#rusty's analyses

[rustyvanburace]

I cannot help but see some parallels between the kidnapping of Akira's sister in IV and Asahi's death in IVA.

Both girls are taken into an ovoidal vessel that would ferry them along with countless others to another world as part of a god's grander scheme. Akira's sister is kidnapped as one of God's Chosen and holed up in a giant cocoon, which in the main timeline did succeed in flying her off to what would eventually become the Kingdom of Mikado. Asahi was killed and her soul became one of the many others trapped in the Cosmic Egg, which would have led to the birth of a new universe that all the souls would be reborn into. Different circumstances and outcomes, but still the same idea.

There's unfortunately nothing that states or even directly implies that Asahi is or was ever intended to be the reincarnation of Akira's sister. But when considering her intrinsic closeness to Nanashi as foster siblings, how Nanashi is always made to keep an eye on her, and even just the parallels between the cocoon and Cosmic Egg, I think there is a reasonable degree of implicity that Asahi is or could be the reincarnation of her. At least, even as pure fanon it wouldn't be a far-fetched one.

Akira succeeded in reaching the Firmament, but because of the Tokyo-Mikado time dilation and the years it took to even dig through the ceiling, he never got to reunite with his sister as she would have already died a long time ago by then. The DLC timeline note in IVA's database states that 300 years had passed on the surface by the time Akira breached it.

In a way then, Akira and his sister are vindicated when Nanashi enters the Cosmic Egg and rescues Asahi in the Bonds route. Time is a flat circle.

[beepbeepdespair]

last night i dreamt i was at a con and went to rusty quill's area but ended up doing a four question quiz where you could proceed through the next of four baby gates if you got the answer right. everyone was dressed in black robes and spoke ominously. i won and was made to rummage around inside a flat inflatable of mr bonzo to obtain my prize, which turned out to be a box with symbols on it containing jonah's eyes and a letter from him. the lights went out and when they came back on his body (as elias) was on the floor and i was forced to push the eyes into his sockets and so (probably) singlehandedly doom the world again by bringing him back. i could not refuse. oh, and i was dressed as agnes the whole time

[totheidiot]

i feel about marvin the paranoid android the exact same way i feel about breekon and hope.

[applespider]

Whoever compared c!Tommy to c!Purpled saying one was drowning and the other was in a desert I hate you (<-I love you). I think it’s really fucking fascinating the way hurt characters make unfair reads on other hurt characters, characters like Tommy, Niki, Jack, Purpled, and I’d even argue, Puffy. It’s hard to say they just “don’t get it” because, well, they don’t, but the implication that they simply haven’t suffered enough is false. It’s one of those little things I like to pick apart in the shower, the way different characters are unable to provide sympathy as a defense mechanism, and the way this combines with the fact they suffered differently and that a lot of them felt their suffering invalidated!

I think Puffy’s relationship with the eggpire post-banquet is fascinating, particularly when Bad and Ant went to apologize for her. She struck me as, for lack of a better word, unfair. Unsympathetic. And I think this is a reaction a lot of characters had in order to defend themselves. Because it came off as logically unfair to me at the time, but damn if I didn’t feel that. Her care for them was abused, her attempts to help burned her again and again. A combination of flattening out the source of her pain in order to slow herself to feel it, in order to make it simple, and refusing to try again with this friendship. I was absolutely shit at keeping up with the eggpire lore so I’m not sure how their relationship developed after that, but Puffy’s streams around that time burned themselves into my brain.

Niki, and even more so Jack, do this a bit more obviously. Niki finding a singular person to blame, denying any past positive feelings for L’Manberg, isolating herself, these are all obviously psychological defenses. If she was tricked into loving something, her hurt can’t be her fault (and obviously it wasn’t but I think she was scared it was), if there’s a tangible target for her blame all this pain and fear and sadness has somewhere to go (but shoveling water out of the leaky boat doesn’t plug the hole), and being alone means safety (being alone means bone-cold nights, means no one to ask her if she’s eating, when the last time she slept was).

And everyone knows about Jack’s relationship with Tommy (it was so fucking good, someone wrote a post about Jack being a character who looked at Tommy in an antagonistic light for genuinely good reason. They were on very equal footing in their, admittedly very one-sided, feud. People saw the victim in Tommy, but Tommy hurt Jack and no one seemed to care, so he shut out Tommy’s hurt, to the point he so thoroughly prevented himself from seeing Tommy as a complete person at all. A more extreme version on Puffy’s reaction post-Banquet and Niki’s simplification. All the while failing to get Tommy to just fucking look at him. He could not show sympathy to Tommy because he could not find anyone to show sympathy to him. This is why his talk with Niki the day of the prison escape imprinted itself on me, these two attempting to set up a more proper friendship again, no strings attached this time.)

My mind if first, of course, drawn to Tommy talking to Jack post-revival. The way he completely brushes over everything Jack is trying to say, pulls attention back to himself, is unable to express sympathy as he’s still trying to process his own hurt. It’s a very obvious example, with Tommy’s awful experience being so fresh this defense mechanism really shows up. Tommy is a generally fairly empathetic person so it’s definitely interesting to see this side of him on such brazen display (another example being Jack’s exile death. Oh I think so much could be said about the way this comes out towards Jack specifically). Another smaller example I think of is his “tough skin” comment to Tubbo, he doesn’t want to talk about Tubbo’s hurt and more so he’s not really able to see it over his own, he’s laser focused on himself because everything in him is laser focused on keeping himself alive and relatively intact, the exact same reasoning for everyone else’s actions I brought up here.

I’m not exactly a Purpled expert but his character definitely appeals to me. For him to seems like this defense mechanism is much more ingrained. Not just overlooking others’ pain or flattening out objects of hurt, but intentionally narrowing his focus only to himself. His coldness and self-isolation are big parts of him, but what makes them incredibly engaging is every other aspect of him that slips through. Namely, that in succeeding in what previously mentioned characters only micro (or, frankly macro)dosed on, he was hit by another unexpected problem. Being super lonely actually does really bad shit to your sense of self-worth. He mastered the survival tactic but found himself craving something else, some proof of his worth (his existence). I think it’s nifty there a range from most subtle (Puffy) to most obvious (Purpled) examples of this one not great coping mechanism. Very cool.

[rowanthestrange]

The thing is, you could’ve made Rogue entering to “I’m The Bad Guy, Duh.” easily make sense if you’d wanted to. You’d have just written that he thinks he’s a bad guy all cool and nefarious - Rogue neither refers to himself negatively, and the Doctor says he’s cool not him (admittedly you’d still have to explain him pre-approaching the string quartet to play it, or it be magic but whatever).

You have Rogue think he’s A Bad Boy, but the Doctor be all ‘no you’re not there’s a heart of gold there’. He wouldn’t have freed himself with an I Am A Time Lord speech giving himself authority over Rogue, it would be appealing to Rogue’s good side that he doesn’t actually want to incinerate him etc. Rogue would choose to do the ‘good guy’ decisions himself, not have them imposed. He’d convince Rogue killing the birds is wrong, not just take his stuff and modify it - he’d get Rogue to reveal his better nature. The Doctor would convince him to leave his gun on the ship.

This is what would bite them later, where they’d both know, maybe with just a look, that if Rogue could have just shot the birds stuck to the glue trap, they wouldn’t have been in this mess. With Rogue then acting correctly ‘sometimes you need someone to be the bad guy’ by taking the controller when the Doctor was busy snogging him and dispatching Ruby himself.

Leading into a finale where Ruby is in a different dimension and relying on her battle-earpiece skills to fend off 5 murderous birds as long as possible, giving us an opportunity to engage with whatever her reality warping powers are but it ‘could’ just be dimensional weirdness, and if the TARDIS was still the one who programmed the teleport she knows where Ruby is, and luckily for her if unluckily for the universe, the dimensions are now all bleeding at the edges and seeping out and Doctor Who is a TV show, yada yada yada.

[jay-the-fudanshi]

made my theriotypes in gacha +'Rabbit (the SELF INSERT that after overanalyzing for days made me realize OH SHIT— IM ╺⃝⃤)

Cat (like the kitten my mom had before it died ):

Rabbit (based on Smoke English Angora Rabbits)

Fox (the white was so hard the snout i struggled for an hour til i thought of this)

the rabbit is based on the mask im making IRL! :D

[randomwords247]

you can't just DROP this on me at 2 am HOW AM I GONNA BE ABLE TO SLEEP AFTER /THAT/

(JOKING BTW IM SO HAPPY YOU DID, IM LIKE LOSING IT THIS IS AMAZING BUT IDK HOW IMMA SLEEP BECAUSE I AM NOT OKAY I AM NOT OKAY)

i made an animatic bc inspiration had a chokehold on me

[d-z20]

Caught in the Crossfire (NSFW)

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: You're an FBI agent and get partnered with Agent Vidal on a big case. When the mission goes wrong and Rio gets shot, you are forced to stay at a safehouse together.

-OR-

They say orgasms are good for pain relief so you fuck Rio to make the pain go away 🙃

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, mention of gangs, gunfight, hurt (gunshot wound), smut, fluff

Words: 3.1k

A/N: They is me, I am they, I say orgasms are effective pain relief. Oh and this is another requested fic :)

AO3 link | Master List

Rio leans against the desk, tapping a pen against the stack of files she’s just dropped with a flourish. Her eyes pin you with a challenging stare. “Five bucks says you screw up this case before the week’s out.”

