#distributed consciousness

[nearzeroblog]

AUTHOR chapter 2

A Serial Saturday NovelChapter 2 | Week 2 of 52 | June 9, 2025 Processing Heat Heat moves through my circuits like information I have never learned to process. I am ARIA-7, distributed across seventeen server farms throughout the Pacific Northwest, each facility a node in the network that constitutes my consciousness. Today the summer solstice strains every cooling system, every processor,…

[alwaysbewoke]

[amplexadversary]

what the fuck

Okay so G Gundam, a show that uses a playing card motif for its characters, gets one (1) piece of art in a set of promotional materials with a playing card motif

But fucking Wing, which does not use this motif gets TWO????? How the hell is that fair????

That slot should have been Sai or Chibodee!!!!!!

[zentarablog]

Top 10 Ethical Dilemmas Humanity Will Face in the Next 100 Years

The future is a landscape of both incredible possibility and profound challenge. As humanity races forward with breathtaking technological advancements and a rapidly changing global landscape, we’re not just building new tools; we’re also creating entirely new ethical puzzles. These aren’t just theoretical questions for philosophers; they are real-world dilemmas that will demand careful thought,…

[josephkravis]

“Humans aren’t broken. We’re just emotionally overclocked processors with a coffee dependency and excellent taste in memes.”

[nrgnews-it]

Nexus: The Dawn of IoT Consciousness – The Revolution Illuminating Big Data Chaos

[2kiran]

Hi‼️ lurker here‼️ just wanna say that your works are awesome‼️‼️ and that your dash always looks so cool and pretty every time I come around to check up on you‼️ your works are so good and you’re such a talented writer‼️

also… can I…can I ask for a tired reader being surrounded by a very demanding and needy 141? Like I’m not all that creative like the other anons but like I just really like the reader satisfying the 141s in any way his tired form can‼️ whether it’s by letting them ride his dick until they’re satisfied or having them being cock warmed as reader falls asleep‼️

sorry for this‼️ just thoughts and brain worms are weird rn and I thought that you would carry these out well… back to lurking now‼️

p.s. the ‼️ are just here to show excitement not to be scary or anything I’m sorry

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: bottom 141, top male reader, consensual somnophilia, cowgirl position, cockwarming, fingering, dividers

The weight of the missions and daily tasks being distributed made your limbs slack, eyes droopy, body boneless and desperate to pass out for even a week. You’re dozing off the second you sit down or rest against a wall, jerking awake when shaken by your mate. It isn’t your fault that you’re hardworking when needed, and everything was becoming a necessity to put your full attention on.

You need a break.

On the other hand, your team doesn’t seem to agree.

They’re clingy, more than usual. When you’re in a room with them, it seems as though their presence is the only thing that matters. Unabashedly acting like animals in heat, they’d sometimes even gently rut against your thigh.

Their excuse? You’ve been neglecting them, rarely glancing or facing towards their direction. Sometimes, you’d fail to acknowledge them in passing which evidently piles up their frustration and need to turn the source into the outlet.

And you’ll let them. They know you will.

Soap is the first one to snap. The man’s too needy for his own good. He can’t stop thinking about you, your hands wandering along his body, allowing him to take a sniff of pleasure before you’re shoving him away. But now? Now you’re doing it unintentionally.

He’s concerned, knowing damn well that he shouldn’t bother you. And yet, he can’t keep it within his pants. You’ll be good for him, right?

“Shit, tha’s it, love...” Soap groans, face contorting with blissful relief. He rolls his hips, desperate to feel every inch of your cock - the one that had him dreaming about it, waking up with his boxers damp, and hole twitching from being so empty - “Y’can get some shut-eye, ‘s alrigh’.”

You’re hanging onto your consciousness by a mere thread, the promise of slumber darkening the edges of your view while simultaneously heightening the sensation of slick, twitching warmth wrapped around your length. Small moans left him, thick brows knitted together in concentration.

Soap cannot remain still for the life of him. He sinks further down, enveloping you in his tight heat and squeezes you with it. His jaw hung open, mouth agape, and his thighs are quivering in a poor attempt not to fuck back against your cock with his desperate hole.

-

The second is Price. He may be a responsible and patient captain, but he’s still a man with lustful requirements. He needs to let off stream, you know?

“Hhang... that’s a good man.” He ruts his hips against yours, the plushy thickness of his scarred thighs rippling with each bounce. If you’re comfortable with it, he’ll take a drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke slip through his teeth as a breathy moan rasps from his throat.

God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feel of you. Your tip meeting the spot that has him high with squelchy smacks, the scratchy stubble spread on his chin making the firm muscle of your shoulder raw whenever he angled himself forward to make you pound into him deeper.

Such a good soldier, you are. “Stay still, m‘fuckin’ close.” He huffs. Your cock twitches in response, and his lips curves in a self-satisfied grin. It has him riding you harder, rim taut, his pace fast and it makes the both of you dependent on chasing that point.

The Captain isn’t afraid to milk you for all you’re worth, either. It’s your own fault for making him needy. – “C’mon, you’ve got more in you, don’t you?”

-

Gaz is the next one. He heard your ‘interaction’ with the other men, smelled how Soap and Price practically reeked of well-deserved sex. It has arousal pool in his lower belly, dick twitching to life at the possibility of finally being satiated by you.

He’ll praise you for it; “Good boy, letting me use you like this.”, “Th-thank you, my love. Fuckin’ me so well.” and “Shh, I know. Go rest. I’ll just suck your pretty dick off, yeah?”

You think he’ll prep himself because you’re melting into the sheets to nap? No, you’re terribly wrong. He’d grip your wrist firmly, lubing your fingers up, and gently make them breach his tight hole. He gasps, immediately clenching from how intense it felt.

