I was struck with the sudden need to try my own version of this.
---
Jack sits quietly on a ragged chair as per Atlas’s kind request.
He glares lightning and daggers into the back of Atlas’s head, trying with all the weak force of his own new will to break through those binding chains. He imagines standing tall and with purpose, jumping Atlas now, crushing his skull or his spine with his wrench before he could even start to turn around. But he does turn around and he looks down upon Jack, and he takes a step forward and sighs.
“You really thought you could get the drop on me, didn’t you, kid?” Atlas wipes a streak of red from his temple, the only evidence that Jack was close, that close to bringing him down before he could open his mouth and speak so kindly. Atlas, Atlas. Or rather Frank, now. “You really truly did. Thought you could just waltz in here like a big boy and take me down.” Atlas –Frank – Atlas leans down to run his fingers through Jack’s short hair just to prove he isn’t. “You really thought – you really thought you were anything other than a tool, a toy.” Atlas straightens up and walks over to a table obscured by Rapture’s darkness. “My tool, my toy. As if I didn’t make you.” Atlas walks back into the wretched light and something glints in his grip. “As if I couldn’t unmake you.”
Jack sees the knife real well now but isn’t worried. A knife. He’s had worse, felt worse. Hooks and drills and the screams of little girls. What’s a knife to all the sickness here beneath the sea. He looks up at Atlas with a crooked smile and Atlas laughs. But Jack isn’t worried.
Atlas walks up to his chair all slow and leans his weight down upon an armrest. Getting up close to Jack’s face he presses the point of the fresh sharp knife against Jack’s shoulder. From here he sees the perfect symmetry of Atlas’s constructed face, the line of his jaw and the strength of his chin, Atlas as Rapture: brutal, ugly horror wrapped in fake dark beauty.
Jack keeps easy eye contact with him. As if he’d give the bastard a single ounce of satisfaction that wasn’t wrenched from him. Atlas seems to hear the thought as if that was part of his personal programming too, and as he slides the tip of the knife into Jack, he brings his face closer still. Jack feels the point enter him ‘cause Frank starts slow, feels his nerves catch fire and his face start to sweat. He swallows his pain down into his throat and shuts his eyes tight and tries to keep the scream in when Atlas pushes it in a little harder.
That’s when Atlas brings his face right up to Jack’s ear. Jack can feel him lick his lips and breathe out slow, certain stimuli clear as day, certain facets of his surrounding melting from the agony. “Jack,” Atlas whispers. “Oh Jaa-aack,” he sings. “Now would you kindly,” he says into Jack’s ear, fist in his damp hair “feel good.”
Jack’s eyes shoot open as Atlas sinks the blade deeper into the meat of his shoulder. It feels excruciating. It feels incredible.
“Would you kindly feel good, would you kindly feel good,” Atlas repeats, pressing all his weight against Jack now, the knife pressing into him and tearing him up inside. “Would you kindly?” and Atlas laughs.
Jack's whole body feels lit up with light as he feels every inch of Atlas’s blade inside of him. He sweats and he shakes with the glory of it all but his guts are twisted because it’s not all he feels. Atlas never said anything to take away the pain so it’s still there, the pleasure layered on top of it in thick heady slices. But he feels good, he does feel so good and Atlas starts to draw the knife out of his shoulder again.
Jack moans at the loss, wants that slicing stinging metal back inside him, and Atlas laughs a little. Jack’s felt his self slip away piece by broken piece since the plane crashed. He’s relinquished control – what control – to ADAM and EVE, to the fire and lightning in his system. It’s been forced out of him by a voice, this voice in front of him. He doesn’t want to lose it again now, here, to the bright hot suffering of his body but Atlas thrusts the knife back into him and Jack hears a high sweet noise slip out of his own damned throat. And Atlas slides the knife back out and in again.
Jack’s completely lost now, only the pain and the pleasure building inside him, deaf to himself and to the hot breath against the side of his face. Deaf to the wet sounds of the knife entering him again and again, and blind to the hot blood seeping thick through his sweater. There’s only that aching glow of pure feeling inside him, burning and pulsing and building with every thrust. None of Rapture’s poison intoxicates ever brought him this high. Nothing has ever hurt so good as this. Atlas stabs into him again and again, so steady, and finally presses it in deep, to the hilt and Jack’s eyes roll back into his head as he whole entire body clenches hard.
Jack can feel the slow drag of the knife when Atlas pulls out and not much else. A big warm hand cups the side of his face, tilts it up. Wipes the wetness from the corner of his eye. Jack looks up at Atlas, his eyes soft and unfocussed.
“Good, kid,” he says. Good, real good, Jack hears inside his own head. His whole body relaxes at the praise. His teeth even unclench and there’s warmth in the curve of his lips. Atlas lets his head go and it drops hard onto his chest as Jack passes out.
---
“Top o’ th’ mornin’ to you, boyo,” Atlas sings, coming in to see Jack still sitting quietly where he kindly left him last night. Jack looks up, eyes still vague, to see Atlas there in front of him, cock hard in his pants and knife sharp in his grip. “And how can I help you today?”
He sees Jack’s eyes land on the thickness in his jeans, and then slowly and steadily track left to his hand.
