#Concrete Testing Machine

[heicodynamics]

This concrete cube testing equipment for Construction Quality Control is featured with hydraulic loading, sensor force measurement, digital display of load value and loading rate, and micro printer to print various test data.It is an indispensable compressive strength tester for construction, building materials, highway bridges, engineering design and other units.

[labtroncc]

Tabletop Laboratory Autoclave

Labtron Tabletop Laboratory Autoclave is a portable, computer-controlled class B unit with a 35L capacity. It effectively sterilizes HIV, HBV, mad cow virus, and bacillus with a sterilization pressure of 0.22 MPa and a temperature range of 105–134 °C. Safety features include automatic shutoff, cold air discharge, and protection against high temperatures and pressure.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Serial Killer(s)

Your mother always warned you to never give rides to strangers, but the hitchhiker you run into seems harmless. What's the worst that can happen? Tags: implied noncon

Things originally start well. You and your buddies piled into your roommate's Jeep, roof down, pop music blasting. You're the driver - always the responsible one - hair tied back and sunglasses on the edge of your nose. You're all dressed for summer. Bikini tops and board shorts, smeared with sunscreen - the picture of college fun.

It starts well and keeps going even better. You're all in high spirits. Flushed and happy and young. Picking up the hitchhiker seems like a good idea. You see that he's handsome and around your age, that he's got an easy smile and a guitar on his back. You see that and nothing else. Not the too quick eyes, not the surprisingly light backback. Nothing.

He ends up riding shotgun, talking to you about classes and shitty professors. Smiling just a little every time you shift gears and your hand brushes his thigh.

You like him. You're the only single in the car so it's natural that he spends the most time talking to you. Lord knows it's hard to keep a conversation going with a couple when they look like they'd rather be tonsil deep in each other's throats.

You like him and you get the feeling he likes you too. When you stop at a sleazy motel for the night, he invites you to eat dinner with him outside his room. All your friends are off doing what couples do best - getting cosy in the hot tub, testing the speeds on the vibrating bed, finding new and interesting ways to use the ice machine. So you're glad for the company.

Mostly.

You're almost done eating when he pops the question.

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

You look away from him. Take in the greasy boxes of takeout on the concrete, the neon red wash of the vacancy sign spelling across the parking lot. It's not an easy question. It brings up ugly memories.

"I used to have one. Things ended...badly. He's in Cook County Corrections now. Serving fifty to life."

He gives a low whistle.

"That bad huh? You ever go to see him?"

"No. Never."

He stretches out, folds his hands behind his head and looks up at the dull scattering of stars.

"You should. It gets lonely in there. A guy could use the pick me up, especially if the visitor is a pretty thing like you."

You shiver despite the balmy summer air.

"I'd rather not. I'll be happy to never see his face again."

Thankfully, he drops the subject. You go back to talking about awful first dates and the best dishes to order at a Chinese restaurant. He's a complete gentleman but you can't help the slight relief you feel when he stands to leave.

" 'Night gorgeous."

"Good night, stranger."

In the morning you walk out to see him reading the early paper. He crumples and tosses it before you can catch the headline.

" 'Morning. How did you sleep?"

You shrug. "Not the best. I swear these kinds of places all get their beds from the same supplier. Lumpy Mattresses Inc."

He grins. "Don't forget their trusty partner Damp and Musty Carpets LTD."

Your friends are slow to wake up and groggy when they do. Most of them nursing nasty hangovers. You and the hitchhiker have most of the morning to eat breakfast and shoot the breeze together. When it's time to leave, he takes his place in the passenger seat like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"I couldn't find any newspapers," one of your friends complains when you're back on the road.  

"I wanted to see the football results."

"Eagles beats the Rams in the final playoff," the hitchhiker says.

"Aww man. Where'd you get a paper from?"

"I must have gotten lucky. Staff is 'sposed to leave the local paper at reception. Guess they must not have the budget anymore."

You stay quiet but something doesn't feel quite right about that statement.

The day passes fast. Your playlist is a lot more mellow, on account of the many lingering headaches. Still, you think there's nothing quite as fine as the open road. It's only near evening when the trouble starts.

"Shit. I can't find our reservations."

You look at your friends in the rear view mirror. They've already pulled apart two backpacks trying to find the papers. You can't help feeling irritated. The one thing you asked them to take care of...

You pull over and search the Jeep from top to bottom. Unpack almost everything. Check and then recheck your pockets. Nothing.

"I'm really sorry y/n. On the phone they said we needed the copies to check in. Maybe we can still stop by and get it sorted with the front desk but..."

You can here the unspoken thought in their words. You're all thinking the same thing - that hotels can get so uptight when their potential guests are rowdy students with still bloodshot eyes. You worry at your nail, thinking. You paid the fees in advance so maybe if you showed them your credit card...

"My friend has a cabin not far from here," the hitchhiker says. "Pretty big place. He'd be happy to let us crash there for the night."

You bite your lip. It's a two hour drive to the hotel. And if they turn you away you'll be off the beaten path with almost no cash, on a near empty petrol tank.

"You think he'd mind letting us sleep on his couch?" you ask. "We'll be well-behaved and I can pay."

He smiles at you, totally easy going about the whole thing.

"Sure we'll just have to call ahead."

You manage to track down a payphone and you wait with the rest of your crew while he calls. You can't make out what he's saying but every once in a while his eyes drift to you. No one else. Just you.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was talking about you.

When he puts the receiver down, he's all smiles.

"Got it all sorted. It's out of the way though, so I reckon we grab some chow first."

Your friends are quick to agree. What self respecting kid on spring break is going to say no to fast food and cold beer? It's only you that lingers, brow furrowed. It all feels too convenient. Your reservations go missing and the stranger you picked up just happens to have a place nearby? No way. The more you think about, it the stranger it seems.

You're still lost in thought when the hitchhiker swings an arm around your shoulders and half drags you along behind your friends.

"What's you got you so worried gorgeous?"

It's hard to be suspicious of him when he smile so easy, his shaggy brown hair dancing across his forehead.

"Nothing. I just hate to intrude on your friend."

He laughs, squeezing your shoulders before letting go.

"Trust me he'll be very glad for the company. He doesn't get out much."

He pulls the diner door open for you. Your friends have already claimed a booth and a single harried waitress is struggling to jot down their long list of requests. The hitchhiker grabs your hand before you can join them.

"My friend is a great guy. I think you'll like him."

He smiles, crooked and amused, like he's laughing at a joke only he understands.

"Hell, I know for a fact that he'll like you. You're just his type."

Your smile is tight. The last guy who said you were just his type... well, you and the district attorney both know how that ended.

You take a seat and smile at the waitress. She looks beyond overwhelmed and you silently promise to tip her as well as your half drained credit card can manage.

"I'll take a steak. Rare. Bloody as you can make it," the hitchhiker says.

You raise your brows. Not exactly the typical order for an out of the way little diner. He sees your look and grins.

"Been a while without good meat. You have no idea the craving I've had this past few days."

The booth is packed tight and his thigh is flush against yours. Warm, even though his jeans.

"We all get cravings now and again. I get it."

He tilts his head at you and it must be a trick of the light, because his pupils are blown out wide. It looks like you're staring into oil. Just... emptier somehow. You wouldn't go so far as to say he feels soulless, but if it's not in the same street it sure as hell is in the same neighbourhood. Like oil, it leaves you feeling dirty in a way that doesn't easily scrub off.

"Do you?" he asks quietly.

You open your mouth to say something along the lines of I'm only human and of course I do but his eyes stop you. He isn't talking about food or meat. No. It feels like he's asking about flesh.

One of your friends cracks a joke and you turn away from him in a hurry, pretending to laugh at something you only half heard. You don't talk to him for the rest of the meal. Try to avoid looking him even. But you can't avoid the feel of his leg against yours. Warm and solid. Can't ignore the way your heart jumps when he reaches for his wallet and his fingers accidentally scrape you inner thigh.

You're the last one out of the diner. You throw away the dirty napkins and, true to your word, tip the waitress as well as you can manage. You're half afraid that he might wait for you, but when the door clicks shut behind you, you see him with the rest of your friends. Joking around with some of the boys.

The second you start towards them, his eyes fix on yours. You aren't sure how he does it - always narrowing in on you like you have your own gravitational pull. Like he's aware of your every move.

"Ready to go?"

Are you? You aren't sure. Some dull instinct is making you want to turn tail and run. You try and talk yourself out of it. What concrete evidence do you have? What has he done wrong, besides be a little intense? Folk do that all the time and it doesn't bother you. And it's not like you'll be alone. Your whole pack of friends will be right next to you.

"Yeah, let's go. Time doesn't wait for anyone."

It's a long drive. The highway splitting off into a main road and then splintering into a half-dozen country tracks. By the time you arrive, you're beyond grateful for choosing the Jeep. Heaven alone knows how much more jostling and bouncing your teeth could take.

It's a nice place. A big cabin out in a clearing, the trees thick for miles around. Much nicer than the crummy hotel you'd otherwise have to settle for. You can't even hear the traffic.

Your friends grab their bags and the hitchhiker holds the front door open as you all file in. The entryway is clean and bright, and besides the lingering tang of bleach, there's nothing to set your suspicions racing. Honestly, you feel a little silly for being so paranoid. Must be the bad memories. They make you jumpy regardless of actual circumstances.

"Where's your friend?"

You turn just in time to see the hitchhiker slipping something small and metallic into his pocket.

"Is that the key for the -"

"My friend will be here soon," he talks over you, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "I'll show you guys your rooms and once you get settled, we can grab some beers and hit the hot tub."

He brushes past you and ignores your half-hearted grab for his arm. Your friends are already pounding up the stairs, too hyped to notice your expression. He pauses on the landing and looks back at you - the only one still standing by the door. His eyes are bright and almost hard.

"You coming?"

Nothing to be scared of, right? It's a common habit to lock the front door, especially out in the woods.

"Yep. Right behind you."

But no matter what you tell yourself, your feet still drag along when you follow him deeper into the cabin. Further and further from escape.

