#hypnosis hallucinations

[sunny-haven]

hey!

getting into hypnosis and scrooling through your blog. You said that you have one of your (clients? friends? i can remember which) hypnotized to see you as a drago/ your dragonform? how does that work? is it visual hypnosis akin to imagining it over you or an actual visual halucination?

sorry if thats a lot, im just- very curious <3

-@starhypnosis

Yeah, I've been able to hypnotize a couple of my friends to see my fursona as if I was there - all of the hypnosis I do is online so when I say "as if I was there", I mean like if I was there in-person. And it's an actual visual hallucination. If I wanted to hug them, I could make them see and feel my dragon self hugging them. Same with cuddles, wrapping them up in my tail, being fucked... for the most part, whatever I can think of. It's honestly my favorite way to hypnotize people and whenever I do a session with someone who's unable to see me in that way, it always feels a little incomplete to me.

I don't really know what makes someone qualify to be able to hallucinate with hypnosis like that. I've met a decent amount of people who can experience imposition/phantom touch, but it's rare that I'm able to meet someone who can easily visually hallucinate with hypnosis. Which sucks, honestly, you think I'd know by now after doing this for several years.

Often I'll call this version of my fursona that my hypnotees can see my "puppet", because I'm essentially puppeting around a hallucination of my fursona to interact with my subjects. And one thing I often like doing is when I'm not talking to the subject and thus am not going to be using my puppet, she'll have a bit of sentience, mostly to just interact with my friends in small ways (cuddling them and otherwise being wholesome is common). Also to tease my friends lots. It's not to the point where my puppet is a fully-fledged personality, though. And everyone I've done this with has enjoyed it lots.

Whenever I am interacting with someone using my puppet, it looks pretty much like roleplaying via text, except it's me describing what I'm doing to my subject and my subject describing how they've responded, as well as anything I wouldn't be able to see but they would. Because I'm not seeing anything. Over a voice call it's a little different, often I'll say something like "I'm going to pick you up and hug you," or "my puppet will pick you up and hug you," and I use "I" and "my puppet" interchangeably. It's a little weird but I got used to it pretty quickly.

A loooot of the hypnosis I do nowadays deals with this kind of thing and it's helped a lot with developing my fursona and thus what I identify as and how I want to express myself. I focus a lot on the senses when I hypnotize others and being able to actually interact with my subjects via proxy makes it a lot more enjoyable, with the next most enjoyable thing being doing a session in-person. I haven't had the time, courage, or ability to visit my subjects in-person as of yet though, which is why I focus so much on this kind of thing.

That was pretty long-winded but I hope that answers your question! And no need to apologize, I'm happy to answer these kinds of questions ^w^

[thomothysdoodles]

“For how long are you gonna let them belittle you, Logan?”

4: HALLUCINATIONS

hypnosis | sensory deprivation | “you’re still alive in my head” (Billy Lockett, More)

(alternate title to this is “Don’t you just wanna go apeshit?”)

[goldenraeofsun]

Day 4: Hallucinations

Damian stares down at his hands, caked with dried blood. The horribly familiar scent of iron tickles his nose and makes his stomach churn. His head pounds. 

“Robin?” 

Damian jerks his head up, and his vision swims. He struggles to focus on the newcomer, a middle aged man in a boxy brown suit. Wire-rimmed glasses sit low on his nose, and he pushes them back on his face twice in the time it takes to enter Damian’s cell and take a seat at the lone table across from his bare cot. The man carries a clipboard and wears an ID badge that takes too much concentration for Damian to read, so he doesn’t.

“Do you remember me?”

“No,” Damian says, his voice cracking on the single syllable. He coughs, holding back a wince as his dry throat protests. But he can’t show weakness, not when he has no idea where he is, what he is doing here, or where his family is.

“That’s alright,” the man says. He sets something tall and clear-colored on the table. “We had to sedate you for your … the staff. I’m Dr. Vanne, the … we met last … if you don’t remember, you were … distraught.”

Damian blinks at him, catching every third word he says. “I understand,” he says untruthfully.

The man – Dr. Vanne? – nods. “You’ve been through … with Batman … harrowing for … let alone a child.”

Damian shakes his head, trying to clear it to focus. It’s ineffectual, but he needs to stay as awake and alert as he can. Only bits and pieces of the night before come back to him, a swish of a cape, the crack of a door splintering open, flickering lights. “Batman?” he asks. “Where is Batman?”

Richard will be able to explain everything. He’ll tell Damian why he’s in this cell, why he has none of his usual weapons, why he’s only wearing a mask and a hospital gown. He just needs to contact Richard –

Dr. Vanne’s mouth falls open as his brows pinch together with concern. “Robin,” he says as his gaze settles on Damian with an unnerving intensity, “Batman is dead.”

Damian’s whole body instinctively clenches at the bald-faced lie. “Batman is not dead,” he says, his voice echoing uncomfortably loudly in the small cell.

Dr. Vanne winces. “That’s why you’re in here.” He gestures to confines around them. “You were unconsolable and dangerous after you killed Batman.” He pushes the object on the table – a water bottle – towards Damian.

“You’re lying,” Damian spits.

Dr. Vanne shakes his head sadly. “That’s his blood on your hands, Robin.”

Despite himself, Damian glances down. He rubs his fingers together, and some dried flakes drift down into his lap, brown and rusted against the crisp white of his flimsy hospital gown.

“No,” he says, his voice deadly quiet.

Richard can’t be dead.

Richard is too full of life to be dead.

Damian is being held hostage by this Dr. Vanne character. He has taken Damian for some reason he has yet to tell him. This is some elaborate pantomime, constructed for Damian to give up his family’s secrets. Richard is planning his rescue right now. 

“Batman is dead,” Dr. Vanne says in a horribly kind voice. “It was an accident; everyone knows. But the sooner you accept it –”

“Batman is not dead!” Damian roars. He launches himself at Dr. Vanne, but doesn’t make it all the way. He flails for those last few inches, landing heavily on the table. Breathing hard, he braces himself on one elbow to resume the offensive –

A syringe sinks into his arm. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” Dr. Vanne says sadly.

Everything goes dark.

* * *

Damian wakes up with a pounding head and dry mouth. He opens his eyes, squinting against his blurry vision. For an excruciatingly long moment, he has no idea where he is. But the familiar gray walls of his cell eventually solidify before him.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and gags as his stomach turns over. Bile rises to the back of his throat, and he swallows, grimacing. At the sound of footsteps outside his room, he  jerks his head around, wincing his head throbs all the harder. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes.

The doctor, Vanne, taps his card against a portion of the wall Damian cannot see. The door beeps, and he enters. “Hello, Robin,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Release me,” Damian orders, the command rolling off his tongue with ease despite his distinct unease at all the unanswered questions about his confinement.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Vanne says patiently. “You’re still a danger to yourself and others. Until I can determine your threat level, we can’t discharge you.”

“You cannot keep me here,” Damian says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We can certainly try,” Vanne says. “Now,” he says as he takes a seat and adjusts his glasses, “that night, when Batman died, what do you remember?”

Never give the enemy more information than you’re getting.  

When Damian remains quiet, Vanne presses on, undeterred. “Do you remember the fight?”

Damian glares.

“Do you remember who you were fighting?”

Damian’s frown deepens because he doesn’t remember anything about the night before he woke up here. But he’d rather pull out his own fingernails than admit his ignorance to this imposter.

“Do you remember how Batman died?”

Damian’s temper flares. “He is not dead.”

“Batman is dead,” Vanne says calmly. “Once you’re more stable, we can show you the proof.”

Damian levels him an unimpressed look. “Show me the proof now, and I’ll be slightly more inclined to answer your foolish questions.”

“You’re in a very delicate mental –”

“You will show me that proof now .”

Vanne shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Because you don’t have it!” Damian says triumphantly. “Because this is all part of your scheme to separate me from Batman.”

Vanne exhales a long sigh. He takes off his glasses – a tactical mistake – and pinches the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. “I can’t show you the footage because it will retraumatize you. As a doctor, I took an oath to do no –”

Damian jumps the table and puts him into a headlock. Vanne’s glasses go clattering to the ground. “The proof. Now,” Damian growls in an acceptable facsimile of Dick’s facsimile of Father’s Batman’s voice. He kicks Vanne’s fallen chair out of the way so Vanne cannot use it against him.

“I can’t,” Vanne chokes out. 

“You will.” Damian tightens his hold “It will take you ten seconds to lose consciousness. Who do you think will last longer?”

“Please – let me – go,” Vanne forces between frantic gulps for air. 

“Not before you show me irrefutable proof,” Damian snarls in his ear, “that Batman is dead, and you aren’t a lying waste of –”

“Guards – Guar –”

The door slams open, and four guard stream in. They forcibly pry Damian off Vanne, and one brandishes a syringe. Damian howls like a banshee, scratching and biting every bit of flesh within reach. They may have taken away his man-made weapons, but Damian was trained to be a weapon, and he will fight until his last breath to see Richard again. The syringe sinks back into his bicep. Pathetically, Damian’s last shout comes out as more of a whimper.

* * *

Damian wakes up to the scent of boiled chicken. He pries his eyelids open, unsurprised to see Vanne accompanied by a security guard.

Good.

They are finally taking him seriously.

“You need to eat,” Vanne says gently. 

Damian eyes the plastic bowl of soup distrustfully. They are not idiots, so they did not give him access to any metal utensils, wooden chopsticks, or even animal bones. Nothing to stab a body with or pick a lock with.

“What is the point of all of this,” he says as he leans over the bowl to sniff it. It’s chicken noodle, judging by the scent and beige chunks of meat and pale orange carrot cubes barely floating in the thin broth.

“To keep your strength up,” Vanne says, deliberately misinterpreting Damian’s words.

Damian sits back on his cot without picking up the flimsy spoon they provided.

“Grief can be a powerful appetite suppressant,” Vanne says. “But you should eat something.”

“I am not grieving because Batman is not dead,” Daman says through gritted teeth. 

Perhaps they are not as smart as he initially credited them. They may have captured him, kept him away from his family, cut off most of his avenues of escape. But Damian will not believe something just because they keep repeating it, ad nauseam. If that worked, he would have stopped trying to kill Drake within a week of his arrival to Gotham.

“Batman is dead, Robin,” Vanne says, his tone aggravatingly patient. “Have any of your memories of his death come back? Trauma can do funny things with our recollections, but I expect they’re lurking in your subconscious, right underneath the surface.”

Damian stays silent, mulling over his options.

The door to his cell has no door knob or handle. Vanne uses a keycard to get in, but there is no similar pad on this side of the wall, so Damian cannot hack his way out. Barefoot and dressed in the hospital gown, he has no access to any Bat comms or lockpicks. 

“Once you accept the truth,” Vanne continues, “your memories will make themselves known to your fully conscious mind. We can start trying specific techniques next week, if we see no improvement.”

Most frustratingly, Damian still has too many questions. Why did they take him? What do they want from him? Why pursue this fiction that Batman is dead?

Damian has been kidnapped before and held hostage. Every single other time, without fail, his captors demanded information or money within twelve hours.

“First, we’ll start with a mild hypnosis,” Vanne goes on. “If that doesn’t take, we’ll put you in a state of deep hypnosis. That has worked with the majority of my patients in the past, and I have all confidence it will be a success for you too.”

By Damian’s admittedly less-than-reliable estimates, he has been under Dr. Vanne’s supervision for more than 48 hours. Vanne hasn’t asked for money nor information.

Damian hasn’t seen Richard in two full days. Richard must be going mad looking for his Robin. Damian swallows, dread and shame coiling in the pit of his stomach. This isn’t his job; he is supposed to make Batman’s life easier. That is Damian’s whole purpose.

“As a last resort,” Vanne continues, “there are a few pharmaceutical therapies we can try, but those are all high risk for pediatric patients, so we’d have to contact your next-of-kin for consent.”

That draws Damian up short. “You’re in contact with my family?”

“Of course,” Vanne says, looking vaguely offended. “It would be unethical to hold you here without their knowledge or consent.”

“Bring them to me,” Damian says at once. “If you’re really speaking to them.”

Vanne falters, and Damian barely suppresses his grin of victory. Vanne reaches out as if to lay a comforting hand on Damian’s arm, but Damian spears him with a baleful look, and the hand retreats. As he pulls his hand back, Vanne says slowly, “Robin, they don’t want to see you.”

Lies.

Lies on top of lies.

Damian barely holds back his smile. 

His family, his annoying, suffocating, loving family would never do such a thing.

“Then you’re obviously not telling the truth,” Damian retorts. “I know my family.”

“They don’t want to see you,” Vanne hesitates, “because you killed Batman.”

Damian jumps to his feet, as sheer injustice at the accusation courses through his veins. “I did not!”

“You did,” Vance says unflinchingly, a hint of steel and annoyance in his voice for the first time. “You killed Batman, and all your siblings trusted me to care for you because, despite your actions, they still want the best for you.”

But –

His family would never do that.

His family wouldn’t ship Damian off to some strange psychologist.

His family wouldn’t keep him caged, alone, like some sort of animal.

They wouldn’t abandon him even if, even if he –

Damian shakes his head. “I didn’t kill Batman,” he says, half to himself, half to Vanne. “I didn’t.”

“It was an accident,” Vanne says soothingly. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t do it at all!”

Vanne sighs. He gets to his feet. “Eat your soup,” he says, “or we’ll have to resort to less ideal methods to keep you fed.”

And for the first time, Damian watches him leave.

The bowl of soup mocks him for the rest of the day.

Damian doesn’t eat a drop.

* * *

That night, Damian inspects his cell, searching for any weakness. He runs his fingers along every corner and inch of wall he can reach. He tugs at the bars that make up his cot, but nothing comes loose, and he breaks several nails trying to untwist the screws and bolts holding it together.

He cedes defeat several hours later, fuming.

When the lights come back on, Damian turns over in bed, head aching, stomach cramping, chest thrumming with a nervous, anxious energy he can’t dispel in this tiny, windowless room.

Vance comes in about three hours later. “Good morning, Robin,” he greets as the door closes behind the guard.

Damian doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

“How did you sleep?”

Damian stares straight ahead.

“Did you have any dreams?” Vanne tries next. And some of Damian’s skepticism must show on his face, since Vanne presses, “Did any memories resurface?”

“I dreamed of my dog,” Damian lies. He didn’t dream at all. He just dozed between failed meditation sessions.

“Interesting,” Vanne says, not sounding interested at all in that answer. “Because all our sensors indicate that you barely entered a single REM cycle last night.” He sighs. “You won’t get better if you don’t tell me the truth, Robin.”

Damian stays silent.

“Now, grief has well-documented effects on sleep hygiene –”

“I am not grieving, you imbecile,” Damian interrupts acidly. “I did not sleep because I am being kept here against my will, ineptly interrogated, and lied to.”

“I’m not lying to you,” Vanne says, hurt. “I’m helping you.”

“You can actually help me by telling me why I am here.” Damian clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “What are you hoping to get? A ransom? Intelligence on the heroes that operate in Gotham? Leverage over my family?”

Vanne takes off his glasses. Without them, his eyes are quite small. Watery. A dishwater greenish color. “Robin, I will tell you this as many times as you need to hear it: You are here to get better. To process the trauma you went through when you killed Batman.”

“I did not kill him!”

“Are you sure?” Vanne presses, leaning in, his eyes never leaving Damian’s face. “Can you say with absolute certainty that you did not kill Batman two days ago in a raid on some drug runners gone wrong?”

Damian fights to keep his expression neutral.

The Cartel. Of course. 

They had been investigating a recent flush of crack cocaine into Coventry that was rapidly spilling into the Water District.

Richard suspected the drugs came from the Odessa Mob, as they took over drug smuggling in addition to their money laundering after the Gang War. But after months of fighting with the Triad, who were clawing out the seedier parts of the Upper West Side, the Mob was stretched thin.

Damian suspected that the Escabedo Cartel was responsible. They were the most powerful drug smugglers and sellers before the Gang War wiped them out, and from Damian’s extensive review of his father’s files, the Gotham gangs never stayed dead for long. And the Odessa Mob fighting with the Triad presented an ideal time to get a foothold in their old market.

“Are you starting to remember, Robin?” Vanne asks eagerly.

Damian glares.

“The raid? Fighting for the gun with Diego?” Vanne’s face falls. “Batman tried to help,” he says, his voice low but even. “The gun went off. He bled out in minutes.”

Damian shakes his head. Impossible. His father spent decades perfecting Batman’s armor, and Richard made his own improvements when he put on the cowl. “The armor is bulletproof.”

Vanne sighs. “It hit a weak spot.”

“Where?” Damian demands.

“The helmet’s integrity was weakened from earlier in the fight,” Vanne says, his voice pained. “It shattered on impact. You tried to help, to stem the blood flow. But he was too damaged.”

Damian’s empty stomach tightens painfully. “You’re lying.”

Vanne surveys him with a pitying look. He pulls out a sealed protein bar from his pocket and a water bottle. “Eat,” he says, “and drink. You’re a growing boy.”

“I am not a child,” Damian hisses.

Vanne sighs. “Medically and legally speaking, you are. And that is the only reason you’ve been entrusted into my care instead of being tried as an adult.” His glasses flash as he turns to face Damian head-on. “But if your condition does not improve and you do not show remorse for your actions, the courts may decide otherwise.”

* * *

The next day, Vanne comes in smiling. “Are you ready, Robin? This is the first step in your healing journey.”

Damian clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “You aren’t going to dangle a pocket watch in front of my face, are you?”

Vanne frowns. “That’s a quite outdated idea of hypnotherapy. It has been used successfully for a wide range of conditions like smoking cessation, anxiety management, and even weight loss. It would be more helpful if you come into this with an open mind.”

Damian rolls his eyes. 

“But before we start, have you remembered anything about that night?”

Damian levels him an unimpressed look.

Vanne holds up his hands. “Okay, Robin, I need you to take a deep breath and relax,” he says. “Lay down, if that’s more comfortable.”

Damian stays sitting up.

“Now, I’m going to count down from 100. With each count down, you will become more relaxed. 100, you can feel the muscles in your forehead relaxing. 99, the muscles around your eyes – ”

This is useless. Damian was trained on how to resist hypnosis and mind control from the age of five.

What is taking his family so long to find him? Damian has been stuck here for at least five days now. Even if Richard was grievously injured during their raid, others would have led the charge.

The last time Brown was taken, they found her after twelve hours.

Drake, six hours.

So why has it taken them upwards of one hundred and twenty hours to get him?

His family does not hate him. They had their difficulties when he first arrived in Gotham, of course, but they have come to accept him. 

Earlier this year, he jumped in an infantile moon bounce with Brown, and he didn’t use his ankle knife to stab her or deflate the whole pointless endeavor. Only two months ago, Drake unexpectedly appeared at Damian’s art show, even though Richard said he was the only one going. 

His family loves him.

They do.

“44, the muscles in your hips are relaxing. 43, the muscles in your thighs are relaxing.”

They’ve even rescued Todd, after all. Damian was all for letting the man rot after that whole fiasco with that Scarlet woman, but Richard insisted they help his younger brother, and made Damian, Brown, and Gordon track him down to Mr. Freeze’s latest frozen lair under the penguin enclosure at the zoo.

That took three days.

For Todd.

“17, the muscles in your calves are relaxing…”

But Richard led the charge during that particular case. And if Richard is – is not there, then the rest of the family might be more reluctant to realize the urgency of Damian’s plight.

Damian gets on well enough with Brown, and he has a begrudging respect for Drake. 

He has teamed up with Todd in the past, at Richard’s behest, with minimal grievous injuries.

“5, the muscles in the heel of your foot are relaxing. 4, the muscles in the arch of your foot are relaxing. 3, the muscles in the ball of your foot are relaxing. 2, the muscles in your toes are relaxing. 1, the muscles in your whole body are relaxed.”

They would never leave him here. Not as a prank. Not even as some sort of lesson.

Richard would never. But if Richard was –

“Now that you are fully relaxed, imagine yourself walking down a set of stairs. With each step –”

Damian balls his hands into fists in his lap. “This is beyond stupid,” he says loudly over Vanne’s inane hypno-babbling. 

Vanne stops speaking. He straightens in his chair, raising one hand to adjust his glasses. “You aren’t relaxed at all, are you?” he says, sounding almost childish in his disappointment.

Damian raises his eyebrows behind his mask. “What do you think?”

“I was afraid of this,” Vanne says, shaking his head. He gets up, nodding at the security guard by the door. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“You will get the same results as today,” Damian says in a carrying voice.

Vanne stops at the threshold, half-turned to Damian. “I will never give up on you, Robin.”

Damian’s heart clenches. Richard said something similar the last time Damian nearly killed someone. Drake and Brown wanted nothing to do with him, and even Pennyworth was disappointed. But Richard – Richard still believed in him.

The door shuts and the lock clicks in place, leaving Damian alone in his cell.

* * *

Damian wakes as his mouth opens in a silent shout, alert in an instant. 

Five security guards flood the room. He thrashes, but, weakened from lack of food and rusty from lack of exercise, they pin him down after a few minutes. 

Damian does knock one out, though.

The rest hold his arms and legs down. 

“Unhand me!” he shouts, the skin on his wrists and ankles burning from the friction as he twists and writhes under their grips. 

Undeterred, one of them pulls out a syringe.

Damian’s eyes go wide, and his pulse spikes with fear and adrenaline. He bucks harder, drawing on the rest of his strength to try to shake them off. “Don’t you dare come near me with that –”

The needle sinks in his arm, and Damian dislodges two of the guards, but it’s too late. His vision blurs, and coherent thoughts become difficult. He vaguely registers some of the guards limping out of his cell, leaving only two remaining to hold him down.

A second or an hour later, a new figure swims before Damian’s face. His eyes widen at the sight of his own masked reflection in the twin lenses of a familiar pair of glasses.

Vanne.

“Now,” Vanne says pleasantly as he takes his usual seat, ignoring the guards holding Damian down. “Where were we?”

* * *

Damian wakes up with a splitting headache. He opens his eyes, just holding back a groan as the overhead lights stab into his eyes. 

A wrapped sandwich and a water bottle sit on the table in front of his cot. Despite his mostly-empty stomach, he has no appetite. But he reaches for the sealed water bottle sitting innocently on the table without a second thought. 

He drinks half of it in one burst, savoring the cool water against his raw throat.

Raw? He swallows, wincing at the unexpected pain.

He glances around his cell for any clues, blinking rapidly against his watering eyes. When he raises his hand to press down on his mask, he finds the skin underneath puffy and swollen.

It’s an uncomfortably familiar feeling and embarrassment creeps up his neck as he tries to piece together what must’ve happened.

The sore throat, the swollen eyes – he’d been crying. From another nightmare?

Not unheard of, he’d been getting them with increasing frequency the longer he was here.

The door opens, and Vanne enters. Damian automatically tenses, but nothing about Vanne seems changed from the last time he saw Damian and uncomfortably echoed the most profound words Richard had ever said to him.

“How are we feeling this morning, Robin?” Vanne asks as he takes a seat. “First, have you remembered anything about the night you killed Batman?”

Damian opens his mouth to retort in the negative, but he can’t get the words out.

Because he does remember. The memory tugs and pulls, resists being analyzed, but it comes when Damian focuses on it.

The stakeout before the raid. Richard joking about how all Damian needed to improve his crappy mood was some grub; “ Do you want to get dumplings in Chinatown after this?” Gunfire interrupting Richard’s increasingly inane jokes.

The Odessa mobsters swarming out of nowhere.

Richard barking over the comms for Red Robin to get his ass over here, “We needed backup yesterday!”

Bursting into the warehouse through a large, west-facing window and subding as many gang members and mobsters as he could. 

Out of the corner of his eye, through the smoke bombs: a man who looked remarkably like a young Emanuel Escabedo fleeing through a side door. 

Shouting for Batman, not waiting for an acknowledgement before pursuing Escabedo until he disappeared through a backdoor. Slam. Yanking ineffectively on the handle. Bending down on one knee, cursing Escabedo to the depths of hell and back as he fiddled with the lock.

“I’ve got this, Robin,” coming from behind him. Scrambling out of the way. Richard’s boot coming down heavily on the door before it bursts open. “ Go rendez-vous with Red Robin.”

Rushing in after Escabedo before Richard could stop him. This was his win. The Escabedo Cartel was responsible; Damian was right!

A spew of gunfire. 

Leaping out of the way. Zig-zagging through the dimly lit hallway after his quarry.

Escabedo raising his gun.

A thrown birdarang. Escabedo stumbling back. Not dropping the gun.

A hand-to-hand fight.

“Robin!”

A gunshot.

Richard staggering out into the open, into a clearer line of fire. One of the ears of his cowl blown clean off. 

“Batman!” 

Letting Escabedo get away. 

Dropping to his knees by Richard. Trying to staunch the blood all but gushing from the open wound in Richard’s head. The white sliver of bone through the hole in the cowl. Richard’s pained grimace, the bare skin around his mouth and jaw pale, so pale.

“Da-Damian –”

Telling him no names in the field. Telling him he’s going to be fine. Telling him Drake will be here soon.

Ignoring his watering eyes and stinging nose. Trying to hide his sniffle from Richard and failing abysmally.

Such a failure.

“I love you. You’re going to be fine – I know it. My Robin. You’re so strong, Damian.”

But he isn’t – he killed Batman. With his pride. With his inattention. With his weakness.

Red staining his hands, his knee pads, the tops of his boots from the ever-growing puddle surrounding the pair of them. Bright red, fresh, straight from the only family who has ever loved him, apart from his mother.

Vanne asks, “So you remember?”

Damian raises his streaming eyes to his psychologist, the man supposed to make him better. 

With an inhuman snarl, he attacks.

Nobody can help Damian now. 

* * * 

They drug him again. Because of course they do. But they don’t kill him, for some unfathomable reason. He wakes up in the same cell, bruised, a little hungrier, a little thirstier.

They stop him when he breaks his knuckles against those cursed bare, white walls.

They stop him when he tries to claw his own face off.

They strap him down and stick an IV with a saline solution in his arm and a feeding tube in his throat. He still rubs his wrists raw trying to get them in his grasp to tug them out. 

They should let him die.

Vanne says that’s not an option.

They take the tubes out after a few hours. They put them back in three days later after he still refuses all food and drink. 

For the rest of his time spent awake, he lays on his cot. He lets time pass him by. He wallows, like he was never allowed at The League or at the Penthouse.

In The League, such self-indulgence was punished. He would have been put to menial task-based work because if he was going to let his mind wander, his hands might as well be useful. 

In the Penthouse, Richard had an uncanny ability to predict whenever Damian felt like retreating into himself. He’d drag Damian out to the park, forcing Titus’s leash into one hand and Damian’s sketchbook into the other. And if Damian really wasn’t up for an outing, Richard would sit with him. They’d meditate together, and somehow just having Richard there helped ground him.

No wonder his family hasn’t come to visit him. If any of them killed Richard, even accidentally, they wouldn’t have survived the next 48 hours. 

Hopefully none of them are vindictive enough to take their hatred for him out on his pets. Alfred and Titus are innocents, and the Bats value life over all else. 

Poor Titus, he’ll never understand why Damian can never come home.

On the fifteenth day after he killed Richard, Vanne asks him what will make him feel better. 

After a long stare-off, Damian says, “Nothing.”

“Now, I don’t think that’s true,” Vanne says kindly. “I think a distraction is what you need. You still aren’t sleeping well.”

He had thought his nightmares from his childhood in the League were terrifying. He was wrong. 

“I think you need a break from this place,” Vanne says as he gets to his feet. 

Damian stares blankly at him. “You’re transferring me?”

“No, you’re still under my supervision, but we’re going to leave this room. Come along.”

The door to his cell opens. 

And stays open. 

Damian takes a full minute to get to his feet. Vanne gives him an encouraging smile as he crosses the threshold and, for the first time, takes in the sterile hallway beyond. Two guards stand outside his door, and they follow as Vanne leads Damian to the set of elevator doors and casually pushes the down button. 

Damian gets in after Vanne.

The doors open to a gym, and Damian’s heart clenches at the sight of the mats and smell of sweat and worn plastic. 

Two burly men wearing sweatpants are boxing in a ring while two more in army green tac pants and plain white tee shirts egg them on. In the weights area, a half dozen men and women mill around, lifting barbells with grunts that echo across the gym. The five treadmills stand unoccupied, but one sweaty-faced woman with a towel slung around her shoulders is pedaling away at the stationary bicycle.

“Exercise has been proven to produce the same results as SSRIs in a third of patients,” Vanne says as he places a hand on Damian’s shoulder and steers him further into the gym, avoiding the crowded areas. “You must have a lot of pent up energy after being stuck inside for so long. It was for your own good at the time, but it’s undoubtedly detrimental in the long run for someone of your athletic ability.”

Damian just sighs. 

“Go on,” Vanne chides, giving him a little push. 

Damian doesn’t budge an inch. “I do not wish to.”

Vanne squats so he’s more on Damian’s level, and Damian nearly scoffs at the condescension. But he really doesn’t have the energy to do anything more about it, so he doesn’t. Vanne tries, “You must have a series of warm ups, yes? You don’t have to do anything more elaborate than that.”

Damian doesn’t react.

“Robin,” Vanne says, “You have the potential to do so much good.” As Damian turns his head to glance listlessly at the mats, Vanne nods encouragingly. “Don’t let one mistake keep you from the greatness you are destined to achieve.”

His mother used to tell him something similar in the League after he withstood their punishments for failure. She had no idea Damian’s destiny was to kill the only person who accepted him completely and loved him unconditionally. 

“You have a bright future ahead of you,” Vanne continues as Damian stares blankly ahead, “And our operation could use someone with your unique skill set.” He gives Damian another little push. “Go on, then. You’ll feel better once you’ve stretched your legs. Trust me.”

From his initial look around, Damian saw three doors. Presumably two locker rooms and a staircase in the event the elevators are nonfunctional. Judging the fitness of the others currently exercising in the gym, he could defeat them. He might need a week or two to regain his strength, but he could escape. He could be rid of his little cube full of white walls and pain and Vanne and his ridiculous glasses. He could be free. 

But where would he go? Drake, Brown, and Todd all despise him, and Damian has no loyalty to Gotham outside of his family. 

Damian goes to the mats.

He still only sleeps three and a half hours that night. He wakes up with Richard’s blood on his hands, Richard’s bloodless face swimming before his closed eyes.

* * *

Damian wakes to a series of incessant bangs on the door.

“Robin?” 

He goes cold all over at the familiar voice. Drake is outside? Has his family given up on Vanne? Have they finally come to take care of him themselves?

“Robin, are you in there?”

Bang, bang, bang.

Damian blinks, his throat going dry with dread. He swallows, and it feels like sandpaper.

“You goddamn menace, you’d better be in there, so help me –”

Damian scrambles back on his cot, tucking his legs underneath his chin and wrapping his arms around his shins. It’s hardly a defensive position, but he cannot fight his siblings, especially in this state, weak and out of practice. Moreover, he would never lift a hand against them or stop them from taking the vengeance they are more than entitled to. They are each owed their pound of flesh.

“Batgirl! Head to the next floor. This one’s a dud.”

Damian listens with bated breath as Drake’s footsteps fade. His ears strain in the nearly oppressive silence after Drake’s hamfisted entry attempt.

The access panel outside his door beeps, and Damian nearly jumps out of his skin. 

A dark shape enters the room, and Damian’s heart stops dead in his chest.

