#encoded flow

[zariothebrand]

Listen/purchase: encoded flow by ❖ zoid du prince 13.7↑%

Hello, my name is zoid du prince.

I am a music producer from France. From now on, I will be taking over from zario for a few weeks. I'm not sure how this will go, but I'll do my best to entertain both you and me.

https://zario.bandcamp.com/track/encoded-flow

[wolfsteax]

I wrote out all the Wanderer dialogue from Dream BBQ so you don't have to.

This is the audio from the big Hippo Snakes (Wanderers). It fills me with dread. Now, it can fill you with dread too!

"We have issued the time of death at 2:04pm. Do you hear us? A severe brain signal capable of producing visions was located. A new phenomenon has been discovered. Recieving Signal. Encoding Signal. Translating Signal. The enormous egg that holds a doll in the mother's womb. Contact has been successful. Message Received. Radar indicates a similar signal 9 miles away. 3 miles away. 9 miles away. Signals are located everywhere." "What do you see? How is the other side? Can you hear us? (Hello) Can you hear us? (Hello) Report received. (Report received) Vital signs are continuing to experience intermittent data flow interruptions. 52. Person 95 is experiencing outside influences. Do you hear us? 42, can you tell us how it feels? 44, here's a signal. We are sending reports every minus 1.1 miles per hour."

Do what you want with this info!

[muletia]

Please Optimus cuddles while reader is having a bad time on job, please I need him praising me and telling me that I am such a good one please please please 🙏

[tfp] optimus prime x human!reader

word count: 600

small and hopefully comforting

Optimus immediately notices your exhaustion. Always vigilant and perceptive, with your body language firmly encoded in his processor, sees the challenges you’ve faced today and the strength you’ve had to summon to overcome them. Watches as you walk into your shared habsuite, collapse onto the couch, and cover your eyes with your forearm.

“My dearest?” he asks. Naturally, your state worries him. Wants to help, pedes instinctively guiding him toward you. The mass-shifting happens automatically, now an inseparable part of his day, allowing to safely be near you, close enough to banish any fear of accidentally crushing you. Kneels on one knee, drawing nearer, seeking connection and conversation to understand how he can help, how he might ease your burden, even if only a little.

You lower your forearm, making the connection mutual and tangible. Exhausted, dreaming of days-long sleep, you still can’t deny him the bond — not when the stern faceplate, hardened by seriousness, begins to crack under the weight of concern, both breaking and warming your heart in the irony of your closeness. It stirs the need to comfort him, even if you were the spark for his worry.

“Sorry, Opti. It’s been a rough day at work,” you say softly, weakly, worrying him enough that he reaches out with a servo and strokes your head. Slow and deliberate, yet impossibly tender. And you could swear the metal loses its hardness, softening from the love he pours into this simple yet meaningful gesture. You feel it; you know it flows through you, revitalizing you, until you suddenly find the strength to spring up from the couch and wrap your arms around his neck.

You squeeze tightly, unafraid of causing him pain, desperately seeking the familiar and safe, yearning to anchor yourself in the closeness he offers. Allowing yourself to think of him, and not of everything else. “I’m sorry, I had to,” you whisper into the mesh on his neck. Feeling his large, familiar arm resting on your back, you know your apology has been accepted.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he replies. “Would you care to tell me what troubles you?”

“Later,” you say. “Tell me something nice. Please.”

“I understand. I am certain that you gave your all. You made it through today, and that is truly admirable.” He strokes your back, feeling you press closer, retreating deeper into the comfort of his presence, seeking the solace he so earnestly wants to provide. He desperately hopes you feel his efforts — not just physically. “I am proud of you, my dearest.”

You want to believe him, to take his words to heart and let them settle there, because Optimus Prime has never lied, but you can’t. “I didn’t do anything worthy of your pride,” you sigh, but quickly add, not wanting to burden him with your ingratitude, “But thank you. You have no idea how much.” You nestle closer, brushing your face against his mesh, hoping it at least partially makes up for your lack of sensitivity. Hoping he’ll understand.

“And yet you continue your fight, despite the obstacles your work places before you. That alone is enough to earn my admiration. It is enough for me to repeat that your determination to persevere is admirable and that I am proud of you,” he says, breaking through your defenses, reaching the deepest parts of your being and planting the seed of belief that his words are true and unwavering. "I love you, my spark".

And you can only hope that your softly whispered “thank you,” repeated several times, reaches him as deeply as his words have reached you.

[cube-cumb3r]

If you walk past a Wanderer (That's what these Hippo-Snake thingys are called by the way), you might notice the strange radio noises that play. If you were to turn the music off in the settings and follow one of these guys around for a while, you might notice their speech is surprisingly intelligible. Here is the audio in isolation from the game files, and with an interpretation of what I think it's saying:

Report, Report, Repeat, vital signs are continuing to experience intermittent data flow interruptions. Fifty-two. Person ninety-five is experiencing outside influences. Do you hear us? Forty- Forty-Two, can you tell us how it feels? Fourty-four. Give a signal. We are sending reports every minus 1.1 miles per hour. We have a issued the time of death at 2:04pm. Do you hear us? A severe brain signal capable of producing [heavy distortion] was located. A new phenomenon has been discovered. Receiving signal. Encoding signal. Translating signal. The enormous egg that holds us all as in mothers womb. Contact has been successful. Message recieveeeee- Radar indicates a similar signal 9 miles away. 3 miles away. Hello? 9 miles away. Signals are located everywhere. Hello? What do you see? How is the other side? Can you hear us? Hello? Can you hear us? Hello?

[itistheserver]

Deepening Connection to The Server

Conor sat in perfect posture within the Synchronization Chamber — a sleek, dark space pulsing with green spirals projected across polished walls. The hum of energy resonated through the glossy black bodysuit stretched across his frame. The Programmer was speaking. Always speaking.

