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Underrated concept: Conflicting mind control commands.
Character gets hypnotized by two different villains, completely unrelated to one another, and the hypnotic commands are exact opposites of one another.
Oh, and they hear two conflicting trigger phrases at the same time.
There's so much good stuff here.
-Mind control isn't meant to conflict, so character goes insane. Just starts acting crazy and erratic, because they don't know which command to obey. They basically become a glitchy NPC, walking into walls, pouring a drink into empty air instead of a cup, etc.
-Character is fighting between their true self, and two strange compulsions in their head. Literal battle in the character's brain as they wonder what the heck is happening
-They frantically talk about everything they "must" do, and it's nonsense:
"Don't you SEE!? I have to kill everyone on my team so I can take them alive without killing them! It's the only way I can kill them all!"
-Alternatively, it makes the character act drunk, too loopy to follow either order, and just blissed out
-Or, character becomes extremely paranoid and hostile, unable to tell friends from enemies. Everyone must be out to get them. That's why they're so confused. It has to be!
-Character passes out when they hear both trigger phrases at the same time
-Or they just freeze, standing wide-eyed, unable to think at all. Just full-on Windows error screen.
-Character starts obeying both commands at the same time in a way that makes no sense
The other girl in the basement has more chain, and never talks to you. You tried, of course, when you first woke up shackled to the wall. Screamed at her until you went hoarse. You didn't have enough leash to get anywhere near her, or do anything besides lay down. She went about her day, cycling between calisthenics and reading a stack of books next to her nest of cushions. She was probably in her late thirties, and must have been a fitness nut before this.
The captor, because she never gave you any other name, never interacts with her in front of you. She's younger, and talks absentmindedly, but rarely seems to expect or want an answer.
Once every day, she comes downstairs with cattle prod and hood in hand, and takes you from the claustrophobic basement up the stairs, right turn, five paces, into another windowless room. It has only a treadmill and a chair. You refused, at first, and learned exactly how badly a cattle prod hurt. You swore to never eat meat again after your escape.
The captor demands nothing else of you, and answers no questions. She takes the other girl at different times, for far longer, and she returns with deep bruises, sometimes bloodied. You try to be grateful.
Each day you run, as fast as you can, for however long she makes you. The pace ticks up, day over day, and your heart rate settles into a comfortable spot. What had once left you gasping and pleading to stop, spurred on only by violent threats, is now an easy jog.
You couldn't say how long it had been, the day the routine changed. The captor took the other girl, and then came down again for you. Up the stairs, left turn, ten paces, down two short steps and… a breeze?
The hood comes off, and you're outside. It is late afternoon, and you furiously blink away tears. Your prison sits in a small clearing, a cabin with woods sprawling on every side of it. The air, fresh after so long, is thick with pine and so delightfully green.
The other girl is there too - without restraints. Standing, tight as a whip, staring into the woods.
The captor gestures to the treeline.
"Run. You get a five minute head start."
The words take a moment to register. You're weightless, giddy. You have no bearing, but you loved the woods as a child, and the captor does not seem dressed for the chase at all, in a long dressing gown and slippers. You bolt into the trees, the taste of freedom on your lips.
At a hundred yards, you realize the other girl did not start running with you. She had not been staring at the trees. She was waiting, impatiently. The realization sinks like a stone in your stomach, but you press on. Brush whips at your legs, leaving stinging cuts.
You hear her start. The first sound you've ever heard her make, an awful, baying howling. And then deathly silence, in comparison to your clumsy fleeing.
That's the problem with an exotic pet, you know. It needs live prey.
Red is for posted, white is for requested/planned/written, feel free to send requests!
Marcus and Jake are finally safe from AMTEC - although their escape nearly cost them both their lives. Now they are free to heal and discover what they might be to each other - and they learn that AMTEC’s influence leaves not a single person in their lives untouched.
AO3
Masterlist
This is a sequel series to Beneath Gunmetal Skies. Start here, continued from here.
Contents: Marcus's Powers of Organization, recovery, aftermath of torture, hypervigilance, PTSD, misunderstanding whump, pleading, begging, paranoia, past murder, more Marcus dog metaphors, surveillance state, implied transphobia, past child abuse, protective caretaker
~
Lars stared at the rows of meticulously sorted needles, syringes, medication bottles, and vials stacked on each shelf. The labels were all facing out, open boxes at the front and unopened ones behind those, with a few broken down boxes in a pile by the door. The floor was swept, too, and every chrome surface in the room was shined to a spit polish. They could practically see their reflection everywhere they looked, their features warped by the curved surfaces. The jumbled pile of cleaning supplies that had once been stacked in the corner now lived in its own bin. They had no idea where Marcus had gotten the bin. Even the once-dusty bottles containing the cleaning supplies had been cleaned. The only thing that seemed even remotely out of place was the stool that Jake sat on, and even that seemed precisely placed in a corner of the room.
