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The door to Jack’s office slid open with a faint, oddly ominous hissing noise, and the Doppelganger trudged through it. His feet were sore, his ribs were bruised, and there was a pattern of fresh shrapnel wounds across one side of his face and neck. He was also filthy, having spent the past several hours thigh-deep (and deeper) in the trash that filled the Veins of Helios, on the orders of some asshole Hyperion higher-up named Harold Tassiter.
Tassiter really wasn’t so bad, though, at least not compared to the Hyperion higher-up who was sitting at the desk at the far end of the ostentatiously enormous room - Jack himself, the real one, leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the polished surface of his desk.
Timothy - for he still thought of himself as himself, not as the physical twin of the man at the desk - ignored him, letting his artificially mismatched eyes slide right on by as he headed for the bounty board against the wall. Why Jack had a bounty board in his office, he’d never know, and had never bothered to ask - he assumed that Jack just liked to keep up on the happenings on the EchoNet or something. Whatever the reason, it was awfully convenient, and a much-appreciated refuge from the Lost Legion- and space hurps-infected parts of Helios below. Timmy shivered; he’d taken a pass through the decontaminator, but he could still feel the ghost of the Veins clinging to his skin.
He confirmed completion of the job Tassiter had sent him on, and the board processed his reward. Meager, especially considering how disgusting and disturbing the work itself had been. Hyperion skinflints. But it was something, and thankfully Jack didn’t seem to have any overt objections to his personal Vault Hunters taking jobs from the man he was aiming to overthrow.
There weren’t any new jobs on the board, and Timmy sighed in relief. Maybe he could get a little rest, at least until something new showed up, or Jack finished planning his next move.
He took a chance on looking over at the desk. The man sitting there didn’t look like he was working very hard - in fact, if Timmy had to guess, he would have said that Jack was playing Gem Crush, judging by the schwing noises that drifted across the room. Maybe he’d have a longer time to rest than he thought.
He’d barely angled his body towards to door, aiming to leave, when Jack’s voice cut through the still air of the office, echoing slightly off the cold steel.
“Hey, kiddo, c’mere for a minute.”
Timmy sighed, turning and walking between the fountains up towards the desk. Seriously. Who has fountains in their office. On a space station.
The chair in front of the desk was a boxy thing, Hyperion red and black, and Timmy sat in it gingerly. It felt good to have his weight off his tired feet, but his ribs protested slightly as his back came in contact with the hard chair. He leaned forward a little to take the pressure off, and waited patiently for Jack to address him.
He was still preoccupied with his game, the blinging sounds much louder up close (definitely Gem Crush), and it was a full thirty seconds before he made a noise of triumph, set the Echo aside, and looked up. “Sorry, had to beat that level. I’m in a showdown with some asshole on Eden-5 who thinks he’s hot shit.” Jack leaned forward, resting his chin on the heel of his hand. “So, what’s happening? Saw you took a job for Tassiter, down in the Veins.” His mismatched eyes traveled up and down Timmy’s body, and he wrinkled his nose. “Shows, too. One day I’ll get that place cleaned out properly.”
Timmy shifted uncomfortably. Having Jack’s eyes on him always made him feel nervous, half because he knew that the face he wore was an exact replica of the one in front of him, half because Jack always had the expression of a hungry predator when he looked his way. He tried to convince himself that he didn’t know what to make of it.
“It’s not a problem, is it?” he asked tentatively. “Doing work for Tassiter, I mean.” The inflections were his own, but the voice was all Jack and it made him itch.
“Nah, the guy’s harmless. Impotent, really. He’s all the way out there-” Jack waved a hand vaguely- “and we’re all the way over here. What can he really do, so long as you know who the boss is?”
Timmy knew a threat when he heard one, and he swallowed the sudden knot of fear in his throat. “Of course, sir.”
Jack grinned, a slow, lazy thing that spread across his face like oil pooling on water. “Good.” He leaned back in his chair, the cracked, glowing surface of Elpis looming behind him. It made for an imposing tableau.
“You know,” Jack continued, propping one elbow in the opposite hand, “I feel like I need something better to call you than ‘my double,’ at least when it’s just us.” He tilted his head, studying Timmy closely. “John, maybe.”
The bottom fell out of Timmy’s stomach. There could be absolutely nothing good about Jack wanting him to adopt the name that he had been trying so hard to abandon.
“Well?”
There was only one answer to give. “Whatever you’d like, s-sir.” Try as he might, Timmy couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice.
“Only when it’s the two of us, though,” Jack said, rising from his chair. “Out there, to everyone else, you’re still Jack. You’re me. But in here…” He stood and slid across the desk - didn’t walk around it like a normal person, no, he literally slid over the surface of the desk like it was the hood of a car - “In here, I’m Jack, and you’re John.”
Now seated on the near edge of his desk, he planted one foot on the arm of Timmy’s chair and leaned forward. Reflexively, Timmy leaned away, but Jack grabbed his chin and held him steady.
“You’re a mess, John,” Jack said, and Timmy flinched as he felt a thumb brush over the cuts on his cheek.
“No, I’m fine,” he protested. “I just need a little down time, is all.”
“Nonsense,” Jack said, and produced a healing hypo from somewhere inside his jacket. “If your face gets infected - which is not unlikely, the Veins are disgusting - it would be a waste in more ways than one.” He released Timmy’s chin, hooking two fingers into the collar of his Hyperion-branded sweater and pulling it down. “Hold still,” he said, and before Timmy could protest he’d slipped the point of the hypo into his skin, just below his collarbone.
Timmy hissed at the intrusion, resisting the urge to squirm. The hand that Jack had hooked into his collar pressed firmly against his chest, holding him in place. It actually wasn’t as unpleasant as expected; he was used to using hypos picked up off the frigid surface of Elpis or purchased from sterile vending machines, which were always uncomfortably cold. But this time, the vial and the liquid within had been warmed to near-body heat, and he hardly felt anything at all as Jack depressed the plunger.
There was an itching as the cuts on his face sealed, and a warmth bloomed in his side as his ribs became noticeably less sore beneath the pressure of Jack’s hand. Then it was over, and Jack was discarding the hypo as he looked at Timmy with that wide, predatory grin.
