WARNING: Although this blog is not exclusively NSFW, there is NSFW content here. Those below the
age of 18 (or your country's equivalent age of consent), please click away from this blog immediately! Welcome to my corner of the Web, thanks for stopping by. Not 100% sure what to do with this blog yet, but I'm trying it out. (20M)
Hi! I’m Andreveos, and this is my blog. I’m not 100% sure what I want to do with this yet, but for now, it’s going to be a repository of the ideas and fantasies I have. Some will be SFW, some will be decidedly less so. As such, if you are under the age of 18 (or your country’s equivalent age of majority), please leave this blog now.
Rating tags:
#cola: Entirely SFW things; you could show your grandmother this.
#cider: Questionably SFW things; won’t get completely explicit, but still might turn you on depending on your preferences.
#cognac: Fully NSFW things, directly involving sex, sexuality or kink.
Things I will probably write about:
Hypnosis
Soft cuddliness
Scentplay
Snakes/coiling
Weird pseudo-philosophical navel-gazing
Lots of very very sensory-intensive stuff
Worldbuilding and how it relates to my burgeoning list of OCs
Things I will definitely NOT write about or allow on this blog in any way (if this zero-tolerance policy makes you uncomfy, feel free to shoot me a DM so I can explain further):
Consensual non-consent/rape play
Scat/watersports
Findom
Objectification
Degradation
Ageplay/CGL
Worship/hierophilia/TPE
Any kind of racism, sexism, transphobia, ableism or any other kind of discrimination based on inherent traits or abilities (and YES, that includes discrimination against cis straight white men).
I have a Read-Only Mind account! You can check out my longer hypnosis-related works there: https://readonlymind.com/@Andreveos/
I love when characters get that wide-eyed, surprised expression right before their hypnotic trigger activates, as if it caught them off-guard.
Like, say a character was hypnotized to fall asleep whenever he hears a finger snap. One day, he's minding his own business, when someone snaps. His eyes widen before he falls unconscious, as if his brain is saying: "Oh, right! The trigger!"
That face could represent so many thoughts.
Maybe they're thinking: "Wait, I'm hypnotized, aren't I?" Or "Whoa! Why do I suddenly feel so strange?" Or maybe it's just a surge of obedience flooding their brain, and their eyes widen because they just entered trance.
It was written as a parody of the fairly corrupt Japanese legal system, exaggerated for both humour and gameplay reasons, giving us such lovely gems as:
They don't have manslaughter
It's never stated outright to my knowledge, but it's generally implied that the penalty for murder is universally or near-universally the death penalty
Trials are legally mandated to go on no longer than three days, no matter how complicated they can get. The lab analysis for a poison isn't completed in three days? You can't use it in the poisoning trial. Your witness can't be tracked down on the last day? We go to the verdict without their testimony.
Everyone is assumed guilty until proven innocent. The defense attorney has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt, within 3 days, that their client could not possibly be guilty, or they're gonna get a GUILTY verdict
In practical terms, this means that if your client is innocent, you have to not only prove that but usually find the actual killer within the three days to show it's a different person. This isn't officially mandated as part of the defense's duties but in pretty much every case it's what Phoenix has to do to exonerate his client, even if he's otherwise proven the killer couldn't be (or is extremely unlikely to be) his client.
Both sides can just show up to the courtroom with new evidence and demand it's accepted as evidence during the trial. There's no verification process for this and no requirement that the other side has access to it pre-trial. You can show up with a letter in hand and halfway through the trial be like "this letter was found in the victim's apartment!" and it becomes part of the case then and there.
There are no restrictions on where or how you can find evidence. You, a defense attorney who doesn't work for the police force and has no equivalent of warrant law, can break into a witness' house and steal evidence from his personal safe to show in court the next day. This is not a crime apparently.
It's normal and accepted that the prosecution will coach all witnesses, usually telling them to lie. It's a huge advantage when you get to interrogate a witness who the prosecution hasn't been able to tell what lies to tell yet. They never face repercussions for this.
The prosecution will frequently falsify evidence. They receive no punishment for this and are allowed to continue practicing law. Witnesses will regularly lie on the stand; they receive no penalty for this and the rest of their testimony is still considered reliable. It's up to the defense attorney to expose every single lie; if you can't prove a word against your client is a lie, even from the mouth of a known liar, then your client must be guilty of it.
All of your trials are overseen by the same judge and he is comically incompetent. This isn't an oversight of the game he is deliberately written to suck at his job, be easily bullied by the prosecution, generally have very little idea what's going on and issue his verdict based on Vibes.
The lawyers will straight up make bets mid-trial with each other like "if you can't find a problem with this next witness' testimony, you have to admit that you're wasting our time and the verdict will be Guilty". The judge lets them do this. This is considered practicing law. Prosecutors will also physically assault other lawyers and the judge in the courtroom but this is okay because it's funny.
The cops work directly for the prosecuting attorney and the prosecuting attorney will openly threaten police witnesses right there on the stand in front of everyone if the witness isn't saying what the prosecution wants them to.
The level of corruption in the prosecutor's office is just. I couldn't describe it in a bullet point. Prosecutors are straightup hitmen for hire and their weapon of choice is the death penalty.
Phoenix gets physically assaulted and robbed by prosecutors and witnesses a lot more than one would reasonably expect. Someone's always there to beat this poor lawyer unconscious and steal evidence from him. He never makes backup copies. That's not the legal system's fault but dude buy a photocopier for your office.
Once declared innocent, that person could no longet be declared guilty on that case even if new evidence shows. (Although I think there actually is a law like that in Japan?)
Defense attorneys do not get checked to make sure they are 1. Who they say they are nor 2. An actual defence attorney
A defense attorney's first case can be a murder case
Attorneys can be directly tied to a case and prosecute/defend. There is no known rule of conflict of interest
To be fair, most countries (i.e. all 174 countries party to the ICCPR, including Japan, the USA, Europe, Russia, China and India) have a "double jeopardy" provision in their legal systems which prevents an individual being tried twice for the same accused crime (although some countries do make an exception for murder/manslaughter, or allow new evidence to be made at an appeal if there is one). The reason is that otherwise bad actors could repeatedly harass individuals or court systems if they don't get the result that they want. It's still dangerous to turn up (or worse, provide/confess to) evidence after a "not guilty" verdict is passed, because you could potentially still be tried for a different crime related to a particular event, or else be civilly sued (e.g. for "wrongful death" if found not guilty of murder) where the evidentiary standard is typically much more forgiving.
Also, as far as I know, most countries' legal systems do not have laws in place saying that a defense lawyer's first case can't be a murder case, and there's certainly lawyers who specialise right out the gate in murder/manslaughter law. I can't speak to the wisdom of hiring a fresh-out-of-law-school lawyer as your defense counsel when you're accused of murder, but in theory there's nothing saying that you can't. (Then again, that would be in character for Larry Butz.)
No big plan to make u a pet or a slave, just a friend being a bit michevious and wanting to see that empty look on ur face.
bonus points if the induction is casual too, just feels like a normal conversation until you realize your thoughts are all sluggish and you feel so heavy~~
So I was inspired by the always insightful downthestaircase to do a post on religion and hypnosis. This is a fraught area for all kinds of reasons, so caveat emptor.
I grew up in a household that was avowedly very liberal and also very Christian. I was raised with a worldview that being politically and socially liberal was in no way at odds with also being down with the Jesus. These things are still very true to me today. Still Christian, still active, still liberal.
The church I went to growing up was also fairly liberal, as mainstream Protestant denominations go. But let’s make one thing clear. When I started getting super into hypnosis when I was 12 or so, this was a wholly unwelcome development, because hypnosis was “of the devil.”
My mom, y'all, was *not* okay with this. I was lectured and shouted at and it was not good. It was similarly addressed by church youth leaders. If I had to guess, this was a combination of the whacked out cult scares of the 80s and the very common misconception that hypnosis was “mind control.”
