#neural circuit

[thursdayisbetterthanfriday]

Fungal Robotics

“This paper is the first of many that will use the fungal kingdom to provide environmental sensing and command signals to robots to improve their levels of autonomy,” Shepherd said. “By growing mycelium into the electronics of a robot, we were able to allow the biohybrid machine to sense and respond to the environment. In this case we used light as the input, but in the future it will be chemical. The potential for future robots could be to sense soil chemistry in row crops and decide when to add more fertilizer, for example, perhaps mitigating downstream effects of agriculture like harmful algal blooms.”

The system Mishra developed consists of an electrical interface that blocks out vibration and electromagnetic interference and accurately records and processes the mycelia’s electrophysiological activity in real time, and a controller inspired by central pattern generators – a kind of neural circuit. Essentially, the system reads the raw electrical signal, processes it and identifies the mycelia’s rhythmic spikes, then converts that information into a digital control signal, which is sent to the robot’s actuators.

“This kind of project is not just about controlling a robot,” Mishra said. “It is also about creating a true connection with the living system. Because once you hear the signal, you also understand what’s going on. Maybe that signal is coming from some kind of stresses. So you’re seeing the physical response, because those signals we can’t visualize, but the robot is making a visualization.”

Source: Biohybrid robots controlled by electrical impulses — in mushrooms | Cornell Chronicle

[toyookalab]

In the current issue of Molecular Psychiatry, the ADNP protein image from our previous publication has been published.

[noirfos]

In this house we stan Emily

She's so good as a foil to Charlie!! And her lyrics were 👌👌👌

"If you start to question, you could end up like Lucifer. Fallen." Hmm who's another angel I know who just asked questions and hung out with the wrong people and then sauntered vaguely downwards and then- *is escorted off stage by security*

[karatekamania]

gonna start calling the medical conditions I inherited the family heirlooms

[bpod-bpod]

Fly by Wire

As part of an ongoing endeavour to completely map neural circuits underlying behaviour, here is presented a connectome [neuron wiring diagram] resource of the entire ventral nerve cord of a male fruit fly

Read the published research article here

Image from work by Shin-ya Takemura and colleagues

Janelia Research Campus, Howard Hughes Medical Institute, VA, USA

Image originally published with a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Published in eLife (reviewed preprint), May 2024

You can also follow BPoD on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook

[theexistentialjoker]

I have done absolutely nothing to anyone in this class but for some reason this girl that sits “next” to me…has consistently moved her chair farther and farther from me like every day. Bitch just go sit somewhere else you judgmental fuck

[heavenlybodies333]

Ain’t Karma A Bitch? -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader | fwb |

You shouldn’t have kissed the IT guy.

It was innocent—technically. One drink after a successful case. A slightly too-loud laugh at his joke. And a kiss in the parking lot under Quantico’s flickering lights. But Spencer Reid saw it.

You felt it in the way his gaze dropped the moment you walked in the next morning, in the way his mouth turned up into that smug, unreadable curve when he passed you in the hallway, fingers tucked into his slacks like he was restraining himself from something—maybe strangling your little tech rebound.

You hadn’t even realized the genius profiler could get jealous.

"You know his credentials are fake, right?" Spencer murmurs from beside you during the briefing, eyes on the screen but voice slick with venom. "I ran a background check."

"You’re insufferable."

"You’re transparent." You don’t dare look at him. Not with the way your stomach twists at the low rasp of his voice.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you whisper, eyes on Hotch’s presentation even though you haven’t absorbed a word. “You don’t know everything.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the slow turn of Spencer’s head. His expression is unreadable. But you feel it.

“Wrong again,” he mutters. “I know enough.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. He’s not even looking at you, but there’s a slight twitch in his jaw, and his fingers flex like he’s counting backward in his head.

“You ran a background check on him?” you whisper, trying not to move your lips too much with Hotch three feet away. “Are you kidding me?”

“He listed his alma mater as MIT, but he misspelled Massachusetts on his résumé. Twice.”

“Oh my God—”

“Statistically, liars tend to embellish their education because it's the easiest detail to bluff without risk of immediate exposure. He also doesn't understand secure socket layering. It's not my fault if incompetence turns you on.”

You glare at him, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. He’s smug. Smug and unreadable and furious in a way you’ve never seen before.

The rest of the day is hell. He’s everywhere. Passing you coffee—without asking, of course. Standing too close at the crime board. Brushing past you in the hallway, the edge of his jacket catching your thigh, deliberate. Calculated. Like he’s daring you to say something.

You don’t. Not until the end of the night, when most of the team has left and the bullpen hums with quiet.

You storm into the file room, heart pounding. “Reid—”

He’s already there. Like he knew you’d come. Like he planned it. “Shutting the door?” he asks without looking up, flipping through a stack of folders like it’s any other Tuesday. “How suspicious.”

You do shut it. Hard. “What’s your problem?”

He sets the file down. Finally looks at you. “You kissed him,” Spencer says simply, like it’s fact. Like it’s already been dissected and labeled and filed away under Reasons She Deserves To Be Punished.

Your jaw tightens. “So what?”

He takes a step toward you. Then another. Until your back is pressed against the wall and he’s so close you can see the flecks of hazel in his eyes. “So,” he started, “I read somewhere that jealousy activates the same neural circuits as physical pain.” He takes a step closer, and suddenly his voice is lower, his tone less teasing. “It’s almost addictive. Like a drug. Your pupils dilated when you laughed at him.”

“That’s none of your business.”

A smirk plays on Spencer’s lips, sharp and knowing. His hand lifts, ghosting over your jaw but never quite touching. “Then why did you look for me when it happened?”

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, and his voice dips, slow and deliberate like he’s reciting a quote. “Right after. You looked up. Scanned the parking lot. Like you wanted someone to see.”

