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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.


A Man Chooses...

(Anonymous) 2014-04-05 04:39 am (UTC)(link)
Okay so I donked up a little and misread the desk part... I can rewrite it if you'd like, or write another piece with the desk, but I'd like to submit this to OP. Enjoy!

Andrew Ryan took some grim pleasure watching the boy-thing run at his every command. Sit, stand, run, all with three little words.

A powerful phrase.

He doubted he could properly overcome the creature's training, the layers and layers of influence that fool of a man had programmed into that malleable gray organ in its skull, but he could at least hurt it in the process. Let it know exactly how little it was compared to him. How absolutely insignificant.

“A man chooses,” he intoned, flipping the golf club in his hand. “A slave obeys.” He handed it to the uncomprehending assassin. “Kill!”

He refused to flinch at the thought of death, and watched with careful detachment as the assassin looked down at the club, then back up at him, eyes narrowing in something that might have been anger and offense, had he been a proper man. “A man chooses,” he began again, mocking.

And then that club swung, and with a crack to the skull, everything went black.


He would have been lying if he had said he ever expected to wake up again. Right now he wished he wouldn't. His perception rose out of a heavy pain that clouded his brow, making it hard to focus on the process of taking in his surroundings. Faintly, he could hear a tapping noise.

He tried to lift a hand to rub his pounding temple, but met resistance. Something with a silky texture was wrapped around his wrist – no, both of them, keeping them trapped on a fabric surface. Worse still, he realized, something was in his mouth, holding his tongue still and useless, pulling the corners of his lips back. Something akin to panic fluttered in his chest, and he squashed it immediately. He was Andrew Ryan, and whomever had taken him hostage would not get the satisfaction of seeing fear. He did not fear.

Recollections of before began wafting to the surface of his brain, and he remembered. The Boy-man. The golf club. Atlas, or should he say Frank, that slimy con-man parasite that had turned his glorious city on its head. The slave-assassin should have killed him, on the parasite's order. So why was he alive now?

The tapping had gotten louder, and he could identify the sound of metal resonating on metal. Despite the ache in his head, he opened his eyes, willing himself to carry the same disdain now that he always carried for those lower than him.

The tapping stopped. In front of him, sitting on his desk, was the child assassin, staring at him with a face devoid of expression. In his hand was the golf club he had used earlier. He realized, with some shock, that the dried brown on the head of it must have been his own blood.

Beside the boy sat his radio, from which the never ending hidden commands from the dog's master spouted like the filth it was. He thought, perhaps, that Fontaine had decided to drag it out, truly humiliate his opponent. He wouldn't get the satisfaction.

The boy followed his gaze to the radio, and reached out to it. With a flick of his fingers, it burst into static, then, “Lad, what the hell do yo-” before it was flicked off again. He looked back at Ryan and smirked.

Ryan just raised a cool eyebrow. He wished he could talk, to mock this crude man and his petty displays. What did he think he was trying to accomplish?

The boy stood, an impressive height for something born of a test tube in only the past few years, and strode towards him, golf club still in hand. Andrew Ryan matched him, stare for stare, until he was only a foot away. The boy's face held a thoughtful look now, tilting his head back and forth as if examining Ryan. He had seen that face enough before to recognize it – he ran a city of scientists and innovators, after all – like he was a specimen on the dissection table, waiting to be pulled open to find what made it tick. Hatred boiled in his stomach, and he fought to keep a straight face.

The golf club flew at his face again, and Ryan lost the first of many battles of will, and flinched. Instead of hitting him, however, it slowed until it was under his chin, pressing upwards and forcing him to look where he was directed. He didn't bother hiding the cold rage this time when their eyes met, and the boy returned it with mirthless amusement and a cruel imitation of a smile.

Ryan seethed inwardly at this show of weakness, but vowed to be more aware now. He didn't know what game this half-man was playing with him, but he planned to win.

Even at the cost of his own life.

The assassin suddenly turned away, striding over to the desk to put the golf club down with a thunk. Turning on his heel, he stalked back, standing too close to Ryan for comfort, forcing him to crane his neck back in order to meet his eye. He stared down his nose at the leader of this underwater city, and Ryan stared right back. He stood there for what felt like hours, though it could not have been that long. The tension in the air was palpable, with Ryan waiting for him to make a move, and his attacker just... waiting. For what, Andrew Ryan didn't know.

When he moved, it was a surprise – without warning, the boy dropped to his knees, hand coming up and...

and unzipping his fly.

An unbidden protest rose to his lips, only to be muffled by the now damp silk that pressed down against his tongue and choked his words. Heavily calloused hands tugged his pants and boxers down and pulled his cock out of his pants, stroking roughly, and Ryan tried to bite back a hiss of pain at the harsh treatment of the sensitive flesh. Unfortunately, the gag made it difficult, and he saw the assassin look up at him from his spots between his legs, face still carefully blank. He tried to pull back, tugging on the chair and shifting it slightly from it's place, but he barely moved. A displeased shadow passed over the man's face, disappearing as quickly as it came, but the twist he added to the next stroke was more than enough to show his feelings. Ryan growled in pain, earning him another sharp twist that forced him to fall as silent and still as he could manage.

Apparently placated by his compliance, the young man continued to work his flesh, stroking with slightly more gentleness. Ryan grit his teeth around the tie, closing his eyes and trying to control his breathing. He had received his share of sexual services, contracted in return for a variety of favors around his city, but they had been from women, mentally hardened by science, innovation, and the task of pulling the Great Chain. He had never had something like this battle-scarred creature, callused and bruised and bloody from staggering room to room of his great city, destroying everything that remained in his path. The texture was vastly different, the experience one he found himself relishing, even as anger at the presumptuousness of this twisted creature.

He shifted his hips again, and the would-be assassin paused, before realizing that Ryan was simply trying to get more comfortable. He was rewarded by a particularly firm stroke, one that ripped a muffled groan from the king of Rapture.

Slowly, he was massaged to his full hardness by the careful ministrations. At some point, his eyes fell shut, and he lost the battle of controlling his breathing, grinding the silk of the tie between his teeth as he breathed heavily. Suddenly, the hand stopped moving. He opened his eyes, feeling simultaneously relieved and indignant, to see the man's retreating back as he stalked back over to the desk and began rummaging around. He searched three drawers before he found what he was apparently looking for, and turned, holding up another one of Ryan's ties.

Ryan looked on, confused, as the man walked back and knelt before him once more. Those wonderfully rough hands returned to him, tracing the veins of his cock and fondling his balls before rubbing that smooth silk over him. Ryan took a moment of pleasure in his own taste, the wonderful slide of the silk over skin arousing him even more.

A tug distracted him from his own arousal, however, and a tightness at the base of his cock made him hiss. He looked down, and found that the assassin had wrapped the garment around the base of his cock, looped it around and between his balls, and tied it off. He could feel the dampened blood flow and for a second felt dizzy at the implication, as he suddenly realized how much he was in this awful man's hands.

The man in question looked up at him, eyes searching his face, his own expression carefully blank, before abruptly lowering his head, opening his mouth and sliding it over the head of his cock. Andrew Ryan couldn't stop the groan that broke from him then, the sensations made far worse by the sensitivity caused by the tie. If he had believed in a God, he would have sworn to him. How did this man know how to do these kinds of things with his mouth, his lips?

He groaned, battle with his ego lost as he gave himself up to the sensations emanating from his cock, head lolling backwards. He could have sworn that the lips wrapped around him twisted upwards, a hand coming up to fondle his balls and massage the section of length not wrapped up in that beautiful, terrible heat. He couldn't care less, as long as he continued.

His attitude slowly changed as the time dragged on. This man, despite being a genetic mutation, hardly more than a toddler in years, but undoubtedly more mature in mind and stature, knew every trick in the book, and utilized them to a degree that was decidedly unfair. Every time Ryan thought he was tiring of a technique, the man would switch it up, driving his pleasure further along. And his pleasure, well, it was driving him insane. His cock twitched heavily under the ministrations, leaking but unable to release. Any time he thought he was getting close, a tug on that damned tie would cut him off-!

A rustling of cloth caught his attention again, and he opened lust-maddened eyes, looking down. The damn tease had pulled his own cock out of his trousers, and was stroking it roughly. Perhaps sensing his eyes on him, he looked up, mouth still around Ryan's cock, gauging his expression. Ryan stared back, only half sane with the awful pressure growing unchecked in his groin.

And suddenly it spiked as the mouth around his cock dove, taking him in to the hilt, lips dampening the tie wrapped around him. Ryan bucked, despite the ties keeping him attached to the chair, and gave a choked sound of pleasure. Tongue and teeth and lips moved over him in a torturous dance, and he writhed as he was forced to take it, pressure building, but with no way to relieve it. Anger and hate built with his unending arousal at this man, who was denying him, Andrew Ryan, his pleasure. Rage boiled in his veins alongside lust madness, and he verbalized it as best as he could past the now soaked gag.

He thought he might go mad, might just loose himself in the rush of adrenaline and lust, when another, loosening tug came from the base of his cock. He felt deft, rough fingers pulling at the tie, widening the loop and allowing blood flow again. He looked down to see the man, his humiliator, stroking his cock firmly, looking up with a look of near satisfaction.

“Come.” It was obviously an order, there was no way it could be seen as anything else, and rage burned in Ryan's groin, fueled by his arousal,

And he obeyed.

As he lay there, eyes closed in a panting mess, he felt something splatter across his pants. He didn't have to look to know that his humiliator had come as well, of his own volition, marking him with his disgusting seed. Footsteps echoed through the room away from him, and he heard his captor pick something up from the desk.

He didn't have to look to know what it was. He opened his eyes anyway.

Jack was examining the golf club in his hands with false interest, sizing up the trapped man from the corner of his eye. He grinned, the first real expression that Ryan had seen on him since the beginning of this whole encounter, and hefted the golf club, giving it a testing swing.

“A man chooses,” he mused, “and a slave obeys.” He looked up, grin widening maliciously at Ryan. “What does that make you, now?”

And Ryan closed his eyes, defeated, as the golf club swung for the last time.

Re: A Man Chooses...

(Anonymous) 2014-04-05 05:00 am (UTC)(link)
This is just amazing, I might have read it more then once in a row. Don't worry about missing the desk part, but if you wanna write another thing I totally wouldn't object because this was amazing and so well written!