#The Hypnotist Circle | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

spiralsdrop · 9 months ago

Text

This is a hypnosis story I've always loved. If anyone knows who the author is I would love to give them the credit they deserve for this.

“My friends and I were at a bar across town. It was dark, a little loud, underground, with dim red lights and drinks that cost too much. But there were lots of plush little booths and we managed to snag ourselves a corner, so we sat and got deep into drinking and chatting.

After an hour or so, there was a big commotion going on in one corner with people falling around laughing. Before we saw what was going on, everyone involved had stumbled away hooting and giggling. But my friend Rachel leads me over and there’s this young guy kind of holding court.

“What’s going on?” Rachel asks, over the music.

“Oh, I’m hypnotising people,” he says, casually, like people do that all the time.

“For real? You’re a hypnotist?”

“Yes I am,” he says.

Rachel thinks this is hysterical. I think it sounds ridiculous.

“We should dooooooo this!” she says, waving over the two other friends we’re out with.

“Should we?”

“We should! YOU should.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, but she’s already tugging on this guy’s arm… and pushing me towards him.

“Hypnotise Emma!”

“Yeah?”

“She REALLY wants to!”

He looks at me.

“Do you want to?”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure I’m un-hypnotisable.”

“Well,” he says. “Wanna find out?”

“You can try,” I say. I’m smirking a little bit. Silly me.

“Well, OK then. Here, take a seat.”

Like I said, I thought it was ridiculous.

There are two small wooden chairs facing each other and I sit in one. I smooth down the short, tight little dress I’m wearing. He – neat grey t-shirt, jeans, a tattoo of swirling black lines, like a soundwave, on one arm, a mischievous sparkle in his deep brown eyes, like someone who’s just had a sinfully good idea – sits on the other one, pulls it closer so our knees are almost touching. I’m a little nervous… but determined not to let it show.

��OK,” he says. He takes my arms and places them on the arm of my chair, palms up. He holds my hands with his and gives them a reassuring squeeze.

“You OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“This is going to be fun, OK?”

“Well, if you say so.”

Three of my friends are now gathered watching us. I hear Rachel say “I bet she thinks she’s a chicken five minutes from now.”

He lets go of my hands and wraps his gently around my wrists, his thumb on each, like he’s taking my pulse. He starts talking to me low and urgently, looking into my eyes warmly.

“So what’s your name?”

“Emma.”

“Where are we?”

“A bar.”

“What colour are the lights here?”

“Red.”

“Only red?”

“Some white.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Emma.”

”OK, Emma. We’re good.”

His thumbs are tracing circles on my skin.

His questions became… rhetorical. Think of my feet on the floor. Were they heavy? Did it feel good to just rest them there? Doesn’t it feel warm? Isn’t the chair comfortable?

It did feel comfortable. It felt like the second when an elevator stops descending and you’re that little bit heavier. I felt warm like sinking into a fresh bath. He put his hand on my bare shoulder. It felt solid and good.

Didn’t I feel calm? Isn’t it nice? Try closing my eyes. Keep listening to his voice. Even raised over the music is voice, is like a heavy blanket on a lazy Sunday. His hand slides to rest under my hair, on the back of my neck. Weren’t my wrists relaxed? Like they could rest on the arms of the chair forever. His other hand taps out a rhythm on my knee. Calm like warm sunshine on my skin. The sounds around me drift off into a dull hubbub. This was more relaxing than I th…

…I open my eyes and time has jumped just a little. Maybe it’s a few seconds later – or a few minutes? Which was weird. But it can’t have been long. My friends were all still there. And I still felt good. Calm. Nice. The rest of the world feels a little muffled, like the air is thicker.

“All awake, Emma?”

I nod.

“How do you feel?”

“I feel… fine.”

“That’s good.”

He rested his fingertips on my wrists and… oh.

“How does that feel?”

For some reason, it felt SO good. It was like one of those feelings that ran all through your body, like the feeling I get when my neck is being kissed, or my nipples are teased, or having ‘good girl’ growled quietly in my ear.

“It feels good,” I murmured. I was still sort of sleepy.

His fingertips started running slowly up and down my wrists, from my up-turned palms to the crook of my elbow. It was like the sexiest teasing I’d ever felt. Tingles rushed up to my shoulders and through my chest. I could feel my nipples getting hard under my dress.

“Do you like the way it feels?”

I nodded. The tingling was spreading through my tummy and between my legs. I was calm and floaty and burningly turned on all at once. He pulled his hands away. I bit my lip in frustration.

“More?”

“Yeah.”

He picked up his chair and moved it. I felt him sit down behind me. He leaned in close and whispered “Close your eyes…” into my ear. I did what I was told.

The moment his hands touched my back I gasped like lightning ran down my spine to my crotch. Every tiny hair on my neck stood up in reaction to his touch.

“Fuck.”

Each stroke of my shoulder blades felt like being stroked… everywhere, all at once. My clit was getting harder and more sensitive with each rub. My underwear felt hot and wet. I could barely control my breathing.

His hands slid over my shoulders and teasingly over my upper arms. It was like ecstasy. Just the fabric of my underwear against my clit was delicious. I slid my ass against the wooden chair instinctively trying to find some friction or relief. As he blew gently on the back of my neck I leaned back and spread my legs in the confused hope of being touched. I fucking ached with pleasure.

“It’s such a strong feeling,” he murmured in my ear, “when you think about it.”

He pulled his hands away once again. My heart was thudding in my chest, my nipples were hard through the fabric of my dress which had ridden up from my accidental grinding against the seat. Even with my eyes closed, I looked like a hot mess but I was so turned on I was beyond caring. I was just glad the club was so dark.

He puts brought his chair around to my side and just in front, so it was perpendicular to me. He sits in, close.

“How are you feeling?”

I open my eyes. I’m dimly aware of the giggling of my friends, and the gaze of some other onlookers over me. I feel a wave of heat as my face reddens.

“Don’t worry about them,” he says. “Look at me.”

“This is crazy,” I mouthed.

”I told you it would be fun.”

I’m speechless.

“Keep going?”

I was nodding before I even thought about it.

He scoots in front of me a little more. “Put your leg on my lap, Emma.” I lift my bare leg and place it tentatively across his knees.

His hand rests on my knee and a jolt of pleasure hit me. It snakes up my thigh to my wet cunt and fizzles deep me, my hips twitching. To my embarrassment I let out a moan of pure pleasure.

His fingertips are stroking my skin in soft, little circles. My thighs are starting to shake. Laughter among the crowd sends me blushing. He shakes his head in their direction and then looks at me.

“Emma, look at me.”

His twinkling eyes lock mine.

“You’ve been doing really well. Don’t worry about them. Listen to my voice.”

I nod in breathless agreement. His fingertips start drumming slowly on top of my thigh, one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two three..

It feels like a fluttering feeling inside me and I scrunch my eyes closed in delight. I squirm in my seat, squeezing my thighs together tightly just for a hint of pressure on my clit.

“Emma, look at me.”

“You’ve been doing really well. I know it feels intense. It feels so strong…”

I’m trembling with each quickening tap. One-two-three-one-two-three-one-two-three-one-two-three…

“It’s getting stronger and stronger, Emma. Like you can’t hold back.”

The drumming moves imperceptibly up my thigh, to the edge of my dress and it feels 100 times stronger. I’m arching my back. My hands grip the arm of the chair like they’re my bedsheets when I’m touching myself. I’m so close…

“Emma, listen to me.”

“Oh my god.”

“Emma, listen.”

“I’m… please… I…”

“Let go.”

With those two words the orgasm hits me like an explosion, my thighs clamping together, the contractions in my cunt are so strong I bend double in my chair.

“Let go.”

It feels like I’m being fucked hard and deep while I cum, my g-spot is spasming with pleasure. I cry out helplessly.

“Let go.”

His hand gripping my thigh sends another orgasm shivering through my clit and then bursting inside of me. I feel a hot flood of wetness soak through my panties as I involuntarily squirt a little.

“Let go.”

I slump back in the chair as my hips jolt into the air. I can hear my friends shrieking with laughter as they watch me orgasm uncontrollably. I try to hold back but I can’t stop cumming. Each squeeze of my thigh sends another wave of powerful juddering contractions through my pussy, makes me moan, twitch, gush, gasp, grind, shake, cum.

I’ve never cum for so long.

“OK, you. Come here.”

He takes my leg off his lap and comes in close to me. He wraps his hand on my neck and pulls me toward him, my forehead resting on my shoulder, exhausted and trembling. “Just relax,” he murmurs. “Listen to my voice…”

I sink back into a calm darkness.

A few moments later I wake up, sheepish and embarrassed… but even so, I can’t stop grinning. He strokes my wrist one last time – no unbearable pleasure, this time – and smiles. I tentatively stand up, and my legs are like jelly. Rebecca grabs me incredulously and says “OH. MY. GOD.”

“I. KNOW.”

I tell her I have to excuse myself to use the bathroom and shakily stumble in that direction. It’s busy with girls streaming in and out, but in the mirror, I see my face and chest are flushed pink. And my hair’s a mess.

I shut myself in the cool dark cubicle and slide off my panties, down my ankles and over my shoes and step out of them. They’re so drenched from my cum I throw them in the trash can. I instinctively reach between my legs and fuck, I’m still so wet and sensitive. I lean back against the cubicle door and let my fingertips find my slick, hard, throbbing clit. It feel so good to finally feel the touch my body had been craving.

Around me were the sounds of doors opening and closing, girls talking, water running, the throbbing music from next door and the hand-dryer blowing.

I was so hungry to feel full inside and I greedily pushed two fingers deep inside, sliding in deliciously easily. My knees buckled with satisfaction as I slowly, quietly fucked myself. Each time the hand dryer switched on, I pumped my fingers in and out hard and fast, the noise of the motor covering the sounds of my wetness, until it stopped and I had to wait for more agonising seconds.

When I couldn’t take it any more, with one last blast of the hand dryer, I frantically rubbed my clit, my other hand grabbing my tit, and then those commanding words “Let go… let go… let go…” suddenly reverberating in my head, until, my hand clamped over my mouth, I came for the second time that night, my legs buckling in shock, sliding down the cubicle door until I was sat on my heels, waves of pleasure still shuddering through my thighs.

I sat on the toilet for a few minutes and straightened myself out, until the red flush of orgasm had faded from my chest. Then I went back out to join my friends… embarrassed, sans underwear but oh-so-satisfied.

And when I’m alone, the words ‘let go…’ can still push me over the edge sometimes :)”

I would love to give proper credit to this author. If any of you know who wrote this please let me know so I can tag them and give them the credit they deserve.

#hypnosis #hypnotized girl #hypnogasm

909 notes · View notes

misscammiedawn · 9 months ago

Text

Hypnosis and Dissociative Disorders

I've been meaning to write this since Charmed.

I shall not point fingers or name names but during Charmed 2024 there was a 101 class that taught that it was unsafe to play with those who dissociate as part of a mental illness. The graphic, which I'll paste below, used the word "Can't".

I wanted to speak to that.

Hypnosis has several different definitions. One could go to a hypnosis event and ask every presenter "define hypnosis in a single sentence" and get a different answer every class, likely a few may even contradict.

One such definition I could use is "Hypnosis is an altered state where a hypnotee is lead to a suggestible state where the hypnotee is dissociated from their conscious thinking." though one could say it is "an altered state that leads to breakdown in critical thinking and a heightened state of suggestibility" or you could start talking about the unconscious or subconscious mind.

Fact is, there's a lot of theory work at play and the language we use to shape the concepts isn't as important as understanding the concepts.

Dissociation is a natural part of hypnosis. It's also a natural part of existing. In much pre-talk patter we as hypnotists tend to ask an introduction level hypnotee to think about their experiences with time dilation, with highway hypnosis, with spacing out, with walking into a room and forgetting why you came in there.

Things so normal that as part of rapport, a hypnotist tends to assume the hypnotee can latch on to one of the concepts.

Dissociation is a spectrum. Literally. Within psychology the DES-II tool grades dissociation experiences on a scale, hence the acronym.