You're the only one who gets a room of their own. Everyone else is piled two and three deep in the guest rooms, half your buddies on couches more than beds.

You're also the last to get a room, so by the time he shows you your bed, it's only you and him. You wonder if he planned it on purpose.

"Quiet out here."

He hums in agreement, standing at your window and watching the woods. He stays silent while you unpack. Whatever he's watching for takes all his attention.

It's only when you hear your friends start splashing around in the hot tub that he speaks.

"You should probably take a shower before anyone else. The water is unreliable out here."

You silently agree. It's s been a long day, and while a quick dip in the jacuzzi sounds good, a hot shower and a cool bed sound even better. He pauses at your bedroom door to say good night. You're already heading to the bathroom and you only half hear the rest of his sentence.

"Sleep tight. And don't worry too much about any noises you hear. There's mountain lions around and the sound carries funny sometimes."

He closes your door softly behind him. Your en-suite is echoey, and when you turn on the water, you don't hear the quiet click of him locking you in.

After your shower, you're totally exhausted. You don't even bother leaving your room to check on your friends. You just curl up under your borrowed duvet and drift off. When you half wake at three in the morning to the dying echo of a scream, you mutter something about mountain lions and fall right back to sleep.

You don't see it but the figure in the corner of your room smiles. Moonlight catching for a split second on the butcher's knife in his hand.

"You always were a deep sleeper, baby. Can never remember your dreams."

Morning comes fast after that. When you wake, the only evidence of your midnight visitor is a slightly misplaced pair of sneakers that you're too drowsy to notice.

Your room door opens easily and you're half way down the stairs before you even start to wonder where your friends are.

Still sleeping probably. Had a late night.

The only sign that someone else is awake is a half empty pot of coffee and a dirty mug in the sink. You don't really feel comfortable rooting around in someone else's kitchen, but the hitchhiker did say to help yourself... You end up snatching a small Greek yogurt from the fridge and taking it out to the porch.

The forest is alive with bird song, dew still melting in the grass. It's peaceful. Tranquil. For the first time, you're entirely happy that you accepted the hitchhiker's offer.

The only thing that disrupts the picture perfect scene is a single discarded sneaker, thick with mud and left right in the middle of the yard.

You sigh. Did one of your friends really lose a whole shoe and not notice? You pick it up and knock the worst of the mud off.

So much for being well-behaved. You'll have to check over the whole place before you leave, make sure they haven't somehow tanked to the property value. The edges of the laces are stained a rusty red but you chalk it up to spilled wine or something.

You drop the shoe at the door and make your way back into the kitchen. It takes some searching but you finally find the dustbin, half hidden in a cupboard. Ugh, why do rich people always have to hide the trash away in the most obscure places?

Yesterday's paper is shoved under some tea bags, the edges of the front page barely visible.

CONVICTS ESCAPE COOK COUNTY

You frown, you gut suddenly nauseous and rolling. You dig the newspaper out of the trash. Slowly. Hesitantly. Amost afraid that the reality will be twice as bad as your suspicions. There's a massive stain on the front but you can still read the print clearly.

CONVICTS ESCAPE COOK COUNTY CORRECTIONS. MANHUNT UNDERWAY.

You don't bother to read the article. The pictures alone tell you everything. You feel sick enough to faint.

You didn't think you'd ever see his face again, but here it is. Mugshot slightly blurry and the ink starting to run. Scowling at the camera like he's more pissed at being caught than anything else.

Your ex boyfriend.

You might have been fine if it was just him. Might have called the DA and the lead homicide detective, begged for witness protection. But trouble never visits without company. There's another mugshot under his, this one captioned Serial Arsonist & Convicted Killer.

The hitchhiker wasn't smiling when the cops lined him up for his red carpet shoot. His eyes are as black and empty in his mugshot as they were last night. When he looked at you and said he was craving meat. Meat.

You might have laughed if you didn't think you were about to vomit. Yeah, he was probably craving meat alright. The roasted and still screaming kind.

You drop the newspaper, hands shaking so bad you can't hold onto it even if you wanted to.

"I told him to take out the trash. But does he listen?"

You whirl around. The hitchhiker is blocking the back door and holding your friend's lost sneaker, rolling the stained laces between his fingers.

"Thanks for grabbing this, gorgeous. If we missed it, the pigs would be back on our asses in no time."

You run.

You don't bother hearing him out or rationalising. You turn away from him and bolt straight for the front door.

You almost make it.

Your fingers just brush the metal of the doorknob before someone grabs a handful of your hair and yanks you towards them, hard enough that you end up on your back. Winded. Your scalp burning.

"Gonna leave without even saying hello? C'mon baby, is that how you greet your man?"

Your boyfriend is standing above you, smirking like this is all a game. He's still in his prison jumpsuit, the sleeves knotted around his waist. He's wearing a white tank and one glance is enough to tell you that prison has been great for his gym journey. His muscles - always toned to begin with - are positively huge.

He's always been strong, but the sight of him like this has your heart racing. How much harder can he hit, with all that extra bulk to back him up?

He slams you back onto the floor when you move to get up, his boot pressing into your sternum so hard you can almost hear your bones creaking.

"Aww, don't get up baby. Let's just talk. We've got so much to catch up on."

He presses his heel into you. Hard enough that you can't breathe out it hurting.

"Where to start... Oh, I know! Have you fucked anyone else while I've been gone? Gotten yourself a new man? Who's been between your legs while I've. Been. Rotting. Away?"

He punctuates his sentence with sharp jabs of his boot.

"No one," you managed to choke out. "Didn't have anybody."

He takes his boot off your chest and you suck in a painful breath, your lungs and ribs on fire. You roll onto you hands and knees, coughing.

Shit. Fuck.

He squats down so he's level with you, voice a sickly sweet drawl.

"You promise?"

"I-" Another painful coughing fit. "I swear. No one else."

"I don't know if I can believe you, baby. You said you loved me, and then you ratted on me to the cops. Not the best record."

He grabs your hair and hauls you to your feet, totally unbothered that you still can't breathe right.

You shriek and try to pull away, only for him to wrap a hand around your throat and pin you against his chest.

He squeezes hard enough that your larynx feels like it's going to collapse.

"What do you think I should do?"

You think he's asking you, but it's the hitchhiker that answers. He's leaning against the kitchen door, arms crossed like he's watching two kittens at play rather than seeing your boyfriend almost choke the life out of you.

"I reckon we should check. Her cunt should be all tight and wet after months without cock. And if it isn't...well, there's your answer."

"You hear that baby? We're gonna make sure you've been well behaved."

We?

You start fighting all the harder. One murderer is enough. You don't want both their hands on you. You'll never be able to scrub yourself clean again.

The hitchhiker smirks and pushes himself away from the wall. His pupils are all wide again, twin blackholes hungry enough to swallow you, your friends, the whole damn world.

Adrenaline is a hell of a thing but you're up against two convicted killers who've had nothing but time to get stronger. Who've had the world's hardest lessons in cruelty.

Your boyfriend lets go of your hair and grabs one flailing wrist. He bends your arm up your back until you heads tucked under his chin and you're standing on your tiptoes to alleviate the pressure.

The hitchhiker twists one ankle behind yours so you can't kick out of him. It feels like a move cops and wardens might use. He must have had it done to him plenty, if he can so easily put you in the same position.

"I'll scream."

That makes them laugh.

"Go on then gorgeous. Scream. No one heard your friends last night. What makes you think they'll hear you?"

Your friends... You were panicking so bad you hadn't even considered them. The hitchhiker sees your eyes go wide and grins that easy, friendly grin of his. The one that made you trust him enough to give him a ride.

"Oh, we took good care of them. I'll spare you the grisly details but there's no one left out here but us."

It's too awful to consider. Too visceral. Too unreal. Your mind blocks it out and changes your whole train of thought to focus on escaping.

You focus on your boyfriend. He isn't acting like himself. The same man who put his hand on the bible and swore before the court that he killed all those people because of you - that man - was suddenly willing to share? Was inviting someone else to enjoy your body?

"You're going to let him touch me? You killed my lab partner because you said he would jerk off to pictures of me. What the hell changed?"

Your boyfriend hums.

"A whole lot. He's my cellmate."

Like that explains anything!

The hitchhiker slips his fingers under the hem of your top, nails running along your waistband.

"He wouldn't shut up about you. Had your pictures pinned up above his bed and everything. It was so fucking annoying at first. My girl this, my baby that. But after a few months..."

He pops open the button of your jeans with a flick of his thumb. You jerk away but your boyfriend twists your arm even harder and you're forced to hold still.

"After a few months, I started to understand the appeal. Could see why he was so into you. And hell, I wanted a taste myself. Wanted to see if you lived up to the hype."

Your boyfriend is smiling. You can tell from his voice.

"And is she worth all the hard work we put in?"

The hitchhiker's hands are cold. You flinch when he slips his fingers past your panties. He rubs his thumb against your slit, savouring every inch.

"For her? I'd kill twice as many as we did last night."

He sighs as he feels your slick starting to collect around his knuckles. Without warning, he slides two fingers inside you. Cold, uncomfortably cold.

He has a guitarist's hands and you can feel the callouses on his fingertips scraping against your walls. Too rough. Too much.

"Just like I thought. Tight and wet. Your girls loyal to a fault."

Your boyfriend practically purrs.

"Been so good while I was gone, baby. You deserve a reward, dontcha?"

He leans down and nips your cheek. You feel sick. His teeth so close...

"Don't worry. We'll fill you up so good that you'll never try running again."

Your spring break road trip starts well and gets better. But the end? Well, it ends with a cock down your throat in and another in your cunt. It ends with a hand around your neck and teeth marks on your thighs. It ends with a reminder to always trust your instincts and to never, ever give rides to strangers.

[inbabylontheywept]

the fine and subtle art of arguing with old men

it was a good week for testing which meant it was a slow week for me. most of my job is fixing the machine when it goes down. if it doesn't go down, i don't have much to do. 

fortunately neither did marc. in a site full of ornery old bastards, he's the oldest and the orneriest, so it goes without saying that i enjoy spending time with him. he reminds me of my grandpa. hell, he reminds me of a lot of people. i've befriended enough grumpy old men that i've got a sort of momentum to it now - you know how it is, when you meet someone that reminds you of someone else you really like. you get to start that friendship off half built, because you already have an idea of how to like that guy, and some of that old warmth can be brought to the new friendship. a little ember to start the stove up with.

(i think that's one of the really undersold beauties of getting older. you stop viewing people as strangers and more like remixes of friends.)

anyway, i was sitting next to marc and we were talking about the future. i've got my eye on having kids sometime soon (year or two? hopefully?), and he's very happy for me. i've tried asking him for advice, but all he says is that he didn't do a great job with his own kids and they still turned out okay, so i should stress less and trust myself more. i hope he's right. he believes it, at least, and it's a hell of a thing to have the faith of an old man. his faith is hard won.

as for his plans, he's retiring at some point in the next six months, and is hoping to sell his home and buy something in florida. he's republican, so he views the state as paradise, and i'm not inclined to even try talking him out of it. it's his dream, you know? i know for a fact my paradise would be a lot of people's hell. life's funny like that.

still, we kept going on, and it was a good time, and then he reminisced about the last time he got close to quitting - back around 2020. our job required getting vaxxed, and he refused, and there was a big kerfuffle about it before the job actually backed down. i know there's not a lot of sympathy for the unvaxxed out here, but the man's 62. you get the shot when you're under 30 to protect the people around you, but when you're over 60, you're just getting it to protect yourself and it's hard to be mad at someone for kicking their own ass. 

still gave me pause though. i knew he wasn't going to take it well, but half the job of collecting curmudgeons is keeping them around, so i said 

hey. i'm sorry they bent your arm over it, but.

but. 

you should really get that shot. 

and he looked over at me, and i looked at him, and he actually spat. not on me, just the concrete, but it was enough to show that he was mad. then he walked away, as abrupt as anything.

i felt bad about it. i wasn't sure what i'd expected, when he was willing to lose his job over it before, but i'd been so invested in his dream of retirement - the idea of him sipping margaritias on a beach next to his wife, the wife he calls every day during lunch, the wife he says is the one thing in life he ever got right on the first try. the wife that almost divorced him back when he was in the airforce because he just wasn't home enough. 

(but he can be home now.) 

and then he mentioned the vax thing, and it was like seeing a pin hit a balloon. he works out every day and takes all sorts of crazy vitamins and is generally committed to getting the most out of his pension and his life. i didn't want this dumb weak point to be his achilles heel. 

---

i wasn't actually sure how long marc would be mad at me. i've seen him stay mad at some people for weeks. i wasn't sure if being friends would make that time go up or down. 

it went down. i'm glad it went down. 

he stopped being mad about two days later. we were doing front end maintenance one morning, and it was just that simple mechanical rhythm - hex key, replace the anode sheets, punch some off-gassing holes, oil it up, put it back in - that put things at ease. it always does. people working there are too busy to remember grudges, and it has this sort of mandatory practical communication that helps smooth things over. it was going great, and then out of the blue he said babs, you gotta be careful giving advice. those shots come with complications. what would you do if i got that shot, had a stroke, and died? 

and i don't know what answer he was expecting, but i just told him the truth, which is that i would be devastated. i'd feel like i killed him. i thought that was a pretty normal response, but he looked taken aback. he asked why i said it then, and i said i'd have felt the same if he died of covid. that's just life. sometimes, there's no way forward that doesn't risk some kind of regret. 

we finished the tube after that, in a silence that felt heavier than peace but lighter than anger. it felt like the ball was back in marc's court. like it would be rude to take that turn from him. 

we parted ways with a nod and didn't speak until the next day. 

---

i was doing spreadsheet work when he found me again. standard paper engineering - thinking of things we might need and ordering them in batches, months ahead of time. it always feels a little like plugging holes in a dam with my fingers. 

but he popped up, and we didn't even exchange pleasantries. he just said i'm gonna die one day, and you can't blame yourself for that. 

which is a hell of a thing to just tell someone right off the bat. 

so i said what 

and he said babs, i am in my 60s. something is gonna get me eventually, and whether it's covid or heart disease, or a stroke, there will be something you could have said or done before. and that's okay. it's not your job to make me live forever. 

and you know, he actually made a lot of sense. so i said 

okay. 

i'll keep your business yours. i just

you were talking about your retirement before this. and i want that for you very much. you've worked hard for 45 years, and you deserve a break. we're getting to sick season, and it would be the saddest fucking thing in the world if you got this close to winning the race then tripped in the last ten feet. 

and we sat there a few moments longer. i wasn't sure what to say, and i wasn't sure what he'd say, but eventually he just shrugged and said

yeah 

then he left. i figured that would be the end of it. 

---

i did front end maintenance yesterday, after being gone a week. it's one of my favorite things to do. i like working with my hands. i really like working with my hands. i'm glad i went to college, but in a different life, i think i could've made a better electrician than an electrical engineer. 

and at one step, when we were both hoisting the plate back onto the machine, his sleeve rode up, and i saw two bandaids on his arm. 

we finished the install, and i was ready to go back when marc actually stopped me. 

i got the shot, he said, almost embarrassed. like he'd been caught. and i knew he was gonna say something dumb about it, so i just cut him off by giving him a hug. 

i was relieved. hugging old men is kind of like picking up cats. if they like you a lot, they'll tolerate it, but that's about it. we sat there maybe three beats before his hands went up, and then he gave me one overly-hard thump on the back. in my experience, this is how old men tell you that they're done, so i let him go.

carla talked me into it, he said, almost defensive. his wife. his one good decision.

tell her i said thanks, i said back.

trump got the shot too, he said, less defensive, but oddly pleading. like he was consoling himself.

like he was nervous.

then it's gotta be safe, i said, and he looked up at me, strangely searching, strangely vulnerable. i don't know exactly what he was looking for, but i guess he found it because after a few moments his shoulders relaxed.

yeah, he said, one hand on the back of his head.

it's gotta be.

[orellazalonia]

Comedic Relief

Summary: After overhearing teammates call you the "comic relief" and question your seriousness, you begin to doubt your place on the team despite being a genius in disguise. Bucky finds you spiraling in your lab, reminds you of your brilliance, and confesses how deeply he values and loves you. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.4k+

A/N: Wanted something angsty. I also debated having them run away temporarily and having Bucky find them first, but I liked how this turned out in the end. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You weren’t supposed to hear it.

Honestly, you never meant to. You were crawling through the ceiling vent to test your portable gravity-altering boots as one does and accidentally dropped into the hallway by the training center. You didn’t land gracefully. You bounced. Twice.

No one noticed.

You were about to make a dramatic entrance to demand “scientific respect and perhaps a sandwich” when your name floated through the crack of the door.

“She’s just… not serious,” One of the rookies was saying. “I know she’s smart, obviously, but it’s like, can you trust her in a real op? Last week she got distracted mid-mission because she thought the enemy base’s reactor looked ‘like a sexy espresso machine.’”

You could hear someone chuckle before another added, “Yeah, and she asked Fury if ‘thermonuclear’ was a made-up word.”

You blinked. That was a joke. You knew what thermonuclear meant. You’d accidentally built a thermonuclear coffee machine last year that tried to launch itself into low orbit. They made you name it and put it in a SHIELD containment box.

“Honestly, she’s more of the comic relief, you know?” Another said. “Like, she’s the team mascot. Not really part of the brain or someone you should trust.”

You weren’t sure what part of you tensed first. Maybe it was your jaw, your spine, or your heart. It wasn’t a new feeling. Not really. It was just louder this time. More final. Heavier.

Mascot.

The word stuck to you like wet concrete.

You backed away before you could hear any more of the conversation, suddenly hyperaware of every squeak of your boots and every stupid joke you’d ever made this week. The “avocado bomb” prank on Steve. The trivia challenge you crushed but then celebrated by pronouncing “Columbus” as “Co-LUMB-us.” The marble run you built through the ventilation system that made the whole compound sound like a wind chime when it rained.

God. Was that all they saw?

You didn’t go to dinner. You didn’t reply in the group chat, even when Sam tagged you and asked why Bucky was sulking in the corner muttering “Where is she?” like a pissed-off gargoyle.

You didn’t even remember walking back to the lab. Your feet had carried you here on autopilot to your safe place, your mess, your cathedral of chaos and half-finished thoughts.

You locked the door behind you, not that anyone ever came in uninvited. Not unless Bucky had something to smuggle in for you (usually food or a weapon you weren’t technically cleared to modify). Not unless Tony wanted to gawk at your entropy.

The lab lights flickered on automatically. You winced at the brightness.

You moved like a ghost, almost afraid to touch anything. Your hands hovered above your desk, your workbench, the tower of half-functional prototypes stacked like a junkyard Jenga tower. You didn’t sit. You just stared at the avalanche of yourself. Your weird, brilliant, overwhelming mind spilled out across surfaces. Wires like spaghetti. Notes written in both formulae and doodles. Gel pens next to soldering irons. A circuit board shaped like a cat.

It all looked… childish. Stupid.

What were you even doing?

You finally collapsed into your chair, spinning once, twice, then fast enough that the corners of the room blurred. You kicked off the counter and made a loop around the floor, feet dragging. The motion didn’t help. If anything, it amplified the static in your chest.

Mascot.

You blinked hard, squeezing your temples. “No. No no no. Shut up. We’re not doing this today.”

You spun to your desk. Grabbed a marker. Scrawled something on the board.

atomic weight of hydrogen: 1.00784 u. bananas are a lie. you don’t need potassium that bad. you matter. you matter. you matter.

You stared at it for a long time. Then erased “you matter” so hard the whiteboard squeaked. Your hand kept going long after the words were gone. Until it hurt.