Because I know pretty much everyone following me, you’ll all know that this did not deter me at all, because there was no way I wasn’t going to learn this.
And the more I learned, the more I realized how totally asinine my family and my church’s rejections of hypnosis were. Indeed, the *very same* youth leader would regularly lead us in theatre exercises that were about helping us focus. It will surprise none of you to know that they were big freaking group hypnosis sessions.
That of course, only scrapes the surface: the entire ritual of worship is a very hypnotic process. I have atheist friends who insist that’s intentional and nefarious; I disagree there. A good collective experience is almost always hypnotic/trancy in some fashion. Concerts, speeches, rallies, even the ebb and flow of sporting events.
And let’s not even get started on prayer. Lectio divina is Latin for “group hypnosis session.”
I guess, ultimately, it’s about the power of the name. Hypnosis, the word, carries unfair connotations, many connoted by people who don’t know shit about shit, to be frank. And religious communities are not well known for being terribly flexible or evolutionary entities as it is.
For me, there has never really been a conflict there, between my faith and my favorite hobby, at least until I discovered the, um, full range of hypnosis uses. But even in that context, I’m unmoved by the suggestion that the two can’t coexist. In fact, I see hypnosis as very much a gift from God. It’s this amazing feature that we haven’t even quite hashed out yet.
So I’m me. I hypnotize people for fun. I get hypnotized for fun. I go to church. I love my faith. Where others see conflict, I see things that go hand in hand.
I’ve been looking through my archives because of my recent 11th anniversary on here and 1) this post actually holds up; 2) i love that tumblr just nukes ALL formatting when you reblog old posts - never stop tumbling, you crazy site and 3) this was my first Phish reference on the blog. No one noticed it.
So for this one, I thought I'd try my hand at a bit of a text induction! Which I realized I hadn't really done before- I've done plenty of text trancing and written several scripts, but those are both a little bit different from like, a non-interactive text induction/induction-like thing. So I hope you enjoy~
Hopefully this is obvious from the fact that it's a text induction, but cw for hypnotic language!
~~~
Hands are so interesting, aren’t they?
There are so many parts to them. Bones, muscles, tendons, ligaments. Skin, wrinkles, knuckles, fingernails. Everyone has different lines, scars, stories…
And the skin on our hands regenerates every few weeks.
Which means that I’d like you to imagine looking at my hand now.
Try to look deeply… try to memorize every little variation in the colour, every line… because this might be your only opportunity to really see my hand as it is now… it might be different next time you see it…
So you’d better look hard. Maybe even stare. You know- blink and you’ll miss it.
Oh, it’s harder to memorize when I move my hand back and forth? Harder to take in the details when I move my fingers around?
Yes, I know it is. But it feels nice to follow the nice, smooth movement, doesn’t it?
It’s okay, you don’t need to tilt your head up. You can just follow my hand with your eyes.
That’s right.
I suppose you could look away from my hand, but why would you want to when it feels this good to stare? Besides, it might not look the same next time, so you probably want to drink it in now.
Exactly. Just like that.
My goodness, your eyes are starting to flutter a little. They must be getting tired, watching my hand slide back and forth through the air, fingers dancing across your vision.
Just a little longer.
Soon, they’ll be able to rest.
Soon, you won’t need to look.
So better to watch closely, while you still can.
Watch my fingers as they play across your mind just as they play across the air… sometimes in a rhythm, sometimes seemingly random.
Feeling so good to stare.
Unable to look away
As
They
Just
Move
Down.
That’s right.
And with a snap of those same fingers that brought you down so nicely,
You can wake feeling alert and refreshed!
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Thanks so much for reading! I'll be aiming to post some form of writing, typically a microfic or minific, daily this month, using this prompt list that I threw together! If last year is any indication, there may be some that end up connected to one another, but they'll all work perfectly fine as a standalone story. Feedback is super super welcome! Creative writing is something I've done for a very small portion of my life, so I'm always looking to improve! As such, I'd prefer for critical feedback to be kept constructive in nature and actually give me some indication of what/how to improve <3
Thanks again for reading, and I'll hopefully see you tomorrow!
I walked in the front door, which more or less opened into the kitchen, to find you washing dishes.
“Oh! Thanks for doing the dishes, babe!”
And you responded exactly as I assumed you would. Because you knew it had been driving me up the wall.
“What can I say except you’re welcome?” you sang at me.
This time, however, I didn’t groan or roll my eyes or any of my usual responses to your intentionally getting that song stuck in both of our heads. I simply grinned.
This is the risk of your trolling becoming predictable, after all. It means I can plan for it.
You slowly lowered the pan you’d been scrubbing back into the sink as your arms gently fell to your sides. Your eyes glazed over as You’re Welcome began playing and layering itself through your mind, echoing a hundred different times and overwhelming your senses.
Quickly kicking my shoes off and putting my bag down, I gently took hold of your shoulders and led you over to the couch as your eyes glazed over and you half-muttered, half-hummed “Wha- yo- welcome… whacanisay… wel… com…”
“What’s that, babe?”
You answered automatically. “You’re welcome.”
“What should we make for dinner?”
“You’re welcome…” You still maintained the cadence of the song, starting at a higher pitch and moving lower.
“Very good, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What can you say except ‘you’re welcome’?”
“You’re welcome.”
“You enjoy being my helpless plaything, don’t you?”
Your jaw tightened as you smiled ever so slightly. “You’re welcome.”
And now, for the most interesting part of this particular bit of conditioning.
“Thank you, babe, for taking off your shirt.”
I was impressed at how quickly you were able to obey while so deep in trance, but no sooner had you finished saying “You’re welcome” than your shirt was on the floor next to the couch.
This was going to be fun.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thanks so much for reading! I'll be aiming to post some form of writing, typically a microfic or minific, daily this month, using this prompt list that I threw together! If last year is any indication, there may be some that end up connected to one another, but they'll all work perfectly fine as a standalone story. Feedback is super super welcome! Creative writing is something I've done for a very small portion of my life, so I'm always looking to improve! As such, I'd prefer for critical feedback to be kept constructive in nature and actually give me some indication of what/how to improve <3
Thanks again for reading, and I'll hopefully see you tomorrow!
I like to think about edging and orgasm denial quite a lot (and do them myself, although I don't quite have the self-discipline to do it super well, nor do I have somebody to do it with), and I've at several points thought about a week of continually reinforced denial - reinforced, that is, by edging multiple times per day, of course. One can hardly make it so easy as to let me forget about it, right?
Day 1 - induction. The topic is broached, enthusiastic consent is given, desires, limits and safeties on discussed. Of course, the instruction could simply be given, but hypnosis works so wonderfully both as a ritual for making sure the instructions are printed deeply into my mind, and a way for them to demonstrate how much power over me they have in and out of trance. That evening's first edge is manageable enough to maintain - though the seeds of neediness are already being sown.
Day 2 - eagerness. Waking up bright and early, my excitement for the week's activities rousing me from sleep better than the strongest coffee - helped, no doubt, by dancing on that electrifying line early in the morning, before I even arise from bed. But I'm careful, I'm diligent, and I make sure to keep myself back from the edge despite the germs of desire taking root - "helped" by a few coy, attentive words and sneaky touches from them.
Day 3 - diligence. I awaken warm, shadows of hot, carnal dreams making my skin flush even before I begin the morning's touching. Those shadows stretch long over my day, whispering into my ear about how nice it would be to touch just a little more, water those shoots of need creeping into the corners of my mind - - but no. I need to... obey, need to keep myself to my new regime. Much as I might like to do more, and hard (in every sense of the word) as it is to stop myself.
Day 4 - temptation. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the heat between my legs, throbbing and twitching at times even when I’m not actively touching. Sometimes I feel like I’ve mastered the impulse, being able to focus on my work for extended periods, until I catch my fingers absent-mindedly wandering over my thighs, my hips ever so softly rocking against the unhelpfully-shallow lip of the chair. Just… need to get through the workday, and then I can edge some more. Just a few more hours.