“Much better,” he said, once again grabbing Timmy’s chin and inspecting his face. “Clothes are still a mess, but we can fix that too.” Before Timmy had a chance to so much as stammer, Jack’s hands were tugging at his coat, trying to get it off his shoulders.
“Sir! Jack!” Timmy tried to squirm away, but Jack had a foot planted on each arm of his chair, effectively caging him in. The back was too high for him to get over without sufficient leverage, and the option of sliding down between Jack’s legs was distinctly unappealing.
“C’mon, what’s the problem? Strip already,” Jack complained, clearly frustrated.
“The door-!”
Rolling his eyes, Jack released Timmy’s lapels and leaned backwards, pushing a button on his desk console. A heavy, metallic sound echoed through the room. “There, it’s locked. Not like anyone’s gonna come in here anyways, but if it makes you feel better…”
Timmy looked from side to side. “But-”
“But what, god, just take your clothes off already! It’s not like there’s anything to hide; if the doc did his job right then there’s nothing you’ve got I haven’t seen.”
There was a sharpness to Jack’s tone that Timmy didn’t like, a scrape not unlike steel on steel, and he knew he would be in trouble unless he did everything he could to placate him as soon as possible.
“Um, sure, sorry, sir,” he mumbled, leaning forward in order to shrug his coat off. Jack, still leaning back with his hands planted on the desk to support his weight, grinned as Timmy’s shoulder brushed his thigh.
“There you go, John. Thank you.”
Timmy couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up his neck at Jack’s purring tone, and pulled the collar of his sweater up over his face in an attempt to hide it. Jack knew exactly how to get under anyone’s skin, and took an obvious pleasure in making other people feel uncomfortable. It was mortifying, and the one thing that Timmy had never quite managed to master when he played at being Jack.
He pulled the sweater all the way off, only to be greeted by the sight of Jack smoothly shrugging out of his own jacket. He didn’t understand why; the office was freezing, and now that he’d lost his sweater he could already feel the cold biting through the thin T-shirt he was still wearing.
Unless...ugh, no. Jack’s eyes were leonine, watching him with an intensity that sent shivers that had nothing to do with the chill up Timmy’s spine. Reluctant to bare any more skin, he removed his single glove and began to toe at the heel of one boot, trying to remove it without getting any closer to Jack.
“Need a hand?” Timmy could swear that Jack’s voice had just dropped half an octave, a rumbling, intimate baritone that only made his face feel hotter.
“No, if you could just, er, move...sir?” Even though he wasn’t looking at Jack, Timmy could still feel the satisfied smile that was being directed at him.
“Sure thing, kiddo,” and he slid to the side, freeing Timmy from his trapped position in the chair as his feet left the armrests - physically freeing him, at least, because it was clear that the doppelganger was still trapped in a multitude of far more dangerous ways.
Timmy leaned forward, feeling for the zipper on his boots, and Jack slipped off the desk, rising to his full height. He wasn’t an exceptionally tall man, but Timmy was still seated and Jack fairly loomed over him, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans and a toothy smile splitting his face.
Timmy slowly pulled off one boot, then the other, leaving them toppled beneath the edge of Jack’s desk, and with the awareness of an unblinking set of mismatched eyes upon him peeled off his T-shirt, baring his chest to the cool air of the office.
Except it didn’t feel as cold as it had before; a combination of acclimatization and the hot flush that stained his chest and neck a blotchy red, Timmy thought. He was pretty sure that if Jack didn’t stop staring he was going to forget how to breathe from embarrassment.
Physically, he didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about; he hadn’t been unfit beforehand, and whatever surgical magic Autohn had worked had left him with an immaculately sculpted, though not over-inflated physique. He liked it, honestly, though he still missed the freckles that had peppered his shoulders and nose, but Jack’s staring was absolutely unbearable, his eyes gemstone scalpels that sliced right through him and made him feel far more exposed than taking his clothes off ever could.
He licked his lips nervously, wondering if the body he’d been given was accurate to the original, or if the doc had taken a few artistic liberties at the request of the subject.
He rose from the chair, hands trembling as they reached for his belt buckle, but suddenly Jack turned away. “Over here,” he said, and Timmy followed, uncertain.
He recalled what Jack had said, back in the Meriff’s office: who even has books, and the irony of the fact that Jack had an entire corner of his office lined with bookshelves was not lost on him. A few of them had cabinet doors, and Jack threw one of them open, revealing several stacks of clothes, jeans and sweaters in various shades. Another cabinet was filled with jackets, and Jack picked through them, musing quietly to himself.
“Even if you look good in everything,” he said to Timmy, selecting a jacket from the rack, “not everything is going to look good together.” He added a couple other articles of clothing to the pile. “Once this whole mess is over with, and we get you set up properly, I’ll make sure you’ve got a trained stylist on hand at all times. Can’t have you messing up my image.” He looked over his shoulder at Timmy, then down at the couch. “Sit.”
Timmy sat.
“Wait, I take that back. Your pants are still gross.”
Timmy stood back up, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.
After Jack seemed satisfied with his selections, he brought the pile of clothes over and pushed it into Timmy’s hands. If they had both been barefoot they would have been of a height, but Jack worked the extra inch his boots gave him to his advantage, and Timmy felt himself shrinking down
“There you go, kiddo. John.” Jack grinned as he said the name, and Timmy tried to not tremble. There was no way that Jack had failed to notice his constant flush, and he could only hope that he wasn’t interpreting it the wrong way.
Not like it mattered, really. Jack was going to do exactly what Jack wanted.
Timmy shifted to set the clothes down, but the second he turned away he felt solid hands latch onto his shoulders and he was falling, being pushed back and down onto the couch.
The piece of furniture was soft enough to not knock the wind out of him, but Timmy still found himself struggling to catch his breath. It probably, some small part of his brain reasoned, had something to do with the startle he’d been given, and the fact that Jack was straddling him, practically sitting in his lap.
Because that was a thing that was happening.
Strong hands gripped the sides of his face, one bearing the caress of leather, and thumbs stroked along the sharp lines of the jaw that was both his and not-his, his memories of the original shape of his face conflicting with the contours Jack was tracing.
“John, John, John,” Jack murmured, “they really did do a good job on you, didn’t they?” That predatory grin had never really gone away, but now it was brought back full force and Timmy felt himself weaken under the pressure of it.