The heat that burns under your skin is immediate, prickling with shame and something far more dangerous. You want to deny it—but you had looked. Stupidly, instinctively. Like you were waiting for a reaction.

“Is that what this is about?” you snap. “You think I kissed him for your attention?”

He doesn’t blink. “Didn’t you?”

The silence chokes between you. He takes another step—closer, closer—until you’re hyper-aware of every inch between you, every uneven breath.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you say, but it comes out weaker than you mean.

Spencer’s eyes flick down to your mouth. His voice is almost a whisper. “And yet your heart rate’s at least 120. Fight or flight?”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d rather you did.” He says it like it’s an equation solved, a foregone conclusion. His pupils are blown, lips parted just slightly like he’s waiting to be proven right.

And maybe he is.

Because when you surge forward, fisting the collar of his cardigan and dragging his mouth down to yours, he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. His hands are on your waist in a second, you gasp when he bites your bottom lip—not hard, but just enough to make you feel it—and he groans, like that sound alone snapped whatever thread of restraint he had left.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he mutters against your mouth, breathing hard. “You really think you’re subtle?”

You shove him back a step, just enough to catch your breath, but he follows—of course he follows. His hand grips the back of your neck and he presses you into the wall again like he needs you there, like he can’t stand the distance.

“You’re not exactly subtle yourself,” you snap.

“He touched your ass,” Spencer growls, and the raw possessiveness in his voice makes your thighs clench.

You laugh—sharp, breathless, too aware of the way his fingers are now drifting along the hem of your blouse. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Reid.”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous. “You sure about that?”

Then he drops to his knees. Your heart stutters. “Spencer—”

“Shh.” He doesn’t look up as his hands glide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up with practiced, unshaking intent. “Just proving a point.”

You suck in a breath as his palms part your legs. His fingers are nimble, precise—like everything else he does, methodical but maddening. When he drags your underwear down your thighs, he does it slowly, eyes finally lifting to meet yours like a silent dare.

You grip the shelf behind you like it might keep you grounded, like the feeling of Spencer Reid on his knees in front of you isn’t about to send you spiraling into orbit.

He leans in. Presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—soft, almost reverent—and then one just a little higher. You squirm.

“Don’t tease,” you whisper, voice already frayed.

His eyes flick up, impossibly dark. “Don’t kiss other men.”

You don’t get a chance to retort—his mouth is on you in the next breath.

And God, he’s good.

Not good in the way most men fumble and hope for the best. No—he studies you. Remembers the way you gasped at the soft flick of his tongue. Adjusts. Experiments. Executes. He licks into you like he’s trying to rewrite your molecular structure, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else—and it’s working.

Your hand tangles in his hair before you can stop it, pulling hard, and he moans into you. You feel the vibration all the way up your spine.

“You’re such a fucking showoff,” you breathe, hips bucking.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips wet and swollen. “Statistically speaking, making a woman come from oral alone—”

“Spencer.”

“—requires precision and patience.” He licks a slow stripe up your center, eyes still locked on yours. “Luckily, I have both.”

And he proves it. You come fast and hard, your moan muffled in your own arm as your legs nearly give out. He holds you through it, mouth insistent and merciless until your body twitches from overstimulation and you beg—literally beg—for him to stop.

When he finally stands, there’s something almost unhinged in his eyes. A wild, unspoken want. His hands are already working on his belt, but you beat him to it, fingers slipping into his waistband like you’ve done it a hundred times in your head.

“I’m not finished with you,” you mutter, dragging his pants down just far enough.

“Good,” he pants. “Because I want you to remember this the next time some fraud in IT buys you a drink.”

You grip his shirt, yanking him down to your lips again. “Fuck me, Doctor Reid.” you moan as he slides through your slick. The noise you make is shameful—something between a gasp and a whimper—and his hand slams against the wall next to your head, bracing himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “You feel—fuck—”

Your head tips back, and he takes the opportunity to drag his mouth down your throat, sucking bruises into your skin with zero apology. His thrusts are slow at first, rough but controlled, but that doesn’t last long. Not with the way you grip him. Not with the way your nails dig into his back like you’re trying to brand him there.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” Spencer grits out, fucking you like it’s a correction. A lesson. “You knew I was watching.”

You whimper, helpless under the weight of him, every thrust a punishment wrapped in possession. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Liar,” he snaps, and the hand on your waist tightens.

His mouth crashes to yours again, messy and uncoordinated now. He slams back into you so hard you bite your lip to keep from crying out. The file room walls feel too thin, the glass door too close, but neither of you cares. He thrusts harder, deeper, desperate, like he’s trying to replace every trace of anyone else. And God, it’s working.

His hand curls around your thigh, hiking it over his hip, and the angle makes you whimper.

“Yeah?” Spencer grits out. “Right there?”

You nod—too breathless for words—and he groans again, pounding into that spot over and over until you’re shaking,

“Fuck, I’m—” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-damp curls brushing your cheeks. “I’m not gonna last—”

You pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist and drag him in, lock him there. “Then don’t.”

He comes with a groan muffled against your shoulder, his body jerking against yours like it’s been short-circuited. You hold him through it, hands in his hair, nails raking gently against his scalp as his hips stutter and still.

You both stay like that for a moment breathing heavy. He finally lifts his head. Blinks at you, dazed. And for the first time all night, he looks awkward. Flushed and boyish and just a little bit unsure.

Then he leans in, brushing a kiss—soft, shockingly gentle—against your cheek.

“You shouldn’t have kissed him,” he murmurs again, you huff a breathless laugh. “Noted.”

His nose brushes yours. “Next time,” he whispers, “I’ll show you what it feels like to beg.”

You blink at him. “Next time?”

He smiles. That unreadable, smug little curve again—but this time, it’s softer around the edges.

“Oh,” he says, buttoning his pants like he didn’t just fuck you senseless against a filing cabinet, “there’s going to be a next time.”