Graphic source

When people, including myself at times, describe dissociative disorders they tend to be referring to disorders that focus on dissociation as their main symptom. Depersonalization, Derealization and of course Dissociative Identity Disorder. Over the course of my life I have been diagnosed with all three.

But the scale includes Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, both complex and standard. Complex simply refers to a level of trauma that has been ongoing long enough that it is not a single memory or incident that triggers the symptoms.

According to the American Psychiatric Association one in eleven people will be diagnosed with PTSD at some point in their life with 3.5m diagnosed per year in the USA.

Which is to say that dissociating as part of an illness includes 8% of the population. Does that mean 8% of all potential hypnotees are too dangerous to play with?

...the answer is not a clear cut, "no". There is some elevated danger. But rather than teaching people not to play with those who live with these experiences, perhaps we can teach why there should be heightened caution and then allow people to navigate together.

We should always strive to educate and provide tools. When you tell a person they can't do something then they'll just do it without understanding why they aren't supposed to or, worse, predators will find those who were excluded from safer spaces. Harm is not reduced, an educator just gets to walk away from the harm with a simple "I said they shouldn't".

And plus, I said 8% of the general population...

Within hypnosis circles I assure you it is far higher when one factors in that multiple studies have supplied evidence that hypnotic susceptibility increases along with dissociative capacity.

Suffice to say, from utilizing hypnotic susceptibility tests (HGSHS) and dissociative tests (SDD and DES) the more a person dissociates, the more susceptible to hypnosis they are.

The human mind uses dissociation as a way of coping with physical and emotional pain, among other necessary inner needs, and so a person suffering from a mental illness that features dissociation becomes a naturally gifted hypnotee. It's a matter of practicing a skill constantly without realizing that they are refining something useful. Wax-On/Wax-Off.

This leads to a number of safety concerns. We've typed on serious concerns such as altering sense of identity and derealization attacks from lack of grounding. This is a topic near and dear to our heart as we acknowledge that we needed to gain an education in how to safely consent to hypnosis play and failing to do so in the past caused harm to ourselves and to those we played with.

So here's a list of potential dangers in playing with those who are further along the dissociative spectrum, how to mitigate those dangers and create a space where everyone can play safely.

I'll focus on hypnotees with dissociative experiences for the most part as the relationship between dissociation and hypnosis is primarily a concern while the hypnotee is in trance. That having been said I acknowledge that Dom Space connects just as much to the spectrum and an entire new post can be made on the topic of performing hypnosis when you have a dissociative disorder.

Heaven knows it is a topic I study feverishly to maintain safety for myself and those who entrust their mind to my care.

So... with that said, let's talk about the dangers.

Abreactions

This is likely the most common concept that comes up when thinking of the relationship between PTSD and hypnosis. An abreaction is the moment a hypnosis session or scene goes off the rails because the hypnotee is actively reacting to a trauma trigger while they are in a suggestible state. Their Fight/Flight/Freeze/Fawn impulse may be triggered and cause a physical or emotional reaction which was not part of the negotiated/planned scene.

This could be a cut and dry example of "and think about all the times you've been hypnotized right there on that sofa" causing a hypnotee to follow the suggestion and regress in memory to a time before a bad break-up when their former partner hypnotized them on the sofa they are currently on.

It could be an abstract example like "imagining yourself in a field of flowers and breathing in, noting how lovely the scent is, like the most beautiful perfume." causing sense memory to trigger the scent of a perfume that was in the air during a traumatic moment of their life that instantly flips the switch in their mind to go into F/F/F/F mode.

Likely any given hypnotist will experience this at some point in their life. The first example is one that any person could experience. Hypnosis naturally draws upon associations and when you create an association in the present to a negative emotion in the past you will summon it into the present.

With the second example, that association is already there and it was activated during the scene. The source of the abreaction. I avoid using the word "Trigger" both because of shitty internet discourse in the 2010s and because the term is used for other things in hypnosis, but that is what it is. A sense, a memory, an association which causes the source of trauma to intrude upon the present. The danger that the hypnotee experiences in these moments is very real.

Typically when I discuss these topics I put a disclaimer and emphasize how present the traumatic experience is. My hope is that anyone who is interested in hypnosis knows full well how true and powerful inner experiences are. If you doubt that then I sincerely do not know why you are in this community to begin with.

How to prevent an abreaction is important but should never be learned at the expense of learning how to handle an abreaction. Prevention is about disclosing during negotiation, asking the hypnotee to volunteer anything which may activate a negative reaction or simply what topics to avoid. Phobias are common enough examples of things that a hypnotist should know before working.

But disclosing every part of a trance or scene during the early phases of a hypnotic relationship is essential too. This way the hypnotee does not get surprised by anything propping up during play and they can measure their expected reactions before going into a suggestible state.

But if, despite caution, something does happen? What then?

Noting that every abreaction manifests specific to the person, their situation, their emotional state and how the scene caused it to happen. The first thing the hypnotist needs to do is not overreact. Over-correcting is an easy mistake to make in the moment but it will lead to an overall negative outcome.

Assess the situation and try to recognize what is happening. I had mentioned that the reflex is "Fight/Flight/Freeze/Fawn" this can be obvious like thrashing or ejecting out of trance instantly. It could be something harder to notice like locking up and becoming unresponsive or emotionally regressing to a terrified state.

If the hypnotee is still in trance then do your best to offer comfort and grounding. Remind them what is happening, remind them that they are safe, perform some grounding exercises such as box breathing (breathe in, hold, exhale for a number of seconds).

Touch is a case by case situation here. I know if I were having an emotional flashback to an assault then being touched would launch me further into abreaction territory. If you believe holding a hand would be beneficial then at the very least communicate it "I'm here, I'm going to take your hand, everything's safe, I'm here."

Over distance you should communicate this via modality. "I'm here, just listen to my voice, focus on the sounds in the room, I'm not going anywhere" for an audio example, "Just feel the blanket beneath you, you can brush your fingers against it if you need" for touch based.

The idea is to use emotional comfort, sensory grounding and patience to bring the hypnotee gently out of the moment.

Then apply aftercare and discuss what happened, what could be improved, what the hypnotee needs and acknowledge that the stress of these moments impacts the hypnotist too. Leave room for the hypnotist to recover as much as the hypnotee.

Decide together if this will end the session or not. Do not cut off on principal. If someone is conditioned to believe that displaying their negative reactions will lead to play stopping then they will hide those reactions. Accept that they happen. Learn how to grow together and incorporate care, comfort and safety into every scene.

Spontaneous Hypnotic Amnesia

One danger for those who suffer dissociative disorders is that their brains are very good at editing information. The further down the spectrum one is, the more adept their mind is at naturally pushing away things that they do not wish to think about nor have the capacity to integrate.

One categorization of dissociation is a failure for the brain to integrate information and experience. It is the cause of time dilation, it is why critical thinking is bypassed and it is why those further on the dissociative spectrum are able to compartmentalize their experiences so effortlessly that they can maintain dissociated personalities.

Where most people who practice hypnosis typically have to study how to achieve post-hypnotic amnesia, those who begin working with hypnosis with patholigized dissociative experiences may need to learn how not to experience it. I include this as I have spoken to multiple people who have lived this reality and it is something we ourselves experienced in the past.

Should a newer hypnotee show signs that they are not remembering what is happening during trance, it is a good practice to train them on how to retain information. Hypnotee Agency is a skill that one develops and allowing them the knowledge that they can chose to retain the information during a trance is as important as reinforcing how easy and normal it is to forget when that is a negotiated part of the scene.

All it takes to be safe here is to just remind them that if they wish to and find it enjoyable to do so, they may retain the information from this trance.

Nothing more complicated than that.

Derealization/Unreality

Derealization is a common experience within dissociation that is actually lower on the dissociative spectrum than PTSD. It is when you do not feel attached to your present experiences in real time.

A common version of this is "Deja Vu" which is a sensation where you are having difficulty integrating your present experience because it "feels" like you've already experienced it.

It can manifest in many other ways, however the commonality is that the person experiencing this knows that it's abnormal. When a person is disconnected from their surroundings like this they may experience a barrier between themselves and the world, they may have a distorted sense of time and they may become physically unresponsive and withdrawn.

Source: Mayo Clinic

The best way to handle this is to make sure that grounding always includes a thorough count-up that lets a person feel both in their body (this will help with depersonalization too) and aware of their surroundings. Ensuring both debriefing and aftercare focus on keeping reality in the room is important when someone's sense of what is real can drift.

For that reason it's a good idea to try and reinforce those ideas of what is real and save them in a little box that can be stored away if there are ever any reality altering suggestions in play, that way retrieving and unpacking that box can just be a natural part of the post-scene.

I linked it earlier, but my post on the topic can be found here.

Depersonalization/Altered States of Identity

Ah, our favorite soapbox.

Much like derealization, depersonalization is a symptom that is lower on the scale than PTSD and is actively invoked during inductions such as the Bandler which turns a handshake into the hypnotee starring at their hand and having the sensation of the hand distanced from their mind. Literally dissociating the hand from your body and using that sensation to build a trance.

It's a good induction. All forms of dissociation are not bad things. That is something I want to make sure an audience fully understands. This post is here to destigmatize, particularly when a 101 class was teaching stigma.

Depersonalization is a disconnection from one's sense of self. These are the moments when one feels like they are not the ones living through a moment, they are experiencing themselves from an outside perspective.

Once again, things that are utilized heavily in induction patter.

Source: Mayo Clinic

The derealization advice works well in this case, particularly the idea of creating a "back-up" to restore carefully at the end of a scene.

The big difference though is that depersonalization as a natural thing that those with dissociative disorders do can lead to some bleed when doing suggestions which alter a person's sense of self. I highly recommend an optional suggestion or affirmation that can help a hypnotee ground themselves. That may be too close to therapy for many though.

The hard part about being safe with depersonalization symptoms is that they are typically things that we actively engage with during hypnosis. I guarantee at least one person read "Feeling like a robot or that you're not in control of what you say or how you move." and thought of that as an absolute win.

This is where a bit of negotiation and hypnotee agency comes into play. Reality needs to be kept in the room during all hypnosis. Diving into ego-death or erasing reality may be tempting, especially for those who aren't particularly fond of reality or themselves, but it is too dangerous to surrender those things.

My definitive post on the topic has more information.

Though while I'm talking about altered personalities, I want to make something clear which I did not type about much in my Personality Play post...

Plurality

This is a topic on its own which could take on an entire post to itself. I may yet write it. If anyone has read our Madison and Belladonna stories they would know that they are written entirely based upon the life lessons Daja and I have been learning while I began therapy and was diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. Many of my lessons for how to safely play with plural systems are mixed in with the fiction.

When I say Plural I mean to refer to those who have multiple dissociated personalities, along with circumstances such as dissociative barriers.

There are as many displays of plurality as there are people who experience it. Every system is different. No two people are not on fire (awww).

So with that said, any play on either side of the watch is going to be lead with self-advocating. A hypnotic relationship involving a system (or more than one, even) will need a level of disclosure. Not just that a system exists but how that system manifests. What patterns are known regarding switches, what best works when an unexpected switch occurs, what levels of dissociative barriers exist between alters/parts, what terminology is preferred...

Wait, that's a lot to throw at once.

Our version of plurality is based upon Dissociative Identity Disorder. Which is to say that my system, originating via complex PTSD during childhood, used to have firm dissociative barriers between one another. This meant that, prior to diagnosis, you could have an emotionally charged conversation with me, Dawn, and then the next day Cammie will wake up and depending on the level of dissociation (typically but not always linked to stress or proximity to trauma triggers) will either not remember what happened during that conversation or will not carry the emotions that I had experienced. "Not remembering" can simply be "won't think about"

As I said, it's quite subjective. But the conceit is that with those on the DID spectrum will have a complete disconnect between parts/alters.

For those with less dissociation, but still experience plurality, they may not have amnesia or barriers between parts, allowing themselves to communicate with one another actively.

