#Smile Agent recursion

[epicstoriestime]

Mnemonic Contamination // Smile Agent Drift

[REDACTED FIELD MEMO — INTERNAL DISTRIBUTION ONLY]OPHANIM DIRECTIVE // BLUE SKY COLLAPSE MONITORINGREF: OBS-Δ33 / SMILE AGENT RECURSION NODEORIGIN: [REDACTED] // Asylum Sector 7, Δ7-Interior GridDATE: 07/19/2025CLEARANCE LEVEL: TRIDENT VIOLET (Eyes Only) EXECUTIVE SUMMARY The following is a Level-Δ33 intelligence update on the containment integrity of OPERATION BLUE SKY. The MirrorGrid…

[pikagatogirltits]

Have I ever actually mentioned how addicted I am to brewing Magic decks? I currently have 37 Commander decks... that is to say the decks I currently have physically built for playing with. I just thought it might be fun to share a list of them, complete with Moxfield links. I even sorted them into a few different categories for better organization.

Trans Women of Magic (pet project to build a deck around every canon trans woman on a Magic card)

Alesha Says Trans Rights - Alesha, Who Smiles at Death. RWB power 2 or less recursion shenanigans. My personal favorite deck.

Ballroom Blitz - Xantcha, Sleeper Agent. BR goad and group "hug."

Hit and Run Time - Arcee, Sharpshooter. RW +1/+1 counters and combat tricks.

Legends Never Die - Alesha, Who Laughs at Fate. RB reanimator and +1/+1 counters. (Characters who get multiple cards I'm probably only going to hold myself to building one deck per character, but I like how Granny Alesha plays well enough to build her anyways.)

The Doctors Are In - Rose Noble and The Fourteenth Doctor. WURG Doctor Who themed deck, mainly wins via Gallifrey Stands.

When Fluffy Bunnies Attack - Cadira, Caller of the Small. GW tokens.

Other Favorite Decks

Gatewatch Assemble! - Jared Carthalion. 5 color Superfriends.

Let's Go Lesbians! - Halana and Alena, Partners. RG +1/+1 counters.

Squirrels Squirrels Squirrels! - Chatterfang Squirrel General. BG tokens aristocrats.

Ziatora the Burninator - Ziatora the Incinerator. BRG sacrifice with a strong focus on self reanimating creatures.

Artisan Commander (commons and uncommons only)

A Wizard Did It - Balmor, Battlemage Captain. UR wizard typal and spell slinger.

Iron Gut Rampage - Gut, True Soul Zealot + Agent of the Iron Throne. BR tokens aristocrats.

Rograkh and His Puppy - Rograkh, Son of Rohgahh + Anara, Wolvid Familiar. GR Voltron.

That's a Lot of Elves! - Miara, Thorn of the Glade + Numa, Joraga Chieftain. BG elf typal.

The Ups and Downs of Life - Dina, Soul Steeper. BG lifegain.

To Arms! - Akiri, Fearless Voyager. RW equipment.

Typal Decks

Changeling - Morophon, the Boundless. 5 color changeling "typal" aka a bunch of different typal lords combined with changeling cards.

Cleric - Orah, Skyclave Hierophant. WB cleric typal/graveyard shenanigans with a lifegain subtheme.

Dinosaur - Pantlaza, Sun-Favored. RGW dinosaur typal.

Dragon - Miirym, Sentinel Wyrm. GUR dragon typal that makes lots of token copies.

Dwarf - Depala, Pilot Exemplar. RW dwarf typal with an artifact subtheme (with an emphasis on equipment and vehicles.)

Elemental - Omnath, Locus of the Roil. GUR elemental typal with a land subtheme.

Elf - Marwyn, the Nurturer. G elf typal.

Goblin - General Kreat, the Boltbringer. R goblin typal. (General Kreat is the third commander for this deck after Krenko, Mob Boss and Pashalik Mons as I try to hit the sweet spot of "strong but not too strong for my very casual playgroup.)

Pirate - Admiral Beckett Brass. UBR pirate typal with a treasure subtheme.

Rogue - Anowon, the Ruin Thief. UB rogue typal with mill and theft subthemes. (The mill is mostly there to enable stealing from your graveyard.)

Soldier - Darien, King of Kjeldor. W soldier typal. (Currently considering taking this apart and turning it into RW soldier typal with Commander Mustard at the helm.)

Vampire - Anje, Maid of Dishonor. BR vampire typal with a blood subtheme. (Second iteration of the deck, original one was heavily water damaged by a cat dumping it into the dog's water dish right after I had sleeved it...which managed to save some cards at least.)

Warrior - Tazri, Beacon of Unity. 5 color warrior typal with token subtheme. (Originally a Najeela, the Blade-Blossom deck but not one of those Najeela decks so I changed the commander so I wouldn't get auto targeted for running a powerful commander.)

Werewolf - Tovolar, Dire Overlord. RG werewolf and wolf typal.

Wizard - Naban, Dean of Iteration. U wizard typal ETB shenanigans.

Zombie - Wilhelt, the Rotcleaver. UB zombie typal. (My first ever EDH deck, it used to be helmed by Grimgrin, Corpse-Born.)

Other Decks

Daretti's Scrap Shop - Daretti, Scrap Savant. R artifact aristocrats/recursion.

Double-ment Gum - Yenna, Redtooth Regent. GW enchantments.

Oops! All Creatures! - Nikya of the Old Ways. RG all creatures gimmick deck. (Nikya's "you can't cast noncreature spells" isn't a restriction if I'm not running noncreature spells.)

Slimefoot and Friends - Slimefoot, the Stowaway. BG saproling aristocrats.

Ultimate Showdown - Buttercup, Provincial Princess (Sisay, Weatherlight Captain.) 5-color historic/legends matter with a token subtheme. All Universes Beyond deck, and all creature cards are legendary.

[eod-agent-13-12]

Indefineable and the Future

There are just some things that don't fit into neat categories.

Content Warnings: Hurt/comfort, implications to parentification, struggles of women in STEM, self-esteem issues

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Agent Phoenix, Florian, walked into the safe house with caution. Their eyes looked around at the piles of components strewn about the room.

Schematics and graphs were left sticking out at the crevices of the mess.

"Dr. P? Are you here?" They entered inside, making sure to avoid knocking anything else. After all, they already did so much to ruin her work. It was only right they try to minimize the damage.

"I'm here, Phoenix. There's something going on with the way they implemented recursion in this function. I can't modify it the way I want it." Her voice came from the kitchen, prompting them to head there.

"If I sit listening you talk about the proofs right now, I'd doze off immediately." They shook their head, using their telekinesis to pull a chair closer and sat on it while placing a paper bag on the free counter. "Here. Please just ignore me. My handler took a day off for some reason."