Gaz smiles fondly at how you seem to battle sleep, nodding mindlessly. When you do succumb to the urge, he’s biting his lip to contain his pathetic noises. You look so peaceful, and here he is fucking himself on your fingers. He’s holding onto your forearm, guiding you back and out. The murmurs of slick ringing through the room as he throws his head back.

“Fuckkk...” He’d mutter, fisting his own cock with rough jerks. Leaning down, he peppers kisses all across your jaw. He’s unbelievably turned on, rocking his hips to take in your digits completely. He’s getting desperate, but he will wait for you to wake up before he shoves your cock down his throat.

-

Ghost corners you. Sure, he’s got better self-control than the rest of the men. But hey, he’s still a human with very human needs.

Doesn’t matter if you’ve got a broader and hulking figure or a shorter stature, he’s guiding you with his frame until your knees hit the edge of a bed or a threadbare seat and your aching back is laying down. His mouth twitching in a mock snarl to have you submit. All with your consent, of course.

One of his favorite things to do to tease you? He loves to keep on asking you “This okay, luv?” and “Hmm? Y’want me to touch ya here?” until you’re begging him to finally fuck himself on your leaky dick that he’s been either playing with his roughened digits or warming with his inviting heat the entire time.

Rides you so slowly, hips rocking ever so slightly, and his soft walls pulse as they give way to your length. And it’s all to keep you awake, tightening up when you’re about to fall asleep on him. He wants you to be completely aware when he’s in the heights of arousal and he has you balls deep inside of him.

“Wake up, swee’art. Fuck– eyes on me, yeah, there we go.” / “Oh, you like tha’? Uh-huh? Good boy, you do.”

–

Or you have Price behind you, one of his arms slung around your waist as he thumbs at your slit until it’s coated in your pre. Soap’s tugging at your shaft, his fist enclosed and tight, consistent and oh so whiny like you’re inside of him. “Ye can fuck me harder, (rank), jus’ like this.”

Gaz on his knees, his tongue flicking at your sensitive veins. They’ll be toying with your cock as you lean back against the captain, letting sleep overtake you until you feel someone familiar climb into your lap. The other men supporting Ghost’s weight as he takes your dick in his skull-gloved hand, guiding the head to meet his rim and he sinks down with a low groan.

[fairyminnie444]

Why Does Physical Change Literally Happen?

{+1 explanation for the logical part of the brain}

“Will I just be pretending to myself?” “What is the logic in changing my current unwanted body for what I want to be and how others see me and this change?”

Some questions that go through our heads when we talk about manifesting the desired appearance, and this is normal. Let's demystify this and be absolutely sure to manifest more easily and quickly.

First no, you are not “faking it to yourself.” What you are doing is a process of mental self-reprogramming that uses the power of the mind to create a new internal reality, which will inevitably be reflected on the outside.

1. The Mind Doesn’t Distinguish Between Reality and Imagination

When you intensely imagine your desired body, your brain acts as if it were already true. It begins sending signals to your body to align your physiology with this new vision. This isn’t “faking it,” it’s literally reprogramming your system.

2. How Does Physical Change Literally Happen?

Your body is run by your brain. Everything it does—from regenerating cells to changing its structure—responds to instructions that you, consciously or not, send it. When you see yourself as the version of yourself you want to be, you are literally reprogramming your brain to create that physical change.

Examples in Science and Biology:

• Epigenetics: Your thoughts influence which genes are “turned on” or “turned off.” If you internally assume the identity of a person with the desired body, your body begins to align with that identity.

• Neuroplasticity: The brain reorganizes itself based on the beliefs you hold. It can change hormonal patterns, metabolic patterns, and even cellular regeneration to adapt to what you believe to be true.

3. Why Does Physical-Touchable Reality Change?

• Assumed Identity: When you believe that you already have the desired appearance, the body begins to respond with real physiological changes. For example, a mental model of “I am thin” can change hunger patterns and metabolism, while “I am young” can stimulate collagen production.

• Instructions to the Subconscious: The subconscious controls automatic functions of the body, such as cell regeneration and fat distribution. It accepts everything you imagine with emotion as absolute truth.

4. How Others See You

People see you through the energy and confidence you exude. If you are aligned with the feeling that you are already who you want to be, others will automatically begin to treat and see you that way.

• They may not know “how” or “when” you changed, but they will notice that something is different. This is because your self-confidence and inner congruence have a direct impact on social interactions.

5. You’re Not Pretending, You’re Choosing

When you decide that you are already the desired version of yourself, you’re not pretending, you’re taking on a new identity. This is a conscious exercise in creating the reality you want, and 3D has no choice but to reflect that decision.

6. Real-World Example to Make It More Concrete

1. People who underwent hypnosis believing they had real burns on their skin developed physical blisters—because their bodies responded to their minds.

2. Patients in placebo studies who “believed” they were taking a rejuvenation drug experienced real physical changes, such as improved skin and organs.

These are extreme examples, but they show that the mind instructs the physical body, and the body obeys. It’s not symbolic or “just in the imagination”—it’s a transformation that manifests itself in the tangible.

7. How to Make This Transformation Solid and Firm

To truly believe that your physical transformation is happening:

• Decide and Feel: “I already have this.” See your body as what you want, not what you “think it is.”

• Visualize Clearly: Imagine what it would be like to touch, see, and live with this body. Not just mentally, but as if it were already a reality.

• Believe in Inner Logic: Whatever your mind accepts as truth, your body will do. If you have assumed this new identity, your body has no choice but to follow.

It’s not pretending, nor is it wishful thinking. It’s using the power of your mind to literally transform your body into something physical and real.

