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


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

- bioshock trash crew proverb




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

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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.

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frank/jack, addiction

(Anonymous) 2014-04-09 03:08 am (UTC)(link)
Bad end. Frank uses Jack's addiction to dehumanize him further. Makes him lick Adam off the floor, off his shoes, off his cock. Jack's so desperate for a hit he'll do anything.

Re: frank/jack, addiction

(Anonymous) 2014-04-09 04:24 am (UTC)(link)
seconding thirding fourthing fifthing sixthing seventhing eighthing ninthing

eyyyyy fill

(Anonymous) 2014-06-06 11:17 pm (UTC)(link)
It’s barely been a few days since he last stuck a needle into his arm, but Jack’s already itching all over. His skin buzzes, his hair feels like needles, it’s hard to concentrate on anything, even with the constant distraction Fontaine has been giving him—get up, get a gun, shoot who needs to be shot, stand by “Atlas’” side while he preaches to the masses, fall exhausted onto the couch in Fontaine’s office, repeat, repeat. Except usually somewhere in there, Fontaine gives him what he needs—a bottle, a needle, a whole little girl sometimes, regularly enough that Jack was never in want of more. Until now.

He asks Fontaine about it pretty quickly—maybe there’s a break in the Adam supply, this could be an issue—and Fontaine laughs at him. “Jeez, kid, can’t handle a day without a fix?” He waves Jack off, clearly very busy doing important Rapture business like counting his money and admiring posters of himself. Jack rolls his eyes, not in the mood for an argument.

By the next day, he can’t sit still at all, he’s constantly drumming his fingers against his leg, the wall, anything, his head is pounding, he’s got a twitch in his eye, his teeth hurt from the way he’s been clenching his jaw. Fontaine doesn’t notice—or pretends not to, more likely, probably enjoying watching him squirm. He won’t rise to the bait.

He can’t sleep that night. He alternates between sitting up and pacing, unable to lie still, his arms getting redder as he scratches at them with his short, blunt nails. He wants to tear something apart, he wants to shed his skin, he wants to break open a window and let the water take him, consume him, he needs to do something.

The next time Jack sees Fontaine, he doesn’t beat around the bush—I need some. But Fontaine just gives him that cold smile Jack’s seen too many times, the one he usually sees directed at someone he’s going to be ordered to kill. “You gonna take it from me?”

As if Jack could raise a hand against him, as if he wouldn’t have already if he hadn’t so kindly been ordered not to do so the second they’d met face to face. Jack clenches his jaw, the sounds of his teeth grinding against each other loud in his ears, barely able to concentrate long enough to spit another word at Fontaine.

By the next morning, he can’t stop shaking, his legs can hardly carry him to Fontaine’s desk, and when he tries to open his mouth to shout, to scream, to threaten, all that comes out is a weak “Please.”

He can just make out Fontaine’s reply over the sound of his ears ringing and his head throbbing and his heartbeat too loud in his chest—“Come again?”

There’s no room left in his thoughts for pride or anger or anything other than pleas spilling past his lips, his mouth is dry from withdrawal but the words keep trying to creak out, please, I need, I’ll do anything, let me have it, please please please and then there’s a hand in his hair—he’s on his knees, when did that happen, he’s curled in on himself at Fontaine’s feet, like a starving dog.begging for scraps.

“Took you long enough,” Jack hears, and then there’s a soft, red glow that snaps him to attention—a small bottle Fontaine produces from a pocket somewhere in his jacket. “Thought you’d never get to asking nicely.”

Jack weakly reaches up, but finds his hand slapped away. “No. Don’t take any until my say-so, would you kindly?”

Jack groans as the order sinks into him, his muscles seizing to keep still but his mind still so focused on the tiny container of liquid dangling just above him.

Fontaine slowly, slowly tugs the cork out of the bottle, then lowers it towards Jack’s face, just at eye-level. “This what you want?”

Jack nods, his body shaking, his mouth practically watering at the sight of the Adam settling into the bottle—about as viscous as blood, but lighter, brighter, somehow more alive than even the liquid that allows human life. His body is wound up tight, unable to move without orders but needing needing needing. Dimly, he wonders if it was possible to be so far gone that he can’t comprehend orders enough to obey his conditioning.

And then Fontaine tilts the bottle over, spilling the contents onto the ground, leaving a pool of pink-red lying just in front of Jack. It spreads out, slowly, some of it going into the dips between the floorboards and continuing down a straight line, and Jack whines as some of it edges towards his knees.