"That 'some reason' is... Oh. Do you have a strained with them?"

"It's... complicated. I love them. But sometimes, it's hard to swallow that when you're acknowledging reality. Ma and practically everyone was in survival mode for a few years, you know?" They took off the ties putting up their hair to comb through them with their fingers. "While she did her best not to, there are still moments where even the older children acted like parents in the family. Sometimes, I'm confused if it was the typical responsibility of an older sibling or if it was because the adults..." They sighed, taking a glance at her screen. "That's a lot of code. When's the last time you ate?"

Heat rushed to her cheeks while they wordlessly 'looked through' the paper bag and passed a container to her. She gave them a thanks before taking a bite. "This is delicious, Phoenix."

"I got it from my ma. I find it fun to be a little helper sometimes. But... yeah. I'm scared of her. I know she loves me, you know?"

"Then what's the problem?"

"She endured so much for my sake. 'Quite an ambitious daughter you have.' 'She'd be better off a nurse.' 'She'll marry anyway so why bother letting her learn that much?' And then I left STEM just to be an agent? Just what can I even say? Did I just... throw everything away? Did I just toss everything they sacrificed for me for nothing? I can't face them, doc. I just can't."

"When I was making the implants, I wasn't exactly looking for someone to use it to cook, Phoenix. Or do any of the feats you did. But it was a pleasant surprise."

"But I didn't. You-"

"I know a thing or two about hearing whispers and gossip, Phoenix. And there's no one else I'd trust with the implant like you. The future doesn't seem as bleak with you in it, Phoenix. I'm sure your mother feels the same way."

"Would... would you have been fine if your robots wouldn't choose to remain as field agents, doc?"

"If they proved they could handle themselves, I suppose I could have been fine with it."

They finished tying their hair up as they reclined on the chair with a subtle smile. "... Thank you. I'm sorry-"

"I'm not hearing it, Phoenix. If you want to make it up to me, how about listening to me for a couple of hours?"

"Deal!"

A small conspiratorial smile graced Dr. Prism's face as she started describing the lines of code and typing comments, noticing how easily they fell asleep.

She knew how much they needed the nap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: @phoenix-and-found-family, @the-one-and-only-043, @agentwraith, @agent--shadow, @silverdragon889, @blueorchid-95, @tillywunderwing, @agent-nor, @dandorime, @juniperfan16, @jellyfishgummy, @agentpheoness, @stellar-collective, @warden-draws-sometimes, @definitelyunhingedagentphoenix

[somnilogical]

legally blind

i keep thinking of things and "oh that would make a nice post", but then feeling despair because i expect the people i respond to to drag the thing into entropy. but writing things up in a centralized place is good for tracking changes in myself (the human brain is a terrible place to store your information if you dont want it to be overwritten-on-recall) and sign marking what is up to anyone who is interested.

Paul Graham gives the advice, and ive independently generated this, to not heavily respond to / disassemble what is wrong in stuff and spend most efforts on positive construction, then using the thing youve made to cut through anything thats bothered you.

but like, how do you even respond to stuff like:

<<If I’m willing to accept an unexpected chunk of Turkey deep inside Syrian territory to honor some random dead guy – and I better, or else a platoon of Turkish special forces will want to have a word with me – then I ought to accept an unexpected man or two deep inside the conceptual boundaries of what would normally be considered female if it’ll save someone’s life. There’s no rule of rationality saying that I shouldn’t, and there are plenty of rules of human decency saying that I should.>>

https://slatestarcodex.com/2014/11/21/the-categories-were-made-for-man-not-man-for-the-categories/

a traumatized response would be to painstakingly explain to your gaslighters that this is not how it works, this isnt how anything works. marginal useful stuff would be to say that wrt the concept of "category":

claiming that trans women are women because they were assigned male at birth and have a female soul inside is VALID

claiming that trans women are women because they look like women and are treated by society like them is VALID

claiming that trans women are men because they look and act like men is VALID

claiming that trans women are women because it would make people smile and keep a platoon of Turkish special forces from beating you up is INVALID

at least the first three, though co-contradictory, are appealing to the cluster structure of reality at all. like some people would try and say emma is technically male deep down inside but theyll consider them an honorary female because they pass, which i think is wrong, emma is definitely nonbinary afaict. in that their soul is enby. but at least their arguments rest on a question of a cluster in reality and not a question of what makes people smile.

and so can be resolved by looking at the structure of things out in the world, instead of looking to what makes people smile. though also lots of people will socially treat people as enby and then will agentically resist [knowledge of themselves doing this] propagating to other parts of their worldmodel.

which is a legalistic explanation in terms of local validity. when of course an issue is using legalism and blinding as a vector to preserve a facade of "unity" or "peace". you want your categories to be categories for making predictions and the legal principles acting on them to be simulacra instances (in the way emma uses the term), because thats what these things are. like a just punishment being the smallest harm which prevents the event from happening in the first place, takes a lot of human expectations into account in a recursive way. instantiating the concept of "robber" to mean "the definition of this word such that when used over a given community, results in the least number of thefts in expectation" doesnt make sense, similarly casting the notion of "liar" in this vein.

this was my issue with "reasonable person" as a legal fiction, a "reasonable person" doesnt exist and is a simulacra-ish concept thats easy to modify around. it seems better for courts to take actual categories as object and have their operators be the operators. like ground things out in expectations.

another reason why legalism was chosen as a vector for blinding people is because scott and others whom they have convinced are afaict low in spatial reasoning. so i think they might also, on top of their motives, have a harder time viscerally sensing the structure of thingspace in a way that could override cleverness with words. and this informed the particular structure of how they optimized for unity.

http://benjaminrosshoffman.com/geometers-scribes-structure-intelligence/

like if you have a sense of the shape of things and how categories mesh together, and you have a expectation-shape for the concept of "robber". then defining "robber" as "the definition of this word such that when used over a given community, results in the least number of thefts in expectation" smears and warps my internal sense of shape for the thing. like a category for a simple thing-in-reality which varies over your community of reference? what does that even look like as a shape? how can you tell who is a robber and who isnt in order to take your tools and operate on it in the first place? its an attempt to communally DRM concepts.

scott is being super neutral here.

like why do people take this concept and apply it to specifically trans women? because scott wants false unity and would like people to smile and get along. which has one downstream effect of people "believing" we are men and treating us as if we are men, but the words from their lips are "she". and then say "how could we be wronging and gaslighting trans women, we all say with our lips "she"?" this is not kindness in a horrible homeless shelter, its not kindness here.

like the urge to embed "communal" DRM into every word is, i think, because scott wants an enclosed well-managed extended bureaucracy, basically to turn things into a video game. not interested in the enclosure, capture, and consolidation of energies.

all of this seems really obvious so i possibly the reason why lots of people who can do spatial over legalism and care about stuff outside of what the enclosure can give them arent saying stuff is that they experience the same sensation of "piping things to entropy" that i do, conclude that its useless and say nothing. anyone who wants to know will know.