You shake your head, biting back a grin. “Aren’t you going to cite a study about post-coital bonding or something?”

He pauses. Tilts his head. “Actually, oxytocin levels increase significantly after orgasm, which tends to promote attachment and trust—but in this case, I’d argue correlation, not causation.”

You laugh—genuine and bright—and he watches you like it’s his favorite sound. You pull him in by the front of his cardigan and kiss him again, slower this time.

when you pull away he has a mischievous glint in his eye. “I deleted the footage,” he says softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smirks. “File room security. You’re not the only one who’s reckless.”

You gape. “You planned this?”

He shrugs. “I’m a profiler.”

You shove him. “You’re a psycho.”

a/n: down baddd for Dr Reid

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ��★•⋆

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

Girls who seethe about the weakness of their flesh, the imperfections of their meat-form. Girls who dream in technicolor of being bigger, better, stronger, faster. Girls who smuggle textbooks from repositories to study by night the dark science of tissue-machine interfaces, of chemicals with which to quell immune responses, of hijacking nerves and spines and ganglia, of replacing neural pathways with silicon ones. Girls who grit their teeth and teach themselves coding against every odd, while society urges them instead to become good mothers and obedient daughters - girls who rail against everything they have been told to be. Girls who know the blood price of the change and make it anyway, all alone, who carve the cost into their own bodies with scalpels they forge in the fires of their rage. Girls who braid up thick lengths of interfacing cable around their heads instead of hair, who glitter with fiber optics and inlaid circuit threading, whose fissile hearts beat within impervious tantalum cages, who are perfect and cold and beautiful in their fearsome ways. Girls with nails like knives and voices like jet engines, channeled through vocal cords made of piezoelectric polymers and steel. Girls who do not yield. Girls who engineer for themselves the future they want, that they know they can have if they only reach for it. Girls who are machines, too.

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 008 (II). the disquiet.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 1.2k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: um... surprise anaxa pov? mini update once again bc i couldnt help myself. hes a loser and i have no self control i fear... welcome home professor and fuck you very much for ruining my LIFE. i hope you guys like it! <3 next update NOT coming soon bc its going to need a LOT OF RESEARCH !! but it will come, hehe. -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Anaxagoras sits unnaturally still, save for the occasional, minute twitch of his finger against the trackpad. The inbox is open again—has been, for the last thirty-seven minutes. He’s refreshed it thirteen times. Fourteen. He does not look at the time.

The email remains unread.

No reply.

Of course not.

He closes the tab. Opens another. Reopens the inbox. As if that would change the outcome.

He leans back, then forward, spine stiff and aching with tension he refuses to acknowledge. His other hand flexes once against the armrest, fingers curling in tight, rhythmic spasms. He imagines, absurdly, that he can will the message into existence by the precise calibration of his breathing: inhale, two beats, exhale, one. Inhale. Exhale.

Footsteps behind him. Soft. Familiar. The cadence of someone who does not knock.

“I thought you only hovered when you were revising a grant proposal,” says a voice, dry as old paper.

Cerces.

Anaxagoras doesn’t turn. “You’re early.”

She shrugs. He hears it in her voice. “You’re transparent.”

He ignores that. She crosses the office anyway, folds herself into the spare chair without invitation, like she’s amused by how much it bothers him.

“You know,” she says, glancing toward the screen, “for someone who claims to detest inefficiency, you’re wasting an awful lot of neural bandwidth watching that inbox not blink.”

He keeps his tone level. “I’m waiting for a reply.”

“Oh, I gathered.” Her smile is all teeth. “From the little prodigy, yes?”

“Pathetic,” she says lightly. “You’ve hit refresh so many times, the poor thing’s going to short-circuit.”

“I’m expecting–”

Cerces glides in, unimpressed. “You’re brooding. Badly. Honestly, it’s unbecoming. You usually pace.”

Cerces taps her nail idly against the edge of the desk. “Sent them my paper on subjective structure, did you?” She lifts a brow. “Bold.”

“It was relevant.”

“To their project, or to you?” she asks, with mock-innocence. “Can’t tell anymore. You sent out less reading than usual this term. Except to them.”

Anaxagoras does not dignify that with a response.

Cerces hums, leaning back in the chair like a cat preparing to nap on his thesis notes. “No wonder you’ve been unbearable all day,” she muses. He closes the inbox.

Cerces, satisfied, stands. “Just admit it’s getting to you.”

“It isn’t.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely getting to you.” She adjusts her coat. “You know what I think? I think you’ve finally found a student who doesn’t need your approval to be brilliant, and it’s making you—” she lifts a hand, gesturing vaguely at his expression—“like this.”

She’s halfway to the door when she adds, lightly: “It’d be romantic, if it weren’t so predictable.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

Anaxagoras stares at the inbox again.

Then he clicks refresh.

Just once more.

Anaxagoras locked the door behind him with a muted click, the old brass deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying weight. He stood there for a moment, coat still draped over one arm, his keys resting loosely in his hand.

The apartment was dim, lit only by the soft, residual glow filtering in from the streetlights outside. Dromas stirred from her place on the windowsill, her feline silhouette stretching languidly, but didn’t bother to cross the room to greet him. She knew his rhythms too well to expect anything different tonight.

He exhaled, low and measured, setting his folio and coat onto the small entry table. His movements were deliberate—almost mechanical. He loosened his cuffs, folded them back neatly, crossed the room to the kitchen only to stop halfway there, hands half-lifted in the faint, aborted gesture of making tea he didn’t really want.

Instead, he turned, leaning back against the counter’s edge, arms crossing over his chest as he stared into the middle distance.

It should have been a straightforward afternoon.

He had predicted the conversation. He had anticipated the questions—sharp, incisive, urgent in a way most students couldn’t muster even on their best days. He had even foreseen the almost inevitable moment when he would have to reveal that he had submitted the symposium application on your behalf weeks ago.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the look you gave him.