Day 5 - lust. I’m pulled from my dreams, gasping, by a whisper in my ear and a hand in my hair – to find my own already between my legs, wrapped around my pulsing need, slick and damp – though only, to my relief, with sweat and pre. Even as I dress for the day, my clothes feel thick and heavy against my flushed skin – I just – I just want to touch, anything, anywhere, just a little more – and I do, never to completion, just edging, just riding that high… and there’s nothing that says I can’t edge *more* than I agreed to, right? It just feels… mmph, agonising, and amazing… maybe just one more time…
Day 6 - desperation. Ffffffuck… I can’t focus, I can’t focus at all, on anything other than the incessantly weeping length pressing against my briefs and the fuschia fog filling my head. Craving is blooming in every corner of my head, filling every pore with its pollen, its fertility laughing at my pent-up need. I’m only just able to keep up appearances, if breathless and tired – but every spare moment, every private corner, I can’t stop myself from touching, rubbing, slick and heavy, panting, gasping, almost moaning aloud – I practically run out of work at the end of the day, not even able to get to my bed, just keeling over in need in the hallway – at least until I feel their grip in my hair again…
Day 7 - madness. Please… please, I’ll do anything, just let me cum, don’t make me wait, I just… I can’t think, I can’t move, I can’t wear anything, without just rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, need to rub, need to moan, need to cum, my brain is melting, drip drip dripping out my mouth, my pores, my cock, I can’t… I just… I don’t care about anything else, I’m so close, just let me - - -
I’m a huge fan of scents in hypnosis, because of the body’s need to breathe. There’s no way to stop it, no way to resist, because everybody needs to breathe. So, you just breathe in that control and feel your body become another’s. It goes through many different forms, too. Maybe a sultry woman using her perfume to charm you closer to her words is in your taste. Perhaps it’s the natural body’s musk beckoning your being to beg for more of it. Possibly your significant other leaves a particularly pleasant smelling air freshener in your room as you sleep, waking up in your own delight and in their control. You wouldn’t be able to stop any of these. You’d just surrender eventually. There’s so many other examples too. Chloroform, sweets, aphrodisiacs upon your nostrils. All of it capturing your mind’s attention and your will against your will. But again, you can’t stop it. You’d just breathe it all in, surrendering slowly to the sinking feeling of sweet succumbing serenity. You may even be able to imagine the smell upon your mind. Maybe it’s a sweet and enchanting whiff of perfume corrupting you. Perhaps it’s the deeper and stronger stench of your superior taking you away. Whatever it may be, I want you to indulge in it. You deserve to, after all. You just surrendered and took deep breaths this entire time, taking it all into those lungs and taking all of your mind away. Enjoy the pleasantries as they twist and turn those thoughts around into the perfect pleasure center for your superior. After all, you can’t stop it.
Honestly, I don't care any more,but this whole flower thing doesn't make any sense whatsoever and is just a poor excuse to try and keep Mew and Mewtwo reproduction asexual because of the author's aversion to sex. But newsflash: unfortunately for mammals, we need sex to reproduce. Since Mews give birth, I assume it is a mammal.
Asexual reproduction in mammals is currently not possible, though it has been observed in lizards, fish and insects before.
1. I would buy the whole flower reproduction system for CELEBI, since you know, it is psychic/plant typing, UNLIKE Mew. But even that aside, okay, let's grant for a second here that a Mew can reproduce asexually with a flower.
2. Why can a Mewtwo then, a DISTINCT DIFFERENT SPECIES apart from Mew reproduce with a Mew Flower? Realistically, Mewtwo would be so altered in its genetic makeup that flower reproduction with a Mew flower will not work for a Mewtwo.
3. Why exactly does the number of flowers determine the amount of babies they fall pregnant with? What, is one flower only inducing hormones for just one baby?
4. ...why doesn't the self-fertilizing mechanism produce CLONES? Huey for all intents and purposes should have been born female (because a Y chromosome can only be given by a male during fertilization) and look just like Newtwo (asexual reproduction only makes clones of the parent).
5. ...I think the author is really confusing gender and sex with each other. Gender is what you identify with, even if it sometimes doesn't align with biological reality. If being genderless meant that you could have babies however, oh boi, many nonbinary people would love that! But what gender they see themselves as doesn't change if they have a penis with balls or a uterus with ovaries in reality (that's what gender reassignment surgery is for, and even then, technology hasn't come so far as to also give reproductive abilities back).
Just say that Mews and Mewtwos are hermaphrodites (like snails) (they got both dicks, balls, uteri and ovaries) and be done with that. Much less confusion there. It would explain why Huey, a male identified Mewtwo, can give birth (because he has both sets of gonads).
In conclusion: While artists have the creative liberty to do whatever the fuck they want with their own stories, and there is a suspension of disbelief inherent in the Pokémon franchise, not everyone in the Fandom will blindly swallow the artist's explanations if they are too fantastical/illogical. I mean, that's also the reason why people in the Pokémon Fandom also wonder where food came from and if Pokémon are being butchered for dishes. Or people who wonder how Kangashkan can hatch out of an egg with a baby already in her pouch - It's just... stuff that makes you go like "...hold on, that doesn't make sense". And I can confidently say - the Mew flower doesn't make sense to me.
- All (ovo)viviparous species are mammals, and sea snakes, pit vipers and tiger sharks can get fucked
- Lillipup, Vanillite, Grimer, Finneon, Wurmple and Foongus are all either reptiles or birds (reproduce sexually, lay hard-shelled eggs)
- Genetic changes (whether through cloning or through evolution) always prevent interbreeding (and similarly, no species of Pokémon should be able to reproduce with any other species of Pokémon and produce fertile offspring)
- There is no such thing as superfecundation
- All mammals use the XY sex-determination system, and platypodes can get fucked
- A mammal with an XX chromosome must, per definition, self-identify as female, and you definitely didn’t contradict yourself two points later
- Parthenogenesis always produces full clones, and developmental variation in gene expression does not exist
- TC is claiming that only individuals identifying as female are capable of carrying developing offspring to term, and they definitely didn’t directly say otherwise in the above post
- Pokémon necessarily follow the same biological and genetic dynamics as organisms on Earth do
- Biology isn’t way, way, way more complicated than the way that it is taught in high school
Additionally, as others have already pointed out, your comments come off as rather gender essentialist and acephobic. I hope that wasn’t your intention, and if you’d like help understanding how and why these comments feel hurtful, I’d be happy to help you understand. :)
I’ve posted a new story on my Read-Only Mind account!
Morgan’s just coming out of a wonderful trance, and it’s time for some aftercare. Although Gabriel might have a thing or two to tease them about first…
Sudden, spontaneous sensitivity is always a sensational surprise. Perhaps you heard some high-pitched noise which made your hairs stand on end. Perhaps some hidden trigger planted deep within your subconscious was activated without your knowledge. Perhaps there's some nefarious chemical concoction swirling through the last dregs of your drink. Their coy smile tells nothing, though it is slightly too curled to fully support their façade of innocence. It feels as though they've secretly seized your nerves' intensity dial and is slowly tick-tick-ticking it up, moment by moment.
It starts as just a slight tingle whispering across your skin, like a stray draught tickling the back of your neck. The tingle turns into a buzz, running up and down your shoulders and thighs as if you could feel the electric currents sparking through your neurons. Suddenly, your sweater starts feeling a bit too itchy to wear comfortably; perhaps best to take that off for now. Oh, and perhaps socks too while you're at it. After all, when every square centimetre of your skin is tickling like this, it only makes sense to make yourself as comfortable as possible, right? The buzz turns into a crackle, snapping jolts leaping from vertebra to vertebra, your breath catching in your chest with every minute adjustment. It's not painful, exactly, just intense - in fact, the added sensitivity, the awareness of every millimetre of contact, is almost pleasant. Or at least it would be, if these damn trousers didn't keep scraping against your thighs. These things feel like sandpaper, what on Earth were you thinking wearing them all day? No, the trousers have to go. Shirt too, while you're at it. Mmmm, that feels better, skin exposed to the air rather than the constant assault of fabric. That's only natural, to make yourself feel good, right?