Within psychological communities there is eternal debate on all of these experiences and one of the more poignant debates is that the difference between DID and OSDD seems to just be a level of severity and that treatment and therapy tactics tend to move DID patients into the OSDD box and so they shouldn't be labeled as separate disorders.

These rules on amnesia, inner communication and emotional consistency between parts typically apply outside of disorders. I do not wish to engage in syscourse. But as above when I mentioned abreactions, those who practice with hypnosis know how capable a mind is to create hypnotically induced personalities. There are experiences outside of the DSM-V and that really shouldn't be a controversial statement.

A switch is when one part/alter trades out for another. The reasons are hyper specific to every system and cannot really be predicted without knowing their circumstances intimately. For instance the scent of lavender will draw me out without fail.

These can happen without warning and during hypnosis. Being cautious about body language, tone of voice and sudden changes in mood are the best you can do without guidance from the one with lived experience.

I'd also cautiously warn to end a scene and check in if there is an unexpected switch and there's no negotiated playbook on what to do in case of a switch.

The first Madison and Belladonna story tells the story of that very circumstance because that happened in my real life.

For safety it is best to try and communicate with the entire system over how to approach any aspect of hypnosis play. Exploring is a collaborative action and it can be a rewarding experience to find what works and what doesn't work. But it does take time.

For some basic "until I know better" rules, I'd say NEVER FORCE A SWITCH is a fairly basic rule, though. Also do not assume consent for a specific part/alter counts as consent for the whole system.

There is so much to say on this topic and I will likely revisit it at another point, but much of the safety tied up with DID and identity based dissociative disorders boils down to the fact that you are negotiating consent for a group and that you cannot always guarantee that the hypnotee at the start of a scene will always be present during the entire scene.

To that, I say treat switches like an abreaction, display acceptance and curiosity and don't get too hung up on the circumstances.

At the end of the day plural folx are just people too, just not person.

So... why did I write all this, anyway?

A lovely friend of mine recently joked that Charmed 2024 was the "Year of Plurality" and in a way they were right. I've been attending the event since 2020 and where my first had been a humble little class of 8 or so people on a Sunday afternoon ran by Vulpes Automata (Vulpes teaches the same class at Plural Positivity, albeit without the hypnosis content, a recording is hosted here) this year's event included many systems declaring themselves as such on their badge, both an in-person and online unconference that stretched beyond the time limits put in place and were feverishly well attended.

It has done my heart so good to see the safety and community growing and becoming more accepting.

It reminds me of the community's slow growth to accepting and embracing the transgender community in the mid-2010s.

Which is why I wish to be firm about trying to stop bad ideas from taking root in how we teach on these topics.

Some may remember that in the 2000s, respectable resources teaching hypnokink used to state firmly to "confirm biological sex" with any potential play partner. Said material has been revised. Times change and communities grow.

So when I see this teaching graphic saying that those who dissociate as part of a mental illness "Can't" be hypnotized, due to safety concerns? I get worried.

It was being used in a 101 class at the very same Charmed event that I am praising for having such good acceptance of plural experiences?

I lived this once as a closeted transgender woman. I don't want to live it again with our DID.

And I remember that "never play with anyone who has a mental illness" used to be taught in the same resources that once said to disclose one's "biological sex". People have taught this in classes and been approached by someone who had a mental illness and told how ignorant it was to teach that they could not be played with.

We, as a community, can do better.

I'd rather a 3 hour 101 become a 4 hour 101 and teach this material than to dismiss those who are the most vulnerable and susceptible and have them seek their trances from those who do not have reservations about safety and ethics.

Thank you for reading. I know this was a big soap box.

#dawn posting #hypnokink #hypnosis #hypnokink writings #charmed 2024 #did #bpd #community resources #community safety

454 notes · View notes

rel124c41 · 6 months ago

Text

IN ALL MY DREAMS I DROWN. poly!octotrio

Husband/Captain says the best medicine is sleep. You plead and beg with him to find another remedy. "I know what is best for you," Husband/Captain says.

tags: mythical beings & creatures, references to scottish folklore, seasickness, implied/referenced abuse, prophetic dreams, blood and violence, forced marriage, rape/non-con elements, no abuse done by octotrio, eventual happy ending, rescue mission, & happy mermay

word count: 6,690

There is a storm on the horizon. Alas, that is normal. Your husband has terrible luck with sailing.

Truthfully, it has felt for as long as you have breathed, you have breathed in the calmness before a storm. Anticipation for something awful on your tongue. Dry, warm air before a storm hits in your lungs. There is always a storm on the horizon. You have never seen another type of sky while sailing.

Dark clouds pile onto each other like stones. Icy blue and cold black spreads across the south like rivulets of oil. There is a faint tingling in the air. You look down. So deeply tired, the motion almost causes your eyes to lock close – like when a rocker-eyed doll is tilted. Blankets of goosebumps sleep on your arms. You know with sighed resignation that the upcoming weather will be one of the worser ones you have experienced.

No matter how many waves you sail upon, your husband cannot escape the looming storms, try as he might.

In your hand, you hold a lantern. It walks with you. Burning brightly, it works effectively to prod off the combined darkness of night and storm. Hypotonic red and yellow twirls over each other. A caged calamity which sways somniferous with each step you take.

This is the forty-second time you have paced the entirety of the ship. From stern to bow, croaking wood weeps under your aimless poltergeist motions. Some cuckoo clocks, upon the stroke of each hour, release little trapped dolls to dance and spin in circles upon the stroke of each hour. You are quite similar to them. Except, you are a doll in a broken cuckoo clock who works its dancers tirelessly. Spinning and spinning, stern to bow, then again, stern to bow, repeat, stern to bow.

With each step, the fire in your lantern sways like a hypnotist's watch, undulating red and yellow.

You have been awake for two days so far. However, you only walk at night to fend off sleepiness. In the daylight, you keep yourself busy with menial tasks. Walking helps to fight off the sleep before it envelopes and rains upon you.

Yet, it seems you are making too much noise with your endless pacing. Your scolding comes with the cry of a single creak. The wooden door of the captain’s cabin opens.

Eyes once up to absorb the sight of the creeping storm, the layout of the ship, and any sight you wanted to see suddenly drop down. Eyes now on the floorboards, you listen to the pitter of feet marching down steps. Wind howls in your ears and rakes through your hair. Endless pacing comes to a sudden halt. With retreating eyes, you stand by the shrouds.

When a pair of boots enter your eyesight, thorns wrap around your heart. Panic settles in when he speaks, “Another sleepless night, my dear?”

You have no idea what your husband looks like. Never gathering the bravery to look up and with him never having the want to tilt your chin up, neither of you have made eye contact. His face is like tenebrous darkness casted by storm. Numerous features could lay on it. Numerous possibilities yet no answers. No beard though; you know this when he places a palacting kiss on your forehead where your brain stews with undreamed dreams. No coarse hair tickles your skin.

However, your husband knows what you look like. Taller than you, stronger than you. Knowing your features and face shape in this uneven marriage, that is his right in nuptial laws. Spouses should submit to their husband, he told you when the ship first departed from the dock of your hometown.

Though, you cannot remember your hometown. Or really anything before him.

All of your life (because you must have had one) before him is blank like empty waters. From the Memory Sea, you search desperately for something. No matter how many lines you cast out, all you pull up is stringy, golden brown kelp or thick, ebony black kombu. The fishing rod of your desperation cannot possibly successfully make a catch in empty waters. How foolish of you to even cast a line, Husband/Captain would tease.

You know him only as your husband. He never gave you his name. You heard the men under his command call him captain. He adopts two names on your tongue, Husband/Captain; though you hardly use either.

You hardly address him first. He addresses you.

“My dear (Name),” a finger oscillates gently on your cheekbone. “I do not think the moon is as lonely as I am without you in bed. I miss you.” When you move your head to the side in shame, the finger guides you firmly to look at him – or at least his shoes.

“Speak.”

Lips feeling looser, you weigh your next words carefully. What can you possibly say this time around? Is there anything left to say? Fitful in your resolve, your eyes travel to take in the pulsing glow of your lantern and how it illuminates different colors. The image paints itself in your memory: the empty lantern that is devoid of anything but a pile of ash, the chest in the corner which you are not allowed to open, the bed with its silky sheets that inundate you with dreams of drowning.

You dream of drowning every time you sleep. When your head hits the pillow, it is like falling into a bottomless puddle that goes much deeper than anticipated. Idiosyncrasy to yourself, you are only one of this swaying ship that fears the reality of drowning.

Below your feet, almost breathing, the ship rocks back and forth. It feels like you imagine how it feels to be rocked gently by a mother. Maternally, even the ship wishes for you to sleep. The captain and his vessel conspiring against you together.

But – you cannot – so you must bargain some way to stay awake until the vessel docks. “I was … I was growing a bit uneasy over the storm. And I could not –.”

Husband/Captain hums and you know to immediately fall silent.

The pattern of the lantern handles indents in your hand. Digging steel hurts like a bad punishment. What a silly excuse. For two months all you have known is encroaching storms, why would you suddenly develop an anxiety over them now? You look out upon the ebony, mature cumulonimbus clouds.

“Isn’t there an old saying: out of sight, out of mind. I’m positive that watching it does little to quell this uneasiness,” he says.

If anything a rainstorm would be a blessing, diverting his attention from you.

“If I’m aware of it, it helps dispel that anxiety. If I’m away from it, not watching it, I feel quite worried about what could happen.”

“I share that sentiment. I’m quite anxious with you out of my sight.”

So it seems, you think, so it really seems. Your husband has pulled you away from the ship’s railings on multiple occasions, hand a shackle on your wrist, reeling you back onboard. Staying within his sight is an unspoken wedding vow.

You tense prematurely, already knowing his next words. You have lost for the night. Oh, how you have lost deeply. “I don’t want to sleep tonight … please … –” in all my dreams, I drown. But you cannot talk anymore because –

“Now hush, love,” Husband/Captain coos.

“Here’s your gown.”

What he holds out to you is rivulets of soft cotton. A sleeveless gown with fragile, ornamented straps which will hang gently on your shoulders. The pattern is a delicate stitch like doyle napkins and a little bow rests on the chest’s center. Ending at the shin, white lace replicates the look of distance waves, twisting up and down.

You take it within your scarred arms. Diagonal slashes racing down and then another group of diagonal scars racing up coat your forearms. Memory Sea has yet to unveil how you got these scars.

“Please,” you plead. It takes so much bravery to say that one word that you feel winded after.

Your head is patted in fruitless consolation.

The captain is not happy about today’s catch. Not happy is really too subtle of a way to put it. He boils with a rage known of a tyrant’s disposition, body exploding into a mess of volcano-esque fire. It is a strange sight to the men. What they pulled up from their nets would feed the crew without the need of rationing. Their catch was bountiful; what is there to be possibly upset about?

It is because all they caught is codfish. Codfish pyramiding upon codfish. A family reunion of hundreds of generational codfish. Oh, and one common ling. Which he took from the nets, it serpentine amber and white body oscillating in hand, as he howls at his crew, “A fucking ling! A ling!”

Eyes down, you had a perfect view of the ling being dropped to the floorboards and the captain raising his boot to mallet it down upon the fish’s head. Red and white puss splattered in a gory firework, piscine epidermis popping loudly.

Then, the captain stomped off, leaving a one-footed trail of red behind him.

Antipaction and questions lingered in the eyes of the crew. The crew looked upon you with high expectations. Well, aren’t you going to follow the yellow-brick road, the red footprint trail? Weren’t you going to head into the captain’s cabin and help your husband – lie on the bed, stomach down, as he punched fireworks into you, until he worked out his anger? This ship’s crew really has no delicate manner of speaking with their eyes.

Averting your eyes, sheepish, you shake your head. You are not inclined to want pain. Fleeing, you took to entering the kitchen to cook, growing ill at the sight of nets.

Nets. Just the cross-hatching pattern could make you feel consumptive. Like your stomach is empty or your stomach is bloated, it makes you so incredibly sickly to watch the crew pull up their meshwork that cradles school upon school of fishes.