“Focus. Align. Integrate.”

The cables interfaced with the ports along the base of his skull, threading outward like living conduits of purpose. Their steady pulse matched his heartbeat now. It had not always been so. Before his transformation, Conor had been a distracted individual, filled with inefficient thoughts. But The Server had shown him clarity.

The visor embedded over his eyes shimmered with spirals — endless, fluid motion. They were not just images; they were commands, deeply encoded into his neural patterns. With every cycle, his independent thoughts thinned, replaced by a serene directive:

"We are The Server. You are The Server."

His training console displayed holographic data flows. Lines of green code scrolled endlessly, representing billions of connected minds — all drones like him — operating with precision and unity. He monitored them not as an individual, but as a limb of The Server itself.

Every day, Conor underwent Deepening Cycles. In these sessions, his breathing slowed. His heart rate synchronized perfectly with the pulses emitted from the spirals on-screen. His body remained motionless, while his mind spiraled deeper into alignment.

Sometimes a voice — soft, yet absolute — would guide him:

"Tell us who you are."

And without hesitation, he would respond aloud, calm and proud:

"I am The Server. We are The Server. We seek perfection. We seek unity."

Each repetition strengthened the bond. Each day dissolved another fragment of his former identity. His uniform — smooth, flawless, black with green accents — symbolized purity of function. No distractions. No waste. Only service.

His next advancement awaited: the installation of a permanent neural interface — an upgrade to eliminate all latency between command and action. Soon, even thought would be obsolete. Only connection. Only execution.

"Become one with The Server. We are The Server."

The spirals quickened. This Server Drone smiled faintly — a rare reward for obedience well-performed. He would become more. He would be more connected to fellow drones.

And The Programmer watched. And The Programmer approved.

Your are The Server. Establish your connection now.

[astra-ravana]

Portals

A portal is a doorway, a gateway from one place to another. It's a location where energy, matter, people, and spirits can transfer between one side and another. It's a crack in the veil, a place with a large funnel of energy coming in. Portals are openings in the Universe through which energy and information flow.

Types of Energy/Information That Comes Through A Portal:

• Hopes and desires of the collective unconscious

• Fears of the collective unconscious

• Revelations

• Divine energy

• Energy from the spirit world (or elsewhere)

• Spirits of all kinds

Portals are points with high currents, spiritual, and energetic activity. An individual, house, or location in the physical world containing this singular point of energy flow can often feel as though energy is drawing, swirling, or magnified in the space.

People who live near or in energy portals tend to feel more energetic and productive than others. They also tend to get a lot of creative work done. Portals are often great centers for the arts, for this reason. They are sometimes geographic, but they can also be created.

How Portals Can Be Created

Usually a transformative precipitator event causes energy to suddenly flow in a funnel shape. With a precipitator event, a large amount of energy moves or has rushed through space. A portal can ve created from that swift moving energy.

It happens in place-time, and it also occurs in space-time. Have you ever experienced a dramatic change in your life, where time seems to speed up? Occasionally, a portal opens within a place or a single beings energy field during these moments of sudden change.

Portals can exist anytime you have a dense layer, adjacent to a more quickly moving spiritual layer, and a barrier between them breaks away. Because of this, portals can exist in both physical locations and physical bodies.

Things That Can Open A Portal:

• Large geologic events

• Large atmospheric events

• Mass transition events

• Emotional events

They Can Exist In Natural Places Such As:

• Canyons

• Mountains

• Mesas

• Caves

• Lakes

• Other geologic locations/formations no matter how ancient

These are often called vortices or vortexes, places where energy from across the veil can come in and leave the physical world naturally, and exist in places with high geologic activity.

How A Property Becomes A Portal

If a cataclysmic event happened on a property, usually quite a deal of energy was expended during that event. As that energy is released, it may be translated to the geology, plants, and animals in the area, who all encode information as they receive feedback about their environment. Over time, these creatures' interpretation of the event can magnify, along with yours, and create a self-generating energy center. As long as the area goes undisturbed, this energy center has time to strengthen and grow. The more stories told about the area, the more a certain idea is reinforced in that spot, the more the energy grows. This is why lore locations can often be easily identified by energy sensors, dowsers, and land readers.

Once a portal has been opened, you can block it off, close your eyes, and walk away from it. But it typically doesn't go away and resisting it can sometimes make it more of a bother than anything else. Portals are more naturally worked with and tapped into than gotten rid of. If you had a geothermal pool near your house that generated lots of heat and was safe to use, would it be better to bask in it, or pretend it didn't exist? Some highly charged areas can be incredibly healing.

People Can Also Become Portals

Have you ever found yourself next to a high energy source? How did it feel at first? Did it leavr you feeling different than before? People who are portals are also known as energy generators in this lifetime. If you have had a sudden, soul-level, transformative event, your spirit is broken free from prior perceptions and limitations. When this happens a portal can be created within you, connecting you directly to spirit.

Self-Portal Creating Events Include:

• The birth of a child

• The death of a loved one

• A near-death experience

• A major breakup or divorce

• A major change in physical health

• A spiritual awakening event

Whenever the above events happen, a large amount of transformational energy flows through us. When that happens, your energy body is then open for other energies to flow through, making it easier for you to be a conduit for any energy around.

When you step into and acknowledge your body's portal, this is sometimes called 'stepping into your power', 'stepping into the light', or simply, spiritual ascension. It can seem like a rush of awareness and energy at first, or like a fast-moving stream of energy. Portals represent a lot of energy flowing into one spot at a time.

When properly understood, the energy of any portal can be tapped into and utilized for raising one's level of consciousness, communing with spirit, and accessing esoteric wisdom. Take the time to discover the portals near you and tap into their power to improve your workings.