The crackle turns to a burn, little explosions blossoming beneath your skin, your legs beginning to tremble uncontrollably at the constant bombing runs tracing all along your body. Even the feeling of your bare feet against the floor is becoming overwhelming. Your breath comes quick and fast. Your fingers are making unconscious grasping, clawing motions, looking, searching, yearning for something, some texture that you need, that you desperately crave to whet this insatiable appetite for sensation. You can't stop yourself from crying out when they gently clasp your hand in theirs. So warm, so smooth, the softness of their palm and their toughened fingertips. It's like sweet ambrosia for your skin, a bath of pure pleasure in their flesh. It takes only the merest hint of coaxing to get you to crawl into their lap, hugging them, wrapping yourself in them. Their touch, their warmth, the softness of their skin, the little hairs sending jolts down your spine... it's almost too much, but it feels so good, so right. Sensation has crowded out any semblance of logical thought; you need them, you need to touch them, to feel them, to crow in bliss at every thump of their heart. You barely even noticed you had undressed, let alone them, and you certainly weren't about to question the gleeful cackle setting your head ablaze as it reverberated from their chest. After all, when it felt so good, why on Earth would you need to think about anything else?
This one requires some formatting which Tumblr doesn’t seem to like very much, so please check it out on my Read-Only Mind page here: https://readonlymind.com/@Andreveos/Hypnovember2021Microfics/11/
The warden bristled at your comment, fixing you with a cold stare. “And pray tell, what were you expecting? Gleaming marble columns? A fanfare of golden trumpets?”
Your stomach twisted awkwardly. “I… well…” You gabbled, desperately trying to voice your concern without being rude – not that you knew what counted as rude among these people. “When you said ‘parlour of the Fae Queen’, I… can’t say that the first thing that came to mind was a… shed.”
You tried to say “house”, but the word stuck in your throat; it seemed entirely too generous to apply to the barely-standing collection of rocks and sticks which stood before you. The peak of the leaf mulch which formed the roof was only as tall as you were, you would have to bend almost double just to fit through the doorway. The structure was barely wide enough for two people to fit inside, perhaps three were they prepared to get comfortable.
The warden scoffed, rolling his thick, muscular neck. “Our Lady has gone to no small effort to create an environment which your feeble mortal mind may comprehend, at least to a degree,” he said, coolly. His face seemed permanently fixed in a scowl; you wondered if it was how he always looked, or if he really disapproved of your presence that much. “I would have hoped you would be a touch more appreciative of her courtesy.”
Your stomach seemed ever more determined to twist itself into a knot which you were unsure even fae magic could undo. “O-of course, of course,” you stammered, nodding perhaps too vigorously, or too many times. “I’m… very grateful for the Lady’s, erm… hospitality.”
“Hmph,” grunted the warden. Even his noises of frustration had a slight majesty to them, like a mighty boulder settling a little deeper into a mountain alcove. “Now, I believe this is your first time entering the domain of one of the Fair Folk.” It was not a question, and he did not wait for a response. “I have little hope you will ever fully comprehend our customs, but… for now, be silent unless you are prompted to speak, and in the presence of Our Lady, never break eye contact. Her Highness suffers discourtesy… poorly.”
Though his supercilious tone rankled against your pride, the warden’s heavy, well-chosen pause added enough links to the chain steadily being made out of your intestines to make you bite back the comment rising in response. You opened your mouth to affirm his instructions, but before you could form a syllable, one of the warden’s bushy eyebrows rose as he fixed you with that stony glare again. You elected to close your mouth, instead nodding to show that you understood.
“Good,” he rumbled, though his relentlessly dour tone gave no hint of satisfaction. “At least you seem to be able to follow basic instructions. Now, if multiple instructions are not too much for you, you will follow me. And closely; I have little interest in going looking for you should you get lost.”
He did not wait for any hint of understanding; without further comment or ceremony, he turned sharply on his heels and ducked into the dark opening to the shed, quickly vanishing into the shadows. You weren’t certain how exactly one could get lost inside a tiny shed, but you bent over and followed him in nonetheless.
Instead of being greeted with your face in the warden’s back, though, you abruptly realised you had stepped onto what appeared to be a bough of a titanic tree, the branch beneath your feet almost as wide across as you were tall. Bewildered, you spun around, trying to find some trace of the shed you had supposedly just entered, nearly losing your balance and toppling into… somewhere you didn’t particularly want to discover. The warden, meanwhile, seemed utterly unperturbed by the sudden change of scenery, not even bothering to give you a backwards glance before hopping onto an adjacent branch with surprising agility for his hulking frame. Remembering your instructions, you followed as quickly as you could, though your movements were considerably less smooth and graceful, your mind more occupied with thoughts like “don’t look down” and “what the hell is going on”, rather than “I must look my best”.
The warden pushed his way through an intervening clump of foliage and, with you in tow, stepped out from behind a boulder onto the edge of a mountain. A sheer drop of hundreds of metres loomed ahead of you, your relentlessly blasé guide practically tiptoeing on the edge of the cliff before rounding another crag teetering on the lip. Without any rhyme, reason or fanfare, the scene abruptly changed again, this time to a set of conveniently-placed stones spanning white foaming rapids. Then another mountainside, this one bedaubed in bright orange from a brilliant sunset. Then back to the tree bough. Your poor brain desperately tried to make sense of the sudden and random changes in scenery, attempting to reconcile the sights and sensations with the fact that you were, somehow, still in a tiny shack in the middle of the woods. You just decided to focus on the warden’s broad back for now. Trying to pay attention to anything else just made your head hurt.
After what seemed like both an eternity and barely a few seconds, the warden came to such a sudden stop that were you not paying such close attention to his movements, you would have collided with him. “My Lady,” you heard him say in a rumbling, obsequious tone, “I have brought the human, as you have ordered.”
“Very good, Vuori,” a melodic voice responded. “Stand aside, that I might inspect them.”
The instant before the warden moved, you remembered his earlier warning; the moment you could see them, you locked your eyes on the ones facing you. They were a bright, brilliant green, two perfect rings of vibrant colour set like jewels within a bronze face. The proportions were... not quite right, her chin too long, her forehead too narrow, her nose too pointed to ever be considered human, but she was still… beautiful, in a strange way. And the longer you stared, the more those features began to warp, twisting into subtly different shapes and forms, as if you were viewing her through some bizarre kaleidoscope. But the one thing that never changed was her eyes. They remained unblinking, unmoving, staring back at you.
“Greetings, mortal.” She spoke with an alto which, though elegantly reserved, reverberated from every direction as though you were standing at the centre of some vast echo chamber. “I bid you welcome to my parlour.”
You felt the instinct to speak rising, but before it reached your lips, it dissipated. Your silence was only half-deliberate; you had to muster a great deal of focus to keep your eyes fixed on hers. The way her facial structure kept shifting and changing was incredibly distracting. Your eyes longed to wander and track the movement, to follow the curling, twisting, turning contours of her face, but you kept your focus. You didn’t dare violate that sacred bond of hospitality.
Her head moved cohesively up and down – you realised she was nodding approvingly, though her eyes still seemed to remain fixed perfectly in place. “I see Vuori has told you something of our customs, I appreciate your courtesy. I hope he was as courteous to you as you are so kindly being to me?”
“Y-yes, of course, my Lady,” you stammered out in reply. You desperately tried to match her perfectly articulated diction, but instead of coming out like an elegant reply, a slightly pompous squawk emerged. “Most kind and pleasant.”
