#amorphous object

[killyridols]

object 270, by xian kim, 2023, acrylic on canvas, 145 × 97 centimeters

[jilatos]

im just trying 2 be agender in this big world

[ricottapossum]

I know I had this icon for like barely a day but I got around to drawing my own. Variations for ALL THE IMPORTANT HOLIDAYS

Why yes that is an ides of march profile picture.

[dee-the-red-witch]

How to ACTUALLY date a trans girl

(This column was originally submitted to Autostraddle as a reply to their "A Trans Guy’s Guide to Picking Up a Trans Girl" but since they've apparently passed on it, it gets to be posted up free everywhere else instead.) Picture this- you’re a trans woman who’s been in transition for three years now. Your dating life has gone from abysmal to amazing in alternate fits and spurts and you’ve found not just one, but three awesome partners despite the many, MANY pitfalls you’ve experienced along the way. And then one day, your social media feeds ping up with screencaps of a guide to picking up girls like yourself. Needing a good laugh, you click through. And read. And proceed to smack your forehead with your own palm in frustration a few times and giggle and some other lines on the first readthrough. But things feel off, so you read again. And begin to seethe. And then start opening up the Word document and start typing frenziedly into it. Because honestly? At the end of the day, as a trans lesbian who dates all sorts of people on non-male parts of the amorphous spectral mass that is Gender, I feel like I’m obligated to. I wanted to go into that first reading and find a column that actually got things right, and this was so far off the mark in the worst ways, so I feel like I have to set some things down on paper. Because this guide reads, in so many ways, like everything my cisfem friends have complained about in the straight dating scene for years. Reading through it that second time, I felt almost the exact same sense of of sheer grease and sleaze that I’ve felt reading incel pickup guides. I felt like I was being seen as a pretty object at best and a disposable sex toy at worst. I wasn’t treated as human. At best it was a bunch of stereotypes, none of which applied to me. But under it all, I saw other bits- the tricks an abuser used to lure me in. The lies my rapist fed me. The excuses made by folks online for why I should be treated like a monster or thing because of my identity. You know, the specific blend of misogyny that singles out transfem identities in general- transmisogyny. And since we’re addressing the elephant in the room, I want to address a few particular points from Gabe’s article before I give you some real idea of how to go about this. And I want to emphasize here- this is after editing out a page of swearing, going over Gabe’s own past history of transmisogynistic writing, and just cutting it down to the actual points where the original article really went wrong, and also pick up a few points at the end that’ll actually work well for trans guys or anyone else who might be interested in a relationship with a trans girl. First off, if you’re trans as well? Stop playing the ‘we’re both trans’ card. ESPECIALLY if you’re coming at it from a ‘Why yes, I used to be a woman’ angle. For one, you’re telling us at the same time that you see us as former men, which is usually very much not the transfem experience (Personally, I always felt like I was putting on a ‘man’ act. All the time. Badly.) and for another, you’re being transphobic to yourself and your own identity. If we’re there to date you, it’s as the man you are- be that guy.

Secondly, just because the trans woman experience shares similarities with the experience you had trying to be a woman up until you came out and transitioned, it also has staggering fundamental differences, and your attempts to relate are going to highlight those differences in ways that aren’t going to work in your favor. We didn’t get to go shopping in public, or if we did, it was fraught with fear at being caught out in the early stages of transition, followed by massive frustrations with both trying to figure out where we fit into women’s sizing. And then discovering that absolutely nothing available in local stores, including thrift shops, would fit right, especially not that cute choker we’d always been drooling over. That nothing smelled right for lotion or perfume because we were dealing with a body chemistry that was going through a slow shift on HRT. And we don’t need or want to be reminded of just how much we stand out from the other girls in those kind of regards.

Also, maybe, just maybe, don’t do things that would get seen as completely misogynistic and creepy if you pulled them on a cisgender woman. Don’t go digging into her socials- stalkers and chasers pull that crap and it’s beyond tiresome. Don’t try to deduce what her pretransition life was like, that’s for her to share, if she chooses to. Don’t see her as a stereotype- some of us never played New Vegas, owned cat ears, or like thigh-highs. On that first date if you ever get there, don’t bring her flowers, lovebomb her like mad, constantly find little ways to touch her, any of that- if she has any experience, she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop in response, because she’s had this treatment before and it ended oh so badly. Just be yourself. And get it through your head that the bear is still definitely a choice regardless of everything- after all, we have examples like Gabe to prove that transmisogyny certainly isn��t limited to cis folks.

What should you do? Treat her like any other woman. Treat her like a human being, because we get so little of that, even from the rest of the LGBTQIA+ community. Yes, you’ll more than likely have to take initiative, because we’re used to seeing our attractions, needs, and desires as being perceived as aggressive or predatory by others. When you touch her, do it with assertion and intent- none of the little brushes and stalker moves- ask if you can hold her hand, or put an arm around her, so she knows you actually want to be here and want contact with her. Listen to her, and pay attention- let her be open and honest about her experiences and interests, and remember what she tells you, because she’s going to need to know that she’s wanted and valued for who she is and what she’s into, and it will be part of how she connects to you. And finally? Common sense and communication- every last one of us is different in a lot of ways, and asking or making room to talk about things from physical contact and sex to social activity or group outings or anything else can save a lot of blunders from ever happening. All in all you can and should date trans women! Please! A lot of the best relationships I’ve ever had were with other trans girls and I don’t regret any of those. But you have to put down the pickup guides, stop seeing us as fetish dispensers and sexy lampshades, and actually deal with us as people, first.

[penny-anna]

lately facebook has decided that what i want to see is AI generated interiors

oh there's so much going on here. the inconsistent views out the window. the headless snowman. the fucking, burn your house down fire pit. its snowing indoors. love it.

enchanting space age laundry room

this one is actually pretty convincing, i was staring at it like hmm based on the context i'm sure this must be AI but everything seems to be in order. & then i noticed that the curtain isn't over the window dljghfdgj

what the fuck is going on lower right. looking at it makes my brain hurt. is that meant to be a stove? HUH???

some kind of amorphous silver object outside the window

ah yes my favourite kitchen fixture, The Orb

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Remade (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you nurse Sauron back into his physical form, eager to be reunited with your great love once more

Warnings: I somehow managed to write fluff with goo!Sauron, I guess? You hold and kiss goo!Sauron. You suffer a minor injury by goo!Sauron. You get animals and one person killed to feed goo!Sauron. Heavy make out and implied smut (with non-goo!Sauron). Can you tell I love writing the words ‘goo!Sauron’?

Note: Yet another Sauron x evil!reader fic cause I can’t stop apparently. Can be read as a prequel to the others or as a stand alone.

“Oh, my love,” you breathe out, “what have they done to you?”

What have they done indeed. For you are speaking with the one that is your love, your husband, your very soul—but if he hears, or even understands, he cannot show it. What’s left of him has no mouth no speak, no arms to wrap around you at long last, after an eternity of separation. What your tearful eyes are looking at is a black, amorphous mass, no larger than the heart hammering within your chest, writhing helplessly on the ground.

But it is him. Of that, you are certain.

When you felt his presence again, it was so faint you thought you were dreaming it. Nothing but a glimmer of darkness in the back of your mind, weakly calling out in agony. But as you searched your feelings, reaching out with every sliver of power you could muster, you found that it was real.

You found him.