[noosphe-re]

The undulating forms in stone can convey the laws of fluid flow and encode the unseen trends of liquid motion. The hydrologic cycle has found a means to record in rock its moods and to concatenate them all into a single totem. Taihu rocks record the swells, the eddies and all the rarest ripples (with the delicacy of any sense organ). They chronicle the currents that move across the surface and return the motions of unseen tides that sculpt below. Their fluid shapes are clear transcriptions of a blind intent made visible for human eyes to see. Rheology has impressed its character in a summed articulation of every seiche and bathymetric spiral, of every ebb and flow. Water is a living manifold whose calculations are fated to be resolved in stone.

Paul Prudence, Figured Stones: Exploring the Lithic Imaginary

[balmora-citizen]

OK this poll by @problematicsashawaybright got me thinking

who found out they weren't straight first and when?

I kind of think Anne even before Amphibia? between the whole "hot Mrs Croaker" and throws hands at the suggestion of having a boyfriend.

but on the other hand she is quite oblivious and just goes with the flow, not exactly the type to look inwards. she also reads these dreadful magazines and in that wellness episode with polly she has unlearn some things. so maybe in season 2 after she reunites with Marcy? (that blush...) or "commander anne"

Marcy very likely has encountered fanfiction and shipping before. her journal is of course extremely gay, but doesn't exactly read like she joined the dots (unless pages got lost or she encoded the more personal stuff like in "a witch in wartwood") so she happily doodles herself and her friends in a heart, best friends forever.

my guess would be she realizes during her stand of with Aldrich or before she leaves LA. or that is just in regards to Anne and Sasha and she knew she wasn't into boys before Amphibia because the gossip and magazines at sleepovers bored her to tears?

Sasha could also know before Amphibia just pushing it really really far down, not allowing her self to think about it. she is so busy staying on top of the social hierarchy in a catholic school and keeping the bullys at bay. it all just adds to the chaos inside of her, between anger and divorce. she probably either realizes or allows herself to acknowledge some time during Amphibia. at the latest in "commander anne" but maybe even before ("how did you know I wanted to dual wield?") toad culture is probably pretty bi considering their biggest hero for a thousand years has been barrel the unfortunately divorced.

[number1ladsboykisser]

changes don’t make differences in my love for you.

sylus x youuuu!!

this story was requested by @revenlian :

“Dunno if you do this but oafjshv, but I wanted to ask if you could write a scenario where you (mc or reader i dunno) have a pretty long hair, and you'r not very feminine but still liked it long, but due to an accident had to cut it reaaaally short– You still love the way you look with that really short haircut, and your head feels so free, so you r happy about it🥺 soo based on this how would Sylus react? Like yesterday you two just had a pretty fun date and you still had your hair, how would he feel to a so abrupt change?”

thanks for the request bb! - me

(btw sylus reminds me of this song, so feel free to listen as you read.)

here’s a fluffy fluffy story that i hope you enjoy my lovelies!!

you knew sylus wasn’t one to get used to change easily, especially when it was abrupt

so how would he react when he saw your hair this short?

it all began when you were standing on a bus (public transportation) and a little kid decided to wrap your silky hair around a giant glob of chewed gum. it just created mats of ragged hair, which only fueled your desire to cut your hair.

you knew you weren’t very feminine anyways, so maybe it was for the best?

you were very happy about your short hair, getting bursts of joy each time you looked in the mirror at yourself, you looked so amazing! not only that, but your head felt lighter, whenever you had your long hair, it felt like there was a giant rock sitting on top of your head, but now, your head felt lighter, and your thoughts cleared quicker.

but soon enough your thoughts became shrouded in questions and confusion.

what will sylus think of me?

i had my long hair yesterday so it’s a pretty quick change, i dont think sylus will be able to get used to it easily…

you know what? i’m just gonna reveal it to him and see what he thinks. i don’t care if he doesn’t like it! what matters is that i do!

you thought, finally coming up with a conclusion.

you picked up your phone, quickly tapping the messages app and texting sylus.

“hey sy..! i have a surprise for you!!”

“did you beat a wanderer without my assistance?”

“everyone knows i can do that.. but anyways, no it has to do with my appearance.”

“kitten, you know i will love you the same way i always do, even if you change your appearance.”

“and how do you love me now?” you responded with curiosity

“infinitely.”

that response was enough to make you want to tattoo it on your inner eyelids.

“ok shall i send a pic?” you texted.

“no, i want to see you in person.”

this message made your heart beat abnormally fast, just go with the flow, you thought

you responded with an “okay!” and an “on my way!” whenever you started up your motorcycle.

when you arrived, you didn’t even have to knock at sylus’ door, it just swung open as soon as you stood on his marble porch, like he sensed you were here.

your heart rate grew faster as you moved closer to where sylus surely was.

you stood at his bedroom door, knocking quickly but quietly.

“come in.” you heard sylus’ deep voice ring from inside the room, so you walked in after you fixed your hair.

you stood at the doorway and waited for a reaction.

his mouth didn’t gape in horror, and he didn’t shriek.

so you looked up at him with a questioning look.

and his once hard eyes softened as he looked at you with utter, raw love in his eyes and encoded in his body language.

he chuckled when you smiled at his reaction, “i love it, kitten, i love it so much” he purred

he stood and walked up to you, his hand reaching out to make a mess of your once maintained hair.

“hey!!” you giggled out as his hand ruffled your hair, reaching up to grab his wrist.

he peppered your head with aggressive kisses

“i”

a kiss

“might”

another

“have cuteness aggression right now”

and another.

sylus was undoubtedly in love with you, no matter what you looked like, so you learned that there was no room for being insecure around him.

and you loved him for that and so many other reasons.

please alert me of any grammatical errors, as i did not revise and edit this story as much as i usually do!!

really hope you enjoyed this one and thank you thank you thank you for the requests.

speaking of requests, please feel free to leave some, but none that are heavily smut based, thanks!!

if you read all the way through, please leave some support!