The Lady’s face contorted, her forehead folding in on itself for a moment before it became smooth again. “I have little patience for lies,” she hummed. Her tone still seemed perfectly calm and genteel, yet there was the merest whisper of steel in it which ran a thin blade down your spine. “I would encourage you to answer me honestly. Was Vuori courteous to you?”
Abruptly, you became aware of your heart hammering hard in your chest. It was as though someone had just seized your ribs and was doing their damndest to crush them. You desperately wanted to bow your head in contrition, but you forced yourself to keep her resolute, unblinking gaze. “I… I’m sorry, my Lady. He… he was a little… patronising, to be entirely honest.”
A smile spread across the Lady’s thin lips, and the pressure in your chest suddenly vanished. Your heart rate slowed, the urge to bow vanished. It was all you could do not to gasp in relief. “There, that feels much better, does it not?” Those emerald eyes twinkled – did she know what you had just felt? “I must apologise for my door-warden’s behaviour. Mountain dryads make excellent warriors and wardens, but poor courtiers. I’m afraid their grasp of tact and gentility is… sometimes lacking.”
“W-well, he’s certainly very good at – ” Your voice suddenly stopped. Your lungs still pumped air, your mouth still moved, but no matter how hard you tried to speak, no sound came out. Those eyes gleamed at you, the face swirling. The movements were so disorienting that it almost looked like the air around her was beginning to distort as well, bending your peripheral vision, doing its best to tie your brain into knots. Too late, far too late, you realised your error. You slammed your mouth shut, making absolutely certain that your gaze was not wandering from those twin green rings which faced you.
“Alas, it seems you have some things to learn in matters of courtesy,” she sighed. The note of faint disappointment cut far deeper than you were expecting; even the slight hint of failure made your chest ache. “No need to feel so afraid,” she commented, as if she knew exactly how uncomfortable you were. “It is a shame you feel so bound by courtesy; I find it quite comforting. A simple, easy set of rules for me to administer and you to obey as long as you are in my parlour. However,” she continued, smiling slightly, “you have only been here for a few moments. I will not punish you for such a brief lapse yet.”
Had it only been a few moments? You realised you were quickly losing track of time – how long had you been standing here, watching her eyes, trying to draw your attention away from the world distorting around her? You had been walking with the warden for a while, but how long was that? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Surely not?
“I’m curious,” said the Lady, that smooth, melodious quality returning to her voice. “What do you think of my parlour?”
“W-what… what do I think?” You barely even realised your voice was back. Your head was pounding. The entire scene was twisting around you, making it so hard to focus on the two pools of green staring at you from the centre of it all. “It’s, erm… it’s… very nice,” you forced out.
“Very nice? Are you certain?” asked the Lady. There was no hint of reproach, more of… amusement?
You just barely caught it out of the corner of your eye – something enormous, moving utterly silently. Finally, your resolve failed you and you broke the bond of eye contact, whirling to look at the sudden, swift movement. But the more you turned, the more the world turned with you. The background became a smear of colours, scenes and faces blurring together, twisting over each other. You blinked, attempting to steady yourself in the kaleidoscope of images. The shack careened past you, washed along by raging rapids. The warden’s face frowned out of the cliff face looming before you. You stumbled. You couldn’t even tell why – was it a tree bough knocking you to your knees, or your own mind too overstimulated to make sense of the cavalcade of images? It was too much. Too much to process. Too much to –
“Look at me.”
Two pools of green, blazing through the chaos. It was as though the entire universe was bending around those eyes, the only two fixed things in a world of madness. Everything funnelled your attention onto her eyes, a spiral of myriad colour, a smear of jumbled images, all swirling inwards towards her. Maybe all of this was an illusion, none of it real except her eyes. Maybe all of it was real. You couldn’t know. Your brain felt so taxed, ready to come apart at the seams, the eyes the only thing keeping you sane.
And suddenly the images stopped. You saw nothing. Nothing except the eyes. You stared deep into them, and they stared deep into you. The world was gone. No, not gone. The eyes were the world now. The eyes were the only things that mattered. The eyes were the only things that existed. You were bound to them. Bound to the eyes. You had tried to look away, but all you found was madness. The eyes kept you sane. The eyes kept you safe. The eyes kept you bound to them. The eyes were everything. You needed to keep staring. You needed to keep staring. The eyes had saved you. It was the only courteous thing to do.
“Mm… yes, very,” you replied softly. The answer seemed somewhat inadequate; blissful would have been a more accurate descriptor. The grand wing chair seemed to fit your proportions perfectly, no part of your weight awkwardly supported. The finely aged leather hit the perfect midpoint between pliable and firm, deforming just enough to spread the comfort evenly all along your neck, back, rear and thighs. The room around you was cool, but quickly warming with the merrily crackling fire which had just been ignited in the grate in front of you. It was the only source of light save for the faint glimmer of moonlight trickling through the high, arched window of the drawing room.
Gabriel turned, his head looming out from the wing of his own chair. He reached out and cupped your cheek gently; he was smiling, but his chestnut eyes were round with concern. “One last check, then; are you sure about this? Once it’s implanted, I don’t plan on removing it unless it is truly necessary.”
An electric jolt shot down your spine, one of apprehension or exhilaration, you couldn’t tell. “I’m really sure,” you said, quietly yet purposefully. A whisper of a coy smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet, Mr. Fancy Evil Hypnotist?”
A chuckle resonated from deep within Gabriel’s chest, making your cheek tingle where his skin shook. His slender thumb pressed slightly against your lips, making you kiss it in revenge for your dry comment. “If you must use my noble title, that’s My Lord Fancy Evil Hypnotist to you, my dear,” he shot back smoothly, settling back into his chair and out of your sight. “But Gabriel will do quite well, I think. I’d hate to impose some archaic honorific on you. Now then,” he continued, his voice already beginning to shift into that warm, comforting bass rumble which sent yet more electric sparks down your spine, “would you be so good as to look into the flames for me?”
Settling back into your cozy chair, you did as you were told and focused your attention on the flickering fire before you. Though it had only been burning for a few minutes, the flames had already reached a respectable height, curling and rippling against the bundle of blackening logs like silk in a gale. The warmth brought a rosy tint to your cheeks as it banished the cool of the night far into a distant memory.
“Excellent,” Gabriel intoned; you wondered if he could see you, but you suppressed the instinct to scan your peripheral vision for his enthralling gaze. “Just like that, watching the winding, whispering flames, swirling and twirling, fluttering and flickering, radiating that sweet, gentle warmth which seeps into your skin. The night is dark and cold, but you are safe here, bathing in the mellow orange glow of the flames which fill your attention. Like a moth, your eyes are pulled away from the darkness, slipping out of the shadows, your focus drawn to the light, the warmth, the comfort and safety of the flames. It’s quite easy to devote your full attention to that light, to allow yourself to see little else but the flames, dancing, flickering, shining, shimmering, rising and falling before you.”
You felt the familiar tug in the back of your mind within seconds, softly but inexorably drawing your attention to the fireplace. Your peripheral vision was already beginning to fade, your gaze tunnelling towards the fire, noticing each and every plume of flame curling up and around the logs, your ears attentive to every hiss and spit of the fire as Gabriel’s words formed a soft, sweet accompaniment.
“And it would be so nice, it would feel so good, to imagine your thoughts twisting and turning and rising out of your grasp like the plumes of heat rising before you. Not to worry. Your thoughts will rise and shift and fade soon enough, but first… I’d like you to do something for me. Nothing difficult, nothing intensive, nothing which takes more than your sweet, precious, fading little mind can take. In a moment, I will begin to give you a series of prompts, one by one, and I’d like you to repeat them for me. A series of affirmations, a series of ideas, a series of truths for you to repeat, for you to inscribe deep within your mind, not just with my voice, but with your own. A set of words, a set of thoughts for you to pull yourself ever deeper with. Are you ready?”