Not gratitude—that would have been easier to dismiss. Gratitude was impersonal, clean, academic. He could have tucked it neatly away with every other minor debt and favor exchanged in the endless currency of university life.

No—what unsettled him was that you had looked at him as if you understood. The warmth of it, the raw, unguarded recognition—it lodged under his ribs like a splinter.

Anaxagoras dragged a hand through his hair, the gesture more frustrated than he would have allowed anyone to see.

It wasn’t improper.

It wasn’t wrong.

You were brilliant—deserving. Your mind had already begun to unfurl in ways that few others' ever could. It would have been criminal not to give you the chance to sit in that room with Cerces and the others, to sharpen yourself against the brightest, most dangerous minds the field had ever produced.

And yet—

He pushed off the counter sharply, crossing the room to the bookshelf by the window. His fingers skimmed across the worn spines without truly reading any of the titles.

And yet there was an edge to it he could not name—a precarious, almost gravitational pull that had nothing to do with academics.

He had always prided himself on his ability to compartmentalize. To categorize attachments neatly away from the crisp structures of logic and methodology he demanded of his work.

But when you had stood across from him this afternoon, tablet still glowing faintly in your hands, passion and ambition thrumming just beneath the surface of your carefully controlled demeanor—

He had wanted.

Not just to teach.

Not just to challenge.

He wanted to see what would happen if you didn’t hold back. If you let that mind—the one so few even recognized as extraordinary—unfurl without apology or restraint.

To watch you unmask the depths of yourself, raw and unfiltered, free from the weight of expectation. He longed to see you, not as the student you so often hid behind, but as the person you were when you let go of the barriers you had so carefully constructed. He wasn’t just waiting to be impressed—he wanted to be seen by you, to be part of that unfolding, as if by witnessing it, he could catch a glimpse of something he had only dared to touch in the quiet spaces of his own soul.

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

Cowardice isn’t always irrational.

Cerces' words. He understood them now, in a way he hadn’t when she first said them years ago, with that half-smile and a glint in her eye that hinted at the ruins she was quietly accepting.

If he was careful, this would pass. The symposium would come and go. You would find larger horizons to chase. That was the plan. That was the only rational outcome.

Dromas jumped down from the sill, padding over to rub herself against his leg. He bent down, absently running a hand along her back. She purred once, low and approving.

"You," he said softly, as if the cat could understand the accusation laced into the word, "have far fewer complications."

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @fellow-anime-weeb927 @beateater @bothsacredanddust @acrylicxu @average-scara-fan @pinkytoxichearts @amorismujica @luciliae @paleocarcharias @chuuya-san @https-seishu @feliju @duckydee-0 @dei-lilxc @eliawis @strawb3rri-bliss @khoiyyu @somatchajade @tremendoustragedybard @serena6728 @ameili @aominehaven @skeele @thelightofmylife @casualgalaxystrawberry @sigma-s-wife @nvlusdei @sc4r4luv

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[max1461]

*tom scott in 2300 voice* I'm here, in the taste processing region, of your brain. today, most humanoids receive their power directly, by plugging in to the electrical grid. but a hundred and fifty years ago, people powered their bodies by burning food,

[...]

so, why do we still have a gustustory cortex? because... people like it. even after one hundred and fifty yEars of advances in human power systems, even now that we can pipe dozens of kilowatt hours of power directly into our neural circuits... people still like the taste, of food. people still like hot, sour, spicy, sweet, even when the energy content in *instantiates sensation of eating hamburger* a burger like this might seem woefully anachronistic, in the modern world... and I don't think that's going to change, any time soon

*instantiates sensation of zooming out* ONE TAKE

[stellaspectral]

I’m in the mood for a rottmnt Donnie x reader where Donnie has the realization that he has fallen in love with his best friend, a nerdy girl who can be both the sweetest human in the whole universe or the sassiest little gremlin, and he has no clue what to do with it.

Awkward moments + our genius Donnie making a fool of himself + annoying siblings teasing him but secretly trying to make the ship happen + some tooth rotting fluff at the end!

Thank you for writing for the tmnt fandom! I love the way you write, I’m so happy that I found your blog and your fanfictions!

A/N: Thank you, this means so much to hear! I’m glad you found my blog and enjoy my fics! It really makes my day to know my writing is loved and appreciated 😊 I hope you enjoy this story as well! 💜

Neural Network Overload (fluff)

💜 ROTTMNT Donatello/Female Reader 💜

CWs: Fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, love confessions, first kiss, teasing siblings, awkwardness & embarrassment (poor Donnie!), and very very mild angst. All characters are aged-up.

There’s no scientific explanation for what’s happening to Donatello Hamato.

He’s a genius. A self-made technological prodigy. He operates with logic, with precision. Emotions, while acknowledged, are typically compartmentalized into manageable sectors of his brain.

But apparently, there is no compartment big enough for you.

You’re curled up in his hoodie, legs tucked underneath you on the lair couch, hair messy and glasses slightly crooked as you stare intently at the screen of your laptop. You’re reverse-engineering one of his drone’s command scripts. For fun. And maybe because he challenged you to, and you couldn’t resist.

Donnie is across the room, supposedly working on his battle shell. He’s holding a micro-soldering iron. But he hasn’t used it in thirty minutes. Because his eyes haven’t left you once.

You chew on your bottom lip when you concentrate. Do this little wiggle when your glasses slide down your nose, refusing to use your hands because you don’t want to break your work flow. You snark like it’s a superpower, but then turn around and give him the most genuine smile.

And that’s when it hits him.

He’s in love with you. Utterly. Completely.

The realization is instant. And horrifying.