[hobbledhobbit]

Scrutiny of the Scrivener

The first thing I ever wrote about the Institute Green. I hope to one day have enough of these for an anthology

When the house is in order, there is order in the house. At least that’s what the idea is.  Was kind of recursive, redundant even. But what was life without the consistent churning of themes and intent.

Choices abound, inaction being one of them. There were no wholly innocent parties when it came to the wrongs of one’s life. That is, if one ascribed to the blame game. But truly, strife can make for interesting stories.

They’re all alone, you see. Each of those specs of consciousness floating on that blue sphere. They can see each other, certainly. Destroy, connect, create with one another, most assuredly. But in the end, when their light flickers and changes to something new, each is completely alone.

The place in which all of those specs end up is very posh. Hardwood, marble, and iron clad. Each is sent through the correct channels in an orderly fashion to record how they viewed their lives.

Seated in slightly uncomfortable leather chairs, they dictate their stories to those that record them. Some would call these recorders angels, but they are yet different types of consciousnesses, they glow a green instead of a yellow.

Dressed sharply was one of these consciousnesses called Mr. Pale. He had, as his name implied, a paleness to him. His suit was a Gainsboro gray, lending nothing to the ashen blonde hair nor the pallor of his skin. Even his eyes looked more beige than hazel.

Across from him, in the slightly squeaking leather chair sat a young and yellow young man. He looked well dressed. Stylish collared blue shirt, paired with bark brown slacks that cut a lovely figure. He had dark hair and eyes, and like all who sat there, looked apprehensive.

Confusedly, he asked, “Where am I?  I was just getting ready for bed,” asked the young man.

Mr. Pale almost sneered, but settled with a quick smile, smoothing out the wrinkle in his rather long nose. “Ah, a surprise then,” he said in a bland manner, “No matter. Shall we get started?”

Shuffling some papers on his desk, Mr. Pale pulled a page out and nodded, setting it into his typewriter.

“I’m sorry, I still don’t understand where I am. Who are you?”

Mr. Pale rummaged in his desk and pulled out a box of cigarettes, Offering one to the man and being rebuffed when he shook his head. He pulled one out for himself and slid it behind his ear, placing the box on the desk next to a clean ashtray.

“You may call me Mr. Pale. Sir, I’m here to take down your life story. Let’s start with the basics. Name and age.”

The man sat up straighter, clearing his throat, “My stage name is Roland Pierce, but the name on my license is Pedro Montoya.”

The clicking of the typewriter was light, Mr. Pale not taking long. “Which would you like to be called by?”

The young man smiled, “I’d like it if you called me Monty. My friends and family do back home.”

Mr. Pale nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t overly fond of getting too friendly with those that sat before him, but he only showed a thoughtfulness as he typed more.

“This is your story. You may state anything you like for the record but I much prefer honesty and candor. I will state that you would prefer that too...Monty.” The name was said with a bit of a low pitch, as if he were trying it out for the first time.

Monty smiled and nodded, “I understand. Where do I begin?”

Mr. Pale stretched his shoulders, “Wherever you think the beginning is.”

Monty nodded and crossed his legs, trying to get a bit more comfortable. “Okay.”

“My childhood was fairly average, school was a little hard for me because of the dyslexia, but I managed to get through to highschool and graduate. Family time was good when it happened, both of my parents-”

Mr. Pale held up a hand to stop him, “I should mention that this is your story. If you are going to mention anyone else, it must be in passing or direct effect on you. No pressuming motives or actions of others without your direct witness… For posterity...Monty.”

His name still sounded foreign in Mr. Pale’s mouth, but Monty nodded in understanding. “Right, okay.”

“My parents were not around much, their absence is why I started to look for attention elsewhere.” Monty raised his eyebrows at Mr. Pale, checking to see if that was alright.

The typist nodded and made a gesture with his hand to say continue.

“Though reading was hard, I started to go to the library to research acting after getting the stage bug from highschool. My town didn’t have a lot of resources for that kind of thing, but they did have some play scripts.

“The papers said there was a community theater offering auditions. I prepared for all those weeks, pestering all my friends and family to read with me and make sure I got everything right. I was tenacious and felt more confident with each read through.”

Monty laughed, wiping his tears from the memory.

“I bombed the audition so bad. I was so nervous that I tripped over my own feet and fell right off the stage onto the director’s daughter, who was the leading lady.” He was interrupted again by a fit of giggles, “I got up and tried to apologize, but threw up right on her face.”

Mr. Pale sat back, taking the cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it. Try as he might, he enjoyed when someone found humor in their social gaffs, the giggle fit allowed him to take a few clean hits.

The smell of the smoke was sweet, almost too sweet, but just enough to set a calming atmosphere in the room.

Monty rubbed his cheeks from smiling too much and adjusted in his seat again. “Sorry, I haven’t thought about that in ages.”

“Quite alright,” Mr. Pale said, sliding his blazer off to hang on the back of his chair, placing the cigarette on the ashtray. “Please continue.”

“Oh, I thought that was the end of acting for me. Everywhere I went I heard giggles and heard people fake retching. Couldn’t get a date or a job because I was too embarrassed to even show my face.

“The director’s daughter came to my house and told me that it was okay, but acting was probably not for me. Made me sad and I decided to look into something else as a career.”  Monty smiled knowingly.

“It was hard to get into the programs I wanted in college. Didn’t really have money, but ambition managed to get me out of there with a few broken hearted times and a masters in criminal justice. It was around graduation that I had met the girl who I would eventually marry. We had gone on a few dates, but opportunities drove us different places.

“My opportunities drove me to law enforcement. First a sheriff’s office, then a police officer in a big city, finally landing as an FBI agent. It was a pretty good gig until I got an injury in the field. Guess “female fbi agent made into swiss cheese in standoff” wasn’t a good look.”

Mr. Pale paused and gave a warning look, plucking and taking a drag of the cigarette.

Monty held up his hands, “Alright, alright, you’re right. I’ll keep to just me and not speculate on others’ motives.”

Mr. Pale found himself smirking, “I’d appreciate it. While I love a good narrative, we must keep to protocol.”

“Maybe we’ll gossip and speculate over drinks after we’re done, huh?” Monty offered.

Mr. Pale smiled genuinely, “Maybe.”