He started to squirm, but that only made his thighs rub against Jack’s so he immediately stopped. He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of Jack’s presence. “Sir…” he squeaked.
The hands on his face moved, fingertips skimming along the scars behind his ears, thumbs pressing into either side of his Adam’s apple. “Yes?”
Timmy’s train of thought, barely limping along at this point, spat out the first thing it came up with. “What about my pants?”
Jack’s grin widened, and Timmy felt like he was drowning in a sea of perfect white teeth. “What about your pants, John?”
Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. “You said not to sit on the c-couch, because they were dirty, but now I’m-”
“Maybe you should take them off, then."
Oh fuck.
“I-I don’t think that I-”
The grin suddenly disappeared, and Timmy learned that while its presence was disconcerting, its absence was terrifying. “I said take them off,” and the fingers that had been gently stroking his throat suddenly tightened.
Timmy’s heart fluttered, knocking around in his freshly healed ribcage like a captured animal. Jack wouldn’t really hurt him, would he? Kill him? He didn’t know, but the fingers on his throat weren’t getting any looser and air was not getting any more plentiful. His head lolled back as he struggled, fingers scrabbling at the thighs that were wrapped around him, but Jack was too heavy and Timmy was too afraid to do anything that might actually hurt him.
And suddenly he could breathe again, drawing in great sucking breaths, feeling tears squeeze out of the corners of his eyes. Jack’s hands came to rest on his bare chest, palms scorching hot against his skin, feeling the rise and fall of Timmy’s desperate lungs.
“I don’t understand why this has to be so difficult, John,” Jack said, and his expression was almost sad as he lowered his head and looked at Timmy with half-lidded eyes. “You know what I want, and if you’d just look at the situation I’m sure you’d see that I’m the only person you’re going to get that sort of thing from anytime soon.”
‘That sort of thing’ was probably the last thing Timmy wanted from anyone. He’d been a broke and desperate college graduate, after all, and he’d done more than a handful of shameful things in the interest of paying his bills. As a redhead, he’d been popular, but not popular enough to pay off thousands in loan debt while still maintaining a living. He’d hoped that this job would get him away from that, but it seemed that he’d only walked into more of the same.
Jack apparently noticed his expression of consternation and revulsion. “I’m not just talking about sex, but I’m not really talking about love, either.” He leaned in close, his lips just brushing Timmy’s ear as he whispered, “Tell me, John, out of all the people you might be capable of caring about, how many of them would be capable of caring for you? With that face, and all things attached to it? With your whole life being a facsimile of mine?”
Timmy’s throat hitched, but the whispering continued.
“I know how you feel about Moxxi, John, but do you think she could ever care about you when you look like me?” He paused, and Timmy heard a low growl curl out of the depths of his throat. “Especially with everything that’s...happened. And the others you’ve been working with; sure, Nisha’s into me, but to her you’re just a sad joke. And it’ll be the same for everyone else you ever meet, John, because you’re not real.
“You’re just a copy. A recreation. You, the you as you think of yourself, doesn’t exist anymore. Every person who might ever care about you is actually caring about me. You’re a ghost, John. No one will ever care about you.”
Jack pulled back, and his expression was oddly tender. “No one but me.”
Timmy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His chest felt like a tangle of wire, jagged and knotted and entirely unfathomable. A sad little hiccup escaped him as Jack once again brushed his fingers along his jawline.
This was ridiculous. Absurd, the whole thing, from start to finish. He was sitting in this overblown office, mostly naked, wearing the face of the Hyperion would-be tyrant who was sitting in his lap, with what was obviously an erection pressed along the top of his thigh, spouting this drivel about how no one would ever care about him, and Timmy suddenly felt his throat coil up because he knew that it was true.
Jack was right. He just didn’t know how he hadn’t seen it before.
The hands on his face moved lower, fingers trailing along his collarbone. “Let me care about you, John,” Jack said, his voice low, sultry. “I always will, even when no one else can.”
Ego. Vanity. Hubris. Jack only cared about himself, and even then it was only on the most superficial of levels; he was Narcissus, looking into the pool, in love and lust with the face staring back at him, not thinking or caring about what might lie beneath the surface.
Jack only cared about himself, so as long as Timmy looked like him, Jack would care about him, too.
Later, Timmy would try to convince himself that he’d moved involuntarily, that he hadn’t been able to stop himself, but the truth of the matter is that the upward surge he’d made in order to crush his lips to Jack’s had been entirely deliberate.
He could feel Jack’s mouth twist into a grin even as he kissed him back, bared teeth scraping at Timmy’s lower lip as fingers dug into his shoulders. He was rough, aggressive, rising up onto his knees, forcing Timmy’s head back to ravage him from above. His tongue pressed against Timmy’s teeth, not so much asking permission as giving warning of a breach, and Timmy gasped as a thumb pressed against his windpipe and Jack’s tongue swept inside to claim its territory.
Timmy wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands - one of Jack’s was twisted in his hair, tugging in a way that was not unpleasant, the other a gentle reminder of pressure on the pulse point in his neck - so he settled for wrapping them around Jack’s legs, fingers digging into the back of his thighs just below the curve of his ass. The man was firm but pliable, and Timmy slid his grip down the line of his legs and back up, appreciating the texture of the flesh beneath the jeans just as much as the enthused moan that Jack poured into his mouth.
Suddenly Jack was pushing him away, clambering off his lap and off the couch, leaving Timmy cold and exposed, his lips already feeling swollen. He could taste Jack’s tongue on the back of his teeth. “What-” he began, but Jack cut him off.
“Wait,” he said, shedding his sweater - he apparently didn’t wear a shirt underneath it - and loosening his belt. He then leaned forward, planting one hand on Timmy’s thigh as the other snaked between his knees, under the couch, that grin wide and close and eager. Timmy had a moment to register a click before the back of the couch fell away and he went with it.
Of course the couch was a futon. Timmy had a sudden curiosity as to how many people Jack had fucked right here in his office, on this same piece of furniture, but the thought was quickly shooed away as strong hands went to work on his belt. He looked down to see Jack grinning up at him, one knee propped on the couch between Timmy’s legs as he worked his belt free of the loops and tossed it aside. He popped open Timmy’s button and zipper, too, but left it at that as he pulled himself up, hovering over Timmy with a hand planted on either side of his head.