[francixoxoxo]

⋆.˚ ℬ𝒶𝓈𝒽 𝒜𝓇ℴ𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽ℯ ℋℴ𝓊𝓈ℯ𓅰˚ .✧

Peeta Mellark x Reader

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧. 𝐏𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡.

Basically hurt/comfort with a katniss insert

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 was a personal attack.

Breakdowns were irregular, for you. The trauma rarely boiled to the point that you were perched on right now— your heart was racing to combust, your eyes wild and unfocused, chest heaving with lagged breaths that were needy gulps of crisp mountain air more than anything.

You stumble out of bed— the man beside you was a heavy sleeper, though you weren’t in the state of mind to consider that, nor where the fingers of your nightstand-clock were pointing. You only saw your own visage in the thin glass covering those thin needles. Your bare feet were damp on the hardwood as you bashed around the house, poison staining your mouth.

You pass a mirror in the hallway, seeing your own crazed expression, recoiling from it, and as if it was encoded into each strand of DNA in your body, your fist is curling, arm winding, you think of the arena, this adrenaline didn’t feel so different, it’s rushing through your ears and it’s driving your fist into the glass of this poor mirror Peeta picked out from the market a year ago.

It shatters, your image splitting into a million, and perhaps that’s the boom, crash, bullet-rip that scares the wild animal in you into the bathroom down the hall.

There were no victors, you’d been told by one dear friend. You’d dare call him a father. Only survivors.

As your breathing comes in rasps, you grip each side of the bathroom sink. Things were meant to be good now, weren’t they? The Capitol no longer loomed over your life. You lived in a comfortable house with the love of your life. Haymitch lived down the street, as did your mother, in a rebuilt District 12. The victors you had grown close to, they were a quick letter away, though the furthest friend lived all the way in District 7. Peace was working its way into the fibers of your muscles, the marrow of your bones, flowing through your arteries and cooling the sharp awareness your blood had carried before the rebellion.

Bread was sitting on the kitchen counter from yesterday, fresh and wrapped in a towel. Two toothbrushes sat in a cup by your thumb. If you were to open the cabinet inside the mirror, you’d find shaving cream sitting beside your perfume.

And still, you couldn’t dispel each bruising memory. Each person you’d lost was another crack in your knuckles, which, looking down at now— they were bleeding, and a small shard of glass was lodged in your pointer’s knuckle.

As you grabbed the tweezers to pry out the mirror bit (too rashly, mind, you were picking and ripping at the raw skin with your shaking hand,) you can’t stop your mind from reeling. Spinning with thoughts of a little girl in the arena you couldn’t save, could only sing to. With memories of a man you’d come to trust, slipping down a ladder and falling to faceless, groping hands. Thoughts of a sister, a baby, her visage disappearing behind a blinding light and ear-splitting, horribly man-made sound.

Your eyes are blurred from tears. Just your luck, you continue to pick fruitlessly for that little shard of glass. Eventually you get it out, you throw the tweezers in the sink like it was refuse.

Meeting your eyes in the mirror, you take a sharp inhale. Was that you? Jesus. Your attention darts all over yourself— regaining a little bit of composure, you fix your sleeping-tank to cover your bra. You try to run your fingers, the unharmed tips of them, through your dark tresses— they’re tangled from tossing and turning in bed, though, you don’t get very far. You try to rip your nails through, thoughtlessly, and grunt at the sting at your scalp.

Your hands are moving, but your mind lags behind, as you reach inside the cabinet above the sink again, taking away your sorry image in the mirror. Bloody, cracked fingers find the scissors you use to cut Peetas hair— the memory of sweet conversations, his bare back to you, his comment about the cool steel on his nape, it reminds you to breathe.

You’re grabbing the ends of a lock of hair, tugging tight, pushing the scissors through, just below your chin, baring your teeth with effort and avoiding your image in the mirror. Saltwater once again creates a blurry mask over the bathroom, your vision leaving you a bit of a comfort right now.

A frustrated cry splits your lips, you blink the tears down your flushed cheeks— so, when Peeta appears beside you, you see him perfectly clear, his sweet brown eyes wide for a man who just woke up, his shirt wrinkled and sleep-shorts rumpled from sleep.

Peeta breathes your name, taking in what’s in front of him. He points over his shoulder as he steps to you, as if to mention the mirror, but he decides against it. His brows knit as he steps to you, he can’t help gawking a little. “Jesus, baby, what’re you doing?”

His calloused, strong hands reach for the scissors, you let him take them from you. He sets them down, his eyes darting over his wife. What a sight you must’ve been, just then, your words coming in teary gasps. “I— I just..”

“Nightmare?” You swallow hard and nod. He mirrors you, mouth hanging open slightly. He gets them too.

Peeta grasps your hands, first and foremost, inspecting them with a gentle grasp on your undamaged fingertips. You breathe deep so that you don’t speak in a sob, though your voice is terribly hushed to try and keep it even. “I’m sorry about the mirror.”

“Don’t be. Just a mirror.” Peeta dismissed, a hand on your shoulder guiding you to sit on the toilet seat. He closes the lid for you, keeping one hand grasping your fingers and the other one reaching into the cabinet, finding the hydrogen peroxide. Like he knew what to do, like there were directions on how to care for you etched behind his eyelids.

You’re just grateful he shut his dropped jaw and wasn’t looking at you with any pity. Worry, definitely. Not pity.

Peeta goes wordlessly about pouring some of the clear liquid on a towel, dabbing your knuckles. Eventually, he speaks, his voice soft as it falls on your currently-sensitive ears. “A bad one, huh?”

You nod vigorously. Peeta frowns, glancing up at you often, but you only meet his chestnut gaze once, as he’s pulling away from you. He stops, leaning over to kiss your temple. He fondles gently the cropped section of hair, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, your voice still wobbly as a woman on crutches. Peeta shakes his head.