It took a moment for you to respond; that pleasant buzz was already beginning to fill your thoughts, even after just a couple minutes. “Mmm… yes,” you whispered in reply, surprised at how soft and sweet your voice had already become.
“I will repeat these words.”
“I… will repeat these words.”
“I will repeat everything you say.”
“I will repeat everything you say.”
“It feels natural to repeat these words.”
“It feels natural to repeat these words.”
“Every time I repeat, it becomes a little easier.”
“Every time I repeat, it becomes a little easier.”
“Every time I repeat, I sink a little deeper.”
“Every time I repeat, I sink a little deeper.”
“Every time I repeat, the words feel a little better.”
“Every time I repeat, the words feel a little better.”
“The flames hold my attention.”
“The flames hold my attention.”
“The words hold my attention.”
“The words… hold my attention.”
“I can hear my own voice speaking.”
“I can hear my own voice speaking.”
“I can feel my own voice beginning to pull me into trance.”
“I can feel my own voice beginning to… to pull me into trance.”
“My voice is getting quieter.”
“Mmmy… my voice is getting quieter.”
“My mind is getting quieter.”
“My mind is… getting quieter.”
“It feels so natural to repeat.”
“It feels… so… nnnnnatural to repeat…”
“It feels so natural to sink.”
“Feels… so natural to sink…”
“It feels so natural to obey.”
“Feels so natural to… to obey…”
“It feels so good to repeat.”
“Mmmmph… it… it feels so good to repeat…”
“It feels so good to sink.”
“It… hnnngh… feels so good… to sssssink…”
“And most of all…”
“Mmmost… of all…”
“It feels so very, very good to obey.”
“Feels so… very good to… obey… mmmmph…”
The heat of the fire seemed to have percolated into every pore of your body. Every one of your muscles felt… warm, loose, relaxed. You vaguely, blearily wondered if you could still move them, but… somehow, you didn’t feel the need to try. It just felt so much nicer to sink into this warmth, to allow your body to loosen, slacken, slump as your lips moved as instructed. With each repetition, it was feeling less and less like you were actively repeating, more and more like your lips were moving on instinct, forming loose, slack shapes with little conscious control. But you didn’t mind. It was like your thoughts were cushioned on a soft, downy mattress, warmed, loosened, slowed down by the heat of the flames. You could still try to think clearly, of course, but… you didn’t feel the need to try. It was so much easier to simply drift on this feeling… dropping… repeating… obeying…
“My body is warm and relaxed.”
“Body… warm, an’… an’ relaxed…”
“My mind is blank and empty.”
“Mind is… blank… an’ empty…”
“My mouth is moving automatically.”
“Mouth is… movin’… autmatkly…”
“My conscious mind is asleep.”
“Conscious mind… is asleep…”
“My conscious mind is unaware.”
“Conscious mind… ‘s unaware…”
“But my subconscious understands.”
“My subconscious… understands…”
“My subconscious knows to repeat.”
“My subconscious… knows... to repeat…”
“Every word that I say…”
“Ev’ry word… I say…”
“Every truth I speak…”
“Every truth… I speak…”
“My subconscious accepts it.”
“M… my subconscious… accepts it…”
“Very good, now you can stop repeating for a moment.”
“V-very good, n-now…” Your brain took a moment to catch up, your lips moving automatically before your mind was able to process the instruction to stop. What little fragments of thoughts you had left were moving sluggishly, barely managing to inch forward through the molasses of your blank, obedient mind.
Gabriel chuckled warmly at your mumbled words before continuing. “Now that your mind is wonderfully deep, blank and empty, the only thoughts you have left are ones of obedience. Your conscious has been stripped away, melted in the heat of the fire, leaving nothing behind but your sweet subconscious, nothing but your basic functions, your basic needs. And your subconscious takes care of those needs so wonderfully; regulating your need to breathe, your need to eat, your need to sleep. Basic functions, yes, but so very necessary. And your subconscious takes care of you tirelessly, always keeping you safe, always keeping you sane. It’s such a wonderfully powerful part of your mind.”
“But there’s another need that your subconscious wants to fill. Another need, a primal itch, a basic, almost animal desire… to obey. When you are with me, or with someone who you trust and trusts you… you are almost overwhelmed by that desire, that need, that craving… to obey. So long as it is safe, and I can allow it, you will feel that inexorable pull towards obedience. Feeling amenable. Feeling pliable. Feeling safe, obeying me, under my care. Accepting my words as truth, trusting me, knowing that I would never do anything to harm you. Knowing that every time you obey, you make me happy, and you scratch that insatiable itch to serve. Your obedience compels you to serve me well, to care for me as I care for you. And when you serve, you bring pleasure, not just to me, but to yourself as well. That warm, submissive glow that percolates through every part of your body whenever you serve me well. It feels so good, so warm, so right. And it stokes the fire of your obedience yet higher and higher, hotter and hotter, your need to obey getting ever stronger and stronger.”
You were barely aware of it, but your body was sighing in enjoyment. You could feel that itch, that tingle to follow Gabriel’s words, to obey his instructions, to serve and care for him as he cared for you. It felt so… good, so right, so wonderful. It was like being given a cup of cool water after weeks in the desert, an overwhelming thirst, an itch for obedience, finally being sated.
“Three concepts. Obedience. Service. Pleasure. Three deep, primal needs that your subconscious pulls you towards inexorably. And to help you fulfil those needs, I’m going to give you a gift. A mantra, of sorts, for you to repeat, over and over again, to help remind you of that hunger, that desire to obey, to serve, to feel pleasure. Once I give it to you, it will become deeply ingrained into your subconscious, summing up your basic, primal cravings in one simple, beautiful set of rules. A system for you to follow, a code for you to uphold. And once you start repeating it, you’ll barely be able to stop… not that you’ll want to, anyway. Even if you’re busy with other things, the mantra will still whisper in your ear, growing ever deeper, ever stronger into your subconscious. In a moment, I’ll ask you to begin repeating once again, and I will give you that mantra. That code you will live by. The cravings you will need to sate. Are you ready?”
You nodded, a bolt of pleasure accompanying the simple movement.
“Obedience compels me to serve.”
“Ob… oh… uh…” Your mouth felt slack and loose; you had fallen so completely into trance, you had forgotten so completely about your body, that it suddenly felt strange to move even such a tiny part of yourself.
“Obedience…”
“Ob… obed… ience…”
“…compels me…”
“…comp… compels me…”
“…to serve.”
“To… to serve.”
“Once again, now. Obedience compels me to serve.” There was no hint of reproach or frustration in Gabriel’s voice, just a warm, sweet patience.
“Obedience… compels me… to serve…” A rush of satisfaction at being able to obey the calm, clear instruction.
“Service brings me pleasure.”
“Ss… service… brings me… p-pleasure…” A bolt of pleasure, yet stronger than the first.
“Pleasure helps me to obey.”
“Pleasure helps me to… obey… nnnnggguhhh…” You couldn’t stop yourself from moaning. The need, the desire, the craving to obey was almost too much. You needed to… you needed to…
“Obedience compels me to serve.”
“Obedience… compels me to serve…”
“Service brings me pleasure.”
“Service brings me… pleasure… hhhahhh… huh…”
“Pleasure helps me to obey.”
“Pleasure… hhhah… helps me to obey… nnngh… hhhhh…”
“Obedience compels me to serve.”
“Obedience compels me to serve…”
“Service brings me pleasure.”
“Service brings me pleasure…”
“Pleasure helps me to obey.”
“Pleasure helps me to obey…”
“Very good, you’re doing a wonderful job. I’d like you to continue repeating that mantra, over and over, again and again and again. It’s not just an instruction; it’s a need, a deep, primal craving worming its way into your subconscious, a code you must uphold. Obedience. Service. Pleasure. Repeat.”
“Obedience… compels me to serve… service brings me pleasure… pleasure helps me to obey…”
“Good. Again.”