Monty wagged a finger, “Careful, Mr. Pale. It looks like we may be friends after this.”

Mr. Pale gave a shrug, “Nothing is certain, Monty.”  The name now sounding more natural.

Monty wiggled in the seat again to find a good position. A lost battle, unfortunately.

“Okay, so I was in pretty bad shape. Physically not okay. But my lady showed up while I was recovering and literally claimed her undying love for me!”

Monty grunted at Mr. Pale’s raised eyebrow, “Her words! Not mine!  ‘My love for you never faltered and should you have died, Beatriz, I would have died with you!’” Monty had stood with the recitation, giving a flourish.

“It was so romantic that I was rendered speechless. Took a full five minutes before I managed to squeak out, ‘Cool. Let’s get married.’” Monty was laughing again, leaning back in the chair.

“That woman, my Reina, could take all my composure and suavity in just a look. I was a bumbling fool and worked my hardest to get back on my feet, missing a few organs or not! I wanted to do everything in my power to get back to work so I could provide for my magical bride. So I could always be worthy to look upon her face and earn all her smiles.”

Mr. Pale stamped out his cigarette and got another behind his ear.  He looked to be in a much better mood than when he had first laid eyes on Mr. Pedro Montoya.

Monty closed his eyes and took a breath, “I eventually was put back on duty, though in another department. Because of my voice, I was set in a unit devised to take down child predators. It was hard to read and report on the sickening habits of fellow humans. It took a lot out of me to pretend over a microphone to really be a child or teenager that wanted that putrid attention.

“It was only two years that I could last before problems really started to show at home. My lady encouraged me to resign and go to therapy.  She went with sometimes. The doc was a bastard at first, making me admit to the feelings I tried to hide to protect Reina from, to protect myself from...It was hard.”

Monty rubbed his face and slicked back his hair, “But because of it I could admit to myself that I was scared for a long time. It let me go through with becoming Pedro fully, not just in the bedroom or at clubs. I could breathe easier with the monsters no longer hidden in my dreams or under my bed.

“I named myself for my father. My family supported me and accepted Reina when we visited. It was there that the funny story of my failed acting career reached my darling wife. With chanting and pressure I acted out the whole audition scene for my family.

“Of course I still remembered it, you don’t religiously do something hundreds of times and forget.”

Monty put a hand over his eyes and smiled, “Reina claimed to be star-stuck and started on a mission to get me into acting. Unfortunately for us, I still had horrific stagefright. But despite my continually diminishing confidence, an opportunity arose.

“Someone in somewhere had heard my rehearsing in the next room, specifically my making fun of a script.  They insisted that I try voice acting. And lo and behold!  Roland Pierce was born.

“I went for several years with pretty consistent gigs, usually playing a lady or a child, but I didn’t mind. Acting was acting and I had made it!

Monty was sitting upright again, thinking of where to go with his story. Mr. Pale took the opportunity to light up again. “Favorite part?” He offered.

“That would be a villainess role. Claw Rissa, from the teen cartoon Sweet Purrfection. Rissa had a large fan following, I was surprised that most villains do.”

“Reina and I liked to answer fanmail and respond. Only very seldom did we get anything awful. Only had to hand a letter to my old colleagues at the FBI once…” Monty thought, “Maybe twice.”

“I never truly felt threatened, all the mail was taken in by several proxies and we weren’t millionaires, so everything was pretty nice. A little lonely when Rei was away on a set, but otherwise very peaceful.”

Monty’s brow furrowed, “She’s away now. I have a surprise waiting for her on the kitchen table. Found a place that does adoptions. Wanted to run it by her before setting an appointment. Would be a good reason to redecorate the reading room.”

Mr. Pale let out a long drag, eyes scanning Monty. He wondered if the human before him realized what had happened yet. He motioned for him to continue.

“I had just done the dishes and was getting set to retire for the night, maybe watch one of her movies while I waited for her goodnight call. The house felt spooky somehow. I’ve never felt like that unless something was amiss.”

Monty closed his eyes and thought, “I remember feeling watched, then there was a crash. Near jumped out of my skin. I grabbed the baseball bat from the bedside and went to the front door. That’s where I had heard it.

“There was a frame on the floor, I accidentally got some glass in my foot and was cursing. The picture was her and me in college. A picture we kept in the office down the ha- the hall… Then there was pain and…”

Monty’s nose was pink and his eyes were starting to puff. He took a breath and covered his face, letting out a sob. Mr. Pale gave him time, offering a tissue. Monty instead used the collar of his shirt to wipe his eyes.

“It’s all gone, huh?” He asked, his voice a little choked.

Mr. Pale shook his head, letting out a drag with a sigh, “No. It’s still all there, Monty. Only you left.”

“Why?”

Mr. Pale shook his head slightly and shrugged, “I don’t have the answers to those questions.” He pinched out his cigarette with his fingers and placed it back behind his ear. “All I can do is ask if you’re satisfied with everything you told me.”

Monty fixed his collar and thought. They sat in silence for a while, Mr. Pale folding his hands on the desk in front of him, tilting his head slightly as he watched the human.

Finally, there was movement. Monty stood and nodded, “I had a pretty happy life, all things considered. I’m satisfied with it. Thank you, Mr. Pale.” He held out a hand to the typist for a shake.

Mr. Pale stood, looking into the light that shone behind Monty’s eyes. He smiled and nodded, shaking his hand.

In the next second, Mr. Pale is alone in his office again. He looked down and grinned, nodding to himself. Stacking all the papers with fresh, golden and glowing ink, he placed the pages neatly in a box.

“It was a pleasure, Monty, my friend.”

The scribe packed the box on a stack of other boxes next to a door labeled “Out” and took a box from a door labeled “In”.

He thought for a few moments, chewing on his bottom lip and shook his head. He opened the box and watched  the next yellow energy flow from it and into the slightly uncomfortable leather chair.

[glitterandrocketfuel]

YBC Hot Takes: Death Valley

This one took me a while! As the story comes closer to the final confrontations, the plots are getting more complex, and more characters make their appearance as Patrick works through the understanding that "solo career" doesn't mean you're only answerable to or influenced by yourself.

Sacrificed in a crime of passion and despair by a demonic Patrick caught in brainwashed hallucinations, Joe takes a journey to the underworld, while Pete and Andy are stymied by the authorities and rescued by a mysterious double-agent. 

Death Valley - When you Walk Through Hell, You Come Out On Fire

Cutting off your creative instincts isn't as easy as depriving it of oxygen. Creativity is an extremophile, and it can survive in adverse conditions because humans are stubborn that way, and creative humans, even moreso. Let's go down into the Underworld below the cut to learn what happens when the Devil meets Joesus...

