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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!

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Ryan & Fontaine are Friends: Fontaine is Jealous and Ryan has an Adorable Temper

(Anonymous) 2014-09-29 03:25 am (UTC)(link)
(( I'm sorry I never wrote to this prompt earlier... but i never forgot it existed ;( I started writing this as an exercise and then gasped as I realized that this prompt fit in quite well IMO!!
You can find this on AO3 as well!))

Andrew Ryan wore his temper flamboyantly; it burned at the ridge of his curled lips, at the severe creases next to his patronizing eyes, and torched his sharp knuckles white. Frank Fontaine, for the first time in this setup, played spectator as Ryan swooped down on the bungled link in his devout “chain”--a chump rubbed raw from the pampering of his well-to-do parents, no doubt, if his thin-skinned frame of mind towards the the nature of business was any indication.

“I do not sympathize for ineptitude, Mr. Wales.” Ryan gnashed each consonant between his teeth, and Fontaine imagined he would be spitting pins at the bloke if his mouth had not become a desert when his blood had begun to boil. “I will not have every man who encounters defecting customers come clamoring to me for what's nothing better than a write-off!” Fontaine watched quietly from his position behind the desk, leaning back languorously in Ryan's leather-bound chair. His thumb rested against his antagonistic smiling lips, arms crossed in front of him and one foot bobbing on the edge of Ryan's polished Ruhlman desk. He had a nearly perfect view from here; the desperation of Ryan's guest was as plain as empty pockets on a goose straight out of the slots, and Ryan was angled just so he could see the steam burning off from the side of his face.

The chump was had been scraping a dry tongue into the neck of a long-empty bottle for at least ten minutes, curdling Ryan's humor with ill-pitched pleas. Unfortunately for him, Ryan was not an easy mark for last resorts. “Mr. Ryan, I promise I wouldn't be comin' to you if there were anythin' else for me,” Wales appealed, “but we worked closely once, and now I'm hurtin'. My work in architecture's left me, my brother's left me, and Rapture don't have anythin' else for me. Mr. Ryan, I'm comin' to you as a partner--”

“Yes, perhaps we were a coalition before, and you did bring my vision into physical manifestation.” Now Fontaine itched to see if the anger had drained from Ryan's face as it did now from his voice, but the man had shifted his back towards him when Wales' whimpering memoir became too trivial a test to his patience. “However, while you designed Rapture to stand on metal and obsidian, I designed Rapture to stand on emancipated commerce and the sovereignty of man.” Ryan's verse existed most caustically in the furnace of his temper; his inclination to poetic balance was a frustrating charm, and nearly every time Fontaine heard him get himself bent on his brass tacks credo, suddenly Fontaine would be slipping on floor polish. While Fontaine withheld a nauseous giggle, Ryan continued matter-of-factly; “You insist on producing faulty structure, and no one can share in your retribution.” The cliff of Ryan's cheek was a blanched rust color when it was turned tauntingly into the peak of Fontaine's view, the slant of a dark whisk of eyelash perched at the top and a rigid sculpt of mustache betraying an exclusive mouth. He was staring dismissively at a gelded Wales, if only for means of conveying just how much of a waste of time his visit was. “Mr. Wales, our discussion is over. If you would please take yourself out.” The smitten reeling in Fontaine's stomach, incited by the buttoned-up threat enfolded by Ryan's final words, was embittered, Fontaine realized, by jealousy. Ryan's temper was a thing stroked by Fontaine's bantering devilry; to see its manacles after this Daniel Wales was, sure as hell, a slump.

The pinched mutt Wales had the scrap to persist, however misplaced it was. “But- I put my feckin' life in this rotting basillica!” Ryan turned the shutter of his back to him as though he no longer existed, and Fontaine was intrigued by the stoic face that was revealed to him, uncreased by expression as it studied the pattern of wood in the desk, or the grooves in the floor. He said, at level, the name of one of his chief guards who typically spent the day flirting with reception outside the door, and as Daniel Wales was collected from the office, Ryan gradually disengaged his frigid eyes from the surface of his desk and looked at Fontaine with all the scorn he had supposedly abated with Wales moments ago.

The acrid contempt that brimmed from Ryan's temper provoked Fontaine's wide-eyed grin. “Here I was, thinking you learned a thing or two about being calm. Thinkin of fishies swimmin peacefully, and breathing air like it was booze,” Fontaine teased, the resentful snag in his stomach beginning to untangle. “But ya do pull off a pretty act.” The way Ryan contended against Fontaine with melodramatic ardor—as he made a point to broodingly pinch the toe of Fontaine's oxford before pushing it off the desk—made Fontaine wonder if it was ever Wales he was upset with at all.

“I have no qualms with Wales. It is an aggravating pity that he chose to come in at the time he did.” Ryan moved around the desk and met Fontaine's agog gaze with an indignant twist of his lips. “I expect he will not forget who he saw sitting like a laggard derelict in my office.”

Finally, a cackle leapt from Fontaine's thrown-back head, and he sprang out of the chair triumphantly, snapping his hands onto an alarmed Ryan's arms and pressing a grinning face toward him. “Some things can't change, can they!” His pitch undulated to a sharp excitement, the uncomfortable twist of his stomach now gone with his revelation. The besotted tension in Ryan's veins—it was always Fontaine, and Wales was goose eggs!

Releasing a screwy-faced Ryan, Fontaine pranced to the cabinet where Ryan stored his liquor and threw the doors open. As Fontaine filled two glasses in devious furor, Ryan smoothed the sleeves of his suit in discomposed contemplation, his teeth tarrying over possible arguments or a reproach to Fontaine's nonsensical outburst. Pointedly, Ryan strode across the office to an incessantly beaming Fontaine. He seized the proposed glass and drew himself vehemently close, his lips drawn so tightly together that his jutting mustache must have mingled for a tantalizing moment with the tightly-trimmed one on Fontaine. As he drew breath for retaliation, Fontaine held his. Heat quickly filled the small space between them, and then, Ryan relented; “Whatever.”

Re: Ryan & Fontaine are Friends: Fontaine is Jealous and Ryan has an Adorable Temper

(Anonymous) 2014-10-22 01:52 am (UTC)(link)
in case anyone want more, there's continuation/more mustache touching here: