theme
time to end this little masquerade.

"I don't know how you survived that plane crash, but I've never been one to question providence; I'm Atlas, and I aim to keep you alive."

Indie ( Atlas / Fontaine ) RP blog
fc; marton csokas
nsfw; mun & muse 20+

|

gorlands:

cig break
i’m open for requests and all, you can also just chat w/ me

gorlands:

cig break

i’m open for requests and all, you can also just chat w/ me

;Contrition;

genuflectere:

Jack smacked his head against the counter with a deafening crack, gazing up at Frank with wide yellow eyes that glimmered with fear. His hand went to his head automatically and came away with blood, a trembling breath escaping him before he could wipe it away on his nice, clean shirt. That had been amazingly painful, he wouldn’t last a second if he wanted to go toe to toe with someone like Frank. The man was built like a tank and could no doubt do severe damage if he wished it. Jack was still trapped, of course, he had no real room to move. If he made to run for the door he would no doubt be subdued and forced to sit through the conman’s newest ploy to get what he wanted from Jack.

Of course it was no surprise the man wanted sex, it had probably been quite some time since he had last had someone spread out under him. It was understandable that he would want Jack, who was beautiful (if he didn’t say so himself). He could smell something burning in the distance and realized that it was the meal that Frank had been preparing before he decided he wanted a piece of the youth. He decided not to sit up, instead allowing himself to go into a state of submission, eyes downcast, face turned away towards the wall. He had to struggle to regain his nerve, his control of the situation. If the conman had his way, Jack would be writhing under him and begging him to have mercy. No, if Frank Fontaine wanted to play hardball, Jack was more than capable of throwing a few curve balls of his own.

He sat up slowly, then pressed his face against the crook of the man’s throat, breathing in his scent slowly. He could easily use the man’s rage and lust as a way to get what he wanted. “You’re right. I do want it, I want you. After all, where would a good Queen be without their King’s proper guidance? I should have never raise a hand to you. I’m lucky you let me live.”

You’re lucky I let you live.

Jack smiled slowly against the man’s throat and pressed a soothing kiss to the wound he had created earlier. Oh, he had a few games to play. More than a few if it meant getting his ADAM and leaving, but to where he had no clue. He slowly sank his fingers into the man’s dark hair and tightened his grip to draw him into a firm embrace. “Mister Fontaine, I am yours and you may use me as you see fit.”

That sounded like a whole lot of sarcasm to him, yet with the tone he’d used it was difficult to say for certain what he really intended to do with him. With a snake’s grin like that, it wouldn’t surprise Atlas at all if the overgrown beast swallowed him whole. It worried him that the kid could go from spitting in his face and cracking their skulls together and switching to open obedience, parodied affection, admittedly rough around the edges but still, a far cry from his usual behaviour. Had him on edge. Didn’t want to blindly accept it for fear of having his head ripped off once he’d gotten just a little bit too close to those teeth.

“Startin’ to see it my way, huh?” He offered up a wide smile to the boy’s eyes, sliding in between his outstretched legs as a direct response to that demanding tug on his hair. Wouldn’t have much of it left if he carried on that way. There was no harm in simply testing the waters, as shark infested as they were. Making sure he knew what he was doing beforehand, on alert for any possible acts of betrayal coming his way, Fontaine was the smart man in this scenario. All he had to do was test the kid – one simple test and he would know if he was ready to live up to that famous family reputation of his.

“Never pegged you to be the ‘meek’ type, rollin’ on your back soon as I click my fingers like somethin’ housetrained – then again, you were made for me, kid. Hard to put an end to that kind’a blind instinct when it’s been drilled int’ya, ain’t it?”

Easy to whisper and have himself heard at this range, even easier to lean the rest of the way, press his lips to the slender curve of his neck and give him a bite that rivalled his own in both size and ferocity. Working his hands along the boy’s thighs, keeping him firmly planted on the counter top with no intention of letting him move any time soon. Tensed and ready for a fight should this thing between them get nasty.

subjectwyk:

Jack sniffled one last time and leaned back in the man’s arms a little, to look him in the eye. He tried to smile though his hand still hurt.

"I don’t have a mother." He stated simply. "And my name’s Jack. I like your name Mr. Atlas." An atlas was a book of maps. He liked maps. They showed him all the places he’d never get to go. Not that he was supposed to have been poking around on that shelf and reading through the atlas.

"Are there a lot of kids around here, Mr. Atlas?"

Ah, another casualty of the war, was it? Poor kid. No wonder he didn’t have any shoes. His was a tale he’d heard far too often from similar brats such as he; it was either the mother, the father or both. All his fault, too, not that Atlas felt even the slightest bit guilty for his crimes. Wouldn’t have earned himself a place at the orphanage even if the damned place hadn’t been seized by Ryan and his thugs. There hadn’t been much point in housing boys, not from a scientific standpoint at least. 

"Not as much as there used t’be, lad, but aye. Plenty’a little’uns just like yourself," he answered honestly. Still a bunch stubbornly clinging to life as the war took everything from them. "An’ I like your name too — real short, like. Easy t’remember."

| new depths |

intellectandwill:

“Mr. Fontaine,” Ryan repeated, keeping the Mr. between them by way of distancing himself from the younger man. He may have been excited to meet the fellow, but this was by no means a done deal. He needed to be sure that the man who wrote him those letters had, in fact, been genuine. 


Especially since he was hardly famous. Obviously, his name had passed Ryan’s desk more than a few times, but he was closer to the grind than most people these days, and there was little to substantiate the rumours. Until now.

"Punctuality is the mark of respect," he practically recited, taking Fontaine’s hand.

He had a firm handshake and a steady gaze, his first impression was well packaged and tightly sealed. Perhaps he wasn’t a dandy, but he was certainly handsome and well-kept. Appearance was very important in the business world. Showing that one took care of oneself reflected on one’s business practises. And it was clear that the man’s attention to detail, much like Ryan’s own, was immaculate.

“Andrew Ryan,” he said smoothly, walking past Fontaine and into the office. He glanced around. It wasn’t grand, but it was honest. A well worked in place that practically smelled like industry. He turned away to hide his smile, beginning to feel that he had made a very safe bet on Fontaine.

He sat down across the from the desk, brushing a wrinkle out of his expensive suit carelessly while he waited for his host to take his seat. With all of the coming and going from Rapture these days, he was glad just to have a moment to sit down— to say nothing of the good conversation he saw ahead. He had missed that in Rapture. The power of it all was somewhat isolating, and god knows Diane wasn’t good for talking.

“So, Mr Fontaine, you want to come to Rapture.” It wasn’t a question, and he kept a carefully placed look of amusement on his face. The man may have seemed like a good enough friend but, first and before that, he was a businessman. And if he wanted to get to Rapture, he was going to have to bargain for it.

Frank let the door close behind his guest the moment he’d stepped clear of the threshold, while at the same time suppressing a snort – among other uncivilised reactions – at the man’s behaviour, making himself comfortable without provocation. He’d never been one for inciting petty squabbles in the past and he wouldn’t even dream of starting one now, at the risk of losing all he’d worked for, sparing a thought for the lives of the people he’d killed, all for nought if he couldn’t grab his one chance to slip inside Ryan’s secret little club at the bottom of the sea.

In the place of a callous remark or hard edged sound of disdain, a light, fluttering laugh graced the curves of Frank’s parted lips as he turned and walked back to the chair he’d left empty, settling back down to speak with the other man on equal ground. Ryan might not’ve viewed the ‘arrangement’ forged between them as a sure thing, yet that was how Fontaine chose to see it. No point in rushing into a fight that would leave you pummelled and beaten; the loser. All that blood and effort spent on the struggle with nothing to show for it in the end. Frank had already learned his lesson about throwing himself in blind, had done so years ago. He knew exactly who would come out victorious as their meeting concluded. With all the kinks ironed out, odds stacked in his favour – witnesses silenced and appropriate forgeries made – Frank was sure to impress the king and get himself a foothold in the city, simple as that.

All he had to do was keep the mug entertained for an hour or two. What more could he really ask of him that he hadn’t already been told?

“Thought I’d made that more than obvious in my notes,” he grinned but not in a bitter fashion, keeping the tone light. “Cutting to the chase then; yeah, that’s what I’m after. Land’s all dried up, too many money grabbin’ thieves dippin’ their hands in pockets that don’t belong to ‘em and claiming they got some kind’a right. Far as I hear, you’re not too fond of those types either, am I right?”

He leant back in his chair and crossed his legs, one long limb draped over the other. Arched a brow as he waited for his response. 

dimtramp:

the bioshock/dishonored thing escalated quickly we have 

a wonderful outsider in disguise 
the mighty need for a big daddy 
pretty dead empresses who are probably dead bc they said smth someone didnt want to hear„, 
her hobo guard and his mysteriously handsome companion nobody can name  
tricky atlas thinking he can trick a god about their said conditions for actually building a city underwater

вℓєє∂ ƒσя мє

rapture-at-night:

      As sad as the truth was, maybe there really was a small part deep inside Ronny that did want to die. It was miserable in this sickened body, driven by only addiction and the need to survive. The idea of finally being free from this prison made death so very tempting. There was no real life to be had down here for him, not anymore. At least he’d get to see the people he once loved on the other side, if there was in fact, an afterlife at all. Would there be a Heaven for monsters like him? It felt immensely improbable.

      It had only been a few seconds of letting his guard down, far too confident and full of himself to realize he shouldn’t have let go. Not even for a split moment. His excited laughter became cut off the moment Atlas lunged at him like a man gone mad, easily knocking the Splicer onto his back with a startled yelp. His legs flailed about and his hands instantly grab at the man’s wrists when those hands securely wrap around his throat, using his fingernails to claw and dig at the skin.

      A gasp is heard as the splicer struggles to gain air when those hands brutally squeeze at his throat, but he did have weapons still on hand and he was going to use them. Ronny grits his teeth and jerks one of his arms up, swinging that sharp hook right for Atlas’s face in attempts to cut something. Anything. Or maybe just frighten him away. He did have a few reasons to continue living – his passion for music, and his one friend.

      One of the only friends he had, whom he cherished more than anyone else in this rotten world. They were going to get out of here together, it had all been planned. If he died now, he’d let him down. “Le… let me go!” It was funny how quickly the tables had turned, but he wasn’t giving up yet.

Back in the top spot, no longer writhing on his back like a toppled insect, Atlas could get back to doing what he did best; snapping the necks of the common men who believed they could end him. Did this wretch honestly think he was the first to come along and take a chance at swiping at him, to draw the blood of the liberator and get ahead of himself in the process? Should’ve stuck a shiv in him while he had the chance. Shame he’d gone and lost it now — squandered it while acting mighty over the corpse he’d yet to make. There’d be no reversing what he’d done to himself unless, by some miracle, the splicer caught Atlas’ attention in a way that forced him to stop and his fingers to slowly unravel – by teasing a small tidbit of information, perhaps. By proposing they do something else equally as entertaining. Real pity that it seemed Atlas was far too interested in ending the bastard’s miserable life, really.

Catching a quick flash of movement at the corner of his eye, the Irishman bent his neck as far as it could go in the opposite direction, escaping with a hiss and a grazed cheek that could’ve been a missing eye if he hadn’t been careful. Still, didn’t matter how small the cut happened to be; any injury done to Atlas’ person set the man’s already fragile temper soaring.

With a feral snarl, the offending hand was seized and slammed against the floor by it’s owner’s head, enough force put behind the violent action to have it snap in several places. Nothing a spot of ADAM couldn’t fix but until the junkie thug could get his hands on any, he’d be a whimpering, pain ravaged wreck at the mercy of his murderous fellows should they find the want to put him down. Knowing that warmed Atlas’ heart a little.

A curt and bitter laugh tore itself from the pit of the rebel leader’s throat, while at the same time increasing pressure on that of his victim’s.

“Let y’go? You really think I got more mercy than you do, y’feckin’ mite?”

I’ll not have him hurt my little ones!

TAKe me, hubband
asked by genuflectere

Put “Take Me” in my ask box and I’ll generate a number from 1-60 and give you a sentence starter!

if he hadn’t needed to keep a wary eye on the boy for fear that he might suddenly choose to bite. Wouldn’t surprise him if he did — miserable brat was nothing but a filthy drug fuelled savage that held one belief true to his heart, that there was no friend out there for him, only foe. But what he also knew was how to work his lips around all that Atlas had to offer, that he was somehow prepared to slide between two rows of sharp teeth to breach the opening of his throat and block off the kid’s air for a little while, laughing as he squirmed and slapped at his legs in the fight to get away.

That … that was all that mattered.

Kid could take his petty grievances elsewhere when it was time to service his betters.