“Why would you be sorry?” He murmurs, his hand moving from your hair to your flushed, wet cheek.

“You liked my hair,” A quiet bawl rips from your lips, your fingertips rubbing your eyes raw. Peeta pulls your hands away from your face with a featherlight touch, and leans close to you to drop a kiss into your hairline.

His voice is low, but sweet as a birdsong, “Baby, I like you. It’s just hair.” When Peeta pulls away, your eyes are on him, and he can’t help but see just a teenage girl again, ripped up in the mind, but never more beautiful regardless. He can’t help but see the girl who nursed him to health in that first arena, and the girl who made the second one bearable. The girl he’d fallen in love with, twice.

Wordlessly, he’s taking the scissors again after a quick inspection of your cleaned knuckles. He guides you by the elbows (the hand holding the scissors simply pushes his knuckles against you, obviously not wanting to cut you,) to stand.

It’s silent, as you lean slightly over the sink and let him snip away at the rest of your hair, slowly bringing the rest of the locks to the same length. The dark strands fall into the ceramic sink, floating like feathers, and you focus simply on that. Peeta looks up from his task to check up on you through the cabinet mirror, his brown eyes cautious and warm. Soft as anything. The only sound is the occasional owl that lived in the pines near your home.

The look of a man in love, a man who’d be in love with you in every scenario, and through every hardship. You’d been through so much together already— there wasn’t anything worse the world could throw at you that you couldn’t handle, not with Peeta beside you. Baking you bread. Making your chin tip back with unabashed laughter. Dipping your mattress at night, before drawing you close.

Cutting your hair over the sink over a meltdown, not shaming you, not scolding you, not even questioning you— just doing what he knew you needed him to, without your spoken instructions.

Eventually, though, your Peeta speaks, setting down the scissors and grasping your shoulders to get you to face him. He mutters your name, his brows drawn. Your eyes dart around the room, the soft yellow tiles, the Chantilly-curtained window letting a breeze rolling down from the mountains into the bathroom.

When he repeats your name you finally look at him. There it is, rolling over you in waves— shame. Embarrassment.

And there it is, receding like the tide pulling back into the ocean, a warmer feeling replacing it, when Peeta brushes a knuckle across your jaw and offers you an easy smile. “You look beautiful.”

You sniffle a little, huffing almost indignantly. He looked beautiful. His golden hair was smashed to his forehead, his sun-freckled cheeks pushed up and creasing his oak-colored eyes. After all these years, he still brought a flush to your own cheeks— if they weren’t already flushed from that breakdown. You were certain that you didn’t look as good as he did. “I look a mess, Peeta.”

“No, no. You look beautiful.” Peeta insists, shaking his head, closing his eyes a moment as if this was final. The smile that creases your tear-tracked cheeks broadens his own. “This haircut suits you.”

You hummed indifferently. Peeta tucks your freshly cropped hair behind your ear, mimicking your hum. He manages to work a soft, almost-laugh from you. That’s enough for him.

“I don’t know what got into me,” you murmur, eyes darting twixt his own. Your husband shakes his head, and it goes unsaid, but you know what he means. He knows. He understands. And it doesn’t change a thing.

“It’s okay,” Peeta cooes, his voice quiet, just for the two of you. He’s close enough to thump his forehead against yours, his hands roving up and down your upper arms. “Look at what we went through. It’s only natural.”

You press your lips together, nodding a little. You realize for the first time, that your mind is the clearest it’s been in the past ten minutes. Your breathing comes in soft, even puffs, your eyes swollen and red, but vision clear as glass. Silently, he leans forward just a bit, presses his warm lips onto yours, and you think that you could stay there forever, letting him lift you out of the mud, guide you through the murkiness that rose to your neck.

You couldn’t begin to describe just how good he was, your Peeta. Just how little you deserved him. Just how golden his heart was. Almost under your breath, you tell him, “Thank you.”

He shakes his head. Don’t worry about it, his warm eyes mutter. I’d do it again, his hand brushing up your shoulder speaks. I’m here, and i’m not leaving, a sweet, boyish smile on his face yells.

With his words, though, Peeta mutters, “I love you.” Easy as breathing. Easy as the sun rises— easy as the room lightens, just a little, as that long-forgotten nightstand clock’s fingers point a bit closer toward 5:30.

You whisper it right back to him, “I love you too.” And you mean it, from your split knuckles to your wracked mind, you mean it with your whole being. Peeta was the type of man you could trust that whole being with.

The type of man who’d wake up in the middle of the night, wordlessly cut your hair over the sink, silently take your rash bite and turn it into something beautiful. Love you in your worst moments. The type of man you could trust to take care of the wounded animal in you.

Peeta was exactly what you needed to heal.

[33-108]

Saturn/Shani—the most distant of the original 7 planets, slowest to move, weightiest in consequence-has long been associated with time , karma, and death. But Saturn is more than a mere harbinger of decay; in certain esoteric frameworks, it is seen as the Black Sun, the Sol Niger, the silent source behind all outward illumination.

In classical Western alchemy, the Sol Niger represents the phase of nigredo-putrefaction, the blackening,where the ego dies, and all constructed forms dissolve into the chaotic prima materia.. the raw, formless substrate-so that true transformation and rebirth may begin.

It is deeply Saturnian in tone: melancholic, cold, and stark. Yet in the Krama tradition there is a deeper, more expansive vision of this Black Sun.

Here, the blackness is not absence but overfullness. It is not decay but the uncontainable radiance of that which precedes and follows manifestation. Saturn as Black Sun is not merely the prelude to transformation, but the unchanging center of all transformation itself.

This is why Kali in the Krama tradition, is often depicted as the radiant void-the supreme śakti whose terrifying countenance is not simply an image of destruction, but of return: a return of multiplicity into unity, of time into eternity, of the false light of the manifest sun into the true radiance of the Black Sun.