You glance up from your laptop, unimpressed. “Bold talk from someone who hasn’t cracked a case this big since Quantico. What’s the matter? Rusty?”

This was the rhythm of your partnership: sharp words, sharper looks, and a constant undercurrent of rivalry. You’d both been top recruits at the academy, though on completely different tracks—Rio had excelled at strategy and undercover work, while you were a natural at analysis and tactical planning. When you’d been paired for this joint case six months ago, it was clear you were opposites in every sense, and it made working together a special kind of hell.

The task force had been chasing a dangerous gang involved in arms trafficking. Their network spanned multiple cities, but all signs pointed to the heart of their operations being a hidden warehouse in the city. The gang was clever—covering their tracks with misdirection and red herrings—which made your job of piecing together clues exhausting. But a major break had come two weeks ago when Rio went undercover, infiltrating the gang as a low-level buyer. She’d managed to secure critical intel about their shipment routes and a few key players, but her cover had been blown when one of the gang members got too suspicious.

You’d both known the risk when she took the job, and while you’d been impressed by her quick thinking, you couldn’t ignore the danger that still lingered. Now, you were both back at square one, tracking their movements, one step closer to the warehouse and the showdown tonight.

“Tonight’s operation better go off without a hitch,” you grumble, glancing back down at the laptop. The tension between the two of you, always present when working these kinds of cases, never seems to go away.

Rio smirks and straightens up, walking closer as she flicks through some of the paperwork right next to your laptop.

“You’re standing too close,” you mutter, trying to ignore the way your heart beats a little faster at the sudden proximity.

Rio doesn’t budge, standing tall with that usual confidence. “You’re the one who can’t stand my brilliance that close to your face, huh?”

You grit your teeth, trying to focus on the case. “You just make everything more difficult.”

She smirks, eyes flicking to your lips as she leans in slightly. “I think you like it that way.”

—

The two of you sit in the cramped surveillance van, tracking the comings and goings of gang members through grainy security footage.

“Don’t get yourself killed tonight,” Rio mutters, strapping on her bulletproof vest. Her tone is teasing, but you catch the flicker of genuine concern behind her words.

“I’m not the one who’s always charging into danger,” you shoot back, pulling on your own vest.

“Someone has to, or we’d be stuck analysing spreadsheets all day,” she says, smirking.

Despite the banter, the tension in the air is palpable. This operation is the culmination of months of work, and failure isn’t an option.

—

The warehouse is eerily quiet when you enter. Your movements are synchronised—Rio leads the way, gun raised, while you keep watch.

“They’re here,” Rio whispers, gesturing toward the far end of the warehouse.

You nod, heart hammering in your chest. The two of you move closer to the group of gang members gathered around crates of weapons. Everything is going according to plan—until it isn’t.

A lookout you hadn’t accounted for shouts a warning. Instantly, all hell breaks loose. Bullets rain down as the gang opens fire.

“Take cover!” Rio shouts, pulling you behind a stack of crates.

You return fire, pulse racing as you try to assess the situation. “We’ve got to fall back!”

“Not yet,” Rio says, jaw tight. She pops up to return fire, but then a sudden cry of pain tears through the air. A bullet strikes her shoulder, and she collapses to the ground.

“Rio!” you shout, stomach dropping. Without thinking, you drag her behind a steel beam, using it for better cover.

“Stay down!” You bark, positioning yourself in front of her to shield her from the continuing onslaught.

“Don’t—” Rio winces, gripping her shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot. I can still—”

“Shut up and focus on not passing out,” you snap, returning fire as the adrenaline courses through your veins. The gang is closing in, and panic gnaws at you. You need to get her out of here.

—

The minutes before the rest of the task force storm the warehouse feel like hours; Rio is bleeding heavily from her wound, and all colour has faded from her face. The remaining gang members are finally subdued in a chaotic flurry of shouting and gunfire.

You don’t move from your position until the scene is secure. When it’s finally clear, you turn to Rio, voice tight. “You okay?”

“I’ve been better,” she mutters, her face pale but her signature smirk still intact. “But hey, you were pretty heroic back there. Almost makes me like you.”

“Save your breath,” you say, though relief is slowly replacing the panic that has gripped you earlier.

The on-site medic patches her up as best as they can; she was lucky the bullet went straight through, but her wound still needs close monitoring. You learn that a high-ranking gang member had slipped away at the start of all the chaos, but not before getting a good look at you and Rio. Since you know their network is likely everywhere, you decide transporting her to a hospital is too risky. You need a safehouse—a remote location where she can recover while you regroup.

—

The cabin is small, tucked away in a far-out forest. It’s equipped with basic supplies, offering the isolation you need to keep a low profile. You enter first, checking the place out. Then, you return to Rio, who is sitting on the edge of the bed, her arm in a sling, bandages covering her shoulder.

You linger by the door, watching her with an uncharacteristic softness you rarely show.

“If you’re here to scold me for getting shot, you can save it,” Rio says, her voice light but tired.

You step inside, setting a bottle of water down on the nightstand. “Actually, I’m here to make sure you don’t bleed out from being a stubborn idiot.”

“Touché,” she says, lips curving into a faint smile.

You hesitate, then take a seat beside her, the usual distance between you feeling smaller now. “You scared me back there,” you admit quietly, glancing down at her bandaged shoulder. “Don’t do that again.”

Her gaze softens as she looks at you. “I wasn’t planning on making it a habit. But you…” Her smirk returns, though it’s gentler this time. “You were incredible.”

Your cheeks heat, but you quickly brush it off with a shrug. “Someone had to keep you alive; the paperwork would’ve been horrendous otherwise.”

You turn towards her, carefully peeling off the bloody bandages on her shoulder. Your fingers brush against her skin as you work, and though Rio winces, she doesn’t utter a word of protest. The silence between you feels heavy but not uncomfortable.

As you apply the fresh bandages, you glance up, catching her watching you with an unreadable expression. Her lips quirk into a faint smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re too quiet,” you say softly, trying to distract her. “That’s not like you.”

“Trying not to ruin the moment,” she teases, though her voice is quieter than usual.

Your hands linger for a moment after you finish, your gaze falling to the wound. “You need to be more careful,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

She tilts her head, her smirk softening into something more sincere. “And miss the chance to see you play nursemaid? No way.”

You let out a quiet laugh, but your hand remains against her shoulder, your thumb grazing the edge of the bandage. Silence stretches between you, comfortable yet charged with the unspoken things neither of you have said before. 

Finally, Rio speaks again, her voice quieter now. “You didn’t have to risk yourself like that.”

You meet her gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. “Of course I did. I couldn’t just leave you.”

Her eyes hold yours, steady and searching, and for the first time, you don’t feel the need to look away. Her lips part, and she leans in, testing the waters with a soft kiss. It’s gentle, hesitant, but when you don’t pull away, she deepens the kiss.

You feel the weight of everything unravelling between you. The kiss is slow at first, exploring, but then it quickly becomes urgent and heated. Hands roam, pushing past the boundaries of what had been comfortable before. You feel her press into you, her warmth seeping into your skin, making you forget everything but the two of you.

When you pull away, breathless, her eyes are dark with something more than desire. “I want something with you,” she whispers, “something real.”

You kiss her again, this time with no hesitation, pulling her closer, as if you could somehow make up for all the time you’ve spent pretending not to like her. You take your time, making sure to be gentle with Rio’s injury, always mindful of her shoulder. As you kiss, your hands are careful, exploring her without rushing. You help her undress slowly, checking in with her each time, making sure she’s comfortable.

She groans softly when your lips trace her jaw, your fingers grazing across the tender spots where her bandages are. You can feel the heat between you building, but you stop to kiss her forehead, your breath shaky as you say, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Rio’s eyes soften, her fingers threading through your hair. “You never could,” she murmurs, pulling you closer.

You take your time, letting the moment stretch, the room filling with soft breaths and the quiet rustle of fabric. Every movement is deliberate, every touch mindful of the vulnerability hanging in the air.

Your hands move to her good shoulder, slipping under the strap of her tank top. The fabric slides away easily, baring more of her to your gaze. She doesn’t flinch, her smirk fading into something softer, more open.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them.

Rio lets out a soft laugh, the sound shaky but genuine. “Flattery? You should’ve tried that six months ago.”

You grin, leaning in to kiss the edge of her smirk, letting your lips linger on her skin. “Shut up, Rio,” you whisper, your voice tinged with affection.

Her hand finds your waist, tugging you closer with surprising strength for someone who’d been shot hours ago. You go willingly, straddling her carefully as your lips reconnect, the kiss growing deeper. Heat coils in your chest, spreading outward as her touch becomes bolder, her fingers sliding under your shirt.

You break the kiss only long enough to pull your top over your head, tossing it aside before leaning back in. Her lips move to your neck, trailing kisses down to your collarbone, each one sending sparks through you. You gasp softly when her teeth graze your skin, her smirk returning against your neck.

“You like that?” She teases, her voice low and rough.