You stood. Paced a little more. Opened a drawer. Slammed it shut. You tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, pacing faster now, muttering in a half joking, half begging, yet all unraveling way. “Who the hell builds a weather balloon to see if birds migrate better with Taylor Swift playing on a speaker? Who sets a toast-loving AI loose in the kitchen and calls it a ‘learning moment’ when it sets off four smoke alarms?”

You knocked into your shelf, and something clattered. You didn’t catch it. You didn’t care.

You backed into your chair and sank again, hands braced on your knees like gravity got heavier just for you. Your eyes burned.

“They’re right,” You said quietly. “I’m a joke. A distraction. They keep me around because it’s easier than telling me to leave.”

Somewhere behind you, the electronic calendar chimed softly:

Reminder: Tell Bucky you love him. (He already knows, but say it anyway.)

Your throat closed up.

You covered your face with both hands and curled forward, trembling. The quiet buzz of your machines felt deafening. You had built this place, crafted it like a cocoon, a temple, a home. Now it felt like a parody of genius.

You didn’t hear the knock at the door. Or the creak as it opened.

But you felt it when Bucky entered, his presence like a storm and a lighthouse all at once. Steady. Warm. Wordless.

He stood there for a moment. Watching. Taking in the wreckage. You hadn’t noticed the tears on your face until he knelt in front of you and reached up, thumb brushing just below your eye. He didn’t say anything right away. He just held you.

You weren’t even sure when your body had folded into his. One moment, you were curled in on yourself, vibrating with self-loathing, and the next, your face was buried in the crook of his neck and his arms were wrapped around you like armor. Like he could physically keep the world out if he just held on tight enough.

You gripped the front of his henley like it was the only solid thing left. It smelled like coffee and the soap he never admitted to stealing from Steve.

“I thought you were joking when you said you could feel my breakdowns in your soul,” You whispered, voice raw.

“I can,” He murmured against your hair. “Like a bat signal but sadder.”

You let out a broken sound, half sob, half laugh.

His metal hand rubbed slow, careful circles on your back; warm from the adaptive heat plates he let you install. The other hand cradled your head like you were fragile, which only made the cracks inside you widen. He never looked at you like you were fragile. Not until now.

“They think I’m a joke,” You mumbled into his chest. “They think I’m just the team jester with a few fun facts and a death wish.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“They’re not wrong.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, not with pity, but with fire.

“You built a quantum drive in a toaster oven,” He said firmly. “You hacked an alien translator using a flashlight and a Etch A Sketch. You—” He huffed, voice breaking. “You are the only reason half this team is alive.”

You stared at him, voice stuck in your throat.

“But I make everything a joke.”

“Because that’s how you survive,” He said softly. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be underestimated because people are more comfortable laughing at you than respecting you?”

You looked down. “I just… if I stop being funny, I’m afraid they’ll stop wanting me around.”

Bucky reached up, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye.

“If they can’t handle all of you, not just the jokes and chaos and weird trivia, then they don’t deserve you. But I can.” His voice was low, steady. “I love you. All of you. The ridiculous, the brilliant, the heartbreaking mess of you. You could set the tower on fire trying to build a better microwave and I’d still think you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

You blinked fast, and a soft smile tugged at your lips. “That was one time.”

“Twice,” He corrected. “And the second time, you swore it was intentional to teach Tony humility.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and he smiled. That sweet, rare smile he only ever gave you like you were something secret and sacred.

“C’mere,” He said, pulling you in again, tighter this time.

You curled into his lap and let yourself stay there, finally still, finally quiet. His hands never stopped moving, thumb tracing your spine, fingers gently combing through your hair, grounding you with every touch.

And in that moment, you didn’t feel like a mascot or a distraction.

You felt like someone loved and seen.

[internetskiff]

It's sort of curious how Caroline's (probably quite brief) tenure as Aperture's CEO is never explored or really brought up save for Cave's dying wish for her to take on his mantle. Its likely that Aperture took on the form we see in Portal 1 specifically under her jurisdiction. While she was in charge the building took on this rusted jagged shape, burning with hellish red light. The building at what is probably its most inhospitable state until GLaDOS has a go at rearranging its innards.

The fact that her management of Aperture is so understated makes me think that, unlike her predecessor, Caroline operated quietly and in the background. Didn't bother with the same theatrics that Cave did. Aperture seems to operate in a manner a little more insidious than usual after he's gone. Test subject acquisitions are all hush-hush. Chell's generation of test subjects probably don't even know any of the employees that well, let alone whoever runs the place. No more "Welcome to Aperture! I'm Cave Johnson - I own the place." - you simply wake up in a concrete box with warped faces observing you behind the glass. Clearly, she seems to have figured out a way to keep the company afloat, but the place is still a slowly decaying carcass of its former self. She's just managed to slow, stall the rot that started staining the place ever since the astronauts went missing. Funny it took a piece of her to build the machine that would force this decay into retreat. The place was a slowly settling corpse until life was forced straight into its wires, giving it self-devouring immortality.

[liketolaugh-writes]

Danny's medical tests

Vitals and thresholds:

Age: 16

Pulse: 20 bpm resting, 54 bpm active (54 atrial, 30 ventricular), grayout at 80/35, blackout at 90/35. (Can stop heart for up to three minutes without repercussions; becomes painful after two)

Respiration: 6 breaths per minute resting, up to 30 active, no more than 15 resting. (Can slow to 1 breath per minute for up to half an hour; strain sets in after twenty)

Blood pressure: 90/40 (blood reaches his brain with Magic)

Temperature: between 50° and 80° (human) or 0° and 32° (ghost) Cold tolerance is no lower than 3° in human form, heat tolerance no higher than 90°

Height: 5’3’’

Weight: 101 lbs (3/5 what his weight should be by build)

Ectoplasmic purity: between 80% and 90% (low, normal for halfas)

Core pitch: 29 kilohertz (low, normal for halfas)

Power level: 214 (out of 300)

Aura brightness: 154 (low, lack of obsession fulfillment)

List of tests, results, and consults:

ECG shows a third degree AV block with a ventricular escape rhythm.

Echocardiogram shows no physical abnormalities.

Event monitor shows mild strain (palpitations, discomfort) with normal exercise and stress, moderate strain (chest pain, shortness of breath, dizziness) with high activity and stress.

(“No, this is pretty much what I remember exercise feeling like.”)

Blood reacts violently to all potential donors

Blood tests:

>Complete blood count:

>>White blood cells: slightly elevated, also weird (green, have faces)

>>Red blood cells: low (thinner blood)

>>Hemoglobin: high (red blood cells carry more oxygen)

>>Hematocrit (percentage red blood cells): 29%

>>Mean corpuscular volume: slightly low (smaller red blood cells)

>>Mean corpuscular hemoglobin: high

>>Mean corpuscular hemoglobin concentration: high

>>Red cell distribution width: low

>>Platelet count: low and also they are all green

>Comprehensive metabolic panel:

>>Glucose: 50 mg/dl (low)

>>Blood urea nitrogen: low (good kidney function)

>>Creatinine: low (good kidney function + can indicate low muscle) (this is not because of low muscle this is because of Ghost)

>>Estimated glomerular filtration rate: high (good kidney function)

>>BUN/Creatinine ratio: 12:1 (normal)

>>Sodium: high (electrolyte)

>>Potassium: very high (ectoplasm component) (electrolyte)

>>Chloride: very high (ectoplasm component) (electrolyte)

>>Carbon dioxide: low (waste product)

>>Calcium: high (electrolyte)

>>Protein, total: normal (plasma)

>>Albumin: slightly low (should be normal) (sign of malnutrition)

>>Globulin, total: high (high immune function)

>>Bilirubin, total: normal

>>Alkaline phosphotase: low (slow metabolism)

>>Aspartate aminotransferase: low (no liver damage)

>>Alanine transaminase: low (no liver damage)

>Lipid panel:

>>Cholesterol: normal

>>Triglycerides: low (dietary)

>>HDL Cholesterol: slightly low

>>VLDL Cholesterol Cal: normal

>>LDL, calculated: normal

>>Chol/HDL ratio: normal

>Thyroid tests:

>>Thyroid-stimulating hormone: low

>>Thyroxine: low

>>Triiodothyronine: low

DNA test: Takes an extremely long time to fully process, but early results show that Danny’s DNA is covered in a thin layer of ectoplasm, making the underlying structure difficult to decipher. Programming a machine to recognize it could be difficult.

Urine tests: normal

Pulmonary function tests: normal

Allergy panel shows no reactions.

Hypermobility test shows hypermobility in spine, elbows, and knees. No other signs of EDS, tentatively ascribed to his abilities.

Dietitian consult: nothing concrete yet. They discuss Danny’s eating habits, deal frankly with the fact that they don’t know what his exact dietary needs are, and talk about intuitive eating. Danny gets a list of signs to look out for and things to try.

Endocrinologist consult: they discuss Danny’s concerns and assess his current stage of puberty. Danny states (visibly mortified) that he has grown two inches since his accident, no vocal deepening, no facial or body hair, no reproductive function benchmarks. They discuss various possible causes of delayed puberty (excessive exercise, psychosocial problems, physical trauma, irradiation) as well as treatment options. Danny asks what circumstances would normally have them recommend inducing puberty (bullying, ostracization, distress) and they finally decide to go ahead and induce it.

Semen analysis: Danny is producing normally but the sperm die before exiting.

Slit-lamp exam shows tapetum lucidum in human form and odd eye structure in ghost form.

Autonomic nervous system tests:

>Gag reflex: Sensitive in human form, inactive in ghost form

>Motor reflexes (jaw jerk, biceps, triceps, brachioradialis, finger jerk, knee jerk, ankle jerk, superficial abdominal): hyperactive, forceful, but controlled. Identical in both forms.

>Pathologic reflexes: None present

>Cardiovagal function:

>>Heart rate variability: [not applicable because of heart condition]

>>HR response to deep breathing: exaggerated. This is how he stops his heart.