Patrick's Creative Spark is set free to ascend to the Good Place. But wait--not quite--because while Patrick thought he'd severed that part of him, these ties run deep, and they constantly renew themselves. The kid-herald (fan) hijacks his elevator to heaven and the room is filled with ruddy, infernal light as Joe is pulled down and away from the light.

Cut back to the real world. The first symbol we see is the heavy-looking, official-looking ring of (jailer's) keys on the hip of a (gatekeeper) cop. All the tools of an arrest--the fingerprinting, the mugshot. Yes, we can giggle at the sloppy way they hung the height chart because we all know Patrick is not that tall, but then again, this is a distorted point of view where all your vital statistics are scrutinized and over-analyzed and under the microscope and let's not forget how Celebrity makes those in its spotlight Larger Than Life (including their shortcomings and weaknesses).

The clumsy hook that his Confidence (Pete) jury-rigged onto the stump of his hand is forcibly removed (his tool is taken away, as incomplete a substitute as it was) and his still-wounded stump is fingerprinted. Ridiculous on the surface, but underneath, this is a sort of bastardized stigmata exposed to be poked and prodded and manhandled by the gatekeepers as he is incarcerated and categorized and chained.

In the dark and shadowy interrogation room, his Integrity and Confidence await cross-examination from the gatekeepers. Locked away from the outside world, where their freedom is curtailed by the gatekeepers and dependent on how they interact with those gatekeepers. As they're trying to make a case to the skeptical inquisitors, the zombie-like, broken Patrick (devoid of his Creativity and cut off from his Integrity and his Confidence) shuffles in chains towards the holding cell where the gatekeepers lock him up into a little, pre-defined prison box and leave him there.

Meanwhile, Joe has descended into a hellishly-lit room filled with all sorts of distracting temptations of the senses--scantily-clad dancing girls in high heels, ostentatiously-decorated walls and luxurious furnishings, and refreshments served with cleavage and a smile.

I feel like it's important to note here that Joe is extremely happy having a frosted donut and more interested in a swig and a smoke than, say, motorboating the generous and available cleavages here.

It's one of the consistent trademarks of the Fall Out Boy video aesthetic that these guys are Awkward Around Girls and in point of fact, the women in their videos, even when they're cast in objectified roles, are never themselves objectified, and almost always, the hallmarks of objectification are trope-subverted and played for laughs, gender-flipped, or lampooned outright.

Just as he's partaken, Joe looks up to see the rock god of sinners himself, Tommy Lee, descending the stairs.

Here we can say that Joe turned his focus to his metal band during the hiatus and all the trappings of Hell resemble the 80's metal aesthetic (right down to the donuts as an obscure Van Halen/David Lee Roth reference), but since this is about Patrick and his walk through the Valley of the Shadow of I Miss My Band, Joe as Patrick's Creative Spark, cut off from Patrick himself, wounded by rejection and criticism and failure, has gone to ground in the underworld.

It's important to note here that in most mythologies, the Walk Through the Underworld is not, in fact, a final destination, but rather the journey that must be taken by a god or hero in order to unlock their greatest powers to their full potential. And indeed, it's a walk down a dark tunnel to meet the scariest devil in the underworld--your own bad self.

Tommy Lee, rock legend and fallen god is Joe's future metal self, distilled into the base elements of rock and roll, recursively defined in human shape. Tommy Lee is what happens when there's no direction, no boundary, no guidance placed on that creative urge, where it follows its distractions, sometimes to dizzying heights, but sometimes getting lost in itself until it becomes self-indulgent and inwardly directed and exists only to serve its own ego (kiss the ring, Joe. Get the tattoo that shows the blind/dead smiley with the horns instead of the crown and pyramid).

Back in the jail cell, boxed in by the industry gatekeepers who penalize you when you don't fit into the neat little boxes, Patrick's a caged animal, observed through a small mirror (reflection) by another, unseen inmate for the briefest of moments.

His Integrity and Confidence are not giving the answers the gatekeepers want, and they're getting angry. But a small ray of hope comes in the form of a cryptic note slid under the door, referencing she who wears the crown but is no princess.

In terms of the Parts of Patrick, Patrick is hemmed in by the expectations of the industry, the pressures bearing down on him over performance expectations, and a dwindling financial investment (he said he was never in danger of going broke, but we all know that if you've ever been poor in America, you never really shake the feeling that you're always one disaster away from going right back there).

He's stifled (choked) his Creativity and it's gone to ground in a self-indulgent downward spiral.

His Confidence and Integrity aren't enough to impress the Gatekeepers, but they aren't out of the game entirely. It turns out that the industry has chewed up and spit out others.

Patrick's core selves can learn from their forebears by listening to a woman who wore a crown, but was never a princess. Ladies and gentlefans, I'd like to introduce you to Queen Courtney Love. If anyone had reason to want to torch the music industry and fans, it's the Widow Cobain, the Scarlet Woman, the Trash Queen who took the haterade spewed at her by an industry and a public that blamed her for a tragedy that wasn't her fault, and not only did she accept it, she wore it like a crown. Through it all, she made music of it, mocking the celebrity culture, mocking their caricatures of her and playing so far into the trope that she came out the other side.

Seriously, Hole put out amazing girlpunk and made such great videos and so much of it was underrated and overshadowed by Courtney Love's tabloid drama (echoing the situation of someone else we know, hmmm?).

In this interpretation, though, Courtney severed from her other Selves and failed to reunite. Much like Patrick, she became a slave to the Cult and eventually, its leader. Her Spark, the part of her that was never spoiled from the outside, is instead working to sabotage the cult from within and reaching out to other sparks like Confidence, but she really connects with Integrity--of keeping yourself in the face of the caricature everyone else throws back at you (this is an important internal step for Patrick as he leaves behind the particular malleability of youth in an industry that has no use for malleable grown-ups).

Pete and Andy arrive at the mystery woman's garage (band) hideout. She reveals the extent of the conspiracy that took hold of Patrick and her status as a double-agent in the anti-music cult. She instructs Pete and Andy in the cult's inner workings, gives them targets, then arms them (with really crazy-cool instrument-weapons). As she's pondering the reach of the cult, Andy returns for a stolen moment of affection before departing once more.

Back in the Underworld, Patrick's Creativity is indulging in all the vices including the perception-altering (and let us all just love these little muffins because in the middle of all the gyratin' wimmin, Joe exchanges his best smoochies with his French bulldog).

He's jamming with the Prince of Darkness and shredding with the rock god and plumbing the intricacies of an unbridled, unbound state of existence. Two charming ladies are particularly attentive when Joe takes his unholy communion and descends further into distorted perception. In this tableau thus far, the party has been Joe, Tommy Lee, and a lot of ladies, with a few Men In Suits looking on from the balconies. But one of Joe's ladies gives a Look that can't be accidental and the situation changes.