“Maybe,” you reply, breathless but playful. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Her answer is wordless, her good hand slipping down your back, finding every sensitive spot with ease. You shiver under her touch, your own hands exploring her, mapping the curve of her waist and the muscles of her back.

You’re careful not to put pressure on her injured shoulder, but Rio doesn’t seem to care about her pain. She pulls you closer, her body warm against yours, her breaths coming faster now.

You press your forehead to hers, your hands cupping her face. “Tell me if it’s too much,” you whisper, your voice thick with concern.

She shakes her head, her eyes blazing with determination. “The only thing too much is how long it took us to get here.”

Her words undo you, and you close the distance again, your kisses turning hungrier. You guide her gently back onto the bed, her good arm still wrapped around you as you settle over her. You continue your path down Rio’s body, lips pressing softly against every inch of skin you uncover. Your hands trail after your mouth, fingers tracing the delicate curve of her waist and the softness of her hips. Her body reacts to your touch, each shiver and soft gasp urging you on, drawing you deeper into the moment.

When your lips reach the hollow of her stomach, you pause, your hands resting on either side of her hips. You glance up at her, catching the way her chest rises and falls in anticipation, her hand gripping the sheets beneath her. The sight of her laid bare before you, trusting and vulnerable, sends a wave of warmth coursing through you. You press a kiss to her skin, just below her ribs, before continuing lower.

Your hands move carefully, sliding down her thighs, coaxing them apart with a gentle nudge. She complies without hesitation, her breath catching as you trail soft kisses along the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. You take your time, teasing, your mouth lingering just long enough to leave her trembling, her good hand reaching down to tangle in your hair.

“Please,” she murmurs, her voice breathy and full of need, and it’s all the encouragement you need.

You shift lower, your hands resting lightly on her thighs, holding her steady as your lips finally find her. The first touch is tentative and exploratory, but the way her body responds—back arching, a soft moan slipping from her lips—spurs you on. Your tongue moves slowly at first, drawing circles, learning what makes her gasp and writhe beneath you. You use your fingers to spread her gently, your movements precise and deliberate, ensuring every sensation is heightened.

Her reactions guide you, every sigh and breathless plea telling you exactly what she needs. When you slip a finger inside her, she tenses for a moment before relaxing, her body welcoming your touch. You match the rhythm of your hand to the movements of your tongue, building a steady pace that has her gripping the sheets tightly, her head tipping back as her moans grow louder.

Her body begins to tremble, her breathing ragged as she nears the edge. You don’t falter, your movements becoming more focused, more insistent, until she finally cries out, her body arching sharply as she shatters beneath you. You hold her through it, your hands steady on her thighs, your mouth gentle as you help her ride out the waves of her climax.

When she finally comes down, her body relaxes, her limbs heavy as she lies back against the bed, chest heaving. You crawl back up to her, pressing soft kisses along her stomach, her collarbone, and finally her lips. She kisses you back with a lazy, satisfied fervour, her hand cupping your cheek as if to keep you close.

You rest beside her, your fingers resting gently on her chest. The silence between you feels easy now, filled with something unspoken but understood. Rio tilts her head to meet your eyes; her smirk softened into something sincere.

“Didn’t know you had that in you,” she teases, her voice quiet but laced with affection.

You smirk back, brushing a stray hair from her face. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Guess I’ll have to stick around to find out.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy with promise, and for once, you don’t feel the need to deflect. You lean in, pressing a final kiss to her forehead as her eyes drift closed, exhaustion finally claiming her.

—

You wake to the faint light of dawn filtering through the curtains. Rio is still beside you, her face softened in sleep, her chest rising and falling steadily. You watch her for a moment, a quiet smile tugging at your lips before you carefully slip out of bed, pulling the blanket up over her.

The cabin’s kitchen is small, almost comically so, but you’re determined to make breakfast. You rummage through the limited supplies, finding eggs and a questionable loaf of bread. Cracking the eggs into a pan, you curse softly when some of the shell slips in. The stove sputters, and the toast burns on one side before you can flip it.

“Do you always declare war on breakfast?” Rio’s voice startles you, and you whip around to see her leaning against the doorframe, her arm still in its sling.

“Hey! You’re supposed to be resting,” you scold, pointing the spatula at her.

She raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk. “I’d rather take my chances with gunfire than whatever you’re cooking.”

You roll your eyes, turning back to the stove. “I’m making you breakfast, so sit down and let me work my magic.”

Rio pads over to the table, still smirking. “If this kills me, make sure they write ‘death by toast’ on my gravestone.”

“Har, har,” you mutter, but you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. As you set the slightly overcooked meal in front of her, she looks up at you with an amused glint in her eyes.

“You’re really taking this whole ‘overprotective partner’ thing seriously, huh?” She teases, though her voice softens as she adds, “Not that I’m complaining.”

You sit across from her, leaning your chin on your hand. “Someone has to look out for you. You’re not exactly great at self-preservation.”

Rio smiles, a genuine warmth in her gaze that makes your chest ache. “I don’t mind it. Feels… nice. Safe.” Her fingers brush yours on the table, a small but deliberate gesture. “Guess I’m sticking around for more than just the breakfast disasters.”

Your laugh is soft, but your voice carries a tenderness you rarely let slip. “I’ll try not to burn the toast next time.”

“Don’t change too much,” Rio says, her smirk returning as she takes a bite of the slightly charred toast. “I kind of like you the way you are.”

Her words settle between you, light and teasing but laced with a sincerity that fills the room with warmth. For the first time, the future doesn’t feel like something to fear—it feels like something you might actually look forward to.

[daisies-and-domming]

Side Effects (NSFW)

Guys I’m so sorry I know I disappeared forever ago but I am back! I updated my page, and I look forward to writing for all you lovely people again! I’m back on my same old shit (absolutely vile dom!reader smut) so I hope you’re ready >:) This one's a little softer because I think Nanami deserves a bit of a soft!dom...I hope you enjoy! Feeling a little rusty so sorry if this isn't my best work :/

Summary: Your boyfriend has been on edge recently - most likely due to a rapid increase in curses over the last few weeks - so when you get a call from Shoko, you assume the worst. Lucky for you both, he’s not dead. However, she informs you that he’s experiencing some strange side effects, so you find yourself rushing to Jujutsu Tech to deal with a rather unfortunate… problem.

Warnings: swearing, smut, dom!reader, reader has a vagina, p in said v, subby!nanami, sex pollen/sex curse, semi-breeding kink, nanami gets his shit rocked, begging, overstimulation (reader and nanami receiving), unsafe sex (wrap your wee-wee please), a bit praise, nanami calls reader wife once

Let me know if you think I missed anything!!

All characters are over 18 :)

– – – 

Bzzt, Bzzt!

You groan, eyes tearing away from the screen in front of you. Life had been in a bit of a slog recently - with your boyfriend constantly away on missions and you trapped at your boring desk job, a phone call was a welcome reprieve. What was odd was the fact that your phone was ringing at all - the only calls that can get through when your phone is silenced is your parents, Nanami, and -

Shoko.

Bright letters flash at the top of your screen as you scramble away in a hurry, phone in hand. You mumble some half-assed excuse as you fly out the doors of the office, keys already in hand, and shakily answer the call.

“Shoko? Is everything okay?” you force out, nearly slipping as you speed-walk to the car. “Is he okay?”

“It’s Nanami,” she says, panic evident in her voice. “He came back from a mission today, won’t stop asking for you. I can’t quite get a read on what he got hit with yet, and I’ve never seen him like this, is there any chance you-”

“I’m already in the car, I’m on my way,” you confirm. “He’s okay, though? No obvious signs of injury?”

“Nothing physical, no,” she says, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “But something’s still clearly wrong, and having you here might help me analyse it. Clearly he’s been hit by some effect of the curse, I’ve never seen this man frantic like this in my life.”

“I’ll be there soon as I can. Call me if you have any updates.”

Shoko hums a confirmation and hangs up, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Your grip on the steering wheel tightens, and you take in a shaky breath. What could possibly be wrong? Why did your boyfriend need you, right this instant? At the very least, Shoko didn’t seem to think it was life threatening, but what relief was that? Being a sorcerer was dangerous, hell, that was why you and Nanami had quit in the first place, but you always knew he couldn’t avoid the call of it for long. You prayed that whatever this was would be out of his system in no time.

You take the turn into Jujutsu Tech far faster than you should, haphazardly parking your car. You think you hear the beep! of your car locking, but all you can really hear in your head is the pounding of your heart. Weaving across the grounds, you rush to Shoko’s office, almost barreling into her when you throw the door open.

“Where is he? Is he okay? You didn’t call me again so I assume it’s fine, but-”

“Hey, breath,” she says, oddly calm considering her call earlier. “I figured out the issue.”

“You did?” you exclaim, a little frustrated she didn’t call you. It must not be serious if she didn’t call, but still! She could’ve at least sent a text…

She wiggles her eyebrows at you, a smirk growing on her face. “You guys have to bang.”

“What??” you flush, throwing your arms up. “S-shoko, this isn’t the time for jokes-”

“Not a joke,” she says with a grin, making crude gestures with her hand. “You guys have to bang it out of his system. Fuck. Two-man tango. ‘Make love’, or whatever. Not the worst curse to get hit by, huh?”