Because you’re his best friend, his partner in crime. The one who yells at him to eat when he’s working too long and calls him out when he’s being ‘a smug, purple smartass.’ You’re also the one who listens to his rants, who understands his sarcasm. Who laughs at his dumbest puns and wears his hoodie like it belongs to you.

Still, somehow, he finds himself wanting more.

He wants to hold your hand when you’re hyper-focused. Wants to tuck your hair behind your ear when it falls in your face. Wants to kiss you after you sass him into a corner.

So naturally, he begins malfunctioning, dropping his soldering iron with a loud clatter.

You glance up, raising a brow. “You okay over there, D?”

He clears his throat, sitting up too straight. “Yes! Fine. I am functioning at optimal capacity, thank you very much.”

You squint at him, not convinced. “You sure?”

He tries to scoff, tries to pull off his signature aloofness. But his voice cracks halfway through and he ends up choking on air instead. You blink. And he wants the ground to open and swallow him whole.

This is mortifying, he thinks. A master of composure reduced to a sputtering mess by a simple question.

You set your laptop aside, concern softening your features. “Seriously, Don-Tron, you look like you’re about to short-circuit. Need some water? Or … a reboot?” Your attempt at a tech joke, one you know he usually appreciates with a dry chuckle, now makes his internal processors whir with panic.

He waves a dismissive hand. But it’s far too jerky, betraying his inner turmoil. “Negative! My … my processors are merely … recalibrating. Due to … atmospheric particulates!” He cringes internally. Atmospheric particulates? Really, Donatello? That’s the best your genius brain could concoct?!

You give him that look, the one that says you’re not buying it but will play along. For now. “Atmospheric particulates? In the sewer lair? Okay, Dr. Science.” The familiar nickname, usually a term of endearment, now feels like an accusation.

“Precisely!” he squeaks, then clears his throat again, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

You rise slowly from the couch, still in his oversized hoodie, and Donnie swears time skips a frame. The hem swishes at your thighs as you pad barefoot across the lair towards him. “Alright, Doc. Let’s run diagnostics,” you say, tone playfully serious as you step into his space.

He stiffens. You’re standing too close. Not objectively close, but close enough that your shampoo tickles his sensory nodes.

“You don’t look optimal. You look like your neural network is spiking.” You tap his plastron with a single finger. “You overheating or something?”

“Preposterous,” he says, backing up, only to bump into the cluttered mobile workbench he was using. Casually, he tries to lean against it—only to knock over a container of screws. They spill everywhere.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, folding your arms. “Definitely optimal.”

He wants to say something sharp. Something deflective. Maybe even something sarcastic. But then your face softens again, like it always does when you realize he’s not okay. And you do that thing where your hand rests gently on his forearm for grounding. For reassurance.

And his brain completely blue screens.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” you say, your voice quieter now. Not teasing. Not joking.

His vocal processors seem to have staged a mutiny. “Talk?” His voice shoots up three octaves, thin and reedy. “Regarding … what, exactly? The inevitable heat death of the universe? The latest advancements in neural network architecture? My … my perfectly standard, non-deviant, utterly nominal vocal output?” The last few words are practically a shriek.

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then you slowly reach up and adjust your glasses. “I was gonna suggest talking about what you’re feeling,” you reply, tone dry. “But sure. Let’s start with the heat death of the universe and work our way backwards.”

If Donnie had a fan system, it would be blasting at maximum speed. Instead, he just stands there, frozen, trying desperately to reboot a single coherent thought. His brain is still trapped in a loop: She’s touching me, she’s touching me, she’s touching me—

“Unless …” You lean in slightly, just enough for him to notice the glimmer in your eyes, “the topic of feelings is causing that spike in temperature.”

He lets out a noise. Not a dignified one, but the auditory equivalent of a dying motherboard holding on for dear life. The sound escapes him before he can stop it, and your brows shoot up. He clamps a hand over his mouth.

There’s a beat of silence where you both just exist. You, with that slightly smug, knowing tilt to your head. And him, doing his best impression of a panic-stricken robot who just got hit with an unexpected firmware update.

Donnie’s hand remains glued to his mouth, eyes wide as if his own body has betrayed him on the most fundamental level. His other hand twitches at his side, like he’s running mental diagnostics but getting only error messages.

You place your hand over his. Gently pry his fingers away from his face. His eyes meet yours, still wide. Terrified. Then slowly—so slowly, as if buffering, he speaks, voice tight and squeaky around the edges. “That was … That wasn’t … I didn’t mean—”

Then, inevitably, the peanut gallery arrives.

Leo saunters into the room, stretching lazily. “Hey Donnie, have you seen my …” He stops short, taking in his brother’s rigid, almost statuesque posture and your amused yet concerned expression. His eyes narrow before that familiar glint of mischief appears in them. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Leo, don’t you dare,” Donnie practically hisses, voice still several octaves too high. His gaze flicks between you and his blue-clad brother, a trapped animal assessing escape routes where none exist. “This is a … a highly sensitive recalibration process!”

Leo smirks. “Recalibration? Looked more like a full system crash from where I’m standing.” He looks at you. “What’d you do? Confess your admiration for his meticulously organized and alphabetized collection of bad guy threat assessments?”

You snort despite yourself, and Donnie lets out a strangled noise that’s one part gasp, another part groan, and three parts existential despair.

“Leo,” he says, tone lethal but wobbly, “do you have literally anything else you should be doing?”

“Not when you’re this entertaining,” Leo replies with all the smugness of someone who’s been waiting his entire life to catch Donnie mid-swoon. “Seriously, bro, I’ve never seen your face that flushed. Are you overheating or blushing?”

“I do not blush,” Donnie replies, his voice clipped and brittle, like it might snap in half under the weight of his own embarrassment.

You tilt your head. “I dunno, D. You are sort of radiating the same energy as a stressed-out Roomba caught in a corner.”

Leo cackles. “Ohh, that’s good. Can I use that?”