It can’t be.

“Robin?” 

Goosebumps rise along Damian’s arms at his name in that voice, every hair standing on end.

“Thank god we found you,” the hallucination says in a rush as it hurries forward.

Damian backs up until his elbows bump into the wall behind him. He can’t say a word, frozen to the spot. All he can do is cower. What does the wraith want? Does Richard’s ghost want its revenge too? Damian will let him have it. Damian will give it anything it wants.

It stops dead in its tracks, the cape swishing around its boots. 

Damian’s skin crawls as he gets the worst feeling the specter is eyeing him up and down, evaluating him, finding him wanting.

“Damian,” it says, and it sounds so like Richard, tears spring to Damian’s eyes, unbidden. “Hey, no it’s alright,” it says, its voice horribly soothing. It takes another step forward, its arms out, as if going for an embrace.

“Stop!” Damian barks, his voice too high, too breathy, too panicked.

It stops. “Damian?” it asks softly, “It’s me, Dick. You know me.” It pulls off the cowl, revealing Richard’s familiar face, the face Damian has been seeing in his nightmares for days. Its brows are furrowed, the corners of its mouth pulled down in an expression of concern. 

Damian shakes his head.

“Delirium?” the ghost murmurs to itself. “Memory loss?” It’s blue eyes zero in on Damian. “Do you know who I am?” it asks, its tone more business-like. If Damian didn’t know better, he would say Richard is just starting their TBI protocol.

As if Damian would ever forget the face of the most important person he ever killed. He nods.

“Out loud, please.”

The lump in Damian’s throat is enormous, but he forces out anyway, “Grayson,” because he knows what the wraith wants to hear.

The ghost’s shoulders slump in faux-relief. “We’ll get you checked out once we’re far, far away from here,” it says with a warm smile, and Damian shudders. “C’mon, let’s go.” It holds out its hand to help Damian up from the cot, but Damian scuttles around it and gets to his feet of his own volition. 

He doesn’t dare touch the hallucination. What if he does, and it crumbles, taking the very last vestiges of Richard with it? No, he will let the illusion be. And if Richard has truly come for him, then Damian will follow him to his grave. It’s only fair.

The specter casts him one lingering look of concern before it tugs the cowl back into place. 

It’s probably leading him to where Drake and Brown are waiting.

Damian silently tails Richard’s ghost out of his cell and into the familiar hallway. But instead of taking a right, Richard’s ghost takes a left, towards a half-open door that leads to a set of concrete stairs. He steps around the body of one of the security guards, slumped over, hands zip-tied behind his back.

“You’re oddly quiet,” Richard’s ghost says as they start to climb. “They must’ve really put you through the wringer. I’m so sorry we took so long to find you,” it continues, and Damian’s chest clenches at the words of contrition.

Richard has nothing to be contrite about, not to Damian.

Because Damian killed him. 

He bites his tongue against the useless apologies fighting to escape his lips. They won’t bring the real Richard back. All they would do is microscopically soothe Damian’s guilt, which he in no way deserves. 

“I was tempted to let Jason come along to burn this place to the ground,” Richard’s ghost continues, casting a strange look behind him. Is it concerned Damian isn’t obeying orders? Because Damian is following. He would follow Richard anywhere. “But we just got wind of a big arms shipment being delivered to the Odessa Mob, so he’s staking out the harbor while Tim and Steph make up the cavalry.”

Damian nods along, feeling sick. Two weeks ago, Todd shot Drake after he interfered in his Crime Alley business. A fickle ally in the best of times, Todd would never lift a finger to help the Bats as of late. But a hallucination would hardly listen to the rules of reason. Any version of Richard would want its family to get along.

They reach the ground floor, and Richard’s ghost leads him down another short hallway ending in a door illuminated red by the bright EXIT sign above it. A few more bodies litter the way out, all unconscious.

Feet from the door, it swings open of its own accord to reveal Drake.

“Damn,” he says, and Damian’s heart flies into his throat. His pulse roars in his ears, and he hardly hears Drake say, “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Let’s get going, twerp. We’ll take care of you on the plane.”

Damian follows with leaden footsteps. Naturally, they wouldn’t even give him the grace of killing him in the Batcave, Manor, or Penthouse. Why sully their home bases with Damian’s blood, when they could simply shove him out of the Batplane when they reach cruising altitude?

The ramp up to the plane’s entrance both takes forever and is gone in a blink.

“Damian!”

Damian freezes at the exuberance in Brown’s voice. He barely has time to analyze it before a cloud of frizzy blonde hair obscures his vision and dark purple arms wrap around him. 

Brown is flat on her back on the floor before he consciously registers throwing her.

“Geez,” she mutters, coughing from winded lungs, “this is the thanks I get for hauling ass all the way to Alaska for you, Boy Blunder.” She makes no move to get up of her own accord and resume her attack. Instead, she just lifts one arm, fingers wiggling in his direction expectantly.

Damian falters. 

Tentatively, warily, he reaches for her. But she doesn’t leverage his grip to throw him to the ground too; she uses him as a counterweight to get back to her feet.

“What a gentleman,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Drake snorts from his seat at the controls of the plane. “That’s Damian. Ever the little gentleman.”

Damian opens his mouth to retort that he is not little, he is growing, and he will be tall as Father was one day, before it crashes back down on him that no, he will not. He will likely be dead within the next few hours. Just like Father.

From behind them, Richard’s ghost peers down at him, concerned. It says, “He’s been acting off ever since I found him.”

Drake frowns. “How off? Are you sure that is Damian?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Damian sees Drake turn to get a good look at him, but all of Damian’s attention is locked on Richard’s ghost.

Drake replied to him.

That… can’t be.

“He’s not talking, for one,” Richard’s ghost says, stepping closer. 

The twin engines fire, and Damian uncharacteristically stumbles despite the smooth liftoff, right into Richard’s – 

“I see what you mean,” Brown says, amused, and it sounds like her voice is coming from far away as Damian focuses everything he has on the smooth, rock hard kevlar beneath his hands. It’s solid. Richard is… solid?

He wraps both arms around Richard’s torso, squeezing in death-grip. He has never felt something so miraculous, so comforting in his entire life. His breath hitches, and he buries his face between the armored plates 

“I didn’t know the kid knew how to hug,” Brown continues.

“Be nice,” Richard chastises above him as his hand comes up to rest on Damian’s head. “He’s clearly been through a lot.” 

“Oh my god, is he crying?” Drake says, and Damian stiffens at the shocked tone, his face flooding with heat. “Are you actually sure it’s really him?” Drake asks, deadly serious. “Robin didn’t cry when he was shot multiple times in the freakin’ spine. Did you make sure he’s not a clone? Or a shapeshifter? Or, I don’t know, possessed?”

Richard tugs at Damian’s arms, probably to get a better look at his face, but Damian just holds on harder, silent tears dripping down his chin in fat drops. “Oh, Dames,” Richard says, “talk to me, bud.”

Damian opens his mouth, but only an embarrassing hiccup comes out.

Richard more forcefully pries Damian off him, and Damian makes a little wordless sound at the loss, but he stamps down on his instincts to keep Richard as close as possible for as long as possible. Space, Richard is asking for space, so Damian will give it to him. Still, Richard keeps one hand resting lightly on Damian’s upper arm as the other pulls the cowl back. “Hey,” he says as his blue eyes flick down to Damian, raking over his face, searching. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Damian clears his clogged throat. “Not particularly.”

Brown lets out an obnoxious, “Ha!” before she disappears towards the back of the plane.

“But,” Damian doesn’t look at Brown or Drake, he keeps his gaze on Richard’s face, drinking him in, “I will tell you anyway.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Where does he start? Waking up in the cell? His first meeting with Vanne? The feeling of Richard’s lifeblood draining out between his fingers?

Drake snipes, “Not getting any younger here.”

“Tim,” Richard says, annoyed. “You’re not helping.”

Damian clears this throat. Stands a little straighter. Debrief. He’s debriefed Richard hundreds of times before, and even though he never thought he would have the chance to do so again – 

Richard’s face swims before his eyes as they water with a fresh wave of tears.

“Um,” Richard starts, alarmed, “I guess it can wait until we’re back in Gotham.”

“You’re being too easy on him,” Drake cuts in sharply. “We’re not getting to Gotham for another five hours. Just tell us what happened, Damian. Then you can take a nap or have a snack or whatever you need to be normal again –”

Damian turns to him, eyes flashing. How dare he. His hands ball into fists at his side.

“Tim –”

“I thought Richard was dead,” Damian explodes, “that I had killed him.” He can’t look at Richard’s face as he speaks, so he addresses Drake instead. His voice wavers, but he plows on, “And that it was my fault. I was being detained because my family couldn’t stand to be around me.”

Above him, Richard makes a sound Damian has never heard before, and the hand resting on his bicep twitches. “You didn’t believe it, though,” Richard says, his voice hushed but insistent. “You knew you’d never do such a thing.” His fingers grip Damian harder. “You knew we were coming for you.”

Damian can’t bring himself to respond.

“Holy shit,” Brown says as she steps back into the cockpit, two paper cups in her hand. “Here,” she says, thrusting one in Drake’s direction. “Coffee, even though you’re being a jackass. Or, you know, you could just take a nap, and finally catch up on that 100 hour sleep deficit.”

Drake sips at the coffee, the tense set to his mouth easing. “More like 56 hours, but I see your point. I’ll finish this and put the plane on autopilot.”

“Or let me pilot,” Brown says, rolling her eyes. She tugs him up from the chair. “Go to sleep.”

Drake goes, pausing on his way to the cots set up in the back. “Hey,” he says to Damian, “Sorry. It’s been a… stressful few weeks around here.”

Richard mutters, “Understatement of the century.” 

Drake ignores him. “I’m – I’m really glad you’re back with us,” he says hesitantly to Damian.

Damian searches his face for any hint of a falsehood, but Drake is apparently being sincere. “Thank you for participating in my retrieval.”

Drake smiles weakly. “Once we figured out who took you, it was just a matter of figuring out where .” He makes a face. “As it turns out, Alaska, of all places.”

Damian blinks. “Alaska?”

Richard nods once. “A military base outside of Juneau,” he says, his voice curt. “the most remote army outpost in North America.”

Drake stifles a yawn behind one hand. “You should be honored, gremlin. They only took me to Bludhaven to recruit me. Not even out of state.”

Damian’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “They did this to you too?”

And Drake did not see fit to warn Damian? Damian would hardly describe their relationship as especially close, but he thought Drake respected him enough to spare him this torturous ordeal – 

“And me,” Richard adds darkly, “back when I was Robin.”

