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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.

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.


Atlas/Jack, bad end, rrrrrrrouuughhh sex

(Anonymous) 2014-04-17 05:09 am (UTC)(link)
Atlas has Jack broken and hooked on Adam. Constantly shooting up leaves Jack so powerful, so hard, so brutal, so bad. He's nothing more than Atlas' attack dog now, just fighting and fucking and killing whoever his master wants beaten and fucked and dead. But sometimes Jack loses it so hard that he can't tell Atlas from the rest of them. Atlas still has that trigger phrase to stop him dead in his tracks before he can tear into him.

And on those nights he has to take Jack home and remind him of his place.

Re: Atlas/Jack, bad end, rrrrrrrouuughhh sex

(Anonymous) 2014-04-18 12:26 am (UTC)(link)
Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please.

Re: Atlas/Jack, bad end, rrrrrrrouuughhh sex

(Anonymous) 2014-04-18 03:35 am (UTC)(link)
The above anon's comment says everything I cannot about this prompt.

Re: Atlas/Jack, bad end, rrrrrrrouuughhh sex

(Anonymous) 2014-04-21 08:51 pm (UTC)(link)
Whoever writes this I have a firstborn child for

Re: Atlas/Jack, bad end, rrrrrrrouuughhh sex

(Anonymous) 2014-04-27 04:10 am (UTC)(link)

fill (not as sexy as it could've been sorry friends)

(Anonymous) 2014-05-02 08:19 pm (UTC)(link)
“Ain’t no Atlas, kid. Never was. But, that doesn’t mean you still can’t work for him.”


His mind has been a blur since then, a series of somehow related sensations—needles, words, guns, orders, touches, pain, pleasure—a fast-paced ride that he doesn’t know how to stop, or if he wants to at all.

It’s faster than usual, sometimes, and it’s even harder to focus on the present moment, letting his body move as it’s willed, letting the power surge through him and be directed in wherever his master wants it to go, and sometimes he’s rewarded with more of whatever it is that’s making his sense of time distort like this, his mind racing faster and faster until he can’t even feel properly anymore.

But then, there’s times when it’s slower. Not as slow as he remembers it, when he can remember the past, but far enough removed from his usual pace that it creates an ache, a need to return back, and most of the time, it doesn’t last long—one moment he’s half-collapsed and breathing heavily into his knees, and the next, there’s the prick of a needle in his arm and the glow of power running through him again.

Sometimes, though, it lasts longer.

He’s weak, too weak to fight as he’s shoved bodily into a familiar-looking room—he sleeps here, he thinks, most of the time—and pushed onto the ground, breathing hard, trying to get a fix on his surroundings.

“Think you can fight me?” the voice from the other presence in the room is saying, the voice that controls him, the voice that usually has a different accent, when they’re out with others, but not now, not when they’re alone. “Think you can take me down, still, after all this time? After all I’ve given you?”

He doesn’t know if the words are being directed at him or not. He doesn’t even know if they’re really being said, or if it’s just a fragmented memory coming back to him, or a dream, or an illusion caused his mind slowing down and losing focus.

“Or- no, it’s the complete opposite, ain’t it?” He’s rolled over onto his back, the ceiling coming into view. “You’re too much of a dumb brute to recognize your master anymore.”


His memories spin and fade into his mind—a fight, a group against another group, the group on the other side shouting something, the group on his side nebulous and unfamiliar save a single person, a single smile and a single word, “Kill.”

He remembers letting the fire loose from his body, throwing lightning at the ones who tried to escape, picking up stragglers with a flick of his wrist and twisting their necks with his mind.

He remembers the feeling of pure ecstasy as the power flooded through him, the feeling of longing to kill again as the bodies started to pile up, the numbers of standing figures decreasing.

He remembers turning around, looking for a new target, and fixing his attention on the first figure he saw—friend? Foe? Living. Soon to die.

He remembers fighting his way through at least two new figures, figures who shouted protests different from the ones on the other side, figures who started screaming towards their leader, ”Whose side are you on, you spliced-up freak?!” “Atlas, call your dog!” “Atlas!”

“Look at me.”

His vision focuses on the face above him, a familiar face, the one who gives him orders, the one who gives him power. Atlas

“I don’t know what the fuck you think you are, but you’re mine, understand?” There’s a hand around his throat. “I don’t take kindly to disobedient dogs.”