Long had you travelled since, guided by the unseen thread connecting you to him. Until at last, it had led you into the heart of a mountain where his presence was so strong, it felt as though his skin was beneath your fingertips.

And yet, he was nowhere to be seen. Not until a sharp squeal had caught your ear, and you had found the source of it to be a rat being devoured into the blackness of a small, but lethal predator. At once, you had understood, and nearly fallen into despair. But in the end, you reminded yourself—he has endured. You have been reunited. That is all that matters.

Slowly, you kneel at his side. The mass ripples like the surface of water under a light breeze, and it gives you hope that, somehow, your presence is known to him. A sole rivulet of him begins to slip towards you, painfully slow. No wonder he has been in this state for so long, helpless to nourish himself lest some unfortunate creature stumbles upon him in the dark.

“I am here,” you whisper as you reach out. “I am—”

The moment your fingertips touch his cold, viscous form, black tendrils of him latch onto your hand, greedily clawing at your wrist. You gasp at the unexpected force of it, the searing sting where the liquid-like matter solidifies to dig sharp needles into your skin. Beads of your blood emerge, and he swallows them into himself with hunger.

You stare in awe as he grows ever so slightly larger. A twisted part of you is elated to be the object of his craving once more, even if he is trying to devour you whole. Especially then.

Unfortunately, that would not do in the long-term.

You shush him gently, caressing him with your free hand as though he were a purring kitten. Instantly, a tendril of him latches to one of your fingers, but you give him a firm squeeze.

“Shh!” you say sharply, fingers sinking into the soft surface of him as you reach out with your mind as well, nudging at his. “Easy, love,” you coo. “Easy. You know this hand. You know me.”

His mind is a mess—mad with hunger, alight with rage, lost to despair. But you keep caressing it with yours, tenderly bringing to the surface his memories of you. His love. His wife.

His grip on you weakens then. He deflates, withdrawing himself from your wounds, and you are left with a soft, pliant mass, which you delicately scoop into the palm of your hands. He rocks slightly against your skin, almost as if caressing it—and through your bond, the ghost of his regret reaches out to you.

“Do not fret, my love,” you murmur, smiling gently. “All will be well now.”

And so you go to dwell in the forest. At first, you bring him small things, no larger than he is himself—insects and rats, the occasional snake. The venomous ones seem to be quite nourishing, aiding in his growth more visibly than the other animals you feed him. Still, the progress is slow, and could not be endured without a great deal of patience and love. Fortunately, you lack neither.

Days turn to weeks, perhaps months. You don’t keep count, nor do you miss the comforts of the Elven realm where you had dwelt for years, waiting on the day your husband might return. A tent and your skills are more than enough when you finally have your love by your side, even if he is... temporarily different. You always keep him close, cradling him protectively at night and speaking loving words to him throughout the day. And in his own way, with ripples of his form and distant echoes of his slowly recovering mind, he holds onto you.

Eventually, he grows large enough for you to embrace at night, and develops a certain manner of breathing that feels as though you’re resting your head upon his chest. Its rise and fall is odd, ragged and irregular, but it brings you great joy nonetheless. With time, you bring him larger game, watching with grim amazement as deers and wild boars are slowly devoured into the beloved black mass that still is your husband. After a time, he grows nearly limb-like extensions, allowing him to more easily crawl around or reach out, and you often wake to find yourself in the closest thing to an embrace he can manage in this state. It never fails to make your heart soar, and he shudders as you press loving kisses to the parts of his surface closest to you.

So the days pass, until it’s time. Between your own instinct and the shape of his thoughts, not quite spoken but slightly more focused through your bond, you know he’s strong enough to finally regain himself completely.

But for that, he will need something more than an animal.

It’s easy enough to stop the first wagon you see passing by, acting confused and lost and asking for direction. The woman at the reins, though half-drunk, is even gracious enough to offer that she give you a ride to the closest village. You decline, of course. Your purpose was never to climb into the wagon yourself.

It was to halt it long enough for your husband to slither inside from the back.

It’s barely a few seconds after the woman has bid you a good journey and gone on her way that the wagon halts yet again—this time, with a piercing scream from its occupant. The wagon shakes, its horse breaking loose and galloping away.

Then, silence settles. From your angle, you can’t see inside. Your feet are glued in place, your breath barely there as you watch and wait. You’ve been waiting so long that now, so close to the end of your suffering, each moment feels neverending.

Finally—finally—a man emerges from the back of the wagon. He takes his time putting one bare foot, then the other, down onto the snow-covered ground. He takes in his surroundings, as though opening his eyes to the world for the first time. Then his gaze lands on you, and his lips curl into a smile filled with relief.

And you know, you’ve always known, but it feels as though you only then realize that this is not a man. Or an Elf, or a Dwarf, or any other being of less than godly nature. It is him. Remade into a form with eyes, and hands, and flesh, same as your own.

Your feet carry you towards him blindly as you stare and stare, almost unable to believe that you are finally standing close enough to touch once more.

“I would not blame you,” he says, his unfamiliar voice rough from lack of use, “if it was you who failed to recognize me now.”

But you know it’s absurd. His appearance may not be as it used to—his hair is shorter, darker, his cheeks covered in stubble, his features nothing like the ones you knew—but there is no form he could take you would not recognize, not as long as your mind still served you. His had been broken, unamde, when he had begun to feed on you as he would any other stranger. None of that matters now.

“This is... different,” you murmur, greedily taking in every inch of him that isn’t covered by the rags he’s wearing. His chest is partially bared to your eyes, and both of your breaths shudder as you lay your hand over his new heart, the smattering of hair there delightfully rough beneath your fingertips. You gaze there for a moment, mesmerized by the sight, then lift your eyes to meet his. The curls that fall in his face are so endearing your chest aches as you brush one aside.

“I love it,” you breathe out. “I love you.”

A dam that had been built over years of longing shatters at your words, and your lips meet his furiously in a long-awaited kiss. His looks may have changed, but his taste is the same, and so is the desire that overwhelms you to the point of insanity. You’re falling into each other, clawing at each other, crumbling to the ground in an unceremonious tangle of limbs. The snow is cold against your back, but your husband is warm and solid above you, and your world becomes reduced to him and him alone.

You whimper when he suddenly pulls away, chest heaving as he gazes down at you with raw yearning.

“You came for me,” he says, breathless with elation.

“Of course I did,” you retort, nearly indignated. As if you would do anything but. He goes to kiss you again, but you wrap a hand around his throat and hold him back. Mischief dances in your eyes as he glares and you scold, “And in return, you nearly ate me.”

His eyes darken, and you almost moan at the sight alone.

“I still wish to,” he growls, prying your hand away from his neck and diving in to devour yours instead. “All those years I hungered...” he speaks between ravenous licks and bites of your skin, making you writhe and whimper beneath him, “to feel you once more... even when I could no longer remember... what it was I hungered for...” He lifts his head, wild eyes boring into yours as he lays his hand upon your chest, relishing your heartbeat as you had done his before. “My love,” he pleads, voice trembling with need, “join me in flesh. Let me feast upon yours. Devour mine. Remind me what it is... to feel.”

The last time you felt such unbridled joy was so long ago, you can’t even remember it. And either way, you doubt it held a candle to the bliss bursting within your soul in this moment. This is all you ever wanted. This makes every single moment of torment, past or future, worth it.

“Feel me, love,” you offer most sweetly, your lips brushing his with the last words you speak before you consume each other whole, “Feel everything.”