Donnie glares at both of you with the kind of energy typically reserved for malfunctioning lab equipment or Raph’s punching of things labeled FRAGILE. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Leo says. “But especially her, huh?” He throws you a wink and ducks just in time to avoid the screwdriver Donnie hurls in his direction.

After the tool clangs harmlessly off the wall, Donnie shouts, “Out!”

Leo exits stage left, laughter echoing through the lair.

Silence falls again. Except it’s not really silence—because Donnie’s heart is practically trying to punch its way out of his chest, and you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing too hard.

“Alphabetized villain assessments, huh?” you tease.

“It’s called preparedness.”

You poke his side, grinning as you tease, “But especially me, huh?”

His eyes meet yours. And this time, even through the flustered static still buzzing around his brain, he answers honestly. “I could never hate you.”

The next day, everything goes downhill.

Donnie spills oil on his blueprints. Walks into a wall. Nearly blows up his mini fusion cell because he accidentally enters your name instead of the energy input variable.

Leo, of course, catches his slip-ups instantly.

“Broo,” he drawls, dramatically leaning against Donnie’s workbench in his lab. “You’ve got it bad.”

Donnie stiffens. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Leo says, twirling a stray wire between his fingers. “You only turned redder than a mutant tomato on prom night when she asked you to pass that tool thingy.”

Donnie scoffs. “That doesn’t even make sense. What mutant tomato? Prom night? Leo, your analogies are garbage.”

“Not as garbage as your poker face, lover boy.”

Mikey slides into the lab, grinning like a fox. “So when’s the wedding?”

“I-It’s not—!! I don’t—!!” Donnie sputters.

“Dude.” Even Raph joins in, chuckling. “Just tell her. We all know you like her.”

“I do not like her,” Donnie insists.

But then he thinks of the hoodie—his hoodie. You wearing it. The soft fabric, the way it hangs off your shoulders, the scent of you mixed with the faint, familiar smell of his own laundry detergent. The image flashes in his mind, clear and warm, and a traitorous little flutter happens somewhere in his chest cavity.

Threatening his self-control.

He covers his face with both hands. “Okay, I might like her.”

Raph raises an eyebrow. “Might?”

“Definitely,” Mikey says, voice sing-song. “You’re toast, dude. Emotional toast. And not the crunchy, golden-brown kind. More like the kind that fell butter-side-down into a pit of feelings.”

Donnie groans louder, dragging his hands down his face. “This is not how my cognitive trajectory was supposed to go today.”

“Then allow me to suggest a new trajectory.” Leo gestures grandly. “Operation: Tell Her Before You Spontaneously Combust.”

“Negative. Absolutely not. That’s a suicide mission.”

“Correction,” Raph says with a grin. “That’s a you’ve-got-a-chance-so-don’t-blow-it mission.”

Donnie bolts upright, pacing now. “You don’t understand. If I confess and she doesn’t feel the same, I lose everything.”

“She wears your hoodie,” Mikey says, as if this fact alone should end the discussion. “That’s like a universal sign of mutual crushing.”

“Correlation is not causation,” Donnie mutters, then spins around with wide, panicked eyes. “And what if she’s just being … nice? What if she just thinks of me as—”

“Don’t say ‘brother,’” Raph interrupts with a grimace.

Mikey throws an arm around Donnie’s shoulders. “She reverse-engineered your drone code for fun. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“Donnie.” Leo crosses his arms. “You’re stalling. Again.”

“I require more data before making a declaration.”

Leo smirks. “Or you could just ask her how she feels.”

“Statistically, that has a high margin of—”

“Just talk to her,” Raph says. “Before your nervous system explodes.”

Later that night, you’re snuggled back in Donnie’s hoodie. It still smells faintly of him. Something uniquely, comfortingly him.

You’re on the same spot on the couch, scrolling through lines of code. It’s Donnie’s latest security encryption. It’s unnecessarily complex, almost ridiculously so, like he wanted to see if you’d lose patience with it.

You haven’t. And if anything, you’re more determined than ever to crack it.

Donnie stands just inside the lab entrance, fingers twitching at his sides, almost like he’s mentally rehearsing lines. He watches you, a soft, almost bewildered expression on his face. For once, he doesn’t even try to analyze the storm of variables churning within him. He just feels it. All of it.

He clears his throat, the sound a little too loud in the quiet lair. He walks over, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his usual confident stride replaced with something a little more careful. Like he’s approaching a very delicate, potentially explosive experiment.

You glance up, a warm, welcoming smile spreading across your face. “Hey, D.”

He sits down beside you, perhaps a little closer than strictly necessary, but still maintaining a careful distance. You can feel the slight warmth radiating from him. You wait, watching him with an encouraging gaze.

“I …” he starts, then stops. His brow furrows. He swallows, eyes darting away for a nanosecond before refocusing on some indeterminate point near your shoulder.

“You okay?” you prompt gently.

A faint flush of pink dusts his cheeks. “No atmospheric particulates this time,” he mumbles, the words barely audible.

You smile wider, your heart doing a little flutter. “That’s a relief.”

Then he says it, his voice dropping to barely a whisper, gaze fixed firmly on his now-trembling hands in his lap.

“I like you.” His hands twitch, fingers interlacing and unlacing. “Like. More-than-best-friend like. Not just ‘you-stole-my-hoodie’ like—though, for the record, that is also a contributing factor. I mean. You can still steal my hoodie. In fact, I … I hope you do. Often. Preferably forever.” He finally risks a tiny, hopeful glance at you.

A soft chuckle escapes you. “Donnie, is this your version of flirting?” you ask, your tone gentle, your own cheeks feeling a little warm.

“I … I genuinely don’t know,” he admits, looking utterly lost, his shoulders slumping a fraction. “I think I’m glitching.” He looks so earnest, so vulnerable, that your heart melts.

