Heyloo,

Just a fyi guys that I do not have a Beta, and sometimes...I just suck at translating my thoughts to words. I've had this checked over with a couple friends so hopefully its good enough. I may possibly edit this later when I have the time, and the WILL! hah.

Please enjoy~

Cohen was dead, the great artist Sander Cohen. Hah. The bastard was sick and twisted, and deserved to be turned into a "sculpture" as well and displayed for all the damned Splicers to mock. Jack kicked the clay faced Houdini splicer with his foot, just to make sure the monster was dead. Jack had been trying to survive in this hell hole for the better part of his misfortunate night, and this man was possibly the worst being he had to encounter tonight.

No.

Atlas…or rather Fontaine was the worst encounter of the night. He used Jack and abused him, just like a greedy business man would usually do to a pawn like him. It hurt to think that the charming Irishman whom helped him and saved him numerous times was really just that pig Fontaine. The thought made Jacks blood boil, readying him to kill more of those bloody freaks out there. All he wanted now was to end it all and take his soon to be daughters home…and make some real memories. He spat on the Artists still warm corpse, and turned to loot what he could from the house.

"That's not a very nice thing to do boyo…spitting on the dead is disrespectful." The voice slithered its way across the room to Jacks ear, causing the sweater clad man to stiffen up. "What? Not expectin to see dear old Atlas so soon?" A dark chuckle sent chills up Jacks spine.

"Something like that." Jack flared up his elctrobolt shooting it across the room at Fonatine, hoping to stun the man so he could fill him with bullets. Evidently, he missed and Fontaine returned the blow with an ice bolt. Jack dodged it and threw another electric ball at the man just grazing him by an inch sending a slight shock to Fontaine that showed through a blue strike going up his arm. Jack would have killed to see the man's facial expression, but he was shrouded in the shadows of the furthest part of the room, where the light didn't shine no more.

"Playin' dirty are ya now boyo, heheh." The man's gravelly low voice sent a violent shiver of disgust up Jacks spine. Just why the hell was he talking in that stupid accent now anyways? What mind game was he playing now?

His thoughts were cut short as an ice ball clipped his shoulder sending him off balance and falling back onto the giant dirty window in Cohen's bedroom. Just when he was about to fire back Fontaine used his plasmid to freeze Jacks hand to the glass. The feeling burned his hand, and though his electrobolt kept his hand warm enough to prevent frostbite, it wasn't powerful enough to melt it…quickly at least. Jack reached for his pistol, firing a few shots out of desperation only to have it torn by his hand. Telekinesis plasmid, he should have known the sneaky scumbag would have that sown into his DNA as well. Jack finally started to sweat a bit finally; he was cornered by a monster, a greedy, bloodthirsty monster.

"Awwe, don't look at me that way now, you'll make me feel bad." Jack stared back at Fontaine's shadowy figure, trying to show as much hatred as he could on his face to the man.

"Having trouble losing the accent Fontaine? Or do you just have a thing for Irish accents?" Jack tugged on his icy prison with his free hand whilst he waited for the answer.

"Ah, no boyo, just tryin to make you happy." Trying to make him happy? What sick little game was Fontaine playing at?

"It would make me happy if you just drowned yourself, plenty of water around here anyways." Fontaine simply let out a light hearted laugh in response to Jacks venomous request.

"Now that's not a very nice thing to say to the lad who helped you, and stood by you thick and thin! I think you should apologize." Fontaine's voice withheld a sick happy go lucky tune charm.

"Fuck off Fontaine."

"Why don't you call me Atlas?" Jack paused at his tugging, the gears in his head trying to process what Fontaine just asked.

"Atlas?" The dark haired man replied with a confused tone, "You're not Atlas…that's why."