Next fic with same reader -> Tides of fate

[pathologicalreid]

fluff masterlist

main masterlist

note: italicized titles denote requests

spencer reid x fem!reader

clue: in which penelope hosts a new year's eve party. with a murder mystery theme.

doctor and doctor: in which you add a degree to your repertoire

newly creds: in which the BAU team wants to see your newly issued credentials

nicknames: in which you meet the team for the first time, and receive your first nickname

attention: in which you attempt to get your boyfriends attention

fluorescent: in which spencer rambles about rocks and you get distracted

drop: in which reid seems to be there every time you drop something

occupational hazard: in which you and spencer have a discussion about the dangers of his job.

in sickness and in health: minutes before your wedding is supposed to start, spencer gets cold feet, and you have to find out why.

cryptic: you and spencer get a surprise beyond your wildest dreams

breakfast in bed: your boyfriend surprises you with breakfast in bed to celebrate spring break

in plain sight: your quick thinking (in an attempt to protect him) leads to a very thankful spencer

puzzling: trying to tell spencer you're pregnant, but he's too concerned with your well-being to fill out your custom crossword puzzle

red flags: spencer protects you from a drunkard

(lack of) convenience: the power of suggestion leads you to take a pregnancy test while you're on a case - and it's positive

three's a family: you and spencer are surprised to find out that you're pregnant, while you're already in labor (yes, this is a second cryptic pregnancy fic)

pure and applied chemistry: your boyfriend picks you up as a surprise at your chemistry lab (biochemist!reader)

separation anxiety: spencer's first case back from paternity leave involves children, so a concerned party reaches out to you

orange juice: you and spencer have an announcement to make, but you're not sure how to go about it

a special occasion: moving your daughter into a toddler bed brings about some interesting conversation

kindergarten crush: when one of your students goes missing, the BAU sends the A-team to question you

goads and goats: telling your dad (who's also your boss) you're pregnant ends in him giving spencer a hard time

a league of your own: when your boyfriend seemingly evolves, you resign yourself to the feeling of being left behind

fishbowl: you offer to bring spencer lunch when he forgets his at home, leading you to become an object of curiosity at the BAU.

dewey decimal system: in which spencer does the most spencer activity first thing in the morning - reorganizing your bookshelves

amorphous: your first ultrasound goes exactly how you'd expected it to, but not exactly how you'd wanted it to

sweet talker: in which french!reader gets caught using a special nickname for a particular genius

litmus test: in which Spencer needs your expertise to help solve a murder, but crime fighting is most decidedly not for you

spencer reid x gn!reader:

heatmiser: spencer takes care of you when he comes home to find you sick

running on empty: spencer makes a bet to go without coffee and ends up foregoing all caffeine

spencer reid x platonic!fem!BAU!reader

neophyte (2): in which dr. reid gives advice to help you cope with the requirements of your new job

[xxacidnekoxx]

The comforting thing about OCS and universe is that it's not serious and the stakes are very low so it's free to use the destiny of my characters as a stimulation toy and it's just there for escapism there is no canon there is no consistency it is a box of toys that I have that I made for myself to play with and feel like a dumb baby while playing. It's not a job that I'm doing or a gift that I'm making for other people . With fanart I'm used to seeing ones that make me uncomfortable it's just a thing that happens has always happened to popular artists I know I don't have control over it so.. it's part of why it feels really good to just have OCS being a very amorphous object that I can mold into what ever I need in the moment and they ultimately exist for my comfort and I'm allowed to be as greedy as I want too

[wilwheaton]

In knocking down President Joe Biden’s student loan forgiveness plan, the right-wing Supreme Court majority does more than keep millions of American saddled with debt — it continues to shift enormous power away from Congress and the executive branch to itself. The majority — “as is becoming the norm,” Justice Elena Kagan narrates in her dissent — relies heavily on the major questions “doctrine,” a theory in vogue in right-wing legal circles. It dictates that when executive branch agencies take action of major “economic and political significance,” they lose the usual judicial deference they enjoy. That standard of significance is wholly in the eye of the beholder — an amorphousness the majority has continually taken advantage of. That has usually translated, in the hands of this conservative Court, into various Biden administration actions meeting their doom. While the Court often protests that it’s really shifting power back to Congress when it knocks down agency actions, it does so knowing that Congress is usually stalemated by various factors (split party control, the Senate filibuster) that make it extremely difficult for the legislature to pass many major laws. It also disrupts the usual separation of powers balance: Congress writes broad laws authorizing agencies to deal with issues (letting the Environmental Protection Agency regulate air pollution or the Education Department deal with federal student debt), passing on the responsibility of crafting the specifics to the expert-staffed agencies. But this Court continues to impose itself on that process, deciding that Congress didn’t meet some vague standard of specificity in its delegation and knocking down agency actions it doesn’t like. “This Court objects to Congress’s permitting the Secretary (and other agency officials) to answer so-called major questions,” Kagan writes, referring, in this case, to the Secretary of Education. “Or at least it objects when the answers given are not to the Court’s satisfaction. So the Court puts its own heavyweight thumb on the scales.”

Kagan Decries Use Of Right-Wing ‘Doctrine’ In Student Loan Decision As ‘Danger To A Democratic Order’

Expand SCOTUS. Impeach and remove the corrupt Trump justices, as well as Alito and the PROFOUNDLY corrupt Thomas. Unless and until this happens, SCOTUS is a existential and direct threat to human rights and equality under the law in America.

[granddaughterogg]

You Let Me Complicate You - Part 1

This is a love story about Simon "Ghost" Riley and you, starting with a random hookup and later navigating your increasingly complex feelings and desires towards each other.

~~Reblogs are always Greatly Appreciated!~~

PART 2 HERE

SUMMARY: You're all alone in London because of Reasons. On a particularly dreadful, windy, rainy Halloween evening you venture outside for a quick pint - but find Simon "Ghost" Riley instead. He's a consummate fuckboy who uses fleeting trysts to blow off steam collected at his deadly job, and you're a cynical, world weary girl who nonetheless very much enjoys no-string-attached sex. None of you are prepared for the horror of Actually Falling In Love. Also - the mask stays on for ridiculously long. What, oh what will become of this fateful encounter?

Chapter 1: SKULLFACE

As with many other adventures in your life - this one started only because you wouldn’t quench your curiosity.

It was an insatiable force, one that has driven you into a lot of shit over the years. On the other hand, you could call your life path - that collection of irregular zigs and zags off the beaten trajectory - anything but dull. And you owed it to that ever-present itch at the back of your head.

Let’s go back to the very start, shall we?

The start was unpromising. For one, it was Halloween evening, but you were on your own and it was pissing it down outside.

You sat in a tiny squalid apartment, its walls painted a nauseating shade of green and stared at the darkness behind your windows. Cold water splashed against the glass. Technically speaking, those windows weren’t yours. Nothing here was. You’ve just Airbnb’ed this hovel for a few weeks. The thing is, you’ve been awaiting news about a job.

They haven’t contacted you yet. You’ve been paying through the nose for this musty abode, bristling at the prices of groceries – at the prices of anything, really. London’s famous charms were lost on you. You hated this city. To you, it felt as if someone had squashed a dozen smaller towns into an amorphous heap. You didn’t know a single soul in those streets and you weren’t sure if you wanted to change that.