“Go ahead,” Fontaine says, and it’s like a spring is let loose as his body lurches forward, his lips touching the floor without hesitation as he sucks up all he can. The effect is immediate—his muscles relax a little, a pleasant numbness spreads from his tongue down the rest of his body, he can almost feel his very genes settling back into place, finally getting some of what they need.

Then Fontaine plants one foot in a part of the puddle Jack hadn’t gotten to yet, grinding the sole of his shoe into the dust and dirt and Adam. Soon, as Jack finishes drinking up every last drop he can manage to get off the floor, the bottom of Fontaine’s offered foot is the only trace of the red glow left.

He doesn’t give it a second thought.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack hears above him as he starts worming his tongue around the edges of Fontaine’s shoe before working his way into the middle, refusing to let any of it get away. “You’re even easier than I thought.”

Something in the back of Jack’s head tells him he should be angry, or ashamed, or anything other than desperately grateful to Fontaine, but then he starts tasting leather with nothing underneath it, and the small dose he’s gotten isn’t enough to make up for the days without it, and he pulls away to stare up into Fontaine’s face, trying to convey more, more but not sure if he can make the words come out.

Fontaine raises an eyebrow at him. “Want something?”

Something comes out of his throat that isn’t a word, but it must sound desperate enough to satisfy Fontaine, as he starts reaching into his jacket with a “Fine, needy little bastard” and produces another bottle, this one a bit bigger. Jack almost reaches for it, but remembers, just lucid enough to try to be good this time, maybe if he’s good he’ll get more.

Fontaine empties a part of the contents of the bottle onto his own hand, then offers it. “Here.”

He has Fontaine’s fingers in his mouth before any of it can drip off, four at once, sucking hard to get as much as he can before moving on to each individual finger, dipping his tongue into the folds of each knuckle, whining as some of it hits the back of his throat directly, almost making him gag but then immediately relaxing the reflex, the Adam continuously making him feel more languid. He’s dimly aware of Fontaine sucking in a short breath as Jack keeps mouthing at him, doing one last sweep of each finger to make sure he hasn’t missed anything, flattening his tongue against Fontaine’s palm and searching the grooves inside.

When all he can taste is sweat and skin, Jack pulls back, staring up at the remains of the bottle, still wanting more but not needing desperately like he was before, just dizzy with Adam high and seeking to go higher if possible.

Still?” Fontaine asks, holding the bottle higher, away from Jack. “I spoil you rotten, kid, and you’re still here crying for more? Gonna have to make it worth my while if you want it that bad.”

Even through the haze of want and the hum of his skin and the way all the lights in the room are starting to grow halos, it’s not hard to figure out what Fontaine wants, and he sets to work right away, fumbling only a few times between working at the buttons on his suit pants and wrapping his hand and mouth around his cock, taking him as deep as he can in one go.

“That’s right,” Fontaine breathes, guiding Jack’s head with his hand and muttering a few more words of praise as Jack sucks, trying not to go too fast but wanting to reach for his reward quicker. He flicks his tongue in all the spots he knows Fontaine likes, tries to swallow him all the way down, anything to make him happy, anything—

He cries out, more in surprise than pain, as Fontaine grips him by the hair and pulls him off. “I guess you’ve earned a little something,” he says, holding the bottle in view again for a moment before pouring it down—not onto the floor, this time, onto himself, the Adam mixing with Jack’s saliva over Fontaine’s cock.

Jack reaches for it immediately, not sucking his whole length down this time, but mouthing over the shaft, reaching his tongue in every fold of skin where the Adam might be hiding, and Fontaine lets out a few short, harsh breaths as Jack works him over, a low laugh hidden somewhere in there.

But before he can lick Fontaine entirely clean, he’s being pulled again, back all the way down as Fontaine fucks his throat, the traces of Adam still left hitting the roof of his mouth, the back of his tongue, leaving a patchwork of pleasure and fulfillment inside him, and it’s starting to be too much, his body shutting down and letting Fontaine do as he wishes while Jack closes his eyes and does nothing but feel, until Fontaine pulses and shudders inside him, leaving him to swallow a bitter counterpoint to the Adam he’s been tasting.

He’s barely lucid enough to process Fontaine’s words as he cleans himself up, catches disgusting and whore and need me but he doesn’t care, he feels weightless and calm at last, sitting back on his heels with no more desires but to sit quietly and enjoy it, entirely content with the feelings running through him and pretending it won’t be gone within hours, that he won’t be crawling and begging and humiliating himself again, once Fontaine’s in the mood for it.

Re: eyyyyy fill

(Anonymous) 2014-06-24 05:00 am (UTC)(link)