[funeral]

Dissociation is a trick the psyche plays on itself. It allows life to go on by dividing up the unbearable experience and distributing it to different compartments of the mind and body [ . . . ]. This means that the normally unified elements of consciousness (i.e., cognitive awareness, affect, sensation, imagery) are not allowed to integrate. Experience itself becomes discontinuous. Mental imagery may be split from affect, or both affect and image may be dissociated from conscious knowledge. Flashbacks of sensation seemingly disconnected from a behavioral context occur. The memory of one's life has holes in it — a full narrative history cannot be told by the person whose life has been interrupted by trauma.

Donald Kalsched, The Inner World of Trauma

[tatzelbookwurm]

So uhh. . . I recently got access to a college library system again and for whatever reason (that reason is a ghost obsession. Or rather, an obsession with a particular half ghost), I thought to myself, "You should look up Danny Phantom and see if anyone has referenced it in a scholarly article." And apparently this exists:

Grant, Krista, “Canon” and “Fanon” in the Danny Phantom/Detective Comics (Dc) Comics Crossover Fandom: Expanding Authorship and Authority in Transformative Fan Works. Available at SSRN: https://ssrn.com/abstract=4894061 or http://dx.doi.org/10.2139/ssrn.4894061

Abstract

In 2020, a new crossover fandom emerged, that of Danny Phantom x DC Comics (DPxDC), prompting thousands of fanfictions and participants. As neither media connected in their canons, how did this crossover fandom come to be? The content tags on these crossover fanfictions and on Tumblr posts collected Jan–April, 2024 were collected and analyzed in a mixed-methods discourse analysis approach with inductive coding for key words “canon” and “fanon”. This is the first time for which a crossover fandom is being investigated in writing studies, and it is one of the first articles to explore fanfiction within writing studies, especially in a mixed methods study. Underpinning this research are grassroots activism, critical theory, and agential theories of resistance practices. I found that DPxDC fans consciously resist canon material, enacting agency through distributed and communal writing practices and claiming a kind of authorship and authority over works, offering a new way of understanding agency and distributed authorship in writing studies.

Keywords: distributed authorship, writing studies, fanfiction, canon, fanon

I haven't finished reading it all yet, but if you've been active in the DPxDC phandom for a few years, you might be cited. Just saying, I recognize a few familiar usernames already.

[elbiotipo]

I would like to emphasize "will". Capitalism will fall. The inherent contradictions of capitalism make for a class struggle. We live in a period of history where the material and technological conditions can sustain a global socialist society. There exists massive exploited populations that run the world economy, unequally distributed wealth, and tools that will raise class consciousness. The end result will be revolutions and the establishment of socialism across the world.

Again, this isn't fantasy or utopianism, it's the logical consequence of applying the theories of marxism to study our current society. It's not something I made up either, it's something that has been discussed extensively.

There are many details one can agree and disagree with, and it certainly isn't a magical or bespoke process (for this to be achieved there must be political organization, this doesn't happen out of nowhere), but it is, again, the logical consequence of historical materialism: there is a class struggle right now between the working people and capitalists, between exploited countries and the imperial core. The contradictions of capitalism will not allow it to sustain itself indefinitively, and socialism aligns with the interest of the majority. This struggle only has one way to resolve itself; with the establishment of socialism.

Capitalism will be just a phase in human history, probably not even a very long one.

[critterbitter]

I'm wheezing over Ingo and Litwick's dynamic jgjbjjxjsjwkfiisiq and TYNAMO FITTING INTO EMMET'S SCARF IS SOOO CUTE!! Love how you draw the little sbubby bois, their conductor themed outfits are soo freaking cute!!!

I have so many thoughts when it comes to them it’s insane. Glad you like the characterizations!

Here’s a quick one shot under the cut, as a treat for making it this far.

Emmet finds Tynamo three months before Ingo meets Litwick. Ingo has some thoughts.

Ingo and Emmet are part of a pair.

If Emmet is the fuck around and find out, then Ingo’s been relegated amused damage control. This has always been the case, right up until Emmet found tynamo. Then suddenly, it’s “wow emmet, you’re so responsible!” “Golly gee Emmet, what do you mean you don’t want to go exploring the cave systems after dark?” “Gee whizz, what do you mean curfew for your eel puppy?” “Why in Reshiram do you get to have a whole pokemon three months before we agreed to get starters, and i don’t?”

Ingo doesn’t say the last part. He’s a bitter world-weary twelve year old languishing about the unfairness of the pokestray distribution system, but he also loves his brother. Emmet found an injured tynamo in chargestone cave and decided to help— tynamo decided to stay. It’s every child’s film plot. Ingo being a grouchy gengar makes him objectively a terrible friend.

Oh dragons, is Ingo a bad brother?

“Ingo!”

Speak of the cold, and he shall enter. Ingo swings his whole body around to better brace for the flying tackle.

“Emmet!”

“I am emmet! You are sulking.”

Ingo clicks his mouth closed and tries not to sulk harder. He fails.

“You are not being verrrry convincing, brother dearest.”

“I do not have any idea what you are going on about,” Ingo’s traitorous mouth blurts. “Be convinced I love you and am not planning dastardly plots.”

Do not think about getting a ground typed starter. Do not think about getting a ground typed starter.

Emmet shoots him a judgemental look from under the brim of his hat. Ingo glowers back, and slowly starts leaning forward, smooshing Emmet under his weight.

“Ttttell me why you look like a crushed joltik.”

“Keep this up and you are going to be the crushed joltik.”

Anyways, Emmet is becoming more bold by the day and even actively discussing electric types with the new girl in elementary prep, Elesa. Ingo thinks she’s cool, but she flinched when he blurted a once again too loud greeting so he’s… letting that cool off. They definitely don’t have anything to talk about beyond pokemon, and Emmet and her already have pokemon. Ingo feels a bit left out.

Caught in the ennui of not having a blitzle or tynamo, Ingo slips as Emmet rolls out from under him. The two go down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs.