You lean forward, your smile softening into something tender. You reach out, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. You cup his cheek with your hand, your thumb gently stroking his skin. He leans into your touch. Eyes wide, a tiny, almost inaudible sigh escaping him.

“Well. For the record?” you say, and he holds his breath, his gaze locked on yours. “I like you too, Donnie. Like, ‘please keep giving me impossible tech puzzles so I have an excuse to spend ridiculous amounts of time with you because you’re brilliant and funny and sweet.’”

He blinks a few times before his systems finally restart. A slow smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features. To you, it’s like watching a sunrise. “You … do?” The disbelief in his voice is almost painful, but it’s quickly being overridden by dawning joy as he digests your words.

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up, genius,” you tease, your thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think I’d have to spell it out in binary.”

He exhales a short, shaky laugh. Part shock, part awe, all relief. “My predictive algorithms … they … I was running every probable outcome. This one … this one had a statistically lower probability than I preferred, given the stakes.” He shakes his head, still smiling that dazzling, rare smile.

“And which one did your brilliant brain finally land on?” you murmur, your faces incredibly close now—so close you can see the way the light catches the unique patterns in his irises.

He leans in, his gaze dropping to your lips for a breath before meeting your eyes again, his voice a soft, warm whisper against your skin. “This one.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s hesitant at first, a gentle press of lips. Careful, like an experiment he wants to get perfect. You can feel the slight tremor in his hands as one comes up to rest on your waist, the other still on the couch, gripping the cushion. You sigh into the kiss, your own hand moving from his cheek to tangle lightly in the ends of his mask tails, encouraging him.

He deepens the kiss slightly, a spark of newfound confidence igniting. It’s sweet, and a little clumsy, and utterly, breathtakingly perfect.

And for once, Donatello Hamato doesn’t need data, or algorithms, or any empirical evidence to know that this feeling—this connection—is his best, most wonderful result yet.

[toyookalab]

Please scan and connect with my lab if you are interested in neuroscience research, especially neurodevelopmental disorders such as autism.

[ducksido]

Ooh oooh

can i please request a yuu who has a mechanical/cybernetic prosthetic metal arm (kind of like bucky barnes or edward elric) because they lost their arm in an accident or something and when they come to twisted wonderland they befriend the shroud brothers?

i just think yuu would feel like their broken because they lost a part of themselves that they can never get back and meeting ortho and idia would make them feel better about themselves (i bet those two would make you a new arm with like the best upgrades ever - though you have to tell ortho to cool it down a bit, adding a rocket launcher/flame thrower might be pushing it)

i don't know i just think that yuu finding a family with the tech bros would be really wholesome.

When Yuu first arrived in Twisted Wonderland, they kept their jacket sleeve pulled low. Not out of shame, really—more like protection. The prosthetic arm beneath wasn’t magical. It was tech from their world, old and battered, the metal joints squeaking if they moved too quickly. It had been built in a hospital, not a lab. Built to function. Not to feel.

It didn’t matter if people stared, but they always did. So they avoided eye contact. Hid behind books. Let the rumors swirl.

And then they met Ortho Shroud.

He didn’t stare. He beeped—excitedly. Zoomed up to them, circuits practically vibrating with glee.

“COOL!! Are you cybernetic?! That’s a Class C-E prosthetic build! Do you have neural feedback? Ohhh, wait—does it use kinetic charge?? Can I scan you—pretty please?!”

Yuu blinked. “…You’re a robot.”

“I prefer the term ‘autonomous artificial lifeform,’” Ortho chirped. “But yes!”

And that’s how Yuu met the Shroud brothers.

Over Time:

Yuu starts visiting Ignihyde. Not for any official reason—just because Idia doesn’t flinch when he sees their arm. Just nods from his beanbag throne and goes, “Huh. Metal arm. Hardcore.”

Ortho pesters them with questions about the tech level of their world, how it was installed, and then immediately promises to make them an upgrade.

“We’ll call it: Project Arm-verlord!!” “Ortho, no.” “Okay fine, Project Huggrip 5000!” “Ortho.” “…Mini rocket launcher?” “ORTHO.”

The Breakdown:

One night, while staying over at Ignihyde, Yuu’s arm short circuits.

It’s not dangerous. Just frustrating. The joint locks up and sparks. They grit their teeth, trying to fix it, but their hands shake. The panic hits harder than the pain.

“It’s broken,” Yuu mutters. “Again. It’s always breaking. I’m so tired.”

They sit on the floor of the lab, robotic fingers twitching. “I didn’t choose this, you know? It was an accident. And they couldn’t save it. They saved me instead. But sometimes I think I lost more than just a limb. I lost me.”

Silence.

Then:

“...Yeah,” Idia says. “I get that.”

He doesn’t look at them—just stares at the screen in front of him, tapping a stylus against his tablet.

“You think people only see the machine. Or the tragedy. Like you're more ‘what happened’ than who you are.” “Yeah,” Yuu breathes.

“Then… maybe it’s not about replacing what’s missing,” Idia mutters, “but upgrading what’s still there.”

The New Arm:

It takes a month. Ortho’s all in—drawing blueprints with doodled stars and stickers. Idia codes the feedback sensors himself. The new prosthetic is lighter, smoother, and responds to Yuu’s thoughts like a dream.

It even has a retractable toolset. Ortho wanted to add a flamethrower, but Yuu gently refused.

“What about a mini espresso machine?” “No.” “Grappling hook?” “…Maybe.”

When it’s done, Yuu stares at their reflection.

The arm gleams like silver. It hums with quiet power, marked by an Ignihyde-blue core at the wrist. It's not the one they lost—but it’s theirs.

And so are the people who helped build it.

“You’re not broken,” Ortho says. “You’re just modded,” Idia adds. “Modded and magnificent.”

Yuu smiles. For the first time in a long time, it feels real.