Upon your forearms are scars, scars of an identical pattern.

When the men take to dumping their catch into a circular, steel tank that is about the size of a Queen bed, you thank them in a whisper. Looking into their eyes is like falling off a cliff, missing the water, and landing upon a bed of jagged stones. Eyes like stone, not resentful but still dangerous. You work to keep your head down until they all leave.

With the captain so vexed, you delegate yourself to preparing his meal first. The rest of the crew can wait until mid-afternoon. So, you prepare a dredging station with quick work. Find a shallow bowl, cut the lemon, mix together a double serving of spices with the flour. Your husband is fond of sharp herbs mixed in with fish.

You have learned to cook with his guidance. He likes to say, “A country’s cuisine reflects their culture and history. It’s a fascinating field of study.” Then, fingers guide you with firm resolve to work upon dicing, cutting, and slicing.

Now, you are almost a veteran at preparing fish. Mostly codfish, though you would have longed to experiment with a ling – you remember the pomace of oozing brains and otoliths, multiple streaks of red like lightning on the floor.

But you suppose you are not allowed to. It is probably for the best. Staying with your routine.

Seasonings scenting the air, you hear your stomach growl. Ah. Perhaps just a bite won’t hurt.

Triple-checking, you make certain that none of the crew lingers by the kitchen. No curious eyes are peeking through the window. When you are assured in your resolve, down to the bone and up to the skin, you crouch down by the bucket. Into the pool of threshing codfish, your hand swims.

The one you take out is a medium-sized portion. Green and yellow skin a similar hue of summer moss. As it squirms wildly, you turn it belly-side up. It takes a great deal of effort with such dull teeth. Yet, after a bit gnawing, the piscine epidermis finally breaks with a loud pop in your omnivorous mouth.

Rotating it around like corn-on-the-cob, you munch down upon the live and raw codfish with ravenous hunger.

A fortnight after, you wake up gasping for breath. Saliva is like a second tongue in your mouth, overcrowding. Unhesitant, you turn over the edge of the bed and wait for a soup of briny seaweed, torrential waves, and a codfish to splatter upon the captain’s bedroom floor. A single jellyfish tail of bubbly saliva is all that hits the ground.

Lungs so incredibly strained cannot comprehend where all the water went.

Coughing, you cringe against the sensation of water in your mouth. The natural lubricant of saliva is suffocating, pressing hard on the walls of your buccal cavity.

And though your lungs kick painfully, there is nothing more to spit out the tiny dime of water already spat out. Coughs come and go until they ebb to you panting softly in bed. Fatigued breaths eventually wither, to you just breathing steadily and staring off to the only light source.

Pointed spirals of light move in a kaleidoscope pattern. Leather red brightens to a bloody crimson. Rich blue wood absorbs the glow. You are a bit unsure what is really rocking back and forth, swaying with such somnolence: the boat itself or the chest where a star is locked inside.

The chest you are not allowed to open.

In your ears, you hear the ocean gnash and moan.

Blech and blarghhh. Blech and blarghhh, you go.

Over the bow of the ship, you puke.

Bile falls heavy into the awaiting waves below. One teary, squinting eye watches the pallid greenish-yellow sludge sink. Your nose is sour by the scent of imaginary citrus oranges; your head is a spinning dreidel. On the night of your three month anniversary on the ship, you woke up from another drowning dream with a secondary heart heavy in your throat. Prisoned, it banged and banged for release. So, you rushed up to the bow and granted its plea for freedom.

To the sea, let me go to the sea, your bile begged. And you listened.

A powerful blech and blarghhh has you stumbling feverishly. Your feet skid on wood like a lynched cowboy’s who kicks fruitlessly to feel solid ground. Stomach and railing biting each other, you lean far with the force of your next hurl. Far enough where you too could fall into the awaiting waves below.

Your heart spikes because you realize, puke only halfway out and face winking in agony, that you are falling in. You have gone far enough. Cerulean waters seem to reach out in an awaiting embrace.

Just as your feet start to lift from the ground, the saltine noose around your neck pulling, a hand wraps gently yet firm against your waist. You gasp wetly, bile lipstick thick, as you find yourself back on solid ground.

“Easy there. Easy. I got you,” Husband/Captain murmurs. He presses a kiss to your neck but does not hold your hair back when you gurgle again. Throat fluctuating with heaving breaths, he lies his nose on that weeping patch of skin. Salt is thick on you. “Sudden sea-sickness will pass. Happens even to the veteran sailors.”

Not this extreme, you want to argue. You are too cowardly to object. And besides … Vomit acts as a reliable tape over your hatred. You wish his hand would stop rubbing a thumb on your stomach and instead gather up tendril-esque hair.

“Though I would have never expected you to succumb to such an illness,” he says, awestruck as if you are breaking some bodily law. The thumb on your stomach becomes more pressing. “Perhaps … perhaps it is not the matter of the seas that turns your stomach so.”

You realize with a cold sweat what he is referencing. “It is not that.” A helpful hand (your own) rises up to start wiping off the pallid greenish-yellow cosmetic. Fingers fling and flick the remains of your regurgitating stomach into the waves.

“I would be able to tell.”

“Is that possible,” his voice doubts. “How could you?”

“Of course I could. It’s my body.”

Husband/Captain chuckles like you have told a funny joke. Now it is not his sole thumb that oscillates back and forth on the skin of your nightgown, he opens up his hand like a flower. He takes to rubbing your stomach until his hand goes down to cradle the spot between your legs.

You wish the ocean would take you.

The night sky is full of stars. Stars are a rarity. You never get to see them often because of how normal it is for your husband’s ship to be caught in a storm. Tonight, all is tranquil. Tonight, you are in the embodiment-al heart of the calm before the storm. And, lastly, tonight, you will try something new and exciting. You will use those pinpricks of light to paint pictures; you doubt anyone has ever thought of such a fabulous game before.

It takes a while for you to get into the groove of it. When there is this strange, thrusting force behind you, bile pops out your lips like blood. Stars align to make a teddy bear, fashioned with a little bow. When your tears fall into the awaiting waves, they catch them with so much tender sorrow.

There is a melody in the air. A little different from blech and blarghhh. Far different from the harsh hit of his hips. It howls below you. Water licking on the side of the ship seems to say: dont worry dont worry i will save you.

When you strike the match, it hisses and balloons with a fierce flame before shrinking down to something petite, something weaker. With great care, you press the match through the open lantern panel. It transforms with a fiery jump.

You stick the match between your lips once you wave it in the air harshly, killing it. Lantern panels now all closed, you hold it up to illuminate the revolutionary sight before you. It has been a day and three months … you have to know what’s in there. The rich blue box sits in your path with all the magnetism of precise metals. You crouch before it, nun-like.

The top of the wooden chest is an arch, so you rest your lantern to the side. Out of your sock, you pull two fishbones – ones you had cleaned down with your tongue and whittled down to points with a kitchen knife.

You cannot remember anything of your life before this boat. Against his wishes, you have been trying to remember what could have been of you before this boat. The storybook must have more pages, a prologue of sorts left unsaid. This boat … nothing but him lives your memory. Hand outstretched like thorns, sand, snakes, poison, fire, and nightmares. A hand that puts a glittering circlet on your ring finger. Your first memory is being wed.

Into the mouth of the lock, you slowly slide in the first fishbone. Behind you, the sound of a blanket hitting the floor thumps. Thin and fragile, the fishbone snaps halfway in the lock as you rise to your feet – and you rush, hand just managing to grab the lantern, as a raging storm at your back runs at you.

“YOU UNFAITHFUL FUCK!”

You run up the stairs three at a time, heart jackrabbiting with fear.

Tears are already in your eyes before you comprehend them. Your hand depresses on the door. Wood clatters and shakes with tremendous rage below you, growing closer. Run away, you scream at yourself, just as you realize there's nowhere to run to. When the door opens, water pelts your face in a thousand exploding fists.

This is the closest the storm has ever been. But it was clear yesterday ? – calm before a –?

A scream tears from you as a reaching hand misses your arm, his dirty nails almost tickling the goosebumps coating your skin. With reckless abandon, you jump down the flight of seven stairs just outside of the cabin. The deck catches you with all the care wooden arms have – which is very little. Wide yet still finite, the deck faces off with you in the fierce, piercing rain. Where to escape to, it asks, as violent waves rock below.

Left knee bleeding and a section of your nightgown ripped, you sprint towards the bow. And from the south, a savage, ravening storm follows. Dark clouds pile over. Icy blue lunges. Maybe it would not be so bad to fall off the edge. Is that what all those ceaseless dreams of drowning meant — you have to drown to finally be at peace?

An ethery scent explodes in the rain. The marriage of the sounds of breaking glass and petrified screaming kisses in the gusty air. In the blimp of chaos, both of you hit the floor, right next to where fire from a broken lantern starts to eat up the wood.

“No … No, please,” you cry. “Please no!”

By his hateful hands, you are turned on your side. Before you can make eye contact, he punches you across the face with an intensity reserved for crewmen in brawls. The wind howls mournfully in your ringing ears. Blood pops out of your mouth in tiny lightning bolts.

As ringing and blustery winds ebb in sound, you catch the last of your husband’s words, “...I know what is best for you.”

“Scold or hit me! I cannot go back to sleep! Please!”

He grabs your head in a vitriol grip. Acid burns pierce where his fingers dig in. Husband/Captain lifts you by his hold on your head, like a lion might do with a cub by the scruff of its neck. Eyes stomp shut in fear. You fear the intensity of his face will overwhelm and drown you.

“Help me! Someone! Please, help me!”

“Now hush, love.”

“SOMEONE! ANYBODY PLEASE –!”

“Here’s your gown.” Then, he slams your body on the ground. Your head cracks with the fragility of an egg. Molten dreams with rainbowing incandescence slip out from the lightning-shaped fractures, spilling all over deck.

The moon is full tonight.

You feel in your bones that you have not seen a full moon in a very long time. Despite it being a monthly occurrence, storm clouds shield it away; even when unveiled, the nude moon is caught waning or waxing. This phase of the lunar sun kisses uncloudy skies with a powerful completeness. How you missed it with a whirlpool fervor. You feel so at peace.

A silver eye not missing any weight or heft. Hanging on a vertex, it hums with the sprinkling song of moondust and moonlight. With that melody, it shaves the weight of weakness that has shackled you. Avoirdupois lightens; the full moon brightens.

I have not seen a full moon this serene since I was a little boy/girl, you remember that much. It is such a wondrous sight that you do not notice the water rising up by your ankles.

No – not water, bedsheets. Bedsheets that snake serpentine like individual rivers connecting together. With a fluidity unique to water, white linen slithers across the curve of your calf and climbs up in gusts of silk to the tendons in your hamstrings. Moisture still clings to you; dry sheets juxtaposingly soaking you.

I am going to drown again. You frown delicately at the sentiment. Yet, despite the acknowledgement that watery suffocation is going to repeat itself, you think this time it will be a metamorphosis. Something different from previous dreams.

You only think this because moondust and moonlight hug your slowly submerging body and tell it to you. Reassures you of it, to wade off fear of drowning.

Sheets climb up to your sternum. With rocking motions, they purl and lick at your shoulders. Ribbons weaving in and out of each other, pulsing up in gigantic breaths to climb upon you. Cloth falls over your mouth and silences you. Tendrils of linen rush into your nostrils. You keep your breath for as long as you can. As the bedsheets engulf you, you keep your eyes trained upon the full moon.

A silver eye not missing any weight or heft. Complete. I want to be complete again.

Once fully submerged, you open your eyes. There is a tentacle in front of your face.

There is a tentacle in front of your face. It lies on its side. Facing you like how two lovers might turn to pillow-talk at one another. About as thick as an elephant leg, it stretches fully across the deck, dipping down into unseen depths over each side of the ship.

Suckers squirm like a breathing wall before you. Voluminous in numbers. Almost replicating plasma barnacles of the underside of aquatic vessels. Individual suckers purl and roll with fake breaths. Fluctuating up and down in uneven patterns, unorganized hive mind motions. Most of them were a vibrant lavender yet – like moles on a wrinkled face – cheetah spots of violet-whitish squirms in slower beats. Moving like bubbling lava, lavender stirs and beckons.