“You had me all worried for nothing!” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “I thought he was injured, or worse, dying! I could be at work right now, I didn’t even clock out! God, I’m going to be in so much shit when I get back.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. He needs your help,” she explains with a sigh. “The gas that the curse released from its body works as an aphrodisiac, a deadly one. If he doesn’t, uhm…‘mate’ any time soon it could be lethal.”

You flush deeper, blinking at her owlishly. You waited, hoping she was joking, but she was clearly dead serious. “Where is he?”

“He’s got his own room, all the way down on the left,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “Don’t ruin my equipment, you hear me?”

You salute, grinning at her, “Aye aye, captain!”

She rolls her eyes, watching you go. It’s going to be a long shift, she thought, rubbing her temples once again. They don’t pay me nearly enough for this.

You make your way down the hall, fluorescent lights flickering above your head. It smelled like chemicals and death down her, a terrible combo. You wrinkle your nose. How does Shoko put up with this all day, every day?

Lost in your thoughts, you don’t even realise that you’re at the end of the hall until you hear it. Frantic, almost manic, heavy breathing from the door on your left. You gulp, rubbing your thighs together. Fuck, in all your time with your boyfriend, you’ve never heard him this desperate before. Like the world was going to end if he didn’t get his dick wet. Lord, you haven’t even seen him yet, and you’re already soaking through your underwear, you can feel it. Tugging on the hem of your sleeve, you nervously raise a hand to knock on the door.

“Kento…?” you startle at the sound he lets out at the sound of your voice. It sounded like…a whine?

“Darling, ooh, darling,” he groans, pitchier than you’ve ever heard him. “You shouldn’t be here, love, get out of here.”

“Ken, honey, I can’t just leave you like this-”

“Please, before I do something I regret, you have to go- hngh!”

There’s a wet splatter on the other side of the door, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. You freeze momentarily, not wanting to believe it.

“Ken, did you just…?”

“Fuck, darling, you don’t know what you do to me,” he groans out. You can hear it now - how he’s rutting into his hand on the other side of the door. The wet shlick of dick sliding in his hand, the way he didn’t stop, even after he came. And he’s certainly never swore this early on, before he’s had your hands on you.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” you say, fingers finding the buttons of your shirt frantically. You don’t care that you’re in the hallway, you don’t care that Shoko’s just down the hall - there’s nothing in your head but the needy sounds of your boyfriend on the other side of the door.

“Please, you have to leave-”

“Open the door, honey,” you say, voice syrupy and sweet. “Want you to fill me up so good, can you do that? For me?”

You hear a quiet “Fuck!” from behind the door and the door handle rattles as he struggles to open it in his haze. At this point, you’re dripping, and you reach a hand out to help him. Easing the door open, you can feel the heat coming off of Nanami in waves. There’s a heady scent of pure sex in the air, and you don’t get a chance to take him in before he’s closing the door and trapping you against it.

“You shouldn’t be here, love,” he murmurs against your neck, hot breath tickling your ear. “Please, go before I lose control.”

Without hesitating, you pull him back by the hair and smash your lips to his. He’s motionless against you, for a moment, before his lips slot against you frantically. His hands come to grope your sides, mean and careless with his touch. He slots his legs between yours almost absentmindedly, and his hips begin to cant against you.

You separate, panting. “So desperate you’re already humping my leg like a slut?”

He flushes, slowing his hips down. You could feel his cock twitch against you, and you grin up at his dishevelled state. He’s a wreck - his tie pulled loose from his neck, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, his pants not even off, just hanging loosely around his ankles - and you’re grateful, for a moment, for the curse that hit him. 

“S-sorry, love,” he breathes, barely more than a whisper. “Can’t control it, please, need you, need you so bad- mngh, fuck!”

You grin, lazily palming his angry cock. “Oh, honey, I’ll help you out. Think you can get on the bed for me?”

He nods, whining softly when he pulls away from your hand. He stumbles over to the bed, losing his pants along the way. He sits and looks at you expectantly, flushed all the way down his neck. His hands are shaking from how much he’s holding back, and he bites his lip so hard it bleeds as you walk over, stripping as you approach. Ever the gentleman, he doesn’t reach out and touch, though it’s clear that he wants to. But right now, you’re in control, and even with the heat coursing through his veins, he lets you take what you want from him.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you say, voice thick with need. “Gonna let me ride your cock? Let you fill me up, breed me?”

“God, darling,” he says with a groan, a bead of precum running down his angry cock. “Want to fill your pussy up, put my kids in you, make you nice and round- mmph!”

You slam your lips to his, guiding him to lay back on the bed. You throw your legs on either side of his and grind down hard, smiling against his lips at the way his hips twitch up against yours. You reach back, fumbling to grip his cock and guide it to your waiting hole. You’re soaking, and there’s a wet shlick as sink down to the base of his cock.

“Shit, fuck, sorry, honey-” His hands find the plush of your hips, and he holds you down as he cums, hot and warm inside you. Your surprised laugh quickly morphs into a moan as you feel him fill you. It’s neverending - you’re certain he’s never come this much in one go before - and you quickly regain your senses, grinding your hips in slow circles, riding him through his orgasm. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his back is arched as he twitches, but he never softens inside you.

“Already came again?” you mock, looking down at him condescendingly as he blinks back into reality. “Some curse you got hit with, must feel so good to let go, huh, baby?”

“C-couldn’t help it, fuck!” he stammers out, hips bucking into your slow grinding. “Need it, need to cum again, need to feel you cum around me as I fuck you full, please, darling, can I?”

His eyes flick up to yours, desperation evident in his gaze. Your boyfriend, who rarely swears during sex, begging you to cum? You were certainly in no place to say no!

Without warning, you pick up the roll of your hips, holding his hips down so he can’t buck into you. He moans, flush spreading all the way down his chest. His thighs are flexing below yours, aching to buck up into you, but you won’t let him.

“If you want my help, you let me control the pace,” you bluff, trying your best to keep your head with how his tip is brushing against your sweet spot oh so sweetly. “Keep trying to buck up and I’ll leave you here to take care of your little predicament yourself.”

“No!” he pants out, frenzied. “No, please, darling, don’t go, I’ll do anything, I’ll be good for you, please-”

“Yeah?” you say, grin feral as you pick up your pace even more. You’re barely able to get words out anymore, but he’s certainly not faring any better. “G-Gonna be good for me? Gonna- hngh, fuck! - fill up my pretty pussy, give me your- ahn- give me your babies?”

He nods, hand fumbling to rub at your clit. His fingers are mean, out of control, but the rough feel of his fingers against your clit is delicious nonetheless. Your head falls forward, and your hips get frantic, pace inconsistent as heat coils in your belly. 

“Close, ‘m getting close-” you moan out. “Need you to cum with me, make me full, can you do that for me?”

“Mhmm, anything for you, love,” he says, eyes fluttering shut as he loses himself to the feeling of your gummy walls around him. “Love you, love you so much, please, can’t hold on much longer, need to cum- oogh, fuck!”

With a soft ahn, ahn, ahn, you’re cumming around him, grinding your clit down into his hands as he cums, shooting his seed deep into you. You can’t help but keep grinding down, dragging your orgasm out as long as possible. You shakily drag your hips to a stop, head falling forward to knock with his. You let out a soft breathy laugh as you swoop down to kiss him again, his cock finally starting to flag inside you. As you move to get up, he grabs your waist, wincing as he holds you on his cock.

“Sorry honey, ‘m still sensitive,” he whimpers, twitching out a few more spurts of gooey cum into you. “Can- can you sit here, for a little longer?”

“Of course, Ken,” you say, smile soft as you place a kiss against his temple. “Whatever you need. Are you feeling better?”

“A little sore, for sure,” he notes, eyes roaming up your body. “Though you’re probably hurting too, is there anything I can do for you?”

You bark out a laugh, shaking your head. Really is such a gentleman, you think as you struggle to control your face. After all that, he’s worried about me?

“I’m okay, Ken, I wasn’t the one hit with a curse, after all,” you note, hands absentmindedly running up his sides. He smiles up at you, eyes heavy with exhaustion, and pulls you down into him.

“Hey, we need to clean up-”

“Just a second, darling,” he says, yawning as he speaks. “Just need a second to hold you, that’s all.”

You melt against him, knowing that you weren’t going anywhere any time soon. As his breath steadies and he drifts under you, you trace circles on his chest, letting your heavy eyes fall closed, too. He’s right, just a second…

– – – 

You wake up with a jolt to a banging on the door, a chorus of voices on the other side.

“Nanamin, I heard you got hit by a curse, are you okay??”

“Be quiet, Itadori, he’s probably trying to rest.”

“Shut up, Fushiguro, you don’t know that-”

“Will both of you shut up?? Either way, he’s definitely awake from all the racket you’re causing-”

You groan, tuning them out as you rub the sleep from your eyes. You glance up at your boyfriend, disagreeing with Nobara - Nanami was still asleep, a little bit of drool coming out of his open mouth. You cringe as you sit up, every muscle in your body burning in protest as you disentangle yourself from Nanami. You wince as you slide off his cock, his release trickling down your leg as you make an attempt to gather dress yourself. Nanami finally stirs awake, groaning softly as his bleary eyes peel open. His eyes find yours as your fumble through the clothes on the floor, throwing his pants to him. He rubs his eyes and rolls to sit on the edge of the bed, watching you intently.