About to near his peak. He could feel it. Almost ready to flood the boy’s mouth and have him splutter and choke on what he couldn’t swallow, same as always. Though it wasn’t too late to take it in a different direction. He could knot his fingers in Jack’s dirty hair and feel that struggling windpipe convulse around his cock in a manner that could only be described as utter bliss, or he could wrench it back and smear his seed over the high rise of his cheekbones, paint his swollen lips with it too. Make him look beautiful.

A sharp tug on his locks had the kid paying attention, though he was immediately met with a foul looking glare. Christ, he couldn’t wait to see that same expression coated with a liberal splash of his come. That wicked, pointed little nose, those dark lashes, hell, maybe even his hair. Wasn’t like a little more filth in it would hurt it any.

He wanted to claim all of it.

"Up an’ off, boyo," he pulled at him again, brows knotting together. He didn’t want to miss this chance. The kid would have hell to pay if he took it from him. "I want to come on your face"

"Take me"
asked by wxnand

Put “Take Me” in my ask box and I’ll generate a number from 1-60 and give you a sentence starter!

Bless your heart; y’look so nervous, Jack.”

As anyone would be; meeting Atlas in the flesh for the first time in their life. Ignoring the number of times they’d spoken to one another using the service radio strapped to the boy’s hip, as no conversation prior to their last had taken quite the same turn. Atlas had known for some time that the young man had taken a keen interest in everything he had to say — could’ve been rattling on about the most mundane topic known to man, Jack still would’ve hung onto every last word that curled itself from the tip of his tongue with his hand placed dangerously close to his groin. What a naughty little boy. He certainly hadn’t raised him that way, yet it wasn’t as if he was about to argue. He’d learned to take pleasure wherever he could find it these days and there was plenty of it to be found in Jack.

Knowing he could reduce the whelp to a sobbing, fevered little mess with his voice alone fed his already engorged ego and provoked him into testing his new power, spilling all sorts of muttered obscenities into the boy’s ear out of the blue. Managed to persuade him to come along like a good little pup and beg at his door to be let in. As tempted as he’d been to let him wait, torture the poor thing a little while, the Irishman had given in and disengaged the lock.

It was then that he chose to smile at him, deceptively kind, as though he hadn’t been describing all the sordid faces he’d love to see him make and exactly how he’d help him just moments earlier, his own hand thrust down the hastily opened fly of his pants as he worked himself into a frenzy. Who’d known he’d ever take to whispering filth down a line where anyone could be listening in with such enthusiasm?

Sighing one last time, Atlas spread his legs just so, his intentions unmistakable even without the brief pat he  bestowed upon his thigh.

"Why don’t y’come sit in daddy’s lap? That’s a good lad.” 
Take Me not-husband. Take Me ~sassinalass
asked by Anonymous

Put “Take Me” in my ask box and I’ll generate a number from 1-60 and give you a sentence starter!

Even though Atlas had only technically been married to her for several months now, having taken over the role of the man of the house after replacing the old one, the unmistakable pangs of boredom had already begun to settle in and sought to drive him crazy whenever they were left alone in a room together. Misery truly did love company, especially Moira’s. Never before had he felt so hateful towards a person he was supposed to love, to make a show of loving, at the very least. How the man before him had lasted quite so long in her company was a mystery to him, truly. Didn’t have the time or patience to figure it out. 

Unfortunately with his lack of empathy when it came to his ‘wife’, she had begun to tire of him too. She wasn’t the dumb, complacent housewife he’d initially made her out to be or desperately wished she was. There was no possible way he could continue to act so cold towards her and have her stay by his side while he fumbled to build himself an army. What use was there in attempting to market himself as a ‘family ma’n if he didn’t have a family to speak of? Somewhere along the line, Atlas had forgotten that he’d taken on the duty of making sure the woman felt at least somewhat cared for. Stubborn and hot headed as she was, he knew it’d be an awful task to make it up to her, though he knew just how he could play that to his advantage. The girl loved to take risks and the man himself was a walking embodiment. While the plan was to hook her slender legs about his waist and have her fucked until she couldn’t walk straight, there needed to be an extra something to spark a fire in her, in both of them.

"Lets pretend t’be strangers," he murmured into her ear one night, hands on her thighs beneath the hem of her skirts to settle on the warm skin beneath. "Or I ain’t Atlas — not yer husband… he ain’t comin’ home for a while, is he? Why don’t we make th’most of it, darlin’?"