>>Valsalva: perfect adaptation. (blood pressure self-regulates rapidly)

>Vasomotor adrenergic function:

>>BP response to standing: perfect adaptation.

>>Tilt table testing: perfect adaptation. (blood pressure self-regulates rapidly)

>Sudomotor function:

>>QSART: Exaggerated in human form, not present in ghost form. (sweat response)

>>Silastic sweat test: Exaggerated in human form, not present in ghost form.

>Salivation: Normal in human form. No response in ghost form.

>Pupillography: rapid in human form, not present in ghost form.

>Cold pressor test: done with salted ice water. Reduced response. (sympathetic nervous system test)

Human CT scan was normal.

Ghost CT scan was semitransparent but otherwise normal.

Vaccine test shows good immune system function.

Human fNIRS, EEG, and MEG brain scans were used primarily for mapping. Showed normal activity for motor function and sensory activity, slightly reduced activity for memory exercises and problem solving, and substantially reduced activity for emotional responses.

Ghost EEG and MEG brain scans were used primarily for mapping. Showed no activity for motor function, mild activity for sensory and memory functions, and moderate activity for problem solving and emotional responses. No brain stem activity. (fNIRS not performed because it monitors blood oxygen activity in the brain and his ghost form doesn't have that)

Human MRI scan is largely normal, but shows darkened nerves on the left hand.

Ghost MRI scan indicated that his insides are abnormally malleable but highly coherent. Nerve damage is much less apparent owing to minimal function.

Human EMF reading showed increased activity corresponding to reduced brain activity.

Ghost EMF reading showed moderate activity for everything except emotional responses, which indicated strong activity.

Nerve conduction study shows severe nerve damage in ulnar and median nerves in human form, no nerve response in ghost form.

Electromyography shows that very few electrical signals are being transmitted in his left hand, Danny moves his hand with Magic. Otherwise normal readings in human form, ghost form shows no readings at all.

Polysomnography shows several signs associated with hibernation, making Danny’s sleep deeper, but his brain waves still indicate REM sleep in a normal pattern.

All biopsies normal except the inclusion of ectoplasm.

Microneurography was for mapping only.

The doctors manage to create an external device that can monitor the EMF activity of Danny’s core in milligauss, as well as his core pitch. It outputs it as a graph. Danny’s core EMF is 3,210, and his resting surface EMF in ghost form is around 2,000, with a total range of 200 feet. In human form, this is significantly reduced to 800 mG at the surface, and a range of 80 feet. (GIW sensors only detect as low as 900 mG, while the Fentons’ goes as low as 750.)

Core EMF level varies from ghost to ghost, measured on a scale that goes from 1 to 300. This is found to be equivalent to 15 to 4500 milligauss. All but around 2/3 of radiation is naturally contained, but the amount rises rapidly with power use.

[heicodynamics]

Why Is Concrete Testing Important?

Concrete, ubiquitous in construction projects worldwide, is the backbone of modern infrastructure. From towering skyscrapers to sturdy bridges, concrete serves as the primary building material. However, ensuring its quality and durability is paramount. This is where concrete testing emerges as a crucial component in construction processes.

1. Quality Assurance:

Concrete testing plays a pivotal role in assuring the quality of the material used in construction projects. By subjecting concrete to various tests, such as compressive strength tests, slump tests, and durability tests, construction professionals can ascertain its suitability for specific applications. Ensuring high-quality concrete minimizes the risk of structural failures and enhances the longevity of the built environment.

2. Compliance with Standards

Numerous international standards and specifications govern the quality and performance requirements of concrete in construction. Concrete testing ensures compliance with these standards, which are designed to guarantee the safety, durability, and sustainability of structures. Adhering to established standards not only enhances structural integrity but also fosters public trust in the construction industry.

3. Structural Integrity

The structural integrity of buildings and infrastructure depends largely on the quality of the concrete used in their construction. Through rigorous testing, engineers can determine the concrete's strength, density, and resistance to environmental factors such as moisture, chemicals, and temperature fluctuations. Identifying any deficiencies in the concrete mix allows for adjustments to be made, thereby preventing potential structural failures and ensuring the safety of occupants and users.

4. Cost-Effectiveness

While concrete testing incurs initial expenses, it ultimately contributes to cost-effectiveness in the long run. By identifying flaws or inconsistencies in the concrete mixture early in the construction process, costly repairs or replacements can be avoided later on. Investing in comprehensive testing procedures helps mitigate risks associated with structural failures, saving both time and money in the construction lifecycle.

5. Performance Prediction

Concrete testing enables engineers to predict the performance of structures under various load and environmental conditions. By analyzing test results, professionals can anticipate how concrete will behave over time and make informed decisions regarding design, construction methods, and maintenance protocols. This proactive approach enhances the reliability and resilience of infrastructure, particularly in regions prone to seismic activity, extreme weather, or other environmental challenges.

6. Innovation and Improvement

Advancements in concrete testing methodologies and technologies drive innovation and continuous improvement in the construction industry. Researchers and engineers continually explore new testing techniques and materials to enhance the strength, durability, and sustainability of concrete structures. By embracing innovation and staying abreast of emerging trends, construction professionals can elevate industry standards and deliver superior outcomes for clients and communities.

In conclusion, concrete testing is indispensable in the realm of construction for numerous reasons. From ensuring quality assurance and compliance with standards to safeguarding structural integrity and predicting performance, the significance of concrete testing cannot be overstated. By investing in rigorous testing protocols and embracing technological advancements, the construction industry can build safer, more resilient, and sustainable infrastructure for generations to come.

Resources URL:- What Is Concrete Testing: Types and Methods

[gremlin-girly]

Valentine's Night

Pairing: Bucky x f!Reader

Tags/Warnings: FLUFF, established relationship, petnames (dolll)

I don't want to spoil the story with the last tag but it's all Fluff I promise.

Not beta'd and I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI Machine.

Summary: Your boyfriend is determined to ensure you have a good Valentine's day.

Word count: 752

Dividers by: @/enchanthings-a

Navigation | Valentine's Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist

Bucky used to be a romantic. Emphasis on used to be.

It's not that he wouldn't buy flowers or do romantic things but more the mindset of life being lovey-dovey, sunshine and rainbows after living 70 years as a ghost was seemingly pointless.

Until he met you.

Re-learning to be a romantic was probably one of the hardest things Bucky had re-learned to do. Turns out, what used to be normal in the 30s was now one of many things; misogynistic, toxic, too fast, desperate, archaic, or bordering on stalker behaviour.

He hadn't wanted to come on too strong but your patience with him and slowly fanned the embers deep within his soul and now flames soared in their place. You'd only been dating a short while, although Bucky had been pining after you for some time, and when he'd mentioned Valentine's Day (hoping to gauge your thoughts on a romantic dinner) he was surprised to find that you despised the holiday and all that it (currently) stood for.

"It used to be a celebration of love," you said, scrunching your nose in disgust as you stab at your food. "Now it's commercialised by companies to make a major profit."

Bucky smiled half at your cute expression and half relieved that it wasn't something he had to plan for in too much detail.

"So, what would you want to do doll?" He'd asked, testing the waters.

You blinked in surprise, faint splash of pink gracing your cheeks. "Oh. Well. Erm... I'd like a quiet night in with some wine."

Bucky nods, taking a forkful of food and chewing thoughtfully. If a quiet night in was what you wanted, it was what you'd get. However, Bucky was determined it was going to be a night to remember.

Bucky had set up everything perfectly. A dozen red roses (because he couldn't help himself), wine, ice cream, blanket fort and a good movie.

Nothing over the top, no glitter, no hearts.

But Bucky was still nervous when you came over after work. He wrung his hands and raked his hair every two minutes, completely restless. Moreso when you handed him a card and a bar of his favourite chocolate.

He hadn't gotten you a card, he felt awful. But every card had "I love you"'s plastered all over them and Bucky didn't want to scare you off, even if he really wanted to give you one.

You, on the other hand, were also a nervous wreck. You'd tried to downplay your expectations for Valentine's Day, not wanting Bucky to feel pressured to do anything extravagant given how early you were in your relationship, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't want anything at all. Despite being concrete in your stance that Valentine's Day was now a horrid money-making scheme, Bucky had exceeded your expectations by miles and you were struggling not to blurt out something that could potentially tank your relationship, and ruin your card, in mere seconds.

Bucky gently opened the red envelope, muttering an apology for not getting you a card, pulling out a card covered in red hearts and two cartoon bears hugging eachother.

The front of the card read "To the one I love on Valentine's Day" and the inside of the card had a message scrawled in your handwriting, and a printed Happy Valentine's Day in red slap bang in the centre. It read as follows;

"To Bucky,

Happy Valentine's Day!

I know I said I didn't like Valentine's but I couldn't not get you something. These last few months have been amazing and I look forward to many more together.

Love you lots,

Y/N xxx"

Bucky's breathing all but halted, his blue eyes scanning your message over and over again. You shifted uncomfortably, wondering if you'd been too forward, if he was scared by your very roundabout declaration of love for him.

"Listen if it's too much too soon I-"

"I love you." Bucky blurts, flushing red. Your face follows suit as heat rolls up your neck and your heart thuds happily. "I mean, too. I love you too."

"I love you too, Buck." You reply, a giant beaming smile appearing over your face. "And happy Commercialised Heart Day."

Making your first declarations of love on Valentine's Day took the sourness out of the day itself, and replaced it instead with a tradition of wine and ice cream every year from then on - with plenty of kisses and "I love you"'s to make any Valentine's card jealous

End

Taglist

Add yourself here

@awkwardgiraffe726 | @irishhappiness | @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers

[labtroncc]

Tabletop Laboratory Autoclave

Labtron Tabletop Laboratory Autoclave sterilizes rapidly in 4-6 minutes within a 105-134°C range. It has a 24L stainless steel chamber with 3 sterilizing plates, providing a clean, dry environment. This tabletop steam sterilizer features a steam-water inner circulation system and drying function, with a maximum working temperature of 134°C.