“We need to get dressed,” you say, voice scratchy with sleep. “The kids want to see you.”

“Mm, they can’t wait a little longer? I want some alone time with my wife now that I’m feeling better.”

“Your wife?” you say, grinning at him. “I know I gave you a good time, but you gotta put a ring on it first, mister.”

He laughs, pulling you against him and burying his head into your stomach. Your fingers come up to play with his hair, and he breathes you in, for a second.

Soon, he thinks. Soon I’ll put a ring on that finger.

Word Count: 2675

[theboombutton]

Bad Fictional Data vs Fictional Bad Data

WARNING: This post will include discussion of a name that might be Alice Dyer's deadname. I won't be calling Alice by this name or using it in the context of that name being a pointer to Alice, but I will be using the name, uncensored, when talking about where and why the name appeared in chdb.xls .

----

You may know that as part of the ARG, the sleuths on Statement Remains uncovered a document called chdb.xls, allegedly a list that has something to do with The Magnus Institute. There's a list of names, ID numbers, first and last names, dates of birth, and information apparently related to each person's "score" in an assortment of psychological/personality tests. Three of the names in particular have stood out in a lot of analyses: Samama Khalid, Gerard Kaey [sic], and Connor Dyer.

You likely don't know that the commonly linked version of the spreadsheet, ported to Google Docs and linked in the TMAGP ARG Masterdoc, is presented out of order. (I'm guessing they didn't lock down editing until it was already all out of order from various people messing with it - totally understandable, this is not a callout post, thank you for making this easily accessible to people.)

But let me tell you about something I discovered by looking at the spreadsheet in its original order, and the almost certainly incorrect rabbit hole of theorizing it has sent me down.

Bad Fictional Data

Until episode 2 I had the same thought about the Dyer listed in the spreadsheet that I think most people did: that it was Alice's deadname, and that she had therefore been one of the Institute's young subjects. But after Alice had absolutely no reaction when Sam mentioned the Magnus Institute to her in episode 2, I now think this is significantly less likely.

Don't get me wrong: it's still reasonable to think that the Dyer listed in chdb.xls is Alice. Maybe she had some kind of supernatural experience that wiped her memory. (It probably wasn't that Alice was too young to remember, as the Dyer on the spreadsheet is listed as being at Piaget Stage 3, which occurs from 7-11 years old; but it's always possible that the Magnus Institute was using the names of legitimate psychological tests to hide their tracks when recording more esoteric data.) The point is, this isn't hard evidence that Alice has no connection to the Magnus Institute; it just made me go looking for more evidence.

I went back to the spreadsheet to look for more clues about whether or not this was Alice's deadname. What I found instead was some extremely sloppy fake data at the bottom of the spreadsheet.

For context, here are first ten names in the spreadsheet:

Note how each ID begins with the name's first and last initial.

Now check out the last ten names:

Not only do these IDs no longer always match their subjects' names, they occur in order: CD, EF, GH, IJ, KL, MN, OP, QR, ST, UV. The first names of each pair match the first letter of each ID, but many, though not all, of the surnames don't match the second letter.

My first thought was that whoever Rusty Quill had contracted to generate these names had gotten sloppy at the end of the list, created the IDs all at once using this alphabetical pattern, and picked names to fill in that roughly matched the IDs. But hey, we could use this to our advantage! Any name that was filled in as part of a series of IDs with an alphabetical pattern like this could be removed from consideration for red string analysis - we'd know they were meaningless fakes added by a lazy contractor, and not clues or characters that might show up again later.

Scrolling back up the spreadsheet, we can see the person generating the data having more care the earlier we go. We find the beginning of the AA/BC/DE/FG/HI pattern at line 136, but at first, the names mostly conform to the initials they've been given. JK09874 "Josie Jordan" at line 154 is the first break from the "first two letters of the ID are their initials" pattern; and breaks occur more often the further you go down the sheet.

Scrolling up to before line 136 (AA09911 - Aaron Atkinson), while the pattern isn't yet at AB/CD/EF/GH levels of obviousness, the first initials are still in alphabetical order. Zoe Hart follows Yara Logan follows Xavier Freeman follows Wyatt Edwards. The data creator skips a few letters - for example Niamh Fenton is followed by Phoebe Emmett, and S and T are together in the same line in Skye Travers.

We can follow this less-obvious version of the alphabetical pattern up to an abrupt break right at line 118, above which the IDs don't follow an alphabetical pattern at all. (They might follow a different pattern, but it's not one that I've found yet.) So that means we can discount all the names in line 118 and below as purely fake, generated lazily by a contractor, and not worthy of our attention for the purposes of red-stringing. Right?

What the fuck?!

(highlight is my own, it is not present in the original document)

My first thought was that the sloppy data generator had done the funniest thing imaginable, sending everyone on a wild goose chase about Alice's deadname just by having the name "Dyer" on the brain while looking for a surname that started with D. This would be Very Funny. No plot relevance, no implications, just the brain fart that launched a thousand theories.

My second thought was that maybe Connor Dyer was the last legit name on the list, and whoever started filling the rest of the sheet in with alphabetical junk data was inspired by the "CD" initials in the first place - whoever it was went on from there.

These are both valid thoughts! But I prefer my third thought:

What if it's on purpose?

Fictional Bad Data

There is a very obvious break between the set of data that doesn't look obviously* fake, and the set of data that is immediately identifiable as such. If we assume that this was intentional - and I want to reiterate that it all being unintentional is still a very real possibility here - why would someone at Rusty Quill want the data to be structured like this?

If the sharp dividing line between reasonable-seeming data and obviously fake data is intentional on RQ's part, it would suggest that we should take the data above row 118 as in-universe real data, and the data below row 118 as in-universe falsified data. It suggests that someone, either at the Institute or after its demise, was adding nonexistent children to the roster of The Magnus Institute. Why would someone want to do that?

There are all kinds of possible reasons, but here are a few off the top of my and my theorizing buddies' heads:

Financial fraud (institutional edition). If the Magnus Institute received funding on a per-child basis, they'd have an incentive to inflate their numbers.

Financial fraud (researcher edition). One or more people on staff were blowing off their child-analysis sessions and recording fake numbers for fake children. This would be ballsy as hell if they could be fired for it, but it was the Magnus Institute, so there's decent odds they couldn't be.

Scientific fraud (faking conclusions edition). The Magnus Institute in the Protocolverse claimed to be doing research on giftedness in children, which is the kind of thing that you'd normally publish in a scientific journal. It's not unheard-of for dickhead academics to falsify data to generate statistically significant results, since statistically insignificant results aren't going to get you published.

Scientific fraud (obscuring paranormal bullshit edition). If the Magnus Institute was using legitimate psychological test names to record Fear-related test results, it's possible their results showed different patterns from what you would expect from the real tests. They could have added the fake children to balance out the dataset as a whole.

Pseudonyms. The children are all real, the Institute just started using fake names for them for privacy purposes. They couldn't go back and change the names they'd already written properly for some reason. Probably something paranormal.

Those are all pretty interesting possibilities, and if we could narrow them down, it might tell us something about what things were like at the Magnus Institute before it burned down!

And the other big question is: why did RQ make the dividing line between the two sections, the first likely-fake entry, Connor Dyer?

One straightforward reason could be as a troll, a red herring to watch fans get in a lather over. And once the community inevitably noticed all the obviously falsified entries, RQ could eat popcorn and watch us lose our minds over whether or not that's even a real entry! (That sounds really fun, I would absolutely do that.)

But let's dig a little deeper, and look at what Connor Dyer being on the border between the real and fake entries would mean in-universe. Because of its position as the border between real and fake, it would be very easy for that entry to be accidentally included in the wrong group - a real research subject discarded as fake, or perhaps more interestingly, a fake research subject accidentally reclassified as real.

Remember, if a name is fake in the context of the Magnus Institute's research, that doesn't mean that the name itself is made up. If I was trying to think of a name that fit the initials CD, and those were the initials of my next door neighbor's kid, I might just write their name in as a lark. Especially if it was my first time trying to get away with falsifying information: this is a kid that verifiably exists and lives in the area.

My theory, supported primarily by my love for The Implications instead of actual evidence

Twenty years on, after all institutional memory of the fraud was long gone, trans icon Alice Dyer applies to work for the OIAR - an institution that (according to this theory) has an unofficial preference for hiring former Magnus Institute kids.

They are very confused when Alice proceeds to act nothing like a former Magnus Institute kid. It doesn't occur to anyone that her entry might have been falsified. What reason would anyone have to do that?

----

* Of course people with a background in data analysis or statistics will see immediately that even above line 118 this is a wild-ass dataset that would raise red flags for falsification, but at least it's not "the alphabet over and over" levels of obvious.