Damian’s gaze bounces between them as Drake explains, “I recognized their seal on the door to the base. This special ops team led by the Veteran has been trying to get Robin to join their ranks for years.”

“Not me!” Brown says cheerfully.

Drake ignores her. “But Dick and I said no, obviously. They didn’t want Batman, and we were sticking with Bruce, if given the choice.” He closes his eyes, grimacing. “I never thought they’d go this far, though, to make sure Batman was out of the picture when they tried to get Robin to sign up.”

“They crossed a line,” Richard growls.

“We should send in Jason when he’s free to blow their operation sky high,” Brown calls, twisting around in her chair to grin at them. “You know how he gets when he thinks authority figures overstep. Kaboom.” She mimes an explosion with her hands.

“Quite,” Drake drawls as Brown just cackles. “Anyway, that’s the long and short of it. I’m gonna pass out now, now that everyone is accounted for.” He leaves.

“You two look like you could use a nap, yourself,” Brown says without looking up from the plane’s windshield. “I got everything covered over here.”

Richard smiles down at Damian, and, even under the Batplane’s dimmed stealth lights, he can see the deep circles beneath Richard’s eyes, the pallor in his face that make him look positively ghost-like. “How about it? We’ll have to share a bunk, if that’s OK with you.”

Damian nods once. “That is acceptable.” In a smaller voice, he admits, “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Richard lets out a weak chuckle as he leads them to the back of the plane. “Yeah, it’s been going around lately.”

“I keep dreaming about killing you,” Damian breathes as they stand in front of the free cot, his voice barely above a whisper, “so it would be… reassuring to have you nearby.”

Richard just sighs, “Oh, Dames,” the heartbreak clear on his face, as he starts unclasping his armor. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah?”

Damian hops onto the makeshift bed. As he lays down, Richard sweeps his cape over him. It’s heavy and a bit stiff, but it smells like Richard, and Damian can’t help burrowing deeper into it. 

“I’ll be right here, okay?” Richard murmurs as sleep starts to tug Damian under. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[tatooineknights]

Day Four: Hallucinations - Hypnosis

“Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father,” echoed inside the walls of Luke Skywalker’s head, bouncing off into a darkness that he was just barely cognizant of, desperately looking for an escape. There was no light to be found; the last glimmer of light was his own blue lightsaber, uselessly discarded and tumbling endlessly down an equally dark chasm. There were intense emotions all around, he could feel himself holding back sobs, as he tried to run away from this ever-pervading darkness all around him. “I am your father.”

The wounded youth was unaware of his current state, propped up inside a bacta tank, suspended by a harness hooked under his shoulders as his body was bare save for a modest pair of white briefs. Bacta was known for it’s healing and soothing properties, warm and gelatinous; but for Luke, that warmth made his subconscious feel trapped, stuck in a dreamlike haze he desperately wished to escape, his movements slow and sluggish as droids came and went, monitoring his recovering state.

“I can’t get the visions out of my head,” Luke once said not too long ago to the great Jedi Master Yoda, and now, those same visions forcibly attacked in an unending barrage. The sadness on Leia’s face as she whispered to herself, begging for help; the sudden coldness in Han, as if all life had frozen in an instant; his own face contorting into a pained scream, tears bubbling down his cheeks; and last, but most prominent, the image of Darth Vader’s extended hand, growing larger and larger.

The Sith Lord stood idly by the tank, his hand pressed against the glass, using the Force to peer into the mind of the young man. Luke could feel his presence, but he was unaware, unaware of everything that transpired. Last he knew, he was simply falling down from a weathervane before losing consciousness. There was nothing after; it was all constant vision of what had happened, of failure, and the looming threat of black armor that seemed to envelop a destiny he’d never once imagined.

“Luke,” he heard through the glass, through the depths of the liquid substance, underneath his wet hair and into the traumatized mind of the horrified Skywalker.

He hated that it was so calming to hear his name said, in such a deep baritone, lower than any he’d heard before. There was something… paternal… about it, on an instinctive level. “Father,” he tried to choke out in his unconscious state, but the respirator stopped him from expressing it.

“It is your destiny.”

Destiny?

The black walls soon shifted into greys and a crimson sheen, with the Sith Lord standing with his back turned, looking out into a window of space. A smaller and lean figure approached him from the side, dressed in a slim jumpsuit consisting of white with black accessories, a thin red cape clasped to his narrow shoulders. His hair was slicked back, poking out into curls around the base of his neck. Luke prayed that the man wouldn’t turn around – a sick part of him knew who it must be.

A great battle played out in the window, with seemingly three different sides at war. Luke could see the rebellion flagship in the middle of the battle, taking an onslaught of damage from all sides: and then, a great explosion. The image all went white, transporting Luke to another area, where he saw two individuals locked into a ferocious duel.

His suspicions were right – that young man was himself, drunk on the glory of the Dark Side, delusionally trying to contain himself from fully falling. His lightsaber was activated, a haunting red light shining out of it, on the defensive as a woman faced him. Her attacks were equally as imprecise, untrained as his own, but with increasing rage in an onslaught that this dark mirror of himself could no longer keep up with. Wait, it couldn’t be; Leia? As the realization dawned on him, her blue lightsaber caught his in a bind, gliding down along the core, before slicing into his wrists—

The familiar sound of his own anguished scream took Luke out of the trance, staring blankly through the blue liquid at the black glove on the glass. What happened at Cloud City? How did he end up here?

Leia… where were you?

Now, trapped in this tank, Luke was resigned to whatever might happen next.

Father, he wished out through the Force, swallowing in shock at his own use of the Force.

[cosmicobubisi]

Cosmic's Malleyuu Whump vs Flufftober: Day 4

HALLUCINATIONS hypnosis | sensory deprivation

The world was deep and dark for Malleus.

Normally, he didn't have very intense or vivid dreams of any sort. While others described disorientation and irrationality , Malleus usually had very mundane dreams, when he dreamed at all.

Making tea, organizing his bookshelves, writing a letter to someone he didn't remember- usually, Malleus had an immediate sense of when he was in a dream, and if not, something gave it away quickly.

But right now, all he could feel was confusion.

Voices in the shadows of the trees told him a great many things, none of which made sense. They spoke of power, of longing, of a need to find something.

They also told him his friends were his enemies, his allies were strangers, and that he had nothing to live for but to defend them.

A bullet of wind struck out at him, and Malleus barely dodged it.

As he did, another shot out behind him, the icy blast causing fear to shoot up his spine.

Another blast, and then another zipped past his skin, getting closer and closer.

Was it some unseen assailant, moving too fast for his eye to catch? Panicked, he shot out a bolt of energy.

It didn't seem like he'd hit anything, though, and despite the green eerie glow of his beam, nothing had been lit up. His vision was as limited as ever.

Malleus summoned a ball of fire to hold in his hand, but he still couldn't see anything.

Wind punched his shoulder, and on instinct, he shot out the fireball, summoning another to replace it.

A jet of air blasted him in the back, and he stumbled to shoot out his fireball.

His eyes were hurting from the sheer strain of looking into the endless darkness for so long, his heart nearly pounding out of his chest.

It was coming to get him. It was getting closer, and closer, and he was getting weaker and weaker.

A distorted shout, distinct from the forest's whispers, rang out through the shadowy forest. It was mostly unintelligible, but the end just barely sounded like his name.

The shout rang out again, and again and again, even as the jets of freezing air assaulted him. He didn't actually feel hurt at all, but whatever invisible beast that was attacking him was clearly taking pleasure in taunting him.

It was working. The jets of air were spaced out enough so that Malleus could feel every slash drag its metaphorical talons across his clothes, but their assault was unrelenting, coming from a dozen different directions.

The hushed voices that seemingly came from the forest itself were getting louder. Their cold words seeped into his skin, only adding to his fervor and panic.

"Malleus, please!"

His head snapped up, and the loss of focus knocked him to the ground. That had been the most intelligible shout yet, and it had almost sounded like...

The wind was knocked out of him as another stream of air shot out at him, and this one hurt.

"Stop!"

The voice was very clear now. Malleus could hear a few others in the background now, still distorted but louder.

The strikes of air were hitting him quite hard, but the cacophony was beginning to drown out the hissing whispers of the forest. They were helping Malleus regain a sense of control, stamping down his rising panic.

"Malleus, can you hear us?"

Now he could. The voice he recognized, the voice that instantly swelled his heart.

The distorted irrationality of the dream fought hard to retain its control on him, but now he remembered. There was a world outside of this forest, with people he loved and cared about.

A faint memory tugged at the back of his mind. All he needed to do was follow that string.

He forced himself to pull harder and harder, trying desperately to remember.

He blinked, and his vision finally cleared. The darkness burned away, as he saw the outstretched hand of the one who'd been calling for him.

"Malleus," said Yuu, heaving with exertion, arm outstretched towards him. "Please."

[hywenhei]

HALLUCINATIONS: Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.”

CW: Hypnosis, derealization, hallucinations & sensory deprivation

A Whumper who hypnotises their audiences with stage performances. Look at the blinding spotlights and the dazzling costumes and how they all blend together in a whirlwind of colour that you won't pull your eyes away from, that you can't pull your eyes away from, no, you won't. Just keep watching and let your mind go blissfully blank.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up! You aren't alive anymore because of me so stop acting like you are!"

A Whumper-turned-Whumpee who starts having hallucinations of the victims that they've murdered. The only way to drown out their accusing voices ringing in Whumper's head is to drown them out with screams.

Whumpee was kept in a sensory deprivation room for so long that sometimes, they believe every sensation around them is a hallucination and they are back in that chillingly soft, padded room. Well, nobody needs to tell them that they're right, right?

i'm trying to make my prompts more varied so they don't all look like big blocks of text so hopefully it works :] see you tomorrow for day 5!!

[guardian-of-da-gay]

Read on Ao3

For Whumptober 2024 Prompt(s) 4: Hypnosis, Hallucinations, "You're still alive in my head"

tw for mind control, hurt no comfort

When Sonic heard that G.U.N. needed help facing a ‘necromancer’ with a ‘zombie horde’ at his beck and call, his first reaction was: ‘Are these contagious zombies?’  Upon finding out they weren’t, his second reaction was ‘That sounds awesome!’.  Like yeah, fighting zombies, like fighting robots, wasn’t what he wanted to be doing.  But as long as he had to fight some bad guys, might as well have them be guilt-free, disposable baddies so you can feel even more awesome when you kick their butts.  But also… fighting a zombie horde just sounded cool!

Or at least that’s what Sonic thought when he ditched the evacuation effort with Knuckles.  Then he actually saw them.