But how long can a lonely girl sit on her ass, browse youtube and marinate herself in misery?

And it was All Hallow’s Eve after all.

You always loved Halloween.

The weather discouraged kids from trick-and-treating. Yet you could still hear multiple footsteps going every which way on the wet pavement below, snippets of conversations and muffled laughter. Londoners decided to enjoy themselves tonight, weather be damned. 

You paused the video (it was about a groomer, tending to a particularly matted, hissy cat). You stood up with a sigh, slammed your laptop shut and went to the suitcase lying in the corner.

It’s been a week here and apart from your sensible job interview clothes, (which have been hanging on the door, properly steamed) you still haven’t found it in yourself to unpack.

Never mind that now. You unceremoniously threw the suitcase’s contents on the wooden floor and fished one particular object out of the pile; a little velvet dress, as black as the night.

You stood in front of the dusty mirror and pulled the garment on. It was one of those strappy numbers which start late but end pretty early. Hugged all your curves, not leaving much to the imagination. Your dear mother would’ve described this dress as „slutty”.

Just the way you liked it.

You’ve learned before that excessive preparations only dull your enthusiasm for the unknown. So you’ve slid your feet inside your trusted combat boots, smudged some black eyeliner here and there, put your hair up in a French twist with a simple metal pin, and threw on a jacket - and you were good to go.

Wherever those streets would take you.

***

It turned out that the streets wouldn’t take you far. Because it was raining fucking hard. 

It's one thing to merely observe the skies opening, and another to withstand their fury. You were trudging the pavement under your flimsy foldable umbrella, almost bent in half because of the gusty wind. You walked turned to the side, trying to avoid getting ballistic rainwater in your eyes, one half of your face damp and cold already. The light jacket offered little protection; soon you were soaked to the bone, and furious.

Screw it, you thought. I’m just gonna get inside any old place, have a pint and then go home.

You turned the corner and came upon a narrow crooked staircase leading below the street level, as was usually the case with pubs in this area. Some people were just leaving the premises, laughing and talking as they went. You caught a glimpse of bluish light, pouring from the inside along with some muffled bass beats.

Good enough.

You descended down the staircase; concrete steps crumbled under your tractor soles, threatening to throw you off balance. You passed by some folks on your way, squeezing yourself past them on a narrow path cutting through an overgrown courtyard. You pulled the handle of a heavy iron door. It was covered in graffiti and layers upon layers of old stickers. 

You stepped inside.

Your first thought was: This is not a pub.

You weren’t a local – hell, you weren’t even British – but after some time spent in this country, you’ve more or less become acquainted with the trappings of this cornerstone of any local community, what with its cosy nooks, mandatory fireplace and dark polished woodwork. Those kinds of places you knew. The beer wasn’t half bad, the tunes were usually tolerable and bartenders had this well-practiced cordiality to them. You liked the atmosphere of an English pub.

This, however, was different. Like, much noisier.

Your ears got filled with the metallic beats of dark industrial music. You couldn’t name the song that was playing. Deep inside there was a small dancefloor, where bodies swayed along with the slow, reverberating rhythm. 

This place was so dimly lit, that you had to squint just to adjust. The walls were raw concrete, with exposed brass piping running up and down in complicated patterns. It reminded you of a bunker. All the furniture seemed to be worn down and mismatched as if someone scavenged it from various vacant buildings. The bar counter was one giant slab of concrete too, its greyness punctuated by rows of tiny lights hanging from the iron truss under the low ceiling. 

The patrons all wore black. Not just your basic, nondescript black, oh no. You looked around (as much as you could while drifting in this neon blue semi-darkness, which revealed so little) and noticed some people in gothic finery. Velvet, lace, the works. Others chose leather or elaborate corsetry.

Ah, it’s one of those places.

You got your shit together, folded the damn umbrella, shook your damp hair to get at least some of the water out of it, and beelined to the concrete bar. At this point of the evening, you’d kill for a hot beverage.

The bar area was not too crowded, thank fuck. You clambered gracelessly onto one of the free barstools and smiled at the bartender. He was completely bald, with a ginormous nose ring and a thin face, eternally crumpled into an expression of faint disgust.

"Hello! One hot tea, please", you said breathlessly.

Dude looked at you as if you’d just spat on his mother’s grave.

"Tea? You sure 'bout that?"

"Well yeah", you answered. "It’s bucketing down out there, and I got chilled to the bone..."

The bartender wasn’t moved by your plight. 

"This is a club, not your Granny’s living room, see? We serve adults here..."

"Give ‘er a damn tea, Geoffrey. Don’t be a cunt."

A man’s voice rang out from your left. It was low and throaty, but also perfectly even in tone. It cut through the music and the bustle like a knife wielded by a steady hand. Your ears twitched pleasantly at this sound.

Geoffrey blinked at whoever it was that scolded him. Then he made a face and turned away to fulfil your order.

"I’m just saying, we’re trying to run a business here…" he muttered, putting the kettle on.

"I see that”, you assured. "Make that a tea and a glass of Scotch then. I could use both."

"Right." The bartender was seemingly placated by your offer.

When he put the drinks in front of you and turned towards other customers, you emptied the sugar packet inside the cup, stirred your tea for a while, finally sipped it - and sighed with delight. It all took a while. When the life-restoring elixir started to course through your veins, you stole a glance at the man who spoke earlier.

"Thanks for putting in the word for me", you said with a slight smile.

"Geoff's not a bad bloke. Just overworked." 

The stranger was tall and dressed in a black sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head. He was looking straight ahead, away from you, cradling his whisky glass in two large, strikingly pale hands.

"I can imagine, with the place being so busy on Halloween and all...Anyway, I’m feeling better by the minute." 

"Drink up then, and that whisky too. You look like a half-drowned cat."

That voice was something to behold. So deep and guttural, with a thick accent that made short work of most of the consonants. As your ears helpfully suggested, it was probably Mancunian. One doesn’t simply grow such a voice. One earns it through incessant smoking and other recurring bad life decisions, no doubt. It was kinda hot.

...Wait a moment, did this perfect stranger just smack-talk you?

Your head darted upwards. 

"Did you just say that I look like shit?" 

Your tone was still playful - if underlined by a suggestion that you’re always ready to drop the playfulness.

The hooded man must’ve heard that undertone because he chuckled. That rumbling sound reverberated somewhere deep within you. Probably in your bones.

"Don’t be so hard on yourself, love. You're just a little worse for wear, is all."

That impassive tone of his stabbed you in the solar plexus. You've straightened up as if pulled by a string. The teaspoon fell into your tea, making a soft clatter, while you spun around on your stool to look this insolent git straight in the face.

"How do you know?" you bit out. "You weren't even looking -"

The following words got stuck in your throat.

Not only was the man hooded, but he also wore a mask. A tight black one, covering his head and the lower part of his face. A balaclava, your brain hinted helpfully. It looked like a part of the regulation equipment of the armed forces, and that's where the similarities came to an end. For the mask has been printed over – or painted, maybe? - with the image of a skull. Mainly its lower jaw. White paint glimmered in the bluish light, forming a wide, ghastly smile which grinned at you.

But even more striking were his eyes, large and protruding. Your stunned stare met two opaque irises, as dark and dense as a black hole. You weren't able to decipher their expression. That cryptic intensity of his gaze seemed to bend space-time. 

His eyelids and skin around the eyes have also been blackened, but his long lashes remained pale as frost.