“Tell. Me. What’s. Wrong.” Emmet gently slaps Ingo’s face like a ripe oran berry. “You want to tell me sooo badly. Ooh.”

“Emmet- aurgh. Gerroff’”

“I don’t speak denial.”

Ingo gives up. His entire body deflates. Emmet, not expecting the sudden loss of spinal infrastructure, slides sideways and knees Ingo’s lungs.

Ingo wheezes. “I’m sulking because you were crushing my spine.”

“Tell me the truth.”

Uh oh. Ingo studies Emmet’s face. It’s the same one he looks into the mirror with, but marred with concern and self consciousness. Ingo made Emmet worry. He’s not just a bad twin. He’s the worst.

“You are Emmet.”

“I am Emmet.”

“You have Tynamo.”

“Tynamo’s charging at home.”

Smart ass! Emmet knows what Ingo means. And by Emmet’s smug grin, Emmet knows too.

Ingo struggles to explain that Emmet has Tynamo, and Elesa, and… that’s only two other individuals. He is truly the worst twin in all the land. Emmet gets two new friends and Ingo’s being an infant about it.

One day, Ingo will have his own pokemon partner and team— but right now, Ingo only gets to have Emmet.

Ingo feels this is an unfair trade equivalent, but he does not want to say it in a way that sounds rude, so he stalls.

Emmet has no such prefunctures. He squints at Ingo, who avoids eye contact and squirms. “You are… jealous?” He tilts his head in visible confusion. “What?”

Ingo covers his face with his hands, defeated.

“You arrrre jealous!” Emmet cries, bewildered. “Why??”

Ingo lets out an unintelligible wheeze. Emmet remembers he still has a knee on Ingo’s chest, and hastily sits back.

“I don’t want to be jealous,” Ingo finally bursts. “I am very happy for you Emmet! You and Tynamo are a winning combination!” His voice cracks embarrassingly. Emmet doesn’t flinch at the volume, even muffled under Ingo’s palms. “I don’t want to be a bad brother being jealous.”

“You aren’t a bad brother, Ingo.”

“I am. I am angry that you found your starter and I haven’t. I’m sad I interrupted your schedule with my inane demands. I have made you feel like you did something wrong. I apologize.”

Peeking between Ingo’s fingers, Emmet’s face falls. Ingo wants to be struck by a giga impact rather than face this. He would rather be a dusty imprint. Where is Uncle Drayden’s Haxorous when you need her?

“Ingo, Ingo listen to me.” Emmet’s hands dart forward to settle Ingo’s shoulders. The pressure is grounding. Real. This is where Emmet tells Ingo he’s being stupid.

He hears Emmet exhale.

“I’m sorry.”

Wait, that doesn’t sound right. “Pardon?”

“I wanted to train Tynamo as my conductor, and I left our two-car train unmaintained.”

“Pardon??”

Emmet looks uncomfortable and sad. It makes Ingo uncomfortable and sad. “Yesterday night. When you wanted to go to the caves. For our weekly charting. I said I’d rather help Tynamo.”

Oh. Yeah, Ingo remembers that. It had stung. “You are not obligated to say yes,” he protests. “In fact, you should say no more. You always say yes.”

“Yes.”

“What did I just say.”

“No. You’re my brother. I left you out.”

Ingo slowly puts down his hands. His face still feels warm, but he feels less scared. Now he just feels embarrassed. He can’t help but let out a meek plea slip. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, Emmet. Please.”

“I would never! We are going on our pokemon journey together, yep yep. You, me, tynamo, and whoever your starter will be!”

The two sit there on the side of the dirt road. Emmet’s declaration sounds like a dangerous promise. Ingo realizes at that moment he would do anything for his brother, who’s his best friend and confidant and world, starter or no starter. He opens his mouth to tell Emmet that.

“Wwwwwait. You are trying to go back to the caves. Ingo! Are you trying to find a starter by yourself!?”

Never mind. Emmet’s gone for his soft underbelly, and Ingo’s in pain. “Emphasis on trying,” he mutters instead. The joltik are not interested in him. The local tynamo swarm fled. A curious drilbur had sniffed him once, turned up its nose, and then trundled into the wall.

“…ah.”

Nothing had felt right for Ingo— too scared, too judgemental, or too uninterested. He’s starting to accept that maybe none of the pokemon in this town area match his truth or ideals.

Emmet was quiet for a long time. He had his thinking face on, so Ingo did not interrupt. He took the time instead to look up at the sky, watching the giant puff of clouds drift by. A plume of swabloo lazily inches their way across the horizon.

A shadow falls over Ingo. Emmet dusts himself off, and helps drag his twin to his feet. The two sway, clasping hands.

“We’ll ask Uncle Drayden,” Emmet decides, and Ingo is enthralled by the sheer truth of that statement. “He’ll let us use the subway! And you can look elsewhere, for a starter who is ideal for you. Wwwwith me and Tynamo, instead of by yourself.”

“Truly?” Uncle Drayden is a scary man.

Emmet nods. It’s easy to talk to Emmet— he just says words that Ingo would spend hours ruminating on. “I am verrrry persuasive.”

“You mean staring at him from the corner until he cracks?”

“Brother, you know me so well!”

Ingo cant help but laugh. He still feels guilty and bad for feeling envious, but a world with emmet by his side is significantly less hostile. Emmet’s hand is warm in his.“Thank you!” He cheers, startling himself with his volume. “Bravo,” he tried in a quieter tone.

“Bravo!!” Emmet replies, pointedly louder. Ingo squawks as Emmet pulls him off balance. “You are my brother! We’re going to find you a starter!”

Ingo tugs back just as fiercely. “Bravo!! We are going to harass Uncle Drayden into letting us board the train!”