He’d expected the dirty fur and patches of bone shining under shriveled skin.  Wasn’t too surprised to see their eye sockets glowing a sickly green.  He wasn’t expecting their threadbare clothes to be colored leather.  Their stringy hair to be frayed dreads.  The masks carved like owl skulls that had haunted his dreams since he was a kid.

Sonic bolted.

He was miles away before he was able to process:

Those had been echidna corpses.

Knuckles wasn’t with him.

Sonic had left him behind.

Maybe if he hadn’t, things would have been different.  Maybe Knuckles wouldn’t have joined forces with the necromancer.  Sorry, maybe ‘Enerjak’ wouldn’t have joined forces with the necromancer, since that was the lame new name he was trying to make happen.

He’d thought he’d known Knuckles.  Thought the ‘sacred vow’ Knuckles made to protect their planet was something he took seriously.  Thought their new tribe meant more to him.  But maybe it was less that his new tribe didn’t mean much to Knuckles, maybe his old tribe just meant more, even if there was just one freaky psychopath left.

Sonic had never laid eyes on the necromancer himself, but he had it on good authority (G.U.N.’s) that he was an echidna.  An albino one.  Apparently he’d chosen to embrace the ‘evil albino’ stereotype and raise an army of dead echidna.  And somehow Knuckles was not only cool with this, but seemed to be having the time of his life destroying everything in his path with his little corpse soldiers in tow.

All the Wachowskis (plus Wade) seemed to have a theory for why Knuckles would reappear as the hordes’ flagship warrior.  Some were more charitable than others, varying from ‘he’s been tricked’ to mind control/hypnotism/possession to ‘he doesn’t want to be on the side of the guys blasting his people’s bodies with bazookas’ to ‘the echidnas have always done dubious things so why shouldn’t Knuckles too?’.  That last one was Tails’ theory.  Some days, after a really hard fight, Sonic found himself agreeing.

They never say it out loud, but Sonic was sure they’d all considered the fact that the necromancer controlled dead people.  Knuckles’ pupils glowed the same green as the other echidna’s empty eye sockets.  And none of them had gotten close enough to get his pulse.  But that option was unthinkable.  Plus Knuckles didn’t act the same as the zombies.

While the blank-faced corpses destroyed all in their path, Knuckles seemed to… enjoy himself.  The zombies never spoke, but Knuckles did.  He’d laugh or yell or bark orders to the horde like he was really their leader.  Sonic had never been able to get Knuckles to talk to him though… At least, not until today.

“Feels like we’re getting into a bit of a routine now, huh Knux?”  Sonic dodged a flying fist.  “You and the freak legion go after people.  I try and stop you.  G.U.N. blows up a bunch of stuff to stop you.  We all go home tired.”  He tucked and rolled around to Knuckles’ blindspot and immediately ducked the wild swing that followed.  “Maybe we could spice things up a bit?  I propose a dance battle.”

Knuckles threw another punch.

Sonic dodged, keeping light on his feet.  He zipped around the next few swings, trying to keep up a steady stream of banter.  He was the fastest thing alive, but the goal today was to go slow.  G.U.N. was evacuating another neighboring town before the legion could reach it.  He had to keep Knuckles busy so the town was empty when Knuckles finally flattened it.

Because the crappy thing about a zombie horde was that no matter what you did to destroy them, they picked themselves up again.  And Sonic had kinda, sorta, never beat Knuckles in a fight.  They were playing defense right now.

And to make things even crappier: Knuckles fought differently now.  He hit harder.  Which Sonic didn’t think was possible.  Where before Knuckles put some control and thought into how much force was behind his punches, now it was like he threw everything he had into each one.  Sonic couldn’t afford to be hit even once now, because Knuckles was hitting to break rocks and Sonic was a lot squishier than that.

Knuckles was also a lot faster.  Not faster than Sonic, of course, but faster than before.  Apparently if he kicked off the ground harder, his strength would carry him faster and further.  The downside?  He trashed the ground every time.  Sonic knew he only had a limited window before the terrain would get hard to manage for both of them.  Then Knuckles would try and push the battle further away, closer to his target.  Sonic had to avoid that.  So even though he didn’t really want to talk to Knuckles, he said anything he could think of to try and distract him.

“You know, it’s funny how it’s always you and never that other guy,” Sonic said.  “The creepy white echidna?  Whatsisname.  Where’s he at?  Why’s he always sending you out like his personal servant boy?”

“I am no servant!”

Sonic was so surprised to hear him talk, he nearly lost his footing.  Knuckles’ next swing almost connected.  The wind was strong enough to throw Sonic off balance and he had to use his speed just to keep his feet.  “Could have fooled me!”  He stalled.  “Isn’t this just what Robotnik did?  Have you fight his battles so he could sneak around being evil?”

“Finitevus is not evil!”

Sonic dodged the next swing but landed on unstable ground.  He had to put on a burst of speed to get away before it could collapse.  “I beg to differ,” he said once he had solid footing.  “Look what he’s done to your people!”

Knuckles blasted forward, throwing up a huge cloud of earth and dust behind him.  He shot ahead of Sonic, feet digging trenches into the dirt to stop himself.  “He brought my people back!”

Cue the zombie horde.  A group of them dropped from the trees, surrounding them.

Sonic’s first instinct was still to bolt when he saw those masks.  He was getting better at making it a productive flight instinct though!  Case in point: when a group of them dropped from the trees to surround him, he immediately went fast enough that time seemed to slow.  He ran over the nearest one, breaking through their line and into the surrounding forest.

Time caught up with him when he’d put enough distance between them that he didn’t feel like he was going to have a heart attack.  His earpiece crackled and he heard Tails’ voice:

“Sonic, we finished evacuating the town.  G.U.N is just clearing out now.  Can you hold him a few more minutes?”

Sonic pressed one finger to the earpiece.  “Got it,” he said.  More echidnas appeared out of the woods.  The legion was getting closer.  Soon there’d be way more than Sonic could handle.  “Tell Commander Walters to hurry up!”

“Do you need me to come back you up?”

“I’m fine–”

Knuckles tackled him to the ground.  Crap, crap, crap!  Sonic got to see that sneer he’d grown to despise up close.  “Who is a the servant here?”  He asked, raising his fist.

“We have more of a collaborative relationship.”  Sonic tried to squirm away, but Knuckles caught him by the ankle and pulled him back.  Sonic kicked him rapidfire and Knuckles was forced to back off or take it all on the face.  Sonic rolled onto his feet and put some space between them.

“G.U.N. and I just mutually agree that making the world safe is the best thing for everybody,” he tried to keep his tone nonchalant so Knuckles might not notice the slight breathlessness.

“Not everybody,” Knuckles snarled.  “Finitevus will make the world safe for us!”

Sonic snorted and looked around, trying to mask his unease as more of the undead soldiers appeared.  “Safe for who?  You’re the only one still here!”

Knuckles swung forward.  “Are you blind?  They’re right here!”

Sonic tucked into a ball and zipped away.  He unrolled in front of a walking corpse.  “Are you blind?”  The zombie swung a broken spear shaft and Sonic dodged.  “They’re dead!”

Knuckles blasted toward him, his power bursting off him in a violent, red wave.  “NO, THEY’RE NOT!”

The wave forced Sonic off his feet.  He tucked up again and unrolled several yards away.  Knuckles’ blast had even sent his army flying.

Knuckles tugged his fist free from the earth and lurched to his feet.  “Finitevus returned them to me so we could fight together!”

Sonic stared at him.  “Are… are you actually crazy?”

“I’m not crazy!”  Knuckles said, looking utterly deranged.  He ran at Sonic, but Sonic wasn’t really in a fighting headspace at the moment.

What the hell was going on?  Knuckles didn’t think these guys were dead?  “Okay then, I guess I’m just confused.”  Sonic dodged Knuckles’ first swing and darted behind a guy who was literally just a skeleton in armor.  “This guy?  Definitely dead.  There’s no coming back from ‘no skin or organs’.”

Skeleton Guy turned to attack.  Sonic knocked his head off, lip curled in disgust.  The rest of Skeleton Guy flailed, searching around for its head.

“I’ve had enough of your lies!”  Knuckles bowed over the skeleton to charge Sonic.

Sonic dodged Knuckles even as he watched the skeleton feel around for his skull.  “... Do they talk to you?”

“Talk!”  Knuckles yelled back.

Then he slowed to a stop.  The vicious expression Sonic had come to know and hate suddenly faltered.

“Talk?”  He said it like he didn’t understand the word.  He looked around at the legion, first one way, then the other.  For the first time since this all started, he seemed unsure.

The quills stood up on the back of Sonic’s neck.  What was happening?

“They can’t talk…” Knuckles breathed faster.   “They… they were hurt so badly.”  The glow in his pupils sputtered and he swayed slightly.

Sonic’s heart began to race.  Suddenly Wade’s mind control/hypnotism/possession theory didn’t feel so farfetch'd.  But if that was the case, how did he pull Knuckles out of it?  Talking about his people being dead seemed to have been some kind of trigger.  Which sucked, but Sonic was grasping at straws, so he went for it:  

“They died, Knuckles,” he said, watching Knuckles closely to gauge his reaction.  Knuckles waivered, looking around at the hoard like he was looking at them for the first time.  The glow in his eyes was sputtering like a candle in the wind.  “They can’t talk,” Sonic continued, “because they’re not really here.  He didn’t bring them back, he’s just using their bodies.”

“No!  Father–” Knuckles looked around, and there was a frantic edge to it now.  “Where…?  He’s not here–who are–I don’t–”  He took a step back.  “I don’t recognize any of you!”

Sonic stared.  This was like seeing the confused Mr. Krabs meme in real life.  It was actually horrifying!  He’d been saying Knuckles was being crazy since he came back all sadistic and psychotic but this was… this was like for real psychosis.  Knuckles was genuinely shocked to see the people with him weren’t his family.  They weren’t even alive.

“Knuckles?”  He asked, holding his hands out flat.  “Knux?”

“Father hasn’t spoken to me,” he said.  “Why wouldn’t he…?”  Knuckles scrunched his eyes closed and pressed a hand to his head.  His teeth clenched, pained.

If an undead horde could hold its breath, that’s what the echidna corpses around them were doing.  Sonic certainly was.  He dared to take a step forward, then another.  He hadn’t been within arms reach of Knuckles and felt safe for months.  He still didn’t feel safe now, but at least now he knew his brother was still in there.

“Knux…”  He reached out and oh-so-gently touched Knuckles’ shoulder. 

“No!”  Knuckles jerked back, staggering.  “You’re lying!  You’re trying to trick me again!”  He clapped a hand to his head again.  He cringed from something Sonic could not see.  Blinking rapidly, he struggled to focus on Sonic in front of him.

