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trash mod ([personal profile] trash_mod) wrote in [community profile] biotrash2014-03-19 04:11 pm

BIOSHOCK KINK MEME

Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires

- bioshock trash crew proverb







== A RAPTURE REMINDER: ==

PROMPTS AND FILLS WITH INFORMATION ON BURAL AT SEA 2 ARE SPOILERS.

THIS POST IS A SPOILER FREE ZONE UNTIL APRIL 27th.
PLEASE ADD ALL SPOILERY PROMPTS AND FILLS TO THIS POST UNTIL THAT TIME.

Spoilery comments to this post will be deleted, and their authors vanished in the night to volunteer in our city's fine Protector Program.

Thank you for your attention. Have a nice day!




Welcome to the Bioshock kink meme.

You can find a semi-frequently-updated list of prompts, with links and an indication of whether they've been filled, here at the index.



it is a kink meme. people anonymously (or not) request fic and pictures; other people anonymously (or not) write that fic and draw those pictures. everyone masturbates, peace is achieved.



there are two ways to take part!

1) start a new comment thread with a pairing/ship, and a kink. there's a kink masterlist here if you find yourself strapped for ideas.

2) swoop into an existing comment thread, and fill the person's request with art or writing. if someone's already filled the request, go for it anyway -- the more the merrier! if you need somewhere to upload/host images, try imgur.



there are some beautiful gems on the old kink memes. if you want an example of how this whole thing works, or you're digging for gold, look no further: on Livejournal, on Dreamwidth.


NOW GO FORTH AND MULTIPLY, MY CHILDREN

Jack/Anyone snuff

(Anonymous) 2014-03-23 09:10 pm (UTC)(link)
Let's put those vita chambers to use, shall we?

on the fence about circumstances. on the one hand, it being Jack's idea is interesting but on the other hand i have a feeling it'd be more likely someone else taking advantage of those vita chambers.

or maybe jack just always pops a weird boner whenever he dies idk

Re: Jack/Anyone snuff

(Anonymous) 2014-03-24 12:46 am (UTC)(link)
please fill this

Re: Jack/Anyone snuff

(Anonymous) 2014-03-26 12:32 am (UTC)(link)
some kind of morning wood perhaps?

(Anonymous) 2014-03-26 12:44 am (UTC)(link)
more like morning deadwood ha ha ha!

(Anonymous) 2014-04-07 05:31 am (UTC)(link)
Driftwood

Salty and all dried out

haha um

(Anonymous) 2014-04-29 08:30 pm (UTC)(link)
idk why I thought it'd be a good idea to mark my return into fic writing after over a year with this garbage but uhhh hopefully it doesn't completely suck!! [WARNING FOR GORE LIKE LOTS OF GORE THERE'S VIVISECTION AND EYE TRAUMA AND JACK GETTING BEAT BLOODY MORE THAN HE DESERVES I'M SO SORRY]

------

Christ, you look good like this,” Atlas says quietly, almost as if to himself, cutting another line into Jack’s skin with a low hum of satisfaction.

Jack gasps, more out of reflex than out of pain at this point, his mind focused more on the deeper cuts on the backs of his thighs than the shallow little cuts Atlas is giving him now, lazy stripes across his back, like a flourish on the end of a letter. He’s lost track of how many places he’s bleeding from at this point, enough that his whole body feels sticky and open, but not enough to feel the blood loss pulling his consciousness away. That won’t be for a while, at the pace Atlas is going.

Just as Jack is starting to ease into the throb of his legs and the rhythmic slicing of his back, there’s a bright flash of pain in his upper arm, the knife going deep, deeper, dragging through the muscle on the way from his shoulder to a bit above his elbow. The knife is sharp, sharp enough to cut easily, but not so sharp that it doesn’t pull and tear and hurt hurt hurt until Jack is squirming in a feeble attempt to break his bonds and pull away from the knife.

“Easy there, lad,” Atlas says, right next to Jack’s ear, sending a shudder through him that he pretends is only fear. “I’ll be done soon, you’re running out of space.”

Jack doesn’t respond except with another shout as the knife is pulled out from his arm, replaced by Atlas’ fingers digging deep into the wound, pulling his flesh apart until he almost wishes Atlas would tear it right off the bone, separate it from him, make it stop

And then both of Atlas’ hands are on Jack’s face, cradling him gently, his hands slick with blood and spreading it across his cheeks. “I think we’re done here.”

Jack can barely process the words, until Atlas is putting the knife to his throat, holding it steady. “Good night,” he says, and Jack has a vague sensation of liquid dripping down his chest as his vision fades, his mind becomes fuzzy, his breath—

——

Jack wakes up choking on unfamiliar air, slumped against the glass wall in front of him, his neck stiff and his eyes having trouble focusing.

Alive. Again. For how long, who knows.

——

Atlas has him strapped to a table, the thick leather belts already installed, probably commandeered from Medical. “I’ve been waiting to use these,” Atlas is muttering, tossing tools from a bag onto a nearby, smaller table. “Been waiting ages since I nicked these off of Steinman.”

Jack tries to tune him out, to show no fear for whatever Atlas is planning to do to him, but then there’s warm breath on his ear and “Would you kindly stay quiet for this?” entering his brain and closing off his throat, and he’s lost one of his only outlets of expression left.

“Can’t have you interrupting the lecture,” Atlas says, before firmly placing a scalpel in the middle of his chest and starting a long, straight incision.

It doesn’t hurt as much as it could, it’s clean and sharp and meant to glide easily through flesh, but the urge to react, even just in small cries or shouts or pleas, is cut off from him, leaving him with nothing but jagged breaths and an unsatisfied lump in the back of his throat as Atlas slices him open, making two more cuts from his shoulders to meet the top of the first into a grotesque Y-shape.

“Let’s get a good look at you, now,” Atlas says, slowly peeling back the flesh to reveal his insides, letting cool air touch what was never meant to be breached from the outside, and Jack’s screams of protest can only play over and over through his own head, unable to be released.

Atlas, now bare-handed, begins probing his fingers into Jack’s insides—he can’t feel exactly where, between the blinding pain pushing all sense of direction from his head and the spots inside him that weren’t meant to be touched, don’t have nerves to sense it in the first place, but just the knowledge that Atlas is inside him is enough to make his exposed stomach churn.

“You really do look like one of us, don’t you?” Atlas is saying, “An ordinary, human-grown boy, no different from the rest of ‘em.” He trails his slick fingers to Jack’s rib cage, sliding his fingers between the openings. “Same flesh, same blood, same guts,” he spreads his hand open and places his palm flat against his chest, a bit to the left, “same heart.”

Jack nearly loses consciousness at that point, only stopped by a would you kindly that traps him in a blurry state of pain and fear and vague impressions of what Atlas is doing—a whirring sound, a cracking from his chest, hand caressing his lungs, his heart, squeezing the muscle until his body goes numb and no amount of mental conditioning can stave off the dark clouds obscuring his vision—

——

He wakes up, slowly, to a muffled humming sound that isn’t just the buzz of whatever the hell powers the Vita-Chamber. Jack doesn’t want to think about what it might be, but it suddenly gets louder and less easy to ignore as the door slides open and his crumpled body collapses into the outside world.

“Rise and shine, boyo!” Jack feels a pair of rough hands lifting him up, adjusting his naked body into a standing position. “I’ve let you have your rest, but now I’ve got a surprise for you.”

The humming is some kind of generator, hooked up to a motor, attached to—a drill.

“Thought I’d do something a little less orthodox,” Atlas says, lighting a cigarette and grinning too widely to look natural. “You’ve met with these before, haven’t you?”

As if he could forget all the times he’d been knocked off his feet, had his clothes torn to shreds, struggled to breathe a few last breaths as the Bouncer pierced through him—

“Now would you kindly walk yourself right into that drill, love?”

Jack’s legs tense in anticipation to carry out the order, but in the split second it takes for the words to process, he’s able to analyze his situation—I can make it quick, get it over with and not give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream, and he winds up to throw himself forward—

“Whoa there, now,” Atlas claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Slowly, would you kindly?”

Jack’s muscles relax slightly in response, and he lets out a barely choked-back sob.

