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BIOSHOCK KINK MEME
Let not light see my black and deep desires
- bioshock trash crew proverb
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
Down Where It's Wetter
(Anonymous) 2015-05-30 03:45 pm (UTC)(link)-
It starts out as a vague, offhanded request. Atlas knows Rapture more than the freak from topside. He knows people. He knows what Splicers can and will do if given the chance that Jack will never give—not willingly, at least.
Jack’s more than willing to follow a faceless voice in a decaying town where almost anything and everything wants him dead.
It’s ironic, really, how Jack places what trust he has in other man’s hands; how Atlas sits in his booth like an overseer, watching Jack through hacked cameras and speaking through static-laced radios; how he is the one telling Jack where to go, who to find, what to do.
What not to do.
Atlas supposes he can’t blame Jack. The place is underwater, broken and leaking and pooling, and Jack is only human. He barely bothers to piece Jack’s past together, from the airplane ride to how know what he’s been consuming for EVE—cigarettes, probably, if not coffee or soda.
Yeah, no, he really can’t blame Jack.
So when he sees conflict through the camera feed, the type he’s seen from the crowds he had once spoken to, the words flow casually and with feigned concern. “Look, boyo, I know you got needs, but would you kindly forget about it for now? The place here isn’t anywhere near safe.”
On the screen, Jack glances at the radio on his hip, supposing that the revolutionary leader makes sense. Atlas has more eyes around the area than Jack does and Splicers could be anywhere, from around the corners to along the ceiling. Part of him insistently remembers that he’s got a family to save.
Jack does as he’s told, pushes the polite bodily reminder to the bottom of his list of concerns, and slips his wrench into his hand as he refocuses on his mission.
-
“You all right down there?”
The question is laced with a weary post-grief tone, low and regretfully bitter. It makes Jack swallow hard and nod as reassuring as he thinks a nod can be. Shit’s gone downhill, hit the fan and wrecked the place, all in the past hour or so. He doesn’t know how many hours, but time seems to shift and stretch, constrict and collapse, depending on what’s happening.
Losing Atlas’ family in the submarine, swearing fiery vengeance on Ryan, and now Jack gasps as he gathers the components for the Lazarus Vector.
First he has to fix the trees so that he can fucking breathe, and then end the area’s lockdown.
Not impossible, but not something he can accomplish swiftly.
Jack whines at the growing pressure in his lower abdomen as he fishes off the last bottle of distilled water from a corpse. Worley Winery is watered down in more ways than their wine—the entire place is half flooded and if it were a person, Jack would empathise with it. He regrets chugging down the few bottles of wine he found, wallowing knee-deep in water to get to the Gene Bank. Booze Hound may have been useful since he has yet to find more EVE hypos, but now the extra health and EVE are biting him back.
At least he chose to deal with the bees first. He can’t imagine dealing with them and the Splicers like this.
Jack’s debate is already one-sided as he slings his shotgun over his shoulder—the place is already wrecked and ruined, everyone else is dead, and he has more than enough components for the Vector.
The radio crackles hazily before he can even pull down his fly. He freezes and awkwardly palms his hip instead, pretending to wipe his hand clean of blood or sweat. He doesn’t know how many cameras Atlas has here, and heat rises to his cheeks with embarrassment.
The voice catches his attention, still weary, still comforting in the alien world of hostiles. “Good job, boyo.” Atlas says. “Now would you kindly get the Vector crafted already? Air’s only getting thinner down here.”
Right. Jack remembers that Arcadia is the main source of oxygen in the whole of Rapture, Atlas included. He doesn’t want to think about whether anyone else has noticed the drop, either. Save himself and any allies first, then he’ll listen to his body.
As he leaves the damned place, the sloshing and splashing of water have him shivering from more than the cold.
-
Atlas rests his head against a hand, staring at the radio, then at the camera feed.
To say he has good memory is an understatement. He has to take notes, be alert, and remember his story and the right words to use. Slip ups are often met with questions, something dangerous when nosy reporters get involved. He doesn’t want to make any more mistakes by being forgetful.
So he pays attention to Jack’s actions and implied intentions, mindful of what has, is and will happen. Part of him can’t help but chuckle at Jack’s stifled desperation, can’t help but push him forward. Atlas makes a mental note not to directly tell Jack to hold it in. He can kill two birds with one stone by overriding it with a more progressive order, bringing Jack closer to Ryan and watching him squirm more.
The squirming is new. It starts small, like anything else—chewing his lip, pressing his legs together, bouncing a knee as he waits in the bathysphere to Fort Frolic. It’s almost as if Jack’s keen on impressing Atlas, or at least, not letting him down. A family has been lost, after all, and a death wish signed by Ryan himself.
Something about Fort Frolic feels as though it will be a long one. Maybe Jack will get distracted and fascinated over how a busted city even has technology besides security and transport. Maybe he’ll be fascinated that a mentally unstable artist has the ability to keep the Fort running smoothly enough.
He stares at a quiet clock in the room. Jack has been holding it back well.
Atlas smirks when he hears a groan over the radio.
It’s not meant for him, not meant to even be audible by the silent ‘saviour’. Atlas leisurely toys with his radio, fingers tracing an edge as he wonders whether to interject with concern or mockery, wonders what dignity Jack clings onto in a world like Rapture. He can’t see Jack in the bathysphere that lacks cameras, how the man whines under his breath and tries to distract himself with other activities as he waits for an appropriate situation. He shifts in his seat and drums his fingers on a knee, averting his gaze from the sole window of the bathysphere the whole time.
But if a miraculous city can break under the pressure of the sea, then so can a pent-up Jack.
And he breaks with a gasp.
His fingers, wild and weak, fumble futilely as he tries to pull down his fly and release his spilling cock, but he knows it’s too late. Jack lets out a groan—relieved, ashamed, embarrassed—as a warm, wet patch grows rapidly in his jeans, darkening and dampening the fabric. The rest of his piss spills onto the bathysphere floor when he succeeds in pulling himself out, leaving the legs of his pants relatively clean if not for the blood, water and god knows what that was already there.
Jack doesn’t notice that he’s panting until the radio hisses with static. Atlas keeps his voice levelled pretending he knows nothing, but from all that noise, he can paint a sadistic picture as it is. With a simper, he lets Jack keep his pride.
“You doing okay, lad? I don’t know how bad the Splicers back at Arcadia got you, but Fort Frolic’s bound to have supplies. Recreational area there. If it’s got food and clothes,” Atlas pauses to let the last word sink in, but only briefly, “it’s bound to have health.”
Jack swallows thickly. The radio signal gets hazier as he tries to tidy himself up, convincing himself that there’s no need to look presentable in a place of crazed people and mindless monsters. Despite it, he feels heat in his ears and cheeks. He tells himself to look for the clothes Atlas mentioned, or at least cover the stain in something more acceptable, as much as he doesn’t want to feel the wetness between his legs from anything other than seawater. Maybe blood, but that stains worse.
The bathysphere rocks and gurgles as it reaches Fort Frolic. Gripping his wrench tightly, Jack makes his way under Atlas’ amused watch and a wet patch in his jeans.