Autohn really had done a good job; Timmy could see now that the physique he’d been given was a fairly accurate copy of the original, well-formed without being overt, but Jack did have a bit more thickness around the middle, probably due to age. Timmy was younger than Jack, he knew that, even if his face didn’t represent it anymore.
“I hope you like what you see,” Jack said, his voice husky, “because you’re going to be looking at it for a long, long time.”
Timmy swallowed the painful lump in his throat. “Stop talking,” he said, almost surprised by his own boldness, and wrapped his arms around Jack’s neck to pull him down for more of those toothy, sloppy kisses.
Jack was into the boldness, apparently - it made sense, the man was in love with himself so the more Timmy acted like him the more he’d be into it - and his teeth fairly ripped into Timmy’s lip as their mouths met. Timmy’s whimper of pain was stifled by the kiss, but Jack apparently heard it anyways because he ground the thigh that was still between Timmy’s legs into his groin.
It was good - Timmy was almost alarmed at how hard he already was, the iron of his dick providing a firm resistance to the meat of Jack’s thigh, and he bucked his hips up hungrily. People hadn’t always given a shit about whether or not he was getting off, so having the deliberate attention was wonderful and unusual. It had been so long since anyone had touched him.
Jack broke the kiss, moving to nip at Timmy’s jaw and earlobe. “I never leave anyone wanting,” he breathed, like he’d read Timmy’s mind, and closed his mouth on the soft flesh below his ear.
Timmy let out a breathy moan as Jack worried the skin with his teeth, clawing at the bare back above him in desperation. He slid his hands lower, beneath the waistband of Jack’s loosened jeans, looking for something else to hang on to.
Of course Jack didn’t wear underwear, either, and Timmy dug his fingers into the taut flesh, pulling Jack’s hips down to meet his, already desperate for friction. Jack obliged, straightening his bent leg to bring their hips into full contact.
Timmy couldn’t breathe. Autohn hadn’t done anything to his dick - there were still a few freckles spattering the underside of the shaft - but he clearly could have, because whatever Jack was packing was burning a hole into his hipbone in the most pleasant of ways. He canted his hips up, trying to get a better feel for it, and whimpered as Jack sank his teeth into his neck.
“You like that?” Jack chuckled, swiping his tongue along the tender skin, and it was all Timmy could do to whine yes before he began shoving at Jack’s shoulders, trying to get him to roll over.
Jack obliged, and Timmy followed, taking his turn to kiss his way down Jack’s neck and across his chest, slipping lower and lower until he slid right off the futon. Kneeling, he hooked his hands behind Jack’s knees and pulled, dragging Jack down until his feet were on the floor and his ass was at the edge of the piece of furniture. Jack, catching on, sat up and lifted his hips so Timmy could slip his jeans down.
There it was. Timmy couldn’t help it as his tongue darted out over his lips. It had been a while since he’d been eye to eye with a dick, but he still knew a gorgeous one when he saw it - smooth, slightly curved, standing fully erect and flushed from root to tip with a smear of moisture across the head.
He looked up to find Jack looking down at him, his eyebrows cocked. “Are you sure?” he asked, slightly condescending, but Timmy wasn’t deterred.
“I know what I’m doing,” he said, and took a moment to be delighted by the confused look that crossed Jack’s face before he licked the underside of his dick from base to glans.
Jack hissed, and Timmy closed his lips over the tip, caressing the tender spot just below the head with the flat of his tongue. Jack made a hoarse noise and bucked into his mouth a little, but Timmy moved with the motion, bobbing up and then back down to take another inch or two into his mouth. He wrapped one hand around the portion of shaft not covered by his mouth, splaying his other hand out along the inside of Jack’s thigh, lightly scraping the skin there with his blunted fingernails, feeling the shiver that traveled up the whole of Jack’s body.
His own cock throbbed in protest, still trapped inside his thankfully loosened jeans, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the heavy weight against his tongue, feeling it nudge against the back of his mouth as he sunk a little deeper. Jack may claim that Timmy didn't exist anymore, but even if he was only Jack now (or John, or whatever), he had been Timmy at one point, and Timmy had known a few tricks that the real Jack didn't.
He let his tongue do most of the work at first, lapping and swirling at the head and first few inches of Jack's cock, his hand providing a constant warmth and pressure to the lower portion of the shaft. He felt Jack's fingers thread their way into his hair as he worked, tugging less than gently, trying to force Timmy's head farther down on his cock.
Timmy resisted, paying careful attention to Jack's reactions, feeling and listening for a telltale sign that his mouth was having the effect he wanted. He squeezed the base, curled his tongue around the head, pressing the tip gently into the slit - and there it was. Jack's breath hitched, his cock jumping against the roof of Timmy's mouth as his fingers tightened against his scalp.
Up until this point, Tommy had kept his eyes downcast and lidded, but now he opened them and looked up, straight into Jack's eyes. Blue met green and green met blue, just for a moment, and then Timmy sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, and Jack threw his head back with a stifled curse as his hips bucked.
Timmy was prepared, and he took a deep breath through his nose as Jack's cock forced its way down his throat, his jaw aching with the strain of keeping his teeth clear of Jack's girth. He let himself make a noise, a genuine, humming moan, and Jack bucked again, more gently, the head of his cock rubbing against Timmy's throat.
"Fuck," Jack grunted as Timmy worked his throat, his voice raw. "I can't believe I didn't do this - shit!" Whatever he had been about to say got lost in the curse as Timmy swallowed, taking down the last inch of Jack's cock as he buried his nose in Jack's soft, dark curls.
Both his hands were resting on Jack's hips, now, keeping him from thrusting and potentially making him choke. He felt the hand in his hair tighten slightly as the other skimmed along his neck, pausing for a moment before a thumb dug into the join of his neck and shoulder.
Jack must have left a bruise there earlier, because it was tender, and Timmy instinctively leaned into the pressure, pulling his mouth partway off Jack's cock so he could whimper. He felt more than heard Jack's answering chuckle, and the thumb dug in deeper.
Timmy whined again and went right back to work on Jack's cock, now pairing his hungry tongue with gentle suction and the occasional deep bob, making the swollen head bump against the back of his throat. The throbbing of his own groin was too much to ignore, now, and he loosened his grip on Jack's hipbone to slip a hand down his pants.