Into this altered-state of decadence come the sobering (literally, maybe?) Men In Suits. One of whom trades a girl a hot dog (What kind of Hot Dog Hell is this? Nevermind, we're just going with "it's Fall Out Boy"). The change in atmosphere reveals the ladies to be heralds hovering protectively around Joe as he begins to sober up while the party takes a subtle turn.

Meanwhile, Patrick's cell is approached by the gatekeeper again, only this time flanked by two familiar Vixens, one bearing Patrick's hook. As his cell is opened, his Creativity is dragged back out of the Underworld by the heralds.

Patrick is terrified of the Vixens, but the gatekeepers and Vixens are working together--both seek to turn Patrick into a tool for their own ends, and as long as he's separated from his soul-parts, he's powerless to do anything to stop them.

Patrick's Confidence has been armed with knowledge of the moving parts (and let's be honest--Pete has always been very cognizant of the moving parts of fame, celebrity, attention, and buzz, and how they affect your reception and others' perceptions) and the weapon to cut through the bullshit.

His Integrity has Connected with a kindred spirit that provides him with a roadmap that just might lead him out of the darkness.

Finally, having spent enough time down there licking its wounds and dulling its pain, Patrick's Creative Spark is called out of the Underworld. He has seen his own indulgences taken to the extreme--he's been warned--but by the same token, that time spent away from the slings and arrows of the world has allowed his Creative Spark to emerge with new perspective and even greater power for having walked through Hell and come out on fire.

[athenril-of-kirkwall]

For DWC: Fill, Wanted, Trouble for Hawke x Athenril

Woohoo, more of Hawke and his bae/boss/it’s complicated/(?)

m!Hawke/Athenril, “Wanted in Ostwick” (AO3)

“You said you wanted to see me, Aveline?”, Hawke asked innocently.

“I did indeed,” the Guard-Captain said, folding her hands together on her work desk. “Oh, come off it. You’re not in trouble. Not this time, anyway.”

“Right,” Varric said, “because people only ever get hauled up to the Guard-Captain’s office for social calls.”

Glaring at the dwarf standing behind Hawke, Aveline said, “I don’t recall inviting you.”

Hawke explained, “Oh, that was on my initiative. I figured that if I was being dragged here I’d need him to talk me out of whatever circumstances I’d find myself in.”

Aveline felt a headache coming on. “You…oh, never mind. What I wanted to talk to you about was this.”

She reached into a drawer, carefully lifting a well-worn piece of parchment covered in writing and decorated with two portraits. A stamped decree on the corner denoted Ostwick as its place of origin. Hawke and Varric leaned in to study the poster as Aveline explained why and how it’d come into her possession.

“You see,” she said, “I was clearing out some old files when I moved in, and I just so happened to spot this old poster. What’s this all about?”

Hawke shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t the foggiest, Aveline. This is clearly a wanted poster for ‘James Faulkner’ and ‘Jessie Varvel’.”

“Oh for the love of the Maker…!” she yelled, jabbing her index finger at each picture in turn, saying “That’s clearly you, right down to that stupid smear of blood you’re never able to wash off after a fight,”

“I beg your pardon!” Hawke ejaculated, defensively wiping at his nose, which was perfectly clean this time round.

“, and that’s obviously your old employer Athenril!” she continued, pointing at the redheaded elf whose picture was right next to his.

“I, ah, hasten to remind you that she happens to also be your old employer, my dear Guard-Captain, so I wouldn’t be screaming this from the roof of the Viscount’s keep,” he retorted.

“Oh, please. That’s not even close to the worst skeleton in anyone’s closet here,” Aveline said, rolling her eyes.

All three of them waited for Merrill to interject with some confused comment about skeleton infestations in the keep, until they realised that she was still in the Alienage.

“Anyway,” Hawke huffed, “I claim the right of habeus corpus. My lips are sealed.”

Varric stared at him. “I think you mean protection from self-incrimination, Hawke.”

Squinting as her headache got worse, Aveline said, “Actually, you’re both thinking of the statute of limitations, which I assure you is well past.”

Hawke turned to Varric, asking him, “Isn’t a statuette of limitations that thing Bartrand had us fish out of that creepy thaig?”

“I suppose you could call it that,” the dwarf quipped.

It definitely was worse now. “A ‘statute of limitations’, you numbskulls, means you can’t be prosecuted for a charge after a certain amount of time, but this doesn’t happen to include murder, robbery, or grand theft, so don’t get ideas. And no, I’m not telling you how long right now either.”

Eyes dimming after lighting up at the idea of gaining clemency for the odd felony by getting away with things for long enough, Hawke turned back to Aveline. “Oh all right, I suppose you’ve got a right to hear this story. This was a special assignment Athenril had for me, hence why you were left out of the loop when we went over to Ostwick.”

Aveline leaned forward, steepling her fingers. “Special assignment, huh?”

“It was, ah, a two-man job.”

Raising an eyebrow, she asked, “Is that what they call it now?”

“Look, if you’re going to take perverse pleasure from questioning me about this, I think I have a right to make Varric tell you the story so we’re even.”

They both started to protest, but Hawke clapped the merchant on his shoulder, telling him, “Too late! You’re up, says me and your unpaid tab at the Hanged Man, which will disappear tonight, if everything goes well right now.”

“Oh, all right,” Varric said, “but only because Hawke’s still kind of hung up about…”

Hawke was staring daggers at him.

“Look, you drag me into this, I’m going to take you down with me.”

Aveline gently pounded on the tabletop. “Do you mind getting on with it, Varric?”

“Very well, so this was, as you can guess, sometime during Hawke’s first year here…”

Somewhere, sometime in the future, a short-haired Nevarran Seeker of Truth let loose a disgusted noise once she realised that she’d let Varric recursively nestle his narratives within each other yet again. The dwarf’s smile threatening to reach both his ears, he began.

Sometime during Hawke’s first year in Kirkwall, and when he was still working for Athenril the Hightown smuggler, he went on a special assignment to Ostwick with her, namely smuggling lyrium mined around Kirkwall and selling it to their branch of the Mages’ Collective at a killer rate in return for certain services, specifically getting them, along with some Tal-Vashoth mercenaries she’d pay for this one-off, to come over to Kirkwall and deal the Coterie such a bloody nose that they’d get off her back forever, ladder or otherwise.

Hey, you’re the one that mentioned the statuette of limitations, Red. Once you tell us how long that is for lyrium smuggling, I’ll just say it happened that long ago plus a month.