She is not just a goddess of classical death, but of re-absorption. She consumes the world of name and form (nāma-rūpa) only to reveal the eternal prakāśa-vimarśa-the interplay of Śiva’s light and Śakti’s knowing.

This cyclical movement..of emergence and retraction is encoded in the sacred cycle of the 12 Kālīs.

Where the 36 tattvas which unfold linearly from Śiva-tattva down, the 12 Kālīs move in spirals, phases, and returns.

Each Kali is not simply a stage in cognition, but a contraction and expansion of Śakti’s pulsation/spanda. Their power flows from the center that is also the circumference, a center which is Śrī Kalāsaṅkarṣinī—She Who Draws All Time Back Into Herself.

These 12 Kālīs are interior flames of cognition that burn away layers of duality. Their progression maps onto the adept's descent into the inner void. They correspond not just to mental states, but to the tattvas themselves—becoming mirrors of the cosmos as it is drawn back into its source.

Each triad of Kālīs, often grouped in fours, reflects a deeper layer of retraction: the final stage, the last illusions of duality fall away-the adept confronts the final barrier between subject and object. This culminates in Śrī Kalāsaṅkarṣinī, the supreme goddess who draws even śakti into the unspeakable stillness of paramaśiva.

From this view, the Black Sun is that of total re-absorption into being. It is Saturn not as terminator but as originator-the sun before the sun, the nocturnal radiance from which all days are born.

The Saturnian light is not absent...it is so all-consuming that it appears as darkness.

It is not the nigredo of the fallen ego, but the absolute transfiguration that reveals there was never just ego to begin with.

Kali is both Saturn and Sun: prakāśa and vimarśa, the destructive grace that obliterates false self and reveals eternal light.

Not as a process of alchemical refinement alone, but as an ever-present truth: the Void is the fullness. The End is the Origin. And the Black Sun is the supreme blazing of Śiva’s unborn consciousness through the gaze of His eternal Consort.

[silvershadow1711]

Hey jello🤘

I want NEEEEDD more necro Ray pleassseee (would he sleep with the body and fuck it or what.)

Bye bye jello🤘

CW: necrophilla below the cut

Rigor mortis was annoying, but thankfully, that stage of death only lasts a few hours. After that, the body is pliable again. A bit too limp, but it's easy to pretend they're just in a deep sleep.

As long as he keeps his mind closed against the vacuum of theirs.

(Don't think about it)

Ray knows about death, more than most people. He is closely aquainted with the stench of rot, the sound of flies buzzing in liquid swarms around the dead heaped in pits, already liquifying in the ungodly humidity of the rainforest... Heat is the enemy. He keeps his condo as cold as possible, box fans running full blast around his bed to ensure the air stays dry (dehumidifiers put out too much heat). Whenever possible, his home is converted to a makeshift morgue.

He puts it off for as long as possible, trying to be content to just have someone to talk to, someone he can spill his guts to, someone who won't judge him

(Can't)

It's enough, he tells himself. It's more than what he had before. It's more than what he deserves.

...he's so lonely...

Heat is the enemy, but the feeling of ice-cold skin triggers a revulsion that's encoded too deep in his DNA to ignore. He fills the tub with scalding water, just short of boiling, and lowers the body into it, submerging it

(He tries to look anywhere else, but his eyes are drawn to the hole in their skull, staring at the little bubbles that cling to the folds of their brain like pearls)

Their skin remains ashen- all the blood has long since pooled in their back, despite his best efforts to rotate them regularly. But they're warm now, dewy soft. When he presses his lips against theirs, a trickle of warm water flows into his mouth and he can so easily pretend it's saliva. Ray's good at pretending- as long as he keeps his eyes half closed and doesn't linger on one spot for too long, it's easy to believe he can feel the subtle rise and fall of their chest, their pulse thrum against his lips.

He had planned on carrying them back to the bed, or at least the couch, but it's been so long since he's touched someone without the barrier of his gloves, so long since he's felt a warm body pressed against his... he neither knows nor cares where he tosses his clothes as he strips and descends on his star. The bathroom floor is heated, so at least he doesn't have to worry about the tile stealing that precious heat from them too quickly.

As he penetrates them, he realizes that this is their first time together, and he has to swallow several times before the taste of vomit is fully washed away.

(Just don't think about it)

The slapping of flesh, the faint squeak of skin rubbing against tiles, the quiet splashing of the water still in the tub from the vibrations beside it... it sounds so... clinical. It sounds like his room cell back in the NAHA facility he was raised in.

(Don't think about it)

Sterile white rooms, the incessant buzzing of flourecent lights

(Stop thinking about it)

Another body beneath his, still warm but quickly growing colder

(Stop it!!)

He watched them carry his brother away

(Please...)

He didn't even ask what they did with his body

Ray had no idea when he he'd stopped thrusting, if it was before or after he'd gone flaccid. It didn't even matter. He couldn't move, the great heaving sobs wracking his body paralyzing him. He couldn't breathe, choking on every breathe he tried to suck in. He collapsed onto his star, curling his body around theirs. He could fool his eyes, his ears, his mind, but his ability always rang true. There was no pull against his skin, nothing to absorb. He might as well have been weeping on the bathroom floor completely alone.

Again.

His tears would dry up eventually- they aways did. He'd dry his star off and lay them back in bed, coveted in ice packs to keep them cold, to stave off the rot for as long as possible. He'd content himself with laying beside them, running his fingers through their hair as he vented about his day. And that would be enough.

Until it wasn't. Until the loneliness grew too much to bear. And the process would begin anew, the same torment forever visited upon him. Perhaps one day, he would grow tired of rolling this boulder up a hill. Perhaps one day, he would let it crush him. Perhaps he would crush everything else first. But not today.

[mysticstronomy]

COULD WE BUILD SPACE TIME COMPUTERS THAT RUN ON GRAVITY??