“Obedience compels me to serve… service brings me pleasure… pleasure helps me to obey…”
“Again.”
“Obedience compels me to serve… service brings me pleasure… pleasure helps me to obey…”
“Again. Feel the code burrowing deeper into your thoughts…
“Obedience compels me to serve…”
“Feel that mantra burning into your subconscious…”
“Service brings me pleasure…”
“Feel this truth becoming an integral part of your mind…”
“Pleasure helps me to obey…”
“Again, my dear. You’re doing so well.”
“Obedience compels me to serve… service brings me pleasure… pleasure helps me to obey…”
“So very good. So very deep for me. Tell me, what does obedience mean?”
“Obedience… compels me to serve…”
“And what does service bring?”
“Service… brings me pleasure…”
“And what does pleasure do?”
“Pleasure… helps me to obey.”
“Wonderful. I’m so glad that you’re internalising this truth. Again.”
“Obedience compels me to serve… service brings me pleasure… pleasure helps me to obey…”
“Again.”
“Obedience compels me to serve… service brings me pleasure… pleasure helps me to obey…”
Imagine wandering through a forest. The sun is about to dip below the horizon, but evening walks are always the best: not too hot, not too cold, bright enough to see but free from pesky insects. It’s a comforting, centering experience, to lope down these old well-trodden trails that you know so well. You almost know these paths by memory. Each winding root, each low-hanging branch, each pothole in the road. True, there’s no replacing the sense of wonder and mystery you first found this place, but the comfort of having such a vast expanse of nature you know well enough to almost call it your own is a good trade-off. Curiosity and adventure are wonderful things, true, but… there’s something equally wonderful about familiarity. Coming here again and again, tracing back and forth along these old paths, gives you that much more opportunity to appreciate the place.
So imagine your surprise when, out of the evening gloom, looms something you’ve certainly never seen before on this forest trail. A flower unlike any you’ve seen before; bright blue, seeming to glow just a little in the darkness. Bioluminescence, maybe? The petals arc much in the same way as a bluebell, but both the flower and the full plant are much larger; the top of the bell comes up past your elbows. You brush the petals with your fingertips, and gasp – it’s unbelievably soft, like the finest silk, yet you can almost feel the life pulsing through it. Perhaps it’s that it’s ever so slightly warmer than the surrounding air, perhaps it’s a tiny bit of moisture or oil coating the surface of the leaves. Whatever it is, the seemingly delicate flower pulses with life.
As you retract your hand, the flower sways slightly, almost as if it’s chasing the warmth of your touch. On the edge of your hearing, you can just barely detect a low, pleasant hum, like that of a bell reverberating long after it has been struck. It only lasts for a few seconds. You tap your fingertips against the flower once again, and the sound resumes, a little louder than before – is the plant glowing just a little bit brighter than it was before? Your eyes catch a second glow, several paces away; as the sound reverberates through the forest, it’s lighting up other flowers just like the first, separated by several paces each, like a trail of slightly glowing, softly ringing breadcrumbs.
You glance back to the familiar trail, wondering if you should simply continue on with the path you know, rather than rambling through the underbrush, chasing the pretty lights. You could stick to the familiar, of course, take comfort in the world you know, safe and unperturbed. But your curiosity tells you otherwise. It’s like an itch in the back in your mind, nothing as coherent as a thought, more of a deep, primal itch to discover new things. It’s that primal itch which drove your ancestors to roam the world as nomads, that burning instinct which drew them out of the relative safety of their caves.
You plunge into the undergrowth, following the combination of the gentle ringing sound and the soft blue glow. Each time you pass a new flower, your fingertips brush it again, a comforting rhythm which keeps you safe, keeps you on track, illuminates the path ahead. Your worries about losing your way quickly become quieter and quieter, drowned out by the sweet sound of the little floral bells. You could always turn back, if you wanted to. The flowers would keep you safe, guide you back to the path you knew. But of course, you didn’t want to turn back. You wanted to explore, to dive deeper into the wild, indulge yourself in the mystery of these curious little plants. And besides, the feeling of your fingers brushing against that wonderfully soft surface was more than enough reward to motivate you to move further, deeper, closer to the next one, and the next, and the next.
The flowers come one by one at first, but now that you’ve been following them for a few minutes now, you notice that the gaps between them are getting smaller and smaller, they’re getting closer and closer together. Or is it simply that you’re plunging deeper and deeper into the forest, so inexhaustibly curious that you’d throw caution to the winds and speed up your hunt for… what? What are you hunting for? What are you searching for? Why do you feel that need, that itch, that craving to go deeper and deeper into the forest? The bells have started curving towards you, even before you touch them; can they sense your presence somehow? Are they somehow aware that they’re pulling you further into the forest by a yoke of your own curiosity?
And not only are they coming closer and closer together, they’re beginning to come in small clusters. Just two at a time, at first, but then three, then five, more and more. Little families of bell-like flowers, all singing their strange, otherworldly song. The ringing is quite distinct now, but it’s far from overpowering; in fact, it’s quite pleasant on the ears, a little chorus of bells cheering you on your way as you plunge ever deeper into the woods. The increased numbers of petals brushing against your hands is blissful; at times, it feels like your whole hand is enveloped in satin, as though the petals are deliberately curving to almost suckle on your fingers.
You stumble for a moment, your foot getting caught on some root you’d failed to see beneath the ferns. Your cheek brushes up against an outstretched bell, just for an instant, and a warm tingle of pleasure bursts out from your face. Pausing, you bend down again, and the flower rises up to greet you, caressing your lips. It’s so soft, so wonderfully pleasant.
You get down on your knees to get a better feel of it. You’re not sure if you’re moving yourself, moving it, or it’s moving entirely of it’s own volition, but it continues exploring across your cheeks, stroking your face so wonderfully softly. It’s such an enthralling sensation you almost forget about the flowers still suckling at your fingers, brushing up against any bit of exposed skin they can find. The ringing is so loud now. There must be flowers curled up right next to your ears. It’s drowning out any thought you attempt to have, the music of the forest overpowering any sense you try to make of this situation. You roll over onto your back, and the flowers follow. There must be… ten? Twelve? Fifteen? Are more and more coming? You’re rapidly losing count. It’s so hard to keep track of them all while any exposed skin is being tenderly caressed by those satin-smooth petals. Nose, lips, cheeks, neck, fingers, hands, wrists, forearms, stroked and kissed and sucked by these bizarre petals. The glow is so bright it illuminates the whole glade you’ve found yourself in, a glade entirely unfamiliar to you.
Some reasonable corner of your consciousness realises that you’re lost, deep in the forest, lost to the sound, lost to the light, lost to the feeling. Your body is lost to the forest. And you’re slowly losing your mind to these flowers, too. Perhaps they’ll release you, once they’ve had their fun. Perhaps you’ll be able to wake up, find your way back to the well-trodden trails you know. But will you ever be really sure all of you has returned? Will you ever be sure that, when you leave, if you leave, you’ll ever find every piece of your mind to bring back to the world you know? And you’ll know, deep in your subconscious, that you know exactly where those parts of your mind, those parts of yourself are kept. They’ll be kept here, safe, by the flowers of the forest. And if you want them back, well, of course that just means you’ll have to come back here again. And again. And again…
(This one is kind of a sequel to a previous story, Orientation, which I wrote based on an RP. Featuring Ray, the endearing OC of my friend Mokerly!)
“Question,” Ray piped up, gesturing towards Andreveos with the butt of their spoon.
“Answer,” the lanky doctor replied, his familiar smirk momentarily flitting across his cheeks, one which only widened as Ray rolled their eyes in exasperation. “What’s on your mind?”