You stared at this vision with your mouth ajar, like a dead fish.

"What?" He asked calmly and quietly. "Do I have something on me fuckin' face?"

You were always quite outspoken, but at that moment words eluded you.

"Cool mask,” you said finally because something needed to be said. „Cool...disguise. Is it for Halloween?"

He didn't blink. It was unnerving.

"I don't do 'alloween, love."

"So you wear this thing 'cause it makes you more interesting and mysterious and shit?"

The tall man leaned towards you, his eyes creasing in a smile.

"Look at you, sweetheart. It's clearly workin'."

"That's because of that stare of yours. It could pin a person to a wall...", you murmured.

"I could pin you to a wall. Just ask nicely.”

You felt suddenly weightless. Out of breath. 

"For how long?" you quipped, trying your damnedest to sound flippant. 

The nerve of this fucking guy!

"For as long as you'll need me to. I'm a dedicated man.”

There was no bravado ringing in his gritty voice. Just a calm statement of fact.

You cut a look at his arms. The black cotton of the hoodie did little to conceal their immense size. 

He could probably deliver on his promise.

You took a long breath, trying to regain your lost composure. It wasn't easy when this hulking freak stared you down, but you'd been in tighter spots before.

Goths, amirite, you thought. Ever the contrarians, regardless of their age. They tended to be good in the sack though.

You studied this new specimen very thoroughly - and there was plenty to stare at. The man was built like an industrial-sized fridge. Ridiculously tall even while sitting down and broad-shouldered, with a firm chest stretching the plain black cotton of his sweatshirt. Which, by the way, he wore zipped up almost to his very chin, like a layer of protective gear. Weird.

Those dim little lights over the bar made it hard for you to discern the details, but you also noticed the width of his torso and his powerful thighs, clad in simple blue denim. He was by far the plainest dressed patron of this edgelord cellar joint. Apart from the mask you didn't notice anything even remotely Gothic about his style or bearings. Although he sat motionless, cradling a glass of whisky in his long, strong fingers – he still exuded that kind of primal strength which you've learned to associate with the outdoorsy hiker type or the avid sportsman.

"Like what you're seein', love?”

You winced, a bit perplexed that he had caught you taking stock of his impressive physique. But you weren't about to let him know that.

"Yep”, you blurted out instead, staring boldly into those eyes, as dark and impenetrable as a shark's. "Do you?"

"I do, yeah."

Aaand here we go, you thought, relaxing immediately. For now, you were on a beaten path.

"You've said that I looked like -", you chuckled accusingly, leaning back on your stool. His stare was gliding all over you without any shame, probably filing the best finds away for later.

"I know what I said," he cut you off calmly, leaning closer. The height difference between you two was striking.

"Your mascara got smudged and ran off...to there."

You stilled as this complete stranger traced a pale finger across your eye socket. You drew in a deep breath as he touched your zygomatic bone, where nothing possibly could've smudged. His fingertip travelled even further, brushing over your sensitive skin and freeing a lone strand of hair from behind your ear. It was still damp from the rain.

He did it very slowly. Very gently.

You let him. As if you were hypnotized. Attempted a smile, but the corners of your mouth felt strangely numb.

"See? Now that's perfection", he stated in the same hushed, impassive tone of voice before turning back to his drink. The whisky glass disappeared in his hand.

You were silent. Your head was buzzing as if someone had set the radio inside to a non-existent channel.

The thing is, you knew perfectly well who you were dealing with. When it comes to seasoned fuckboys like Skullface here, it's all very simple; they're nothing to be afraid of. Such men are what a high wave is for the swimmer. An opportunity for a fun ride.

Back when you were a teenage girl, you liked to spend hours on end in the sea. At the time you'd like to imagine that this cool, salty, malachite green vastness was your lover. You drifted in the water, letting the wave carry you, surrendering yourself to its tender ruthlessness, allowing the element to hold you for a moment without dealing any harm, to guide you like a dance partner, and then to pass by and disappear into the distance.

It is just like dancing. As long as you know the steps, something beautiful can come out of it.

And you haven't had the chance to let loose on the dancefloor for so long.

You calmed your body by taking a few deep breaths. You couldn't calm your heart. What you could do, though - was to let your audacious spirit take the wheel.

You grabbed at your glass and emptied it in one sweep. Vile whisky did as it always would; it burned your gullet only to flare into a ball of pleasant warmth once it reached your insides. It was not a connoisseur-worthy beverage, but its aggressive sweetness suited your current mood.

You threw your head back and exhaled slowly.

He was watching, you could tell. He tilted his head slightly. Amusement emanated from behind the black mask.

"Say..." you drawled, leaning towards him with your eyes sparkling, for you felt a surge of vigour and boldness along with a freshly bloomed, alcohol-induced blush. 

"Does your mum know that you being a goth is not a phase?"

Skullface snorted softly.

"I am not a goth, love."

"Then why are you in this den for kinky weirdos?" You gestured around the dark interior, including the bare walls, the blue neon light and the throbbing, metallic, dark rhythms pulsing around you.

"I like goth chicks”, he admitted. Cheeky git.

"Why?" you prodded.

"Tattoos in fun places."

"Animal”, you chided him, setting your empty glass down with a bang.

"Excuse me, sir!" you called out to the bartender. "I shall have another."

"Like you came here for some lofty purpose. Wanna discuss the works of Kierkegaard...dressed like that?” The masked man snorted, summing up your entire scantily clad person with one tilt of his chin.

You chuckled quietly, taking no offence.

"I'm surprised that you even know how to pronounce his name."

He remained silent, so you fired away again, buoyed by the alcohol in your veins: 

"Weren't you supposed to add something scathing after the 'dressed like that' part? I'm still waiting for that burn to sting."

"If I did, I'd be a fuckin' hypocrite", he muttered. "Cause I very much enjoy it."

That solemn note of appreciation in his voice made you smile and nod. What an earnest freak.

The bartender came over and took away both of your empty glasses.

"What can I get you?" he asked, his gaze moving from his face to yours.

"Two glasses of bourbon, Geoffrey", the masked man said.

He noticed that you were opening your mouth and nipped those objections in the bud by raising a finger.

"Hey. Bear with me here. If you don't like it, you might drink whatever you want next. Even more of that fuckin' coal sludge you've been having."

"Excuse you, Scotch is hardly a sludge".

"That's what the bloody Scots would tell you. In much more...colourful terms, I s'ppose. I have a Scottish coworker and every time that we go drinkin', he gives me a bloody earful about the superiority (he pronounced this word rolling his r's) of the local distilleries over that Kentucky brew."

"You're friends with a highlander?" you asked. "Does he curse at you in Scots whenever he gets agitated?"

"All the fuckin' time. He's a twonk." A smile laced his words.

"You sure are passionate about your liquor choices." 

You propped your chin up with your hand, smiling at him.

"If I wanted to taste a fuckin' fireplace, I'd chew on a burnt log. Bourbon is the way to go. Much sweeter."

You couldn't help but laugh at his sudden fervour.

"You don't seem like the kind of lad who pursues sweetness," you quipped, trying to look into those impossible eyes of his and not blink. So far, it was a downhill battle. 