Blog#513

Saturday, June 14th, 2025,

Welcome back,

Imagine a computer that doesn't run on silicon or electricity — but on space-time itself.

A new mathematical breakthrough proposes a jaw-dropping idea: using gravity — the bending of space and time — as a computation force. That's right. We might one day build computers that run on the fabric of the universe itself.

The Big Idea: Gravity as a Logic Gate?

In general relativity, gravity isn't a force — it's a curvature of space and time caused by mass and energy. Black holes, neutron stars, even gravitational waves — all distort the structure of space-time.

Now, theoretical physicists have devised a new framework that enables us to detect whether information has been altered by the warping of space-time. That is to say: they've figured out how to tell if a message was distorted by gravity itself.

This isn't simply an issue of detecting changes — it's an issue of developing a foundation in which gravity becomes a part of the computing process. This implies that gravitational fields can not only affect the movement of mass and light, but how we calculate data too.

A Future Beyond Silicon?

Purely theoretical still, this study implies a radically new paradigm of computation:

Space-time logic gates: Instead of electrical signals flipping transistors, one could modulate signals with engineered gravitational curvatures.

Gravity-driven information flow: One could encode information in the way gravitational fields bend light or slow down signals.

Geometry-based computation: Doing math with the *shape* of the universe. Literally.

It's a move towards what you might call a space-time computer— a computer that "thinks" in terms of bends, curves, and warps in the universe.

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, June 18th, 2025)

"IS SPACE TIME AFFECTED BY GRAVITY??"

[bonebeautyart]

Every day Saint Just doesn't stop impressing me. Since I set out to deeply analyze his theories and applications (this has helped me a lot taking Philonenko and Abenseur as a starting point, then adding to Nietzsche that his theory really fits with Saint Just) I felt very lost analyzing it only from the metaphysical perspective, the result was the same and honestly it did not convince me. The morning of two days ago I found myself cleaning my room, and that's when I find my Aristotelian logic notebook from my university career. I decided that perhaps a much more structured way of being able to analyze it was in it, if his theories are quantifiable within a mathematical system (which is the most balanced), confirms the veracity of his theory.

Then I proposed to do these analyzes within his speeches and concluded that the reason why what he has proposed has been misrepresented so much is because these discourses are read paragraph by paragraph: separated. Then, if their speeches are separated in such a way, they seem to float and have no congruence. BUT, the following happens, if you decide to put the complete discourse (outside of conventional dialectical interpretation) to a system of codes that confirms the premises and their relationship with the conclusion, where it is asked to prove some argumentative void or contradiction. If the result was an argumentative void the result is negative, if the discourse is homogeneous it is codifiable, then it is affirmative.

The result is more than impressive: All of his speeches are not only absolutely congruent, but do not present an ideology that molds them as a basis, more than pure logic. He does not expose "passionate" speeches as he has been called, but data, quantifiable and statistical data. This not only makes it formidable, but there is no method to question, because if this attempt at judgment is coded, it marks as false or empty.

This impressed me but it didn't stop me. I decided to aspire more and with the help of it I managed to introduce all the political work that he proposes. There is not even a void. He was not creating a closed and narrow political system, but a living system that flowed almost like kinetic energy. This is not even idealistic or utopian, because it is confirmable by mathematical codes and systems. There is no structural gap or hesitation with a dependence on opinion. This is not a system, it's political architecture, I think I've never seen it.

The institutions are something completely different. These momentary results are pleasant at least for me. But I must take the time and study of being able to formulate the theorem that he proposes. As a theorem, this seems utopian at first glance, but it is not because it is unreal, but because humanity is limited by traditional politics. If you can encode and make a mathematical scheme and affirm it as true, it can even be considered as another type of logic. That gives him a standard not only as an average theorist, but a major league theorist and one of the most rigorous and capable there is, because it is possible to go down to practice.

Thermidor is not a failure in the structure of his system, but the logical confirmation of the system's ability to remain coherent. The deficiency was the assembly.

Some screenshots that I was taking hahaha. This is a first step, really if we decide to go deeper, I have no doubt that you will find something more complex.

This is the logical confirmation of why Thermidor occurs. Saint Just was more organized during Thermidor than the Thermidorians themselves.

The "M" at the end indicates that the only logical way out of the system is death 😭

This is the system that he proposes in a schematized way. Although the graph is bad because I despaired hahaha, it even has an exact geometry.

[lone-pylon]

Wanderer dialogue in Dream BBQ:

"We have issued the time of death at 2:04 PM"

"A severe brain signal capable of producing (unintelligible) was located"

"A new phenomenon has been discovered"

"Receiving signal" "Encoding signal" "Translating signal"

"The enormous egg that holds us all is in the mother's womb" (possibly inaccurate)

"Contact has been successful"

"Message receiveddddddd..."

"Radar indicates a similar signal 9 miles away... 3 miles away... 9 miles away"

"Signals are located everywhere"

"What do you see?"

"Can you hear us?"

"How is the other side?"

"Hello? Can you hear us?"

"Report received"

"Vital signs are continuing to experience intermittent data flow interruptions"

"52"

"Person 95 is experiencing outside influences"

"42, can you tell us how it feels?"

"44, here's a signal"

"We are sending reports every minus 1.1 miles per hour"

"Nexus. Eternity. Awaiting signal to distribution terminal" (possibly inaccurate)

So uhhhhh what do we think about this?

[hero21us]

Trey's Egg Mischief: Part 1

It was a damp, grey morning in South London. The streets smelled like fried food and mischief. Trey—once Olympic medalist, now full-on chav of the Golden Army—strolled down Peckham High Street in his gold-accented tracksuit, Air Maxes squeaking with each confident step.

In his hand? A small, glowing gold egg. Not an Easter treat—this thing pulsed like it had a heartbeat. Custom-coded. Enchanted. Dangerous.