BONUS:

Yuu keeps a small sticker Ortho gave them—an 8-bit heart—and sticks it on the back of their hand.

Idia lowkey writes fanfic about a character based on Yuu called Steel Soul, but denies it.

Ortho wants to cosplay them at the next convention.

And Yuu? They call them family.

[anghraine]

It's silly, but one of my favorite Kirk/Spock things is that they are clearly very much more on each other's wavelength intellectually than most others are, but—

There are so many scenes in which everyone else is baffled or missing something important that Spock or Kirk see in the other's behavior. Probably the peak moment for this is Spock, and Spock alone, realizing in "Arena" that Kirk has the raw materials to make gunpowder just as Kirk himself realizes it. So you get Spock murmuring "good, good...yes...yes..." right there on the bridge as his beloved starts reinventing the bazooka (pretty sure this counts as sex for him), but McCoy and the bridge crew are completely confused about what they're seeing. And there are plenty of moments of this kind of half-unspoken mutual brilliance while their co-workers wish they'd just use their words.

However. The important counterpoint to this is that Kirk and Spock each possess the special ability to instantly incinerate entire neuron paths in each other's brains and become 10x stupider around each other, also. Spock barges into Kirk's quarters in "The Enemy Within" without explanation, sees his naked chest, and his higher functions crumble into ash on the spot; when he regains the power of speech, he asks the baffled Kirk what he can do for him as if this somehow explains what he's doing there, and Kirk is just confused but pleased, and smiles enough that Spock's gay awakening visibly burns through even more neural circuits until he runs away.

And Kirk himself doesn't need to see skin to completely lose track of what he was even talking about because Spock did a thing. For instance, the scene when Kirk looks at Spock with flirty adoration at the end of "A Taste of Armageddon" and bats his eyelashes and says, "Why, Mr. Spock, you almost make me believe in miracles"—yes, it's extremely gay, but I feel it's important to understand the immediate context is a general conversation on the bridge about the horrors of war. But then Spock raised his brows and ambiguously complimented him, so Kirk's entire cognitive process melted into Spock Spock Spock Spock. In S3, Spock sits down beside Kirk to tenderly watch him sleep, without appearing to consider that anyone (like say the empath standing right by them) would notice, and then poorly fakes looking at tricorder readings when said empath picks on his emotions. Surely that will fool her psychic powers! (It doesn't.) Kirk, often a master of performance and theatricality, has to be physically held back from trying to singlehandedly maul a Klingon while in disguise and surrounded by an occupying Klingon force because one guy slightly shoved Spock.

They're a brilliant and wildly successful command team together and they are also so incredibly stupid about each other, it's beautiful

[starrycloak]

I attended a series of lectures on neuroscience these last few days (well, they were a super basic cliffnotes-esque version of the topic cause medicine/STEM is not my field of work, so apologies for any innacuracies ahead), and when the lecturer brought up the importance of the frontal lobe, she casually alluded to what happened to Phineas P. Gage and-

wbk but also non-accidental split imagery one more time ^

She also briefly touched upon the 'cuts' of the brain (left and right hemispheres, lobes —and primary functions of each—, gray and white matter) and neural processes like synapsis —communication between neurons by chemical and electrical reactions—, but one of the things that stood out to me the most was the creation and reconfiguration/transformation/plasticity of neural circuits.

A neural circuit is a population of neurons interconnected by synapses to carry out a specific function —i.e. processing specific information and sending signals to other parts of the brain and body — when activated.

definition just for context; the point of bringing this up being what these circuits look like:

^^^this is just a guide alluding to the differences in morphology neurons can have, but they kinda giving-

and-

literally when the lecturer first showed what these cells look like I was like "neat, the tree of life. kinda, sorta. out to deliver trauma to the rest of the nervous system :))"

and (to the right, for comparison: what neuron synapses look like)

and of course, not totally accurate comparison ahead, but I couldn't resist the slight visual graphy coinkidink with the letter-assigned grid:

Additionally, zooming out, multiple neural circuits can interconnect with one another to form large scale brain networks, and the one that stood out to me was the default mode network (DMN):

also known as the medial frontoparietal network, it's a large-scale brain network [...] best known for being active when a person is not focused on the outside world and the brain is at wakeful rest, such as during daydreaming and mind-wandering.

Other times that the DMN is active include when the individual is thinking about others, thinking about themselves, remembering the past, and planning for the future. The DMN creates a coherent "internal narrative" control to the construction of a sense of self.

^ smart people, pls do with this info what you must.

the point I think I was trying to make: what if the blue UD we know has blurred the lines between being a representation of will's subconscious mindscape and also a visual abstraction of the biological/neurological state of his brain —as the two, like irl, are so intrinsically connected?

which, fortunately, means hope for will and the UD too (wbk), because by this line of thought/theory of sorts, the capacity neural circuits have to rearrange themselves, even after years and so much pain, can transform the blue UD, will's mind, as we've come to know it (the plasticity I was reffering to at the beginning of the post). However, it's important to note that to learn something new, you have to unlearn other stuff to make room for it.

I'm far from the first to talk about this topic, so check out the following posts! This one by @erikiara80, along the lines of her loop theory, dives into the implications of will's possible injury or death caused by having been hit on the head, particularly the zone closest to the frontal lobe, by a blunt object.

@conflictofthemind also has a great post about the treeflayer (shoutout and tysm to @threemanoperation for telling me about it and for prompting me to post this) with more tree imagery that evokes similar shapes to those of neurons (and it also links to Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan/Neverland parallels).

edit: everyone, please take a look at the additions other users have written on their reblogs! you won't want to miss them!

[k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl]

not to tattoo post once again but i still need to figure out a mech pilot tattoo

my circuit board one kinda works but like surely i can do better

wait fuck neural ports down my spine tattoos????? anyone?????