Tails’ voice crackled into Sonic’s ear.  Everyone was clear, he could retreat now.  Sonic stayed put.

“I’m not trying to trick you,” he said.  “It’s that Finitevus guy who’s trying to trick you.”

“No,” Knuckles closed his eyes and jerked his head so hard his dreads swung.  The hand at his head balled into a fist.  He hit himself and Sonic had to suppress the urge to rush forward and stop him.

“I can trust Finitevus!”  Knuckles yelled.  “I can trust my people,” he said quietly.

Knuckles straightened, fists falling to his sides as he squared his stance.  He opened his eyes.  “I can trust myself…”

Sonic watched in horror as Knuckles’ pupils filled with green.

“I can trust my own eyes!”

[binaural-histolog]

Hypnotic Hallucination and Pareidolia

I'm continuing work on the newbie guide. This week I filled out the sensory suggestions page, which is mostly focused on hallucination as it is the big and scary thing.

The really interesting thing about hypnotic hallucination is that it's viewed as the "hard" suggestion in hypnotic scales... and yet there's barely any research into why it's hard, or what's hard about it.

After poking at it for a while, it looks like the hard thing is that hallucination suggestions tend to be all or nothing in a way that other suggestions are not.

If a postural sway suggestion is given, it starts by suggesting a small amount of sway and then building it up. If a sensation of cold or heat is given, it's cool, and then it gets colder and colder. People understand this, and can work with it.

But hallucination suggestions just dunk people in the deep end without any context. Either you see an apple on the table or you don't. Either someone is invisible or they're not. Very few people have experience with hallucination or working with visual imagination. And they don't have a way to start off with a small easy thing.

So the solution is to get people used to experiencing hallucination and pareidolia out of hypnosis, and then start them off with small easy pareidolia type suggestions before working up to full on hallucinations.

I wish I could take credit for most of the solutions and exercises, but most of them come from others.

Wordweaver came up with the Ganfeld effect.

Ragezdasta wrote up the illusion exercises.

TistDaniel added the popup box idea.

Hypnoticharlequin wrote up the general guidelines.

I thought about adding more sensory suggestions like analgesia, but the more I think about it, the more all of this is basically the same point. Rather than eliminating pain altogether, start by lessening it. If you're suggesting cold, run out while they're not looking and turn the AC down. Take every opportunity to weigh the scales in your favor.

The one thing that sticks out here is chronoception, which I have no idea how to mess with. Maybe get a metronome and have people speed up or slow down the ticking? I'm sure there's something cool we can do with it, but it's a very abstract sense in general and one that most people aren't even aware that they have.

[tofuless]

Doodle of that lil challenge my brain wanted to do. I don't have enough time to finish this but I figured I'd throw it out there lol.

Oc fusion challenge is surprisingly fun

[donatellokinnersinner]

This is an AU now...

Day 4: Hallucinations Hypnosis | sensory deprivation | “You’re still alive in my head” Fandom(s): Danny Phantom Danny thinks it's too quiet, and he can't stop hearing the voices in his head Valerie didn't expect the consequences of her careless Vengeance.

[sushimango]

Day 04 of Whumptober!

The hardest part for Tom is always if something happens to his family...

Maybe this is why he overworked and then quit his job in this RPG

[whumpninja]

This was fun! I’ve never written hypnosis before, unless you count the time I did the vampire-magic-y kind.

Prompt used: Whumptober, hallucinations

Featuring: hypnosis, traumatic memories, kidnapping, blood, torture, knife wounds, drugged whumpee

Whumptober Day Eleven: The Hypnotist

"I've told you all I know."

The man seated on the narrow hospital cot does not look well. He is thin, ashen, his face drawn and hollow. His bony hands twitch constantly, nails picking at the fabric of the blanket or fingers twining around one another in endless patterns that make sense only to him. His anxious gray eyes are never still- they dart about as if he is waiting for an attack from every side.

Dr. Tarrant takes in all these minute details of his patient in only a moment. "That is not quite true, Mr. Hallows," he says. "You have told me all you can remember. That is not the same as all you know."

"I don't understand."

"The mind has two levels, Mr. Hallows. There is your conscious mind- what you remember while you are awake and alert. But there is also the subconscious mind. Details that your conscious mind cannot recall, buried in your dreams."

Mr. Hallows shudders, and Dr. Tarrant knows he has hit upon the answer. "With your permission, Mr. Hallows, I would like to hypnotize you."

"Hypnotize?" breaks in the young woman standing by the door. Mrs. Hallows, perhaps, or maybe a daughter; Dr. Tarrant isn't sure. "Is it safe?"

"Perfectly safe," the doctor replies. "But I will not do it if Mr. Hallows does not wish it."

The man wets his lips, looks from the young woman to the doctor with wide, tormented eyes, squeezes his fist, and says "Yes. Yes, I will do it."

Dr. Tarrant smiles.

——————————————————————————

He calls in a nurse for assistance. The young woman- a niece, he has learned- is allowed to remain in the room, so long as she does not interfere.

The nurse stands ready at the side of the cot. "Mr. Hallows," Dr. Tarrant begins, "I am going to put you to sleep now. When I do so, I will ask you to tell me what you remember. You will be able to recall much more clearly, I expect. When I have finished, I will wake you. I can cause you to forget everything you have told me, or I can bring it back to your conscious mind so that you remember it all. Which would you prefer?"

Mr. Hallows glances at his niece, then to the doctor. "I-I want to remember," he says quietly.

Dr. Tarrant nods. "Then remember you shall." He raises his hand, watching Mr. Hallows' eyes focus as he speaks in a low, rhythmic voice. "Alpha. Beta. Gamma. Sleeping. Five, four, three, two, one." He snaps his fingers, and Mr. Hallows slumps backward, senseless. The nurse catches him and guides his head down to rest on the pillow.

"Mr. Hallows," Dr. Tarrant says firmly, "tell me what happened to you in the month of November of last year."

The man does not answer for a long moment. His brow furrows, and he lets out a little moan. Then, with a long intake of breath, he begins to speak.

"It is cold, so cold. I don't know where I am. I don't know who has done this. There were men, strange men- two men? Two men, two m...tomb. It is dark, like a tomb, and cold. They took me off the street and brought me here- why did they bring me here? I do not understand. I cannot stand- I am standing. They hang me by my arms and I can scarcely touch the floor. I cannot see the floor- is there a floor? The room is a great black pit, why is it so dark? The two men come in again. They come in and come out and come in and come out and I do not understand. They ask me questions and I do not understand them either. They bring light with them, and I can see them now. I do not know them. I know them, they are the ones who brought me here. I do not know why. One is very close to me now; he says strange things in a whisper- whisper- whispering things I do not understand. The other is closer now, and he has- he has- a little shining thing in the dark, and it is his, it is a knife- he is closer now, the knife is closer- no!"

The shout startles the nurse and the niece, but Dr. Tarrant has been expecting it. Mr. Hallows thrashes on the cot, crying out, screaming. "Nurse," Dr. Tarrant says sharply, and hands her a bottle of opiate. "One drop, quickly, to settle him. Mr. Hallows, you are safe. You are experiencing hallucinations induced by hypnosis, but I assure you, they are not real. Only memories, my friend, only memories. I need you to remember."

The drug seems to help. Mr. Hallows calms somewhat, though he still tosses restlessly. It is several moments before he begins to speak again. "It has been weeks. Perhaps months. I barely know who I am, I do not know where I am, I do not know who the men are. There is- is blood, now." Even closed, a tear slips from his eye. The niece presses a hand over her mouth, her own eyes shiny and wet.

"I do not know why they are hurting me. I think- they know I am weak. They laugh at me for it. But I- I will use it." He laughs, a shallow, broken thing. "They leave the door open now. They think I cannot walk. They- they are right. But I can crawl. I crawl out, down- hallways, endless- twisting- turning- God, where am I?- a door! A door at last, and light. Moonlight. I am...am outside. Somehow I am standing now, and walking- no, running- must get away. I fall, in the road, and then- then someone finds me. Brings me...safe place...brings me...here."

"You will remember everything you have told me. Alpha, beta, gamma," Dr. Tarrant says. "One, two, three, four, five. Waking." He snaps his fingers, and Mr. Hallows comes awake with a gasp.

"Thank you, Mr. Hallows," Dr. Tarrant tells him. "You have given me everything I need. And I hope that I have given you some measure of peace, in return." He smiles grimly. "You never did find out who those men were. But you needn't worry. I learned that long ago. By the time you are released from hospital, you will never need to trouble yourself about them again. I will make quite sure of that."

[sunny-haven]

One thing I've always wanted since I got into hypnosis in middle school is to be hypnotized to see myself as some sort of furry creature (and as of 2020, to see myself as my fursona, my dragon!). And while I don't see that happening for me anytime soon, one way I like to live that dream vicariously is through some of my subjects.

There's a decent amount of subjects out there who have imposition/phantom touch so it's always lovely to give them attention, pets, cuddles, all that stuff. Sometimes I'll have them feel me purr. But there are a few subjects out there who are able to not only feel but see things with hypnosis too, and that's where I have the most fun, because I'll just have them see my fursona like I'm right there!

She looks like this, by the way:

Gosh, the sheer amount of things I do with those kind of subjects, I wouldn't be able to list them all. But definitely lots of cuddles, wrapping them up in my tail, having them feel me purr against them, telling them about my lavender scent and how calming it is. With one subject, I'll often snuggle with him while we're vibing in a call, sit on his lap or have him sit on mine. Haha, there was a time where he was having trouble going to bed consistently so I'd have my dragon self drag him to bed at a certain time each night (and I still do it once in a while when he's stubborn). I like to joke about the fact that my sona's basically a big cat inside of a dragon's body so sometimes I'll lick the top of people's heads like I'm a momma cat. I've been experimenting with biting and choking people with my tail as well. Lotta paw worshipping. Like a loooott lol. Spiral eyes as well, and lately I've given my sona a lavender mist she can breathe out that's super hypnotic. It's great honestly. Oh and lots of more not-safe-for-Tumblr stuff as well, you can bet haha.

It's also honestly helped a lot with my gender expression! It took me a while to come up with the form I express myself as now, but I was able to experiment a lot because a couple of close subjects were able to see my sona in whatever way I wanted present her as! Idk if it'd be a good idea to post the NSFT ref sheet on here but she's a gynomorph, I believe? Think a male body but with breasts, and you can use whatever the term for that is.