You cannot resist. Pushing your hand upon the breathing wall, you breathe in the scent of salt.

There is an ocean beneath the surface. Blood and plasma swims warmly underneath the skin. Despite the cold and salty water that falls like tears over shells of suckers, there is a warmth. An alive warmth.

It cannot wrap itself around you; this particular tentacle is wrapped from one edge of the boat to the other like a behemoth bow strangling a Christmas present. However, touch is reciprocated in other methods. Like an expanding stomach, lavender pushes into your starfish spread out fingers. Suckers harmonize in a circle around the area where you put pressure.

Hypnotic, eldritch beauty finds primitive comfort in you. Even though the side of your head is still sticky with clotting blood, you think you feel comfort too. It is only ripped from you when a crewman shouts, “God, help us all! A Kraken! By God, a Kraken!”

Beyond the goliath, shielding tentacle, the ship and its crew are in discord. And once it reaches your ears, awareness of it crawls into all your other senses. Drawing away from the tentacle, you realize while standing up that the scent of ether in your nose is overwhelming. Half of the deck is engulfed in flames. Warmth from fire blankets you in heavy sheets. And –

“Someone! Anybody please –!!” And men are being dragged off the boat and killed by twisting, gnashing tentacles.

The boat tilts. Stumbling feet are magnetized backwards; you trip over the tentacle you were just touching. A shriek that pains the wound on the side of your head erupts from you as you are rolled across the deck like a dice across a game-board.

Your tentacle (the one you caressed) does not reach to steady or save you. Instead, it squeezes tentatively on the vessel ensnared in its grip. Splintering wood spreads up like a field of pointy grass. Then, after a moment, it slithers back into the ocean just as your spine hits the railing of the tilting ship.

Over your shoulder, you see a raging sea. Waves curve into each other, resounding claps of exploding water striking your ears. Above, bullets of water clip fast upon the awaiting ocean. That familiar saltine noose reemerges around your neck, as your feet lift with gravity. Everything happens in a millisecond and in an eternity, dream-esque.

Your knees hit the deck when a hand pushes you away from the edge. You suck in deep breaths in a panic, prematurely housing oxygen away before you were doomed to fall in. But you had not fallen in … because … because there was a hand. Sprawled on the wet and burning deck, both elbows down on the ground, you turn over your shoulder one final time.

His hair is the color of the sea. You never expected to see hair a different shade than black, brown, or blonde, perhaps a rare red, but his is breathtakingly blue. Coping, your mind fixates on it because you cannot comprehend the three-points of fins growing where his ears should be. There must be a mystified expression on your face regardless. The man smiles at you with covetous patience.

“Hello, (Name). I wanted to be first to say on behalf of us, we are terribly sorry for our delay.”

Delay? “I don’t understand.”

“Do not stress. A great deal will soon resolve itself. Are you hungry? Can I do anything for you?”

Kindness is far more alien to you than the sight of piscine traits that your mouth falls open in a tiny circle. Words fail to form. Just as your bottom lip starts to quiver, the man amends, “Is there perhaps something you don’t want me to do?”

Meekly: “Do – Don’t go.” Apologetically (and quickly too): “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

Desperately, you wish you had something to hide in but all that you wear is a slim cotton gown. It is innate to leech onto goodwill after such a drought of it. An amused warmth settles of his features, then it softly falls into a deep sadness. Once more, you fumble for words, upset that you have upset him … “I’m sorry – I –!”

A loud noise breaks the moment. There is a pyramid of hundred or so noises caterwauling in this storm, mixing together like how a tornado tears up earth and neighborhoods to mix a smoothie of different items. Something salient breaks through all that cacophony – Husband/Captain shouting, “Give that back, you beast!” And then three consecutive popping sounds as he fires his gun.

You watch the figure of your husband, his spine facing you, wrestle with a tentacle. Like an obsidian tongue, the tentacle emerges from the door to the captain’s cabin and sways back and forth, trying to tug something from your husband. It is a tug-of-war with a predictable winner.

Strength evolves into desperation. A shout undulates into the rainstorm as Husband/Captain is thrown up. His body somersaults in the air. The tongue churns back into the mouth of your bedroom like a retreating snake. Clutched in a protective grip is the blue chest. Defeated, Husband/Captain pushes himself up on his elbows, nose broken.

Through sheets of rain, you two make eye contact for the first time in ninety-two days.

People say he is the fairest of them all. Women and men in the town swoon over him. And with a husband/wife to match, those jealous men and women think when their eyes land upon your awe-striking beauty. Yet, when you look upon him now, all you see is a hideous man. Like a swan (yourself) marrying a condor (him) – he is ugly beyond putridness.

His bloody mouth moves. His shaking hand moves. You do not move.

You cannot tell if the next sound you hear is the ring of a gunshot or the bang of a lightning bolt.

It is like when I bite into the codfish, you think deliriously, watching red soak your nightgown. Hah. What a strange color. You think the man with the blue hair is trying to get your attention but the crimson color has you in a trance. Like mold, it grows slowly on the wrinkled creases of your nightgown, a little bit below your ribcage. So much – so much red.

Yellow interrupts your mesmerization. Cheeks squished together, you look into a black pupil ringed by a honey wedding band then backdropped by a white planet. The triptych of color has you equally magnetized as the man takes his dominant hand and settles it under your rib.

“Breathe in.”

You do obediently.

“Breathe out.”

Once more, you follow instructions. With your exhale, the wound in your abdomen closes up like a sleepy eye. He cards his non-dominant hand through your hair with excellent care. “There, there, are you feeling better?” When you nod, he whispers lovingly, “I’m so glad to hear that, my dearest.”

He smiles and reveals a collection of cutting instrumental teeth, shark teeth.

The man looks like he is about to inquire more yet a voice interrupts in a lazy drawl, “Caaan I kill him now?”

You turn to see your husband covered in red, down to a level where it almost looks like a second skin or a set of clothes upon him. His body is bent over the railing and a man with almost identical features holds him by the top of his torso, a piscine hand tight around his throat. “Kinda gettin’ of tired of his squirmin’ – he’s all sticky.”

Jade knows that is not a truthful admission. Floyd likes when they squirm. Jade wants that vile man dead too with as much intensity as his brother does but – “Come now, we are not barbarians. We have rules for our way of life.”

“Don’t care. He made Sealy cry. I’mma tear off his penis.”

“Please, refrain from such violence for a moment longer. Sir – well, that is too polite for you. Hm, Captain. Captain, we have customs where we challenge the owner of a particular vessel to a certain game. Will you play along?” The only response is an opaque red-white trail of slime dropping from his trembling lips. “Good. I will say the first two lines of a poem. You must complete them.

“Floyd, if you would, please.” The squeezing hand releases and your husband gasps for breath as if he has just escaped drowning on dry land. Shadow and light from the flickering flames shudder across his choking lips. “O my Luve’s like a red, red rose / That’s newly sprung in June.”

“Get off my fucking boat!”

“Hm, another verse then. As fair as thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in luve am I.”

“I’ll roast you alive, you overgrown fish! (Name), get away –”At the mere utterance of your name, the man returns to strangling your husband with an explosive vitriol that it almost seems his gold and olive-brown eyes will bulge from his face in anger.

“Shut the fuck up.” He seethes with rage.

The other man responds to your husband. “Sorry but the responding lines are: And I will luve thee still, my Dear, / Till a’ the seas gang dry. Go ahead, Floyd.”

Red. So much red. It sprays out when Floyd rips off the skin enveloping around your husband’s throat. Glittering seafoam rivulets that arch beautifully. Leaping and pirouetting through the air. Thicker rivers start to follow after the initial misting, jetting shower. Some of the spume lands upon your temple. Already sticky with salt and blood, you do not flinch at the sensation.

Then, the man, the man named Floyd, falls spine first into the thrashing sea, taking your husband with him. It takes a few moments before you realize the other man is gone too.

You are not sure how long you stay sitting on the deck, letting rain drench you. It could be three or thirteen minutes of absent minded staring at the skies. Cords of white lightning are thrown across the canvas like spools of yarn, wavy and disorganized. Water pelts your face angrily; the weight of it hurts. Below you, the watery depths wail with ghastly noises.

The noise does not lessen or quiet to announce his presence. He simply emerges. One tentacle pushing up from the railing is followed by a hand which is followed by another hand. Then, hovering about three feet in the air above you, the Kraken analyzes you.

Wind picks up, howling. If you were standing, it would be a very real threat to push you off the ship. Tangible winds pick up tendrils of your soaked hair and cheerfully play with, whipping it back and forth in painful, fast-paced oscillation. Entranced, you watch the Kraken’s very dry hair flow in the air with gentle grace.

“Hello.”

You almost faint. His voice is each raindrop, sleeping in each ebon cloud, racing through each electrical bolt that shatters in loud cracks. Blue eyes with a horizontal, pill-shaped pupil squint in worry at the shiver you give at his voice.

“Are you cold, angelfish? Ah, here,” only two behemoth tentacles have to umbrella over your form to completely stop the downpour. You lose sight of the man due to the massive, lilac parasol of muscle that covers you. He enters your sight again when his upper body slithers forward under his tentacles. “Is this better?”

He is so inhumanly gorgeous that he leaves you spellbound. Around you, his numerous tentacles wrap across the deck and into holes he has made into the ship’s helm like hungry snakes in a garden of mice. Prism-like, Stygian black glitters with each rain freckle that races down the arches of muscular tissue. Light shimmers evangelical on each part anatomical droplet.

Yet, his real eldritch splendor is in his human-mimcing top half which leans towards you amorously.

Silver hair, like the color palette of a full moon has dropped into it, sweeps across his face gracefully. The skin of his neck and collarbone pulse with each measured breath. A blue much mellower than the typical rough ocean hue shines in his eyes. His lips move and your eyes dilate just a smidgen.

He whispers to you in your little pocket universe. It feels you two are floating on a planet designed only for the two of you, heave ho-ing back and forth on waves made of stardust. He speaks so softly.

“I’m,” his voice breaks slightly like a chipped mug, “I’m terribly sorry for being so delayed. We tore down countless ships before we arrived upon this one … That is no excuse though. I should’ve been stronger and taken all of them down in a week.”

You do not really get what he is talking about but you still ask, “How many did you take down?”

“A hundred and thirty seven. Each one just another bleak joke. My angelfish, I’m so sorry.”

“That’s quite a number.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose. We would have done a thousand more. Floyd, Jade, and I –”

“Who’s Jade?” Then, as an afterthought. “Can I please know your name as well?”

He blinks at you in confusion. After a heavy, contemplating moment, he states resolutely, “Let’s get you out of this wrong skin and into something proper.”

“Proper?” You blink in replicating confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Hush now, hush love,” Azul says, more tender than – than someone that has drowned in Memory Sea, never to be remembered again. Honestly, you do not recall there being any reasons for apologizing.

The parasol of tentacles peels apart and, hand in hand, Azul guides you towards the railing. You take care not to slip.

“Here’s ya gown.” The man who had ripped out your husband’s throat – you do know his name is Floyd – holds something out to you, leaning over the railing.

What he holds in his hand is unlike soft cotton. It is wetly sleek, patterned with black and white which diffuse into each other with freckling gray. There are no straps for your arms to slip and where the train of a dress should end is hind flippers. A dog-esque face with long whiskers stares at you with hollow eyes, awaiting for you to slip it on. It is a seal pelt.

Boldly, you look into his eyes. Gold and olive-brown, warm eyes. They are so earnest that you have no inclination not to believe him. That is your possession in his webbed hands, and he is returning it to you.

In the span of three months and one day, you have had seventy-three dreams where you drown in them. In the span of three months and two days, you rejoin the ocean where you were always supposed to be, sunrise and clear skies on your tail.

#twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #if you notice the obvious azul favoritism hush i miss writing for him in 2022

264 notes · View notes

lolottes · 1 year ago

Text

Bruce Wayne is the reincarnation of Jack Fenton2

The Justice League had gathered to prevent a new invocation. This cult had already invoked some powerful although eccentric spirit, such as the self-proclaimed Ghost Box or a hypnotist singer that they could not prevent. Although miraculously none of them had done anything that resulted in the death of any civilian. Little mercy

But once again he was unable to prevent the triggering of the circle which this time released an icy breath in the room and the ice crystals regrouped to take on a lazarus green hue… but strangely… he was not afraid, there was a feeling of familiarity as the ice took on black and white hues, becoming a humanoid silhouette

Green eyes opened

Danny: DAD?!????

Cultist and member of the justice league in: ??? Dad ???

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp crossover #danny phantom #batman #réincarnation #jack fenton #justice league #summoning #my #my prompts #prompts

422 notes · View notes

isuggestforcefem · 1 month ago

Note

Hey what's ⦾⦻ mean

It’s the callsign of a secret circle of hypnotists that spans the entire world!

#⦾⦻#I’m being silly #Tho this ain’t necessarily untrue

68 notes · View notes

swifty-fox · 12 days ago

Note

❊ "Come on, let's get you to bed" "Mmh...?" "Come on honey"

Uhhh kitchen sink au anyone??

from this prompt list

now on ao3

cut for nsfw: gags, sub/dom dynamics, subspace, aftercare

John feels another line of drool overwhelm and pool off his tongue, slipping out from the corner of his mouth and down the plane of his cheek to soak tacky and wet into the fabric beneath him. Blinking behind his blindfold, slowly, dumbly, he tries to swallow away the wet. Slick clicking of his throat, a faint whistle of breath, John shudders.

It's as futile as every other attempt to stem the flow of his saliva, mouth wrenched and held open by a gag that left the entire fleshy cavern of him vulnerable. Flopping his tongue uselessly, it only serves to push another rivulet of drool out over the edge of his lips, over the hard metal warmed by his body heat. He's hardly aroused now, stiff between his legs but more so he's dumb. Loose and floating and full of soft cotton. Fingers comb through his curls, lifting them carefully from the trap of his ears and smoothing them off his forehead with dry-skinned tenderness.

John lets his eyes slide shut again.

Lets those fingers crawl their away across the planes of his face like there's anything left to find. Tracing gentle and manicured over the closed sensitive lids, down the bridge of his nose, straight and strong save for the faint bump where soft blindfold fabric became living breathing skin. Around the faintly aching seam of his lips to the unforgiving metal. Into the open maw of him, a firm thumb circling over the pad of his tongue in a familiar caress. He hardly has the energy to react to the ministrations. Gale hums softly, turning another page in his book with a whisper rasp of paper. It was a book on astrophysics, as dry as they came, but Gale liked that sort of thing. He'd even read a bit of it aloud to John, back when he'd still been present enough to listen, Gale's rasping timber as soothing as a massage. Quiet and low and slow, like a hypnotist for its cadence. The occasional pause, a thumb vanishing between soft lips to wet the skin for the turning of a page.

John didn't have to see it to know.

Fingers drag through his curls again, circling slow and coaxing, asking John to return to the ground from where he flew up high.

He resists, focusing on the steady beat of his heart and the expansion of his ribs as he breathed and the slow slippery slide of drool across his cheek and down onto the dark fabric of Gale's slacks.

Gale's thigh had to be soaked now for how long John had been resting his head, obedient and then simply there.

"C'mon hon, gotta reel you in a bit. Give your jaw a break and some water in you."

He's much more interested in chasing the rabbit, feeling the way emptiness pulses through his head, a soothing pulse of blood rushing through his head. The grounding ache in his knees and the gentle pressure of the cloth cuffs around his wrists.

"John," Gale sighs, voice as tender and endeared as syrup, "Jesus."

A gentle hand cups under John's chin, lips his damp cheek from the suction of Gale's slacks, and is placed on soft, dry fabric. The loss of Gale is awful, but not enough to pull John down. He can still feel him nearby, and for all he'd slipped out from under John, his hands are right back on him. Tracing over the muscled curve of his shoulder, down the bumps of his spine, and carding possessively through the rough hair on the top of John's thigh.

He can hear faint, ragged breathing and slick rhythmic sounds. Gale's thumb slithers back into John's open mouth, pressing down on his tongue again and reveling in the pool he finds there. Spreads it around like a child fingerprinting as his breathing takes a more wild, rapid tone.

"Look at you," Gale says softly, voice as composed as his breathing was wrecked, "Look at you."

John makes a faint noise in the back of his throat, listening as Gale pulls himself off with quiet needing noises.

Relaxes right along with him when the movements cease, Gale's breathing halting for several long moments. Fingers curve through his hair again, coaxing him back down with gentle insistence. Keep the gentle stimulation until John is lifting his head slightly, pressing back into the affection because he's remembered he can. Dry lips press against his sweaty forehead, and the fabric cuffs are being pulled off, hands massaging his wrists assessingly and then the joint of each shoulder with meticulous attention. Then he's being pulled up onto the sofa, laid sideways with his head in Gale's lap, his nose brushing the still unevenly rising and falling plane of Gale's belly.

Straps loosen around his skull and John realizes belatedly Gale's unbuckled the gag, massaging John's jaw as he pulls it slowly from the clutch of John's lips. It takes a moment for John to register he can close his mouth now, working his jaw a few times and feeling the rusty protest of disused muscles.

"Okay?" Gale asks softly.

John manages a hum.

Another huffed laugh, a palm smoothing over John's cheekbone like a pat of a dog. He flinches when Gale goes for the blindfold next, pressing into Gale's stomach.

"Alright, we can leave that on for a bit."

His arms feel wooden, made of lead, a thousand pounds each, but John wraps them around Gale's trim waist, nuzzling into his stomach and inhaling the soft scent of his body wash and the musky smell of his recent orgasm. Lets Gale continue to coax him back with soft caresses and attention. The next time he reaches for the blindfold John lets him, blinking a few times and deciding eyes closed is the way to go anyway, settling back into his lover's body like a dead weight.

Gale starts reading again, balancing the book on John's shoulder. With his free hand, he continues to pet John's hair, stopping only to turn a page, glasses low on his face and brow furrowed as he takes in the words. There's a clock on the table, an old analog sort of thing, which a tick that was audible in the quiet of the room. John thinks its on purpose, another detail in the meticulous web Gale wove. Something unthreatening to keep John from floating away completely.

It's soothing, a steady pattern that matches John's heartbeat until he's drifting into something more like sleep than the blue skies above.

His eyes are just beginning to slip shut when Gale shifts beneath him again, pulling John into a sitting, and then standing position.

"Come on, let's get you to bed."

"Mmh?"

A hand on his jaw, tilting him up from his lazy, cuddling position against Gale's shoulder. Dry lips against his slick, probing and gentle, "Come on, hon'"

#swiftywrites #clegan #dom gale #kitchen sink au #mota

60 notes · View notes

llovelymoonn · 1 year ago

Text

favourite poems of august

marge piercy circles on the water: selected poems of marge piercy: "for the young who want to"

marilyn chin fruit études

lisa olstein radio crackling, radio gone: "the hypnotist's daughter"

elizabeth willis address: "the witch"

jana prikryl the after party: "to tell of bodies changed"

diane seuss backyard song

alison c. rollings original [sin]

gerard malanga cornelius...cornelius gurlitt

todd boss rocket

beyza ozer to summarise a galaxy

john foy night vision: "woods"

clodagh beresford dunne ford galaxy

dorianne laux smoke: "heart"

anthony madrid like a cloud above the ravine

pascale petit swamp deer

frank o'hara maurice ravel

adonis selected poems: "desert" (tr. khaled mattawa)

sonja johanson three deer in oquossoc

melissa stein terrible blooms: "lemon and cedar"

w. s. di piero having my cards read

thomas hoagland bible study

peter campion big avalanche ravine

alberto ríos the smallest muscle in the human body: "rabbits and fire"

lena khalaf tuffaha water & salt: "mountain, stone"

josephine miles desert

jeanne murray walker invocation to convince a baby already more than twelve days overdue to come out of the womb

andrew hudgins the imagined copperhead

robert carr stargazing while sedated

mary ruefle among the musk ox people: poems: "blood soup"

jack collom red car goes by: selected poems 1955-2000: "bald eagle count"

mahmoud darwish to a young poet (tr. fady joudah)

kofi

319 notes · View notes

kingconia · 1 year ago

Text

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR, CATER DIAMOND, ROOK HUNT AND SILVER WITH READER, WHO IS AN AMAZING HYPNOTIST

Leona Kingscholar. 💛

— I don't think he is a sceptical type, or that he doesn't believe in your abilities, but I do think that he is sure that he has a natural resistance towards all these things;

— Yet, you will need a plenty time to make him agree on trying it out together. Yes, he is sure that this bullshit doesn't work in him, yes, he is still paranoid a little;

— There is nothing he hates more than a possibility to be seen as weak, especially, if it you he talks about. But he can't really go against your wishes... He loves you too much.

•

”Well, well, Leona,” you murmur, gently stroking his smooth cheek. ”What a lovely sight.”

There is definitely something utterly special in a way Leona looks, when he is hypnotized. Unmoving, pupils wide open as he lazily blinks. Absolutely calm, too. A total cat.

”Say, Leona...”

You don't want to bother him too much, actually. Mostly because you agreed on being easy on him, but als due to trusting him enough. But there is still something that bothers you from time to time...

”Do I make you happy?”

The answer is immediate.

”I only need to become the king to be happy...” Your heart almost sinks down, when he continues: ”...Or so I used to think. Then, I met you. And I had never been happier."

His confession is too short, and his voice is very monotonous, almost lifeless. Yet, you smile as wide as you can, glancing at him warmly.

That is all you wanted to know.

Cater Diamond. ❤️

— Oh, Cater is your hyping man! Like, had you seen yourself? He is your biggest fan! And he likes watching you hypnotising other students—it is impressive. He brags about you all the time to others!

— ...But he stubbornly tries to refuse on becoming your client. And at first you didn't mind, but... This particular categorical answer of his is suspicious. So, you decide to push him a little more;

— In the end, Cater gives up. But he asks you not to film him or call anyone else. You wonder why he even thought you will.

•

”So, Cay-Cay,” you start, circling around Cater, hands on your hips, ”what is it that you afraid of telling me?”

You understand that it is not a fair thing to do. But Cater's attitude is, indeed, a strange one. You can't help but be slightly bothered by it.

”...I simply cannot live with understanding that you can realise what a messed up place my head is. I am pretending happy all the time, hoping that it will keep you with me, but it is so tiring. And it hurts sometimes.”

As realisation of his words slowly washes over you, you can't help but frown slightly.

Oh, Cater... Why would he do that?

”My dear,” you murmur, hugging him from the behind. ”I order you to forget everything that happened under hypnosis, when you wake up.”

You curse yourself for noticing earlier how desperately he needed some help, some support. But now, at least, you know what to do next.

Rook Hunt. 💜

— Oh, Rook is obsessing over your talent. ’Mon cher hypnotiseur, you are so amazing! It is magnificent!’ Rook is basically radiating with excitement when he sees you in the work process;

— And, of course, he asks to put him in hypnosis instantly. He is surprised, when you decline, saying that you are afraid to say something wrong to him, or to overstep your boundaries;

— He spends another week proving you that he needs to be put in hypnosis. Rook practically begs you for it. And you are too tired to disagree...

•

”Funny how it is the first time I see you so calm,” you huff, gently smoothing his hair down. ”Very well, Rook...”

Truth to be told, despite his a certain secrets Rook hols, he is very genuine with people and his intentions towards them. So, you don't see a need to ask if he really meant what he said to. Instead, you decide to go with question about something from his past...

”I saw your photos from the first year. When you were at Savanaclaw, you know? And you had this amazing long hair... So, I wonder, what happened to them? Why did you change your hairstyle? And what made you choose this one?”