His fingers had barely brushed his shaft when Jack's hand in his hair suddenly tightened, forcing his head back and fully off his dick. "No," Jack rasped, commanding, and Timmy felt his throat tighten with fear and anticipation.
Slowly, reluctantly, he drew his hand out of his pants and looked up again, into Jack's eyes. He knew how completely helpless and disheveled he must look, hair all a mess, flushed a bright red from cheeks to chest, lips swollen and shiny and pupils blown so wide as to make his eyes look almost black.
Jack didn't look nearly as rumpled as Timmy felt, but his usually-perfect coif was tousled and there was sweat pooling in the hollows of his collarbone. His eyes were half-lidded, lazy, but his smile had gone from hungry to starving.
Timmy licked his lips, resting both his hands on Jack's spread thighs, and chanced a whimper. The hand in his hair tightened, and he resisted, straining towards Jack's spit-slicked cock.
Jack chuckled. "You really want it, don't you?" he taunted, sliding the hand not fisted in Timmy's hair along his own thigh, towards his own dick, slow, teasing.
Timmy did want it. Ten minutes ago he'd been repulsed, and would have rather been back in the Veins waist-deep in refuse than kneeling here between Jack's legs with the bitter-salty taste of precum on his tongue. But Jack had done what Jack did, getting right under Timmy's skin so neatly and cleanly that he could hardly feel the pain of being cut open anymore, and he found himself pulling out all the stops to get Jack's cock back in his mouth.
Jack may have been an expert in getting under people's skin, but Timmy was well-practiced at manipulating men who were just like Jack.
Timmy let his mouth fall open, just a little bit, and his tongue lolled out desperately. He leaned forward, fighting Jack's pull on his hair, focusing all his attention on getting his lips back on Jack's cock. But when he found that he could not break the strong grip that held him back, he looked up, made eye contact - mouth still open, thirsty, barely protruding tongue tracing the line of his lower lip - and whined.
Desperate, hungry, primal, it was perfectly pitched to bypass the conscious brain and go straight to the groin. And the expression...Timmy knew that it had looked good on his old face, and hoped that Jack's features did it justice as well.
Apparently they did, because the hand in his hair was suddenly pulling him forward instead of tugging him back, and it was all he could do to get his mouth open in time to accept Jack's cock.
He chanced another look upwards, choking a little as Jack snapped his hips forward, fucking his mouth, and saw that the man's eyes had gone almost completely dark, just the faintest jewel-toned slivers visible under his lids and around the edges of his dilated pupils. His grin had twisted into something more like a snarl, still hungry, still feral, and as Timmy looked up he felt Jack's other hand thread into his hair, joining the first, holding Timmy's head firmly in place.
Timmy wrapped one hand around the back of Jack's calf and kneaded his own thigh with the other, just a hair from his own throbbing, desperate hard-on, unwilling to touch it and risk raising Jack's ire again, just trying to hold on as Jack thrust up into his mouth. He worked his tongue as best he could, offered a little suction when he had the opportunity, but there wasn't much he could do with with head locked in place by Jack's strong, unforgiving hands.
Jack grunted, giving a particularly hard thrust that scraped the back of Timmy’s throat painfully, and he felt his eyes water. He was drooling, too, saliva dripping down his chin and the shaft of Jack’s cock, diluting the bitter-salt-skin taste on his tongue.
Suddenly, Jack was pulling him off, a desperate noise caught in both their throats, and Timmy tried to lean back in but Jack caught his shoulder with his foot and knocked him sprawling.
"Just a moment, kitten," he panted, and Timmy noticed that Jack had a flush to rival his own staining his cheeks and ears. "I don't wanna be done with you quite yet."
Slowly, Timmy pushed himself up from where he’d fallen, letting his tousled hair spill over his face, entirely too aware of how low his filthy jeans were slipping on his hips. If he was interpreting Jack’s comment correctly, then he was intending to take this all the way.
Not like he could have expected anything else, of course. Jack never left anyone wanting, he’d said, but obviously he would never stoop so low as to suck dick. John, on the other hand… Timmy narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
John had probably sucked more than his fair share of Hyperion cock, back in the day. The company was famous for its unofficial slogan: “if you ain’t sluttin’ it, you ain’t cuttin’ it,” and Jack was very clearly cutting it, if the enormous office and slick attitude were any indication.
He was in charge now, the one doing the fucking instead of the one getting fucked, and Timmy was in his old place - on his knees, putting on the pretty face. Jack wanting to call him “John” made perfect sense now.
He felt a little sick. The idea of being some stand-in for Jack’s former self, letting the man reclaim all the power he’d lost by playing the role of every person he’d had to service to get to where he was...well, it was disturbing enough on its own, but Timmy could handle being some man’s toy. But when coupled with the things Jack had said earlier - you’re a ghost, he’d whispered, and Timmy felt like one now, like he was fading, becoming transparent.
But his dick was still insistently hard, and Jack was pushing his fingers through his sweat-damp hair as he kicked off his boots and jeans, looking like he might start crushing windpipes if Timmy didn’t get back over to him now, and so he did, crawling on his hands and knees.
The truth remained: Jack would always care about himself. And so long as Timmy looked like Jack, Jack would care about him too. And he needed that, more than anything. He needed someone to care. To give him proof that he was real.
He knelt back between Jack’s thighs, peering up at him through the fallen strands of his hair. He licked his lips, and when Jack smiled at him he knew he’d done the right thing.
“Get up here,” Jack said, falling back onto his elbows on the futon, “but leave those gross pants of yours on the floor.”
Timmy obliged. The jeans were practically off at this point, anyways, and he only had to stand up for them to slip right off his hips and to the floor, stained with the filth from the Veins and the damp spot his desperately leaking cock had left on the front. He shimmied out of his underwear, too - Hyperion-branded boxer briefs. His ass was company sponsored, after all.
Jack hummed appreciatively as Timmy crawled onto the futon next to him, rolling onto his side so that they were face to identical face. He slid a hand over Timmy’s hip, digging his broad fingertips into the small of his back, and Timmy arched away from the pressure, his cock just brushing against Jack’s.