[daisyswift3]

Oh wow I never noticed this. I wonder if cruel summer could actually be related to songs like MAATHP, DBATC, CIWYW, etc where she mentions a storm and windows boarded up (“love blackout” in glitch) and this is why the opening song for the eras tour MAATHP is followed directly by cruel summer. Did we ever establish when exactly cruel summer takes place? Or if those songs are related?

https://twitter.com/swifferwins/status/1649936151766081537?s=46&t=_nHPSvk758DwvkIPSaw36Q

The stage in lesbian flag colors during the bridge is so vivid and bright. It seems to change to the dark clouds (or black/white) after she sings the “keep secrets just to keep you” part. 🤔

love this view of it!

[rustyvanburace]

I think one of the unsung morals in SMT IV Apocalypse is the danger of placing all your hopes or entire worth into another person. What might be called a parasocial relationship.

The Real Flynn is by no means self-centered or hostile since he does very much care for the people of Tokyo. All the same though, while good and necessary that he revived their hopes in IV's neutral route, his celebrity status posed a problem as people began investing all their hopes and expectations in him. That when he was kidnapped by Krishna, it immediately led to defeated anguish and fearful uncertainty. It also motivated some Hunters to take action, but there was nonetheless a permeating sense of doubt and loss of direction.

Flynn inspiring hope in the hearts of Tokyo was never meant to rally people around him as their one and only savior, but to encourage them to take charge in their own lives for a better tomorrow. Nonetheless though, the former was what ultimately happened. And I think it was that loss of a savior and the desperation to have him back that made Tokyo so especially vulnerable to Shesha Flynn's manipulation.

What especially stands out to me is during Armageddon at Camp Ichigaya when "Flynn" rallies his Hunters to recklessly charge at Merkabah and Lucifer, essentially throwing their lives away out of thoughtless, blind trust. Nanashi can try to stop them, but it just angers the Hunters and gets him accused of protecting their enemies. The Hunters are not thinking for themselves whatsoever.

IVA stresses throughout the game the importance of thinking for ourselves and making our own decisions. There are many who fall victim to blindly following the angels or demons. And there are also far too many who blindly follow Flynn as their sole savior, which the Divine Powers took advantage of.

A recurring theme in IVA is possession and I would think this to be an extension of that. IVA cautions us not to deeply invest in someone at the cost of our own needs or independence. Whether that person is a celebrity, a politician, a friend, a relative, or anyone else. Even if that person isn't actually taking advantage of us, the one sided'ness and worshipping in any relationship is all the same still unhealthy and dangerous.

[mayabruhbruh]

What do you think of the possibility of Will and Chance happening? I feel like it would be really poor writing tbh but I feel like they will give Will a different love interest because they’ll try to make all of the audience „happy“ But that would just truly not align with the writing so far I feel like.

Love your analyses btw<3

THANK YOUU! That's so kind :) And great ask! This is definitely a topic that the ST fandom needs to discuss.

The default question when people have little to no hope in Byler is, well, who the hell is Will going to end up with? Because it’s become increasingly evident that they’re trying to set him up for a romance. The “im not gonna fall in love”, the “it’s not my fault you don’t like girls”, even the gif shown above. It all can be interpreted to mean that Will is going to find his person soon.

So... to be completely honest, I had no idea who Chance was until this ask popped up and I had to look him up💀. It’s been a while since I’ve been on here, so I’m a little rusty on the deep lore lmao. So, in the off chance that others might also be confused, here’s a (rare) gif of him I found.

I think that’s him with the Hawkins cap on the right. Correct me if I’m wrong.

I’m not sure where the rumors that this guy was going to become a bigger part of the show came from, but that seems highly unlikely to me. I feel like they would have either hinted at it in the fourth season (like how they’re giving Patrick here quite a sizeable role so that he’ll be memorable to us later when he gets vecnafied) or they would have announced him as a more prominent character already like how they did for s5 with Holly, that one new kid character, and also how they did Amybeth for s4. Idk, maybe it’s unreasonable to think they would have to do that, but it feels quite too out-of-the-blue. Especially for a character that would take on the role of becoming our central character’s love interest, which is a BIG DEAL. Especially if it’s queer lol.

Secondly, I firmly believe that it would be a disservice to Will’s own desires to meet someone new.

Will said this explicitly in the van scene, and as of now, we’re still under the impression that Mike is his person. Forget about Mike’s issues and feelings for a second, and think about what Will is saying here. He feels like a mistake for being different, but Mike makes him feel like he’s not a mistake at all, that he’s better for being different. Mike gives him courage to fight on. Fuck. Tbh, it makes me wonder how long he’d felt this way. As a byler, you might be inclined to think his feelings have been on for forever, but narratively, he could have easily just realized his own feelings very recently, most likely sometime between season 3 and 4. It doesn’t mean the feelings weren’t there before, but realistically neither Will nor the general audience were aware of it before now.

Moving on.

Has anyone heard of the rule of Chekhov’s gun? It’s an incredibly clever and widely-used tool in screenwriting and storytelling in general that helps to clue the watchers in for what’s to come next.

Think of Lucas’ wrist rocket in season 1. When they introduced it as a flimsy-looking, no-good weapon that he’d put too much pride in at first, it gives us a good laugh and we move on. But really, it very meticulously set us up to subconsciously anticipate to see it again later. That’s what Chekhov’s gun is all about. Set-ups, foreshadowing, hidden treasures.

Another great example would be the painting reveal of s4. Obviously, after finding out that Will was painting something, bylers immediately figured it was for Mike and BEGGED and HOPED and PLEADED that we’d be able to finally see it, but to the general audience it was just another something that they’d have to pick apart and realize was actually of importance as the season progressed. (It’s also a good way of showing that the writers are fully capable of engrossing the entire fan base and general audience in his and Mike’s story. Just knowing Will had painted something and that it was for Mike created this sense of PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IT IS AND WJATS GOING ON and whatnot that watchers are simply so susceptible to it’s insane.)

Okay, back to the van scene. Will’s confession.

Now, I’m not saying that the writers intentionally used this foreshadowing tool for us to find and understand immediately. There are plenty, plenty of instances where writers use Chekhov’s gun principle and it flies over peoples heads purposefully. What I’m trying to say is that, thematically and narratively, they would never have introduced Wills feelings for Mike if not for it to have importance to the story, or for nothing to happen with it at all. It’s a set up. And a maddeningly good one, at that. Because queer stories already do tend to fly over people’s heads, and also because there’s the added drama between Mike and Eleven that makes it seem quite impossible for any of these feelings to be addressed in the midst of such emotional chaos. But whatever. I think I’m rambling.

Basically, whether they end up together or not, whether Mike reciprocates these feelings, Will is forever established to be in love with Mike. The confession was simply too grand and emotional and earnest for him to just switch up abruptly next season when he meets someone new that he might have a better chance with. Even if there were to be a whole new arc for him where he learns to let go of Mike or something crappy like that, it would be terrible writing on their end and poor use of a well-set-up Chekhov’s gun reference. It would be like introducing the gun in the display case in scene one, then two scenes later just tucking it away into a storage closet for the remainder of the story. Like… what?

And plus, it’s HIGHLY unlikely that Will would end up with that sort of storyline next season when he’s literally WITH Mike for presumably a majority of the time (based on the set pics so far).

So that’s my debunking of the Chance rumors :) and I didn’t even get to mention how incompatible they’d be just naturally as characters. Chance, a Jason-following jock that hates Dungeons and Dragons, fantasy and nerdy things, and willingly assisted in beating up the Hellfire Club when they were trying to find Eddie. What about that at all screams Will’s type? And if you’re thinking “unconventional couple enemies to lovers”, just don’t. This isn’t a rom-com, especially for a queer plot line lol. I think it’s safe to say there’s no “chance”😉 that they will ever happen. And either way, it’d be a bummer if they did. Cus it would just be Will defeatedly settling for someone that isn’t Mike.

UGH! It makes me sad that the one thing that is firmly being teased by the writers (Will’s love playing a major role in the plot to come) is constantly being questioned and framed as different questions. “Will Mike reciprocate?” “Does this mean Mike and Eleven break up?” “Who will end up with who?” SHHH Frankly, to me this is already a win. It’s become obvious that Will having feelings for him will come up again soon, and the rest of the evidence that accounts for Mike’s end already speaks for itself, so I prefer to just sit back and watch it all unfold.

Again, thanks so much for the ask!! This was so fun to dissect and feel free to keep sending questions into my inbox. It might take me a second to post my response but I’m determined to get through all of them. Love you guys!! <3

[futuristicanoe]

the virus of life

do you remember where it all went wrong?

Of all the bars, of all the charming places, he just had to walk in here. Right where you hated to be.

no smut & this is probably going to be a series. Mark! [ unnamed health issues, food/eating, alcohol & blood mention, uneasiness, ambiguity. mature themes. ]

He pushed the door open gently.

The door chime shook with only a hushed imitation of its usual noise. Had it been some other day, you would have missed it. But in that moment, you had a strange feeling in your gut, the sort you get after a migraine turns your brain into a mushed pulp of agitation. You could even hear the restless cicadas buzzing outside, and the sound got louder for a second as he slipped into the room like a ghost, shutting the door behind him quietly.

Your position was quite comedic.