Atlas. Atlas. Fontaine? Names swirl through his memories, putting titles to faces and faces to feelings—Atlas is Fontaine. Fontaine gives him Adam. Adam gives him power. Power feels—

He moans, low and cut off slightly by the hand on his throat, but only slightly, barely any pressure at all, but his whole body feels weak, dizzy, barely able to concentrate on Atlas-Fontaine-Adam-Power.

And then—“Would you kindly-“ and his body snaps to attention, his mind blanking and opening and waiting, “-pay attention. Concentrate.”

His mind clears the best it can in his state, as he slowly emerges as if from a dream, remembering—Atlas, Fontaine, he’s got Adam, he’s got him hooked on Adam so bad he’ll do anything to get more, he’ll kill anyone he’s told to, or—or not told to.

He’d made a mistake. Atlas is angry.

“Do you need a reminder of who you belong to?”

He doesn’t know. Maybe. His mind was clouded by plasmid and blood at the time, he could barely remember what a human face looked like by the time he was out of the battle, he’d—

”Would you kindly stop, sit down, and stay there until I tell you! Christ, let’s go forward, we’ll worry about the kid later!”

He’d turned around, saw something breathing, and barreled towards it, until his body suddenly stopped moving and his sensation dulled to a vague sense of sounds, the shake of floorboards, the smell of gunpowder.

“I don’t care how fucked up you are on Adam, you’re not gonna go forgetting my face.” Atlas takes his hand of his throat and instead winds it back for a punch to the jaw, the force sending shocks through him before the pain starts to throb. “I can make you hurt more than any rebellious goon that I put you up against.”

It’s true, he remembers vaguely, a memory of “would you kindly feel-” floating through his head, a reminder, a warning.

“But,” he continues, reaching out of his field of vision and retrieving something small, something glowing dimly, “I can also make you feel more alive than you ever have in your miserable science fair of a life.”

There’s a pressure on his arm—dimly, he remembers when there used to be pain where the needle breached him—and suddenly his vision returns to the familiar glow of Adam in his blood, the world inches towards its usual pace.

It’s good, but it’s not enough, and it leaves him needing more.

“Remember now?” Adam-Atlas-Fontaine asks, “Remember what I can do for you? Remember why you need me?”

He nods, slowly, still too slowly, he needs more, he wants

He gets more, doesn’t even notice when or how it’s given to him, his senses are starting to cloud and sharpen at once, he could move right now but he feels no desire to, no need to, no one has ordered him, so he shuts his eyes and languishes in the power flowing through him.

It’s too hard to focus, but he was told to, he tries and he’s able to process some of what happens but not why or how long it takes. He’s told to move, to stand, to lean over a table, there’s vague sensation as his clothes are removed. His skin isn’t as sensitive as it used to be, probably, his memory of his senses before is fuzzy but he can vaguely recall not having so many scars, burns, manipulated genes that toughened his hide, but then he’s told to pay close attention, to burn his master’s touch into his memory, and then there’s fire running up his sides, over his chest, inside of him, stretching him open.

Fontaine-Atlas-Master continues whispering commands as he presses inside of him, remember, would you kindly, obey, would you kindly, not giving him any actions to perform but rather rebuilding his mind, breaking it down and putting it back together in whatever image he wants, and he’s being torn apart from the inside in too many directions—the words, the Adam, the man inside him—

He’s grabbed by the hair and his neck is twisted until he can see a face, the face he remembers now, the face he can’t forget, the face he can’t harm, and it’s so much, it’s too much, and he loses himself completely, forgets the time and place and his own being, nothing in his mind but Atlas-Adam-Fontaine-Master-Adam-Atlas-Power-Fontaine-Atlas—

He’s dimly aware of the motion of their bodies having stopped, even if his world is still spinning, and the presence filling him up slowly pulls out, leaving him shaking and alone with just a few words left to him: “Good boy.”

He doesn’t know how long he’s left there, how long he’s content to stay bent over and vulnerable, absorbing stimuli at a fluctuating rate, just the sensation of his breath going in and out of his lungs enough to keep him occupied. But eventually that feeling transitions into the sensation of his body being moved, his consciousness slipping slowly into sleep as he’s maneuvered into a new position, flat on his back, unable to move for another while.

And then, time shifts again, as his body wakes up from dreamless rest, six or seven hours past without his notice, and the only indication of the passage of time is the need for more Adam, more power, more—

And he receives it.

From his master.

And he can work again, refreshed, renewed, reminded.


(Anonymous) 2014-05-02 08:46 pm (UTC)(link)