He gasped. Yep, dick was definitely still interested in the ongoing proceedings, emotional trauma be damned. He tilted his hips again, but Jack’s thumb bruising his hipbone stopped the movement.
“So eager,” he purred, pushing himself up, nudging at Timmy’s hip until he was once again flat on his back with Jack straddling him, sitting in his lap. Jack leaned forward, using one hand to pin both of Timmy’s wrists up over his head, and the movement of his body caused the undersides of their dicks to rub together, Jack’s still slick from Timmy’s mouth.
Timmy made a pathetic noise and bucked his hips up, and Jack gave a hitched laugh and wrapped his free hand around both their cocks, pressing them together, bearing all of his weight down on Timmy’s pinned wrists.
“We’ll have to have the doc take a look at this, hmm?” he said, low and amused, inspecting both their cocks as he stroked them together slowly. “I thought he already had, but I guess we’re not quite a perfect match yet.”
He was right - while Jack was larger than him, it wasn’t by as much as Timmy had originally thought, not quite an inch difference in length and a hair or three in breadth. The main difference was the color. Timmy had been quite fair, before the surgeries, and even when flushed red and purple his cock was noticeably paler than Jack’s, accented by the freckles running up the underside of his shaft. The curls at the base were dark, though, just like his hair was now, and Timmy felt a little pang as he remembered everything else he had lost.
“Don’t worry about it, John,” said Jack, giving them both a squeeze, and Timmy keened and bucked his hips, Jack groaning in response, and they simply rutted against each other for a moment, Jack burying his face in the curve of Timmy’s throat.
He pulled away, releasing both his hands and rolling over onto his back, smirking at the abandoned look on Timmy’s face. “I said I wasn’t done with you yet, John, but that wasn’t what I had in mind. C’mere,” and he patted his thigh with one hand, the other snaking off over the edge of the futon on a hunt for something.
Timmy pushed himself up and swung a leg over Jack’s body, gently seating himself on the man’s thighs. His dick nestled in the crease of Jack’s hip and he bit his tongue, resisting the urge to grind against it, the need for friction becoming almost overwhelming.
Jack reached his free hand up, as far as he could stretch without lifting his body off the futon, and Timmy obeyed the implicit come here and lowered his head to meet it, letting Jack tangle his fingers in the short hair at the nape of Timmy’s neck, feeling a shiver run down his spine. Jack leveraged his head down, crushing their mouths together, biting at Timmy’s swollen lower lip, nosing under his jaw to nip at the pulse points in his neck. Timmy could feel his heart racing, and couldn’t stop the moans that bubbled up as Jack left mark after mark along his throat and collarbone.
Suddenly there was a cold, slick touch on Timmy’s ass and he jumped, but Jack’s hand was still firmly gripping the back of his neck as he guided their mouths together. “Easy, kitten,” he whispered between kisses, and Timmy choked on a noise as a slick finger found his entrance and breached it easily.
While not unfamiliar, the sensation of a finger in his ass was one that Timmy hadn’t felt in a long while and it was uncomfortable. He buried his face in Jack’s throat, sinking his teeth into his neck as the finger curled and probed.
“This is fine, right?” Jack asked, just as a second finger joined the first, and Timmy’s “yes” turned into a half-choked moan, and he could feel Jack’s smirk in the tendons in his neck as he buried his face deeper into his skin, arching his back further.
Jack knew what he was doing, and it wasn’t long before his fingers found and very deliberately pressed on that sensitive spot inside, and Timmy bit down so hard on Jack’s neck that he broke skin, tasting blood in his mouth even as he moaned and writhed. Jack hissed in pain, and when a third finger breached him Timmy couldn’t interpret it as anything other than payback.
He wasn’t sure if the three fingers were going to be enough, but apparently Jack was getting impatient; Timmy could feel the hard line of his cock throbbing against his own, clearly not satisfied by the little bit of stimulation it was getting from Timmy’s squirming. Jack pulled his fingers free, pushing Timmy back up into a seated position on his thighs before he had a chance to complain. There were dark smears blooming all along the side of his neck - some blood, some bruise - and Timmy felt a little glow of triumph.
“Lift up,” Jack grunted through gritted teeth, digging his fingers under Timmy’s thighs, and he obliged, scooting forward a little as he balanced himself with his hands on Jack’s chest. A hand bumped him from underneath, and a knot of tension began to build low in his stomach as he realized that Jack had dug out a condom at some point, and was rolling it on and slicking himself up.
He still wanted it, and there was a part of him that hated himself for wanting it, but it was drowned out by the anticipatory throb of his own heart and sympathetic pulse of his dick.
“Gently,” Jack said, pulling Timmy back out of his own head, and he allowed himself to be guided slowly down. He felt the head of Jack’s cock bump against him, and forced himself to relax as it bumped him again, found its mark, and breached him.
He whined as Jack moaned, sinking lower and lower, trying to ignore the burn in favor of the sensation of being full. Three fingers definitely hadn’t been enough, but Jack wasn’t forcing him so Timmy took his time, making it work, and it seemed like hardly a breath had passed before he was once again seated against Jack’s hips, full to the brim with Jack’s cock as his own bobbed downwards just enough to tap against Jack’s stomach.
“Fuck,” Jack breathed, and Timmy realized that there were fingertips digging into his thighs hard enough to bruise. “Don’t move. Just…” He trailed off, staring at the ceiling with his teeth gritted, hands kneading Timmy’s quads into pulp.
Timmy listened, not moving an inch, but he couldn’t resist the slightly malicious urge to clench, just a little. The effect was immediate: Jack’s hips bucked up wildly, and Timmy tightened his knees against Jack’s sides in an effort to stay on, his mind going momentarily blank as Jack somehow managed to sink even deeper inside.
Jack made a strangled sound, sliding his hands around to Timmy’s ass. “Do that again,” he choked out, and Timmy obliged. This time, Jack didn’t buck, but his cock pulsed hotly and Timmy found himself trembling.
“Okay. Okay, good to go,” Jack said, more to himself than to Timmy, and his muscles flexed as he gave a controlled thrust upwards. Timmy dug his nails into Jack’s chest, unsure if he should try to work with him or not, and when Jack thrust again he decided it was better to just hang on.