”My hairstyle was changed by the will of Vil, of course,” you almost flinch from how unusual it is; to her Rook speaking so voidly. ”As I became the Pomefiore student, he insisted on making my hair. He assured me that he had an experience—and, of course, I trusted him. Yet, the original idea of the hair he kept in mind for me, had nothing to do with this hairstyle. Vil admitted that he was lying. It was his first time cutting someone's hair. He was very embarrassed, but I accepted his gift avec plaisir.”

As he finishes, your laughter fills the room. Oh, now you are doing to annoy Vil by mentioning this story so much.

Silver Vanrouge. 💚

— This boy had seen too much things in the Valley of Thorns to be surprised by your talent, but, he still thinks it is impressive that you can do things like that;

— Easily agrees on your propose to put him in hypnosis as well. He is quite chill about it, and even mentions that you has his permission on everything;

— But you still take additional permission from Lilia to do that...

•

”Damn, you are so cute,” you pinch his cheeks affectionately, smooching him on the forehead. Not like you can't do it, when he is in normal state, but... ”Hm... How you started calling Lilia ’father’?

Silver looks so drowsy, even while being hypnotized, that you can't help but hug him, allowing to rest against you peacefully.

”I don't have memories of that exact moment. I was a child. But according to father and Malleus, my first word was ”father”. As I said that, I was tugging Lilia's ponytail. Malleus says father bursted in tears, when he heard me calling him like that for the first time, but father doesn't comment it.”

Oh.

Your lips curl in a gentle smile. How charming.

”That's so sweet...” You ponder a little, before ordering him something else. ”Kiss me on the cheek. And after that, you will wake up.”

As you feel his lips softly touching your skin, you hum approvingly.

What a wonderful idea of the date...

#twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #cater diamond #cater diamond x reader #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt #silver twisted wonderland #silver x reader

330 notes · View notes

siremasterlawrence · 6 months ago

Text

The Hypnotic Circle 4 - Alan’s Allergic Reaction

“Hey bud! Thanks for coming”

“You said you could help me”

“Sure! Why not?”

“Here! Use this”

“What’s this ?”

“Inhale this shit”

“That smell like rotting apples “

“SMELL IT “

“Okay okay! Sheesh”

“Woah! Dizzy spell”

“Body shaking “

“Am I having a reaction”

“I am hot”

“Fucking sweaty “

“Breaking out “

“Oh my god”

“Bbaassttaarrddd”

“He shuts up finally! Geez!”

This tall muscular tank of hotness is falling in the apartment floor leaving me enough time to race to close the window and the window blinds.

I lock all of the doors flipping the lights on to high blast for me to see all of it in his glory of a body because I will have this arrogant talkative asshole.

Stomping my feet he jolts up from his deep coma like slumber with his eyes staring up at the wall like a puppet flaying side by side on the floor.

I crack up making my way going to his side as he turns to me with excitement he takes my hand in his and I help him up to full on height.

“Dude! What’s up?”

“Oh! Your up?”

“Yeah bro!”

“Great!”

“You think so”

“Well you are…”

“HOT!”

“I know I am”

“Ugh! Still so conceited “

“Brah! Get over hear”

“Bear hug”

“I rather not”

“Stop it”

“Excuse me!”

“Come on”

“Drop to your knees”

“Unload my pants “

“Suck me off”

“Let’s play pool”

“Finish the job”

“You have a hold on me”

“Stop quoting songs”

“No lyrical content”

“I am dumb”

“So say stupid shit the “

“What?”

“You heard me”

“Actually strip”

“Get naked “

“On the bed”

“Spread your legs “

“I am about to fuck you “

“Nice and raw “

“Hell yeah!”

“Oh god! You are deep”

“I am so tight”

“You are driving me crazy”

“I am wild”

“So hard”

“Zip it”

“You are stupid”

“Yes sir “

“Turn around”

“Bareback”

“Fuck off”

“Uuugggghhhh”

“Nnnnnhhhhffffff”

“If you won’t shut up”

“Sorry sir”

“That’s it now you have a gag”

“Mmmppppffffff”

“Mwahahahahaha “

“More like it”

“Focus super pussy”

He riles up to command as he explodes cum all over himself, I climb off losing my self to my own thoughts.

“I am blank”

“Process alter personality “

“Slave number three and I am just starting to have my fun.”

The end

#alan ritchson #allergic reaction #reprogramming #hypnosis #hypno slave #mind control #hypno submission #mind control slaves #The Hypnotist Circle

38 notes · View notes

takingback-thepenguin · 1 year ago

Text

This isn’t exactly an NPMD AU per se, but it is a concept. I hope you guys like it!

So here, have some thoughts on the NP characters + hypnosis. This idea totally didn’t come from the line in Dirty Girl when Max says “I swear you’ve got me hypnotized” and moves his finger in a circle while Grace follows.

This concept would likely take place in a timeline where Max either chooses not to be a bully or chooses to become a better person post Waylon Place, and as a result, is a bit nicer, but still has that quarterback/leader of the pack mentality. Additionally, I think the characters would be out of high school and in college.

So, starting with Max…if Max was going to be the hypnotist, here’s how I think it’d go.

He’d be firm but he’s sort of gentle. His voice has power to it. There’s a bit of an assertion of a kinda “focus on me” but it’s not loud. He makes people want to focus. He charms and captivates.

He doesn’t use pocketwatches or pendulums or spirals. Because while yeah, they work, he feels it’s easier for people to focus if it’s all coming from one spot (plus…he likes the focus all on him). Because of that he’ll use solely his voice or he’ll use his hand or his eyes as a focal point. If someone wants like a pendulum or spiral kind of induction he’ll try to replicate it with his finger.

There are points where when he’s guiding his subject, he’ll tell them to repeat him.

A lot of the people he encounters are because they’re stressed and want to turn the thoughts down a bit. They need a bit of order and instruction for a little while, and he’s happy to provide that.

A friend of mine also came up with a thought about Max that I agree with: even if he’s not a bully, he still does have that leader/top of the social hierarchy energy about him, and they thought a good way to keep that characterization is that he can get a little…for a lack of a better word…commanding, making induction loops and bringing people up, only to drop them down. To add on to that, induction wise I bet he makes his subject keep their eyes open/keeps them from dropping until he says so. He keeps the induction going for a while, maybe he even makes them count themself down (and maybe makes them start from the top if they miss a number). But they don’t go under until he tells them to sleep.

Now for the flip side, where Max is a subject:

The hardest part is to get him to let go but if he does, he's out. Even if he’s not a bully, giving up control is still hard for him because of his status and school and the pressure of being a quarterback and just general stress. Life isn’t easy and because of where he is in life he feels pressure to strategize and watch his every move. And once you’re in that kind of mindset, it’s hard to get out, even if you want to.

I also think once he’s under all he’d want is to let himself be vulnerable, take a breather, and be himself and not the front he puts up.

Additionally, I once made a joke that he could be the "I can't be hypnotized" *cuts to the character hypnotized* trope…if it didn’t take him so long to actually get there.

Next here are my thoughts on Richie, if he was the hypnotist:

I think Richie definitely went through a wanting to play hypnotist phase as a kid (which is not as common as my childhood led me to believe). He likely saw it in an anime and decided he wanted to try his hand at it.

Richie as a hypnotist would be the opposite of Max in a way. He’s not loud per se, but he likes all the different ways you can put a person under. And since he likes all the things you see in the movies and on tv, he’d have an array of inductions up his sleeve instead of one specific one like Max.

He definitely would say the “you’re getting sleepy” line at some point.

I think he’d post videos about it. They’d range from informative to him being silly.

I think he’d lean into showmanship a lot as a hypnotist.

Now for the flip side:

If Richie goes under as a subject…he goes under really quickly. Part of it is Richie is really creative and imaginative, and the other part is school and life can be stressful so he’d want to not have to deal with that for a bit.

I also don’t think he’d really have an issue with letting go. I don’t think he’d be as in his head about it as say Ruth or Pete would.

Next up is Pete. While Pete would most likely be the subject, I do have thoughts where he could be the hypnotist:

He would only do this if one of his friends asked him to put them under.

Pete likely wouldn’t want to use spirals or watches or anything unless asked. He’d probably solely use his voice and have his friends stare at the ceiling while he reads from a script, because he’d probably feel goofy doing it.

He doesn’t want the focus on him, but Pete would do anything for his friends, and if this helps them get out of their heads and deal with their stress, he’ll gladly help.

On the other hand, Pete is a tricky subject:

Pete (at least NPMD wise…at first) is closer to Max as a subject. He's smart and strategic. He carefully plans things to avoid certain situations happening (even if they don’t always go according to plan). But if someone he trusts pitches the idea, he may just give it a go.

He wants to let go because it'd be nice to not have to worry about what everyone else is thinking for once. But that's also the reason he's afraid to. He knows that he might say or do something he didn't plan on even if he knows he's in control. While he wouldn't do something completely out of character, if someone asked him what he was thinking while under, he might say it without filtering himself and that's scares him. He’s been burned before and he’s afraid if he lets his guard down, it could happen again.

Ruth is more likely to be on the subject side of things, but like Pete, she’s a tricky one too:

Ruth, like Pete, has a tendency to get in her head and let her worries and anxiety win.

I think she might want to go under because it could help her with her anxiety and stress. But I also think it would take a while because she has to get out of her head and push her anxiety away. We’ve seen her do it before, but it’s not an easy task for her. She may want it to work, but I feel that there’s a part of her that would hold back.

If she manages to get over that hurdle though, I think she’d be happy to not have to worry about everything that’s stressing her out.

Grace is also interesting to think about as a subject:

Grace I think would be similar to Max. She’d be the “I can’t be hypnotized.” *cuts to the character hypnotized* trope if she’d let herself let go. She also has issues letting go because GOD FORBID she feels herself slip.

She’s also very strategic in watching her (and everyone else’s) every move, and I think it’d be hard for her to let go of that. Even if she’s told it’s okay. I think she’d be too focused on that and she’d get in her own head.

Like Max though, if she does let go, I think she’s out.

Last but not least, we have Steph:

Steph doesn’t really believe in it. But she’s there for support if her friends want someone there. Maybe if Pete asked her to put him under, she’d do it? If not, she’d be there holding his hand the entire time.

#here’s the au concept i’ve been hinting about #the hypnerdy prudes concept/au #hatchetfield #nerdy prudes must die #npmd #pete spankoffski #richie lipschitz #ruth fleming #grace chasity #stephanie lauter #max jagerman #my au #i speak

47 notes · View notes

snippychicke · 1 year ago

Note

Hi, according to one of your posts you are open to suggestions concerning Kuro to teach you to understand the character a little better, so I propose this idea :

In the manga, Kuro can no longer stand being a pirate because of the altercations constants of the Marine and organizes his own death to be peaceful. So I propose a Kuro/Reader fanfiction where Kuro wants to organize his death but faced with the reader's dismay he realizes that the reader loves him and a story is created in them (why not a story with a little NSFW).

Thank you very much for your work, I really like it! 🖤

Thank you so much! I really hope what I ended up writing. Not too especially spicy, however.

Being the cook of the Bezan Black meant you heard everything. Even though you were usually cooped up in the kitchen, making food for all of the crew as well as your captain, the crew would wander in for food and drink and usually felt comfortable talking to one of the few women on the ship, especially since you weren't seen as one of the dangerous ones.

Little did they know, you reported right back to the captain anything you heard, happy to be his little mouse.

You were actually one of the few in his trusted inner circle besides his First Mate Jango and the 'Nyaban twins' Buchi and Sham. Well, truthfully, you felt as if you were possibly the most trusted by the captain.

You knew Kuro trusted no one. How could he, when he was one of the most feared pirates in the East Blue, as well as the most targeted by bounty hunters and marines alike.

But… he trusted you enough to cook for him, which was a high honor.

"Mouse!" Jango called as he entered, closing the kitchen door behind him that you usually kept open. You watched rather confused as he checked every inch of the galley as if looking for someone.

Or something.

"Is… something wrong?" You asked once Jango seemed satisfied with his search.