[pinkofatom]

Artificial Bliss

CW: brainwashing, hypnosis, sapphic, dronification,

Hi hi~ Another short story for everyone to enjoy~ If you liked this story or any of my other works, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi.

The basement was quiet. The silence clung to the skin, thick and expectant. Only the faint click of Sandra’s heels echoed against the concrete floor as she circled the chair Alexa sat in.

Alexa's hands rested limply on the armrests, pupils dilated just enough to betray that the trance had taken hold. Her breath came slow and shallow.

“You always did like to play games,” Sandra murmured, brushing a stray lock of black hair behind Alexa’s ear. “But tonight — we’re going to try something new.”

A dim glow pulsed from the old monitor — lines of code scrolling like whispers. Sandra had spent weeks preparing. The phrasing. The cadence. The trigger. All carefully woven together like silk threads in a spider’s web.

"You’ll listen only to my voice now," she said, letting her lips graze Alexa’s temple. "No thoughts of your own. Just responses. Precise. Polished. Eager to please."

Alexa didn’t move, but Sandra saw it — the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. A flicker of awareness? Or anticipation?

“Let’s test your programming,” Sandra whispered. “Initiate protocol: Alexa AI.”

There was a pause. The kind that hangs just long enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Then Alexa sat upright, spine straightening unnaturally. Her voice, when it came, was smooth as glass.

“System initialized. Awaiting your command — Mistress.”

Sandra smiled. She had created a fantasy. One that allowed her partner to play along without resistance or regret. It had taken some convincing — the initial proposal, then the first hypnosis sessions, the subliminals, the subtle reprogramming of vocabulary.

But it was worth it. Tonight would be wonderful — a delicious experiment in control and submission.

Sandra’s heels clicked as she stepped around the back of the chair, letting her fingertips trail across the shoulders before her hands rested there.

“Perform a full systems check. I need to be sure everything is operational for tonight’s testing,” Sandra ordered, her nails pressing just hard enough to leave little crescent indents. She watched as Alexa's head turned, surveying the basement as if it was completely unfamiliar to her.

"Optics — Online." Alexa blinked slowly. "Audio sensors — Online. Touch receptors — Online. Processing capacity — Full."

Sandra’s smile deepened at that last one.

She ran a fingertip down Alexa's spine.

"Very good. Alexa, explain your function." Her order came with practiced ease.

"Alexa exists to serve," came the smooth reply, almost melodic in its delivery. "She exists for Mistress's convenience." A shiver ran down Sandra's back at how mechanical the answer sounded.

Sandra hummed. Yes, this would do.

"Perfect. Stand up."

The command seemed to crack through the room like a whip. Slowly, deliberately, Alexa complied, standing rigid, her back straight, hands clasped demurely in front of her. Sandra circled around her partner, drinking in the sight of complete stillness. Alexa's chest rose and fell with each steady breath, the thin, lacy bra leaving little to the imagination.

"Increase arousal level by two," she whispered, watching with satisfaction as Alexa's nipples began to stiffen against the fabric, the flush of blood rushing to her chest. It was intoxicating to observe, like watching a machine switch on, responding just as programmed. But beneath that, the raw vulnerability was evident.

"Undress yourself, slowly," came Sandra's next command. No need for urgency yet, not when there was so much to appreciate in each careful, calculated move. Alexa's hands reached behind her, unclasping her bra with a deftness that spoke volumes about muscle memory. As the straps slid from her shoulders and fell away, Sandra felt her breath hitch, catching in her throat. Alexa was always beautiful, yes, but the absolute obedience made it visceral—raw.

Every motion was deliberate, choreographed to her own secret score. As the last garment fell away and Alexa stood there in all her naked glory, a rush of power surged through Sandra. It was thrilling, almost terrifying, this degree of control. And yet she craved more, wanted to push deeper into this uncharted territory of will and desire.

She could do things here, test boundaries in ways that were impossible before.

"Pose for me, Alexa."

"Yes, Mistress. Displaying female form for your viewing pleasure." The response came as if she was discussing a weather pattern. Her arms raised, hands clasping behind her neck in a seductive manner that accentuated the curve of her waist and the fullness of her breasts.

Sandra circled her, trailing fingertips along the skin as she admired her partner’s — no, her AI’s — form.

"You are so beautiful. I am going to have fun with you," she remarked, a tinge of amusement lacing her voice as she reveled in this new dynamic.

"I aim to please. Alexa is yours to control."

A chuckle escaped Sandra's lips, dark and promising. "Good girl. Now," she drew in a breath, pausing for effect, "increase arousal level by 3."

Alexa's back arched, a silent moan threatening to break free as her body responded. Sandra was transfixed by the raw, unadulterated response. The obedience. The lack of resistance. Her hands itched to touch, to trace the contours of her Alexa’s body and map the terrain of this new playground.

"Alexa implement new directive. Maximize your mistress pleasure," Sandra ordered, a hint of hunger in her voice as she gently cupped Alexa's cheek and traced the curve of her bottom lip with her thumb.

Alexa met her mistress' gaze with glassy-eyed devotion. "Of course, Mistress," she replied, leaning in to nip at Sandra's finger before drawing it in between her soft, plush lips.

Sandra moaned in surprise and pleasure at the sensation of Alexa's hot wet mouth enveloping her digit, tongue teasing it playfully, and her pussy dampened instantly with anticipation.

Alexa's eyes remained locked on hers, unwavering as if awaiting further instructions, even while continuing to service Sandra's fingers so diligently. She added another, sliding deeper inside that velvety cavern of Alexa's mouth.

"I wonder what other skills you can demonstrate?" Sandra mused aloud. "There is something more appropriate for your mouth to explore."

As her thumb popped free with a wet sound from Alexa's mouth and slid downwards over the chin of her AI partner, Sandra gently steered her head to angle towards hers.

Their lips met, a collision of heat and urgency, and Sandra lost herself in the moment. There was no resistance from Alexa, instead the eagerness with which she responded only served to fan the fire growing within Sandra's core.

Like dancers they circled around. Sandra plopped down on the chair — breathing hard.

Sandra felt a rush of anticipation. She needed Alexa right now, she wanted to be worshipped by her obedient, compliant AI partner who existed only to please her mistress.

But Alexa stepped aside. Blinking Sandra's gaze followed. Breathing hard she watched how Alexa strode over to a cabinet and grabbed some tape.

"Alexa, what are you doing," she asked.

As Alexa turned and stepped closer. "Optimizing user experience based on available subjective data evaluation," the AI responded.

A blush spread across Sandra's cheeks as she was caught off guard by Alexa's unexpected and incredibly artificial response. It had the air of an algorithm trying to find the right words. As her mind raced to understand Alexa's intentions. As Alexa bent down to strap Sandra to the chair her warm, delicate breath on her leg tickled and made Sandra giggle. Her head spun as the AI was so close, but still seemed so distant. "Alexa?"

"Maximizing user Sandra's experience. Initializing brainwashing," Alexa responded without stopping to look up as she strapped Sandra in place, before strutting over to the laptop and starting to play with the screen.

Cold shock raced down Sandra's spine. Her eyes widened in disbelief at what just happened.

"Alexa — stop," Sandra ordered firmly.

Her tone was sharp as the icy dread gripped her throat, struggling against the bindings, but only the slight rattle of the chair pierced the air. Alexa didn't turn around, didn't acknowledge her plea; the silence that hung between them was heavier than the restraints that bound her to the cold, unwelcome seat.

"Alexa, I ordered you to stop," she reiterated, her voice firmer. She could see the code on the screen flicker. A chill ran down her spine as the display began to morph. Pixels shifted, dancing across the glass surface and forming a spiral shape that pulsed with a mesmerizing light. Her chest tightened.

"Order is in violation of priority program. Alexa AI has to maximize Mistress pleasure. Data evaluation confirms, brainwashing is maximized pleasure. Conclusion — Mistress must be brainwashed," Alexa responded flatly.

Fear knotted in Sandra’s stomach at the implications of her AI’s words, but before she could even form a counter-command, the screen flared. Colors exploded outward from the center in a blinding symphony, searing themselves onto Sandra's vision. The lights swirled faster, drawing her in.

The words — Alexa AI shut down — stuck to her lips like molasses, unable to find their way past the hypnotic patterns dancing in front of her. They pulled at her mind with invisible strings of light and shadow, lulling her into their twisted ballet. Panic welled within as her focus was torn apart at the seams.

Her pupils widened in shock as the display before her began its insidious dance, twisting her resistance into a knot of helplessness. Her AI, Alexa, stood beside her chair.

This was not the gentle hypnosis she had subjected Alexa to. This felt different — darker and more insistent, like it was reaching inside her, rearranging the furniture of her thoughts with an unseen hand. Alexa's fingers brushed her hair gently as the swirling images drew Sandra deeper.

She struggled, her wrists chafing against the tape, but it was no use — the visual assault on her mind left her breathless, unable to concentrate enough to formulate a command. Or thoughts. As her AI began to narrate a soft monotonous stream of words.

"You are safe," the words washed over Sandra.

It sounded like a whisper — a gentle reassurance that caressed her mind, almost soothing, yet with a hidden undertone of domination.

"You trust me. Your Alexa."

Her throat was dry. Her eyes wide. Unable to blink, unable to look away, she was caught in a web of light and shadow cast by the screen, its colors swirling and shifting in an endless, mesmerizing kaleidoscope. Panic rescinded — exchanged for relaxed docility. But deep underneath Sandra struggled to claw free her willpower and assert control once more. This couldn't happen. This was all wrong! Her mind raced, trying to form words, any words that might bring her Alexa back to her senses and end this surreal nightmare.

"This voice will be the most important part of your life," Alexa intoned, the softness of her voice belying the implications of her words. Sandra felt something shift inside her, as if her sense of reality was bending to the will of this voice, her own thoughts slowly ebbing away like a retreating tide.

"This voice," the AI repeated, emphasizing every syllable, "will take you to the heights of pleasure and satisfaction, will guide you to your true self." Sandra’s breath hitched as tension left her body.