“Are you going to participate or not?” Jack growled, and Timmy sat back a little, hands sliding down Jack’s chest to rest on the V of his hipbones, angled directly at their point of union and Timmy’s own weeping, much-neglected cock.
“If you’ll let me,” he said, pushing down on Jack’s hips and clenching for a third time, and Jack’s lip curled as his hips stuttered, trying to push up but restrained by the pressure of Timmy’s hands and body, and Timmy heard a very small, slightly desperate, and very gratifying noise slip from Jack’s throat.
Slowly, Timmy began to ride him, pushing up as far as he could without Jack slipping out, descending at a speed that was torturous for him but had to be absolutely agonizing for Jack, trying to get a feel for exactly where and how the man pressed inside him. He hesitated at the top of his rise, the head of Jack’s cock just barely in him, and Jack made that same noise again, his eyes fluttering closed as his fingers dug furrows into the backs of Timmy’s thighs.
He picked up the pace, leaning back and bracing one of his hands against Jack’s thigh, arching his back. The change in angle had Jack’s cock rubbing directly against his prostate, and Timmy’s breath hitched with every downstroke as his head fell back. For a second he forgot who he was fucking, why he was fucking them, forgot the whole fucked up situation he’d gotten himself into - just sweat-slicked skin and hoarse half-moans, the curve of a firm body under him and the roiling, delicious heat that was building in his core, fueled by the cock inside him.
He heard Jack whisper “fuck” as the hands on his thighs slid their way up to his waist, muscles flexing as he worked to drive his cock in deeper with Timmy’s every movement. He knew he had to look good like this - back bowed, throat bared, dick hard, he’d had enough men tell him he was pretty to believe it was true, and he couldn’t help the fiery little spark of confidence that kindled in his chest. Maybe he looked like Jack now, but he was still real. He still mattered. Maybe this would be okay.
But he’d forgotten something very important - Jack, and the monstrous beast that was his ego. Timmy barely had a second to feel good about himself before the hands on his waist tightened, and he couldn’t hold in a startled gasp as Jack lifted him up. From all the manhandling Timmy had suffered in the past hour he’d known that Jack was no weakling, but he hadn’t realized that he was strong enough to do that.
After a brief and confusing struggle, the futon squeaking in protest, Timmy found himself flat on his back again, one knee caught up in the crook of Jack’s elbow, feeling empty and disoriented. There was lube trickling uncomfortably down the inside of his thigh, and Jack was hovering over him, pushing Timmy’s knee up towards his own chest, his hair almost as wild as his eyes.
“Do you have any idea how good you look?” Jack breathed, and Timmy hadn’t realized he’d stopped blushing at some point until he once again felt his face heat up. Jack’s smile was gone; he looked fully feral now, lips slightly parted as he panted with exertion, gemstone eyes boring into him. “Because it is insane.”
Timmy didn’t know what to do. Agree? Disagree? Kiss him? Beg? He’d been halfway to climax, and his cock was throbbing in complaint, the sharp arousal that had been building inside him slowly fading with every second that Jack held him down. He wanted it back, he wanted to finish, to get this over and done with, to get away from the hungry eyes that were slowly devouring him.
Jack jostled him, lifting his leg up higher, and Timmy canted his hips and brought his other knee up as well, almost on reflex. “Good boy, John,” Jack crooned, repositioning the head of his cock at Timmy’s entrance, and he felt both sick and warm at the same time.
This time, when Jack pushed inside, it was different. This time, he was under Jack, muffled by the weight of his solid body, a hand on Timmy’s side playing his ribs like piano keys, the other braced against the futon. This was all about Jack, now - his narcissism, his fantasy - and Timmy felt himself being swallowed up by his overwhelming presence. He wasn’t disappearing; he was being absorbed. Becoming Jack.
And when Jack snapped his hips hard enough to make Timmy see stars, the slap of skin on skin deafening in the vast, cold space of the office, he knew that Jack wasn’t fucking him anymore. Jack was fucking himself, with a hunger and a fury that would have frightened him if it hadn’t made him feel so needed, so important. If he couldn’t be this wanted without being someone else… the electricity thrumming in his limbs and the rekindled heat of his arousal convinced him that he could be whoever Jack wanted him to be.
He wrapped his legs around Jack’s waist, urging him on, and Jack obliged, fucking him harder and deeper but no faster, keeping an impossibly even rhythm that forced the air out of Timmy’s lungs with every thrust and barely gave him a chance to draw it back in. Jack’s head was hanging low, one hand bruising Timmy’s hip, the other braced on the futon, and Timmy snaked a hand around his neck, winding his fingers into Jack’s sweat-dampened hair. He tugged his head down, wanting to feel Jack’s hoarse, panting breaths against his throat, to kiss him, to whisper in his ear.
Jack changed the angle of his thrusts, forcing Timmy’s hips up, growling under his breath, “that’s it, you’re being so good for me,” and when the head of his cock made full contact with Timmy’s prostate he made a noise that was half scream, half moan, and Jack snarled in response. It was a dark noise, but Timmy drank it in, fingers curling against the cushions of the futon, trying to ground himself before he was lost completely.
When a hand closed on Timmy’s throat, his half-lidded eyes flew open in a panic, the hand not tangled in Jack’s hair scrabbling at the hand on his neck. Jack was looking down at him, but only in the loosest sense; his eyes were unfocused, pupils blown out to almost full black. Wherever Jack was, he wasn’t here, and Timmy was suddenly terrified.
“Jack,” he squeaked, loosening his hold on the man’s hair to pry at the fingers around his neck with both hands, “Jack, please, I-” The next thrust was hard enough to knock the words away from him - Jack’s hips had never stopped moving, the physical sensation overwhelming Timmy’s fear like it was nothing. Jack pushed his hips up even farther, bowing Timmy’s back, putting the full weight of his upper body on the hand pressed to Timmy’s throat.
“Quiet,” he snarled, and then both hands were around his neck, squeezing, hips still moving, the last bit of air in Timmy’s lungs leaving on the back on an involuntary moan.
He panicked, scratching at Jack’s hands and arms with his fingernails, trying to get his knees under Jack’s body to push him away, something, anything - but Jack was relentless and strong, fucking him faster, making Timmy’s body go weak, hands pressing down harder and harder on his windpipe.