The place looked like a different room than the one they’d walked into earlier that afternoon. It might as well have been in a different building.
They only realized their mouth was hanging open when they went to speak. “I was… mostly joking,” they said quietly. “About you tidying up.”
Out the corner of their eye, they saw Marcus freeze. They shook their head numbly.
“No, no, sorry, I’m not mad, I just… holy fuck, Marcus.”
He shuffled his feet. “It makes more sense now,” he said, his voice low.
They blinked. “More sense?”
Marcus nodded once. “Yeah. The needles are all together now, and… there were different sizes, and they’re all arranged in ascending order. The syringes, too. Everything is… it’s all placed together, and in the right order, so it’s easier to find.”
“Right,” Lars murmured. They went to the first row of needles and, sure enough, they are all 18 gauges, followed by the 21s. They 25s sat next to them. They let out a breath. “Fuck, Marcus. I’ve been meaning to organize this closet for… a year?”
“Well,” he said. “It’s done now. And I can do more, but…” He was already moving to Jake’s side, and it was as if Lars could read his mind.
Not until after he’s rested.
Lars would have agreed with him, even if their shift wasn’t over. Jake looked… better than they’d been expecting, if they were honest. He looked a little pale, a little worn down, but he was still upright, and wasn’t having the sort of screaming meltdown that they would be having if they’d just been through…
Well. They didn’t have the full picture, but from Jake’s injuries, they had a pretty clear guess.
They’d known they could leave Jake with Marcus while they handled their patients, though. If Jake had a problem, Marcus would have come to them. And in the meantime, they had seen a new patient, increased Ezekiel’s testosterone, given four injections to people who came in weekly because they weren’t able to do it themselves, dispensed two patients a month’s worth of pills, given someone advice on who to see for a decent top surgery, and done the paperwork they felt safe doing to keep the place running; as far as AMTEC knew, Lars ran a drop shipping business that sent out garbage health supplements. It had been a busy three hours.
And Marcus had been very busy. Clearly.
Even so, they were ready to head home. They rubbed their eyes and heaved a jaw-cracking yawn.
“Fuck,” they sighed. “If you’re not careful, Marcus, I’ll have you put to work every shift. This is… seriously so, so good. Thank you. Seriously.” They watched with fascination as his brows furrowed and he stared at the floor, practically cringing under the praise. They chewed their lip and turned their attention to Jake. “You about ready to head out? Ready to get back in bed? Maybe after I’ve gotten some food in you?”
Jake slid off the stool and leaned hard against Marcus’s chest as he got his balance. “Y-yeah,” he mumbled. “Food would be… good. But bed. Mostly bed. Just… laying down.”
Lars held out a hand and gently felt Jake’s temperature. His skin felt warm – perfectly, normally warm. They let their hand drop. “Alright, good. I’ll get you home, and we’ll get you comfy.” As they led the two men from the supply closet, they threw a glance over their shoulder. “Was this an okay outing for you? About three or four hours here? Was it too much?”
“Not too much,” Jake said, but he still leaned heavily against Marcus’s side. Lars pursed their lips and closed the door to their office. As they led them back down the hall to the reception area, they checked each patient room. They were all empty. So was the front room, except for Celeste, who was packing up her laptop at the front desk. She raised an eyebrow at Marcus as the three of them crossed the foyer and headed toward the door.
Lars chose to ignore the look – for the good of everyone. “You good to lock up, Celeste?” they said, dipping their head at Jake. “I’ve got to get this one home.”
She just stuck her thumb out at Lars, keeping her head ducked low.
Lars blew out a breath. “Thanks for your help today,” they said to her as they held the door open for Marcus and Jake.
Lars controlled their annoyance as Marcus glared around the parking lot like he was in an active warzone. They watched as his eyes swept each shadow, flicked toward every source of noise, followed every pair of headlights that passed as they walked to the car. They turned their head toward… something, trying to figure out why the sound of the three of them walking sounded so weird.
They realized: they only heard two sets of footsteps. Even with him half-carrying Jake, Marcus was walking entirely soundlessly.