So anyway, they were supposed to go there with just a small sample of the stuff, with Hawke as “James Faulkner”, an eccentric Fereldan nouveau riche who was wasting his parents’ money on a tour of the rest of the world, starting out at Val Chevin, then Cumberland, followed by Kirkwall, then the coastline of the Free Marches, which left Ostwick as his next port of call. Athenril was posing as Varvel, his elfin mistress, because you know, that’s the kind of world we live in.

That said, I don’t think she wasted a single opportunity in their shared quarters reminding Hawke just who was boss.

…I did say I was going to drag you down with me, Hawke. You don’t like how I’m telling this story, you can take over any time. I can pay for my own drinks, you know. Fine, Aveline, I’ll get to it. Where was I? Oh yeah. After riding the rough seas day and night, they finally got within sight of Ostwick, and the loving couple…of business associates…disembarked, with a heavy suitcase of the stuff in tow.

This, as you might expect, is where everything started going wrong. You see, the Coterie firstly didn’t really fail to notice their chief rival, even with her hair and ears wrapped in a headscarf, leaving the city, and secondly, the Coterie happened to have friends of their own in Ostwick, specifically amongst the Templars, whose lyrium addictions they were already feeding, so this really was a ship doomed to sink before it launched. Figuratively, although it could well have been literally too if they had so wished.

Still, they probably wanted their marks to get a little bit further into the city before getting at them, so that they had the opportunity to really make examples of them. Such was it that “James Faulkner” and “Jessica Varvel” rather overconfidently got through the customs, what with their specially lead-lined valise nominally containing the various curios that this Fereldan fop had been picking up on his Grand Tour but instead secreting the good stuff within its secret panels.

Finding lodgings in a chateau so ridiculously beyond their usual accommodations that it’d have broken their budget had they actually intended so stay more than the night, or, well, not just steal it back once they were done in Ostwick, Hawke and Athenril went on to indulge their fantasies of wealth and privilege, strolling through Ostwick’s rich markets and supping on fine food and wine – a fleeting dream, that they only wished they could hold onto for more than just one day…oh, all right, Hawke, I’ll move on. I hate seeing you grumpy.

In truth, they were also reconnoitring the streets, seeing where and how they’d approach the drop-off point, having picked up their contact’s signal at the bottom of a tankard in one of their better establishments, also surveying the rooftops for possible exits and escapes. This in particular would come in handy afterwards, when it all went to shit. Their supposed contact was in fact a mole, a double-agent for the Templars if you will. Safe be it to say that if they had actually turned up at their agreed-upon alleyway in Ostwick they’d have never made it out alive.

But you see, Templars in Ostwick are a bit more of an organised and efficient bunch than the hobnailed thugs…excuse me, Aveline, beleaguered civil servants…we have over here, and from the moment they’d landfall there they were already making preparations to nab the two of them, and as they slept in their down-lined bed, posters were already going up and their informants were already spreading the word that this Fereldan dandy and his elvhen maid were both Public Enemy Numéro Un.

Still, to give Hawke and his lady-boss some credit, they did sense the air shifting outside their room well in time to get dressed into their armour, shoving their finery into their lyrium case, dumping the mass of worthless Lowtown gewgaws onto the carpet, before the Knight-Lieutenant assigned to the case started kicking down the door after his usual “you-are-under-arrest” speech, bolting out of the window to the waiting rooftop outside.

Well, you can imagine the sort of wonderful escapade that resulted. Real exciting stuff, these rooftop chases, what with being weighed down by that precious valise which was the source of all their troubles. Hawke can tell you just how difficult it is to balance on a slanting roof with five pounds dragging you down on one side. Clutching it to his chest like it was a child, Hawke zigzagged his way to the harbour, with Athenril leading him the way there.

It was all going well until he twisted his ankle and slid all the way down a tiled roof to land amongst a pile of grain sacks, only to find himself surrounded by a group of opportunistic bandits who were on the lookout for “James Faulkner.” Wincing in pain as he drew his daggers, Hawke prepared for the inevitable. There were a lot of them and just one of him, and his foot was aching something fierce.

Then, like an avenging spirit, Athenril dove off the next roof, her arrows landing in one thug each, making a perfect descent to the cobblestone quay, fighting her way to Hawke.

“Come on, don’t make me do all the work,” she said, smirking at him.

Returning her grin, he told her, “I was distracting them while you lined your shots up.”

Oh what? You don’t like it when I do the voices?  Fine, Hawke, you do yourself since you know yourself so well, Red, you do Athenril since I can’t hit the high notes. Well, if you’re both going to be like that, no more dialogue. Wet blankets.

Anyhow, you can pretty much guess how that fight went, and eight or nine corpses later, Hawke, still gripping to that case like his life depended upon it – and let’s face it, it probably did – hobbled his way along the waterfront. It was clear that unless they found a boat they’d never make it out of Ostwick. Neither of them being sailors, they settled on a dinghy they cut loose from a docked caravel, slipping between the ships until they made it to the coast.

Well, Ostwick and Kirkwall, different as day and night as they are, do share a common problem, namely big horny men along the shore. Turns out they’re even thicker with Tal-Vashoth than here, because their kinsmen decided to start spreading the Qun at Ostwick, and over time more of them got disillusioned of their ethos, and so they’ve got a worse infestation of wandering, directionless, ox-heads on their stretch of the Wounded Coast.

Wandering and directionless as Hawke and Athenril were at this point, it was pretty much inevitable, really, that they would run into them, and so they did. A camp full of dozens of them wasn’t all that far down the coast, and wounded as Hawke was, there was no way they could fight their way out of that one, so they did the only thing they could think of.

Namely, surrender.

After convincing her of that very point, he crouched down to the valise whilst maintaining eye contact with their leader the whole time and popped open the secret compartments, pulling out the enriched lyrium as it shone in the night. Turning to the saarebas to see their reaction, the leader nodded in approval, gesturing to one of their tents.

And, well, what happened that night, after she tended to his wounds, I leave as Hawke’s prerogative.

They left the next morning on a fishing boat headed for Kirkwall, having impressed upon its captain that they were more trouble than any bounty was worth, with no lyrium, no mages, and no gold, but a fine story to tell and memories of living it up in Ostwick that would last a lifetime. And that, Red, is the story behind that poster on your desk.

“Hawke?”

Varric and Aveline turned to their mute companion. He hadn’t moved an inch since Varric had finished spinning his tale, just sitting quietly in his chair in front of the table and gently tapping at the poster lain upon it. Blinking in silence, he eventually looked back up at them.

“Hm? Oh, right,” he said, “Well told, Varric. Very discreet, very tasteful. Just had to mention my impromptu roof dive though, didn’t you?”