The first breach of his skin is easy, the point sharp and the flesh of Jack’s belly soft, but the sensation of his blood vessels and, gradually, the muscles underneath, being pulled and spun and twisted until there’s a spray of it spreading over the machinery, onto the floor, across Jack’s chest, and Jack’s voice is competing with the mechanical growl until it cracks completely, morphing into labored breaths and low moans as the bit pushes into his stomach, his breath growing weaker and then collapsing as it makes its way towards his lungs, spreading viscera all the way up to his face and in his hair and when will it stop when will it stop why won’t it stop

——

He wakes up, and Atlas hands him a gun, tells him where to shoot.

——

He wakes up, and Atlas hammers nails into his hands and feet, then starts working up his arms, one nail every few inches, refusing to drive one into his heart until he’s a proper pincushion.

——

He wakes up, and Atlas tells him to gouge his own eyes out, then feels around in the empty sockets until he’s satisfied and replaces his fingers with the end of a pistol.

——

He wakes up, and Atlas tells him to stay perfectly still as he raises a large, red wrench above his head. It looks familiar, could be the one he’d dragged all the way from the entrance of this underwater hell to here, but who knows how many identical wrenches there are in the city.

His arms and legs are broken in quick succession, then broken again, more fractures than Jack wants to think about, more slivers of bone poking out of his flesh than anyone should have to see in a lifetime, or ten lifetimes, or however many he’s been through by this point. It hurts, but no more than usual, and there’s almost a meditative calm that goes through him as he feels his throat cry out at a steady pace. Something in the back of his head wonders how Atlas will end it, if he’ll bash in his skull or let his ribs puncture his lungs or—

Then Atlas is standing up, tossing the stained wrench aside and instead digging the heel of his boot into Jack’s wrist, a new sensation that flares through the dulling throb of his broken bones. It’s too sudden, too unpredictable, he’s not allowed to pass out from the pain and he can’t let it sink into a dull ache he can ride until the end, why won’t it end, why won’t it end—

“Beg for death.”

Jack opens his mouth to respond, and—stops. His instinct to obey conflicts with his instinct to resist in a way that he’s not used to as he realizes that Atlas is giving him a choice.

He wants to beg, he wants to die, he wants to have any moment of reprieve from this but he doesn’t want to give up a chance to spite Atlas, to prove that he’s still resistant, to let him know he’ll never, never be completely his—

Atlas brings his boot down hard on Jack’s sternum, halting his breath for a moment but not enough to suffocate, and Jack chokes on the words he wants to give to Atlas, the words he can’t—

There’s a kick to his side, jostling already cracked ribs, shifting his body in a way that pulls on his still-trapped legs, it won’t stop, it won’t stop—

Please.”

Atlas bends down to grab Jack’s hair, twist his head to face him, his other hand reaching for the abandoned wrench. “Please, what?

He tries to stop, he tries to be silent, he tries to spit in Atlas’ face and smile and tell him he won’t be broken, but it’s been too long, too hard, too much.

“Please, kill me.”

Atlas relaxes the hand in Jack’s hair, stroking it gently. “There’s a good lad,” he says, and raises the wrench again.

Jack closes his eyes, and waits.

Re: haha um

(Anonymous) 2014-04-29 08:45 pm (UTC)(link)
dammmn

Re: haha um

(Anonymous) 2014-04-29 08:54 pm (UTC)(link)
PLEASE DON'T FEEL BAD ABOUT THIS oh my GOD this is so incredibly amazing i cannot even believe!!!! i've been craving good guro for so long and this was written so viscerally and had so many creative methods of torture i'm SO FUCKING HAPPY THIS IS SO GOOD

OP

(Anonymous) 2014-04-29 09:58 pm (UTC)(link)
THANK YOU ;u; holy shiT THANK YOU

fshgh the drill, the first part, the fighting the mind control the flskghlkhg this is great thank you so much ;u; you've made my day anon ;u;

Re: haha um

(Anonymous) 2014-04-30 02:44 am (UTC)(link)
HOLY SWEET CHRISTMAS SHIT GOD DIGGITY DANG DAMN SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!