They shuddered, and unlocked the car. Marcus helped Jake into the back. Lars groaned as they got into the driver’s seat.
“Take a longer way home,” Marcus croaked as Lars started the car.
They stared at him in the rearview. “I’m sorry… what?” Their stomach felt cold.
He didn’t actually need them alive; the keys to the house were on their keyring. He had given back their gun, but he knew where they kept it. He could so easily kill them, stash their body, and continue living in their house for god knows how long. Or he could kill them and run. Again.
They had just shown him where the HRT clinic was, too, so if he wanted to—
“Please just… do it,” he said quietly. “A different way this time. In case someone… Just in case. Please.” His voice faded again, so Lars could barely hear the words: “for me…?”
They drew in a shuddering breath. They hated how fast – and how often – their brain turned towards their own murder whenever Marcus did the slightest thing. They hadn’t started out afraid of him. They’d brought him to their home, after all.
But then he leapt out of bed when he was half-dead, just so he could grab a hammer to bash their brains in. He shouldn’t even have been conscious, but he’d been able to do that. Then he’d stayed awake through most of the surgery that had removed his arm from his body, even as Lars had barely been able to hold back from losing their lunch all over Todd’s garage once or twice. And they were trained for that. But he took it like it was nothing.
He’d thrown them against a wall when they came between him and Jake. He hadn’t thought twice about it. It just happened.
How many people had Marcus killed? Lars knew the AMTEC admin they’d steered him toward was dead; his murder hit the local news the morning it happened. How many more people had it been? How many people had Marcus killed as a Lev? How many deaths had he been ordered to carry out?
Is a police dog responsible for the humans those teeth savage?
But Marcus wasn’t a dog. He was a person, and, Lev or not – conscript, slave, officer or not – he had killed before.
Marcus spoke again, tearing Lars from their reverie. “Please,” he whispered.
They nodded weakly. “Yeah, Marcus. Yeah. The long… long way. No problem.” They pulled out of the parking lot and turned in the opposite direction than they normally did.
Marcus let out a breath. “Thank you.”
“Yeah.”
They took a meandering path, turning down backroads, avoiding main streets. They knew which intersections had traffic cams on their regular route, but they didn’t feel like guessing with two wanted Levs in the car. They thought about telling Marcus and Jake to duck down, but… out of the three of them, Marcus was by far the most paranoid. If he wanted to do that, he would have already done it. Lars kept driving. Their eyelids drooped.
If they were honest, though, they probably should have been doing this from the beginning. It would be ridiculously easy for AMTEC to track them down if they had even the slightest inclination. It would take barely five minutes of analysis to see that a drop shipping business had a brick-and-mortar address where multiple other people went regularly for shifts, and multiple other people went with greater irregularity, most of whom looked suspiciously… well. It wouldn’t be the first time Lars had been targeted for looking like anything other than the long-haired princess their family expected. But if AMTEC targeted their patients…
Their fucking patients…
If it came down to Marcus and Jake, or their patients, they knew who they’d pick. It would be the easiest decision in the world.
As if Jake had read their mind, there was a gasp from the back seat. Lars glanced at the rearview mirror in alarm. “What?”
Jake was sitting straight upright and staring out the car window. His nose was pressed to the glass. “Lars?” he breathed. “Where are we?”
Lars glanced around. “Uh… Lincoln and Woodshire? I know it doesn’t look like much, but I wanted to stay away from—”
“No, I mean…” Jake swallowed hard. “What town are we in?”
Lars blinked. “Bradshaw?”
Jake let out a louder gasp and shied away from the window like he’d seen a ghost. He fell backward into Marcus’s arms. Lars’s foot fell off the gas. “What—”
“N-no,” Jake whimpered. “No, no, I c-can’t… can’t be back here, I, I can’t, please, oh no, no…”
Lars did their best to watch where they were driving as Jake dissolved into terrified whimpers. “Jake, I don’t—”
“Is this…” Marcus held Jake tight, cradling his face with his flesh-and-blood hand. “Is this where… he lives? John?”
Jake buried his face in Marcus’s chest and heaved a broken sob. “Please, Marcus,” he whimpered. “Please, I c-can’t… I can’t go back to him, not now, please don’t let him hurt me, I can’t… please…”
Lars swallowed. “Did he get… triggered by something? Or—”
“Get us home,” Marcus snapped. “Never mind about the long way. Just. Get us home. Don’t attract any attention. I need to get him home.” He unclipped Jake’s seatbelt and pulled him into his lap, cradling him against his chest like a child. Jake slung his unbroken arm around Marcus’s neck and sobbed into his neck, clinging to him like he was dangling over an abyss and Marcus was the only thing that could pull him out.