The bartender came back. Two glasses full of amber liquid landed on the counter with a dull clink. You didn't have the time to focus on them, because Skullface leaned towards you, shading you with his powerful torso and obscuring the source of the blue light. Your nostrils were suddenly filled with his pleasant manly scent, mixed with the fragrance of fresh laundry, some kind of a woody-citrusy aftershave, and a hint of something you couldn't decipher even though you knew that smell. Its memory, devoid of a name, tickled at the tip of your tongue. Fireworks?

"Sweet and rough things should go hand in hand in life. That's how you make it all bearable somehow."

"Somehow?..” you asked absentmindedly, mesmerised by his deep voice. By the promise tilting at the edge of those slowly, intently enunciated words.

"Hey, true balance is hard to find, 'cause life's a fuckin' mess. It's chaos, it's cruel. No point to it at all."

Holy mackerel, you thought. A goth girl admirer, an apparent powerhouse of a man and a homegrown nihilist in one. With eyes like two abysses and a voice like grit. This was going to be an enchanting evening.

Don't go crazy just yet, you admonished yourself. Don't let this stranger in a mask get the upper hand on you. Keep your calm so that he doesn't sweep you off your feet prematurely.

"So," you murmured, your tone casual, "What did Kierkegaard have to say, exactly?"

Dark eyes twinkled. 

"Many things. Like that our whole existence is absurd. It doesn't really matter what we do, so we might as well do whatever the fuck we want. And right now, I want to do...this."

He dipped a finger into his glass of bourbon and glided it across your lower lip.

You parted your mouth without protest, giving in to the shamelessness of this gesture.

"Just taste it."

[monstersdownthepath]

Homebrew Horror: Unwanted Amalgam

(Art source, and probably one of the better fanart pieces of this critter I've seen!)

Remember to eat your veggies, don't just scoot them around on your plate.

Malevolent boogeymen known by many names in many different cultures across the Inner Sea, Unwanted Amalgams are twisted aberrations formed from wasted and (as their name suggests) unwanted foods. Believed to be spirits embodying wasteful gluttony, Amalgams don't just rise out of plates of uneaten broccoli at a child's table or leftovers which go sour after they're forgotten, but instead arise from truly egregious displays of carelessness; whole banquets squandered when a noble grows full after a single dish and orders the rest disposed of, countless "ugly" pieces of produce thrown away by farmers and citizens alike for no reason but appearance, or truly impressive amounts of food being hoarded away from hungry mouths and left to rot.

Amalgams weave their bodies from this unwanted food, knitting countless pieces of edibles together into humanoid shapes whose general appearance depends on the most common form of food within them: an Amalgam constructed mostly of wasted meat may resemble a towering troll or ogre, while a primarily produce or grain-based one may look more like an especially tall and willowy elf. The one displayed above is one of the rarest types, constructed of wasted sweets and confections, and ambulates more like an insect than a human, with limb proportions to match. Regardless of their general shape, the ways they move and carry the weight of their amorphous bodies prevents anyone from mistaking them for a human in all but complete darkness.

Because they arise from food waste, Amalgams are a more recent boogeyman, ones that have begun to haunt the modernizing world as food production begins to exceed its demand, stalking through urban areas where people can afford to waste food as, in their minds, more will always be available. Due to their recent appearance, they are poorly studied and poorly understood, and have little desire to talk specifics about their motivations, origins, or desires beyond the immediately obvious... though they ARE quite talkative. To the point many wish they would stop.

The Amalgams possess a twisted sense of justice which the vast majority of them are incredibly vocal about, launching into soliloquy at the slightest prompting or provocation. Though they are all born from an incident of incredible magnitude, they are motivated to punish any act of wastefulness or gluttony they observe, no matter how small. Everything from a restaurant throwing away hundreds of pounds of perfectly edible food down to a child refusing to eat their vegetables may incite the wrath of an observing Amalgam, who will confront these unfortunates and command them to perform some task for it to spare them a terrible fate. These tasks are set by the whims of the Amalgam and run the gamut from the mercifully ordinary (finish your meal) to the nonsensical (gather 100 red objects and place them in a circle in one's front yard) to the impossible (slay a monster with an inadequate weapon), but failure to complete them within an arbitrary time limit sees the victim pummeled into helplessness by the horror and, in a cruel reversal of fate, consumed by it.

Attempting to fight for one's life against an Amalgam is no easy task. Their aberrant physiology renders them impervious to many reliable tricks, and whatever strange forces animate their bodies also knits them back together with frightening speed (to the point of returning them from death), though the ever-reliable fire and acid damage can destroy them beyond their ability to regenerate. Magic which affects only plantlife also affects Amalgams, even if they aren't entirely made of plant matter, and of course all Amalgams subconsciously desire to be eaten, rendering them extremely vulnerable to any hungry beast that attempts to take a bite out of them.

Unwanted Amalgam CR 6

Neutral Evil Large Aberration Init: +3; Senses: Darkvision 60ft; Perception +13 Aura: Frightful Presence (30ft, DC 15, 2d6 rounds)

------ Defense ------

AC 18, touch 12, flat-footed 15 (+3 Dex, +6 natural armor, -1 size) HP 48 (8d8+14), Regeneration 3 (Acid, Fire, bite attacks) Fort +6 Ref +5 Will +8 Defensive abilities Pull Together; DR 4/--; Immune critical hits, precision damage Weaknesses Vulnerable to Putrefaction, Yearn for Purpose

------ Offense ------

Speed 40ft, climb 40ft Melee Bite +10 (1d8+5 plus Grab), 2 slams +8 (1d6+3 plus Grab) Space 10ft; Reach 10ft Special Attacks Many-Armed Grapple, Swallow Whole (1d10 bludgeoning, AC 13, HP 5) Spell-like Abilities (CL 8; Concentration +9)

Constant--Spider Climb At-will--Dancing Lights, Ghost Sound, Prestidigitation 1/day--Dimension Door

------ Statistics ------

Str 20 Dex 16 Con 17 Int 14 Wis 15 Cha 13 Base Atk: +6; CMB +11; CMD 25

Feats Combat Reflexes, Great Fortitude, Intimidating Prowess, Multiattack

Skills Acrobatics +18, Climb +22, Intimidate +21, Knowledge (Local) +11, Perception +13, Stealth +11, Survival +13 Racial modifiers: +8 to Acrobatics, +4 to Intimidate

Languages Aklo, Common, any one local language

SQ Compression

------ Ecology ------

Environment any urban Organization solitary Treasure standard (rations, pilfered items)

------

Combat: Before battle, Unwanted Amalgams will clamber out of reach and repeatedly intimidate creatures to weaken them before leaping in. It will also use its surprise round to intimidate the enemy it wishes to punish most, if possible. Amalgams are simple creatures in a fight: They attack with their slams and attempt to grapple as many creatures as possible, swallowing the smallest among them while beating the rest to unconsciousness or death.

Morale: Amalgams are fierce fighters which pursue their prey relentlessly; they always fight to the death, though their supernatural resilience prevents some deaths from being the end of them.

------ Special Abilities ------

Many-Armed Grapple (Ex): Amalgams can produce upwards to six additional limbs as a free action to maintain grapples against an equal number of Medium or smaller creatures, allowing them to grapple multiple creatures at once while still being able to make two slam attacks. When not grappling a creature, these excess limbs are instantly re-absorbed.