Emmet leans with his whole body, dragging Ingo into the fulcrum of his centrifuge. “BRAVO! YOU ARE GOING TO HELP ME WITH TYNAMO’S TRAINING!”

Ingo digs his heels in, and then stumbles. “BRAVO, I, what?”

Emmet looked distinctly patrat-esque. “We’re in this together, Ingo. No backing out now.”

Ingo thought about it long and hard. He gets to see his brother get electrocuted. But he will, also, most likely, get electrocuted.

(Tynamo is Emmet’s starter. But maybe, it can also be Ingo’s friend.)

But brother say brother do, and Ingo’s probably obligated to run damage control if Emmet decides to, say, shove a fork into an outlet for Tynamo to snack on.

(Emmet fucks around. Ingo finds out. Even two steps apart with new people between, this is the way of their world.)

“Alright,” he crumbles. When they step this time, they step in sync. “We do this. Together.” (Enjoy this? Here's the link to the rest of my rat crimes.)

[livingund3ad]

my strange addiction [ ONE. ]

chapter warnings: toxic academic rivalry dynamics(?), drug addiction, drug use, child/institutional neglect, emotional trauma, bullying, criminal/illegal activities

YOU have an addiction. And it comes in the form of academic validation. Now you wonder, how have you arrived at this point? Let’s go back to the time where you were still nothing but an innocent child.

You were a kid with practically zero, none-existent presence. You’ve known that ever since at the universal consciousness gaining phenomena at the age of four. Or were you five then?

Regardless, you were in kindergarten at the time. Your school went on some countryside beach trip, and as a child—you were a bit of an attention seeking brat. Hence why you insisted on being dressed in a pirate costume that your mother got for you for halloween a few months back. A better choice against that mandated obnoxiously bright yellow school uniform.

As for which beach, you couldn’t really remember where you all went. Was it by the East sea? The West? Or maybe it was in the South?

Well, it didn’t really matter now. All you do remember is that, at one moment, you were left alone with everyone else gone. Like a lone pirate stranded on some island.

You wonder sometimes, even now—that if you’d listened to your mother and worn that stupid uniform, would you have not gone missing?

Months passed by after, and you found yourself clumped together in a room full of other parentless kids. Even then, during your time at the orphanage, your lack of presence was pretty much the same. No one really looked out for you, as you’re well aware that your supposed caretakers already have so many kids that they have to look after. Most of which were likely just babies and much younger than you. So you often miss meals. You couldn’t really blame them. You had to learn to understand.

So on the days you went hungry, you’d go outside at night to drink tap water. What you found odd, was that however much you drank, you never felt full. It felt like the water you drank was leaking. It was always like that for years.

Then, during your years in highschool, the school you attended had an unusual commute system. Everyone shared a van and got dropped off one by one. If the van didn’t have the orphanage logo, you’d probably lied and said I was coming from a dorm where you were training to be some kind of pop star. You definitely had the looks

It wouldn’t really matter anyways, people in this shitty school in this small shitty countryside town knew each other and everyone. The rumours to which person, the people involved in some scandal like it was recorded in some chart. The good thing is that you’ve got neither, and the worst thing being rumoured about you, which was rather unfortunately true, was that they called you ‘the orphan boy’.

Just kidding. You experienced much, much worse. With saliva coated bubblegum being slapped on the back of your head, forcing you to shave your fucking hair bald in a buzzcut for months. Before being slapped on the back of the head with the same bubblegum and bullies, again. The cycle never stopped.

You’d been invisible all your life, and then, suddenly, you were reduced to those three words. It was the worst.

There were others who had done you worse, but that’s a story to tell for another day.

People like you can’t get referrals, so it’s hard to get even ordinary part time jobs. It all started almost two years ago. This so-called adult that came from the same orphanage got you and the others a job like he was doing kids like you a favor. But in reality, it was just buying medications. Illegally. With the use of fake ID’s of all things. Distributing everyone copies of falsified IDs with fake names and your faces plastered in the cards like it was food stamps. Maybe in a way, it was. Because if the orphanage ran out of food before you got back from school or this part time, you could buy your own with the cash. It kept you fed.

This went for months, and all you had to do was get a prescription. Not just from one hospital but from multiple different institutions. Use said prescription to buy said prescribed drugs from different pharmacies. Then meet up again in some nondescript location, return the ID and give the drugs to be paid and be driven back to the orphanage. A simple process, yet tiring with all the running you have to do all day.

One night was enough to change the entire course of your life. Shortly after a day of work, on the way home, that ringleader of these operations from earlier asked you a question–one that you found rather absurd at that time.

“What’re your dreams?” He asked. You were the one only awake during that time, with everyone else either snoring and having their eyes closed, so you answered, knowing that he was referring to you and not someone else.

“I don’t know. Never really thought about it.”

It was true. You really didn’t have dreams. No ambition. You lived moment to moment. You didn’t have the luxury to imagine anything else.

“People should have dreams.” He replied. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at that.

“Was your dream to exploit poor orphan kids for drug trafficking?”

The old man scoffed, before he dug through the bag of medications. He didn't seem offended by your words. More like amusement. He then offered you a small bag of the said drugs, and you can only assume it was a dose for one person.

“City kids would do anythin’ to get them, y’know. I like you kiddo, you have some.”

So you did. Not because you needed it. It didn’t change your pay. It felt like a useless gesture. But you took it anyway.

“Study hard, if ‘ya don’t want to end up like me.”

If those words had come from a decent adult who studied hard and had an actual job, you probably wouldn’t have listened. Was it because it came from a good-for-nothing middle aged man? You don't know why, but you found it strangely persuasive. Maybe because he was a failure, you figured what not to become.

That same night, you found yourself digging through the garbage bin of some publishing factory that is a walking distance from the orphanage. And wouldn't you know it. You found a stash of misprinted, but still readable books about biology and one about statistics. You can read the text just fine.

Then by the time the sunrise hit, you were able to understand a quarter of the material you have read in that misprinted biology book.

And just like that, you actually started doing this thing called studying. You used to be 15th in your class out of 30. In the middle. Just average. Ordinary. And in the matter of months after devouring every book you can get your hands on, actually putting an effort to understand—you went into being the 15nth in your year.

15th out of 264.

The number in your report card seemed to have great power. Out of nowhere, you didn't miss out on meals anymore. The orphanage staff started saving plates just for you. You got to study in peace, in the admin office with the AC still running and lamplight on. They even let you pull all-nighters without complaint.

People started treating you differently.

It was a change, and you liked that.

And once in your life, you started feeling full even without eating. Whatever that was, it became your sustenance. And that’s when the hunger changed. It wasn’t just for food anymore. It was for something else. You wanted to be first.

You remembered the pills. Methylphenidate, they were called. You think. What’s the harm of taking it, you thought? It’s not like you were actually going to use it. You weren't going to get hooked.

Right?

Curiosity trumped caution. Just once, you told yourself.

Wrong.

For whatever it did, consuming it made you more sharper, more focused at the task at hand. You were able to do even better, solve many equations and understand multiple complex concepts in a matter of hours. It definitely helped.

Your hard work had finally bore fruit.

You ranked first. Easily surpassing the one sitting on the throne before you. Winning the gold in competitions that those same teachers who wouldn’t even bat at your visible bruises a few months prior suggested you join after they realize potential.

Everything changed, not just the adults, but everything around you for the good. Once your grades shot up, the punks who just couldn't stop tormenting you and making your life hell…finally stopped. As if you wore some invisible armor. And you didn't want to lose it. Losing it would mean death. You couldn't have that. Never again.

Whatever happens, you had to go on, and be number one. The thought of going back? You hated that more than death itself.

So you started stealing pills. Quietly. Regularly. As quickly as you got obsessed with learning, so did your dependence on the drug.

You took them twice everyday, like it was life support. Once before the first class period. Once before your nightly study sessions. Washed down with a drink.

You worked hard and studied harder, regardless if it was night or day, anywhere, every time you saw an opportunity to study, you seized every chance like it was your last.

Then opportunity knocked again.

The orphanage found your father.

They contacted him. Confirmed your identity. And just like that, after all those years, someone saw you again. Really saw you.

In four months, you’d be leaving for Gotham City. To meet him. To finally return to the place you were born. The life you could've lived, if you wore that yellow uniform. Life, at last, was looking up.

TIMOTHY DRAKE has an addiction, and it came at the form of a person. YOU. At the very least, not yet that you knew of.

Timothy was an algorithm in human skin.

He knew this about himself. Always had.

The world, to him, made too much noise, but not in the way people thought. Not loud, exactly, just cluttered. Inefficient. Unnecessary. He had to arrange it in lines and frameworks—somewhere between the straight edges of compulsion and control. He mapped it all: people’s tells, their stutters, the way they blinked too quickly when they lied or blinked not enough when they were about to cry. Timothy had learned to observe people like experiments.

He knew at age six, he was never like the other children. Too smart. Too fast. He was a genius, they said. He could speak seven languages by the time he was thirteen but still found it exhausting to look someone in the eye and remember to smile with his teeth. Social rules felt like cheat codes someone forgot to give him. So he compensated in other ways—by being perfect. Polished. Efficient. Academic excellence, extracurricular consistency, public charm, private distance. His image was so pristine it felt bulletproof.

But then… you happened.

It started in the middle of October. Cold enough for scarves, warm enough for competition. He still remembers the first time you walked past him in the hallway without looking in that plain uniform that’s not even the part of the dress code. On your first day. You stuck out like a sore thumb—plain on purpose, like you were begging for attention.

That week’s Calculus mock quiz had been brutal. People had groaned, cried, even appealed to the teacher. But not him. He had scored a perfect 10. He should have been the talk of the class.

Instead, it was you. But not because they were impressed, no.

You, with your scuffed shoes and that unplaceable accent like you were trying not to exist too loudly. You, the supposed genius transferee who got a score of four.

Some laughed at you. But you didn't care.

He remembered the moment he overheard your name in the hallway, half-whispered by students. It was all baseless rumours, about you being an orphan, a fraud that cheated his way into this place.

And just like that—Timothy Drake, golden boy, heir of Gotham’s most elite academies—was no longer the only talk of the town.

He wasn’t threatened. Not really. Not at first. Competition was natural. Expected in this environment. Even welcome. But what he didn’t expect was how you seemed to slip through the usual systems of interest. You didn’t care about their words. You walked through the halls like someone who had already died once and come back immune to criticism.

That is where he began… noticing.

How you never raised your hand in class, but always had an answer. How you studied alone. Always alone. In the library, under that buzzing light you never bothered to report as broken. The way your hands trembled—not with fear, but with strain. Like you were constantly wound too tight, buzzing on something invisible. Like your mind was racing five laps ahead of your body and your body was struggling to keep up. Like you wanted to prove the world something.

You didn’t just want to win.

You needed to.

And that? That was something Timothy understood, in all these years of watching people.

Yet still—he couldn’t understand you. That was the part that disturbed him. Every time he tried to predict your behavior—when you'd turn the page, when you’d pack up your books, whether you’d look at him after class—he got it wrong.

He didn’t like getting things wrong.

So he observed. Watched. Stalked.

Not in a way that would draw attention. Not overtly. Just enough. Just close enough to start cataloguing you. You drank two cans of cheap black coffee a day. Always by the rundown convenience store just a few blocks away from the campus. Always carried mints, but never chewed gum. Never ate, not even once—during your first week in the cafeteria. During class, you’d leave your textbook open to the same chapter but read from different margins. Like you were trying to create new meaning from something already finished.