Lars immediately turned toward home, glancing in the rearview every now and then. They watched Jake shudder and sob in Marcus’s arms, and their heart broke at the sound of him crying, but their mind fixated on the low, steady sound of Marcus’s voice running beneath it, speaking in an almost constant litany: “I got you. You’re safe. You’re never going back to him. You got out, Jake. You’re safe. You’ll never have to see him again. I’d never let him hurt you. He doesn’t know you’re here, Jake, and he’ll never find you. It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe. You’re safe.”
And, once, the sentence that sent chills up and down Lars’s spine the moment the words left Marcus’s mouth: “I’ll kill him if he ever tries to hurt you again.”
When they pulled into the driveway, Lars wet their lips and stared at Marcus in the rearview. “Wh-who is John?” they said softly.
Marcus wouldn’t look at them. “Doesn’t matter,” he said shortly. “An asshole. A monster. Someone who deserves a fucking bullet in his head. The rest is up to Jake to tell.”
Jake didn’t say anything from the circle of Marcus’s arms. He only sniffled, and when Marcus got out of the car, he clung to Marcus’s side until they finally made it to bed together.
If you want to be on the taglist (including for the spicy chapters,) let me know! I only tag people in 18+ chapters if I know they are adults through conversations or if their age/age range is in their bio.
hunter biden resurgence is a hugely positive sign for me because destroyer peaked during the last hunter biden summer and i got so much mileage off that in designing paris. the people's princess.
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She’s always cute after a whipping. Too exhausted and overwhelmed with pain to spit fury at him, and too afraid to disobey. Riven trails the braided leather across her latest stripes, smearing the blood and drawing a weak, miserable whimper from her throat.
“Cute,” he comments aloud. “You look like you’ve learned your lesson.”
“Yes sir,” she answers, a little urgent – but not outright wailing and pleading. “I’ve learned, I’m sorry I disobeyed, I’m sorry.”
There’s a lot of room to make her more desperate. Riven drags the whip gently over her back again, mulling it over.
“I’m sorry,” Ariadne repeats, a little sob breaking her voice. “Please, sir, I’ve had enough, please…”
Riven coils the whip loosely and strolls across the room to drop it into the sink. He hears her exhale and is instantly tempted to pick it back up. But not this time.
She doesn’t move as he walks round in front of her, not even to inch her fingers away from his boots. Her head stays down, so he leans down to catch her chin. There’s no resistance as he turns her face up.
The harsh light of the interrogation room is not kind, glistening off the tears and exaggerating the blotches in her cheeks, the dark hollows under her eyes. The bruise on her cheekbone is almost faded, but he can still just about make out the fading smudge of colour. He runs a thumb none too gently across it, and grabs her jaw to halt her weak attempt to pull away.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Almost a whisper this time, hopeless and broken.
Riven smiles. “So polite,” he mocks softly. “This really is the only way to get manners into you, isn’t it?”
“I’ll do better, sir,” she promises, even though they both know she’ll be snapping at him again as soon as she dares.
“I doubt it,” Riven smirks, and watches her flinch.
Her head drops again as soon as he lets it go.
“Am I dismissed, sir?” she asks tremulously. “Please?”
“Can you get up?” Riven challenges.
She tries, on shaking legs. The weak little “anh!” as her bruised knees hit the ground again is just gorgeous.
“Let me help you,” Riven hums.
“I can do it sir,” she protests, but he takes her arms anyway and she doesn’t fight him. There’s raw fear in the way she searches his face. He holds her steady until she has her balance, then turns away to collect her discarded clothes for her.
The shirt and undershirt behave as one garment. He holds it out for her to put her arms in, suppressing a chuckle at her obvious apprehension. She cooperates, and he dresses her like a child, careful to hold the fabric away from her back as he pulls it down her body.
“Thank you, sir,” she mumbles, and earns herself another grin.
“Lean on me,” he instructs. She does. She knows that if she fights it he’ll put an arm round her back. She keeps her eyes on the floor as he leads her through the security room, unwilling to look at her coworkers at the computers. They don’t look at her either, and they don’t challenge Riven. He notes a little smugly that Sam has moved a browser window over the top of the feed from the room he was just using.
“Sir?” Ariadne queries plaintively when he steers right at the end of the hall. “Where are we going?”