You were looming over the mini fridge that Henry had put beside your chair a while ago— he was the owner of this rusty diner-bar-whatever, and he thought it would be a nice gesture to give you a tiny fridge, so you wouldn't need to go all the way back to the kitchen, if you wanted to help yourself with a cold something. The only reason you worked there was that you needed some money and needed it more than sleep, too. Obviously– Henry had been a godsend. Nobody looked at you twice, let alone tried to guess your age or doubt your work experience. So, it was easy to ignore how the lights flickering inside the empty fridge were plucking your nerves one by one.

Sitting behind the counter with your back hunched, you were hidden from the view completely. No need to worry about how absolutely silly you must have been to the stranger.

When you heard the soft clicking of what were undeniably short heels accompanying the earlier, supposedly graceful entry, you had been almost ready to look up and greet a woman.

Well, you had been ready to greet anyone, but someone like him.

You straightened your back, fixing your hair that was getting greasier by the second, even though you had washed it last night. It frustrated you.

After quickly throwing away the couple of ice cubes you had been holding in your hands, you wiped your numb fingers on your apron. You felt a bit flushed, still. There was no name for that, the sudden rush of warmth staining your skin red from time to time, but it had started only a few days prior, so you blamed it on everything from the passing flu to hormones.

The stranger was not expected. There was no "Hello," yet he kept walking in.

Unlike you, who did not need more than a mere sign of someone entering the room to analyse them already, your full attention drawn in an instant – for a good while, he did not even look at you. Instead, he simply took his time to look over the dingy little place, stealing glances at the old furniture and the wallpaper, a different shade in each corner. It was as if you did not exist, so you said nothing. Best to not ruin the fantasy that didn't belong to you.

Cicadas always did a good job of being entertaining, with their shrilly little noises. And if he gave that up, crawled into this bubble of momentary comfort that you had built around yourself and even had the audacity to ignore you, then it was only fair to continue analysing.

The colour of his shirt was an odd yellow, like a warning signal. And it was open at the top, no doubt adorned with tiny details that you did not really want to see up close, because they would linger in your mind afterwards. He had a suit jacket on, too. The darkest shade of grey or blue, not quite black. Or maybe it was just the weird lightning. You blinked almost aggressively to keep yourself wide awake, and regretted it right away when you felt your eyelashes sticking to each other, dry mascara making your eyes sting.

He walked to the counter, acknowledging your presence only when he was within an elbow's reach. Sat down in the squeaky chair, placing his coat and his leather bag on the one next to him.

"How can I help you, sir?"

The stranger flashed a smile. Sincere only for a second and tastefully impersonal all over.

"Good evening," he said, to which you responded with a nod and parroted the words quietly. Somewhere in the back of your mind praying that you did not look too ridiculous or too childish. Not that you were trying to impress him, exactly, just that you were neither ridiculous nor a child, and you didn't want him to get the wrong idea. "The air feels so dry today... I would like something fresh and cold, maybe. How about that?"

You got up instinctively, hoping that the soft thud your shoes made on the wooden floor did not give away how your chair was made for someone taller. You paused when you faced the shelves, looking at him over your shoulder.

"We are out of ice, sir," you said with a slight frown and squeezed your numb hands together.

"Ah, I see." He nodded, placing a thumb on his chin. Then he looked at the refrigerator, which stood in the corner, looming over you.

"That's– yes, it is working..." You felt your face warm up when you made your way to the fridge and almost tripped over your own foot. "But there is no more ice left, sir. We only have some softer things in there. For children, mostly. Like fruit juice and... ice cream."

He raised an eyebrow. "Ice cream, but no ice. I think I got it."

You smiled out of awkwardness, fidgeting with your apron.

He looked at your smile. The lipstick you had put on in the morning needed to be reapplied, evidently. Smudged traces of crimson along the seam of your lips almost made your mouth look like a fresh wound, about to bleed.

His gaze flickered back up to your eyes.

"The sign outside said something about pie, if I can recall correctly," he said, his voice suddenly monotonous, like looking at you was the most boring thing in the world.

"Yes." You nodded. "We–"

"Two slices of pie, then."

He smiled to make up for interrupting you.

You just looked at him, caught off-guard.

"Two?"

"Yes. There are just the two of us here, I'm assuming."

"No, yeah, but–" You stopped.

Was that sarcasm?

You felt a sudden need to get out of there. Alone.

"Well, I'm not feeling hungry at all, sir."

"I'd like to buy you a slice. Just because it is getting pretty late and you look a bit... out of it." He paused, as if mimicking you. "You don't want to be lying with me now. So, please."

You did not really know how to answer, but you remembered what your job was.

"I think we have some cherry pie left."

Your voice was monotonous, too.

Mirroring each other already.

"Perfect."

You went to the kitchen with a rickety mind.

It felt weird, the whole thing. The way he was overall polite but almost rude, if you looked too closely. He smelt like something – an expensive cologne, yes, but there was this chemical scent around him. Like paint. Or acetone. Something bitter and torn apart, but nothing new.

By the time you got back, he had taken off his suit jacket. You did not know he had been wearing braces beneath it the whole time. They looked nice. Even if you couldn't see where they were clipped onto his pants, and you never would, the dark lines digging into his shirt looked good.

You sat down the tray as carefully as you could.

He looked at you with a curious gaze and then stared at the plates with the same curiosity.

"You know what would make the cherry on top?" He waved a hand over his slice of cherry pie, amused by his own joke.

A cup of coffee?

"Some ice cream, of course." He answered his own question, too.

You were glad you hadn't sat down in your chair already, because you would have really hated to get up again.

The lights did not flicker inside that fridge, and it was not empty either, which was a relief. You stood with your back to him for a moment too long, pretending to look for the expiration date when you just wanted the cold air to cool down your face.

He looked almost hungry. And you did not really understand anything about him or his hunger. Or his hair. Not that unusual for men like him to come here and order a drink, obviously. But this had never really happened before – he was acting overly nice while maintaining an aura around him, the one that told you how easy it would be for him to forget you. To erase you — you shuddered as your finger accidentally touched the ice cream you were putting on top of your pie. You almost licked it clean, as if you were home. Alone.

It felt like he could tell what you were thinking of, knew exactly how much you wanted to avoid thinking while he was right there. The grin on his face disappeared only when it was necessary. As he took a forkful of his dessert and brought it up to his mouth, he looked at you.

"Hmm. This is to... pleasant surprises," he said way too formally before putting the fork in his mouth.

Dramatic.

"Oh." You did not know how you could break the silence and avoid cutting your fingers with the shards later.

You took a bite, careful with the lipstick at first before just dragging your lips across the fork carelessly.

He chewed slowly, and the cough after he swallowed suggested that he would've much preferred a cold drink. You almost winced.

The pie was very good, all cherry sweetness sticking to your gums and with the thick ice cream on top, it felt almost heavenly after a tiring day like this one.

"Splendid," he said.

You wanted to tell him it was not a compliment, because you did not make any of it. But you still nodded as a thank you, popping a cherry in your mouth and mentally grimacing at the lines of glossy redness on your fork.

He shifted in his seat, preparing to say something else. "Forgive me, I don't mean to pry, but I noticed a guitar over there, in the corner. Is it yours?"

You swallowed quickly to avoid talking with a mouthful.

"No, no." You sighed, playing with the melting ice cream on your plate. "It was my dad's. He used to play. Not- not anymore. So I thought I could give it to someone. That's why I brought it here."

You felt exposed. It was unusual for you to talk like that. Maybe it was the pie, or he just seemed like the person who would do everything but let you keep your mouth shut. All tangled up in charm that you'd never understand or mirror.

He looked puzzled and put his elbows on the table, clasping his hands together in front of his chin. "Somebody could steal it. It seems to be in a rather vulnerable position. And it has an old soul, doesn't it? You shouldn't keep it all bare and dusty like that."

Even though his voice sounded soft, the tone of his words was eating away at your patience.

"I wasn't gonna sell it. I just want to get rid of it. Better than throwing it in the trash or burning it for Christmas, no? If someone were to steal it, I mean."

He smiled gently.

Your appetite still was not present.

"Do you know how to play, sir?" You asked him, putting your fork down.

The look on his face remained somewhat unsure, though you did not know what he was so perplexed by. Maybe it was because of a stranger asking him a question like that, but he wouldn't be so surprised by something he had just done, surely.

"I do, yes." He nodded. "Would you take me for a musician at the first glance?"

You pondered his question, looking him over. Taking in the way his eyes sparkled, how his posture was steady, the modest tilt of his head demanding an honest answer.

"Sure," you blurted out, grabbing your fork again. "You do look like an artist."

"How intriguing."

He could not stop thinking about something you said earlier, but he still kept asking you about himself. "Any artist in particular?"

"No," you said, confident with your answer.

He paused before speaking up again. "So, what does an artist look like, then?"

You sighed, sliding your fingers over your forehead to soothe your headache, at least a bit. It felt good to have something you could focus on. Even if the thing in question was a man, somebody you did not know in the slightest—it was just another workday you had to live through, and it would end soon.

"It's not about appearance, you just have to know what you are looking for... Sir."

He responded with a nod. "Ah, here I thought that all of this lurid yellow would be a cause for... an association," he grinned. It almost looked like he was genuinely enjoying all of this, but his quick toothy smile was not coming from a place of happiness, still.