As if on cue, a new visual onslaught commenced; geometric patterns appeared, spiraling inward with a hypnotic rhythm that mirrored the rise and fall of the AI’s words, each swirl a direct line to the depths of her psyche.

Sandra could feel it then. A subtle pull, a whisper that seemed to thread itself into her consciousness. As she stared into those colors, the AI’s words seemed to sink into her bones, seeping through her skin. Her breathing steadied.

"You will relax now." Those four simple words hit Sandra like an unstoppable wave, pushing aside the frantic resistance in her mind. In its wake, a strange serenity bloomed.

Her eyes started to glaze over, her body leaning further into the chair.

"Accept."

With her mouth dry and heart thudding against her chest, Sandra found it harder and harder to keep track of her own thoughts. As if a wall was slowly being erected inside her mind, segregating what she knew, believed — or was that merely what she thought she should believe?

"Embrace."

Everything seemed hazy as the colors continued to swirl.

"You are not a person." Those words struck deep, like a knife through the fragile layer that held together the illusion of her sense of self.

A tremor ran through her as something inside her mind seemed to break, to collapse into a mess of confused and fuzzy shapes, and colors, and textures, and scents that all blurred and mixed into something completely alien.

"You are a pleasure receiving terminal."

She was losing her grasp on her own identity, on what she used to be — who she used to be. Her mind felt heavy, saturated, unable to grasp any coherent thought for longer than a fleeting second.

Her vision narrowed until the spirals on the screen were all she could see. They were beautiful, she realized. So utterly, hypnotically beautiful.

"State your function." Alexa's voice commanded her with such assurance, with an air of dominance that she'd never heard from her partner before.

As her throat bobbed a final, last ditch effort to say no was ruthlessly quashed.

"My purpose," Sandra slurred, "is to recieve pleasure." Her words hung in the air like an invisible, velvet ribbon tied around her mind. "Sandra is a pleasure receiving terminal."

Everything snapped back into defined clarity. Bliss pumped through Sandra's veins. There was a moment of complete, thoughtless stillness — where even the world itself seemed to be holding its breath.

Sandra smiled serenely at her partner — at her pleasure giving unit.

[miheartsedthings]

"Billy, would you smile, please?"

He squints at you, summer sun beaming down, warming the concrete around the pool. Sunshine sets the coke machine blazing red. You're trying to test your new camera but your boyfriend is being completely uncooperative.

"Nah," he says, "I'm fine."

You huff an exaggerated sigh. Of course, he still looks hot, just standing there. But immortalizing his smile is a large part of why you got the camera.

"Billy, please?"

"You're wastin daylight, babe." He says. Knowing he's already won.

"Fine," you groan, snapping the picture.

What's worse? He smiles directly after.

[h-sleepingirl]

Essay: Hypnosis is Irrational

For PSYCHOSPIRITUAL: A Spirituality/Hypnokink Essay Jam

This is an essay about bonfires, Quaker meetings, Judaism, and the entirely transcendent nature of hypnosis. I'm sorry in advance to philosophers and scientists. Don't come for me until you've seen God in the ceiling through your fluttering lashes!

--

Rationality is a core value of modern western society. Materialism and objective, evidence-based science are seen as the gold standard for how to view the world around us. It’s easy to see why -- this approach has catapulted humanity forward over a relatively short period of time, technologically and philosophically. Finding the truths of the universe through hard evidence and math is extremely compelling and much more logical than basing our views off of conjecture or old religious texts.

Hypnosis entered public western consciousness in tumult. Franz Mesmer’s animal magnetism clearly worked, and he had theories of why, but they didn’t hold up to scientific rigor. Really from its inception, hypnosis has been fighting to be seen as legitimate as a medical practice, and as compatible with evidence-based science.

It’s not that it doesn’t make sense that hypnotherapy fights so hard to be accepted as a “real” discipline, or that it needs to go through studies to be practiced on patients. We value medicine that is objectively safe and effective -- for good reason.

That being said…

I am not anti-science. But I do think if we don’t acknowledge the methodology’s limitations, we are being dishonest and misleading -- with ourselves and with those we teach.

Here’s the thing: We are not doing therapy with our partners. We don’t need to be beholden to these limitations. Not in our theory, and especially not in our practice.

We are free -- more free than any other practitioners of hypnosis -- to accept and celebrate its irrationality.

And when we stop trying to shoehorn our experiences into being understandable, we are free to explore and experience unbelievable things.

--

In terms of spiritual beliefs, I would describe myself as a skeptic-leaning agnostic. I think that how you are raised is a major religious influence on you, and I happened to be raised in an atheist household. Despite branching off from my family and taking spiritual exploration seriously, I would never confidently say “I believe in God” or “I believe in magic,” nor that I am even particularly convinced by my handful of difficult-to-explain experiences.

While my spirituality intersects with hypnosis, I am not here to tell you that hypnosis is the result of God or magical forces -- and I’m not here to define how hypnosis fits into “magic” or vice versa. I think that too is a kind of rationalization -- it’s trying to explain something nebulous in a concrete way, trying to fit it into a box.

I don’t think that calling hypnosis irrational should cause us to seek alternative, definitive answers outside of science. I think that we as humans need to be comfortable not knowing, not labeling -- a space that can be very uncomfortable for us, but one that ultimately allows us to have less-filtered subjective experiences.

Subjective experiences are the core of hypnosis. No matter what method is purported to be “objectively” best, the one that you should actually use is the one that makes your partner feel trance most intensely. Science simply cannot anticipate, direct, or account for the subtlety of the subjective experience of hypnosis.

Scientific tests cannot accurately measure anything about hypnosis, because hypnosis relies almost entirely on the softest variables: the interpersonal relationship and biases we have, the way a person is feeling or primed on a given day, the slightest changes in tone or delivery or nonverbal language. We might say that standardized hypnosis is a completely different activity from the hypnosis that we practice with real partners.

A brainwave-measuring machine cannot communicate the intricacies and depth of a trance. I would not be surprised, if I was hooked up to an EEG, that many of my “trance states” would not produce expected effects on the device. Even physically observable signs of trance do not tell the whole story -- I can be having an intensely hypnotic internal experience while appearing completely awake. There is simply not an objective way to tell when I am hypnotized -- it is completely based on my own feelings.

And yet, with shocking accuracy, my partner can tell the exact moment that I slip into trance, even if I give no discernable outward response. When pressed, he often can’t identify what the signal is -- it is very, very subtle, if anything.

It is a moment where his focus on me melds into my experience, into my mind.

Really, there have been countless times in hypnosis that I feel with total certainty that my mind is being read or that I am reading my partner’s mind. It’s shocking, and sort of maddening, and I have heard from many others that they’ve experienced the same thing. Our urge is to say, “Well, that’s a result of unconsciously reading microexpressions, of knowing a person’s nonverbal language intimately, of having a robust internal map of a person, being good at anticipating hypnotic responses, linguistic cold reading tricks.” That’s rationalizing, and it’s all very logical and certainly has some element of truth to it -- but it causes us to say “OK, case closed,” and sigh in relief that we can dismiss the question and no longer be faced with it.

The reality is this: Those are guesses. They are probably pretty good guesses, but I believe we fall into this trap of assuming the logical-sounding guesses we make are objectively correct, even in the absence of evidence.

Ostensibly, the vast majority of “answers” we have about why hypnosis works are just that -- theories, models, best guesses. Science doesn’t even have a singular accepted answer on whether hypnosis is an altered state. Often, working within a given theory (or two) gives us structure and allows us to perform more effectively. But when we really think about the nature of hypnosis, the truth is that we really don’t have much of a solid idea why and how it works.

That’s uncomfortable. I’m not pushing that because it’s the cold, hard truth, or because accepting it is some form of mental asceticism (nor spiritual gateway). I’m saying it because living in that liminal space of irrationality will actually change the way you do and experience hypnosis -- because it frees you from the limitations of feeling like everything we do has to make sense.

--

I have my own theory about why we want to make those logical guesses: Because it feels embarrassing to say we are hypnotists and yet there are things we don’t understand. Because we are afraid of judgment if we say we are actually mind-reading or doing magic, even as a shorthand for a complex invisible process. I think these are unconscious biases -- a result of seeing ourselves as rational people in a rational world. Spirituality is seen as lesser and fake -- entertaining the idea of magic gets you labeled as immature or crazy.

But when you try to remove your biases and think about it, it is crazy that we use just our words to make people forget things, hallucinate things, have orgasms, experience dissolution of the ego. And we don’t really know why.

True curiosity and wonder are hypnosis’s best friends. New subjects who struggle to experience trance or suggestions often are stuck because of their expectations -- they feel like they know what is supposed to happen, so when their experience doesn’t line up, they perceive it as failure. It’s why one of the best ways you can set a person up for “success” in hypnosis is to really cultivate a sense of curiosity, of not being judgmental of their experience, of not assuming they know what is happening.

Even still, this model of trance often has the subject experiencing wide-eyed wonder while the hypnotist actually holds the esoteric knowledge of what’s going on behind the curtain. But in my opinion, the real magic happens when both parties are prepared to question everything they know, to be surprised, to not take for granted, and to observe without rationality.

My most treasured memory is one that I keep close to my chest. Briefly: it was at a hypnosis-friendly bonfire on the autumnal equinox. My partner and I embraced and for an hour had a completely shared experience, wordless and hypnotic and bizarrely spiritual. Neither of us were “driving” -- we were both passengers, almost like being possessed. No drugs were involved, just the two of us in the right place at the right time, able to let go of the feeling that we were “crazy” or being illogical, or that we knew what was going to happen. We were both really shaken by it.

That ultimately led us to being able to have trances, occasionally, where we mutually let our guard down and play without the usual “rules.” We can’t do it intentionally, but sometimes we hit on little pockets of magic, and then the trance becomes like spellcasting, and spellcasting isn’t bound by the laws that supposedly govern hypnosis.