I am like suuuper jealous of those friends who are able to see my ideal self so easily, haha, but at the same time it's really nice because they talk about how calming it is for them and it helps them feel a lot happier. (and if they don't outright say it, I can definitely see it!)

but yeah, I just wanted to put that out there into the wild, it's pretty cool. :3

[cloverbeaverfriend]

Y'all Samatoki-stans are all the same.

[hyperfixated-homo]

dreaming of nothingness

Summary:

The forms around him melted into shapes that resembled something big, big, bigger than anything Bugz had seen. He wasn't in a room anymore, he was at- at an edge. A never ending edge. An edge extended with mountains and monsters and lights that don't make sense- a hell frozen over of the likes Bugz had never seen before. And beyond that- a fold. Where the universe came in on itself and became a lack of matter, where space became time became nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all. There was nothing. And then Bugz was back in a room again.

Whumptober Prompt No. 4: HALLUCINATIONS Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59623393

(Note: theres an in depth explanation of this fic in a note on ao3. If you wanna read it ^_^)

Bugz feels like he's melting. Maybe boiling.

Heat and heaviness fills his very bones. The world is sliding around his feet, shifting and moving in a way that feels distinctly incorrect and weirdly familiar. Colors seem to stretch out and meld together into unified shapes that take forms that Bugz can't recognize- amalgamations of billions of beings that Bugz isn't supposed to be able to see.

Bugz wants it to stop. But he can't make his tongue move.

Someone may be taking but their voice is far and fuzzy, sounds that seem to echo around him and fizzle out like popping candy. They're distant- but uncomfortably loud. Shades of static that make Bugz's head spin.

It's not meant to feel like this, Bugz thinks. Or maybe it is? It's hard to tell- the void of emptiness where his thoughts usually were is consuming him, turning him into a mindless drone.

This isn't right. This is- this is wrong. He tries to convey that to Honey- to Honey? Was Honey still here?

He couldn't tell. Everything was still moving but Bugz couldn't- his mouth was glued shut and his muscles loose. He couldn't do anything. The thoughts of apparent wrongness left him before they could form, visions causing fear reactions that had nowhere to sit except in his head, to stew, to rot, to die with him.

Was he dying? Was this death? Death was not usually framed so vibrantly- loud and boisterous and headache-inducingly bright.

The forms around him melted into shapes that resembled something big, big, bigger than anything Bugz had seen. He wasn't in a room anymore, he was at- at an edge. A never ending edge. An edge extended with mountains and monsters and lights that don't make sense- a hell frozen over of the likes Bugz had never seen before.

And beyond that- a fold. Where the universe came in on itself and became a lack of matter, where space became time became nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all.

There was nothing.

And then Bugz was back in a room again.

The noise subsided and Bugz could feel- could feel air, in his lungs. A heart, in his chest. There was fabric- real, textured, touchable fabric beneath him- there was air all around him (not the void not the void not the void not).

Through the ringing in his ears, Bugz could hear someone crying in the background. He thought he might be crying too.

It slowed, slowed, slowed, calmed. And then Bugz was aware of himself again. Not just the body he inhibited but the mind of it too. The being that he was supposed to be, in the enormity of the known (and unknown) universe.

It wasn't Bugz that was crying. Bugz wasn't doing much at all- he was just being. Being real, again.

Honey was crying. Crying apologies, in front of him. Apologies for the experiment gone wrong, for not paying more attention, for allowing the hypnosis to take him that deep when neither of them were ready.

Bugz wanted to say it was okay but his tongue still couldn't move. Funny, that. There was a fog around him now. A feeling, or lack thereof, that made him unexpectedly tired.

Bugz found himself drifting away, away, gone to a place in his own head. A controlled emptiness, this time- something for himself alone.

Bugz let himself fade.

[plasticlung]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ͜　ㅤㅤㅤㅤ/i think about this before i sleep ㅤ 𓌔ㅤㅤ♰ ㅤdescriptionㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤbased on memoriam . where spencer visits a hypnotherapist in hopes to put his mind at rest . ㅤwhumptoberㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤday four ; hypnosis , hallucinations

ㅤmain pairㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤspencer reid , jason gideon ㅤao3 linkㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤclick here !

ㅤtagsㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤangst , hurt . ㅤwarningsㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤn / a ㅤword countㅤㅤ˚̣̣̣ㅤ1.4k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ͜　ㅤㅤㅤㅤ/full fic below

Spencer Reid’s mind was always running, it was always active. It was like a constant hum that was on in the background, a never-ending flow of statistics and facts that he couldn’t turn off, no matter how much he wanted to. He had read about hypnosis, of course he had, it intrigued him and he knew it was a valid practice, that it could work– on other people. Not on him. He couldn’t turn his mind off for himself, let alone for someone else. It felt impossible. Hypnosis couldn’t work on him. His mind didn’t know how to be still.

But then again. He was desperate. 

What was one of the biggest fights his parents had about ? What was the other reason that his father left ? Why did his mother insist on pushing the memory away, claiming nothing had happened ? And the most important question in his head. What had happened to that little boy ? Riley Jenkins. The kid’s face haunted Reid in every quiet moment, plaguing every dream and nightmare he had. He no longer lingered in the background of his mind like a light buzz; now he was always there, seeping into everything he did.  He couldn’t work on the case, couldn’t think clearly, because the not knowing had consumed him.

So, Spencer found himself here, at the office of a hypnotherapist. Not alone, though. He’d asked Rossi to come with him. He wasn;t sure why he asked the author to come along instead of his best friend. Maybe because Rossi was still distant enough not to suffocate him with worry. The office looked exactly like he expected. Clinical. He’d been to places like this as a kid, specialists assessing his iq level. He'd also been here as a teenager with his mother, trying to make sense of her illness. The faint smell of lavender hit him, and he swallowed hard. Nostalgia crawled up his spine and he assumed there is more where that came from.

Later on, Spencer will regret how snappy he was with the hypnotherapist. She asked him basic questions, and he answered sharply, sometimes even cutting her off. Maybe it was because he wasn’t going into this blind. He had read more books about hypnosis than she probably had, and part of him resented being talked down to. It wasn’t personal; he just couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a waste of time. But it wasn’t, was it? He needed to know what happened that day. He couldn’t live like this anymore, letting his mind unravel every detail but never actually getting an answer.

He didn’t speak as he was led to a second room, equally as clinical but with an attempt at being warm and welcoming. He didn’t respond as he was told to have a seat on the long couch in the centre of the room, lying down. He shifted his  weight, trying to find a position that didn’t make him feel so exposed. The therapist’s voice washed over him, soft, steady, guiding him to focus on his breathing as she had him grab her hand. “You’re safe here, Dr. Reid,” she said instead of counting once they went through a few rounds of breathing exercises. “You’re in control.”

He didn’t really feel like he was in control. In fact, never in his life did he ever. He tried to clear his mind, but everything was floating around like an itch you just can’t reach. “Spencer,” The therapist said softly, this time using his first name, her voice dropping into a more intimate tone. “I want you to let yourself remember. Just let go.” 

For a second nothing happened, and he was surprised when she spoke up again, thinking she was going to give him more time. “Where are you, Spencer ?” She asked, and in the back of his mind he wanted to give a sarcastic answer of her office, but instead he continued along, knowing nothing would come from more of his doubt.

“It’s night,” he finally spoke up, but even his own voice felt far away. “My father is on my bed. He knows I’m awake but I’m acting like I’m asleep. I couldn’t sleep when they were yelling at each other.” It felt wrong to tell this stranger all of this, and he forgot that Rossi is also witnessing this. “He smells different than he usually does. He has an office job, he shouldn’t smell of sweat or fire.”   His heart started racing. He wasn’t sure if it was the memory or the anxiety of not being able to pull away.  “He leaves. I don’t sleep that night.”

“It’s the next day now. You leave your room. What do you see, Spencer ? ” He paused, his breathing was the only thing heard in the room and he only continued when he realised that the hypnotherapist wasn’t going to lead him any further.His breath came faster, and he could feel the tightness in his chest, the same tightness that had clamped down on him as a child.

“I– I don’t know...” His voice shook, sweat beading on his forehead. The images were coming faster now, jumbled. His father’s face, then his mother’s, blurred, contorted. “I’m alone. I think. I’m– I’m alone in my house. My father is here, he is outside.” He could feel himself moving, inching forwards the glass doors that could hold all the answers, but the panes were fogged up. 

He couldn’t breathe. It was too much. His chest heaved as panic clawed its way up his throat. “No !” The volume of his voice shocked himself, and he wished to open his eyes but he couldn’t, only squeeze them further shut. “Stop it.” He doesn’t know who he is directing that to. A wave of nausea hit Spencer as he struggled to see, to make sense of what was happening. It was blurry, as if he was looking at it through tears but it is no doubt his dad was burning perfectly good clothes– well, perfectly good clothes other than the fact that they are stained red. 

He was too focused on the growing of the fire to register Rossi’s voice panic talking to the therapist, or how she was asking him to wake up, how his eyes stayed shut even after she counted down from one. He had said stop, but the hypnotist’s voice didn’t seem to reach him and the room’s presence felt distant. His pulse quickened as the smell of burning leaves filled his nostrils again, stronger this time, acrid and suffocating. “There’s–” his voice ripped out of him, “Blood. Smoke. It’s–” he knew it was impossible for him to actually smell the smoke but it felt like the clouds were down his throat. “Stop it.”

He tried to pull away, to wake up, but his body was frozen. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, but he couldn’t make himself move. It was like his mind was trapped, stuck in the memory. He clawed at it, trying to force himself awake, trying to scream, to do anything. His fingers dug into the armrest, but it wasn’t real. Nothing was real. The therapist’s voice was somewhere in the distance, but it was muted, like she was speaking underwater. He could barely hear her. 

“Spencer!” Rossi’s voice suddenly cut through, sharp and urgent, but distant, like it was coming from the other side of a tunnel. He was trapped. Locked inside the memory, with no way out. Panic surged through him, his chest tightening, his breaths becoming shallow and ragged. He felt like he was suffocating, drowning in the weight of the past. “You’re safe. You’re not there.” Rossi continued but it didn’t feel like the truth. He was there. He could smell the burning leaves, hear the fire cracking in the air, feel the cold sweat on his skin as he tried to get a closer look.  

Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in his arm, like he was being pulled. If he was present, he would say that that was a dangerous way to wake someone that is under hypnosis, but now he could only be glad that he was pulled from his lying position, helping his eyes snap open. He was back in the office, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. The room spun for a moment, the fluorescent lights too bright, too sharp. He blinked, trying to orient himself, his hands still gripping the armrests of the chair with white-knuckled intensity.Rossi was kneeling on the ground beside him, his hand and Spencer’s arm and further grounding him by giving it a light squeeze. “It;s okay, kid. You’re back. You’re okay.”