Pull Together (Ex): An Amalgam's severed portions remain animate when they're severed, crawling back towards the whole at a rate of 10ft a round at the end of the Amalgam's turn. Each round the Amalgam ends adjacent to a severed piece of itself, it absorbs the piece (regenerating the severed portion instantly) and regains 1 HP. A severed piece can be destroyed with at least 1 point of Fire or Acid damage, or damage done by a bite attack. In addition, an Amalgam that is slain will return to life 1d4 hours later at 0 HP unless its remains are burned, doused in acid, or consumed by one or more other creatures.

Swallow Whole (Ex): An Amalgam can swallow Small or smaller creatures grappled by its claws without needing to transfer them to its mouth first; if it succeeds the check to pin the creature, it simply raises the creature over its head and drops them into its waiting maw. When a creature cuts its way out, the hole instantly closes behind that creature.

Vulnerable to Putrefaction (Ex): Regardless of their composition, Amalgams are treated as both Aberrations and Plants for the purposes of harmful spells (such as Blight) and abilities (such as Favored Enemy). A Putrefy Food and Drink spell cast on an Amalgam deals 2d8 Acid damage to it, and if that spell is cast on its remains, its body is destroyed utterly and it cannot return to life (see Pull Together, above). Inversely, a Purify Food and Drink cast on an Amalgam restores 2d8 HP to it and grants it the benefits of Haste for 1 round.

Yearn for Purpose (Ex): All Amalgams subconsciously desire the destiny of all food: to be eaten. Bite attacks made against them resolve as touch attacks, and damage from bites both bypasses their Damage Reduction and suppresses their regeneration for 1 round.

[killyridols]

object 274 by xian kim, 2023, acrylic on canvas, 60 × 72 centimeters

[emmkitt]

CONNECTION: LOST AU

(Inanimate Insanity + HFJONE + BFDI)

IVE WANTED TO MAKE AN OSC AU FOR SOOO LONG AND I FINALLY HAVE AN IDEA ahem

shoutout to @somebean81 for helping me figure out some of the details of this. GET READY FOR A LOTTA WORDS

—>”i” is an Algebralien. Within this universe, Algebraliens excell not only in arithmetic, but understanding of the concept of death. The Radio— which exists in The Waiting Room after an object becomes deceased— is monitored and controlled by the Algebraliens, and the sequence of numbers input within the machine determine the universe the object will be transported to.

—>’i’ became enamoured with this technology, but frustrated with the fact they were excluded, as they were not a number themself.

—>’i’ began to experiment with The Radio, managing to hack the systems and create a new input, that being “i”, which would instantly teleport an object to him. Being as the input was figuratively and literally “imaginary,” the only being capable of producing the input was ‘i.’ An object would input a numeric value into The Radio and ‘i’ would hack it before the antennae could be raised.

—>Almost immediately, when strange objects began running about, the other Algebraliens discovered ‘i’s shenanigans.

—>One of the biggest offenses was to tamper with The Radio systems, which led to ‘i’s immediate exile to Earth.

—>As ‘i’ could not appear as an Algebralien on earth, he was forced into an object disguise, that being a character he deemed ‘Steve Cobs.’

—>The Algebraliens had yet to understand simply how Cobs had managed to hack The Radio, and until then, Cobs was able to continue hacking the system. He would only teleport a single object on occassion, as a means of ensuring the Algebraliens would not catch on.

—>A new type of object Soul Cobs had not yet known about was discovered immediately, called a Wandering Soul. Wandering Souls are deceased objects which have existed in The Waiting Room for centuries, leading to the object no longer retaining any idea of their former identity. These souls appear as amorphous blobs and tend to be quite disoriented.

—>Cobs initially felt pity for these souls, and in his first experiment he created a robotic phone-shaped body for one of the souls. The first experiments, however, proved unsuccessful, and the souls were completely destroyed in the process of attempting to ‘revive’ them.

—>After three failed experiments, however, Cobs finally managed to perfect his creation. Mephone4 was the first Wandering Soul successfully revived.

—>Mephone4S, who was created shortly after Mephone4, was another success, however unlike 4, 4S retained the knowledge that he was once dead. 4 was programmed without this memory. When 4S sacrificed himself to save 4 (which ultimately destroyed his soul), Mephone4 received the memories about how he was technically not ‘alive.’ (Cue the existential crisis!), along with some of 4S’s memories.

—>As time went on, Cobs began to program his creations to be less and less human and more robotic in nature, completely stripping the once living objects of their humanity. He figured that would make it easier for him to inevitably send his Mephone creations to get revenge on the Algebraliens.

—>During his quest to find more Wandering Souls, Cobs accidentally teleported a regular soul to his laboratory, that being a copper lantern known as Airy.

—>Cobs debated between simply killing Airy to send him back to The Waiting Room, but the other convinced him to let him live, with the offer of his knowledge of The Waiting Room and The Radio.

—>With his apathetic personality, Airy became a great assistant to Cobs, and proved to be quite intelligent with the technology. Cobs soon programmed robotic enhancements for Airy, as a means of ensuring Airy would not be easy to kill.

—>With the newfound invention of Recovery Centers, the amount of Wandering Souls available was becoming scarce. Cobs, being dead set on his goal, begins to resort to living objects, figuring that any soul should work.

—>Obviously, theres a bit more moral and ethical conflict there, especially since these souls understand who they are, unlike the Wandering Souls, and Cobs was essentially forcing them into a new form and role.

—>The first victim to this was Fan, who was immediately discovered to be missing by Test Tube.

—>One of 4S’ memories which Mephone4 retained was that of Cobs’ plans to resort to living souls to create more Mephones. Initially brushing it aside as a silly dream, Mephone4 realizes this is serious, and that Fan had probably been kidnapped.

—>Next, Tissues and YinYang also disappeared.

—>As a Mephone, Fan (MeFan1) was programmed with the least humanity. He’s essentially a shell of the formerly enthusiastic and friendly object he used to be. Fan was Cobs’ first target, as he has almost unlimited knowledge of the II contestants, which was the only memories Cob’s allowed him to retain.

—>As a Mephone, Tissues (MephoneT) glitches a lot (condishawn) and is deemed a failed experiment by Cobs because of this.

—>As a Mephone, YinYang (MephoneY) was a bit of a tricky case for Cobs. Not realizing that they essentially shared two souls, Cobs wiped their memories and unknowingly only wiped Yin’s successfully. Yang retained their memories, and because of that they talk back to Cobs and refuse to aid in his plans. Yang eventually becomes distressed, as his brother is basically gone.

—>Mephone4 realizes something must be done about this before he can lose more of his contestants. Something involving The Waiting Room and The Radio. However, Mephone4 realized he could not die again, otherwise his soul would not be recoverable.

—>Eventually, an Algebralien is finally sent to earth to investigate after The Radio signals start going haywire. That Algebralien is Two, an Inter-Dimensional Manager, who disguises themself as a kiwi.

—>They meet Mephone4 and the II contestants, who are immediately suspicious of the newcomer. Two ends up disabling their disguise as a means of gaining trust. Mephone4 remains skeptical, but the contestants are desperate to get their friends back and agree to listen to the Algebralien.

—>The plan is simple; A contestant would die to enter The Waiting Room. They would use Two’s notes to defend the radio against Cob’s hacking, and then Mephone4 would recover them.

—>Test Tube was the one who volunteered for the job, as she desperately wanted Fan back.

—>Everything seemed to be going according to plan, however shortly after Test Tube entered The Waiting Room, the II cast were under attack by Cobs and his mephone army.