The edges of Timmy’s vision started to darken. His diaphragm was spasming, trying to draw air into his lungs, conflicting with the hammering of his heart. He couldn’t even wheeze - Jack’s grip on his throat was absolute, and all he could see above him were those mismatched eyes, clear in the center of his slowly narrowing tunnel vision.
And all the while the heat and tension in his lower belly grew more intense, stoked by the sensation of Jack’s cock inside him, filling him up, rubbing against all his sensitive parts, and the occasional bright spark as his own dick - still rock-hard - rubbed against his own stomach or Jack’s. His world had become so small. He couldn’t see, couldn’t feel anything except the places where Jack’s skin met his own, couldn’t hear except for the hoarse, hungry whisper in his ear.
“You’re so good, John, beyond good - you’re incredible, amazing, beautiful, I could watch you struggle all day, all night - and maybe I will. Fill you with my cock over and over, watch you squirm, listen to you cry out, knowing that I’m too much for you but that you want me anyways, because we’re perfect, aren’t we, one and the same, made for each other, made for this-”
He couldn’t breathe.
And then the pressure on his throat lifted, just enough for him to draw in a single, rattling breath that scraped all the way down and he could have cried, it felt so good, even with the rawness of his lungs. His vision cleared, just enough so that he could make out the shape of Jack above him, pushing his hair back out of his eyes with one hand.
As Timmy watched, hungrily drinking in gulp after gulp of air - he had thought it might quench the fire burning inside him but instead it was only making him hotter - Jack brought that hand down between them, and as it closed around Timmy’s cock the hand remaining on his throat tightened again. Not so hard, this time, just hard enough to cut off his breathing without hurting him, but the grip on his dick was equally firm.
Through all of this Jack had never stopped thrusting, keeping up that relentlessly steady pace, and Timmy thought he was going to come apart when Jack stroked him, squeezing on the downstroke, twisting on the up, passing the palm of his hand over the precum-slicked head as he worked. Timmy’s lungs felt like they were trying to burst from his chest, rattled by every movement of Jack’s hips, every press against his sweet spot. He was desperate, straining for something he couldn’t identify - escape, release, it was all one and the same - one hand wrapped around Jack’s forearm, the other ripping into the mattress.
And when Jack released the hand on his throat, and air once again flooded his lungs, he came with a silent scream that arched his back so hard he thought it might break. He was barely conscious of the cum spattering his chest, Jack’s hand working him dry, caught up the blinding wash of his orgasm.
He collapsed back to the mattress, whimpering, suddenly so sensitive it hurt, and he reached to bat Jack’s hand away from his dick. Jack obliged, but he wasn’t done yet, sliding his hands down to Timmy’s hipbones and bending him in half. He fucked down, grunting, and Timmy’s sob got caught in his throat - he was so tender, so worn out.
Jack’s hips began to stutter after just a few more thrusts, his eyes squeezed shut as he huffed with exertion. He slammed in deep and held there, and Timmy could feel his cock pulsing inside him as he groaned, arms trembling.
Jack collapsed sideways, and Timmy was forced to roll with him, knees still caught against Jack’s sides. They lay there for a moment, and Timmy shut his eyes, trying to slow his heart rate and quell the nausea that was building in his gut.
Finally Jack rolled onto his back with a huff, and Timmy winced as his cock slid out of him. He remained curled on his side, arms tucked up around his face, knees pressed tightly together. He hoped Jack wouldn’t try to touch him again; he’d probably cry if he did. He could already feel the bite of tears on the back of his tongue.
He felt the futon shift as Jack sat up and sighed, long and content. He dared to open his eyes and look up. Jack was pushing his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead, face and neck flushed, a satisfied grin twisting across his face as he glanced down at Timmy.
“Too much for you, pumpkin?” he asked, and Timmy closed his eyes again, burying his face in the futon. Jack chuckled. “I’m a lot to handle, I know. I said I never leave anyone wanting, but wow. Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone as reactive as you in, I dunno, a long time.”
Timmy brought his fingers to his own throat, tracing the burning outline of the hand that had been there just a minute before. It was already tender, and he knew he would have a hell of a mark in just a few hours. He bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood, fighting back tears.
Slowly he sat up, keeping his eyes downcast and his head hanging low. The floor was freezing under his bare feet and he shivered, aware again of how exposed he was, and how cold it was in the office.
“Look at me,” Jack said, and Timmy couldn’t fight him, not anymore. He raised his head, praying that there weren’t tears in his eyes, and looked at Jack. He saw the the sweat highlighting his cheekbones, the bright asymmetry of his irises, swollen lips curved in a self-assured smile.
That’s your face now, too, he thought, and flinched as Jack touched him, running his fingertips along Timmy’s jawline, brushing against his tender throat.
“You really are something else,” Jack said, vain and admiring all at once, and Timmy saw the bloodied bite mark on Jack’s shoulder and had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat. He’d done that, marked and claimed Jack’s body just as he’d let Jack mark and claim his.
He’d done that, and he would be willing to do it again.
Maybe he was wearing Jack’s face, but Jack was the one inside his skin, and Timmy had never even had a chance of fighting him. He wasn’t even sure if anything he felt came from him, anymore, or if he was just feeling exactly what Jack wanted him to feel. It sickened him to realize that he didn’t really care.
Jack stood, stretched, entirely unabashed, and Timmy couldn’t look away. “I’m gonna go shower,” Jack said. “I’d invite you to join me, but it’s not really big enough for two, and besides-” he grinned, eyes half-lidded, and Timmy’s whole body throbbed “-I’ve got shit I need to get done.” He picked up a pair of pants from the floor, slipped them on but didn’t fasten them. “I’ll let you know when I’m done so you can have a turn,” he said, and swaggered away towards the far corner of his office.
Timmy curled his toes against the cold tile and looked around. The clothes scattered on the floor, clean and soiled alike, the bookshelves lining the walls - he had to turn away when he remembered what was behind them. He couldn’t think about the terrible things Jack had done, not when his handprints were still hot on his throat. Not when Jack was the man he had to be from here on out.
He drew in a great, shuddering breath. He’d get through this - on his knees, on the battlefield, whatever it took and wherever it took him. He’d play at being Jack, at being John, he’d do exactly what was expected of him so long as Jack expected it.
But the second he got the chance, he would run.