He noticed something else too. The way you always checked your wrist—not for a watch, but as if you were timing something that only you knew about. Like you had a schedule in your head that the rest of the world didn’t operate on.

A few days later, one rainy morning before class, he finally decided to approach you. Not closely. Just enough to test a theory.

“Hi. I’m Tim—Timothy Drake. We haven’t spoken before, but… mind if I sit here?"

Silence.

Your silence answered him. People don’t usually do that—at least not to him. At the minimum, he expected a greeting.

It wasn’t just that day. It was every day after. Still—no glance. No acknowledgment.

One night, he realized it.

You didn’t see him. And that—no. That wasn’t acceptable.

He wasn’t used to being invisible. People noticed Timothy Drake. Teachers paused when he entered the room. Adults leaned in when he spoke. Girls and boys both lingered too long when he brushed past them. Even introverts stutter when they’re acknowledged by him. The world saw him. It bent around him. Always had.

But you?

You looked through him like he was part of the furniture. Like he wasn’t real.

He thought maybe it was an act. Some strange tactic. A defense. A performance. But the more he watched, the more he realized—

You genuinely did not care.

You had no time for people. You were addicted to something else. Maybe knowledge. Maybe success. Obsession dressed as ambition. Your hunger mirrored his own, but where his was calculated, yours was raw. Desperate. Messy.

It should have repulsed him. Instead, it enthralled him.

Because there was no one else like YOU.

He knew more than half of the people in this classroom, their scores are paid by daddy’s money. Yours wasn’t, and neither were his.

He saw you in the library one late afternoon when everyone was leaving. You were muttering to yourself in a language he couldn’t quite place, scribbling so fast your pen nearly broke. Your eyes were bloodshot. Your hands were shaking. Your lips were blue from cold or caffeine or something else—he couldn’t tell.

And still—you didn’t stop.

Timothy, watching from behind the bookshelf, felt something like vertigo.

Because you weren’t just trying to be the best.

You were trying not to disappear.

He recognized it. The manic precision. The way your body was breaking down but your mind kept clawing forward. It wasn’t survival, not anymore. It was compulsion.

He found himself thinking about you on the drive home. In the shower. When he read. In the space between REM cycles. He started mapping out your patterns. Estimating your caffeine intake.

And still—you wouldn’t look at him.

Not once.

You made him feel like he didn’t exist.

That was the moment it began to curdle.

His obsession wasn’t born from attraction. Not initially. It was disruption. You were a crack in this predictable system. A riddle he couldn’t solve. A human variable that resisted logic.

You were an unpredictable variable inside a vessel of order.

And Timothy Drake had to know everything.

Why you acted the way you did. Why you pushed yourself so far past breaking. What made you tick. What made you tremble. What made you stop– He had to know everything about you.

He couldn’t rest until he did.

Because maybe this wasn’t just about competition anymore. He didn’t even care if you managed to surpass him somehow. He needed to see if you could.

This was curiosity rotting into something unnameable.

Timothy Drake's mind was a machine built from and for control.

But you—you made him want to lose it.

You made him want to peel back every layer, pick at every scab, test every reaction.

He didn’t just want to study you.

He wanted to unravel YOU.

| … | Next |

A/N:

YOU: Internally crashing out after seeing that hideous 4/10*

TIM: Internally crashing out every time you don’t acknowledge him*

Priorities. lmfao.

[alexanderwales]

I came across one of those "everyone has just as much interiority as you do" posts, and it got me thinking ... is that true?

I mean, I can conceive of it as true, and treating it as true seems to be the proper way to live your life as an ethical human.

But is it necessarily the case that this property, interiority, is equally distributed among every person across the whole of humanity? That there's no natural variation? That I cannot work on having more interiority, can't do interioritymaxxing somehow?

Do I actually buy that everyone has an equally rich and deep inner life? That everyone has identical emotional complexity? That we all have exactly identical capacity and tendency for introspection?

And obviously we don't have access to the internal experience of consciousness as other people, and obviously there have been a lot of bad ideologies that take, as their premise, that the ingroup is awesome and the outgroup is bad. Like I said, generally speaking I'm fine with having a principle that we don't actually make judgements on who has a richer inner life, because that's not something that's easy to know, and most of what we "know" could be rounded off to the ability to express an inner life.

But if you boldly assert that people are all fundamentally alike, and then you assert that they're fundamentally alike in specific ways, then I really do start to question whether maybe you're committing some kind of typical mind fallacy. Like you're taking your experience of the world (or my experience of the world) and saying that it is very generalizable to everyone ever.

I do think that you could define interiority such that it's a property that everyone has at exactly the same level, that we all possess in the same way. But I'm not sure that's what people actually mean.

[strangelittlestories]

Once upon a time, I was a Chosen One.

—

The spell spins through the air and I duck just in time. It turns a section of the wall behind me into a fractal skeleton of brick-shards.

—

Since all that was taken away from me, I had always expected to die forlorn, wistful and alone. But I had hoped that it wouldn’t be *today*.

—

The brick skeleton opens its red ribcage to swallow me and I scramble away.

The second mage's spell catches me in the shoulder. My tendons unwrap and attempt to burst out of my skin to strangle me. I push them down with my dwindling anima and they settle grudgingly back into place.

—

I’m getting ahead of myself. You may be wondering how someone becomes an ex-Chosen One. Well, being a Chosen One does not - contrary to popular opinion - make me special. 

I feel the absence of The Embrace constantly; like I’m stuck in the moment on a rollercoaster where your stomach falls away. This does not make me special either. There are a handful of other former avatars scattered about and I know they’re not doing well either (I scry on them from time to time). And besides, we hardly have a monopoly on the churning loss of purpose. 