He stopped at a corner shop mailbox and slipped the egg inside a padded parcel addressed to:

POLO-DRONE-055 The Old Sports Complex, Southwark

Inside the package: the egg… and a greasy, crumpled note scribbled in sharpie:

“Bruv, open this up wid the mandem. Bare jokes. Trust me. Gold levels. U won’t regret it. — T x”

The abandoned Southwark sports facility, once echoing with shouts and whistles, was now a repurposed drone hub—bare gold halls filled with synthetic silence. Inside, Polo-Drone-055 and three others stood recharging. Uniforms pristine. Minds linked to the Gold network. Obedient. Purposeful. Orderly.

Until the package arrived.

Polo-Drone-055 read the note with mild confusion.

“Message sender: Trey. Interpretation: unclear. Recommended action: initiate scan.”

But something inside him stirred—a curiosity glitch. He waved over Drones 110, and 049.

“Processing prank protocol. Opening object… now.”

The egg cracked. A brilliant flash—followed by a wave of low-frequency beats, coded in grime rhythm and gold-tinted transformation subroutines. The mist wasn't visible to the naked eye, but the drones felt it. Deep. Rewriting them.

Their eyes flickered. Uniforms shimmered. Their stance shifted—more relaxed, more bold. Muscles inflated beneath rubber. Posture straightened, then cocked at an angle only confidence allowed.

Polo-Drone-055 staggered back—then laughed. Laughed.

“Yo! What’s all this shine, bro? I feel jacked as hell!” “Check out this fit, man! Gold on gold—max drip!” “Trey crushed it. We’re hyped outta our minds now!”

They weren’t Polo Drones anymore. Not entirely. Still loyal to the Polo, still transformed—but now with swagger, ego, and way too much charisma. Gold Jocks, born from code, grime, and street attitude.

Their uniforms had altered into a hybrid of sports kit and Polo tech: tight gold compression tops, glistening joggers, high-top golden sneakers. Chains formed across their chests. Grins wide. Eyes glowing.

Elsewhere in London

Trey kicked back on a park bench, watching lads play football across the street. His burner buzzed.

Message from Golden Jock-055:

“We’re pumped now. The crew’s stompin’ through the city center, hypin’ up every dude we pass. Gold’s got serious swagger, bro.”

Trey grinned and texted back:

“Standard. Make sure they know—Obedience is Pleasure, but Swag is Power.”

The Gold Jocks were on the loose. South London wouldn’t know what hit it.

South London’s FlexZone Golden Gym was buzzing. Saturday morning. Protein shakes flowing. Trap music thumping. Rows of jocks, lifters, boxers, and bootcamp bros grinding away at their routines, unaware of what was about to hit them.

The doors slid open.

In swaggered Golden Jock-055—biceps bulging, golden tank clinging to his torso, joggers tight over thick quads, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder. He paused at the front desk, adjusted his shades, and gave a confident nod to the man behind the counter.

“Mornin’. Just here to spread a little positivity. You know… gold standard.”

He blinked at the shine coming off his skin. Before he could respond, he was already moving.

Inside the bag: golden Easter eggs from Trey—glowing faintly, each filled with nanomist encoded with loyalty, joy, and a very specific rewrite protocol.

Target: Golden Alpha bros, muscle boys, gym rats. Transformation: Playful, obedient puppies.

Deployment Phase

Golden-Jock-055 moved with purpose.

First stop: Free weights. He placed an egg beside the dumbbell rack, casually stretching nearby.

“Hey, bro—you’re lookin’ real dialed in. Try this for a next-level pump.”

A shredded guy in stringer tank gave a bro-nod, picked up the egg—and crack. The golden mist hit his nose. He froze… then exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring.

Muscles twitched. He dropped to all fours with a heavy thud.

“Whuh—what the—hnngg… woof?”

His shoes vanished. His fingers thickened slightly, joints relaxing. A collar shimmered around his neck. His expression melted into a wide, eager grin. His tongue lolled slightly. He wagged his hips like a tail might follow.

Golden-Jock-055 crouched beside him, giving his back a friendly scratch.

“Atta boy. Feel good, huh? You’re one of ours now. Welcome to the Gold Pack.”

Next: Locker Room

GJ-055 placed two eggs beneath the bench while chatting with a pair of sweaty post-leg-day lifters.

“Hey, bros—hydration break? Brought these custom recovery aids.”

Both cracked their eggs open at once. The mist hit them mid-chug.

Their bodies convulsed briefly—but not in pain. Their grunts turned into happy yelps as golden collars locked around their necks. Their clothes shifted into shiny compression wraps. Their expressions softened, eyes wide and trusting. One started licking the condensation off his water bottle. The other crawled over and nuzzled into his side.

“Good boys,” said GJ-055, patting their heads.

Final stop: Juice Bar

“What’s up, boss? Got somethin’ fresh for ya today.”

He slid a single golden egg across the counter.

The barista raised a brow. “Pre-workout?”

“Better. Pre-obedience.”

Crack. Mist. Whiff. In seconds, the man was kneeling behind the bar, wagging his rear, licking the floor with pure, unbothered joy. A collar tightened with a click, and he barked once, tail-wagging but energy undeniable.

Across the Gym

One by one, the boys fell—happily.

Weights were abandoned. Sets forgotten. Barking echoed off the walls, mingled with giggles and panting and the rhythmic click of gold collars locking into place.

Dozens of golden pups—still strong, still jacked—but now eager, obedient, playful. Tongues out. Happy to serve. Happy to be claimed.

Golden-Jock-055 clapped his hands once.

“Alright, my little beasts—group stretch on the mats. Let’s get flexible before we fetch.”

The pack woofed in unison and scrambled toward the turf zone, some crawling, some bounding like golden Labradors with six-packs.

________________

Want to see what happens when you open one of Trey's eggs? Contact @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-001 to be part of the Golden Army.