—>During the fight, Mephone4 ended up sacrificing himself to save Bot. MephoneY (YinYang), as they had some of their memories retained, managed to rebel against Cobs and also died protecting the living objects from the mephones.

—>By successfully disabling The Radio, the Wandering Souls Cobs had collected to create his mephones glitched out, and his army collapsed.

—>In the EPIC FINAL BATTLE!! Two was able to use their power to transport Cobs and Airy (I didnt forget him) to The Waiting Room permanently, with a radio that does not work.

SIDE NOTES:

-When a soul is transformed into a Mephone, living or wandering, the soul becomes no longer recoverable, meaning when they die they’re permadead.

-Test Tube is stuck in The Waiting Room now, sorry :(

-As they were not Wandering Souls when transformed into Mephones, Fan and Tissues did not ‘die’ when The Radio was disabled. However, they are not able to be reverted back to their old form.

-Airy received several robotic enhancements from Cobs.

-Two is one of the head Algebraliens, and is responsible for maintaining balance between universes and managing The Radio systems. This is part of the reason why they are rarely at the equation playground; they’re often bouncing between universes to deal with dimensional nonsense. They have a radio built into their ‘stomach,’ which allows them to quickly travel through space and time.

-Along with Inter-dimensional management and radio system management, Algebraliens all have an object disguise form, and occassionally visit The Waiting Room to help newly deceased objects grow accustomed to the place.

-Other characters not mentioned, such as MePad, other II contestants, etc. DO exist but dont really divert much from their canon lore so I didn’t feel the need to mention them here.

UHHH THATS A LOT. if u have questions about the au feel free to ask im soo normal about this idea you dont even know

[ckret2]

Oh! Quick Question!:

Who is your favorite Henchmainac (and I mean any of them that is seen in the apocalypse as a henchmen) And why?

Follow up question:

Did it change at all after reading TBOB?

Amorphous Shape, entirely for personal "what if that's a hive mind made by fusing a bunch of shapes together into one person?" headcanon reasons. Plus Morph's got one of the weirdest body shapes among the Henchmaniacs (the majority of whom are either "the Star Trek costume department could pull that off" or "inanimate object with human limbs stuck on").

TBOB upended almost all of my Amorphous Shape headcanons (I had them as an interdimensional quantum physicist and the source of Bill's portal blueprints—and, also, they're visible and vocal), so aside from the "that weirdo's from the second dimension and made out of multiple people" headcanon (which I'm keeping), I'm gonna have to restructure her from the ground up. But I like the new Amorphous shape we got—incomprehensible artist and/or art project you can't see without psychedelics that just casually invited herself to couch surf in Bill Cipher's clubhouse, that's terrific, 10/10 no notes.

Every other Henchmaniac has to fight to the death in a Burger King ballpit for the honor of joining Bill's gang, meanwhile this deconstructed Rubik's cube moves in without asking and Bill just goes "sure."

[saint-vagrant]

i've been alive a long time and into men (conceptually, literally) a long time, and never did learn what objective masculinity "is." but i'm not very interested in it frankly. masculinity or femininity, for me, seems so airy and amorphous and too totally culturally, personally dependent for my autist brain to bother grasping. but i do know what being a man is. because i am one all the time. i have been one forever. whether anyone is around to see or not. and it fucking rules and i'd suggest it for anyone.

i/my body isn't "gender non-conforming" because i'm fat or gay or have tits or like pink, for being crazy or for other disability, for my needs. only i can know and decide this, which is frustrating in its own way, to be unknown, sure. i experience things you do. i experience things you don't. i am a man when i'm treated horribly, explicitly for being the kind of man i am— when i'm talked down to and mocked or abused it isn't happening to the woman that i'm not. i'm here in my body and it happens to me. i'm not less of a man if i take a break from T, i'm not less of a man if i don't strictly modulate my voice, nor am i more of a man when i make a mistake, or for exhibiting the behaviour you expect, and i'm not more of a man for going above and beyond expectation— that's your shit, not mine. i love grime and denim and leather and chains and sweat and hair— who doesn't!, but interests don't Make me a man. interests change (allegedly.) i'm just a guy. and it's amazing and life-giving to be one. there is so much hardship and so much death, and to endure it as anything less than myself was/would be unbearable.

what would happen if you allowed yourself to be? how scary! how sublime!

[lesb0]

I'm always trying to stay on the cutting edge of every permutation of our constantly evolving visual culture but the elusiveness of every new form makes it difficult for me, even as one of the youngest possible millennials. in fashion, my freshman students are all wearing 2000s or "y2k" fashion: baggy grungy or baby phat hiphop, with an elevated touch of modesty, good color theory, and a stark awareness of bodily proportion. in memes, legendary 00s icon, lisa frank. its embarrassing to follow influencers with over 10 mil, now, as if it breaks the parasocial connection.

someone asked yesterday if tiktok is now the premier vehicle of visual culture. I open tiktok. on one side, a zoomed in interview with the mother of a shooting victim. but the other side is a compilation of slime videos, a woman cutting soap, life hacks, and chinese "smart" product placements. you can hear and see both. this bizarre genre, I can only recognize as content. on social media, content is technically anything you can doomscroll, the action of spending over 2 hours on a social media feed, a for you page, a timeline, a dashboard to tumblr addicts.

I'm watching cable TV with a girl I'm seeing. the ads are remarkably only geared towards boomers and older gen x. but, so is the 'content', bad action movies made for cable and reruns of 80s/90s TV shows, but the exact same show marathoned in hours long successions.

to be an effective art historian, I have to take things from this ever-shifting visual culture and translate it into the equally fickle and amorphous art world... so what does 'content' look like for museum shows? my first 100+ object loan show was in part by a colleague, a younger curator at BAMPFA. a massive exhibition of all female nonbinary artists, from the 60s PoMo feminists to the self obsessed identity displayers of today. I absolutely LOVED it. I had no problem enthusiastically flitting from object to object, frontwards and in reverse twice, to spend special time with all my favorites. a fave professor stopped me. I hadn't even recognized him in the excitement. he looked bewildered, but laughed about how giddy I was. he didn't write any criticism on the show. my boss at the time, our museum director, told me she thought it was "such a big mess". my favorite lesbian professor clutched onto her wife with an anxious look. my lesbian artist friend had panic attack and put his headphones on in a dark corner. on the other hand, the younger undergrad girls from berkeley looked elated and delighted, flitting around and oohing and aahing at my same pace. I learned one of them was an engineering student named erin who needed a feminist pickup from the disouragement in her male dominated field.

so how has the 'content' show, or the art world reception to them, changed in the past 4 years? well for one, it seems like major flagship institutions are dropping the mononym altogether. as the french impressionists take over the east coast, none of shows feature one painter as a sole focus, but curators use juxtapositions to keep people interested. in MoMAs, monoynym shows are reserved for major retrospectives or figuratively and literally, monolith artists like simone leigh. the older art historians are hesitant to adapt to these changes. one of my favorite shows this summer, over 300 very different collection pieces packed onto the floor and across the hall, wasn't enjoyed by any of the critics I know. My dates all hated it. except one, a hot ADHD butch who had a tiktok doomscrolling addiction.

what does this mean for the future of how shows are displayed.... how do museums let go of the traditional princely standard: 3.5 inch hangings with a 25 degree downwards tilt? is it better or worse to compromise museums into messy 17th century curiosity cabinets?