it struggles out of his throat–and the next moment he’s not, life crushed underneath the numb fingers of Rhys’ cybernetic hand. His skin splits from the pressure, last gasps of blood squirting out around his clenching fists. 

He stays, still, hand still resting in a dead weight against the man’s throat. The feeling slowly returns, the cold blue retreating from his circuits and back into the front of his brain, settling between his eyes like a dull, senseless ache in his sinuses. 

“That arm of yours sure is efficient….make sure you get me one soon as I’m back in my own body,” the voice in his head preens, weighty with pride as Rhys finally has the strength to lift his arm from the dead man’s neck. Crumpled as easily as a paper tossed into the trash. 

“Look at that thing, kiddo. Lucky. You don’t even have to wait for it to get easier.”

The blood slips through the slim gaps in his palm, drying as it trickles into the depths of his circuits.