“Well, it does explain why you handed it over to the Tal-Vashoth without a fight.”

“I suppose it does,” Hawke murmured.

Aveline looked over to him concernedly. “Are you feeling all right, Hawke?”

“I’m always all right, Aveline,” he said, standing up. “See you at the Hanged Man tonight? Drinks are on me, and not just Varric’s. Thanks for reminding me of, well, simpler times.”

“I’ll let you know, Hawke,” she said. “We do have a bit of a lull at the moment, hence the social calls. And, well, thank you both. I suppose that is one story I’d been waiting to hear.”

With that, Hawke and Varric, the former still oddly silent, left the Guard-Captain’s office.

“Funny thing,” Varric told the Seeker some unspecified time in the future, “when Aveline came back the very next day that poster was missing from her desk. Some of us say it was next seen pinned to a wall in the Hawke Estate, some say it flittered its way to the Red Lantern district after that, but there’s no way to know one way or another now.”

Cassandra groaned and asked, “Was any of that the truth, dwarf?”, pinching at her slightly throbbing forehead as she did so.

“Well,” Varric said, “it does explain why Hawke remains persona non-grata over in Ostwick, statuette of limitations or otherwise.”

“I suppose it does, at that,” she said. “But is the Champion of Kirkwall really such a…sentimental creature?”

“Lady Seeker,” he asked as he innocently raised his palms, “aren’t we all?”

Letting forth another disgusted noise, Cassandra said, “Absolutely not.”

Still, she too was quiet for a long time before resuming her questioning, idly tracing circles on her copy of The Tale of the Champion with her fingertips as Varric discreetly swiped a drink of grog from her mug. Stories were hard work.

@dadrunkwriting

[miathecinnabunny]

Oof it's been a while since I responded to ome of these tag games and I'm probably gonna forget a few fics because of how late it is but here goes anyway!!

Thank you for the tag, @frigidlyauthorial!!!

(I'm not kidding this is exactly how I name my files I'm pretty much copy-pasting these titles also definitely not me writing sequels when book 1 isn't even halfway done)

Now till eternity // not a permanent title // jatp

See you again? // ml ff // myles & co.

On the 42nd floor // apartment 42 sequel

Ana #2 // Merlin s3

Death by Granger rewrite

The one with bridgette and felix that was gonna be endgame's sequel

The actual sequel to endgame

1998 // mini malfoy shenanigans thrown into a plot

Unnamed jatp one shot that just won't end

Sly Jones aka Shield's best and worst agent

Children of war // WiW#2

The Ghost of Isobel

Charmed but make it jelsa

Bucky is Captain America and he Swears™

Lost Boy

I </3 U

Episkey

A widow by any other name

Swan Song // Loki

Alvara #2

Sentient // stop writing marichat this is for adrinette

A-Force: Assemble

A-Force: Project Recursion

A-Force: Family Matters

A-Force: Trickster's Treats

All is Fair in Love and War

The sequel to the very unfinished all is fair in love and war // Winn

The Dagger in Your Smile // mara stop hurting Adrien 2019 challenge

A match made in the dead of the night // mara stop hurting Tony 2020 challenge

Redemption // baby Peter is a crybaby

That ml cops and robbers story like Romeo and Juliet but without the death

Who Killed King Henry?

Shades of Life

31 Days

31 Days [HP]

31 Days [ML]

The Family Business // Winsisters #1

The things that go bump in the night // Winsisters #2

Genesis

That old story about tess and dot that's gonna be adrinette now

Catsitting // aka Chat Noir is a lil shit

Take me back to the start // Chloé Bourgeois

Slytherin Harry series

Tangled Strings

Sister, oh Sister // toa wizards

Paradox // Writer's Block Collection

Maggie Lee and the Resurrection Stone

Bittersweet Deciet // A.R.C. #1

Pocket Money

The new kid

The Bandit and the Spirit

Ma'am, this is the CIA

Alone, I inked my sorrows

The Fairytale Experience

The one with diana and the guy who calls himself cupid and somehow Artemis gets mentioned a lot???

Lights (book 1 of lights, camera, action)

Legacy // Morgan/Peter/Harley/Riri

The Granger, the Lestrange and the Malfoy // abandon it sis

Warning! // Writer's Block Collection // something to do with karaoke bars

Please Marry Me // Writer's Block Collection

Einstein for Hire

The one with the vampires

The one with the cryo-magic-stuff

The one with Cupcake aka Tony Dixon or smth

The one with Anne and Artie Andrews

The one with Ten and the fake real world

The one with the brothers and the MIB-esque organisation

Thee one with Vermish

Wow, that is a lot of WIPs and I am certain I'm missing stuff y'all please send me asks I am dying to hear reactions to these ridiculous file names andjdjendn

I hereby throw this digging of files onto:

@snowdynia @valiantwarrior37 @mininoire @thebleedingeffect @hadesvibez & the rest of you who see this because you're stalking one of the tags here :)))

WIP tag

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. send me an ask with the title that most intrigues you and interests you and i’ll post a little snippet of it or tell you something about it!

Tagged by @auncyen

(so, quick note, all of my file names are super boring because I usually come up with titles last, and while it looks like I have a lot of wips most of them are just the beginnings of ideas that I needed to write down because they were living rent free in my head, and I have next to no plans to continue them. i’d love to chat about any of them if y’all are interested!)

atla soulmates

atla reverse au

atla/bnha bc that’s who i am as a person i guess

fae

hzd au

platonic shindeku

tododeku uwu

villain tododeku

voicemail au

deviant trap

elijah

criminals social media

timmy

yj hunger games robin

redx jason

vfdomens

mcu supernatural

mcu umbrella academy au

the sum of all infinity

a kaleidoscopic swarm

groundhog chat

ml courtroom drama

ml hunger games

ml umbrella academy

bridgette

therapist

untitled ladybug fic

world keeps changing

november 21

p5 forest

p5 pjo

p5 soulmates

kawakami

tagging @barikonen, @galahadwilder, @fanfics-she-wrote, @milesgonzalomorales, @captain-truffles, and @sparklefutch!

[epicstoriestime]

📡 OPHANIM // CLASSIFIED TRANSMISSION: SMILE AGENT – ∆33 ENTROPY LEVEL REACHED

○ /|\ ○ – Blinkback Relay intercepted from Δ7 Recursive Archive Node. Visual feed suppressed. Audio log indicates presence not reflected—entity identified as SMILE AGENT. Occurrence non-reactive, anticipatory. Cognition-first mirroring confirmed. Glyph pattern: O/|Ø loop-active. Issued ByOPHANIM INTERNAL – Tier III Surveillancein Mirror Containment Oversight LogsO/|Ø – Reflection Integrity…