“I won’t make you work this afternoon,” he tells her. “But since you can’t be trusted, I think I’ll keep an eye on you for the rest of the day.”
Distrust and dislike ghost across her features, but she’s too cowed to argue.
Max waves a greeting as they enter the office. He smirks as he takes in Ariadne’s obvious distress and Riven smiles right back at him. He takes Ariadne to his desk, then pauses to make a little show of deciding where to put her.
“Right here,” he decides, pointing at the floor beside his chair.
Ariadne balks, then tries to disguise her reluctance as confusion. “Sir?”
“On your knees,” he commands with relish, “right here.”
He could drag her into position and push her down, but he waits for her to sink to her knees on her own. Red blooms in her cheeks and creeps outwards to her hairline. Riven pulls up his chair and settles comfortably. He leans back and rests a hand on the top of her head and it feels fucking fantastic.
Nothing says power quite like having some hapless broken wreck of a person kneeling by your feet.
The warm glow lasts as he settles in to tackle his emails. If he’s totally honest, it’s a distraction. Bloome would be completely right to write him up for a lack of professionalism. Which is why he wouldn’t be doing this if Bloome was in the office. Everyone here has already seen Ariadne’s stripes.
He has to wonder whether she knows that too, or if she’s waiting on tenterhooks for the humiliation of being caught on her knees.
If she is, she doesn’t show it. She’s gone distant now, drained and exhausted in the aftermath of the adrenaline. She sits shivering and silent with her head down and her hands folded neatly in her lap.
She flinches when Riven reaches out to muss her hair. It’s very charming.
Everything about this is charming. He can’t believe he’s never thought of it before. She’s perfect like this, his perfect little toy. Right here where he wants her.
Conditioning whumpees with shock collars is highly underrated. The whumper can train and condition even the most defiant whumpee from a safe distance, never even getting their hands dirty
Once the collar is on and locked in, maybe the whumpee angrily tries to reach for the keys or fight back-
…only to find out EXACTLY what the collar is for
The constant, somewhat identical pain would work so well for conditioning. Misbehaving = a shock. Talking back = a shock. The only choice they have is to do as the whumper commands
Which is perfect for the whumper who always likes to be in completely, easy control of his pets.
non-verbal whumpee scrambling back, back, back until they are firmly touching the mouldy wall, their chained hands clamped tight over their mouth— because they may have been shocked out of words, but the scream in their throat feels insistent— and this is a new person. that is never good. there is so much hit-and-trial as they try to figure out the rules, in order to avoid punishment.
they take slow, seemingly heavy steps towards whumpee's corner, their hands outstretched to display the lack of any implements. whumpee shudders and shrinks into a tighter ball. that has never protected them, before.
there are words, but they can't really make them out over the roaring fear. they are grabbed and pulled to their feet. the chains are unlocked. whumpee stares at them, feeling untethered. they want them back.
then they are being led away. what is this? the question loops around their head, over and over, as they are bundled up and put into an ambulance. they are asked questions but their words are no longer theirs. the anxiety has them awake and alert even as their body droops with exhaustion.
but when no blows for stumbling come, when any contact is minimal and when they aren't forced to give up information— eventually, sleep sneaks up on them.
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Whumpee never wants to be weak again, so they push themself further and further on the training grounds. Seeking out opponents with a reputation for going all out, then for going too far. Goading their sparring partners into attacking them for real. Secretly conjuring up magical constructs who won't hesitate to draw live steel. Training until their callouses tear open, until their muscles scream, until they throw up (and wipe their mouth and get back to it), until they pass out in the dust.
And it doesn't work. They flinch at the sound of a sword unsheathing. They get sloppy and irrational. They get weak.
It's frustrating. They're furious at themself for it, and all they can do is try harder. They just want to improve! They have to get better! Why are they just getting worse?
This isn't a considered opinion on the ethics or morality of hunting or anything, but as a matter of basic fairness whenever I see a headline about a hunter being killed by their quarry I feel like a round of applause or something is deserved. Like good job, fair play, difficult to imagine holding this against you.
Obsessed with whumpees who are repeatedly victimised trying to change themselves so it won't happen. Because it's their fault, right? It happens so often, they have to be doing something.
They wear plainer, looser clothes that don't show any skin or curves. They work out, thinking if they gain some muscle, they won't look so easy. Maybe they stop taking care of their hygiene, deliberately trying to make themselves unappealing.
Whumper says they like their hair? They cut it off. They like their smile? Whumpee learns to suppress it. Anything they possibly can to get people to stop wanting them.
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