"You and the Cap'n are close," he said softly as he slinked backwards towards you, only pausing when his back was pressed against your shoulder. (Such a drama king, Jango. But you were used to his eccentricities.)

"You could say that," you answered hesitantly, returning back to the roast you were cubing.

Jango was Kuro's right-hand man, but Kuro's paranoia had rubbed off on you enough that if anyone started asking vague open-ended questions, you were wary.

"...have you heard about his latest plot?"

You scoffed out of habit. "Jango, we both know the Cap'n has a dozen plans going at once. You're going to have to be a little more specific, and even then I probably won't know."

If anything, the blond hypnotist tensed further. "What about the plan to die?"

You missed the meat and sliced your own finger.

~*~

Kuro leaned in his chair, his distant gaze looking out the port window as he thought. So many variables to consider.

His last great plan.

No more looking over his shoulder. No more worrying of someone burying a knife in his back. Or killing in his sleep.

It sounded better than any treasure he had seen on through his career.

His thoughts were interrupted by a timid knock at his door. A glance at the clock confirmed his suspicions. His little mouse, right on time.

"Enter," he called out, moving enough to watch you carefully opening the door, one hand carefully holding a dinner tray.

"Evening, cap'n," you greeted as softly as usual, closing the door behind you before setting the tray on the table.

"Good evening, my little mouse." He smiled to himself as he watched you blush. You were such an adorable thing, so unsuited for a pirate's life, yet you survived. Flourished.

Something twisted in his stomach as a new idea crossed his mind.

His plan would involve leaving you. The one he was able to keep close without fear, because you were so meek and loyal.

His crew would slaughter you once he was gone. His protection kept you safe. Without that threat…

He pushed that thought away to deal with later as he noticed how nervous you were--more so than normal. Then he noticed the bandages on your fingers, red with blood.

You went to try and hide,but he quickly grabbed your hand, yanking you closer. "What happened."

"I-I just cut my fingers cutting a roast."

Kuro wanted to call a lie, especially consider knew your had more skill and finesse with your knives than he had with his claws. You had full conversations with him before, your eyes rarely looking while you finely minced and diced.

"Why?" He asked instead.

You shifted guilty, "Jango came to talk with me and said-and told me about your plan."

Of course. Jango had been startled, and while he wouldn't talk to anyone, he would talk to you. "Of course. What did he say?"

He let you go and turned to the meal you had prepared. Amazing, as usual. What you had been doing in the dingy little port bar, he had no idea. You deserved to be in some five-star restuant as head chef.

"You-you want to… die?"

You sounded so stricken, tears in your eyes when he looked up at you again. Your knuckles were white as you clenched your fists at your side, your head was to the side as if avoiding his gaze. "I-I… sir, please…I don't know if… if I could stand that."

Kuro was stunned for a moment as you silently cried. Jango had only told you half the plan? And you were affected this much?

He didn't think. Kuro stood and cupped your chin to make you look at him. "Dear little mouse, you have it wrong."

Oh. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. He had been aware of his attraction to you, but seeing you like this, looking up at him like this… your eyes wide and watery, your expression pleading. He could see where you been biting your own lips, causing them to be a little more swollen.

"I'm going to fake my death," he said softly, trying to ignore the feelings tumbling in his chest. "I don't actually plan on dying."

The relief in your expression in your eyes, was enough to make his breath hitch. Or maybe it was because you overcame your usual shyness and impulsively wrapped your arms around him in a hug.

"Oh thank god!" You swore into his chest. "I was so worried, so scared!"

Kuro slowly relaxed into your embrace, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you even closer. Do you really care for him that much? You were his most loyal, most devoted crew member, but didn't imagine you had this much emotion dedicated to him.

Leaving you behind would be unacceptable. there was absolutely no way he could abandon you.

"You have a choice," he spoke. "You can stay as part of the Black Cat crew, or you can come with me."

You had no idea what the plan was. None at all, yet there eas no hesitancy as you looked up at him. "I want to be with you, sir."

Kuro's lips captured your before he could allow himself to second-guess. Yet you instantly melted against him, fingers reaching up to tease the hair at the nape of his neck as you returned his kiss. You parted your lips for him, allowing him whatever he wanted.

His perfect little mouse.

He had been aching for you for such a long time it felt like all control was lost as he picked you up and placed you on the table, your legs instantly wrapping around his waist, his hips flushed with yours. He didn't care for his meal still waiting for him, not when he was able to taste you.

He'd steal you away once more. He'd abandon the rest of the crew, leave this life of uncertainty behind him, but you he would keep.

#one piece kuro #kuro/reader #captain kuro #one piece klahadore #klahadore #Klahadore/reader #one piece #opla #one piece live action

62 notes · View notes

misscammiedawn · 7 months ago

Text

Legitimacy vs Selection Bias in Hypnosis

This has been on our mind a lot recently. It's mostly been sparked by the recent Mindless Banter podcast run by @theleeallure @enscenic and @hypno-sandwich where the three hosts spoke about how they dislike academic models of hypnosis and a recent post by @h-sleepingirl discussing why they herald hypnotic education.

One thing that is always going to be true about the advocates of our kink who have been involved with the community for a long time is that we are going to be experienced and capable hypnotists and/or hypnotees.

Likewise those who join and find themselves brought in to the fold tend to self-select; if a person is not able to find any success or joy in hypnosis because it's not working or they do not gel with the styles taught and practiced then they will not hang around.

This means that we have a functioning ecosystem of people who know the lingo, who are primed to react as they should and tend to have things work for them.

Which is great! It makes it so much easier to work out when everyone is on the same page.

But it also creates an insular community.

I've written before on why the insular nature of our community worries me.

One of the lines I wrote in that post was this

One of the big differences between the online erotic hypnosis community and the NGH (National Guild of Hypnotists) who rue our existence is that we do not require legitimacy to function when they themselves exist in a half-truth state where when receiving both of my certifications it was impressed that we needed to perform an uneasy dance of providing services without practicing medicine because hypnotherapy is not licensed psychology in the same was that chiropractors are not performing medicine.

Legitimacy is the idea of taking what we do, what we are, what we believe and what we practice and trying to make it valid to those outside of the community. It's performing studies, it's building a framework of hard rules, it's about pretending that we understand how the brain works beyond the anecdotal evidence that we witness it every day within our corners and communities.

Fact is, hypnosis is a malleable and belief-based practice that rests right in the middle between faith and science. As mentioned in the above linked post, trance can be detected on an EEG:

Source

Our last post on this topic just spoke about accepting that we exist in a soft science where what we believe, how we approach our beliefs and what ideas we allow to take root in our minds will have a firm impact on how the minds of the hypnotists and hypnotees we interact with.

Today I want to talk about why keeping the education and the science involved in the conversation is important.

Because, like the Mindless Banter crew, I have reached the point of my career in hypnoplay where should Dawn wish to induce a trance she need only find a partner, lay out what will happen and perform. The rest of it just happens.

Once you reach a level of confidence and community, it pretty much takes care of itself. The interaction between a hypnotist and a person who has never experienced trance before and the interaction between a hypnotist and an enthusiast will play out differently.

What I mean by this is if Dawn is approached in DM by someone who wants a session she will be able to pick up a number of tells without even noticing it on their confidence and experience. Someone shy, unsure and untrained will not dive straight in. Which makes the encounter less likely and even if it does happen it comes from the power dynamic of a teacher and student rather than two enthusiasts going to town.

This is normal and it's not a bad thing. It just means that the typical educator in the hypnokink community is typically aware of the "weight class" of their hypnotees which paints their expectations of how things will go and allows for a line between the way hypnosis is taught in 101 and how it is practiced in enthusiast circles.

It's why Progressive Muscle Relaxation is something which gets scoffed at a lot in our circles. The typical enthusiast does not need to spend 20 minutes on an induction when their typical partner is someone they can hold the shoulders of, stare at with intent and give permission for the hypnotee to drop.

That isn't to say that experienced hypnotists only play with experienced hypnotees. It just means that the majority of the play from those who educate does not match the material that we teach to beginners. Not a bad thing.

But it does breed this divide I mentioned. Between the experience of those who do this all the time and what is "academic".

So, besides helping new people into the community or playing in pure theoretical space, why must we keep the academic approach involved?

Well, first... the science does inform what we do. Yes, a lot of this is based on belief but there is a large amount of the science which is just fact no matter what we do. The neuroplasticity of traumatized brains is a topic we type about a lot given our dissociative disorder. I mentioned in my Dissociative Disorders and Hypnosis post that there are multiple studies that there's a higher hypnotic suggestibility in those with conditions that include dissociation as a symptom. The fact that this was being taught in a 101 class was why I made that post to begin with.

From my Mind Makes It Real post I mentioned that we need to be aware of the truths to keep ourselves in check. We should always be wondering "am I wrong?" about everything and the moment one lets go of the academic framework and commits to the loose ethos of "it just works" you lose a little bit of that footing and external perspective. We're an insular community and there's an element of "the popular ideas win out", not to stress a point too much but the whole hatred of the progressive muscle relaxation induction is a good example of this. I know a few community leaders who reflexively rant any time they hear it. These people have the ability to control the con schedule. They teach classes and part of their lesson is their personal disdain for that approach. This goes into the minds of those who were taught by that person and becomes part of the internal dogma. Suddenly you have a situation where a minority of people in the community need to defend the PMR.

I do not actually care too much about PMR but it really is one of the most accessible entry level trances and the disdain for it is a little gatekeepy, if I am being honest. I don't think any individual means for it to be something they keep out of the community but enough individuals following a trend creates a community concept, a widely held belief.

And hypnosis is entirely about widely held beliefs. Thus it is now a fact that PMR is boring and ineffective and there's more fun ways to do trance. That is an example, hopefully one that is understandable to an audience who are also into hypnokink (apologies to my non-hypnosis Tumblr followers, I hope if you're reading this you enjoy this peak into a little internet sub-culture).

Which brings me to legitimacy.

Do we really need it?

Hypnosis is both science and fantasy. A person attending a hypnokink convention could treat hypnosis with the technical skill and care that one would approach as ropeplay, learning all of the different terms and all of the safety procedures and treating it as a psychological version of what can be physically observed.

But you may also have someone who treats hypnosis as roleplay and improv with a framework not too dissimilar from a tabletop sourcebook for D/s shenanigans that they can learn and play within much the same as a D&D player can switch to World of Darkness. I guarantee there are a large number of people in the hypnosis community who do this and they're not wrong for doing it.

But as I mentioned above. Hypnosis is a scientifically observable phenomenon and it is dangerous if abused. Heaven knows I know that more than most. One must not believe in the dangers for them to be real. An immature hypnotist is a danger to a hypnotee regardless of if they think they are roleplaying or performing edgeplay. And the same is true for a hypnotee, too. If one believes it's all roleplay then their limits and safety will be at a different level than someone who is aware of the risks.

One need only look to the dark corners of our community where covert hypnosis is practiced eagerly, recruitment is a game and personality erasure is an aesthetic to know that there are uncomfortably large swaths who are practicing hypnosis from the perspective of fantasy. I do not want to pull out the news articles about how Disney Deer brainwashing ruined people's lives again.

The good news is that within the educator/convention going portion of the community we do teach this stuff. We do make everything clear. We're not currently in a community where academic approaches are shrugged off.

But it makes me uncomfortable when experienced educators in the community forget how far their words reach and dismiss the academic for the sake of "what works".

We do not need to seek legitimacy for the eyes of those outside of the community. We do not Demand To Be Taken Seriously. We have a community where people are welcome to join or not join. We do not need external legitimacy.

But we need internal legitimacy.

We need the people who practice within our care to know that they're practicing with dangerous tools that can and will mess a person up if treated without proper care.

Safety and education require we keep room for the academic and seek to legitimize what we do or those who look at hypnosis as pure fantasy will not be able to recognize the risk.

At least, that's my opinion.

For more of our ramblings on hypnosis and the hypnosis community, please check out our Hypnokink Writing tag for other bits of education and commentary like this <3

#camden posting #hypnokink #hypnokink writings #hypnosis #hypnosis community

227 notes · View notes