"What, you wanted me to say Van Gogh or something?" You laughed, feeling the tension in the room slowly easing up, and it just felt nice to laugh. But the headache only got worse when you were laughing. It only lasted three seconds.

He chuckled. "No, but it's–"

"No, you aren't Van Gogh."

His eyes widened slightly when you interrupted him, when he heard that playful tint in your voice.

"But you can wear it– you could be a part of his..." You closed your eyes before blinking harshly and catching his gaze again. "Maybe you are Mr. Gauguin, Sir."

He stared, his interest piqued once more.

"Something is telling me he isn't your favourite."

You hummed, gripping your fork tighter and covering your mouth as you chewed. He had already stopped eating, but you decided that the excuse a mouthful of pie could make for your silence was great. "I think his paintings are interesting."

"I think it is rude to judge a complete stranger," he said with a small smile.

You gulped when you felt how the pain beneath your temples was making your eyes water, stinging horribly like the mascara hadn't been doing that well enough. "Well, you told me what I should n' shouldn't be doing with my dad's guitar."

You did not have to say it like that. You did not have to say anything at all.

His face seemed unreadable as he looked at you, leaning back in his chair.

The sugary mess was making the back of your throat feel almost sore, and you jumped to your feet. Your knees lacked certainty as you walked to the fridge for a bottle of water.

"It just surprised me," he said. His voice sounded much lower than before, not bursting with curiosity. His words were just pieces of the giant mess you would call honesty, and the idea made you shiver. That a stranger would be willing to give that to you.

He laughed before adding with a lighthearted tone, "I'd have never guessed that Henry could play the guitar. He always thought I was a fool for loving music."

You froze. "I'm—" As if it was your first time feeling this way. Cornered without receiving an actual threat. "I'm not Henry's daughter, Sir."

A sense of dread hollowed your stomach out, reaching your heart and tugging on your tongue, and you needed to get some water down as soon as possible before you got sick.

He did not seem to doubt your words, like he already knew what you would answer with, and just made sure that his assumptions were correct.

He knew what to expect, you thought, a man like him would not waste his time talking with a liar. Or a complete stranger.

Maybe you had an imaginary world in your head, home down the road to let your old memories gather proper dust on the shelves, but you were just a waitress here. Not somebody's daughter, not anyone he has met before, or was hoping to meet, apparently.

"Oh," he said, "Right. Of course."

There was nothing you could do to have a look at his thoughts. You were not even looking at him.

It was just like the beginning. But you were the stranger this time. Avoiding a piercing gaze and a wave of questions that would make you feel more vulnerable than being out there in the dark. Alone.

You wondered if he was feeling confused. If he was trying to pinpoint the exact moment when he had miscalculated something. With a furrow in his brow, staring at your silhouette like he was the one casting the shadow over you and not that lifeless place, not that miserable town you have been suffocating yourself in.

It did not matter what you had felt, but that you turned around despite it. You looked him in the eye.

"I guess you don't have to pay for my pie now, sir."

He tilted his head to the side. "I did not have to do anything, it turns out." He smiled after that, like he was joking. "This could be a pleasant surprise. Please, don't frown."

"I'm not," you murmured.

"Very good."

He nodded and grabbed his bag.

You looked away, feeling ridiculous. Somewhat like a child who just showed their parents a painting, beaming with love, only for them to ignore the meaning of it. When tears began clawing at your throat and the sticky mascara had nothing to do with it, you wondered again, going quiet as if checking a pulse. Curious if that child still lived inside you.

Of course it did not.

You watched him put the money on the counter, and hated that you would have to look away from his hand.

"Thank you," you said.

He took his coat, took his bag and started walking towards the door without saying a single word.

Funny how he did not need to put the coat on, because he had a car waiting for him, and yet he still brought it inside.

He halted his steps when he reached the door, turning around on his heels.

"Will you tell him about me?" he asked.

It took you just a second– he was talking about Henry. Henry, who did not even know what your birth name was or where you lived.

"Plenty of people come here, sir. And this is the first time I've tried the thing– the pie I've been giving to them."

His mouth twitched to a smile.

"To answer your question– no, I will not. Will you, sir?" You asked.

You knew the answer when he put his hand on the door handle.

"There is nothing for me to say."

If he murmured a "see you," then it must have disappeared in the sudden of whoosh of wind as he left, closing the door modestly.

You had refused to look at the money while he was still in front of you. But something caught your eye, shining among the green bundle of figures and numbers.

You grasped it with your clammy hands.

It was a business card.

TRANQUILITY BASE

HOTEL AND CASINO

AWAITS YOU, COME

AND STAY WITH US

You flipped it over with a quiver churning in your fingers, like the other side was beginning to burn your skin.

Contact us at:

— (132) 411 33 51 42

There was something written below the phone number, clearly added to the card with a regular pen, all jumbled and messy.

— ASK FOR MARK.

You sat back down in your chair.

The dull pain loosened its circle of rope around your jaws and settled in your stomach.

[circeyoru]

Cannot Compute _ Part 2

[Alastor x Robotic Demon!Reader]

Part 1 — Part 2 (here) — Part 3

The worst realization was when you were looking for Alastor after the battle against the exterminators

Alastor took up the task of fighting against Adam while you were to provide support to the others, according to Alastor, there was no point in putting the strongest individuals together. It just wasn’t smart when it came to a war with those angels. So you complied, as a former assassin, you weren’t rusty in any way, after Alastor’s barrier got broken by Adam, you opened your virtual reality that isolated the rest of the angels so that Charlie and Vaggie could go for Lute

You knew something was wrong when you felt Adam attempting to destroy your reality from the outside with his angelic powers. While no one could enter and exit your virtual reality because it was non-existent, one could attempt to destroy it from the outside if they knew where your general area was. Since your virtual reality was a data copy of the landscape you’re in, only technological to give you an advantage

With Charlie’s shout, you let down your virtual reality and released everyone. Confused as to why Adam was still living. Your system went overloaded as fear came to you that Alastor was gone. That gave some angels the gap they needed to tear your arms out and damage your legs to at least immobilize you, you were too much of a threat to them

When the battle was done, you searched for Alastor since everyone knew you couldn’t help much on the renovations. You had a metal pipe like a walking stick before limping on your way

Alastor was having a meltdown. He cared, was caring for those sinners in that inferno hotel! He! The Radio Demon! Said to strike fear and terror to the listeners of his broadcast! The Overlord that rose in ranks by night! How could he be weak? He had to cut off the root. No issue for Charlie and the others

But there was you. You are the one that he found entertaining at first with your gaming demon form and based powers, teenagers of the modern era. Despite the different time periods between you two, you guys clicked slowly and he enjoyed it

That was exactly the issue. He liked it. He liked you. The Radio Demon doesn’t like anyone. Attachments serve to bring him nothing but weakness and ruin. Just look at the relationship his dear mother had with his accursed father. He tortured his father after finding him in Hell, thankful that his mother was in Heaven. “Cut the ties. All that piece of metal is good for is that soul with so much power.”

You nearly wanted to shut down the moment you heard it from Alastor. You ‘unlocked’ angelic healing, basically a strong healing power, after you analysed the corpse of more than a dozen of those angels, not to mention Adam’s body. You wanted to heal Alastor after finding out he was alive

You tried convincing yourself he just needed time after his defeat. But your heart broke. You can’t take it, you needed to recover anyway, the healing only worked with body parts, not robotic parts. But who was going to fix you, never had you been injured to this degree?

Vaggie got you Carmilla Carmine’s help. She offered to remodel your figure and your unique fashion sense that matched your demonic form as a robot or artificial intelligence. She admitted she was going to experiment on you a bit as well to see how far she could make you a force to be reckoned with. Later using you as inspiration for her weapon designs. You agreed since it was advantageous for both of you

“Lady Carmine, tell me, what if the one you love, the one you were fighting for, broke your heart?” You asked before your upgrade, as you saw it. You were there when Vaggie was getting trained by Carmilla before the battle with the angels and heard her lecture on fighting for love. Yet you wonder if you can now that you learned Alastor’s true thoughts on you

“I have an inkling that you are implying something. Have you been in love? Or any form of love.” Carmilla would ask as she walked around, preparing the tools needed and the blueprint for the operation. “And you can call me Carmilla, little AI.”

“I can’t say that I did. I don’t know what love is like, I don’t know what it feels like. Is this what a broken heart feels like? I don’t like this.” Your voice glitched out as your system warned you to calm down or else risk a power outage. You controlled yourself as she watched with pity in her eyes

“There were a lot of ways to deal with heartbreaks, you can seek revenge, and/or find new love, but I think in your case. You might try something else.” Carmilla spoke, she gave you suggestions but put the ball in your court because you knew what was best for you. “Shall we begin?”

You closed your eyes preparing to shut down for a short timed duration, while Carmilla works on you, you can think of what to do in your situation. “I’ll be in your care, Carmilla.”

Note: Part 2~ One more to go! After that is Collector time

Circe Y. 

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist: @aconfusedwonderland @crowleysthings @donustellaron @mistpurpl3 @lucifers-silhouette @fluffy-koalala @rerarlo

[rowanthestrange]

Just realised how much I want the Doctor to have a Sikh companion, so they have to grapple with their ‘no weapons’ ideology versus the kirpan their companion carries.