"Well why don't we just pretend for a moment, after all I got all prettied up for you an' everything boyo!" With that said, the man stepped out into the murky light of Cohen's room, dressed not as the bald business tycoon, but the simple hard-working Irishman that Jack had wanted to meet since they had first talked. He wore the loose fitting pants with black suspenders, and a white button up shirt with his sleeves rolled up like all the posters had portrayed him in. His head was covered in thick wavy blonde hair, with a chin dusted in light stubble, and dark blue eyes like the black ocean around them. He indeed looked like the man Atlas could have been, but the sour thought of Fontaine's hand in it all still persuaded his feelings of hatred towards him.

"Tch, this some sort of joke Fontaine…" Fontaine opened his mouth to speak but Jack interrupted him quickly, "Of course it is, I don't even need to ask you. You're a twisted son of a bitch who enjoys this kind of crap."

"Oh you don't even know boyo…" his voice trailed off into a throaty chuckle making Jack squirm, and renewing his efforts to free his hand from the slowly melting ice. "This'll be harder to do now than it would've been before, but better late than never eh?" Jack ignored the man's odd words and continued tugging at his restraint and firing up his electrobolt to it hottest point. Jack swore out loud when his eve ran out finally, he had used the last of his reserves in the fight with Cohen and had no time to replenish it. "I'll be damned if that winter plasmid doesn't hold out well, looks like I'll have a lot more eve for more important things." The words froze Jack in an instance.

"Going to kill me now are you." Jacks words came out as more of a statement than a question and Fontaine's only response was a smirk, which didn't make him feel better. As the blonde man silently made his way across the floor, Jack tried to think of any way he could escape. Perhaps he could knock him out with some of the rubble lying around, or maybe could loosen the ice up a bit from the wall and use it as a weapon in itself. As Jacks heart sped up, Fontaine got closer and closer until he wasn't a hairs width away. Jack swung his free fist at the man in a weak attempt to cause damage, but Fontaine simply used his telekinetic plasmid to bind his hand to the smudged and paint splattered window.

"Can't have you doin that now boyo." His voice was low and deep, almost sensual now, and it freaked Jack out.

"J-Just do what you have to you bastard!" Jack spat at the man.

"If you say so..." Jack screwed his eyes shut waiting for something horrendous to happen, like his neck being slowly frozen, clotting his veins, or his heart being ripped out with Fontaine's mind. Instead he felt hands crawling up his sweater, and warm whisky hinted breath on his neck. How was this killing him exactly? "I think I like the idea of restraining you better than the whole romanced outlook anyways Jack. More exciting, don't ya think?"

Jack remained silent, letting the man leave chaste kisses on his neck, sucking every so often trying to elicit a reaction from Jack. His hands roamed over Jacks toned stomach, massaging around every cut he felt and ghosting over his nipples. Jack, was terrified stiff, he couldn't move, breath, or even blink his eyes. He was utterly shocked at what was happening between him and this ghastly man before him. A demon in the skin of a hero, was…molesting him? No. Jack struggled to get Fontaine off, using his legs to kick and create distance between the two.

"Good idea, best leave all that kissing and holding for the afterglow eh? Get right down to the grit." The "Irishman" put mental holds on Jacks legs, spreading them wide open for the other to take advantage of, and oh the man definitely did.

The rest was a blur for Jack, the panting, thrusting, tender bites and kisses all happening right before him, and yet he couldn't understand it. When pleasure started to mix with his confusion and pain, he did start to make believe. Make believe that it was the heroic Atlas fucking him into the window by Cohen's cold dead corpse, and not that devil Fontaine. That it was the man whom had saved him and gave him hope, the man whom people looked up too. Not the lie in the clothes of a hardworking Irishman. In the end, Jack's imagination could only take him so far, and it wasn't far enough that he could actually come while being "pleasured" by the man. He could not look into the face of the man who took advantage of him and betrayed him numerous times, leaving scars in his memories. So when "Atlas" came inside of him, it was only an ugly reminder of what he was trying to escape from. The "afterglow" that was talked about, was Jack lying in a pile of Fontaine's semen and sweat, cold and alone again.

As Fontaine left the abused man on the floor, no smile crept up on his stone cold face, no emotion, no feeling. The only thing that could've possibly been redeemed was the small hint of sadness in his eyes…but that could be left for the imagination of someone else.