Re: jack/atlas sensitivity stuff, alternate fill
---
Jack sits quietly on a ragged chair as per Atlas’s kind request.
He glares lightning and daggers into the back of Atlas’s head, trying with all the weak force of his own new will to break through those binding chains. He imagines standing tall and with purpose, jumping Atlas now, crushing his skull or his spine with his wrench before he could even start to turn around. But he does turn around and he looks down upon Jack, and he takes a step forward and sighs.
“You really thought you could get the drop on me, didn’t you, kid?” Atlas wipes a streak of red from his temple, the only evidence that Jack was close, that close to bringing him down before he could open his mouth and speak so kindly. Atlas, Atlas. Or rather Frank, now. “You really truly did. Thought you could just waltz in here like a big boy and take me down.” Atlas –Frank – Atlas leans down to run his fingers through Jack’s short hair just to prove he isn’t. “You really thought – you really thought you were anything other than a tool, a toy.” Atlas straightens up and walks over to a table obscured by Rapture’s darkness. “My tool, my toy. As if I didn’t make you.” Atlas walks back into the wretched light and something glints in his grip. “As if I couldn’t unmake you.”
Jack sees the knife real well now but isn’t worried. A knife. He’s had worse, felt worse. Hooks and drills and the screams of little girls. What’s a knife to all the sickness here beneath the sea. He looks up at Atlas with a crooked smile and Atlas laughs. But Jack isn’t worried.
Atlas walks up to his chair all slow and leans his weight down upon an armrest. Getting up close to Jack’s face he presses the point of the fresh sharp knife against Jack’s shoulder. From here he sees the perfect symmetry of Atlas’s constructed face, the line of his jaw and the strength of his chin, Atlas as Rapture: brutal, ugly horror wrapped in fake dark beauty.
Jack keeps easy eye contact with him. As if he’d give the bastard a single ounce of satisfaction that wasn’t wrenched from him. Atlas seems to hear the thought as if that was part of his personal programming too, and as he slides the tip of the knife into Jack, he brings his face closer still. Jack feels the point enter him ‘cause Frank starts slow, feels his nerves catch fire and his face start to sweat. He swallows his pain down into his throat and shuts his eyes tight and tries to keep the scream in when Atlas pushes it in a little harder.
That’s when Atlas brings his face right up to Jack’s ear. Jack can feel him lick his lips and breathe out slow, certain stimuli clear as day, certain facets of his surrounding melting from the agony. “Jack,” Atlas whispers. “Oh Jaa-aack,” he sings. “Now would you kindly,” he says into Jack’s ear, fist in his damp hair “feel good.”
Jack’s eyes shoot open as Atlas sinks the blade deeper into the meat of his shoulder. It feels excruciating. It feels incredible.
“Would you kindly feel good, would you kindly feel good,” Atlas repeats, pressing all his weight against Jack now, the knife pressing into him and tearing him up inside. “Would you kindly?” and Atlas laughs.
Jack's whole body feels lit up with light as he feels every inch of Atlas’s blade inside of him. He sweats and he shakes with the glory of it all but his guts are twisted because it’s not all he feels. Atlas never said anything to take away the pain so it’s still there, the pleasure layered on top of it in thick heady slices. But he feels good, he does feel so good and Atlas starts to draw the knife out of his shoulder again.
Jack moans at the loss, wants that slicing stinging metal back inside him, and Atlas laughs a little. Jack’s felt his self slip away piece by broken piece since the plane crashed. He’s relinquished control – what control – to ADAM and EVE, to the fire and lightning in his system. It’s been forced out of him by a voice, this voice in front of him. He doesn’t want to lose it again now, here, to the bright hot suffering of his body but Atlas thrusts the knife back into him and Jack hears a high sweet noise slip out of his own damned throat. And Atlas slides the knife back out and in again.
Jack’s completely lost now, only the pain and the pleasure building inside him, deaf to himself and to the hot breath against the side of his face. Deaf to the wet sounds of the knife entering him again and again, and blind to the hot blood seeping thick through his sweater. There’s only that aching glow of pure feeling inside him, burning and pulsing and building with every thrust. None of Rapture’s poison intoxicates ever brought him this high. Nothing has ever hurt so good as this. Atlas stabs into him again and again, so steady, and finally presses it in deep, to the hilt and Jack’s eyes roll back into his head as he whole entire body clenches hard.
Jack can feel the slow drag of the knife when Atlas pulls out and not much else. A big warm hand cups the side of his face, tilts it up. Wipes the wetness from the corner of his eye. Jack looks up at Atlas, his eyes soft and unfocussed.
“Good, kid,” he says. Good, real good, Jack hears inside his own head. His whole body relaxes at the praise. His teeth even unclench and there’s warmth in the curve of his lips. Atlas lets his head go and it drops hard onto his chest as Jack passes out.
---
“Top o’ th’ mornin’ to you, boyo,” Atlas sings, coming in to see Jack still sitting quietly where he kindly left him last night. Jack looks up, eyes still vague, to see Atlas there in front of him, cock hard in his pants and knife sharp in his grip. “And how can I help you today?”
He sees Jack’s eyes land on the thickness in his jeans, and then slowly and steadily track left to his hand.