“I was wondering…” Ray began, but stopped themselves. “There’s something odd that happens…” Again, they cut themself off before they could actually answer the question. Their hesitation was masked, however, by particularly rowdy group of employees which were loping past their table, babbling excitedly among themselves. Ray took the opportunity to take another sip of their pumpkin soup and gather their thoughts. They opened their mouth to speak, then closed it again. They rocked back and forth on the edge of their seat, trying to ignore their supervisor’s thick eyebrow rising higher and higher by the second, the tips of their leather-shod toes barely managing to brush the ground. Eventually, they propped their elbows up on the table, steepling their fingers under their chin and speaking as decisively as they could muster. “How do your eyes work?”
Andreveos froze, the chunk of salmon impaled on his fork hovering in front of his face as he cocked his head slightly to the side. “My… eyes?” he said, fixing Ray with one of his focused, piercing stares, made all the more intense by the noonday sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cafeteria. “Forgive me,” he continued, somewhat bemused, “but if I remember right, you’re the medical student here, not me.”
Ray sighed, running one hand through their short, mousy hair as they took another sip of soup. “You know what I mean.”
“I assure you, I don’t,” Andreveos shot back, reclining back in his chair enough to stretch his fuzzy-chested waistcoat taut. Unlike Ray, his long legs allowed him to teeter on just two of his chair legs with only his feet. “Last time I checked, I was a scientist, not a mind-reader.”
“Last time I checked, you were a ruoja,” Ray countered, the barb in their words undercut by the coy grin creeping across their face as their lilting accent momentarily intensified. “Or is it just me that you delight in messing with?” The smirk froze on their face as a cold spark of horror crackled in their chest – too much?
Fortunately, Andreveos seemed utterly unoffended, his ignorance of Finnish curses shielding him from the point of the barb. “Guilty as charged,” he chuckled richly, throwing up his hands in defeat, coming back down onto all four of his chair legs with a hearty thunk. “If you’re going to be so fun to mess with, of course I’ll take advantage of that.”
Ray returned Andreveos’ chortle with a cheery one of their own, before they refocused their attention sharply on him. In this light, his eyes looked almost as blue as Ray’s own, but they knew better than that. “I mean, how do your irises change colour? When you… well, you know…” They trailed off awkwardly.
“Oh!” Andreveos’ eyebrow crept upwards again, laying his fork down on the edge of his ceramic plate. “You mean this?”
A less attentive eye might have assumed that Andreveos had simply shifted his position, that some trick of the light was making his oddly-coloured eyes distort slightly. But Ray knew better. Instantly, they spotted his irises changing gradually, a ring of colour expanding out from his pupil and fading where it touched the sclera. First, the cool sea blue was wiped away by a forest green, and then again by a stony grey. Concentric halos, radiating outwards in a smooth, unhurried rhythm, the lines of muscle seeming almost to twist and ripple as the cycle continued. Blue, green, grey. It was a mesmerising sight, like watching ripples expand across a mirror-smooth lake, each causing the reeds to quiver in its wake, bands of colour flexing out, and out, and out –
Ray blinked, and looked sharply back down at their soup, taking a stiff, decisive sip. “Yes, that.” They were careful to keep their voice firm and focused. Andreveos certainly didn’t need to know how easily his eyes had drawn their attention like a magnet.
Andreveos’ face remained in a gentle, easygoing smile, revealing nothing. “It was a gift, to make it easier to hypnotise my test subjects,” he explained, his tone level and measured. He took another bite of salmon before continuing. “They figured they’d best test it out on someone who doesn’t ‘tise all that much instead of giving it to one of the proper ‘tists.
“Right, makes sense,” Ray nodded. They shifted themselves on the chair; although they were grateful for the amount of cushioning, the chair had clearly been designed for someone a few centimetres taller than them, forcing them to sit almost at the edge to prevent their legs from dangling. “And… how does it work, exactly?”
Andreveos opened his mouth, then closed it again. He scratched at the back of his neck, looking momentarily away. “To be honest… I’m not entirely sure,” he confessed sheepishly. “I know physchem like the back of my hand, but biochem was never my strongest suit. It’s something to do with some extra organelle in the iris pigment cells, but… well, I tried to read the research paper, but most of it went straight over my head.”
“I could try to read it,” offered Ray. “I don’t have your chemical insights, but… well, like you said, I’m the med student here.”
Andreveos’ eyes suddenly lit up with the manic twinkle which always made Ray slightly nervous. “Or,” he suggested coyly, “you could try to take a closer look now, see if there’s anything different to normal eye function.
“Right, and then you start trancing me the moment I start looking,” scoffed Ray. “You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are.”
Andreveos’ eyes widened as he placed a hand on his chest in mock affront. “Sneaky? Me? Why, I couldn’t possibly imagine where you got such an idea from.”
“Do you realise how many examples I could list off?”
Again, Andreveos raised his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. How about this: only looking. I won’t say a word, I won’t move the rest of my body, I’ll just do the eye thing. Surely you can’t go into trance from that alone, right?”
Ray paused for a moment, considering his proposal. Then, they slid their soup aside, leaning forwards with both elbows on the table. “Okay, sounds fair. Go.”
Andreveos inclined his head in thanks, sliding his own plate aside. He bent down a little, hunching over the table to meet Ray’s gaze, propping up his chin with his hands. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Right on cue, the bands of colour began radiating out from Andreveos’ pupils again. First, a ring of green, then of grey, then of blue. Now that Ray was looking more closely, the shimmering filaments of ciliary muscle were indeed distorting with each ring. At the border between each colour, the muscles shifted, twisting aside to form a different shape. Within the repeating cycle of rings, there was another cycle, one of the synchronised back-and-forth of the fibres of sinew through which the colours passed. Green… the cilia arched tightly, forming an almost fan-like pattern of waves… grey… the cilia relaxed, settling into a slightly tangled web of fibres… blue… the strands pulled taut, radiating almost straight out from the pupil. And then the pattern began again. Green. Sharp, orderly arches. Grey. Relaxed, undulating curves. Blue. Ramrod-straight lines. Ray had never seen such fine control over individual muscle strands; they wondered if Andreveos was consciously aware of the delicate movements he was making. Green. Arches. Grey. Curves. Blue. Lines. A pattern, the colours pulsing outwards, the fibres drawing inwards. Rippling almost like fabric in the wind.
Ray blinked, shaking their head slightly. Even without words or any other movements, the shifting pattern by itself was alluring. They needed to be more careful to avoid being drawn in. They blinked several more times in an attempt to clear their suddenly slightly fuzzy mind before they refocused their attention, holding Andreveos’ intense gaze once more. They realised they hadn’t seen him blink at all in the… in the… how much time had gone past since they had started staring? Seconds? Minutes? They found themself unable to tell. Not that it particularly mattered; if Andreveos hadn’t blinked, surely it hadn’t been that long. And besides, their curiosity was not yet sated. Green. Arches. Grey. Curves. Blue. Lines. Ray leant in closer. Perhaps the pigment cells beneath the cilia were differently coloured, and the cilia hid certain cells depending on orientation? Green. Arches, fanning across the iris. Grey. Curves, tangled and weaving. Blue. Lines, bursting out from the pupil. Still, Andreveos did not blink. Were the colours slowing? Speeding up? They were… they were changing, somehow. Or were they just staring so intently their own eyes were beginning to distort? Perhaps they should blink again, look away, just for a moment to regain strength, but… they were so close to understanding, they knew it. They just had to stare. Hold the gaze. Just a little bit longer. Green. Arches. Grey. Curves. Blue. Lines. The world outside was fading, Ray’s focus shrinking down to just those two rings of shifting, shimmering colour, those two nests of twisting, undulating fibres. There was a pattern, they could see it. The secret, the understanding, lurked just barely out of view. Ray wanted to reach out and grab it, but it danced through their fingers. They needed to stare. Hold the gaze. Green. Arches. Focus. They could find the secret. Grey. Curves. They needed to find the secret. Blue. Lines. And to do that, they had to stare. They needed to stare. Hold the gaze. Keep the focus. Green. Grey. Blue. Green. Grey. Blue. Green…