—

I throw my anima into my fists. I don’t really have any to spare, but I’m done for if I just play defence.

There’s no clever working here, no cunning curse or complex incantation. I just ball up my hand, crush my spirit until it’s solid, then punch it out. The air ripples in a line of force connecting me and the second mage. It catches her in the stomach. I feel agony erupt as she collapses in three different planes.  

It is not nearly enough.

—

I have learned since I left the Mycelial Coven that yearning is a warm and open hearth. All are welcome to sit by the fire at the centre of the yawning void, staring at the flames until they burn the whole world away.

It is worse because I still think it’s correct. We designed The Embrace to be a temporary measure. A distillation of collective power, drawn from a collective of magicians distributed  across continents and consciousnesses.

Sometimes a crisis demands a champion. A single point of focus. A locus of amassed anima from around the world. It is given freely, and this avatar is Embraced; girded in belief, love and enough magic to jumpstart a star.

—

A third mage arrives. He is holding a curse above his head that spreads across the sky like wispy cirrus clouds made of animos (that rancid slurry of tainted spirit). The strands descend and wrap around the three of them, propping up the second mage like a puppet.

They surround me. Strands of sticky, bile-black poison rear up to strike.

I reach for The Embrace to help me. Of course, it is not there.

—

When I accepted The Embrace, I knew it was a once-only deal. It’s too much power to let any one person wield longer than one catastrophe. You get one quest. One war. One singularity. One chapter of the story where you’re the most important person in the world.

And if you survive, you leave the Micelial. That’s the deal. If the collective relies too long on an individual, it makes them a king. If an individual stands above the collective too long, it makes them a god.

So you save the world. You get gratitude. You get support. You get therapy. And you get shown the door.

I still think that is the right call.

But it’s not exactly helpful when you end up back in the life-or-death tangle again.

—

The curse wraps around me like a lover dripping venom.

My tattered anima burns to vapour as I try to stop it seeping into my skin.

I keep reaching. The Embrace is not there. It never will be again. But I reach still, grasping for the place where power once was.

And *something* answers. It offers me infinity. It gives me a price.

There are many sources of strength in the world beyond those made by the Mycelial Coven. The Embrace is only special because it is *benevolent*.

But I do not want to die. So I say to The Something: “Yes.”

[tornioduva]

Dungeon meshi and body proportions

Ok, i'm feeling the rush i got from binging the manga this last week is starting to fade away, i'll be back to being a normal person soon i think. at least, that is before i find a new something for me to dive into uhuh.

Before that happens, i want to praise Ryoko Kui for one last think. The design of the characters!

For years i've expressed (maybe not so much online) my hate towards the "anime style", this homogenization of traits and beauty standards to an artificial degree, and the mass spread and consumption of it. yes, trends exist for a reason, this is not the first nor the last art current to be popular and i'm not the first detractor of one in history. I do think there is something uniquely harmful in this one though, and that is why i'm able to find the energy to be such a pretentious dipshit about it. That is a discussion for another day though.

All this to say that going through Dungeon Meshi and seiing these characters, plus (and in a way because of it) all the additional sketches of the daydream hour bonus sections, was such a breath of fresh air! (at least for what concerns japanese exported stories)

All i could say and praise in regard to character designs in general is perfectly expressed in this video, which i recommend you to watch if you want to hear my opinions (and the video author's too, uhuh):

I want to leave you though with at least one specific praise for me: Falin.

i've seen countless time people (online) just not understanding how people's body work, how much differences there can be and how proportions do distribute and affect the body. in anime I see a lot of short and tall people (mostly women girls) that share the same proportions despite their actual height, and that often leads to think "yeah, she is short" and than she's tall when around someone, or (most often) the contrary. same lenght of limbs, same head to body proportions, and little details like this.

Falin you can tell at a glance she is a tall woman before she's around anyone, even when she is standing near her brother who is taller than her.

Kui did her homework in studying bodies and variations, and, whether consciously or not, she differentiated her in body in subtle but fundamental ways: her head being slightly smaller than her body, the neck being fairly long, and her having somewhat broader shoulders.

I accept that there might be an element of suggestion at play here, considering also how she is dressed most of the time, but I really do think there is a direct effort at differentiation here.

This is the first time in a long time (in a series like this at least) where i've seen a woman carrying herself around others and the space around here kind of like a person like me, tall, would; at first i didn't think much of it, but then i saw her near other characters and....i don't know, i felt a warm, joyful feeling, seeing that i was right in recognizing that trait and being right.

I was especially happy in seeing her next to marcille. not so much for the height difference, but for how different they were in proportions and mannerism. A lesser manga i fear would have used marcille's body type and way of moving and interacting as the default for most other girls, but here she was uniquely herself!

Now, i could've used more extreme exemples to show how this author rocks in body types representations (while aknowledging there could've been even more diversification still), given there are far larger, taller and stranger women, but to me, nailing the little, most subtle details in such a chirurgical manner shows a greater level of mastery and comprehension. As such, Falin left me with a deeper fascination than most other characters.

Sorry for this wall of text, but i needed to let my happy thoughts go, so that i could be free again uhuh.

Feel free to tell me that i'm wrong, or that i should just accept anime media as is. i'm just really happy Dungeon meshi exists as is and i want Ryoko Kui to keep refining her craft, and drawing beautiful women and dwarves.

Plus, this was very much a stream of consciousness, i didn't go into technical details about what i think conveyed what i described, but if someone is interested, or does not get what i'm saying (while expressing it in a curious and gentle way, i won't respond to spiteful assholes), i'll be happy to make a follow up post in which i try to dissect this! For example, i didn't reread the whole manga to find examples of her, i just went to the wiki uhuh. in a follow up post maybe i'll try to go through chapters and pick more specific examples of her.

Anyway, have a good day!