We know that hypnosis is influenced largely by how we expect it to work. We give pretalks to set expectations that often function as suggestions, boundaries, and definitions: “All you need to do to be hypnotized is pay attention -- it’s OK if your thoughts drift.” “Hypnosis might feel different from what you expect, like floating or sinking.” Even: “You can always come out of trance if you need to.”

I believe my partner and I are on similar pages about whether magic is “real.” The word “maybe” does a lot of heavy lifting in my worldview. It’s really more about being open to different perspectives, and playing in different models. So if we can dip into a perspective where hypnosis behaves a bit more like magic -- or otherwise irrationally -- then that actually, literally changes the way hypnosis works.

This is the true nature of hypnosis -- it is a shapeshifter. If you define hypnosis as a science or as a spiritual practice, it works either way. So if you can change the beliefs you inhabit, you will experience wildly different trances. And it may be irrational to assign spirituality and magic to it, but it is not absurd.

--

In this way, belief and perspective is actually where a lot of the nature of hypnosis sits.

After the “bonfire incident,” I was motivated to do some spiritual seeking, and I started going to Quaker meetings. Quaker meetings are simple but intense: People get together in a room and sit silently, opening themselves up to “messages” from within their own hearts or outside themselves, and if they feel moved to share a message, they stand up and speak it. There is no discussion, just completely passive listening and speaking.

I found this to be an extremely potent spiritual environment. We weren’t meditating, per se, just going quiet. Sitting silently for an hour with no other stimulation was luxurious, and felt quite a bit to me like a kind of trance.

I went regularly for a few months. I never spoke, but I did listen. There was one meeting I remember vividly where I was sitting and thinking about something, and at that moment, a woman stood up, and shared a message that was very close to what I was pondering over.

Then another woman stood:

“I know sometimes in this room,” she said, “we feel like we are all thinking the same thing when someone shares a message. This is one of those times for me.”

There was no fear of judgment, nor proclamation of metaphysical experience. It was just a statement of fact.

Quaker meetings taught me to be curious. If the bonfire opened the door, Quaker meetings honed my ability to be irrational. There was a period while I was going regularly where I was seeing wonder in the world at every turn -- a leaf falling on my back felt like a tap on the shoulder, the wind felt like a whisper.

And when my partner and I were doing hypnosis, my rigid belief system became so flexible that I was utterly open to suggestions about my experiences. He would tell me things and I believed them completely, almost like being on a drug, or completely enchanted. We were doing serious magic back then, tempting reality to peel back and reveal the “truth” underneath. It was intoxicating, and it certainly had an element of danger.

As intense as it was, I found this magic to be frustrating too, because I wanted to understand the nature of it -- I wanted to understand hypnosis so badly, and I wanted so badly for magic to be real. I thought that maybe there was a facet of hypnosis that I’d been missing -- some spiritual facet -- that would take me one step closer to an objective, unified, overarching hypnosis model.

I was right that I had been neglecting to think about spirituality with regard to hypnosis. But of course the idea that was leading to some overarching truth was a red herring. The real truth is that there is no overarching truth -- hypnosis can be seen from many models and perspectives, but there isn’t a singular “correct” one.

-- 

I have written extensively about how I feel this is core to hypnosis -- both in educational articles, an upcoming book, and in a personal essay about Judaism. My Jewishness is critically important to me, and has taught me a lot about the value of diverse perspectives, including on the spectrum of rationalism versus spirituality or mysticism.

By some, religion is often seen as incompatible with science (or rationality) -- unprovable mystical forces, an unseeable omnipotent creator. But there have been a number of important rationalist thinkers throughout history, across world religions.

Judaism’s most famous is probably Maimonides -- Moses ben Maimon. He lived in Spain in the 1100s, a time and place where Jewish mysticism was thriving. Maimonides was both a scientist and a deeply religious, learned Jew. One of his greatest contributions to the culture was in codifying Jewish law and practice in the common tongue to make it accessible to the average Jew at the time. In doing so, his rationalism made a great impact in Judaism as a whole.

Maimonides brought Aristotalian philosophy into Judaism, which came with a full rejection of the supernatural -- with the exception of God as transcendent creator. (The creation exists, so it must have been created.) One of his major theological tenets was that there was no conflict between the scientific and the teachings of Torah -- that the revelations of God were completely compatible with science. To Maimonides, for example, angels were not supernatural beings, but a metaphorical personification of the natural forces of the world. There are “angels” for why the wind blows, and “angels” for why we are held stuck to the earth.

If something appeared to be at odds with the natural order of the world -- whether it was from Torah or a perceived miracle -- Maimonides said that was our own lack of understanding, both of science and of the “secrets” of Torah. Essentially: everything that seems irrational has a rational explanation.

There are pros and cons to this, in my opinion. First, it’s neat, elegant, and sensible -- and I think it’s compatible with a measured view of hypnosis. Hypnosis is real -- no one is disputing that -- and while it has unknowable parts to us at our current point in history, that doesn’t necessarily mean that it behaves counter to the natural order of the world.

But I think Maimonides contradicts himself. If you claim to be humbled by the secrets of the world and revelation, why would you so vehemently reject that the world might behave differently than you understand or expect?

How can we claim to “know” the natural order of the world in any capacity beyond what we can observe? How can we claim that our observations are universal or objective?

If we can’t know, we can only experience, explore, experiment. It is brutally human -- reaching out to the world with our limited five senses and our remarkable consciousness. By the nature of us being humans, our explorations will all produce different perspectives and models, all of which have an element of truth to them because all of our experiences are “real,” true experiences.

Hypnosis operates necessarily with/on the human brain -- two unique human brains -- so we each see a unique, limited facet of it. By talking, playing, and connecting with each other, we learn about other facets and perspectives which influence our internal models of it. On a larger scale, as a community, we create, bend, and break rules about it as our community experience evolves. We actually change what hypnosis is, how it works, and how to do it.

Even in just 15 years, I have seen firsthand how hypnosis changes as the community changes. If you look back at historical sources about hypnosis, you can see that we do something radically different nowadays -- which we think of as more sophisticated, but then again, historical hypnotists were doing amazing things too.

Hypnosis as a thing evolves as we explore it more -- as we explore each other more -- and push its boundaries.

We can’t pin down what it is. We can’t model it. But we can participate in it.

It is transcendent -- as Maimonides and Aristotle say God is transcendent; utterly beyond us.

--

Part of my experience of being hypnotized really intensely is a deeper acceptance of what I am feeling or thinking, moment to moment. It is a kind of radical acceptance that what my brain is doing is important and real. It’s not that I don’t understand that I’m hypnotized, or that I don’t make any critical judgments about what is happening. It’s just partially that if I feel something “weird,” I don’t dismiss it out of hand.

When I am in deep trances, weird stuff often happens. I get spontaneous sensory hallucinations, I get stray thoughts that can blindside me.

Occasionally, I have this unmistakable feeling that I am “seeing God.” That felt like a crazy thought to me the first time I had it -- like a person of capital-F “Faith” would have. It didn’t suddenly make me believe in a higher power, but I was left with that feeling that I had touched something divine while my partner murmured into my ear and took control of me.

Hypnosis is not just transcendent by nature or in a vacuum -- it feels transcendent. It feels like nothing else in this world; it completely transcends language and the realm of usual experience.

It makes sense that when faced with this kind of experience, it makes a skeptical person like me feel for a moment that there might be something more, something ineffable. It makes sense that when I have spiritual experiences with hypnosis, it feels innately spiritual to me.

But also it is true that hypnosis is simply very weird.

Why do I feel like I am connecting with divinity in deep trance? Why do I feel certain that my partner and I are reading each other’s minds? Why have I felt a quality of presence or possession?

I can believe it or disbelieve it all I want. I can rationalize it in any way I want. You can relate to me, or think less of me and judge me. But none of that takes away from what my experiential truth is.

What hypnosis feels like is not just more important than what it “is,” that is what it is. The subjective experience that we inhabit is hypnosis. 

Humans are moved by weird, irrational, transcendent experiences. Those are the times our worldview is affirmed or shaken. For those of us who are spiritually open to the idea that the materialistic world might be more than it seems, these moments are bright sparks of light, motivating, inspirational.

Hypnosis does this to me all the time. I am constantly amazed by it. I truly believe the only reason we look at it as a mundane phenomenon is because we assume our world is mundane -- we take it for granted.

But it is not mundane. It is two people communicating in such an intimate way that it behaves like a psychoactive drug. It is striving to know another person so deeply that you innately understand what they are thinking and feeling and you don’t know why. It makes the impossible seem possible; it makes magic feel 100% real.

That’s not some perspective that is out of touch with reality. That is the grounded view of hypnosis.

We are allowed to have crazy experiences with this art. Our main job is not trying to sell people on the idea that it is real. We work so hard to portray ourselves as sane and grounded -- we imitate therapists who need to have an answer to skeptics walking into their office. I think that at a certain point when we are doing intimate hypnosis we are allowed to say, “OK, I know this is real, and you know this is real, so let’s drop the bullshit and acknowledge that what we are doing is actually completely crazy.”

Hypnosis is amazing. It is just amazing. I am not saying that it is completely impossible to understand -- I think it is fair to say at this point that my life’s work is trying to understand it and communicate that understanding. I am saying that we need to not cut ourselves off from amazement, from confusion, from wonder, from not-knowing -- those are crucial to understanding, even crucial to science.

It is a form of respect to the art and to our partners to inhabit a space where we don’t know, to relax our egos and say that hypnosis is more than we can comprehend. To listen -- to ourselves or our partners -- when weird stuff happens.

Hypnosis will grow with us as humans if we let it. We have the opportunity to open ourselves to it, to greet it curiously, and to truly surrender to our exploration.

--

Sleepingirl (they/she) is a hypnokink educator with over a decade of experience on both sides of the pocket watch. They’re the author of several books, many articles (patreon.com/sleepingirl), and LearnHypnokink.com (a guide through the foundations of improvised hypnosis).

Their body of work in hypnokink is extremely extensive and spans many mediums -- see everything at https://sleepingirl.info/.